As I walk in the old bookshop
I travel to the past
like one with the time machine,
I see the old yellowish pages
not aromatic like the new one
some folded pages, some covered well.
Each book I hold try to tell a story or maybe many stories,
stories they have witnessed around them
When it was on someone hand, table or next to the pillow
Or when they were abandoned and left on the road next to the garbage.
They are like a silent spectator,
Can’t speak more than words written in them.
I try hard to find some scribble,
at the corner of the page at the starting or at the end.
Maybe on page number 43 or some else.
Maybe I will find some old flower
Oh, No I can’t
because there is no scribble
there is no shorthand, no drawing
not even coffee stain.
Still, I hold a book in the old bookshop
and think of the past
did the reader was in the twenties when she read
and now she is running out of space so gave up on the book
did she die?
Did she just move to another state?
Oh! this gives me goosebump, heavy heart
I think about my books
wonder if I will also need to sell,
should I start Scribbling,
So the book could tell more than printed words
I wonder what if I get a kindle?
will I ever get so attached?
I was lost in the thought
Then suddenly I hear someone singing a song
I came out from the dream and from the old bookshop
I see a granny singing for her dinner
she is holding a bowl in hand
trying to get some money before it gets dark.
Again I was lost in the imagination of thoughts
Does she is out because she is old,
as the old books in the old bookstore.
Wrinkle on her face had stories
like the yellow pages
her shaking hands had stories to tell.
I couldn’t courage to ask
because again I was lost
I asked her for dinner,
But she needed to go home
I just gave money for dinner and walked my way to home.
The old bookstore was not just an old bookstore.
(c) Pooja Mehta
Photo credit: Google Image