To lend or not to lend books

RUNNING my hands over the glossy hardbound cover of the latest Booker Prize winner, caressing the embossed title of a forgotten classic, fixing the eyes on the refurbished shelf of my favourite bookstore, asserting sole ownership rights after paying for a pile of books — this pattern repeats itself unerringly. It is almost an obsessive, compulsive habit. When there is a longish gap, the withdrawal symptoms are all there — irritability, restlessness, nervous anxiety and emotional distress.

For some strange reason, I have never been able to savour reading a borrowed book. Of course, there have been times when the purse strings have been tight and I have resolved not to splurge on books and instead relied on libraries to satiate the hunger for reading. Doing my bit for the environment, I have sincerely tried switching over to Kindle, but the desire to buy and own a book has persisted. Also, while I feel no guilt about spending a few thousand rupees on new paperbacks, spending the same on a dress rankles, making me question if the indulgence was worth its while.

Taking this obsession forward is the reluctance to lend a book to an interested reader. There was a time I would enthusiastically recommend a book to a like-minded friend, eager to share excerpts or indulge in a discussion on the story line and characters, but now I steer clear of any such sharing. People have an effortless way of walking off with a book and closing the chapter, quite literally, after that. Getting a book back is like a tightrope walk, considering the risk of offending the borrower and souring the relationship forever.

I do admit that although I may forget and forgive a lot that goes on in our lives, when it comes to books, I can be downright mean. My memory acquires the sharpest photographic proportions. I never seem to forget which friend is sitting on which book of mine. When I meet a friend who has borrowed a particular book, I find an uncomfortable needling thought gripping me — why has it not been returned?

Going to a friend’s house and seeing my copy of Vikram Seth’s An Equal Music sitting on a dusty shelf in her office library made me uneasy. My eyes kept darting to that corner wondering if she had even read it at all or remembered that she had borrowed it and that a book that has been lent needs to be returned. All this while she was rambling about her maid issues and my mind was obviously not with her.

Much as I try to push this embarrassing trait to the back of the mind, it keeps popping up at the least expected moments. I remember how I had recommended Edward de Bono’s Simplicity to a confused youngster, hoping he would declutter his life and incorporate some of the author’s wisdom. He returned the book claiming it had helped him immensely, but it was all yellowed, greying and in tatters. It has now been over a year since I got the book back and it has been restored as best as was possible, but I cannot bring myself to being chatty with him as if this had never happened.

Why do I feel so strongly about my books? I have for long tried to resolve the dichotomy between my obsession and my confounding, guilt-ridden confession. On it, among other things, hinges my being ‘good friend material.’