The Study

The Study                                                  1

                                                                   (1, 419 words)

Tucked away in the shadows of old Darjeeling town stands a library which remains  surrounded by the world’s highest peaks. The serpentine corridors, intricate passageways, spiralling arches and curved galleries it consisted have an old world charm. It is a purgatorial crypt where books, like trapped souls, wait patiently to be rediscovered and resurrected in the reader’s mind.

Books have  always interested me. The smell of old books attracts my attention. So does their authors. Mental connection with them is very much important as the primary ingredient of my attraction. I always share an unspoken language with them.  Sometimes I get visions in my head. I see indistinct shapes that are outside of my understanding. They are like mental pictures that aid memory. 

It was a cold winter evening. The last rays of the setting sun caught the wingtips of giant bats that squeaked  noisily overhead when I reached the gates of the library. Flowers were everywhere. The scene of rolling hills and green grass looked  marvellous when I entered the lawn and then into the sprawling reading room.

Darkness fell quite abruptly. Many readers were busy reading books. All the lights in the reading room suddenly went off, plunging the room into darkness. I sat in silence. It was well-past closing time when the lights returned. The dress of the library- staff were a throw back to a bygone era. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw Charlotte Bronte keenly gazing at an oil painting.  I turned around only to see another woman peering through the window of the room. It was Emily Dickinson, the great icon in American literature. She was sitting beside Charlotte and was looking fixedly at the dandelions and daisies that she loved more than writing. I knew that the author of Jane Eyre might have gone down in history, as an artist as her first ambition was to be a professional miniature painter. I stared 

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goggle-eyed at the two epochal women.  “Art is a career goal and a means to escape. There is a connection between art and life. Art is the teacher that makes us understand life,” said Charlotte. “Yes dear,” agreed Dickinson, “I also want to draw and paint.” Emily Dickinson raised the corners of her mouth upwards.   

I turned my eyes away from them.  Edmund Spenser was discussing something with Michael Drayton. “The Faerie Queen often crosses my mind which is a treasure-house of themes, language, imagery and form,” Drayton complimented. Spenser’s cheeks and lips were raised diagonally. “Your poetic craftsmanship is amazing!” he exclaimed, “the allegorical and descriptive veins are inspiring too.” It seemed that they held each other in high regard.

I moved my head to another desk where William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe were deeply engaged in conversation. “You are beyond all knowledge and belief,” smiled Marlowe. A stupefied wonder appeared on his face. “You are not lagging far behind,” glorified Shakespeare.  It was a relationship characterized by agreement, mutual understanding, that made communication possible.

John Milton and John Donne sat so close that I held my breath. “You tower over your age,” Donne acclaimed. “You have introduced medieval logic-chopping into love-poetry using a racy, colloquial language,” praised the great man. After that time, they just sat in silence.

Byron and Shelley were sitting very close to Milton and Donne. “Your easy sweep hypnotises,” praised Shelley. There was an appealing gravity to everything he said. “Cheer,” grinned Byron, “I feel as if I own the world. They developed rapport and shared experiences.

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I find a delicate grace in your poetry,” a deep, rich voice attracted my attention. The voice of Robert Browning gave me goosebumps. “Wow,” smiled Alfred Tennyson, “but you have suggested the mystic side of passion more tenderly and wistfully.” They had a long conversation.

My eyes fell on Rossetti and TS Eliot sharing a desk space. “A voluptuous intensity runs through many of your poems,” said the author of The Waste Land. “Huh!” said Rossetti, “your lines puzzle me.” The two poets didn’t withhold crucial information about their lives and intricacies of their art. A beatific expression appeared on their faces. I also felt extremely happy and peaceful.

I moved along the unkempt floor. “You are endowed with unlimited pertinacity and a pretty wit,” James Joyce applauded. “My word,” said G.B. Shaw, “your stories contain vivid details and accurate realism.” He also laughed loudly.

“Your straightforward narrative method is fantastic,” J. Conrad said to W. Somerset Maugham. “Wow!” Maugham raised his brows. “You have always revealed a serious interest in moral dilemma. Your stories show a strong preoccupation with the great themes of betrayal, remorse and retribution,” he said. Conrad’s lip corners were raised diagonally. “I can’t forget Carey, the doctor-hero in Of Human Bondage, whose human misery in a hospital prompts the thought of facts in real life,” he praised enthusiastically. Muscles around Maugham’s eyes tightened. “I can remember Lord Jim where a shameful act committed by an idealistic young officer haunts him for the remainder of his life and the guilt of it eventually contributes to his destruction.” They seemed happy.

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As I walked along I saw Mark Twain sitting at a reading desk cluttered with an untidy collection of books. “Au man, I feel like absolute shit today,” he grumbled, his voice implying he was unhappy. Joseph Mitchell, the gifted chronicler, sat next to him. “Why is that, Mark?”  “The photographer who took my photograph preferred photographing places rather than people.”  Joseph Mitchell smiled at his reply.

I turned my eyes away from them. I walked around the large hall and examined it. In the corner, a man sat alone, with loads of books lying around. It was WH Auden, one of Britain’s most famous poets. His coat bore wine stains and cigarette burns- a telltale sign of the poet’s untidy ways. I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

I shifted my gaze to another reading desk and raised my eyebrows. Sylvia Plath stared fixedly at a book. Suddenly, I saw her turn her head, staring fixedly at the last sunrays through the window. Virginia Woolf who sat beside her succeeded to attract her attention.

As I turned back, a movement across the hall caught my eye. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Fitzwilliam Darcy standing with his insidious charm amid Elizabeth and her pretty female friends. I didn’t see any crazy sideburns like Mr Rochester’s, no bushy brows like Heathcliff’s, no good-boy looks like Lord Jim’s, nor a hint of receding hairline as in the case of Emma’s Mr Knightley. He had endured the passing of two whole centuries and was standing with the old bearing and breeding.  The moment Darcy and Elizabeth met, they aroused something deep in each other. They burnt. They were of the same kind. But the formality and decorum,  and their own strong individualities didn’t let them fall into each other’s arm straightaway. So, in the time-honoured tradition of passion that couldn’t be acted out, they fight.

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What a fight it was. With only words at their disposal, they thrust and parried, and skin and hair flied. They lacerated each other. They wiped the blood from their mouths and lunged at each other again. It was a full-blown blood sport.

 Suddenly, a bell rang to announce that dinner has been served. Shakespeare headed the table flanked by John Milton and Christopher Marlowe. They were fabulously banqueted and loaded with gifts. The traditional Christmas dinner featured turkey with stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, and carrots, etc. Ham was also served. For dessert, Christmas pudding was the staple.

After dinner Darcy asked Elizabeth to dance a reel. At her denial Darcy replied, “Indeed I do not dare.” Even Elizabeth was surprised.

There were drums in the air as Darcy started to dance. Elizabeth’s first shaky step almost sent her sprawling and Darcy tried to catch her arm quickly. In the course of this dance, the piano and the violin stopped bickering with each other. Time passed, emotions were recollected in tranquillity, and all  the stupidity and superficiality of the world fell away, and in the end there was clear, pure music.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes. The images disappeared. I felt the characters belong to a world that had long disappeared, existing only in my memory. I stood at the window, staring out. Nature slowly unfolded her treasure at the first ray of sunrise.