Old books and disappearing time
TweetOn a bright, dusty and loud day, I thought I had a waking dream – a mesmerizing and surreal kind of reality.
As I parked my moped on the edge of the shop pavement – inches from the inpatient traffic and narrow roads, I glanced at my destination – a flimsy corroding tin shack. This was once the place to go to buy second hand books – and the owner still held on to the pride of being a popular book store owner. She stood in a white floral dress, alert and ready for a sell, her hands gently spread across the counter – a picture of impatience, with a backdrop of rows and rows of vintage books.
I had been here almost a decade ago, today I have come to buy back what does not belong here – ancestral memories, family history, old albums, records, diaries that were painstakingly preserved and which I had sold many years ago in exchange for mere pennies and a lifetime of guilt.
A sharp yelp and I was back, a dog sprang off as kids playfully chased him. Abida, the owner glanced at me and handed over a book- the cover was a picture of beauty. What could have been talcum white in its year of publication, was now a creamy soiled backdrop with the image of a girl running towards a bungalow the fabric of her beautifully made chiffon dress trailing at her feet. Her straight back and braided hair the only indication of her beauty and poise.
The kids were back after chasing the dog and urging me to come inside, apparently a celebration tent and a party of sorts awaited inside. In a practiced sincere tone I excused myself from what seemed to be a private party. But the kids were persistent and Abida urged me to go along.Much as I hated to – I was obliged to at least hang around for a bit before excusing myself.
The garden was magnificent, an oasis in the city. Lit up for a celebration the trees blinked in neon hues. Out of nowhere a gentleman walked up and said to me “You see, my child, everything is what it appears to be, hiding beneath it all is what only you can see. Open your eyes to possibilities, complexities and purposefully comprehend what relation everything holds to you. Break out from what you believe exists-open all your senses”.
As if waiting for his words to sink in, the old man paused for a second, gazed at me smiled a smile of recognition and walked away in drunk stumbles.
The kids were gone and so was the old man, the strings of neon has long seized to wind around the trees – but I kept up my walk along the path. Things looked familiar, and I cut through the lawns to reach a corridor that connected the gardens to the house. As I approached, I felt a sense that I had read of this place – a sense that a lot of history can be traced back right here, where I stood.
Gentle breeze, and only a drunk old mans song that cut the silence ” You are here, all wrong. Not the right time, not a place where you now belong.”
I continued my wander along the corridor, registering the beauty and detail of the architecture, and the constant feeling of familiarity. Like memories of subjects from school, everything here seemed to remind me of some sections of our history – the costumes on the people on portraits, the billowing curtains and towering ceilings.
As I followed the curve of the long corridor, I stopped to smell the fresh flowers which seemed to have been plucked no longer than a few minutes ago – still fresh and dewy in fragrance.The fragrance that took me back to the days gone by. Of course!!! Why hadn’t I been able to remember till now?!
It was here, that I ran along in my chiffon dresses, ran towards the beautiful white bungalow that was once home. Ran through happy summers and the first year the house had a camera.
I could not sense whether I was thrust forward , or pushed back through .Suddenly everything was gone – the beautiful silence, the scent of flowers, the gentle breeze that carried with it the old mans song. I felt the hot blow of a trucks exhaust fumes and found myself staring stupidly at Abida, trying to form words that would buy my history back.
