Reading was a hobby I developed in childhood. whenever I would visit libraries, it used to be a mesmerising and hypnotic experience, seeing rows and rows of high ceiling wooden bookshelves which may have seen generations of book lovers. There used to be a sweet aroma of wooden book shelves shining with lacquer and the books themselves. Just walking on the aisle and spending time in library gave a very satisfying, peaceful, tranquill feeling.
Those days people had wooden bookshelves and almirahs in their drawing rooms which gave a very rich and intellectual look to the decor. I longed for a lifestyle where there would be a bookshelf and a reading chair with a pedestal lamp and a writing table nearby with a table lamp, all in rich dark shining wood.
A bookshelf with writing table I did get after shifting to my first house. It still remains after 30 – 35 years.
The houses are becoming smaller, bookshelves are no longer required except for decoration sometimes. The habit of reading and writing have gone down. Attention span has gone down. Youngsters are ready to trade in a bookshelf with wifi or computor or home theatre .
Amidst all that I still spend some lazy afternoons opening the bookshelf, taking out books one by one- many of them very old and rare now, caressing them, opening them, feeling the old paper turning yellow, read sentences underlined decades ago.
And somewhere there is a bookmark, somewhere there is an old leaf now bare to its beautiful skeleton, somewhere a slip of paper drops out. Every piece has a history, every object has a memory. I remember those times and time becomes still. I put them back again to where they belong and this is the luxury i wouldn’t trade for anything else.
True,Youngester r not even interested to read books writing of their own now a days ..
Beautiful !!