Some books on my Bed

I have somehow stopped reading after my last two books, “The Motorcycle Diaries” and “Letters to Sam”. Last night as I slipped into my pajamas, I discovered around five books on my bed. They were snubbed by my attitude towards them; I had read only a few pages of each. It was like listening to a close friend’s poignant narrative and then leaving him right when he was beginning to open up. I felt for them, but I still switched off the lights after setting the alarm to 6AM.

In the morning, I discovered an order note in the cabinet. I had placed an order for two more books. I remember how excited I was to have them, but I cannot see even a spec of the excitement in my bathroom mirror today.

What am I doing all these days? Work – yes… And what else? I don’t remember anything momentous. I’ve heard someone saying that the best thoughts and ideas come to you when you are seated in your shit-pot. Let me try it as well, I thought! And lo, what comes to me? The smell of my shit’s obscure aroma mixing with the air freshener…

I loved “The Motorcycle Diaries”, but it left me with a reality check meter. In each book that I read, I find some wisdom that I can make use in my life. In Che’s narration of his discovery of Latin America, I discovered my lack of knowledge of my own roots.

In Daniel Gottlaib’s (Letters to Sam) handicap, I discovered how one can still seek out and see the world from his constrained wheelchair.

Dan and Che are two faces of the same person to me. They had set out to discover themselves rather than waiting to let things dawn before them. They saw life from the wheel: Dan from his wheelchair and Che from his bike. And they understood—that life is not a full circle when it comes to discovery; it may not show all its different flavors to you on its own—you have to seek it like you seek your friends in a game of hide and seek. Still, you may not discover it all, but atleast you’ll have the smile on you face of the one who has been closer to life and known it.

I now know the reason behind the pile of books on my bed. I fear that I’ll discover one more Dan, an another Che Guevara, beckoning me to take the path of discovery. I’ve been resisting this current for long, but I don’t know if I’d be able to hold on to the certainty that I live in today.