This blog was originally meant to be a tribute to Khaled Hosseini’s last novel, A Thousand Splendid Suns.
I still remember how I felt when I read The Kite Runner. At that moment I was in Bangalore, sitting on a swing, feeling the perfect weather and the beautiful words of the book wash over me in waves – every page of the book was pure joy.
However, I was reluctant to read his next book.
There was something in the way my mothers voice sounded, the way the light changed in her eyes as she talked about it. She spoke about it with love and joy and sadness and it scared me that a book had the power to ignite such strong feelings in her. What did the book ignite in me?
It made my heart ache.
Nothing I could write could possibly do the book justice. So Im going to leave the feelings the books aroused in me to myself and cliche as it sounds, I can only recommend all who read this blog to read the book.
Few books will touch you, hurt you and speak to you in volumes of suffering and love and hope. This book does this and so much more.
Odd though it may be, it suddenly struck me how much I love old things.
When I was cleaning my room, I realised that apart from my bookshelf, what I loved most was the Victorian chest that has stood in the corner of my room for years. The pale pink roses painted on the wood, the monochrome history of the wood itself that looks as though it has stories to tell.
Thats when I sat down and started thinking.
About old things.
About the glorious smell of second-hand book shops. Feeling the essence of readers and lives in every fragile yellowing page you turn.
Knowing that black-and-white photographs have a tranquility that colour will never have.
Knowing that the cobwebby lace my grandma made is more beautiful and delicate than anything Ive ever seen.
Finding old diaries and poetry and realizing that innocence is wonderful and fleeting.
Of the beauty and goodness of my maternal grandmother. And the fragility of all the wonderful memories she must have.
And cradling the books of my mothers childhood, tenderly holding the crumbling pages in my hands, loving them completely.
Thinking and thinking of the stories and tales and secrets the old can tell.
Theyre so utterly beautiful.