I look at this old tattered book. The once white pages have turned yellow over the years. The careless of these pages scream stories of the numerous fingers that have touched and smudged its body. Sometimes the fingers felt like a mother’s caress and at others an old friend’s hug. And there were also times when the same pages soaked every drop of diamond that fell from the eyes of the reader. Those are the moments it remembers the most, when it was held gently and hugged closely, moments in which it knew it is loved deeply. The old pages are eaten by moths, lices and beetles. There are gaping holes wherever your eyes land their gaze and yet they are holding onto the beautiful necklace of words that adorn their body. These moths have left a road map on its body, a maze to its soul for everyone who reads it one last time. The book kept lying in the dingy corner of a secluded cupboard, awaiting the arrival of someone that could solve this unsolved mystery when my mum found it.
One fine day, she chose to open that cupboard after years of it being jettisoned and cast off like a junk. And there she found this old baby, getting eaten up and counting its final breaths. She got it to show us that this is your grandpa’s book. It was one of the few books that survived the library fire at our home. The library that was the sole library my village and atleast three more, was burned to ashes in a few hours. She never got to see it though, it was gone before she came into our house and she also have just heard the stories. Now, I know where do I get this knack for collecting books! It runs in the blood! And I also like how my mother always goes extra miles to pass down these ancestral stories to us. Afterall these stories are what keeping things alive that have ceased to exist long long ago.
Last modified: July 25, 2021
