Memories fade, or perhaps we remember our past gingerly. In snatches strung together in far easier, and happier and breezier orders. I remember as if yesterday, walking routinely from class to the library at the Cricket Club of India, among my most favourite places in the city. The smell of old and new books, floor to ceiling, in endless rows. A stern librarian sat in a corner. A children’s library bustled upstairs. And downstairs, on wood, books glistened, waiting to be read. It was never easy picking out what to read…
I cannot seem to remember how I stumbled upon Gabriel Garcia Marquez, what brought me to him. Perhaps it was the melancholy title of the book, ‘One Hundred years of the Solitude,’ I was always yearning growing up. Perhaps it was the Nobel Prize, perhaps it was a bit of both. But once I started with Marquez, I couldn’t put him down. Love in the time of Cholera, and One Hundred Years of Solitude, and Chronicle of a Death Foretold, and Memories of my Melancholy Whores, I laid my hands on whatever Marquez I could.
Seven years later, Marquez is gone. But as they say, like all great loves, and all great writers… in our hearts and in our books, he lives on.
“My heart has more room in it than a whorehouse.” Memories of my Melancholy Whores
“Then the writing became so fluid that I sometimes felt as if I were writing for the sheer pleasure of telling a story, which may be the human condition that most resembles levitation.”
“It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.”