I’m not a ditherer like Hamlet. Nor do I have mood swings, but it’s been almost two decades since the Kindle was launched, and I’m still not quite sure what deserves more votes: physical books or e-readers. It’s just that as I grow older, my needs constantly change.
I confess that when the Kindle made its debut, I gave it a Roman Emperor-like thumbs down. “I love the smell and the feel of paper,” I insisted, “Kindles are cold and metallic, whine, moan, etc.” Apart from the emotional argument, I had practical considerations too: I only ever had to paint three walls in my rooms because the fourth walls were concealed by packed bookshelves with no breathing space — physical books helped me save money, and their spines added cheerful splashes of colour, yay.
When my sister bought her first Kindle I regarded her as a traitor. No, I did not shriek, “You wicked anti-national, go to Pakistan!” as is the peculiar practice in “new” India, but I did feel she had done authors a disservice, because there’s nothing that turns on an author more than seeing her/his book on a shelf. I had already written two books by then, so I took it personally.
I grimly stuck to physical books and pointedly averted my eyes when my sister shamelessly flaunted her Kindle. A few years later, my jaw dropped when I saw my sister reading without her spectacles. “Jesus saves, or did you have laser eye surgery?” I squawked.
She looked smug. Unbearably smug, and shoved her Kindle und.