The Old Bookshop

As I walk in the old bookshop

I travel to the past

like one with the time machine,      Old book and flower.png

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

or

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

 

 

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