As I walk into the old bookshop
I travel to the past
like in a time machine,
I see the old yellowish pages
not aromatic like the new ones
some folded , some covered well.
Each book that I hold, tries to tell me a story or maybe many ,
stories they have witnessed around them
When they were in someones hands, on a table or simply next to a pillow
Or when they were abandoned and left on the road next to the garbage.
They are like silent spectators,
But Can’t speak more than words written in them.
I try hard to find some scribble,
In the corner of the pages, at the starting or at the end.
Maybe on page number 43 or somewhere 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 some coffee stains.
Still, I hold a book in the old bookshop
and think of the past
Was the reader in her twenties when she read
and is she now running out of space so gave up on the books
did she die?
Or Did she just move to another state?
Oh! this gives me goosebumps, heavy heart and teary eyes
I think about my books
wonder if I will also need to sell,
should I start Scribbling,
So the book could tell more than just printed words on them
I wonder what if I get a kindle?
will I ever get so attached?
I was lost in the thought
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 her hand
trying to get some money before it gets dark.
Again I was lost in my imaginations in my thoughts
Is she out because she is old,
as the old books in the old bookstore.
Wrinkle on her face had stories
like the yellow pages in old book shop
her shaking hands had stories to tell.
Her eyes, her songs had stories
I couldn’t find the courage to ask
because again I was lost and emotional
I asked her for dinner,
But she needed to go home
She walked her way to home and I walked my way to home.
The old bookstore was not just an old bookstore.
(c) Pooja Mehta
Photo credit: Google Image