I have always found it hard to romanticize
(well, at least intentionally!). Hence I am always fascinated by people sketching
long poems on love, composing catchy music on life, stringing epics on beauty.
It is amazing how it doesn't wear people out! I mean, far from it, people
always yearn for more of this stuff. So,
it is not surprising that I am now trying to find a connection between a queer
tendency I have discovered in myself recently, and my apparent lack of
imagination.
During my wee reading days, I was
often attacked by what a few book-lovers had coined - a page-sixteen-syndrome. It simply means that the book you are
holding is not going to take your mind through the fantastic journey it
promised, beyond page number 16. This is because the journey it is currently taking
you on is unbearable for that poor mind of yours. You need a halt and page 16
is the pseudonym. As a reader much in the green, trying to discover my comfort genre,
I figured I would have to wade through a pool of seemingly boring books to thresh
a few that would suit my taste.
Now the recent queer tendency
that I had made a mention of earlier has to do with this page 16 syndrome. What
had been a curious phenomenon witnessed during what we can call a book-reader’s
puberty, has now started growing on me. I somehow cannot keep my mind to set
sail and embark on the journey any book wants to take me on. I took a count of
the books I had handled in the past one year and realized I had attempted 15
books, of which I may have reached page 200 of the highest scorer, the rest
being discarded at an insignificant page number. Either my taste is evolving /
maturing/ going through another book-reader’s puberty, or my mind is plain
bored with the same dish offered in different plates! Mind you, I do not want
to be misunderstood when I say same dish (I
do believe no two books are the same).
What I actually mean is that I
need someone to write me a magical book.
Someone to tell me it is ok to
not embed a love story in a crime plot, it is equally beautiful to not sing
songs about the nature, it is alright that the protagonist is dull, dim, distasteful,
and one who hardly fulfils the definition of a contemporary hero, and it is
lyrical to hear the punch line without the chaff. That way it will make me
believe that a book can be written on you and me, our mothers and anybody. That
way I know that everybody has a story to tell – some simple and some lavish.
