Lahori Novels
The Enchanted House of Books and Secrets
A House Full of Books
The first time I stepped into Maryam’s house, I was greeted by an overwhelming sight—an enormous bookcase stretching from floor to ceiling, filled with books of every kind. There were thick novels, delicate poetry collections, old leather-bound manuscripts, and vibrant magazines. It was a place where words lived and breathed, where stories whispered through the pages and invited curious minds to lose themselves.
Every corner of the house had a book, a note, or an article lying around. It was as if the place itself had grown from literature, nurtured by generations of book lovers. Articles with intriguing headlines caught my eye: Is Imran, My Dear, Sick? and Oh My, I Am Fond of Urdu Literature. Each title piqued my curiosity, making me wonder about the tales hidden behind those words.
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The Library of a Thousand Tales
Maryam’s book collection was not just random; it told a story about her family. Her elder brother adored detective novels, filling the shelves with thrilling mysteries. The younger one, lost in the world of English literature, had a section dedicated to the finest works of Dickens, Austen, and Brontë. Amidst all these, pastry boxes sat beside thick cookbooks, perhaps a sign that literature and culinary art coexisted harmoniously in this house.
The duty of keeping the bookshelves tidy fell upon me. Every two weeks, I meticulously dusted the shelves, ensuring that the collection remained pristine. Yet, despite my efforts, the house never felt completely clean—it had the untamed charm of a place that was lived in, filled with thoughts, ideas, and the remnants of endless nights spent lost in words.
A Home of Manners and Mystery
The house, though untidy in its own way, was not chaotic. It was governed by an unspoken discipline. It was not a house of carelessness but one of refined tastes, where knowledge and elegance merged. There was even a dog named Pejo, who, unlike most animals, seemed to appreciate the quiet sophistication of the household.
I often found myself absorbed in my own thoughts as I cleaned, reflecting on my place within this environment. My relationship with my family had always been complex. There were moments of love, moments of distance, and times when I felt like an outsider in my own home. This house of books provided a sanctuary, a place where I could momentarily escape from the expectations and judgments of the world.
The Weight of Family and Identity
Despite my efforts to be the perfect member of my family, I always felt different. I had tried to mold myself into a thousand different versions, hoping to be accepted, yet deep down, I knew I was unlike them. My passion for literature, my love for solitude, and my reluctance to conform set me apart. My family did not understand my fascination with books, nor did they share my enthusiasm for words and stories. They saw them as distractions, as obstacles to practical life.
On the day of the month when I was meant to leave, I found myself hesitating. The house of books had become more than just a place I visited; it was a part of me. Maryam, the keeper of these literary treasures, had unknowingly given me a refuge. But deep down, I knew I had to return to my reality, to a family that might never understand me but was still a part of who I was.
A Conflict of Priorities
My family saw books as an indulgence, a waste of time. They believed in hard work, in practicality, in tangible achievements. They valued duties and responsibilities over dreams and stories. To them, life was about survival and success, not about getting lost in the pages of a novel.
There were days when I felt guilty for my passion. Was I wrong to prefer the company of books over social obligations? Was it selfish to seek solace in stories rather than partake in the daily chores expected of me? These thoughts plagued my mind as I carefully arranged the books on the shelves, making sure each one was in its rightful place.
The Curse and Blessing of Literature
Books had always been my escape, my sanctuary. But they were also my burden. They distanced me from my family, making me feel like an outsider. The more I read, the more I understood the world, but the less I felt understood by those around me. Literature opened doors to places I could only dream of, yet it also created a barrier between me and reality.
My family often criticized my obsession. They reminded me that books would not feed me, that they would not wash my clothes or take care of my future. Yet, despite their concerns, I could not let go of my love for words. Every book I touched felt like a piece of my soul, an extension of my thoughts and emotions.
An Unbreakable Bond with Words
As I ran my fingers over the spines of the books, I made a silent promise to myself—I would never abandon my love for literature. No matter how much my family disapproved, no matter how much society dictated otherwise, I would continue to read, to write, to immerse myself in the magic of words.
Perhaps one day, my family would understand. Perhaps they would see that books were not just ink and paper but vessels of knowledge, carriers of dreams, and guardians of history. And even if they never did, I would still hold onto them, for they had shaped me into who I was.
Conclusion: The House That Taught Me to Dream
Maryam’s house was more than just a place filled with books—it was a world of its own, a sanctuary for those who loved words and cherished stories. It was in that house that I realized the true value of literature, not just as an escape but as a means of self-discovery.
As I stepped out of the house for the last time, I knew that I was carrying a part of it with me. The books, the stories, the quiet moments spent lost in thought—they would always be with me. And no matter where life took me, I would always find my way back to the world of words, where I truly belonged.
