My tryst with my first love began before I could even form sentences coherently, before I’d reached the height of two feet tall, before I could pronounce the V in my name, before I’d even begun to read.

My first love was stories.

Although I don’t remember, my father takes credit for this love. He’d tell me stories every night, ranging from fairy tales, to whimsical eccentricities he made up on the spot, to giggle-inspiring anecdotes. I listened to these stories with a wide eyed wonder, amazed by the world of possibilities around me.

As the years passed by, I couldn’t wait until bedtime for the story. I needed to find out on my own. Thus began my journey into the world of reading. And it is a journey that hasn’t ended yet, a journey that never will.

For about four year, my bookshelf was filled with row after row of Enid Blyton’s books. Enid Blyton’s books are as comfortable as the cosy blanket that you hold on to for years of your life because you can’t sleep with any other; as enjoyable as the hot Maggi noodles your mother makes for you in the morning; as fresh as snowflakes falling from the sky, each nearly the same as the other, but a little different all the same. A child can start an Enid Blyton book with the contented knowledge that at the end, everything would be happy. The good characters are always rewarded, the bad characters get punished, and the world is as perfect as perfect can be. Though predictable, the books introduced me to worlds I’d never known. The Famous Five books instilled in me a longing to be independent, to go camping with friends as Julian, Dick, George and Anne often did. The boarding school books taught me what is was to be a good friend; to be sordid, dependable and loyal. The Faraway Tree books showed me a life with a new adventure every day.

Like a tidal wave, a new series came along to sweep my off my feet, knock my breath out of my lungs, and to pull me away from the comfort of what I had already known. The Harry Potter series. I had stayed away from the “Harry Potter phenomenon” for years, dismissing it as mainstream, and somewhat ridiculous. Magic wands and a school called Hogwarts? It didn’t sound like my cup of tea. But when Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows released, the craze and devotion of its most diehard fans made me rethink my uninformed opinion. Surely, a series for which thousands of people would queue up in the dead of night had to be worth reading. Thus, one summer, I walked out of the bookstore clutching a little magenta book called ‘Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. To my delight, I fell in love almost immediately. The world Rowling has woven is magical, sometimes even ridiculous, but to the reader, it is believable. And it is beautiful. A train platform between platforms 9 and 10, flying brooms, staircases that occasionally moved, portraits that talked; they all wriggled their way into my heart until the Harry Potter world became a part of me.

Along the way, I’ve found so many other books that have changed the way I think, and the way I act. The Hunger Games, a dystopian trilogy has helped me re-evaluate the way society runs today, and how that could change. The Help touched my heart with a story of friendship between two black women, one white, and a novel written against all odds. Life of Pi assured me we could always find hope, even when it seems non-existent. Classics like Pride and Prejudice enticed me with their subtle dialogue and witty prose. I lay awake at night with thrillers like Angels and Demons, and the Murder of Roger Ackroyd, unable to sleep, refusing to even look away as I read on, immersed in the black ink on white paper that spun tale after tale with effortless elegance.

But more than entertain me, books have made me who I am. When I speak, I speak with the assurance that I’ve lived not only my life, but the lives of countless other people I’ve encountered through the rustling of pages. When I meet a new person, I see them not just through my tinted eyes, but through the more open minded eyes of every character I’ve ever read about. By reading about what doesn’t exist around me, I’ve understood more about what does exist around me. And today, when I go around in a world where books are unfashionable compared to the television, or video games, or hanging out in the mall, I still hold my paperbacks with pride and affirm that yes, I love to read.