Dada’s. Dadi’s. Ayesha Phupo’s. Baba’s. And some mine. I’ve always been in awe of Home Library at my parents’ home….
I open their books and trace my fingers across their names, hoping to feel them and capture the flood of memories associated with each name.
I in Idris
A in Ayesha
Z in Azra
Each one of them marked their bookish territories with names and dates on yellowed, crunchy pages. Everyone has a distinct taste in books. Mystery. Romance. Classics. Biographies. History. Politics. Urdu. Poetry. Farsi.
I brought a few of my books back to Canada when I visited last time. But seeing them here on my bookshelf doesn’t evoke the same warm, heart-tugging feelings as they did when I saw them plopped together with these other timeless books.
Too much history laced between each page. Too many stories intertwined between my ancestors’ lives and the books they devoured word after word. Too much of everything that you can’t get when you’re not together anymore.
Much nostalgia. Many reminders. Most beloved.
Rest In Peace Dada, Dadi, Ayesha Phupo. I hope you have a stellar book collection that keeps you busy up there.
And don’t worry, Baba takes good care of your books.
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Nida Khan Writes 