The Library- Love, Adventure and Miracle

Often, when we hear the word LOVE, we associate it with the image of- a boy meets girl and their relationship. We tend to overlook that LOVE goes way beyond just that. It's a pure form of expressing the affection and care that we have for someone/something. Love exists between a parent-child, a student- teacher, with inanimate objects- that have a memory attached to them and sometimes with a stranger.

Love makes you do things which you possibly never could have done. It gives you strength and courage. It makes you believe. Love can be adventurous and sometimes it brings you a miracle. Love is not about expectations or demand, it is in those unsaid words and actions, the little things we receive but miss to acknowledge.

This is a story of love. But not one which is about a boy meets girl. It is a story about love and humanity in its purest form.

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Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get, it’s what you are expected to give — which is everything.

Many people like to travel. Most of them do. If they’re sure that there will be no hassles with the planning, no trouble getting there, no lack of delicious home-cooked meals and no lack of faces familiar just because their skin is of the same colour, they love to travel. They take pictures on their cameras of the spots they’ve seen in the brochures too often, and those pictures serve well when condescending relatives show up to boast about a happily married-off daughter or a new house in the suburbs which has parking for more cars than they own. Might I say here that the camera is my best friend too, when I travel. It lets me capture those beautiful moments in time and relive them. What better than seeing your life in a flashback mode, right?

Anyway, moving on, then we come to their destination of travel. Some countries everyone seems to have seen. So they move westwards. They talk disdainfully of the Western decadence and lack of culture, all the while secretly wishing that they had been born in the West.

There are some who will travel only in their own country, because they wish to see temples and mosques and other such places which God supposedly tends to inhabit. They sometimes come transformed, and it is a delight to talk to them then. It seems that they have instead met a doctor who has warned them of imminent cancer should they continue on their sinful paths.

Some have far too many relatives to be able to travel anywhere but little towns all over the country where these relatives stay. Such expeditions are met with joyous relatives, some confirming the exact relation before bending down to touch one’s feet. There are marriage proposals exchanged, and stories of the last time when everyone was together, accompanied by much boasting about new houses with more parking than required. And at the time of departure, money would be given to the children of the family. Of course, this was promptly taken by the parents. And then there were children who couldn’t come to terms with the fact that they’d grown too old to receive money. And then there were the adults who didn’t realize that they were old enough to start giving money.

But in the end everyone would be happy. Such is the beauty of family. The sense of belonging will never leave you.

No matter what else does.

I was born to such a family. Consequently, I received a lot of love and forwarded marriage proposals from distant uncles and aunts who would constantly ask me if I remembered them from when I was three.  Another consequence of this upbringing was that I started loathing the idea of travel that everyone had. I swore that I would grow up to be a backpacker, and I would go wherever I wanted to, without anyone telling me to wear a yellow cap so that I may not lose myself in the streets of Singapore, so that no-one would offer me home cooked food in the middle of a street in Rome, so that no-one would offer me a ride in a tour bus when I would rather walk on the cobblestone streets of Vienna.

People say that every child dreams of becoming a pilot or a musician but they end up sitting in front of little screens anyway. I’m glad this was repeated to me often enough while I was growing up.  I never forgot the long train journeys to far off towns, and I never lost the Wanderlust that consumed me since childhood.

But someone- something – did take me by surprise. The city that I lived in. She hid more in her snaking streets, built and rebuilt by hundreds of cultures, than anything else did. She had more people than anywhere in this country. She beckoned to me like an unfinished book, like a road I’d never gone down. I could not resist. I would lose myself over and over again in her. I would walk aimlessly through the veins that ran deep and wide. I would stare at ancient buildings with their amazing detail. Time would slow down for me as others would rush past. I would find my music in the calls of the vendors; I would find my fragrance in the temple streets lined with flowers and incense. I would not find my God, but somewhere inside I believed that it was here that He was to be found, if at all. And thus, this is my world and this is where I travel. Just like I wanted to.

Once I read somewhere that cloudy and stormy weather made people feel depressed. That is when I lost my faith in the cutting edge research placed in glossy magazines which serve to remind us of girls and gadgets that we would never possess. Thunderstorms made me as sad as they do a peacock. I would be filled with a sense of sheer joy. If there were clouds in the sky, nothing could go wrong that day. The cold winds laden with spray would carry me around like a mischievous child, grinning while everyone scurried for cover. I would hang out of train doors and feel the whips of rain on my face, to disdainful glances of eyes that alternated between me and watches to remind them that they were late.

And I first met him on one such day.

It had been a bad day with work pressure taking a toll on me. I was walking aimlessly on the road immersed in my own thoughts. When I came back to my senses, I realized I’d lost my way. There weren’t many people on the road and this was an unfamiliar place. I’d never been here before. A new city. A new road. New people and I was all by myself. I checked my cell phone to call someone, but there was no network. Google Maps didn’t help either. The battery was dying and then I was scared. I asked people around for directions, but they couldn’t decipher what I was saying. Aaah! The problem of new languages. Then again something inside me said- “Whatever happens is for the best”, and so I continued walking. My love for places and new people strong, I knew I’d be saved.

New roads always excite me. And let me tell you this was on one such road, lined with buildings of Neo-Gothic architecture, when the rain started in torrents. Of course, I’d have loved to walk on with my maniacal grin, but I had books with me. And I did not want them getting wet. So I ducked into the nearest shop I could find.

It was not a shop. God knew what it was. It was dark and small and smelled musty. And yet there was sweetness in the air. I could not place it. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the light.

“And yet it is not full" , came a voice from the dark.

“Wha- What is not full?” I inquired at once, not sure if the question was for me.

“The box.”

“Box? Are you talking to me?”

“No. It is Steinbeck talking to his editor.”

And then it dawned upon me. The voice was talking about the book in my hand, East of Eden. Not many people I knew had read any of Steinbeck’s works. I laughed a little.

“Show yourself!” I said.

And then he walked out a little. A man, extremely old and thin. Time seemed to have been climbing up on him slowly.  But it had not reached the summit. The face glowed, peaked by snowy white hair. And the eyes. Small, but bright and mischievous. He wore a white vest, the Parsi ceremonial cloth.

He seemed to be glowing white in the darkness.

“I didn’t get your name.” I said.

“That’s because I didn’t give it away yet.” He laughed. “Rustom at your service. This is my library. Abandon all hope, all ye who enter!”

“Dante.” I said, smiling. It took me long to like someone but the old man was saying all the right words.

“Ah, a reader! Well come on inside.”

And I followed him into the darkness. He lit a candle.

And I found myself in a cavern, full of books and tomes on every side. Mountains of volumes threatened to topple over. And then I placed the sweetness of the air, it was the smell of an old book.

“You might find it a little hard to navigate, but I know where everything is. My little boy and I know where everything is. And this is all we have.” His eyes grew distant; I could see that in the candlelight as well.

As if on cue, a little boy peeked out from behind one of the shelves.

“Hello. What’s your name?” I inquired.

“Take a guess!” Rustom said, his eyes dancing around and a grin playing around the corners of his mouth.

“Sohrab?” I said, feeling pleased with myself.

And Rustom burst out laughing. “Ah, the folly. Don’t read too much into the books. His name is Neel. He’s 11, but looks small for his age.”

I looked at Rustom’s face. I realized that the library was not all he had, it was Neel.

“Yes, I’m his father. I’m younger than I look, but that’s because I have tuberculosis and this light is bad for my eyes.” He said with more than a tinge of sadness in his voice.

“You don’t have electricity?” I asked, playing Captain Obvious.

“We did. But a builder wants to make something here. He wants me to vacate. This is his way of getting to me.”

“And he thinks his buildings will house characters more colorful than these books.” I said under my breath, to no-one in particular.

Rustom was smiling. He sighed deeply and got up. “Where are my manners? Let me make you some tea. The way we Iranis make it.”

As Rustom made tea for us, I looked around the place. By God, was it beautiful! Many will realize the value of gold, fewer will see the beauty of silver. Some will find a love for rounded stones, carved smooth by years of battling currents.  And only a few would see the treasure that an old, rare book holds. And I had found my Aladdin’s cave.

“Neel, do you go to school?” I asked the little figure observing me from a distance.

“Yes, of course! I can read and write better than my classmates. And I’m good with catching a ball.” The boy said, with obvious pride.

“That’s great. I can’t catch a ball at all.”

“You-you can’t?” He said with his eyes set wide. Clearly, this adult was not superhuman as the others were.

“I never learnt. Perhaps you’ll teach me?”

“Of course!” He said; ready to share his expertise with this stranger. “But what do I get in return?”

“I’m good with the guitar.”

“You are? We have one here!” And he disappeared into the maze.

“So you like music? “ Rustom asked, arriving with the tea, two cups of broken china.

“Yes. A lot. Music and photography and writing. Gets me by.”

“Come here, I have something to show you.” Rustom said as he excitedly led me by the hand behind a shelf. There, in all its brass-and-wood glory shone a gramophone player.

“This is… amazing!” I said. And it was.

“Now tell me if you’ve heard this.”

And I listened as the needle scratched itself into place, clicked, and sound wafted out from the horn. And a moment later I could not believe my ears.

“Miles Davis? Kind of Blue? You have a record?” I exclaimed.

“I have a lot of rare things here. Including Parsis!” Rustom added with a laugh, as musical as Davis himself.

We spent hours talking of random things, opined on the world and its happenings. I’ve never struck a chord like this with anyone before. I instantly liked Rustam and Neel. I told them about how I’d landed up here and thankfully they knew I wasn’t too far from the hotel I was put up at. They gave me directions and then I knew that this journey had been my little ADVENTURE. Like I said, sometimes things happen for good.

Time passed and the place became one of my favorite places to be. I would always come alone, and bond with Rustom over his excellent tea and even better conversation. Were we friends? I don’t know. I think he was the father I’ve missed since I was 17. Or the fellow reader I’ve missed since forever, in the age of cheap paperback novels about college life. And Neel, was a young bright boy, extremely capable of making it big someday. I’d try to bring him something from time to time. 1 perfectly rounded stone, a pen, a clay figurine, and other such things we forget to value as we grow up. He liked me too. He would address me by name. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Rustom and I discussed everything under the sun. Politics, philosophy, religion, music, all of it. The poor man had no money or family and yet he was one of the wisest people I’ve ever met. I once went to a fair, and there was a Sadhu with matted locks who everyone said was wise.  I merely found him boring with his literal interpretation of the scriptures and lack of imagination. He didn’t lose himself in the verses, and that is where I lost him.

Later he was arrested on charges of molestation. He couldn’t read his own future.

Neither could Rustom. He didn’t wish to sell his collection, and this I could perfectly understand. The meager amount of money generated by the library was enough to get some food and send Neel to school. His wife had died many years ago. Slowly I realized that I was something they needed and cherished. I was afraid of many things but not of this. I needed them equally. This was one happy accident that I had met them, and if you look at it, our lives are nothing but a sum of happy accidents. Or sad, if you wish so. I like happy.

I was walking towards Rustom’s house with a smile on my face. For in my pocket I had a little treasure. A guitar pick I’d made for Neel. I’d carved it out of wood, Then set a layer of resin over it, then written ‘Neel’ on it with a needle dipped in golden paint. It was beautiful. I was proud. It was the boy’s birthday.

But something was not right. Like a single note that goes off scale, something was not right about today. There was a small crowd outside the house.

An important looking man walked up to me. People often look important if they think themselves to be; even if they are the only ones.

“You must be him.” He said. I smiled, assuming my position as the ‘him’ in question.

“I’m the builder. The old Parsi is dead. The place is mine, I have a court order.” He waved some paper in front of me. The pen is mightier, after all. The builder looked slightly regretful. But again, he hadn't lost anything.

In that moment, I lost faith in a lot of things, not the least of which was the legal system. I couldn’t come to terms with what I’d just been told. ­­The builder came to the rescue of my struggling mind by interrupting my train of thoughts.

“But you can take the junk inside. He was a good man.” His words had all the sincerity of the Sadhu I’d seen.

I nodded and walked into the house. It still smelled sweet. It did not smell of Death, no. Rustom wouldn’t die just yet. 

In the corner sat Neel, sobbing. And I was helpless. No words can console the grieving.

He noticed me and got up. “You can take the books and records. You know, he liked you a lot. You made him happy for a while.” 

He took my hand in his. And for that moment he was wise and grown up, and I was little again. 

Seventeen. When my father had died. I broke down. In one hand I had Neel’s fingers, in the other the pick I’d made him. At that moment, I realized I was in LOVE. Not the love you think of; but the kind which is based on trust and understanding. The kind which very few people can relate to. I had loved Rustam and Neel, and his death made me cringe. I felt the same pain that I’d felt on my father’s death. And when I saw Neel sob, I was reminded of myself. I wanted to do something for him.

I remembered Patricia Neal’s quote- A strong positive mental attitude will create more miracles than any wonder drug.

And then I said it.

“I’ve not come for the books.” I said, clarity breaking through from the deepest chasms of sorrow. “I’ve not only come for the books. Neel, will you help me keep them? And if you like you could stay on with me and…” I trailed off.

Neel looked up at me with his huge eyes which had seen more than they should have to.

“Yes. Yes, I will.”

And he could say no more. Nor could I. We sat in the dark, surrounded by the stories of love lost and found.

What was lost could be found again. Not many would know our story, but our book has ended happily.

And yet, it has only begun.

It is true that - MIRACLES happen to only those who believe in them.

Neel says I came into his life as a miracle. I made him happy. But I know the miracle had taken place in my life. I knew my life had just changed. J

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