Left Behind.

I knew you wanted to be engulfed in the magnanimity of the sprawling Himalayas,

and walk the streets of New York,

you were a bit obsessed with the Swiss Alps,

and with the houseboats on the Dal Lake,

remember the times you'd point pictures of various towns and

cities across the world?

and that you wanted to be there,

live there,

see the snow melt in your palms,

I know you haven't been to any of them,

in fact, you haven't been anywhere,

but I will go to all the places you dreamed of,

touch them with your presence,

and maybe leave a bit of yourself there,

after all, I'm a bit of yourself that you left behind.

Those Days.

I still remember those days,

when my life was different and

I was a different person,

the biggest problem then was a boy

breaking my heart,

or me breaking his,

following days and weeks of regret.

I still remember those days,

when it was summer and

the Sun was either at its best

or worst,

both of which weren't a reason worth celebrating,

confined to the darkness of home where

even sun rays refused to reach,

I hoped to bid Summer a warmer goodbye soon.

I still remember those days,

when it's raining, and the raindrops on my windows

lure me into the world, outside,

as I step out into the balcony, the water forms a

little puddle around my feet,

the memory so fresh, it still feels like this morning,

I get drenched in the rain without an iota of worry,

I might suffer from sinusitis tomorrow but today,

I am wild and free,

and as these thoughts form a little castle in my mind,

I hear my mother's voice from the kitchen, downstairs,

"Your coffee is ready."

Home.

I was three when I nurtured the habit of looking out of the windows.

Misty mornings made way for warm sunshine and jaunty evenings waltzed into starry skies.

But the lofty green mountains remained strong and the bougainvillea trees stood still even in the shadows of darkness.

I was four when I felt the salty aroma of air engulfing me as I stared at the endless blue sea.

I collected shells and souvenirs and stood with my toes in the sand as the waves gently lapped me at the shore.

Even as the tides got stronger and the waves, higher by the night, the distant lights always lulled me into a strange quietness.

I was five when I cycled my way through the wide roads to a library my mother visited every evening.

The mischievous world of Bapu and Ramana, the mystical world of Viswanatha Satyanarayana, the mysterious world of Chalam enticed me into their realms.

Oblivious to the value of those writers, I cycled home with the joy of spending another evening annoying the librarian.

I was six when I discovered how the city was surrounded by mountains greener than the greens of my crayons and I was seven when I realized this was home.

I was eight when we moved to a different city, and to another, and kept moving.

It took me more than 8 years and yet another long stay to understand this city is more than just home.

It is first steps and first discoveries. First beach rides and aquarium sights.

It is first friendships and first fights. Of innumerable skating classes and injuries. First movies and first brush with literature.

The first rush of teenage and walking fearlessly into darkness without a speck of doubt.

Over the years, the city is growing older with grace.

Natural disasters have only made it stronger.

The lovers of the beach have slowly made way for the lovers in the beach.

The nooks and corners are flanked with the cosmopolitan glory.

The otherwise conventional people learned to coexist with the modern ones.

So much has changed but the air is still salty and the evenings placidly wander into starry nights.

On the roof of every home, a child like I once was dreams high of becoming big, someday.

To explore the world behind the green mountains and beyond the greenish blue waters.

To travel the cities without mountains around walk in the beaches with a different scent in the air.

Yet come back home, from distances far away.

Maybe it was only that distance that made the heart grew fonder.

After all, home truly is where the heart is, isn't it?

Remember.

It is raining delightfully as we walk towards the parking lot. Everything looks beautiful and bright. The green trees look greener, the red car looks lovelier, and the people look like they have nowhere to go and nothing to rush about. You make a usual comment about the weather and I nod. I am in awe of everything around us, from the place we leave behind to the place we now go towards. The raindrops make a playful pattern on your window panes as we settle down. It is a sight too good to overlook, so we sit inside, engulfed in silence and the gentle pitter-patter of the rain outside. I tell you how much I love to slack off in a weather this dreamy and you tell me about the pile of work that is slowly accumulating at your desk. As you take my hand into yours, I know there are things you wish I'd say and things that you already know without saying. I know you keep telling me that there's a lot of time ahead of us. But time is slipping away, quietly and quickly. Days have turned into weeks. And weeks into months. The seasons too have changed. From a horrible summer to a magical monsoon. The next season might bring our way everything or nothing. But if it brings nothing, will you still remember this moment of solitude? Will you still think fondly of the moment we spent in the parking lot of a cafe we'd visit only when we have nowhere to go, not worrying a bit about the future or what tomorrow brings our way?

SUCH IS LIFE.

It has been over two years since I've visited my hometown, and I cannot even remember how long it has been since I spent my Summer there. These days, I talk a lot about it -- the beach, my grandparents' home, the orange sunsets, and the starry nights I've spent lounging on the roof. It's been too long, and I am in despair waiting to go back and stay there with no connection to my mobile phone, laptop, or just anything.

On my way back home from work, the traffic is generally quite horrendous. It makes me want to leave everything behind in this city and go back to the place that made my Summers breezy. Warm but not sultry. When I was a child, my cousins and I would gather around my grandmother in the courtyard every evening. Engulfed in the aroma of roses and magnolia, we'd spend countless hours there, forcing my grandmother to narrate horror stories from her childhood. A little later in the night, we would all move to the rooftop which has a clear view of a small lake adjacent to a temple. Occasionally a train would pass by at a distant with its siren sounding like a symphony to us. We did not have an email to get back to, or an important call to attend. We only had to compete with each other to reach out to the faraway lights and the stars in the sky. Everything was just that effortless.

Most of the times, we all tend to forget that in the pursuit of making our dreams come alive, we leave behind the simple joys of life. At least, I do. I forget that while my dreams and aspirations are beautiful, my approach to living them is rather nugatory. I'm leaving behind a lot each day, every waking hour, and maybe during all moments. I can only conjure this - Have I really traded beautiful evenings in the beach for something this flavourless?

This is no fun, man. Such is life, though!

RUNNING BACK TO MY MOM.

My obsession with clothes isn't fairly new. As a child, my fascination for shopping and clothes knew no end. Even when I was barely two. I vividly remember the moments when I'd come home with a glee largely visible on my face after shopping with my parents. Or the moments when I would ask for frocks with more frills. But my joy never ended with just that, because every day I would plead (often emotionally manipulate) my mother into showing me my new clothes till I'd wear them for a festival or an occasion.

I had tons of disagreements with my father about clothes. Just like today. I always liked something fancy. He always liked something delicate. As I grew older, my fascination for clothes increased along with my arguments with my parents about them. Soon, we arrived at a conclusion that we cannot do shopping together, and I took to shopping alone or with friends.

When I started earning, I imagined I could just buy everything I liked. Like I would walk into Vero Moda and walk out with at least five white bags or that I would simply step into Steve Madden and quickly swipe my card for a pair of glittery shoes that were carefully packed in one of their purple boxes. It would all be that simple, that's what I thought. Unfortunately, it was not. It was far, miles away from it. I would walk into a store and find everything so drab that I just walk out sad and dejected. I would walk into all my favourite stores in a mall and curse each of them for having things that don't excite me. And this isn't how I imagined things would be when I was a little girl. When I was a little girl, everything was beautiful. Everything seemed rosy. Everything looked like it belonged in my closet. You know what I mean? The little girl definitely did not sign up for this sort of disappointment.

Maybe you don't understand, but having a closet brimming with the choicest of clothes always meant something amazing to me. So, my fascination for clothes gradually turned into a serious compulsion to find anything half decent. Sometimes, finding half decent too became a daunting task.

My friend is engaged to be married soon, and I wanted to get a stunning outfit for her big day. Call it lack of choices or helplessness, I implored my mother to accompany me for shopping. This time, I did not use my half-baked brain or ideas, but only followed her and walked out with a little more than what I asked for. With a glee on my face  that the little girl would have approved.

I reckon there are some things in life that our parents know better. Be it the clothes that look great on us, or the life advice they constantly dole out on us. While it's not mandatory for us to follow it all, we lose absolutely nothing to pay attention, right?

P.S. Now, I got to go and adore my new dress all over again.

The Right Kind of Wrong.

During all my writing classes, the most recurrent thing I have been told by my professor is that I do not put myself out there. That I constantly fail to write about the things that truly trouble me or touch me. I have been told that I come across as a person who is scared to show the insecurities and vulnerabilities. Sometimes, I argue that I write about my fears and insanities on my blog, but he just says that it is barely anything.

I do not want this to sound as a rant because I am willing to meet him mid-way to agree that he is almost true. Or absolutely true! The other day, while talking to a friend, he told me that I am introverted in certain situations aka selectively introverted. And trust me, I do not want to be that. But being an extrovert hasn't been my forte too.

I would like to make a reference to the countless times when I am told that writers gain experiences, they take risks, they meet new people, observe them. I observe people too, I notice their quirks but I am definitely not the one who is famous for taking risks, striking a conversation, or be the first person to initiate almost anything. As much as silly I might sound, I am always worried that I would make a plain fool out of myself if I'd do something that I'd generally refrain from doing. To confirm my worst fears, I stumble upon several articles or testaments on how spectacular or eventful Hemingway's or Scott Fitzgerald's lives were. Well, yes, they all kicked ass! All the great people have and I am not kicking ass, clearly. I'm just running from one time zone to the other by wallowing in moments of nothingness, and pretty much doing nothing to live the wildest of my dreams. If you're wondering if I am gaining any experiences, I must admit that I am. We all do, don't we? Some of us decide to put them on paper. Some do not. Experiences are not limited to writers or musicians only. And they are certainly not limited to people who claim to have creative pursuits only. Every person is creative.

Here's my theory, though. My experiences are quite juvenile at this point of time, I agree, but I do not want to rush into making a cart load of them right now. 'Right now' should stop for me. I want to breeze into my life slowly and experience things with no plans whatsoever. I am exhausted with things happening so rapidly all the time that I want to go anti-Supersonic now. However, let me get back to square one now. My professor was absolutely right, I need to put myself out there more often and try to have meaningful conversations with people. It is time I look at things with a different perception and not be scared about writing things that could be slightly troubling. Let's hope I'll do things differently this year and gain experiences on my way.

I am certain I should be doing the right kind of wrong.

P.S. To my family that reads most of the things I write, you guys have nothing to worry about. I am not talking about doing stupid stuff.

2015, Get Lost Now.

2015 is coming to an end. I have never been a huge fan of counting down the final days of a year as I don't care about New Year's eve or celebrating it. My obligation towards the new year is limited to a mandatory blog post and that's that. But what is it about 2015 that makes me want to hold on to it dearly? What is it about 2015 that I'll remember for years? And what is it about 2015 that will always put a smile on my face? I could not list out everything, but here are a few:

1. 2015 has been largely confusing for a lot of reasons. I won't dwell over them, but I'll tell you this. No matter how bad things seem today, they'll slowly fade in time. The people you try to forget, the incidents that bring tears, and the issues that torment you--they'll all fade.

2. People constantly tell me that I am lucky to be doing a job that I love. Touchwood! Two years ago, I never imagined I'd be able to break free, stand up for my dream and take up an actual, real-time writing job. Now that I am, it feels like a million bucks. Probably, nothing feels better than doing something you are passionate about.

3. I have loved and I have lost. It might not be a great story, but it sure made me write some. It was fun while it lasted though its aftertaste was bitter.

4. Goodreads tells me that I've read 59 books this year. I've read and re-read some great books this year. I breathed into the words of Murakami, cried into the pages of Jamie Tworkowski, traveled along with Italo Calvino and Ruskin Bond, and more importantly, I have found lost courage through the beautiful world that Elizabeth Gilbert created.

I cannot thank these writers enough for their lovely creations.

5. My unhealthy obsession with letters dates back to the 90s. I have written some and received some this year.

As we talk, I've used FutureMe.org to send a letter to my future self. I think this is an immensely important activity that we must all indulge in. Go ahead, and write yourself one! I am sure your future self will be pleasantly surprised to receive a letter from past.

6. I have been turning into a reclusive person with every passing year. I am not complaining, though. I think I began enjoying my company so much that I don't feel lonely anymore. I itch for solitude.

I have cut ties with unhealthy friendships and I am glad that they are no longer in my life.

In a sad way, some relationships with my friends and family are a little strained. I am not even putting in an effort to repair them. Maybe it's time I do.

7. Not all families are perfect. No family is as nice as it seems. Some families are broken beyond repair, and some are held together by a really thin string. I am glad that I have a family and that I go home to them. This year certainly made me realize that it's hard work to keep your family together. I've learned it the hard way.

8. A few years ago, I've never imagined that I'd be buying a vehicle by 24. I have and every time I look at it in my parking area, I brim with joy.

I am learning how to drive and I am loving it.

9. I have openly discussed my emotions and issues this year. I have used several mediums for it -- my blog, one on one conversations, talking, writing, and above everything, by standing up for it.

I've said this earlier and I'll say it again. There is nothing wrong in seeking help, there is nothing small in admitting you are not okay. You are human and on odd days, your heart aches. Sometimes, longer. Be assured that there are a lot of people like you who feel what you feel. All you need to do is reach out.

10. My unhealthy eating and sleeping habits have taken a toll over me. Over the last two months, I have tried controlling them. I am hoping 2016 would prove to be a healthier year.

***

There is something about having your closest friends in town, even if you barely meet them. Two of my friends have left to the USA this year, and it hit me that I'll miss them only when I saw them walking away on our last meetings. I've never been great at goodbyes. They are hard, and I am pretty sure I'll never be okay with them. I've endured some excruciatingly painful moments yet incredibly lovely moments this year. I've made friends at my workplace and at unusual of places, and I am okay with doing that now.

In many ways, 2015 has been a year of unexpected surprises, separations, rediscovering friendships, self-discovery (almost), and of course, more writing.

To everyone who has been nice to me, gotten me cupcakes and were there for me, thank you. And to everyone who haven't done that, well, you have a happy New Year too.

P.S. The long followed tradition of falling asleep at 10:30 PM on 31st December shall be followed this year too.

Sunday Ramblings.

I am having a horrible Sunday. There are so many things that are running through my head as I type this. I wonder if I am the only person who hates weekends. I wonder if I will ever be able to love the sunsets and Thursdays again. I wonder if I will ever be able to buy something and not feel guilty about over-spending. I wonder if I will ever be able to feel not so broken again. I wonder if I ever stop crying over songs that remind me of lost love, forgotten childhood, or memories that haunt me in the night. Things around me are changing. I am changing too. I really want someone to tell me that things, for better or worse, will transform into something amazing. I want to keep moving forward. I want the man I love to write me letters and read out his favourite poem to me. I want him to run his hands into my hair and tell me that things will be normal again. I want to be able to wake up in the midnight and write Haikus like before. I want to read every waking moment of my life. I want to pack my suit-case and visit places and leave something behind as I leave each place. I want to come home with souvenirs from every place. I want to cry when I want to, and not in the loo, trying to hide and mask my vulnerabilities. I want to be able to laugh when I find something really funny.

What I really want right now, on this rather sordid Sunday, is to eat ice-cream, read something amazing, count the stars and fall under the boundless sky full of hope. Tomorrow is going to be better.

I am going to make it better.

My Rain.

You were my rain. Maybe you still are.

I know I met you in the Summer, but you were never my Summer. It was on a rainy Saturday morning that we watched our first movie together and it was the first rainy Saturday evening when you held me close to your heart. I've lost the count of the number of hot cups of coffee we had every time it rained or the amount of my pictures that kept occupying the nooks and corners of your phone. It was also during the rainy season when we made tall promises to each other, breaking each of them in the following season.

Maybe it's true. I can never picture you against the background of another season. It's only on a rainy day, you walk into my thoughts, in your warm, black jacket, holding the cup of coffee with both your arms and laughing at my rather silly jokes.

You were always, and will always be my rain. Just like the rain, you were always mine, but never really mine.

Words.

I looked at the stars and wondered why.

I fervently hoped the endless sky would heal me.

I panicked, strode across the room restlessly.

And when I couldn't fill the void, I let words pour out.

It was words that fixed me, even when you couldn't.

Of Writing Letters and Pen Friends.

I was eight when I made a first pen friend. I distinctly remember writing letters and posting them in a red-coloured post box that was a little far from home. I made two more pen friends over a period of time and wrote different letters to the three of them. I loved receiving letters with doodles and smileys on the corner of the letters. Sometimes, they came with shimmering stickers, and they were more loved. One summer vacation, I visited my grandparents. That year was warmer than usual, and the flowers in our garden were blooming better than ever. I began writing letters to my friends -- I wrote to them about how I relished the mangoes and sorbets that my grandmother fed me, and I wrote to them complaining how my brothers never let me play cricket along with them, forcing me to be a silent spectator every time they played. I narrated in detail how much I loved taking early morning walks along the stream and glide past the high walls embraced with colourful bougainvillaea trees. I remember very well, that I suggested them to read Enid Blyton's books which happened to be my latest found love then. I guess I still remember the contents of the letter only because they were the last letters I sent to them. As soon as I returned home after the vacation, my father was transferred to a different city. In the process of worrying about a new school, new uniform, and new classmates, it absolutely slipped out of my mind that I had to inform my friends that I was moving to a different city. What's worse? I lost their addresses too! For a person who moved often, and changed seven schools, losing things wasn't new. But this time, I was rather displeased with my carelessness. Because there was something comforting about writing letters to people whose names and faces were unknown. We had pen names, remember? There was something ethereal about friendships that withstood miles of distance. And there was something funny about describing how your dog would attack the cats and receive a response that talked about such simple things. That is the magic of handwritten letters, I believe. When I was in school, I knew a lot of people who had pen-friends. I read a lot of such stories too, in a magazine called Gokulam, which was pretty popular after Tinkle. I barely see anyone writing letters now. I am afraid, I see no one. The fact that people have forgotten the art of writing beautiful letters makes me cringe. Why did we stop writing letters? Why did we stop describing the beauty of nature in letters to friends who aren't familiar with the weather in our part of the country? We cannot blame WhatsApp and Twitter for this. They still do not warrant the excuse that we stopped writing letters. I could be really selfish when I am hoping one could preserve the lost heritage of writing letters; wondering if we could ever bring back long, handwritten letters into fashion. The joy we derive from reading letters that we've received as children is quite something. I think even when we get old and have a troubling eyesight, there will be nothing more comforting than words and letters that talk so much about our history and the life we lived. 

P.S. This year, I have written three letters and received two.

Of the Great Unknown and Winding Roads.

Of one of the most important rituals from childhood, I vividly remember my daily visit to a really gigantic coconut tree that was located in a lane behind my colony. For some reason, it was a habit to go check up on the tree every evening when I was back from school. After every visit, I would be so glad. I would imagine the tree was growing with every passing day. I would imagine the tree was expecting me too.

My family moved to a different city and the next Summer when I was in Vizag, I was utterly excited to go see the tree. And I did, only to find out that it was cut down to widen the road. I still remember that moment in my head. Actually, scratch that. I could picture it, and if I made a list of top ten horrible moments of my life, this would definitely top the list. It was so painful that I never went to that place again. I wanted to smash the person who cut the tree. But I was seven, and that wasn’t going to be easy.

For months, I wasn’t able to look at another coconut tree normally. I mean, figure that! In due course, it never mattered though -- something that was so important to me back then seems like such a petty issue now. Of course, a coconut tree might be inconsequential in my life now. I don’t even remember when was the last time I noticed one.

While talking about this to a friend today, I thought about something similar. Or not.

Does present pain turn into something so trivial years down the line?

Take a closer look at what I meant there. There are instances where we lose people. Often there are reasons, often there aren’t any. Separations are always tragic, and we never accept them entirely. The pain is so awful that we lose track of time, and sit in the darkness dolefully hoping the void would go away.

It doesn’t. We make it go away. We fill it. Or we just forget it. It takes time though.

I have never been a great person with losing people. I have always hated it, just like most of you do. It has never been my forte to let go of people hundred per cent. However, if I was able to look beyond the destruction of my favourite tree at the age of seven and still love trees, I could definitely look past a lot of painful things at twenty four.

Doesn't the idea of horrible things turning insignificant seem ever so liberating? Yes, it does. It might be a great unknown for now but when it happens, I would gladly take my long and winding road again.

P.S. It has been a wonderful Saturday!

The Storyteller Ring.

It was just another typical day for me. It began the usual way, but I shone a little less bright than every day. That was when I noticed him. He cupped his palms together, and rushed into the store, tugging his jacket closer to his body to keep himself warm. A look at him told me that he must have walked here in the brutal rain. He walked from one end of the store to the other, gasping and sighing in between. He took his own sweet time before he set his eyes on me. It was love at first sight. I could tell. He took me into his arms, caressed me softly, and said, “Pack this for me.” As he counted the notes of denominations 100, and few coins, I wanted to urge the manager to give a lavish discount on me, but I couldn't. A little later, he collected the amount. It looked like he could afford me. It looked like he saved up for me. I still remember the candid tone of his voice when he said, “I am going to propose to my girlfriend. This ring is perfect." I was the perfect ring. I loved that I was going to be a part of a journey which would begin with me. I walked out of the store snuggling in the cozy corner of his pocket. With a pride in his heart and a glint in his eye, he talked a great deal about me with his friends. A week later, he got down on his knees and proposed to her. I still remember the tears that trickled out of her eyes. I still remember how well I fit on her finger as if I was cut to beautify her finger. It was blissful. It was funny how the initial years passed in a fleeting moment. The nights they stayed up late sharing the deepest of the secrets, or the walks they took clasping each other's arms, and the mornings they spent making coffee together have soon become a part of my life. I began to take pride in the fact that I bound them together. Even in the moments of despair, she tugged me closer to her heart. Seldom I would lend her my ear, hearing a tale or two about her day. In due course, I realized things were changing. I realized I was held by fingers that weren't his. I realized I was inhaling the scent of a different man. I realized this man did not touch the contours of my body, neither did he kiss me when he kissed her. I realized I meant nothing to this man. I tugged even closer to her, trying to remind her of the moments she spent with him, trying hard to make her understand that she was meant to be with him. I tried, but everything went in vain. Every evening, as I returned home with her, I felt like a culprit. I felt like I was hiding a gory secret deep down my chest. One morning when she left me on his bedside table and walked out of the room leaving behind void and distress, I could not fathom how many days he and I spent in utter darkness wallowing ourselves in sorrow and loneliness. 12 monsoon seasons later, he walked into a store to pawn me for something useful. This store did not look as swanky as the one I was built in, it did not even feel as warm as the home I lived in, but it felt safe here. And as he walked out of the store, he set his eyes on me for one last time. I could tell, that he would never choose another ring over me.

Bookstores & Libraries: Their Stories and Enigma!

“I didn't go to bookshops to buy. That's a little bourgeois. I went because they were civilized places. It made me happy there were people who sat down and wrote and wrote and wrote and there were other people who devoted their lives to making those words into books. It was lovely. Like standing in the middle of civilization.” 

― Jerry Pinto, Em and The Big Hoom

A quaint little bookstore, shelves stacked with a diverse range of books, the musty aroma of the wooden lofts, and more books scaling till the roof. Paradise!

Surely, the storekeeper was old, but he seemed to remember the names of the writers on his fingertips.

He was well versed with what they wrote, and the ones that were good.

Conversations with him were lucid, but strangely unusual. He spoke from the experience that came along with the company of books and words. An experience any reader would lust for!

Again, I felt like a child. I knew this is exactly how I felt when I stepped into a library for the first time ever. 

Don't you feel like an entirely different person altogether when you are in a bookstore? Or for that matter, a library?

And let us not forget those nostalgic second hand bookstores where you find books with dry leaves and roses, feathers, notes written by a mother to her son etc.

After buying a bunch of books and comics from the bookstore, my mother and I, we went home in glee. I believe we cannot buy this glee on Amazon or Flipkart.

The whole emotion of touching the books, reading their summary, and purchasing one right away with the anticipation of unleashing its mystery after you go home is absolutely lost each time you purchase a book online.

No, I am serious. I have got nothing against the online stores. I practically live on Amazon.

However, let us consider this scenario too. We go to a bookstore on a whim. (Yes, these days buying books from an online store or going to a library has mostly turned into a whim for 90% of us.) We walk from one shelf to another; we touch one book to another waiting to find that one book that would turn into our favourite for the next 5 years. 

We look for that one book that will end up being a major part of our memories.

In this process, we also reunite with books that have made our childhoods lovely. We do not go home with one book, but with three more books that the librarian or the storekeeper suggests us.

We fall in love with more writers and their words accidentally. 

We explore. We discover.

******

Come 2020, I am not sure if people will still visit libraries and bookstores. Utterly sad, I know. But I don't know. We are so dependent on the Internet. To top it all, rumours like "No bright future for libraries and print versions of books" because of tablets and ereaders is even depressing.

As a child, I still remember going to a library every evening with my mother. It was a ritual she never missed. And I made sure I was a part of it. Even today, my mother purchases books from the local stores instead of relying on the online stores. So does my father.  Taking the cue from them, I have firmly decided that I would purchase books from bookstores only. 

I am quite obstinate about it.

Let me tell you this. Libraries and bookstores are magical. You will never know what stories they hold high up their chest unless you visit them. Walk up to your closest bookstore or library, and fall in love with a world that will cast a spell on you forever.

We cannot let libraries and bookstores go extinct only because we refuse to visit them. 

As long as human race exists, stories and storytellers will thrive. While we are at it, we might as well give our next generation of individuals a fine experience of being in a library than learn about them on their iPad.