The Secret Life of Readers and Writers

There is a thing about readers and writers.

Life rarely arrives as literature.

It arrives as traffic signals, blue ticks, leaking geysers, grocery bags, cups of coffee, and people hurrying through ordinary evenings.

And then, without permission, something small brushes against imagination and sends ripples through still water.

A glimpse.

A phrase.

A staircase.

A story begins.

Perhaps that is why the mind of a reader is a dangerous place for reality to wander into.

A casual comment about boys jumping into the neighbouring Ladies PG building should have remained exactly that — a casual comment.

Instead, somewhere between the words and the silence after them, Shakespeare entered.

Suddenly the dusty old staircase was no longer dusty.

The concrete walls straightened their backs.

The moon reported for duty.

The night air learned poetry.

The ordinary building found itself auditioning for literature.

And somewhere below, instead of hurried footsteps and mobile phones, there emerged the possibility of a young Romeo.

Not the practical urban version equipped with messaging apps and scooter keys.

No.

The Shakespearean version.

Silky hair brushing his shoulders.

Eyes carrying dangerous amounts of sincerity.

A family ring catching the moonlight.

A small locket close to his heart.

A sword hanging quietly at his side more for symbolism than necessity.

He climbs the staircase noiselessly, as though he has signed an agreement with the night not to disturb it.

Even the old stairs cooperate.

Not a creak.

Not a complaint.

The moon follows him upward.

The railings become silver.

The dust becomes mist.

And from a half-curious peeping window, hidden safely behind curtains and imagination, someone catches only a glimpse.

Not enough to know the story.

Only enough to know that one exists.

Perhaps this is the secret life of readers and writers.

The world places bricks before them.

They return balconies.

The world offers staircases.

They return moonlight.

The world sends Road Romeos.

They somehow receive Shakespeare.