A book in hand is worth two on the device

The fragrance and rustle of the pages are of an unmatched fascination

Thanks to digital technology, e-books can now be downloaded almost instantaneously to Kindles, tablets or other Internet-aided devices. They are much more portable, convenient and searchable than a physical book. Yet, there is no gainsaying that printed books have their own charm. The pleasure of holding a new book in hand and enjoying the fresh fragrance of its pages while poring over its contents is a unique experience by itself.

As a schoolboy, my joy knew no bounds on the annual occasion of buying textbooks from the school book depot on my promotion to a higher class.

While scholars, intellectuals, writers, artists and scientists assiduously build huge libraries at their homes, common book lovers like me do keep a modest collection. I have been jealously preserving books purchased by me and my family members not only during our school and college days but also later for almost five decades.

We have allotted a separate portion in our house for keeping this miscellaneous collection of books, despite severe space constraints. Rummaging through the book shelves, one would come across volumes of Shakespeare, classics such as Pride and Prejudice and Great Expectations, 20th century novels of authors like E.M. Forster and D.H. Lawrence, remarkable books such as Gandhiji’s My Experiments with Truth and Nehru’s The Discovery of India, novels, non-fiction works, magazines and some technical textbooks as well. Though the contents of a few had become faded with the passage of time, the bindings preserve a sallow purity.

Visitors to our house invariably used to evince an interest in the books that I had. Women guests preferred to glance through Deepavali special issues and old Tamil novels of Kalki and Akilan. Many children of our extended family and neighbourhood were attracted by children’s magazines such as Chandamama and Kalkandu, and comics such as Amar Chitra Katha and Indrajal. There were a few who took the liberty of taking some books home which they returned at their convenience. I did not, however, keep any note of the borrowed books.

There was an elderly gentleman, a distant relation, who used to stray into our house occasionally. He had the habit of ransacking the book shelves with effortless élan. He would pick up a book, flip through its pages and say he would like to borrow it for a few days. I could not refuse owing to the respect he commanded in the household. He seldom returned the borrowed books on his own volition.

In my college days, I cultivated the habit of visiting used-book stalls for two reasons: finding the rare print of a book I was searching for amid the pile gave me that feeling of finding a long-lost friend, and with my limited pocket money, I could buy as many books as possible with my bargaining skill. As some of the extraordinary volumes purchased thus were out of print, I took legitimate pride in owning them.