Where it all started…my love for reading…
Sometimes memories hit you out of nowhere. You don’t even realize you still have them, hidden somewhere deep within you. Something you unconsciously buried. I was reading short stories by Munshi Premchand when someone asked me where I got this book from. The copy I was reading was a borrowed one, published by Diamond publication. I’m quite familiar with the Diamond publication, got lots of books at home by them. All of them in Hindi of course. Affordable literature that is easily available. This might not be their official motto but that’s what they do. Publish range of books at affordable prices that are readily available on any bus or train station. Literature at your fingertips, you just have to reach out and search in a dingy book stall while you wait for your train.
My parents did the same. Back when I was 8 or 9. Back when my parents were desperate to find a cure for my illness. Rheumatoid arthritis is a chronic illness and back then there wasn’t much research on it. There were not many specialists for this lifelong incurable disease. The few renowned rheumatologists were in big metro cities like Mumbai. And so I made trips to the Hinduja hospital in Mumbai every month. My parents seeking the next appointment date and booking the available seats on train for that particular day. Sometimes they were lucky to find reservations, other times not so much. But missing an appointment was not an option. Many a times I’ve travelled overnight to Mumbai, with my parents fetching me a lower berth somehow while they slept on the floors of the train coaches. Just so we could attend the appointment on time that might improve my health condition.
I search my memory lanes of those days but they are filled with these countless journeys. Making appointments, dad standing in the queue of reservation as soon as we stepped on the Akola station, me attending school next day, trying to decipher what currently was being taught, trying to fill the gaps while my mom busied herself with completing my notes, borrowing books from my peers. No time I was somewhat back on track with the current curriculum, I was again back on the train traveling to Mumbai.
From all these memories, one thing peeks at me. My parents always bought books at stations and wherever they can get their hands on. To pass the time in long journeys and hospital waiting rooms, maybe to get away from the building stress and anxiety and worry. They were aware of my mental state too. Traveling in trains, waiting in waiting rooms, getting tested, x-rayed, pierced by needles again and again at the same time dealing with the illness and pain. That’s not what a normal childhood looks like. There is only so much that you can enjoy on a train journey. And after a couple of times, Mumbai had lost its charm on me. My parents were aware of all this. They always tried to make up for it by buying me books and comics alongside them. Back in Akola, my mom got me a weekly subscription of comic books. Every week I rented comics of Billu, Pinki, Chacha Chaudhary, exchanged them with friends. I preferred Billu and Pinki over Chacha Chaudhary.
In all those countless ordeal of memories which I had buried intentionally, one memory stands out. One where my parents bought me my first comicbook of Pinki from some train station on one such journey. My very own comic book! Not a rented one. It had glossy fresh pages, unlike those yellowed rough pages of comics I exchanged every week. I was pretty excited to read it, the bright color paintings in it. I remember precisely that I read half of it while riding to Mumbai, planning to read the other half while making the journey back. I was always a slow reader and have always loved to savour the experience.
In Mumbai, we stayed with my dad’s friend’s house at J.J. hospital campus. They had a son my age, and he gave me a sticker of bright red guitar. I remember clearly pasting it on the front of my comic. The crisp shiny sticker on my new glossy comic book I was so proud to own. I don’t remember anything much from that journey, no hospital rooms, no needles, no doctors. But I do remember that that comic book had a very long chapter at the end I was looking forward to read on the train back. It felt like an accomplishment to read that chapter and completing the book.
Reading has always been an integral part of me, helping me cope with the various ordeals of life. Reading Diamond’s Munshi Premchand brought back Pinki to me. The comic lost somewhere with time. The one with its bright red guitar sticker. But it was always there, waiting for me to find it. A testament to my parents’ love and their efforts to keep my sanity intact, never letting my childhood out of sight. Buying that comic and countless others after that was their way of saying ‘We love you and we’ll always care for you’. Dedicated to my parents.
