Keys swung into the lock, and with a loud click disrupting
the silence, the door swung open. I entered my apartment; it was the same way I
left it in the morning. Coffee mug on the balcony, with the door wedged open;
newspapers bundled in a corner; some cloths on the bed; a pitiable kitchen that
was used for nothing but coffees, sandwiches and empty packets of frozen food
Despite all the usual mayhem, another big brown cover was
delivered before I left for work today. I had ripped open the top cover; it had a note, below which a stack of old books was seen. It was from mom, I tried
reading it but soon my biological clock thundered, realizing that it was late, I dashed out leaving them as it was.
Now that I was back home after a long day of working on an editorial assignment, I felts much relaxed. tipping in some music, sipping a freshly brewed coffee from the counter; my curiosity
was hitting new levels. The yellow book hidden beneath the torn cover got my
attention. The note from mom read
‘Books from your Grandpa’s library. He wanted to you have
After years of his demise, his library was finally opened. Intrigued, I tore open the wrappings. There were
over ten books, battered and extensively used. The first of the pile was a
yellow book. It read ‘Yoga Vasistam’. All those books were predominantly on
philosophy and history.
“Grandpa! Read this” I handed out to him a page, I was
around 17 years then.
He took it and read through. It was a poem titled, ‘Who amI?’
He read it and looked up and said, “This is not the right
I was disappointed. I took it and left with another word. I was a kid back then.
He was someone who rarely spoke and
when he did speak, they had immense meaning and significance.
(Inwardly he was
smiling, and he realized his books now got a reader, his thoughts could be
My eyes were moist; I never had a chance to look at his
library. It is indeed true that a person’s library spoke volumes about them. Had I known I would have had the most brilliant mentor, I thought with a sigh. Then
I slowly picked each of them carefully, and browsed through the pages.
Each book contained a lot of marking and various symbols and some hasty calculations. Interestingly they had the exact same words at the exact same place
in each book; they were hand-written, amazing calligraphy; and each of them was
wrapped in the same yellow sheet.
*To my dearest Granddaughter Yantra, ‘Who am I?’ changed
I picked them up and placed them in my own library, which
strangely fit in instantly and completed the other collections.
(In-between all these
memories and emotions, she missed the fact that they were in fact a few clues hidden in between).
This is a fictional story written for CBC's VIBGYOR challenge
To read more on VIBGYOR posts