Image for representation.
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I couldn’t find Omar Khayyam’s Rubiyat on my shelf a few days ago. A hand-me-down from my father’s library, the book had his notes scribbled in its margins, and later I had marked my own on its yellowed pages. A few days later, I remembered a cousin having borrowed it, and worse, not having returned it. I grieved the loss and hoped to be reunited with it maybe soon. Losing a beloved book is like losing a dear friend. Having spent so many hours together, having journeyed through its pages, left my marks in the margins—little notes, an occasional coffee stain—the separation always hurts.
When they ask me the inevitable “Can I borrow this?” I part with them, remembering Ruskin Bond’s quip that borrowed books and umbrellas never return. Well, there’s truth in that. When months go by and when I cringingly drop hints about it, the borrower would sheepishly confess, “Oh, I haven’t read it yet; I’ll bring it next time." A ‘next time’ that almost never comes.
Sometimes, my worst fears are unlocked when I hear that a long-borrowed book is finally returning home. I remember nursing my Lust for Life back to health last year when it came back with a broken spine, utterly dog-eared, and with several mysterious stains. It is still convalescing by my bedside, swathed in adhesive-tape and glue. Though I see shinier and more colourful editions of the book in Bengaluru's Blossoms book store, deep inside I know that no new-entrant will be good enough to replace my old faithful — they will never comfort or feel the same.
But then, there’s the bittersweet joy of finding one of our lost books in a used bookstore. I once stumbled into my long-lost Lolita with a street vendor on Brigade Road. It was a bittersweet moment. To celebrate the reunion, I bought many more books from the vendor that day, along with my special find. Then there are books left behind on trains and flights. Forgotten in the rush, they sit alone under a stranger’s gaze, hoping to be reunited someday with their loved ones. I once left my cherished Father Brown omnibus on a flight to Singapore, realising my loss too late. I only hope it found loving reader who would care for and appreciate its well-loved pages.
Well, the circle of books always rolls on — some return, some don't — but the stories and memories they hold stay with us forever, like old friends who never truly leave. Yet, new books also find their way into our lives, filling the voids left by the lost and borrowed ones. Each new arrival brings fresh adventures, new characters to love, and stories to cherish. They add joy and excitement, reminding us that while old friends will be missed, there are always new ones waiting to be discovered, enriching our lives in unexpected and wonderful ways.