mong the earliest memories of my childhood, the most distinct are the ones relating to bed-time stories related by my father. l, however, insisted on listen •ng to the fairy tales and stories from Indian mythology. Daring acts of princes excited me and the sweet charm of princesses delighted me. Endless acts of superhu- man bravery of Mahabharata's Bhim and Ramayan's Hanuman captivated my imagi- nation.
At what point of time, the passive listening to stories told by my father was replaced by active reading of little picture books I do not remember precisely. But this much I can say with certitude that reading of books, particularly fiction books, has been providing me an in-exhaustible pleasure to this day. Books are a window to a vast and wide world of fun, excitement and wonder. The world we live in is so duli and circumscribed that I feel suffocated at times.The regimented mechanical routine of school hours,
the seemingly endless drudgery of my mother, constantly tired looks of my father and video-game-fixation of my younger brother fill me with an inexpressible sadness. Is life really meant to be so mundane ? I often ask myself. Unable to find an answer, I escape to my wondrous world of books. It is the same sort of escape which Keats has succinctly expressed in the following lines of "0de to a Nightingale"
"Thou wast not born for death, immortal, Bird; No hungry generations tread thee, down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor andclown; Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home She stood in tears, among - the alien corn The same that oft-time hath. Charmed magic casements opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn" Limited by the constraints imposed on us by the towns and locality we live in
