Building bridges with the reading habit

   Its the time of the year, when a lot of my budding engineer friends are preparing for their GRE, and

fussing over enormously long word lists, swearing sharply at its utter worthlessness. The task is herculean and the reward, well the American Dream. I frown in utter indignation when my friends

squabble and complain about what a pain it is to improve their language, for the simple reason that it

isn't.I longingly reminisce how I grew to love the English language.

  

    It was the summer of 1996, I was in standard two, whiling away another weekend in my customary

nonchalant manner. Being an inquisitive little imp, I opened my mother's cupboard when she wasn't at

home just to take a sneak peek and voila, tumbling down upon me, came out so many colorful looking

books. I hadn't been an avid reader till then and almost always scored a 2/10 in my spelling bee competitions. I don't recollect what it was that compelled me to prop open those little bundles of imagination, probably it was the joy of discovering secret gifts on a conventional dull weekend, or maybe the assorted pictures and colors that lured me into reading them, however, that was the day when my tryst with literature began.

  

    The journey started off with good ol' Enid Blyton tales like 'The Pig with Green Spots and other

stories'. I was catapulted into a world of elves, garden gnomes and a certain Miss Pickleweeble who added thrill to my mundane world. Famous Five was another experiment my mother made on me. I was so apprehensive of venturing into an unchartered territory of a book devoid of pictures, always trying to turn elusive at the prospect of reading it, until I finally rose to the challenge. Alas, I was a fan for a lifetime. I grew older and laid my hands on classics like Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, Rebecca, Great Expectations, and the like, the archaic love stories carried my dreamy mind into a different era, so different from the contemporary ones written now.

    

   All this topped with some absolutely inspiring English teachers in school only cemented my love

for the language. We had as a part of my english class a book reading session. My excursion into the

dense jungles of India with Mowgli and even my compassion for animals owing to James Herriot, all

stemmed from the storytelling lessons. I vividly recollect, the first romantic piece of fiction I wrote was in

grade six to the absolute distaste of my teacher who ridiculed me profusely. When I visited DehraDun

two years back, I felt I was reviving an old connection that began since I got affiliated to Ruskin Bond

and his novellas.My parents used to solve the daily crossword that came in the newspaper and made a tiny little diary with 'difficult words' that I revised at the end of each week. Being a teacher's pet I tried to incorporate them into my essays to make them sound a tad bit fancy and well, revel in the accolades.

   I don’t boast of being a master at the language, indeed I’m not, although I do believe in retrospect, that I learnt it the right way. I was taught to put my imagination into good use from the very beginning and explore the intricacies of different ages, stories and characters. In the rut of preparing for sundry exams, I implore to  my friends,  to not lose themselves in myriad words on the contrary, appreciate the beauty of expression and imbibe it into your existence.