Book tag

Nobody ever thought of book-tagging me. Why am I so unliterary and dumb? Why? Why? (Said in the desperate manner perfected by darling Bridget Jones, my fiction alter-ego. I know, I know, all women say so, but with me, it’s like, uncanny. But more on that later). The point is, NOBODY, not even my so-called friends from Delhi’s lit journo circle (in a very loose sense of the word; what I actually mean is the people, including myself, who used to frequent sundry book launches together to get drunk on free booze and laugh at everybody else present and act fashionably cynical) thought of book tagging me. Sniff.

So I will do it on my own. Firstly, though, I must confess that like every one who likes to think of themselves as ‘serious readers’, I haven’t read half the books I feel I ought to have. And most of the time, when I get my hands on such books, they turn out to be completely unreadable. I'm not saying they really are, but maybe I’m too dumb to enjoy them or something. (God, how I love being self-loathing and uncomplimentary towards self). Lately, I have decided to give up the pretence and just read what I enjoy reading. Like Harry Potter 5, which I am currently devouring for the third time in preparation of Book 6, the coming of which is one of the high points of my life right now.

So here goes:

Total Number of Books I Own: Between the pardner and myself, anywhere between 1000 and 1500.

Last Book I Bought:
Them by Joyce Carol Oates. Had never read Oates before, haven’t finished the book yet and am not likely to. On the other hand, I just might. It's a bit depressing, but I think I will give it another try.

Last Book I Read:
Re-read Bridget Jones’s Diary and was astounded by similarities between said diary writer and self. Oh, I’ve said that already, haven’t I?

Five Books that Mean a Lot to Me:

I think when you talk about books that mean a lot to you, you tend to go back to the ones you read when you were growing up. I was surprised to find how many Bengali books I was thinking of, though my Bengali reading has been pretty erratic of late.

1.Badshahi Aangti by Satyajit Ray: One of the first Feluda books I read (was 10 or so), which led to my falling promptly and violently in love with the then 28-year-old Feluda, for whom I’ve nursed this secret passion all my life. Was very disappointed by Ray’s not talking about Feluda’s love life at all – used to spend hours imagining myself as this grown-up female side-kick who has a subtle yet passionate romance with him.

2.The Catcher in the Rye by J D Salinger: Quite possibly my favourite book of all time. What can I say about it? Only how it touched me personally. Read it when I was 16, just the right age, I should think, and found it so impossibly funny and touching that it quite broke my heart. Resolved then and there not to grow up to be phoney – only suave as hell.

3.Pather Panchali by Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay: Those who have seen the movie have only appreciated Ray’s craft, not too many people know what a great, great writer Bibhutibhushan was. Even today, Tagore and Sarat Chandra are probably the two names people associate most commonly with Bengali literature, but Bibhutibhushan is in a different class. His writing is very undramatic, very understated and unlike in Tagore and Sarat Chandra, there are no larger-than-life characters. Just very ordinary people made unforgettable by this amazing writer.

4.To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee: Usual reasons. Loved Scout Finch, loved Atticus, loved the undercurrent of sadness (but sadness minus morbidity, which is the way I like it) running through the book. It made me understand how all childhoods are a bit sad, when looked back upon.

5. Fear of Flying by Erica Jong: Again, read this at a very impressionable age. But Isadora Wing has always been somebody I have been lovingly indulgent towards and exasperated with all my life. The sequel was terribly disappointing, though.