It was on Instagram that I first came across the idea of ‘performative reading’ – an idea I find funny since I come from an era when reading wasn’t a flex at all. Reading for leisure, that is.
One might have been considered performative if one had an academic book open in a public place.
‘Look at you, pretending to be so studious!’ someone might have said, because being studious was definitely a flex.
Though, chances were, you weren’t pretending. You were probably frantically finishing your homework on the bus or the playground so you could get home and play, watch TV or, perhaps, lose yourself in your library book.
Reading for leisure was somewhat frowned upon. Surely, you could be putting that time to better use by immersing yourself in academics? In our house, all our time — ALL of it — was meant to be reserved for padhai. I remember my grandmother’s familiar refrain: ‘Jab dekho tab kahani ki kitab!‘ (Always buried in a storybook!)
My mother, too, kept an eagle eye on us lest we swap our course books for storybooks. Don’t get her wrong, she wasn’t a book-hater. It’s just that academics occupied positions one to ten on her priority list. Leisure reading came somewhere much after that.
Luckily, issuing three library books every week was compulsory: one work of fiction, one biography or memoir, and one book in Hindi. The choices in the latter two categories were restricted to a cupboard or two, but fiction reigned supreme. That’s what turned us into avid fiction readers.
So we read wherever and whenever we could. On the school bus, on the sports field, while eating and, occasionally, when we were supposed to be sleeping. Any opportunity was a good opportunity.
At home we developed a sophisticated covert operation. Storybooks were tucked inside course books, with my sister and I acting as each other’s lookouts. One ear was permanently tuned to the tinkle of our mother’s bangles. That was the warning signal. Quick! Hide the book! Slide it into the conveniently placed schoolbag! Look innocent!
There was once a particularly hilarious incident involving our young cousin, who had concealed a comic inside his course book. Unfortunately, sleep got the better of him, and he was caught dozing off with the comic still tucked inside his textbook. My sister and I had a good laugh at his expense. What an amateur!
We were the pros.
Or so I thought.
Even as a rule-abiding, rather timid child, I once dared to read during embroidery class. Yes, we had embroidery class. And yes, I thought sneaking in a few pages was a perfectly good use of the time.
Apparently, I wasn’t quite as good as I imagined. I was caught red-handed.
The book was confiscated by a teacher who could only be described as a Dragon (with a capital D). The death stare she gave me was bad enough, but books were expensive and precious, and losing one was a serious matter.
And there was a bigger problem. This wasn’t a personal copy. It was a school library book.
And our librarian was an even bigger dragon.
So Dragon No. 1 delivered the offending book to Dragon No. 2, leaving me to contemplate the consequences of my criminal behaviour.
More importantly, I was left wondering how Nancy Drew was going to crack the mystery of the hidden staircase.
Really, wasn’t that punishment enough?
Looking back, reading fiction was almost a subversive activity. We had to sneak in our reading, hide our books and develop elaborate systems to avoid detection.
And here we are, on the other side of the spectrum. Back then, we hid our books to avoid being caught reading. Today, we photograph them, post them, review them and show them off.
I don’t really mind what we call it — performative reading, recreational reading, aspirational reading or whatever else. If a book brings you joy, makes you curious or gives you somewhere to escape when the world gets too noisy, read it.
Post a picture if you like. Keep it to yourself if you prefer.
Just don’t let anyone convince you that you need to justify the pleasure of reading.