A couple of months ago, it was 1953 and I was sitting in Stalin's dacha in Kuntsevo. Bulganin, Khrushchev and Beria were there too. There was palpable tension in the room. Something was wrong. It seemed to me that these men knew that they needed to act but were holding themselves back, fearful of the wrath they would incur if they acted. Suddenly, Beria went inside Stalin's bedroom and returned in a couple of minutes. His face was drained of all emotions, yet he seemed ecstatic. He boasted, 'I took him out'. Khrushchev and Bulganin almost fell on the floor. Stalin, the Iron man, the victor of WWII, the father of the Soviet people, their murderer was no more.
A few weeks ago, it was 1812, and I was in again in Moscow, accompanying Napoleon and his Grande Armée as they laid siege to Moscow. The poorly armed, demoralized Russian army was no match for the invincible French forces. They simply fled at the sight of the French. I could see the pride in Napoleon's eyes as he prepared to enter the city and add Russia to his spate of conquests. But no delegation came forth to offer him the surrender of the city. The initial euphoria turned to anxiety and eventually shock and disgust as Napoleon realized that the Russians had robbed him of a significant ceremonial victory by refusing to hand over the keys of Moscow to him. I could see Napoleon's eyes burning with anger and an esprit de revanche as he had been denied what was rightfully his.
Last week, it was 1977 and I was with Indira Gandhi as she sat in her residence cum office, waiting for the election verdict that the masses would give. Outwardly, she appeared confident, but her face was haggard. There were dark circles under her eyes. It was almost as if she knew that all was not well. And then the results started trickling in. Her Congress party seemed to be doing badly in the North, but at least she was leading in her Rai Bareli constituency. A couple of hours later, her lead had narrowed down. By 4 in the evening, it was clear, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was all set to lose in her own constituency. Mrs. Gandhi was shell shocked. Neither Sanjay, nor Rajiv nor their wives had anything to say. Rahul and Priyanka sat close to their Grandmother, oblivious to the goings-on in the household. I could see that Indira Gandhi had aged suddenly during the day. She seemed frail, vulnerable and despondent, A far cry from the Durga-incarnate who had defeated the Pakistanis and created Bangladesh.
And then, just yesterday, I was in Istanbul, with author Orhan Pamuk as he showed me his childhood homes in Nisantasi and Cihangir, overlooking the Bosphorous. He spoke of the Ottoman yalis, the streets in which Turkish Muslims, Greeks, Albanians, Armenians, Kurds and Firangis would roam freely, of Steamships (and later Soviet tankers) that would move up and down the strait, of Sultans and their harems, of Westerners who brought their culture, of Turks who wanted to ape the Western culture, of the First World War and the dismemberment of the Ottoman empire, of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk and his Westernizing reforms and of the rich, proud Istanbul of yore with its hüzün and the impoverished, confused Istanbul of today. Orhan Pamuk spoke in tones that made me see Istanbul less of a city and more of a person witnessing history being made.
Well, that, is the magic that books bring. They make you forget who you are, where you are and what you were doing. They take away all sorrows, all worries and transport you magically into places, lives of peoples, times and settings. You lose yourself in the pages of these books and live through the lives of others as you flip its pages.
Well, the one emotion that I have always felt, when I am browsing through the books in a Crosswords or Landmark, or even on flipkart… "So many books, So little time!"
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