I was thirty one. Am. At thirty-two, Sylvia Plath died, I often remind myself. Since last year, as if possessed, a voice takes me over, almost everyday. She compels me to write. "Like Ruskin Bond!", one of my readers chirp. "Like Ruskin Bond?", I ask back, unsure, if it is a compliment or a limitation. She scowls back, "Like Ruskin Bond. Haven't you read him?" Uncertain if I remember the right things about him, I reply in defense, "Couple in the syllabus and couple from stray corners", I confess.
I have procured two of his collection of short stories now, and gone on to turn the pages to check on the size, slyly. It made me happy. Very short, indeed! Finishable, I thought. Very happy. Something about him seems very enticing. His titles, his fascination with the mountains. "I want to buy his house and live in it when he dies!" I declared to anyone who cared to listen. Having heard myself, I am convinced, insanity has found permanent residence in me. Plath died in the house of Yeats.
I am no big-hearted fan of James, and Ruskin sounds a sweeter bet. When I am in his house, working in my kitchen, a cup of coffee to have, over my evening short story, you can come in and share a cup too. And then when you leave, you can reiterate about having bonded with one of the best.
No comments:
Post a Comment