I was sitting by the window looking at the bright sun as I felt the warmth from the heater in my room. By now I know better than to expect anything from the winter sun that often teases me from the other side of the window. I was in the middle of what had been a perfect day until now. I had been up at the crack of dawn (which is anytime before 9 AM in my world), had cooked a veggie-filled breakfast, had wrapped up my daily chores and was ensconced in my favorite chair. But the day was now beginning to turn a little weird. An antsy feeling was creeping up on me, threatening to ruin my afternoon tea. Since my tea time was one of the small pleasures I looked forward to, I tried to shrug off the uninvited feeling with every shred of strength I could find. But it clung to me like leech and thus tea wasn’t a pleasure that day. As if it wasn’t enough that I had to carry the cumbersome feeling through the day, I also had to bear the burden of not knowing why.
At last, I hit the bed. But instead of quietly drifting off to sleep, I awoke with a jerk suddenly realizing that it had been four days since I had read a book. And THAT was what had been nagging me. The next morning I hungrily lapped up quite a few pages of the book I carried in my bag but had not touched in a while. Reading, I realized, is not a habit to be trifled with. Thriving on leftover time at the end of my day, this habit has stealthily gained stature enough to disrupt my day at its whims and fancies. What more, it has birthed an endless bucket list of books to be read and an interest in soaking in every bit of nonsense as long as it’s well-written. This is what lies on the other side of enjoying a companion as erudite as a book. This is the “fine print” they don’t tell you about when they say a room without books is like a body without soul.