Seeing the girl that way was offensive.
Nor her attire, not her demeanor, but that copy of the book. What we need in today’s time - to rephrase the greatest hero of our generation - is “some correct theology and geometry”, and The Alchemist is an offense on those grounds. A children’s fable pushed onto adults in this market-driven literary-vacuum; just like those supermarkets trick you into buying that stupid toaster that nobody wanted.
Politely I waddled upto her synchronized with the movements of the train, politely sweeping away in the process another middle-aged babu returning back from work, clandestinely educating himself on the taste of newer generation.
I put my objection forward to her:
“You know… you could just burn this book, that’d be more fun.” By the time I’d finished, I had both her attention and her shy curious smile.
“Why?”
“Because it’s stupid. You could be better off with any preachy moralistic Indian ‘Amar Chitra Katha’ type stuff.” The smile gained definition by now. “Have you liked it this far?”
“Yeah, kinda”
“Well, don’t expect too much. The ending is just silly. I'm a very patient reader, so I got there.”
I would’ve given away my brand new copy of Confederacy just to get her geometry right had she retaliated or asked for an alternative (I was carrying that copy Gethia to give away to B.Pa who, coincidentally, adores this same text that I abhor). In fact, I should’ve plain snatched away that copy of hers; it would’ve saved her a prolapse or something - once you are on this stuff, anything is possible.
PS: Have you seen Coelho's website where he's trying for an imitation of Hank Moody on the homepage? Douchebag.
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