Life of a bookworm – The Hindu

Buried in the pages.
| Photo Credit: Getty Images

A bookworm is a creature often misunderstood in the wilds of social interaction. We dwell in the realms of words, where our minds wander through pages like explorers charting new worlds. Behind our quiet demeanour and dusty bookshelves lie a series of pressures and misconceptions that only we truly comprehend.

Let us address the secretive nature of our obsession first. God forbid anyone should find out you are a bookworm. You can already hear it — the dreaded question: “What’s your favourite book?” Cue the existential crisis. “Do I have a favourite book? When was the last time I read a book? Was that a book or a magazine? What is a book?”

The mind starts racing as the other person waits for your answer. “Hmmm, I liked Harry Potter. But isn’t that a children’s book? Maybe I should say something sophisticated, like Wuthering Heights. Well, I did doze off a dozen times trying to finish it. Who wrote it? Jane Eyre? No, that is the name of the other book. Then who was the heroine of Wuthering Heights? Aarrghh! The Brontë sisters!”

We mumble something about Great Expectations, praying they will not delve deeper into our literary psyche.

There is the expectation to keep pace with literary trends. “Have you read ‘The Dragon’s Breakfast’? It is all anyone is talking about!” they exclaim, unaware of the towering to-be-read pile that mocks our ambition. While they devour the fantastical feasts in social media, we are still struggling to understand Tess of the d’Urbervilles or losing our minds over Ulysses. We still have Lady Chatterley’s Lover or the Robin Cook books waiting for us. Our reading list is not a race; it is a meandering journey through time, genre, and sometimes just curiosity.

Contrary to popular belief, our bookshelves are not Instagram-worthy displays of aesthetic perfection. Unlike the meticulously curated, colour-coordinated shelves adorned with succulents and fairy lights, our collections resemble a chaotic second-hand bookstore. Once, a colleague whom I had invited for lunch commented that my room looked like Daryaganj. For the unversed, Daryaganj in Delhi is famous for its weekly book market, held every Sunday on the street pavements. It stretches almost two kilometres. Now, a normal adult might get offended, but I puffed up with pride. We scoff at advice to declutter, as if we would ever discard a Famous Five book to make room for the latest bestseller.

Bookmarks? Dog-eared pages is not sacrilege; it is a sign of our intimate relationship with the written word. We fall asleep mid-chapter, with a makeshift bookmark — a crumpled receipt or a stray piece of paper— tucked into the folds. The truth is, we would rather spend those precious moments reading one more page than searching for a glittering acrylic bookmark.

Another misconception is that we prefer fictional characters to real people. Yes, we may shed a tear for Nirmala or ponder the fate of Holden Caulfield, but we are not deluded. We understand the line between fiction and reality. We may have more expectations from people in real life because of what the books feed us.

And book clubs? While they offer camaraderie and intellectual discourse, not all bookworms thrive in their structured confines. The only sound some of us want to hear is the rustle of pages turning, or perhaps the quiet gasp of disbelief as we read about what Lizzy discovers about Mr. Darcy’s true character. Group discussions? More like group anxiety — we will pass.

Amidst these trials and tribulations, there is one thing we revel in: the surprised look on people’s faces when they find out just how fast we read. Yes, we read fast; It is a superpower, really. It is a skill honed through countless nights of reading.

So, the next time you spot someone muttering to themselves in front of a bookshelf or crying over having to choose just one novel, do not think they are crazy — just nod knowingly. After all, being a bookworm is not merely a pastime. It is a way of life.

[email protected]