Days of War, Anita Rai

My father was a collector of books. His collection adorned the walls of our house. Shelves and shelves of books; both old and new. Each he handled as carefully as if they were porcelain cups and dusted ever so often. The real porcelain cups lay untouched in some box that had been lost amid the junk in the house. That’s how the house had been since the death of my mother; engulfed by rubbish. I couldn’t stand how my father loved his books. He had read many in his youth and owned hardly any. The city library, he had told me, had been his first love. I hadn’t said a word then. When I was old enough to understand my insides would tremble with the shrieks echoing within me but still, I never said a word. My father was preoccupied with books. His life was consumed by them the same way fungus consumes wood. My father was as rough and uncut as wood and yes, the books were to me despicable and parasitic. Each thought of my childhood is foxed with smells of decaying books and footsteps of my father. That is all I seemed to have heard of him; he would come back from work late at night and ask me in the sweetest tone, as if honey had melted over my ears, if I was asleep. Ani he called me. Short for Anita. I would shuffle in my mattress and then he would recede, his footsteps my only source of consolation. He was there. I would listen to them until I fell asleep. I would count them as if they were as precious as pearls.

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As the bell rings the silent chaos of the class finds voice; a cue for my exit. I heave the stacks of notebooks on the table up and walk out of the class towards the staff room. The tiny cubicle assigned to me is my haven and I do not wish to crowd my space with the books. I leave the books on the floor near the entrance and settle on my seat. I have a free hour so I decide to start on a book.

Hamlet.

I’d read it first during my MA and have been meaning to go back to it. As I sift through my drawer a paperback catches my eye. I haven’t seen it in a while.

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My father knew exactly where to look for books. He would hunt through long forgotten stores, in fairs and festivals, in auctions and junkyards; And he always found the book he was looking for.

I never went along with him on such occasions, if he asked I would turn my head away. I do not know why I did that. I recognized his fault, maybe I was too adamant, too arrogant to accede to it. Maybe I should have gone, I might have known him better, then, than I do now.

On one occasion, I did go. He came to pick me up from school one day, when I was seventeen. His black Chevrolet parked in the sun and his searching gaze. I hadn't known what to do; as if it were a stranger standing there and not my father.

He took me to a book fair that day. He said he expected to find the best haul there. He spoke to me and I by-hearted his honey voice. That day, while he was talking to sellers and rummaging through piles of paper I chanced upon a diary. I had promised myself on the way to not touch a single title but there I was picking up a small notebook bound in synthetic leather. It was a diary after all, not a real book, I had later consoled myself. The diary was dated 1942. The diary was nameless but the pages flowed with curves and lines; a scrawl withheld in passion; as if it were pinned on paper out of compulsion. Regardless, its content enthralled me. It spoke of regiments and bomber planes; missiles and death tolls; far away lands and perpetual hunger.

The diary felt like a power in my hands. A force. A weapon. I’d pocketed it without thought or hesitation.

-

My father died in 2002. In 1999 I published a book. I was twenty one years old at the time. On my father’s 52nd birthday I presented him with it, wrapped in cheap and shiny plastic. He’d opened it and when he saw my name on it his eyes had lit up as if the honey of his voice had spilled into his gaze.

‘It’s wonderful. I never knew you were so talented’, He’d whispered to me one late night. And then his footsteps receded. I do not remember if I counted them that day.

-

I toy with the paperback in my hands, completely forgetting Hamlet. The dark blue shiny cover contrasts starkly with my white hands. I run my finger on the embossed lettering, Days of War, Anita Rai, it says. I cannot help laughing. The laughter erupts from the depths of my lungs and escapes before I can check it. I laugh more. It seems like the only thing I can do; the only thing that seems appropriate. It isn't really written by me.

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