Whispers of Laughter and Tears: Books

The final bell echoes through the book fair, and silence settles like dust. An artist alone in a hotel room after the curtain falls, packing costumes and dreams—this is how the books feel now, lined up in their stalls, carrying the weight of another day's hopes. The publisher had promised better placement, a prime spot where readers naturally gravitate, but promises at book fairs are as fragile as paper. The disappointment hangs in the air, and if you look closely, you might catch the newer titles casting longing glances at the crowds walking past, though their publisher has already moved on to calculate sales and sip lukewarm coffee.

The arithmetic of literature is unforgiving: moments measured in page-turns, water breaks between conversations, royalties that may never come. Even the publisher doesn't know when these particular books will find their next chance.

Books lack a Shah Rukh Khan—no glamorous spokesperson to champion their cause. If they had one, perhaps they'd embrace the optimism of Om Shanti Om: every good reader eventually discovers the right book, and if not in this edition, then surely in the next. Like souls selecting their earthly vessels, books yearn to choose their readers with the same deliberate care.

But here lies the paradox: readers read books, yet books read nothing at all. There's no curriculum for becoming the perfect book, no training program for literary success. Even tigers, magnificent as they are, sometimes end up performing in circuses—but books face no such dramatic reversals of fortune. No Bhagavad Gita exists to guide them through their existential questions.

Without this wisdom, they know nothing of patience or perseverance. They lack MBA insights into market dynamics. Like restless spirits, they often anchor themselves to the wrong readers, haunted by conflicting expectations, slowly gathering dust until some indifferent library—that literary morgue—finally claims them.

I remember walking into such a library during college, my ego crumbling at the sight. Under harsh LED lights, a thousand book spines stood at attention—pristine, unread, unloved. The owner was a collector, not a reader. Among that vast, silent army, I found just one book that spoke to me, and for years I consoled myself by imagining I was its devoted professor.

Back then, I hadn't grasped the true nature of libraries, the difference between Kashi's spiritual intensity and Kalighat's raw devotion. Books, too, must learn this distinction. Like the Skanda Purana, some works only reveal their worth after centuries of waiting.

But when the right reader finally appears? Nothing can contain the magic that follows. If you understand the word "tantrum"—or if you've witnessed the controlled chaos of Tollywood studios—no further explanation is needed. Like an enchantment that clouds your judgment and fills your mind with persistent melodies, a beloved book becomes a matchmaker, a spiritual guide whispering suggestions as you reach for your wallet to buy copies for friends.

For the young, hopeful books at today's fair, this journey is just beginning. They're still full of dreams and attachments, still convinced their covers define their worth, still celebrating each turned page like a small birthday. The education ahead will be long, but perhaps that's where the real story begins.