A Suitable Boy

My mother used to read to me as a child.

She would sit us down on our beds, my brother and I, and like the storytellers you sometimes hear on the BBC, narrate a chapter or two from Enid Blyton or Roald Dahl in her pitch-perfect, English teacher's elocution. We enjoyed these sessions immensely before bedtime, although by the ages of 3 or 4, we could already read largely on our own. There was something about her voice, the way she made the stories come alive with the animation of her vocal cords, the dynamic diction, that kept us in rapt amusement.



Mother was never stingy with books. And visits to the bookstore were an almost weekly affair where we could pick whatever caught our fancy. Strangely, we hardly went to the library as children. She had this eccentric theory that the books were dirty, having passed through the grimy hands of so many different people. What if they brought them to the toilet?, she would say. And till this day, I still don't have a habit of borrowing books from the Communal Collection. Its not a hygiene issue for me though. Its just that I like to keep the books that I have read. As a sort of physical record of works or words that have formed an impression on me if you like. I haven't told her though, that I have been bringing books to the loo since time immemorial.

I read myself through most of my childhood. Vivaciously. And Mother made sure we flipped through the dictionary when it came to words we did not understand. This strengthened our vocabulary tremendously. And by the time I was in Primary 6, my teachers were surprised at the supposed sophistication of my sentences. I mean knowing a few bombastic words is one thing. Stringing them up elegantly in proper contextual prose is another. And there is no short-cut to good writing. You have to read, see how the better writers do it, and learn.

Between the ages of 18 and 27, I hardly found time for books. The thrills of dating, National Service, University textbooks and entering the workforce, meant that there was little time for such frivolous indulgences. Even the newspaper was read with flippant abandon, apart from the TV listings that is, which were scrutinized thoroughly.

Lately, I have found my love for the written word again. And Vikram Seth's somewhat seminal A Suitable Boy reminds me of that dark decade where the words somehow escaped me. I had begun reading this novel as a 1st Year undergraduate back in 1995 but never got down to finishing it. Why, I cannot remember. I do recall though, that I had borrowed it from a friend who said she was moved by the author's nuanced story-telling. I probably wanted to impress her by finishing the book as well so that we could perhaps have a lengthy, romantic discourse on its merits over a hot Latte at the cafeteria. Obviously things progressed faster than my reading, 1, 349 pages notwithstanding.

The book is sitting next to me on my sofa, having just bought a brand new copy from Kinokuniya this evening. And I hope by embarking on it now, some 12 years later, the reason why another person has asked me to read it will become apparent.