Forgotten Pages

Last night, I discovered an old box in the back of the closet, its edges worn and forgotten. When I opened it, the air filled with the scent of dust and aged paper. Inside were books I hadn’t thought about in years; books from my college and university days; syllabus books in both English and Urdu, especially essays, stories, novels, and collections of poetry by Ahmed Faraz and Parveen Shakir. As I ran my fingers over their spines, memories rushed back, reminding me of how much I had left behind.

Though the digital age floods our lives with an endless stream of knowledge, it’s the tactile memory of holding a book; the weight in our hands, the feel of its corners that stirs a deeper understanding.

My generation, perhaps more than any before, knows that the weight of a page, the simple act of turning it, holds a wisdom no screen can offer. These books were never just stories; they were pieces of us.

Sadly, books today, sit quietly on shelves behind glass; almost as if they’re waiting for the days when they were more than just objects. Once, we would lie with a book resting on our chest, turning pages as we drifted off to sleep, the book would rise and fall with our breath, alive in its own way. Half-read stories wove into our dreams, completing themselves in the quiet of our minds. Words that once comforted us now wait silently, hoping to be held again.

Inside their pages, we often used to find small treasures: a pressed flower, its petals faded but still carrying a faint scent of the past. It wasn’t just a flower; it was a memory of love, preserved between the pages. Sometimes there were photographs, curling at the edges with time. They weren’t just pictures; they were secret joys, a way to see the face of someone we loved without drawing attention. Resting beside the words, these keepsakes made the books more than stories; they became vessels of emotion.

Books brought us closer to one another. How many times did we offer a book, not just to share its story, but to connect? A shy gesture to lend it, a hesitant request to borrow it. The brief brushing touch of hands as the book changed ownership carried the promise of more shared moments, more conversations, more memories.

Sometimes, love letters were tucked into the pages; small notes, carefully folded, with words that couldn’t be spoken aloud. The book became a messenger, holding unspoken confessions, a quiet bridge between two hearts. Occasionally, a faint lipstick mark would stain the edge of a page, a delicate trace of the person who had sent their love through this silent courier. It wasn’t just a mark; it was a moment preserved; a whisper of emotion revisited with every turn of the page.

In the margins, we scribbled lyrics, thoughts, or fleeting emotions. These weren’t just notes; they were echoes of us; messages waiting to be rediscovered. Each line was a quiet reminder of who we were at that moment.

The library OfCourse; it was a sanctuary; not just a room full of books, but a place where hearts met in stolen glances, shared silences, and quiet understanding. It was where we sat together, often without words, finding comfort in the presence of each other, and in the stories that linked us.

How can I forget the joy of giving a book as a gift? A carefully chosen first edition, wrapped with care, was never just a book; it was a way of saying, “I see you. I understand you. I care for you.” The book became a token of affection, a quiet promise!

Sometimes, before returning a borrowed book, we’d spray a favorite scent between its pages. It wasn’t just perfume; it was a lingering connection. Every time the book was opened, it carried a reminder of us.

As I turned the pages of the books that I found, I felt a bittersweet longing for what was and a recognition of how much I’ve changed. The memories within these books are both a comfort and a reminder of what time has taken. Words that once felt profound now seem distant, their meanings faded. Pages that were once full of life now feel like withered branches.

Some corners of the pages were turned down, small creases marking places where our hearts had paused; a sentence that felt written just for us, a thought we knew we’d need to revisit. I recalled folding one particular corner after a conversation that changed everything. That page became a quiet marker of a moment I wasn’t ready to let go of. These corners, like bookmarks of emotion, carried the weight of memories we held close.

Through all these moments, books were never just objects. They were vessels of connection, carriers of love, and keepers of memories. They held pieces of our hearts and whispers of our souls.

Now, as the world moves faster, I wonder if I’ll ever return to these books, these quiet witnesses to a slower, more intimate life.

Perhaps one day, when the rush of life fades and I find a moment to slow down, I’ll reach for them again. I’ll find the pressed flowers, the fading photos, and the hidden notes. In their silence, they’ll remind me of a time when words and paper carried the weight of love, memory, and connection. They’ll remind me of where my heart had paused, and maybe, they’ll help me remember again.... Maybe....

?