We were passionate about the written word from an early age. No incentives were needed either. In fact, we were often told to stop reading so much and do some constructive work around the house instead, which was all the more reason for us to bury our noses deeper in our books and feign deafness.

Of course we didn’t have the distractions of video games and tablets and other virtual reality delights and I am thankful for that. All our attention was concentrated on the written word on paper and the habit of reading enriched our imagination. This led to us making up games on the spur of the moment and sometimes, just sometimes, these games of pretence became all too real and I was often heard pleading with my sister to return to her human self and to drop the act. It took some convincing for her to get out of pretend mode and switch back to reality but, when she did, I always heaved a sigh of relief.

In fact, we siblings had our own private libraries and we were meticulous in cataloguing our collection. It was understood that one had to ask permission before borrowing a book. This was something that our parents couldn’t understand, but we took ownership very seriously and any breaches were duly punished by withdrawal of the reading material even if one was in the middle of the story. To be left hanging in suspense was a fate worse than death for us so we usually obeyed all terms and conditions laid down.

Our parents subscribed to a whole lot of magazines and, as soon as one was due, we began the ‘bagging’ process. It was like living in the wild West, where one had to be quick to claim a stake to new land.

We thirsted after reading material in any form and many of our fights were caused by one person deliberately taking his or her time to finish reading a periodical or book while we waited impatiently in the wings, mumbling under our breath about how slow some people could be when it came to reading.

We tended to hover over the person who was in possession of the coveted reading material until our presence became such an irritant that we were told to keep our distance if we wanted to read the same piece of writing. It was akin to stalking but we only had designs on the material, not the person.

The most desirable birthday presents among friends were books by one’s favourite author.

I remember being fascinated by words when I was very young. I would pull out books from shelves and sit and read the words aloud, often mispronouncing them. I could do this for hours and it didn’t matter that I didn’t understand most of the words. Just the fact that these consisted of letters that I could recognise gave me a sense of completeness. The books I picked were mostly classics from my parents’ collection, tomes I had heard them discuss or mention in conversation. So, I felt a sense of connection when I chose these.

The derisive laughter of older siblings when they came across me sitting with one of these novels had no effect on me. I was inexplicably proud of devouring the pages even if I didn’t understand the plot or the characters and was unable to appreciate the finer nuances. The fact that I had managed to plough through 100 pages was satisfactory enough.

I reread these years later and found that many of the lines had stayed with me for some reason, which was surprising.

So, those of us who belong to a generation when books were our best friends, find it hard to believe that such an interest has waned nowadays.