<p>I owe my reading habit to our father, a voracious <a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/tags/reading">reader</a>. He motivated others to develop this habit, which has been carried forward to my son and daughter. </p><p>Despite our modest income and a large family, one daily newspaper, a children’s monthly called Chandamama, and another spiritual monthly, Kalyan, of Gita Press, Gorakhpur, remained on our subscription list for decades. My father began his day with the anxious wait for the newspaper.</p>.<p>The two-month summer vacation in that golden era of the 1970s usually drew us to our native village, Khand, in the hills of Uttarakhand near Devprayag. Not to deprive us of a daily dose of news, my father firmed up with the newspaper office for postal delivery, paying for it in advance. Regular inflow of newspapers increased the guest traffic at home. At times, pages of a single paper were shared by three or four readers. Intermittent <br>tea and snack servings made our days more delightful.</p>.<p>It was mango season, and I often accompanied my local friends when plucking mangoes. Unlike most city boys, I satisfied my urge to climbing tree at any opportunity. Hardly a week had elapsed when one black day, alighting from the tree with a bag full of mangoes hung by my side, I lost control, fell on the ground from a height of five feet, and broke my high-powered specs. It augured badly on several counts: I was disabled from continuing reading, my major passion. Having new specs meant a visit to the optician in Rishikesh or Dehradun, some 80 or 100 km away, a daunting task. Who shall do it, and how?</p>.Fading tracks in the city of joy.<p>My father had to proceed to Delhi shortly for duty, only to take us along at the end of the school vacation. Yet my father was of the mettle, making all-out efforts when the situation so warranted. He wrote a letter to our maternal uncle, who ran an optical shop in Dehradun, requesting him to parcel the desired specs ASAP. And lo, in just a week came the moment of exhilaration! Along with newspaper, the postman delivered us a parcel, a small ply box containing the precisely packed befitting specs of my actual number. Thanks to my father’s ingenuity and prompt initiative, I could read again. </p>.<p>My father left the earthly abode over six years ago. In retrospect, I now better understand his deep concern for the core needs of our family. He knew the power of my lenses, partly because it was unusually high, -6D for both eyes. I wish I could do likewise for my son. </p><p>Given the depth of the relationship between my father and maternal uncle, the specs provider, I can understand the supply was gratis, including parcel charges. Over generations, from a small shop in downtown, it has grown into a prestigious chain of optical shops in the city, demonstrating that relationships and benevolence flourish by the day.</p>
<p>I owe my reading habit to our father, a voracious <a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/tags/reading">reader</a>. He motivated others to develop this habit, which has been carried forward to my son and daughter. </p><p>Despite our modest income and a large family, one daily newspaper, a children’s monthly called Chandamama, and another spiritual monthly, Kalyan, of Gita Press, Gorakhpur, remained on our subscription list for decades. My father began his day with the anxious wait for the newspaper.</p>.<p>The two-month summer vacation in that golden era of the 1970s usually drew us to our native village, Khand, in the hills of Uttarakhand near Devprayag. Not to deprive us of a daily dose of news, my father firmed up with the newspaper office for postal delivery, paying for it in advance. Regular inflow of newspapers increased the guest traffic at home. At times, pages of a single paper were shared by three or four readers. Intermittent <br>tea and snack servings made our days more delightful.</p>.<p>It was mango season, and I often accompanied my local friends when plucking mangoes. Unlike most city boys, I satisfied my urge to climbing tree at any opportunity. Hardly a week had elapsed when one black day, alighting from the tree with a bag full of mangoes hung by my side, I lost control, fell on the ground from a height of five feet, and broke my high-powered specs. It augured badly on several counts: I was disabled from continuing reading, my major passion. Having new specs meant a visit to the optician in Rishikesh or Dehradun, some 80 or 100 km away, a daunting task. Who shall do it, and how?</p>.Fading tracks in the city of joy.<p>My father had to proceed to Delhi shortly for duty, only to take us along at the end of the school vacation. Yet my father was of the mettle, making all-out efforts when the situation so warranted. He wrote a letter to our maternal uncle, who ran an optical shop in Dehradun, requesting him to parcel the desired specs ASAP. And lo, in just a week came the moment of exhilaration! Along with newspaper, the postman delivered us a parcel, a small ply box containing the precisely packed befitting specs of my actual number. Thanks to my father’s ingenuity and prompt initiative, I could read again. </p>.<p>My father left the earthly abode over six years ago. In retrospect, I now better understand his deep concern for the core needs of our family. He knew the power of my lenses, partly because it was unusually high, -6D for both eyes. I wish I could do likewise for my son. </p><p>Given the depth of the relationship between my father and maternal uncle, the specs provider, I can understand the supply was gratis, including parcel charges. Over generations, from a small shop in downtown, it has grown into a prestigious chain of optical shops in the city, demonstrating that relationships and benevolence flourish by the day.</p>
