Telling Tales

Like it would sound from the Park Street pavement in the late 80's, the chaos of the synchronized trumpets made their presence felt in an unlikely melody, sometimes matching the bang of the cymbals, sometimes not; distant, but present. The lights seemed faded too, but lit. Many millions of lights, perhaps they formed her upper eyelids. Mrignayani shut her eyes with the determination of a PT teacher, to get the best out of his cadres. She wished to get out of the car, breathe in some dust-filled, non-airconditioned air, she wanted to take in the season. Not that she was away from the city, or was back from a travel. She just needed to do it.

Her book was rising on the charts that mattered. Short-listing, long-listing and a whole lot of first page signing were a part of her day now. She was crossing College Street, its similar turtle pace bringing unto her her salad days. Tired, ambitious shoulders of students giggling over street-food, some seriously haggling over second-hand books. Mrignayani asked her driver to park the car and got off. Wishing to take in the melody of the bargains she was out of touch with, she pushed her front flocks with her big sunglasses. The glamour quotient immediately came down a notch. 

The first touch felt like returning to an old friend, who was once an infatuation. It was an Enid Blyton, on a stack of Enid Blytons, the once bright of the yellow on the cover now only a brown crease, garlanding the loops of her signature. They looked sad, the collection, no longer on a child's pillow-side. The Jeffrey Archers and Paulo Coelhos were shining, well-read and much read, clean and sturdy, reminding her of the lot of Archers she had bought off some of these stores. Some Shakespeare tragedies, were tragically covered by the hardbound cover of Art-Books featuring Monet's Lilies, or Picasso's faces. A God of Small Things lurked out dustily, even though plastic wrapped. She picked it up, removed the wrap and opened it. The smell greeted her. It was Kerela coconut-water and her room back from Assam. She had not understood a word of it then. The Chamber of Secrets was calling out to her now as she put it back. A row was devoted to J K Rowling -- brand new editions, hard-bound, followed by cheaper, pirated copies and finally columns of second-hand ones, loved and desired perhaps, coveted too until owned. She picked one up. It sent unexplained shivers through her soul. Mrignayani Pathak was an upcoming author in her own rights now.

The first page opened to scribbles. "This book belongs to Ishani Roy, Loreto House, Class IX". It was cut across by a swift line, and a barely legible sign, the 'Ghosh' of which could be understood. Having traveled through many hands, the book returned where it belonged -- to be owned, again. She bought it this time, for a poultry sixty bucks and walked to her car. She also bought a book on astrology and a copy of her own, "Telling Tales". Nobody asked for an autograph. The shopkeeper was, in fact, quite taken aback that she did not even attempt a bargain. Walking back to her car, she overheard all such composites that would make for her characters soon. Greedily, she devoured them.