They say that when words fail, the one thing that prevails is a feeling. But what do you do when your feelings are so implosive, so ever-consuming, so ever mind-numbing, yet so loud, and nothing all at once?

I write.

Ironic, I know.

Given how necessary words are to that little task.

Yet, somehow, it has never failed me. Surely, there have been moments in my life where I have neglected, pushed aside, bargained, and undoubtedly have taken it for granted, but what I have never been able to do is to allow it to remain as an ever-haunting, ever-prevalent, everlasting afterthought.

A spare.

A brief moment of respite, a door that I only opened when I absolutely had to.

So, it comes as no surprise to me that when everything– words, feelings, thoughts, emotions, logic, pragmatism, optimism, pessimism, determination, and ambition all fail, where everything is either catastrophised or trivialised, and when the tides of the reality and the present come to a stalemate, that is where I come alive.

That is where I live.

So, I write.

And every time I pick up my pen, I live a little more, hope a little more, dream a little more, dare a little more.

But what always remains unprecedented is action.

The Why?

Irrelevant as of today, and now,

The action?

Very much in motion.

And if I am not mistaken, this is the very point where the book usually starts getting too good to be put aside, and ‘just one more chapter ’ becomes as real as a unicorn.

However, unlike a reader reading a book, I do not know what the rest of the pages in my book entail. But what I do know is that the D-Day is here, the decision has been made, and now it’s time to sit back, clutching onto fine desperation and hope, willing that the author doesn’t kill off the characters that I oh so love and adore.

Just in case, they do, we ride at dawn.

Now, as the story of my life remains, ‘a day at a time’ kind of narration, where you simply have no other choice but to power through the tedious world-building, the exposition, and the gruelling character development arc, let’s talk about the books, which have so gloriously rewarded us with an unquenchable thirst for –

More.

And the more you seek, the more you realise how little you have, and before you know it, you are head deep in waters you never asked to be in, wandering through castles that house more chaos than a poltergeist’s soul, or soaring through the sky battling with and against dragons that may or may not be your allies, all while remaining glued to the same old spot, while your mind is ages and kingdoms away, living lives, you never get to live.

The endgame of it all?

The stories live past the ink and pages.

The downfall?

The stories live past the ink and pages.

And each time you pick up a book, you borrow a small piece of the book’s soul and integrate it into your own, breathing new life into its ink.

And every book ever written, irrespective of its origin, era and tongue, has one singular motive, i.e., to make one think.

And thought often provokes contemplation, and contemplation paves a way for realisation, and realisation eventually translates to a shift, a change, however brief it may be, however fickle it may be, however profound or trivial it may be, there is now a certain force which manifests, that lingers, and that tiny spark is enough to either rise or raze kingdoms.

For as long as I can remember, my grandfather always used to tell me stories, and at the end of each of them, he would always ask me, “What do you think was the moral of the story?”

Only when I grew a bit older did I realise that there was an intent behind adding the ‘do you’ to that question. He wanted to know what I thought, what I heard, what resonated with me, and what did not. He cared enough to ask, to listen, and in doing so, taught me the art of questioning.

“To question is to have a mind of your own,” he’d say. And I’d like to believe he never grew weary of my probing, because even if he did, he never showed, and for that I am eternally grateful.

So, while my friends and peers around me grew up detesting the mere sight of anything that resembled a book, I found my sanctuary in them.

“You’re a homebird, through and through,” they’d say, and you know what?

I was, and a proud one at that.

So, while my friends wore their scars and scrapes like badges of honour from playing under the sun, I wore my hypothetical, yet profoundly telling ones that I had been bestowed with from all those stories. Stories, which have burrowed themselves in my chest so deep that they live in there to this day.

Naturally, the books and the art of storytelling became a huge part of my life, almost dangerously synonymous, and this thirst, thankfully, remains eternally unquenchable. And it is the very fire that has opened my eyes and mind to an adventurous quest for knowing more, for learning more, but also for unlearning, whatever and whenever needed.

I truly believe that there is a message in everything that we consume, and what we do with it, or how we interpret it, has the power to make or break lives, and while speaking of messages, I can’t help but think of Hermes, and his staff, the caduceus.

The origins of the caduceus can be traced back to one of the stories in Greek Mythology, where it was one of the gifts given to Hermes by Apollo, in exchange for his lyre. The caduceus in itself is something that resembles a staff; only this one, is a winged staff that has two living snakes twined around it, harbouring the power to either put anyone to sleep or to awaken them from their slumber. The caduceus soon became one of the symbols associated with Hermes, who is often known as the messenger of the gods, and of travel, along with the numerous other things he was a patron of, from commerce, trickery, languages, to fortune-telling and everything in between.

Originally used as a symbol of trade, the caduceus, is now widely known to represent medicine and healing, in place of the Rod of Asclepius.

The Rod of Asclepius is another staff of Greek origin that belonged to Asclepius, son of Apollo, who is also credited with being the god of music and prophecy, in addition to medicine and healing. Now, Asclepius, was widely worshiped by people seeking a cure for their illness, along with the physicians who sought him, for his wisdom. The staff bore a plain rod, with a lone serpent coiled around its length, that symbolised the knowledge Asclepius possessed to not only cure diseases but also to heal people, to an extent that he had the ability to bring people back from the dead.

Unfortunately, the two staffs are often mistaken, to an extent that people rarely know the true story behind the Rod of Asclepius. For its true origins, intent, and symbolism lie buried under years of negligence, and misinterpretation, just like some of the most remarkably written books of all time. And just like the caduceus, which holds the power to put people to sleep or awaken them, there is a duality that is often found in the stories we read and hear all the time, and it is time that we acknowledge the uncomfortable truth, the portion of the lines we skim through, or look away, or give a free pass to.

A hero can be dangerous. A villain can be innocent.

Lies can coexist with the truth, the moon with the sun, and evil with the good.

Leave the door open. (Or leave it ajar)

But remain accessible.

And just remember to take a chance every now and then.

And when you pick up a book next time, ask yourself the question, my grandfather always asked me.

“What do you think?”

Allow your own mind to feel and think, rather than clouding it with others’ judgments and opinions, for who knows, maybe you just might find the book that beats to the tune of your heart.

That’s what I do, or try to do anyway.

The last time I did that, the gamble paid off, and what do you know? It completed my holy trinity of book series.

I won’t spell what they are for you.

I’ve already left clues around in here.

So, the next time you see something new, or a caduceus, I hope (while also crossing all toes and fingers) that you stop and think, however briefly, before jumping to a definitive conclusion. Maybe you are reminded of George and Martha, or of mice, or of wings, or perhaps even a book!

Although I must admit, if you’re one of the people who have figured out the clues, you probably heard of them or have grown up with these stories, so thank you for sitting with them again. But if you are new, don’t fret; you’ve just stumbled into a ‘Wonderland’ of friendship, love, magic, and dragons!

And, maybe, you just might end up liking them,

Or

Not.

“Although who knows? Maybe this time, we’ll learn.”

What do you think?

P.S.

Hermes, you are now an official patron of all the book-related tomfoolery (with a dash of love) in this little corner of my hearth. Please accept this honorary title to your glorious existing list of trickery and thievery.

Oops, I mean, messages and travelling.

With love,

A measly human, with a mortal heart, who dares to dream.