As I journey through the everyday, I wonder about that immense lot of readers, lying down on their bed, reading a book, lost. I wonder how the pages of their book smell, what stories are they currently living in, what heart breaks and what loves have conquered them. I think all this as I walk down the road, bask in the monsoon sun, smile at the blue-grey sky and continue my pondering. At times I am intimidated by these readers, who read almost for every single our a day, for I feel I stand defeated in front of them. It is then that I have to remind myself that my journey of a reader is not one of duplication of those million more, rather it is a statement of identity, a quest for books which will keep forming me, the right to those words which will have the stain of my thoughts on them and those unseen, almost non-existent finger-prints which brush through each page that my hands shall hold.
I smile then and carry on.
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