I am what I read

I once had a squirrel as a pet. Besides the funny stories I remember about him, I also have a physical reminder of his brief role in my life - a gnawed-at portion on the spine of Haroun and the Sea of Stories.

My childhood books bear the scars of belonging to a little girl who liked to assert her ownership of these books. The first page features her name, class, section and roll number (can't figure why) on the first page. I have an old edition of Ruskin Bond's Grandfather's Private Zoo, with cute illustrations by Mario Miranda. And it's autographed by Bond.

My copy of Murder in the Cathedral belonged, by turn, to everyone in my family who did an MA in English Literature, starting with a great-uncle who bought it in the 1950s. Someday I hope to hand it to someone I know will respect it.

Chrysalids, by John Wyndham, belonged to my mother, and I see her 13-year-old's pencil-scribbled notes and word-meanings in the margins whenever I re-read the story.

Lust for Life was my brother's gift to me when I got my first-ever promotion at work - and he's written naive lines of little-brother admiration for the work I do in his inscription to me.

I have a tattered Jhansi ki Rani by Subhadra Kumari Chauhan, which my father bought me when I was 6. The opening page says "Meri pyari bitiya Anamika ke liye, is asha mein ki woh Jhansi ki Rani jaise veer baney...". Memory of that shames me when, alone at night, I worry about ghosts and fight temptation to sleep with a light on.

Our copy of Ruskin Bond's The India I Love contains its receipt from 6 years ago - Anando had bought the book while he waited at Barista to meet me offline for the first time. He was reading it when I walked up to him on a December evening in South Extension.

You know where this is going, don't you? I ask: Can a Kindle ever contain more than just the words of the author?

I once declared I would never join Facebook, but I succumbed - initially to play Lexulous but eventually to just spy on old enemies/crushes to see what they were like now and how harmless/shiny-happy they managed to appear, even though (or maybe because) I was no longer in their lives.

So while I shouldn't say I would never want a Kindle, or an e-reader device-type-thing, I've been thinking of reasons I prefer old-fashioned books. I know it's an old debate now, but somehow no one has been able to capture for me how I feel about paper and ink books. So who better than me to do it.

I worked in publishing for many years, and I loved the thrill of holding books fresh from the printers', smelling of ink and 6-7 months of hard work, of connecting (or not) with the author, of visualising the cover, of finally, lovingly putting the books in an envelope and sending them off to the proud author with a personal note.

Crisp and clean as new books are, it's the baggage they acquire along the way that "builds character", as Calvin's father would say. While I treasure my books and treat them well, they do pick up some wrinkles along the way - a greasy thumbprint from devouring parathas alongside the story on a rainy day; a dog-ear from carrying it in a crowded handbag to read on the bus; a forever-sticky patch where I peeled off the price-tag in a hurry; a crack on the spine from falling asleep while reading. I pick up a book, and a makeshift page-mark falls out - a boarding card, a coffee-shop receipt, a shopping list, and I remember the last time I read the book - who I met, where I was, what I was thinking....

My books are reminders of all the people I have been. I can hug them. I can hold them. I don't charge them, they re-charge me.