Indian novelist Anees Salim pays a tribute to his book-loving father in Tehelka
I inherited my love of books from my father, who, I believed, loved books more deeply than anything else. He was hardly seen without a book. Or, as his friend would put it, he was never spotted with a bad book. I shared a rather difficult relationship with this bibliophile throughout my childhood.
Growing up, my father was mostly out of sight, working in West Asia from where he came home every year with almost the same kind of gifts. My most enduring memory of him is emerging from the arrival terminal of Trivandrum airport, wielding a book — usually a hardback — which he would unfailingly finish before his one-month vacation was over.
