“Name one thing you are good at”. I wince inwardly. Now that’s a good way to demoralise a highly sensitive introvert like me the first thing in the morning. I stare blankly at the mole on Peja’s face and pretend I didn’t hear her question.
“Okay, let me rephrase. What is that one thing you have been constantly doing for the rest of your life?” she gives me that sinister look and I want to throttle her mercilessly. Did she mean besides eating, sleeping and peeing every twenty minutes? I take a deep breath, ready to eliminate her stupid expression when imagery hits my mind. The imagery of a little girl huddled by dozens of classic novels on a cold wintry night. That’s it! My books!
I flutter my lashes dramatically, “Why, of course? What else would it be than my reading?”
I am someone with a razor-sharp memory and, even worse, a photographic memory of faces, words and phrases I come across every single day. I remember the stuff I have read all these years along.
Well, almost. When I began writing, I told people how cathartic it was for me to jot down my feelings and thoughts on paper. But before all that, reading saved me. I was a lonely child for fourteen long years until my baby sister was born. They prohibited Internet and cable TV until I would complete my high school (old-fashioned parents; you see). The only channel that played on TV was the local Kuwaiti channel that was had many boring Arabic episodes except for Fridays or during evenings.
The only two sources of entertainment for me were computer games and loads of reading material stacked up on the shelves of a big black mean-looking old dresser table next to the sofa in the hall.
My father instilled a few good habits in me, reading included. I remember every evening he would bring me a packet of freshly cooked hot samosas, a pack of mango juice and a magazine to read. This ritual was one of the most favourite parts of the evening for me and I always looked forward to what he would bring me to feast my eyes on. One day it would be a comic book, the other a kid’s magazine and the other an anthology of animals that lived like human beings. There was a consistent boost to my grades in English because of my voracious reading. My classmates and teachers marvelled at the expansion of my vocabulary and the frequent use of subtle forms of expression. I enjoyed the little admiration. It made me feel really special. Non-readers make fun of us bookworms, thinking that the world we dive into is nothing but a work of mere fiction. It’s deeper than that, a vast sea of possibilities. It is a whole extra dimension with you as the protagonist, the antagonist, or whatever you want to be. The sense of freedom to be someone else, even for a few minutes, is so enthralling, it’s like a drug!
I had gone through a lot of struggles, mainly an abnormal childhood and a series of battles with anxiety and depression. Reading was and still is one of the best coping mechanisms I could find.
So next time you pick up a book and snuggle yourself against a pillow to read, do not forget to breathe in deep and allow to set your foot on a wonderland filled with magic and hope and stillness.
An enormous set of hearts to my fellow readers out there!
