Pretence

right beside my coffee cup,

sits the Wodehouse I’m currently on;

its dog-eared pages and ‘old-book’ smell,

urging me to pick it up again.

I’m spacing out,

I always do when I have read a handsome chunk;

for most people ‘read’ a lot,

but how much do they absorb and retain?

merely reading Dostoevsky and Tolstoy,

makes one modish not shrewd;

a few more books (read trophies)

added to the extensive showcase;

a showcase proving how ‘well-read’ one is,

curated mainly to impress not express,

always at your disposal to subtly sprinkle a casual-

“Oh, that’s just Orwellian” or a

“I loved this film, it’s morbidly Kafkaesque”

in everyday conversations,

gaining instant admiration of friends and peers,

a sin even I’m guilty of in the past.

instead, one should drop the pretence,

and rather choose silent contemplation;

studying the artistic strokes

that these writers project onto life-sizes canvases,

splendidly capturing the complex layers,

and minute expressions of the human mind;

the literary references will then be organic and not generic,

not ornamental but instrumental

in bringing forth probing discussions

that contribute to our material and spiritual growth.