A precious problem

There are defining moments in the lives of nations—like wars, famine and revolutions. There are similar moments in the lives of individuals and families—like the birth of a child, a wedding or moving to a small house after retirement. For the missus and me, the last shift to a modest three-bedroom apartment was indeed a reality check.

- K.C. VERMA

While calculating the blessings of living in a compact home, we had sadly overlooked one important aspect. Our books! Books we have lugged around for decades across the country on different postings. Books of fiction, science, science fiction and verse. Books on cookery, crockery, crookery and worse. Books we have read or intended to read. Books we thought we should read but never did. Books we have kept only because they were nice titles to flaunt—like the eight volumes of the Mahatma by Tendulkar (Dinanath Gopal, not Sachin Ramesh).

Therefore, when we moved to the cramped quarters, our books overflowed from the shelves onto tables and chairs and to the floor. We had to place books on the bed and the dresser and even atop the fridge. But we still couldn't reach a satisfactory arrangement for all the books—books written by Washington Irving and Irving Wallace; by K.M. Munshi and Munshi Prem Chand; by Agatha Christie and Emile Zola. Sadly, we concluded that we would have to drastically reduce the number of books if we were to have moving space in our home.

I asked our neighbours if any of them would like to take any books. None replied, except the taciturn weirdo from next door. He whispered through the wire screen that he would gladly take any Marx. I apologetically informed him that I had only