Chanced upon a great classic, or would rather say, rummaged, and poked around until I could salvage some decent reading material, amongst the few rows of books lined up; with either pitiable stuff or weird unfamiliar paperbacks in a total alien (but now becoming a familiar) script. Was rather suffused with remorse, that, in a place hoarded and stashed up with ceiling high racks of consumable stuff and what not, stretching for miles, the space designed or designated for books, was a meager skimpy diminutive rack, almost hidden out of sight, of say some three shelves in all.
Ye books becoming obsolete, or rather in this part of the world, a land not steeped in much history or heritage of any remarkable note, where there is this drive, rush to merge with the west, while still holding on to the minimal but staunch beliefs and mores, which I would think, seem to somehow waver and tremble and well on its way to extinction, even if not now, the day isn’t long off.
And yes the book is great, huge one so can get back to it anytime, gives you comfort and refuge as none, leads you through hills and dales, where you wander ‘as lonely as a cloud’, ponder, smile, grieve, relish, concur, comprehend, and ofcourse turnover and go to sleep!
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