HUMOR

Ode to an Unfinished Book

What Went Wrong Though?

The first time I saw you, peeking at me through that bookshelf, in the dilapidated bookstore lost in the tides of time, yes, I picked you up, based on the GoodReads reviews, all those blurbs on the front cover, New Yorker, Guardian, and whatnot.

I admit, deep down I thought, shall I ever complete you? maybe yes, reading beside my window, on a cool breezy day, talking about you to friends and colleagues, lost in you, but well, here we are, you are sitting at the end of my table, and I, in this chair, stuck with each other, as the sad bookmark stared at my indecisiveness, lamenting, maybe a bit angry too.

Indecisiveness? Is it a symbol signifying my inability to finish anything? since I’ve read a bit of the book, I can call it a half-finished book, or is the book half started? should I skip through and see how it ends? who am I trying to impress anyways? maybe a few more pages can rekindle, our broken relationship, and I won’t be haunted forever for not reading it.

Or should I sit here, staring at each other in the eye, unmoving, encircled by the veins of indecision, the bookmark, crying out to put it somewhere, where it’d move across pages, but alas.

Dear unfinished book, I pick you up, and there it goes, goes, goes, into the shelf of my growing list of unfinished books, phew.

And I, I walk free, a burden off my chest, enjoying the chirpy birds, the blowing winds, and my eyes fall back on another book, peeking at me through that bookshelf, and well, I pick it up, smell it, pull it closer, hoping, foolishly hoping, we’ll complete each other this time around.

Somsubhra Banerjee, 2023