Bookish Musings
- navakallc
- Apr 27, 2024
- 3 min read
I was just a little baby when I was introduced to the magical lands that reside in writing on pages, coming to life when the reader read off of it. It was always there, it’s presence vibrant on the shelf, it’s glossy cover gleaming as it urged you to pull it off the shelf. Whether it was about a spider trying to go up the spout or a visit to the seven dwarves, the stories always encapsulated me. Books for me was where magic resided.
I was in kindergarten two when my mom first tried to instill the act of reading in me. I liked stories, but the way my mom read those to me were my favorite parts. It was frustrating for me at first to sound out all the words and then forming the sentence. It was just easier for me to listen to my mom read, the way she changed her tones always transporting me to that realm of fantasy, how each hurdle the character takes feels like a stumble to me too. Though we still kept working on it every day, and over time I got better at it. Each letter felt like a mountain, getting through each word was like moving through twists and turns, like sneaking past the evil witch’s tower, going on an adventure like Dora and finally watching the practice pay off.
Soon enough, I started reading more complex books, even Marathi books, which I was practicing reading every night. One year, in second grade, my mom decided to give herself a target to read 40 books that new year, and I followed along. One after the other, I kept on going, starting small at first, with Clifford and Judy Moody until I discovered Geronimo Stilton. My favorite book series in the entire world at that point.
My favorite place to go in the mall was the bookstore, where I literally spent hours trying to pick out the perfect books in order to fill the limit I was given. I love the smell of a book, the first time you open it just sending you in a serene place. The crack of the book when you open it for the first time is like the clap they sound to mark the start of a race, once opened, it’s like you’re in the race of taking the smell in, or adoring the cover, it’s intricate designs smooth and glossy under my hands as I glide my hand over it. When I finally get to the first chapter, it’s like I can’t stop reading, my hands a blur as they flip the pages and my eyes almost rolling as they fly over the page, taking in every word but just as eager to get to the next page.
Now, when I don’t have as much time to read, I still get engrossed in the coziest books, dashing to my reading corner every time I’m on my five-minute break, hoping to dig a couple of pages more into the mystery they’re trying to solve or the romance that’s been put on hold due to studying.
My intentions of reading now are so much different than what they were when I was a kid. I just wanted stories before, but now they give me a chance to preview experiences, adventures, and explore by putting myself in the position of the lead character. It’s my favorite escape when I’m fed up of the grind and the routine of school, and has taught me so much about the places and people of America and their daily life. A lot of the books I read as a kid were from American authors, and so the settings, food and culture were something I was accustomed to being the bookworm that I am. It was the main thing that made me feel at home here, actually living the life I had spent so many years only reading about.