The adolescence of a savant





When I was 7, a strange connection to novels, preferably classical, was formed in the pit of my heart. Black beauty was the first to tie a knot there. With two braids which I used to always wear back then, they resembled the horse reigns, giving me the perfect opportunity to live as Anna Sewell’s characters.

When I was 10, we took “A Christmas Carol” in school as one semester’s novel. I was mesmerised by the beauty and the complexity yet the simplicity the story offered. It was when I first learnt to dig deeper behind each word to vividly imagine the underlying meaning they could hold.

When I was 14, a thrilling, captivating, and soul wrenching story rested among its peers deep down. Wuthering Heights was my companion for myriads of sleepless nights and often, restless days. It carved something inside of me, a feeling which I was too young to fathom, but I let it reside there willingly.

After a year, another made a grand entrance to my heart as well. Having read it with more details and elaboration made it worthy of its place inside. A Tale of Two Cities was definitely one of the most heart wrenching novels I’ve ever got to read. The characters each imprinted their permanent prints inside of me. I used to have various dreams when I was there with them running away, playing with my daughter, reading into Carton’s sacrificing actions, and spending hours wailing after him. It was then that I realised that I’m growing up, and to my utter most dismay, too quickly.


When I was 18, Anne Frank’s Diary of a young girl took me on a rollercoaster of emotions which was an absolutely agonising experience. The fear, thirst, hunger, and darkness were what I could vividly imagine and feel for days. It was a turmoil of emotions that shaped me differently, yet kept the same traits I had imprinted inside, just hidden underneath a sheer realistic layer. It was painful.

When I turned 19, and later on 20, Pride and prejudice bewitched my body, heart, and soul. By then, I had each and every chapter memorised. The letters were inscribed deep inside the core of my heart, leaving a permanent stain that took my mind to a whole new world. A world where emotions weren’t disregarded, but rather respected. A world where the finest forms of art were appreciated. A world that had women embroider cushions, play the piano, and spend half of their day strolling in search for nonsensical matrimony.

The different shades and colours these masterpieces have carved inside of me created a beautiful, messy, vibrant, and absurd world of my very own. I had enjoyed their company over actual Homosapiens, and organised more tea parties with them than I’ve seen the sun during my 2 decades old life. I painted people by characters and counted by eras. I slept under the influence of pieces written by deceased masterminds and had my morning coffee with the auras of their everliving souls. I have my head up in the clouds overlooking myriads of plots and I’ve kept myself busy with the never ending conversations I have created. I’ve travelled through centuries falling into the footsteps of Austen, Shakespeare, Dickens, Wells, the Brontë’s, Woolf, and myriads of other legends carrying nothing but hope and an unbelievably messy mind.

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