The habit of reading was a gift given to me by my father.
He read continuously and voraciously. He was a professor in a University and reading his subject matter was de rigueur for him. As a child I often saw him sitting at our dining table, his head bent, pouring over thick, hard bound tomes with incomprehensible names like 'Dynamics of Labour Relations In India', "Applied Psychology in Human Resource Management'. His tools for these readings were a pencil, an eraser and a six-inch ruler. He underlined and wrote notes in both the margins. Sometimes, I noticed, that he underlined some lines bold and sometimes he marked full paragraphs. He also kept a sheaf of white paper next to him and by the end of the evening, this would be covered with his spidery handwriting.
But come night and after his dinner, he would retire to bed with a racy, contemporary novel in hand. He would switch on his bedside lamp and lose himself in the latest pulp fiction. This time, his tool would be a dictionary kept always at reach. He seldom bought books. He borrowed from friends, from the library and also bought second-hand books from the raddiwala. Once I was married, he would come to Bombay to visit me. During these visits, a visit to Flora Fountain to the second hand book stalls on the pavement was mandatory. He taught me, in fact, ingrained in me, the respect for books. He would first cover the book he was reading with an old newspaper. He would never ever dog-ear a page. He would not start reading till he put a bookmark in the book. If he ever saw a book left upside down and open at the spine, all hell would break lose. We could not lick our finger to turn to the next page. And if the book was a paperback, we could never try and force it open at the spine. The book had to be gently cajoled to reveal the print near the binding. God help us if we cracked the spine of some book.
He was an inveterate borrower of books but he always but always returned the book to the lender.On the other hand, he lent his books very grudgingly. More often than not, he made some excuse when someone spotted a novel in our house and asked to borrow it. In fact, he used to hide his books so that he would not have to lend them. And if he did lend his book, he was extremely particular about having it returned. He remembered and he was unabashed in asking for his book back.
His interests is books were wide and varied. He used to read a lot of regular, mindless fiction. He had the entire library of James Hadley Chase, Agatha Christie, Perry Mason and Nick Carter. He read Jeffery Archer and Sidney Sheldon. He devoured Harold Robbins. But he is the one who introduced me to Ayn Rand. He read "How to make friends and influence people" and that became his bible for some time. Alvin Toffler's Future Shock was oft quoted in my house. He read "Notes to Myself" and "Who Moved My Cheese". In later years he developed a keen interest in philosophy and theology. He read Samuel Becket and Francis Bacon and Nietzsche. After I was married, he gifted me 'Discovery of India', ''My Experiments with Truth' and 'An Autobiography of a Yogi'. He read self-help books, books on Yoga and books on diets. He could discourse lengthly on Indian Economy, Indian history, World history, World politics and theology. His favourite topics were World War II and Indian fight for freedom.
He one told me that as junk food is harmful for the body, mindless fiction, which I preferred, was stunting for the brain. He strongly advised me to nourish my mind and soul with "good books."
I am eternally grateful to my father for gifting me my love for books. Books have been my companion as long as I can remember and I hope I have passed this bibliophilism on to my daughters.
He read continuously and voraciously. He was a professor in a University and reading his subject matter was de rigueur for him. As a child I often saw him sitting at our dining table, his head bent, pouring over thick, hard bound tomes with incomprehensible names like 'Dynamics of Labour Relations In India', "Applied Psychology in Human Resource Management'. His tools for these readings were a pencil, an eraser and a six-inch ruler. He underlined and wrote notes in both the margins. Sometimes, I noticed, that he underlined some lines bold and sometimes he marked full paragraphs. He also kept a sheaf of white paper next to him and by the end of the evening, this would be covered with his spidery handwriting.
But come night and after his dinner, he would retire to bed with a racy, contemporary novel in hand. He would switch on his bedside lamp and lose himself in the latest pulp fiction. This time, his tool would be a dictionary kept always at reach. He seldom bought books. He borrowed from friends, from the library and also bought second-hand books from the raddiwala. Once I was married, he would come to Bombay to visit me. During these visits, a visit to Flora Fountain to the second hand book stalls on the pavement was mandatory. He taught me, in fact, ingrained in me, the respect for books. He would first cover the book he was reading with an old newspaper. He would never ever dog-ear a page. He would not start reading till he put a bookmark in the book. If he ever saw a book left upside down and open at the spine, all hell would break lose. We could not lick our finger to turn to the next page. And if the book was a paperback, we could never try and force it open at the spine. The book had to be gently cajoled to reveal the print near the binding. God help us if we cracked the spine of some book.
He was an inveterate borrower of books but he always but always returned the book to the lender.On the other hand, he lent his books very grudgingly. More often than not, he made some excuse when someone spotted a novel in our house and asked to borrow it. In fact, he used to hide his books so that he would not have to lend them. And if he did lend his book, he was extremely particular about having it returned. He remembered and he was unabashed in asking for his book back.
His interests is books were wide and varied. He used to read a lot of regular, mindless fiction. He had the entire library of James Hadley Chase, Agatha Christie, Perry Mason and Nick Carter. He read Jeffery Archer and Sidney Sheldon. He devoured Harold Robbins. But he is the one who introduced me to Ayn Rand. He read "How to make friends and influence people" and that became his bible for some time. Alvin Toffler's Future Shock was oft quoted in my house. He read "Notes to Myself" and "Who Moved My Cheese". In later years he developed a keen interest in philosophy and theology. He read Samuel Becket and Francis Bacon and Nietzsche. After I was married, he gifted me 'Discovery of India', ''My Experiments with Truth' and 'An Autobiography of a Yogi'. He read self-help books, books on Yoga and books on diets. He could discourse lengthly on Indian Economy, Indian history, World history, World politics and theology. His favourite topics were World War II and Indian fight for freedom.
He one told me that as junk food is harmful for the body, mindless fiction, which I preferred, was stunting for the brain. He strongly advised me to nourish my mind and soul with "good books."
I am eternally grateful to my father for gifting me my love for books. Books have been my companion as long as I can remember and I hope I have passed this bibliophilism on to my daughters.
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