Being a book lover I always glance through newspaper pages giving details of new arrivals. According to the advertised books, most of them are bestsellers. People whose books sell in thousands or millions must be really lucky because they have readers to devour what they write. I also read book reviews which always place authors on a pedestal. Then I quickly remember that I have also written a couple of books. Despite favourable reviews I never met anyone reading my books. Such an opportunity would give me immense pleasure and a bit of amusement.
Many years ago, I was a regular train traveller carrying a railway season ticket. I used to travel from Panadura to Colombo Fort in a third-class compartment. Sometimes they say they were classless trains. How nice if we have classless societies! Anyway, I met a motley crowd every day hurrying to their destinations. Most of them would doze off as soon as they find a seat. Quite a few of them used to read the daily newspapers avidly, sometimes reading the juicy news items loudly for the benefit of fellow travellers. Apart from them, I saw a few old men reading books and marking them with a pencil.
As luck would have it, one day I saw a man reading one of my books. It was an anthology of essays. He was a man probably in his 70s for he was wearing a pair of spectacles. After making himself comfortable in his seat, he pulled out a book from his bag and started reading it. After a while, he put the book away and looked out of the window to see the passing scene. Again he picked up the book and started reading. My curiosity became acute when I realized that he was reading one of my books!
Excited
I was so excited that I wanted to have a chat with him. Before I could do so, he put the book on the vacant seat and surveyed what others were doing. I wanted him to pick up the book and read it from cover to cover. However, I felt that he was not in a mood to do so.
The passengers were enjoying the cool sea breeze. In fact, it was a joy to travel on a train that moves along the coastline. I could imagine those travelling by buses and cursing the drivers for picking up passengers at every halt. The exhaust fumes from other vehicles force them to cover their faces. But they have no option as train services are not available to most destinations.
I looked at the passenger but he had stopped reading my book. I casually asked him, “What is the book you’re reading?”
“Oh, this is an anthology of essays.”
“How do you find them?”
“Quite boring! I bought this book because I always read something while travelling.”
“That’s a good habit. Reading makes you a better man.”
“But reading a book like this is killing me. I don’t know what the author is trying to say.”
Famous author
Initially I thought I was becoming a famous author. I loved the man who was reading one of my books. I visualized that so many others must be reading some of my books at this time. Undoubtedly, hundreds of readers up and down the great enchanted island, known as Paradise, must be reading my books. They will read and re-read them from cover to cover. They will also ask their friends to buy my books. I thought I was on cloud nine!
While such pleasing thoughts were crossing my mind, the man sitting opposite me did not show any interest in picking up the book. When I looked at him, he said, “Silly stuff.” I asked him why he bought such a useless book. He looked at me quizzically and said, “I dunno.” Then he added, “I was just looking over the bookstall at the railway station and the salesman picked this book and gave it to me. I think he wanted to give me some other book but gave this by mistake.”
“Don’t worry. Such things happen in life.” Then I asked him, “Who is the author of this book?” He picked up the book again and looked at the blurb and pronounced my name wrong. Then he looked at me with a face full of bitterness. “There’s no story to read in this book. It is full of ideas, but who wants to know an author’s ideas?”
Disgusted
It appeared that he was genuinely disgusted with my book. In fact it was a collection of newspaper articles. I wanted to publish them thinking that readers might be interested in them.
“Anyway, what beats me is why should anyone write such stuff instead of stories? I had nothing to say except, “The poor bloke would have done it for money.” He looked out of the window and said, “I don’t wish to hear of him again.”
I asked him who his favourite authors were. He rattled off the names which are too numerous to mention here. Anyway, one of them was Paulo Coelho. “Have you read any of his books?” he asked me. “No, never heard of such an author,” I said.
“You should read his books. Start with ‘The Alchemist.’ I also read his ‘Eleven Minutes.’”
“What is it about?”
“It is the story of Maria, a young girl from a Brazilian village, whose first innocent crushes with love leave her heart-broken. At a tender age, she becomes convinced that she will never find true love, instead believing that ‘Love is a terrible thing that will make you suffer …’ A chance meeting in Rio takes her to Geneva, where she dreams of finding fame and fortune but ends up working as a prostitute.”
The reader wanted to tell me more about Paulo Coelho and his books. But we were reaching our destinations. When the train stopped at Bambalapitiya, he got up, snapped his bag, and was evidently going to get out, when an angel put a thought into my mind.
Undue liberties
“I really don’t know whether I’m taking undue liberties. As you have no interest in reading the book, may I buy it from you?”
“Why do you want to buy it?”
“I’m travelling up to Veyangoda. So I need something to read.”
“OK. I bought it for Rs 400. You just give me Rs 100 and the book is yours.”
I readily paid Rs 100 and bought the book written by me some years ago. Since then I have never come across anyone reading any of my books. If I do come across such a person, I’ll certainly not question him on the merits or demerits of reading such a book.