..was the topic we wrote essays on through most of middle school. Either that, or “What I did during summer vacation”. I even had a standardized essay for both these topics, and I would merely rearrange order of sentences every time I had to write a “composition” on one of them. They were the most boring compositions I have ever written in life, especially because I could never relate to books as friends. Books were interesting. Books were informative. But friends were people and that’s that.
Nevertheless, I spent a lot of time reading as a kid. Amar Chitra Katha (I had 80 of them, neatly bound and labelled), Famous Fives, Secret Sevens, Five Findouters, Agatha Christie (Ms. Maple and Poirot), Nancy Drew (bleah), Hardy Boys (Frank was my favourite), Perry Mason (what did he see in Della Street?), Daniel Steel (ahem !), P.G. Wodehouse (Wooster – my first crush), Conrad (I swear!), Jeffery Archer (I hated prodigal daughter), Charles Dickens (too long winding), Bronte Sisters (too depressing) and so on. Mills and Boons never figured in my read lists, it was too umm..embarrassing, although my friends would cover the books with brown paper and highlight all the “juicy” sections – I was too timid, or would that be prudish?
Somewhere during college, there was a lull. I don’t remember much of that decade anyway. I believe I did more educational reading (I.L. Finar, Lehninger etc.) than entertainment reading at that time. Thankfully marriage to a bookworm brought reading back into my life. And kindle made it easier.
My life is a sinusoid of frenzied activity and coma. I suspect my presence here will follow the same pattern.