Inside Story

Nonita Kalra on how the books in her grandfather’s study helped her discover the stories of her family

My very first memory was of words.

I remember looking at the spine of a book and the alphabet turned into words. Words turned into language. It was such a thrilling moment that I held that knowledge to myself. It was the first secret I kept.

Later I wondered if this was perhaps a learned memory— a gift I gave to an intractable middle child with a disturbing penchant for brutal honesty. In fact, I seemed born to angst. I didn’t have much time for people and their peculiarities. I wanted to be left alone to live in a world of my making. And books gave those dreams wings.

Every birthday my mother and I would walk down to a rather ambitiously named books and stationery store called Elite. There I would select six hardcover books. Given that I had spent the last year mentally stocking my library, you would think it wouldn’t take us too much time. But it did. I would caress each book, stick my nose in each page to inhale the smell of paper, and then insist on having each one gift wrapped, individually. Only when I finished one would I unwrap the other. It made me feel as if I had a birthday all year long. And attending my party were Elizabeth Bennet, Emma, Mr Darcy, Lorna Doone, Edmond Dantes, and Amyas Leigh. For as long as I can remember, these books were my best friends.