The book in front of me is 30 years old, first published 65 years ago, about a world created more than 70 years ago, was printed in London, found on the streets of Mumbai, has traveled over 8000 miles in the air, and is now resting cozily on a shelf in San Diego.
Imagine all the places it has been to, the hands it has passed through, the lives it has touched, the nights it has been a companion on, the hearts it has mended, the therapy it has provided, the sorrows it has obliterated. The coffee stains on its back cover, the tear in its spine, the smell of its age, and the oxidation on its now yellow paper narrate one more story if you look for it.
If you ever wondered why books are treated like friends, this is why. They are both, a traveler and a time-traveling device. Through them, we wander in time and space without getting lost (see what I did there).
Dhara
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