I have observed this strange tendency in my behavior lately – of trying to dilly-dally when a good book is about to end. It does sound ridiculous, but it’s almost like a relationship coming to an end, and you don’t want to let go...
There’s a feeling that once this ends, perhaps there will be left behind a void that I desperately want to avoid.
And I am not talking about the Ken Follets or Dan Browns here. It is authors like Naipaul, Rushdie, Paulo Coelho and Vikram Seth that I am talking about. Stories where there are no twists, no last-minute cop-and-thief chases, and no major mysteries to solve, except perhaps, trying to gain an insight into the greatest mystery of them all – life itself...
So much like the curse of a sailor... Every attempt to move closer to the shore, to find the ending, to walk on the sand again, results only in that longing for the faithless sea again, and sometimes praying that the journey doesn't end, but of course, hoping that it does...
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