by Anupama Krishnakumar
I am one of those (strange?) people on this planet who suffer from the ‘pre-travel syndrome’. Put simply, it’s that state in which you would find me confused, lost and stressed out for about two days before my family embarks on a ‘well-planned’ vacation. It’s a troubling mix of helplessness, fatigue and anxiety that thankfully settles once we step out of the house and begin our journey.
In December 2018, as we were all set to leave for a holiday to Bandipur and Mysore, this familiar annoyance returned to haunt me. As I went about packing stuff into different bags and suitcases and checking off items on my packing and pre-departure to-do list, the irritating feeling ensured that I remained listless. But then, something happened. Out of the blue. Just as I was packing things into my handbag, I spotted my Kindle lying lazily on my table. And all of a sudden, I felt a rush of gratitude. The sight of my Kindle unexpectedly filled me with a sense of relief – like a glorious stream of sunlight entering a dark room through a tiny hole in the roof. I smiled, for the first time, in many ‘self-inflicted-tension’ filled hours; I smiled like I had found a true friend. The next instant, with all the gratefulness that I could summon, I gently lifted the source of a million words and tales and deposited it with immense affection into my bag. As my fingers brushed against the soft maroon case of my Kindle, I finally felt my pre-travel tension leave me and peace engulf me.
Even as I run the risk of sounding excessively dramatic by sharing this episode, I must point out that the said incident is a true indication of how books and the habit of reading have returned to play an important and life-changing role for me after a hiatus of many years. From someone who spent every possible waking moment finding solace between the pages of a book, I went into the dreary state of not being able to get past a few pages of any book that I picked, interesting or otherwise. I would invariably abandon books, unable to focus or because I would find the very act of reading a weary affair. To put it in a nutshell, it was really a sad state to be in; to be living in a house surrounded by hundreds of books and not being able to reach out to them with the love I once felt for them and the connection I felt with them.
I suppose the main reason for this reader’s block was the many distractions (to reading) that were a part of my life at one point, ones that warranted my complete attention. Some of them were so mind boggling that while dealing with them, reading seemed like the last thing to do. Despite that, whenever I did make an effort to pick a book and read, the words didn’t communicate to me the way they should have, perhaps because I wasn’t being the happy, attentive recipient that I ought to have been. In effect, whatever I read barely registered, and worse, I never felt the urge to try and carry on reading. Writing suffered too on this account, for it isn’t rocket science to discern that it’s hard to write well when you aren’t reading well (and enough) to keep your thinking and creative process alive and kicking. Not surprisingly, words stagnated and it seemed like I was getting stuck to writing bound by a certain thinking pattern.
But, come mid-2018, things began to look up. With both my children, especially my younger one, growing more independent and spending more time away from home, I finally had the time and mind space to engage with reading the way I used to once upon a time. But when I think about it more deeply, I realise I also ran to books to temper down my rising intolerance towards the recklessness, pompousness, snobbishness and carelessness that I was seeing around me. But weren’t these there before too? Why did I grow so sensitive all of a sudden? I suppose my preoccupations just went down and I was having more time at hand to start noticing such attitudes, much to my dismay. It probably had to do with my own tolerance levels too. After all, as people, aren’t we constantly changing in small and big ways? Whatever it may be that I was going through, the fact of the matter is that I was back with books. In an intimate and enriching way.
It was around this time that I also had the good fortune of chancing upon a Facebook group comprising bookworms, book lovers, call them whatever you may, but folks who connected with each other because of their passion for the written word. The infectious enthusiasm of the group rubbed on to me too and I began to look at books with the same fondness and wonder with which I used to earlier.
I didn’t turn into an avid reader again, overnight. It was a slow process but what makes me happy is that I was able to persist with reading; without abandoning the habit or a book. My pace picked up over months and I slowly let myself be drawn into the world of words, without being distracted by what was happening around me when I was reading. When I read, I could manage to stay focused, stay absorbed. The effort to grasp the author’s intent or follow their line of thought didn’t seem so burdensome anymore. I slowly but steadily rediscovered the joy of reading – both at home and in public spaces. Now, I read even during the ten minutes that I wait for outside my son’s school to pick him up. While some people would be talking to each other and others would be engrossed in their smartphones, there I would stand, under a big shady tree, a book or Kindle in hand, reading with joy and without inhibition. This, to me, is one of the defining moments in my return to the act of reading with sincerity, joy and passion. The other defining moment is that every day, I look forward to curling up with a book for one hour of uninterrupted reading in the night before I fall asleep. The idea of abandoning a book because I am not able to focus or keep up with it is, much to my elation, a thing of the past now.
In the New Year, I hope to read more, more of non-fiction in fact, and I want to read as much as I can, with my pace being dictated only by how much time I would need to savour the act of reading. I am no fan of accomplishing quantified reading targets, for I find no joy in it. I wish to read wholly and happily, and I also want to write down in detail about the books I loved. I hope the road ahead is full of exciting and meaningful discoveries and revelations, captured in words penned by creative and intelligent minds. As 2019 gets underway, a reader has been reborn, and the good news is that she can’t wait to see the incredible journey unfold!
