And I’m in the ‘Middle-of-Nowhere’ and I’m Happy!

Why are you grinning?
Well, there can be multiple reasons but I didn’t see this thing becoming the reason for my grin. Really, smiling is never easy these days and when I’m actually saying that, ‘I’m happy’ then you got to trust that. 
I’m celebrating from past nine hours.
I visited this year’s #WorldBookFair previous week and bought books which I know will change me for good but I don’t know why, like I always say this shit, I was craving to explore something else. Something I’ve missed. I need to go again, my body, mind and soul was revolting in unison and today I left for the book fair again for the third time.
Today, while I was wearing clothes there’s something queer with my confidence. With certitude I say, a queer levitation in the way I was being choosy about what to wear, a queer thought to look awesome and a queer thought to buy something which I’ve not bought like ever before. I realized a lot of it could be because I’m being me. A day before yesterday I declared about my sexuality in office, “Ab chauden mein chalta hun mein” [I give a fuck now] Well who cares about translations, anyway a lot is lost while translating. While I’m typing I’ve diluted too many thoughts and typing only the things which can ultimately make sense. Is this making sense at all?
I’m digressing, let’s change the topic like a pro-writer in the next paragraph.
I braved the crowd at Pragati Maidan and then headed straight to the Penguin Stall, The Penguin Area in the Book Fair.
It’s like a giant MNC before Start-ups!
Anyway, the moment I entered, I could sense that I was about to shell out a lot of money here.
I was calculating what I’ll be left with. I’ve to pay him, him as well, Oh fuck, premium then I’ve to get metro card recharged. WTF.
Living is such an uphill task. So, I took a deep breath and concentrated on enjoying the company of books.
I just kept on collecting whatever I was liking, like literally.
I picked Orhan Pamuk first, then I picked one book on freedom, then I spent a lot of time at the ‘Classics’ rack.
I picked Seneca, Aristotle, Plato, Francis Bacon and others to name a few.
After realizing that I can no longer hold these many books. I took them to a rack in front of CLASSICS and rested the pile of books on one of the BOX-SET of the “BOX-SETS 40% OFF”.
Then I took another deep breath and started calculating how much will it cost me. I’ve just removed my jacket, rested my brown bag on the floor and I’m adjusting my shirt and there I see to my left.
And my heart skipped a beat. I tried hard to ‘excuse me’ people because I was too moved to be polite at this moment.
I jumped over them and I lifted it, THE BOOK.
It was heavy, it was big, it was thick, it was silky, it was life in letters.
I’m talking about, “THE LETTERS OF SYLVIA PLATH: Volume I 1940-1956”.
I lost my mind in a matter of seconds. A world just convulsed in another one and I was experiencing a scintilla of emotions.
[This was the only book there, no other copies were available. And I didn’t find Volume II. I even don’t know in how many Volumes her life is being captured, printed and distributed.]
I almost struggled to hold my tears. And there I was in the middle of nowhere.
I just opened the book randomly and it directed me to a letter where Sylvia is wishing ‘Happy Christmas’ and the very next line was, let me again take a deep breath, was the same one I used in one of my diary entries.
I cannot express to you, my reader how I braved the tears. [BTW I’ve never read a single work of Sylvia, yes, read on further to know more.]
I wanted to badly head to the payment section and start reading this then and there. But there’s again one blue paperback which caught my attention.
Blue, the color of sky. Blue, like I’m blue. Blue, like Boys’ Blue.
But this Blue was, “Sylvia Plath: Collected Poems”.
Again, what could I’ve said. I just couldn’t be more happy. “I am so excited that I’ll be reading Sylvia now”, I yelled to myself.
When I got Sylvia and other books with myself. I came to a stall where a group of ‘reader friends’ were collected over a stall.
I grinned while I showed them this collection.
One of them said, “Yes, good. You must be her great fan, read her a lot?”
I said, “No!”
Then, then what?
It’s this. There’s no algebra or formula here by which I can tell you and convince my love for Sylvia. Have you seen God? Still you believe in one. Right?
A stupid analogy which I can come up with as of now.
But we all know, I’m assuming here, her story. We all know she’s depressed. We all know she’s in love, like madly in love. We all know that she had bipolar disorder. We all know she was a great writer. We all know her as one of the first confessional writers.
We all know…maybe other things about her.
I know nothing. But I do know that I share a different bond with her. And that you won’t know for sure. 
Almost after ages, I got myself clicked. I came home with, Sylvia’s Books, Pablo Neruda’s poem collection, Paris Review Interviews’ collection, and a book on Queer folks in London. And I asked my sister to click me with these books. [I cannot recall a moment when I myself gave my phone to someone to click me, sometimes simple things become a great deal for you. You know life is miserable. But it couldn’t have treated me better than it did today. 
It’s been more than nine hours now and I’m still happy.
And there’s something which I cannot explain you. What should I say?
Should I tell you that I boarded an auto and plugged in earphones and played, Raging by Kygo and went to CP? Meanwhile, I was in auto, autowallah was wondering if I was drunk because I was constantly smiling, laughing and consuming the evening within me. No one cannot take away that half an hour from me. And other things which happened need not be reported here.
But what should be, is this.
I’ve the red color hardback by my right and a cup of tea to my left and I’m in the ‘middle of nowhere’.
And that I’m happy.

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