For a long time, Tuesdays with Morrie lay in my bag completely unattended. I had to go visit my brother one weekend and I took the book out to return it to him. He asked, “Did you finish it?” and I said no. He said, “Then why don’t you keep it and finish it?” I think I mumbled some baseless excuse and left the book on the table. I knew I’d never get around to start it, much less finish it, because I was going through one of those lazy zero-reading timeperiods.
After brunch that day, he went to Blossoms and I had the whole afternoon to do nothing. I picked up Tuesdays with Morrie again, assuming – wrongly, of course – that I’d finish the book in that afternoon.
It rained cats and dogs that day. I read half-way through the book and then fell asleep to the sound of rain pounding the cars parked on the streets, the streets housing the apartments and the apartments housing the people.
I decided to take my brother’s advice and retained the book. Then, I became lethargic and let the book be. It took me almost two more weeks before I finally picked from where I left. And that was in the train on a Wednesday.
Reading a poignant tale of a dying man oozing everyday spirituality in the train is hard. But it was harder to read about those moments when Morrie – no matter how accepting he had become of his terminal illness – had to suffer like an average human. It’s a pity that people with exceptional mental awakening go through mundane physical deprivations as they age and suffer.
Being reclusive, I wonder if I’d get to forge such relationships as Mr Albom writes about. Fifteen or twenty years down the lane, would I return to meet, say, Mr V.A.S? I dont know. I’d love to find out though.