All of us have some quirks or habits that may seem odd to the world but to the true reader it is as normal as breathing.
All of us have a secret book fetish or something that you could call a bookish cheap thrill. Mine is book sniffing. The act of smelling the pages of the book gives my imagination a wild swing. What am I breathing in? Sometimes I smell the freshly printed pages, the heat pressed ink. Sometimes I breathe in the aroma of the person who read it last, a faint lingering scent of jasmine, parle-g biscuits and something I can’t put my finger on. My mind finds itself silently contemplating and pondering over the innumerable stories that this book witnessed. Who was the person who left behind a subtle yet discernible piece of himself? What thoughts crossed their mind as they read what I am reading right now? Did they feel the same anxiety as I when I think about how the book will end? Did this book change their lives in any manner even if imperceptibly?
Did it bring them the same amount of joy it did to me? Did they also cry with the characters like me? Did they notice that one typo on page 126? What were they doing as they read this book? So many questions and imagination running amok with scenarios, each one more unlikely than the last.
The thought of those infinite stories being heard or thought about makes me trip, the realisation that I am but a tiny speck in this universe and that maybe someday my stories will be forgotten too fills my heart with dread and awe at the same time.
Who needs psychedelics? The scent of the stories in between the pages of used books is enough to get high, get high on the drug called universe.
-Meghal Naik
meghalnaik 