There is a delectable smell of a plot, of words that will soon consume me, of ideas that will probably influence my writing, my thinking for the days ahead. In the hall with a high ceiling and noisy fans, we take in this smell, aisle after aisle. We pick up books and take in the crammed black and white lines. In that hall, we are once again overcome by that dear feeling of mild thrill and a lot of satisfaction.

I imagine myself lying in such a place, with my eyes only half open and the tube-lights turned off. I think of the books, light up only with a small, yellow bulb somewhere, alive and breathing. I imagine the place so empty, with all the good people gone, that I can hear myself breathe. I imagine just staying that way, for hours and hours, with all the books in my reach.

You’ll be there, somewhere far away, walking around, talking to yourself. You’ll hold a book and think aloud about another book by the same author. I’ll hear your umbrella clapping against the dusty stone floor.

I’ll lie there, waiting for your footsteps to come closer, waiting for you to tell me what books you deem worthy of your collection.

In this dark hall of my imagination, I am at peace.

I found you, hidden behind the pile of yellowing novels.

The rain jumped off the blue plastic sheets that we were trying to crowd under. My hair was plastered to my face and my arms were dappled with raindrops that sparkled a little. I made attempts to keep the thick volume in my hand from getting wet, while trying to look for you.

You were there, somewhere in the cluster of street bookstores, peeling out books from the middle of piles that swayed in a precarious manner. You stood and held the book and skimmed through it and I watched your face twist into a small smile.

The place smelled of paper; delicious and demanding. The booksellers held out books, old ones with someone else's memories strewn across the pages, playing on our weaknesses. You haggled with them, in a tone that was firm but devoid of condescension. We bought them, while the shopkeeper grumbled under his breath and puddles formed behind us.

We walked away under the blue umbrella, with an armful of books that didn't fit in bags, while the rain lashed out at everything in sight.

The Kite Runner

Back in 2006, October rains were still a thing of wonder. So one such wonder filled October night, I sat and began to read, what would come to be one of my favourite books. 

The Kite Runner has many layers. On the surface, it is a story about Afghanistan and the vagaries of the human life back then. On a deeper level, however, it is a story about friendship and loyalty. Most importantly, it is a story about betrayal and redemption.

The book maps the life of Amir and the people around him like- his father Baba, whose attention Amir craves. Khalid Hosseini has done an exceptional job of sketching Baba’s character. It is a very strong character and there is a line in the book that sums Baba up perfectly. The line is - You can’t love some people without fearing them. Maybe even hating them a little. 

There is also, Hassan- the servant boy who is Amir’s friend and playmate. The description of his unwavering loyalty for Amir is an indispensable part of the story. He stands by Amir and stands up for him every time the situation demands it. He silently bears Amir’s anger and torment. He even makes his peace with the fact that Amir let him down when he needed Amir’s help the most.

These in my opinion, are the strongest characters in the book, apart from Amir himself. The other characters include Rahim Khan, the well meaning uncle- the only adult Amir finds a friend in. It is Rahim Khan who reads Amir’s stories and it is Rahim Khan who chides Baba when he claims Amir does none of the things Baba hopes he would. Rahim Khan tells him- Children aren’t colouring books. You don’t get to fill in them with your favourite colours. Lastly, there is Soraya the girl Amir falls for and eventually marries.

The entire story speaks of Amir’s personality, his behaviour, and his thoughts. At various points in the book I rooted for him, worried for me and cheered for him. I related to him a lot more than I thought I would at the outset. More than once in his life, Amir is morally tested. The first time he fails. Thereafter, the fact that he betrayed his friend haunts him for many years. The second time he is tested- he knows that this is his chance to be good again. The story ends, leaving the reader with a feeling of hope.

Set against the stark backdrop of Afghanistan, with Hosseini’s powerful description of Taliban, The Kite Runner, written in a first person narrative in Amir’s voice, peppered with Persian words is one of the best stories I have heard.

I was moved by this book in a quiet, silent sort of way. A lot of people were swept off their feet with this powerful tale because of its intelligent plot. I was taken more by the narrative. The Kite Runner exemplifies that descriptions and narratives are as important as the plot, if not more. Hosseini charmed me with his endearing attention to the tiny details- the winters in Afghanistan, the smell of cigar smoke in Baba’s room, the illustrations in Amir’s favourite book, Soraya’s henna painted hands- these things made the book what it was, for me. These things have a curious appeal. Even as a kid, in books I cherished the descriptions of the most banal things. Since then, I am usually unimpressed by the big guns. The smaller things, now, THOSE make me sit up.

I stayed up that rainy night and finished reading The Kite Runner. At the end of the night, when I finally slipped under my sheet and pulled the covers to my chin, I felt at peace. I felt content. Like you feel at the end of a long conversation with a close friend or when you slip your hand into your partners’ at the end of a very trying day. It is a feeling of ineffable comfort.