I led a peripatetic life. We moved places once in three years since childhood — from one small town to another in different parts of India. Every three years, I got plucked out of school and got transplanted in a different environment. Getting acclimatised to new language, customs and codes, made life really hard. The insecurity manifested in quarterly report cards with abysmal grades. Parent teacher meetings was a nightmare, even now. Building rappo with teachers took an emotional toll and friendship was hard to form.
In that social and cultural milieu I was desperate to clinging on to something that gave me hope. That was when, I took refuge in books and it became my wonderful companion and friend. I stopped caring about what other people thought of me or didn’t care about making an impression in the first place. This very thought that we don’t have to be victims of other peoples opinion liberated me. I quit complaining and started embracing change as a constant. In fact, I started welcoming change. Like hopping from one book to another, I began to love life as it happened, episodes after episode.
I’m in my forties now, and things haven’t changed much. I still live a peripatetic life. Though Covid erased my identity as a airport dweller, I still hop on to calls that makes me to travel virtually from mombassa to mannargudi meeting scores of people along the digital highway. In this new found busyness changes doesn’t come as something pre-planned. It just parachutes into your life when you least expect it. In times of these rapid changes what gives you a semblance of balance and control is the refuge in ideas disseminated through books broadly classified as fiction, non-fiction and poetry.