There were still a few hours for the movie. With nothing to do, I check what stores this shopping center had. After going through the clothes, perfumes, cafes and restaurants, there it was. A small bookstore, with just over three columns of books. The books share space with DVDs and games. I spend some time seeing what stories are told here.
But it was a book I wanted. No specific one, just a book. A story to occupy my time. And it was difficult. The one I am looking, runs away from me. And to look for a book with nothing in mind, becomes a complicated task. I've been back and forth. Occasionally I was sure that was that. But something inside me would always say no. I walked all the shelves until a small book smiled at me.
His name was Siddhartha, written by Hermann Hesse. Now the voice that had refused all other books say to take this. Happy with the choice, I left the small bookstore and walked to the street. I sat on a bench and began to read. Around me, the car horns, people quickly moved from here to there and the rickshaw driver were now out of my world. I was immersed in the world of Siddhartha. A world strangely similar to mine.
I heard once that we don't we choose a book. It chooses us. Like Siddhartha, I had also gone on a trip. I was also in India. Also looking for something undefined. Few times a story has touched me as much as this. I haven't read this book, I talked with him. Siddhartha became a traveling companion. We shared moments. And then, each went his way. He, in the hands of one person in Cochin, I in the hands my destiny...
But it was a book I wanted. No specific one, just a book. A story to occupy my time. And it was difficult. The one I am looking, runs away from me. And to look for a book with nothing in mind, becomes a complicated task. I've been back and forth. Occasionally I was sure that was that. But something inside me would always say no. I walked all the shelves until a small book smiled at me.
His name was Siddhartha, written by Hermann Hesse. Now the voice that had refused all other books say to take this. Happy with the choice, I left the small bookstore and walked to the street. I sat on a bench and began to read. Around me, the car horns, people quickly moved from here to there and the rickshaw driver were now out of my world. I was immersed in the world of Siddhartha. A world strangely similar to mine.
I heard once that we don't we choose a book. It chooses us. Like Siddhartha, I had also gone on a trip. I was also in India. Also looking for something undefined. Few times a story has touched me as much as this. I haven't read this book, I talked with him. Siddhartha became a traveling companion. We shared moments. And then, each went his way. He, in the hands of one person in Cochin, I in the hands my destiny...
No comments:
Post a Comment