The Temptress at Barnes & Noble

I went to Barnes & Noble to get out of the house. I had been sick for two days, I had slept all day, I had a headache and
dinner had not sat well with me at all. What better place to go sit, think and relax? Wood furniture, books, stationary and
frappaccinos were the order of the day; everyday. I bullied my elder sister into driving my sick and tired person to a place
where I could rejuvenate and be back to my unmanipulative self. She relented and we were on our way.

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing at the front of the store, eyeing the new arrivals. Soft jazz and a feeling of warmth
engulfed me, but the usual feeling of coming home eluded me. I felt restless. I thought that perhaps after selecting a few
books to buy, I would be feeling more the thing, so I wandered through the aisles, waiting and hoping for something to call
out to me. It wasn’t working. I didn’t even have the names of books recommended by friends or any author that I was
dying to read. I did walk over to A S Byatt’s books and look at the renaissance style covers and instead of picking them
up, I kept walking. I was in no mood to read three fourths of the book before it became something I just could not put
down.

I wandered through the collections of CD’s. The usual enticements were just not palatable today. Something was
drawing me towards it but I could not make out what. I walked over to the overpriced and elaborate stationary section. I
usually tried to steer clear of this area because of my weak resolve when it came to pretty and expensive colored paper. I
justified my presence among the journals and bookmarks as something I had deserved after two whole harrowing days of
being ill. An upset stomach was no laughing matter. I listened over the shelf at an obnoxiously loud woman trying her
damnedest to flirt with this cute number in a suit. My eyes wandered over the journals. It was here.

I felt a slight stirring
that vanished just as quickly as it hit. It was a teasing sensation and for the time being I was content to play along. It was
here however, the object of my restlessness and it was then decided, I was going to buy a journal before I left. It became
such a strong feeling within me. Like when a child feels that unless he does not have the latest Sega game he cannot live
anymore. I needed one and had to have one.

It was also of the utmost importance that the journal call out to me today.
Today price was no object, today I was going to be the proud owner of a journal that was going to be taken home and be
showed off to my parents. It was an exciting prospect. The restlessness became more pronounced as everything on the
shelf before me lay mute. No quickening in my heart, nothing that caused the feeling I got from hearing A R Rehman’s
voice (I wish I could marry his voice). It had to be a perfect match. This was going to be the journal in which I would be
able to feel the magic and excitement one gets from seeing scrambled thoughts become coherent sentences. Where one
can feel the fluidity and ease with which words appear on a fresh piece of paper, as if by magic. This journal would
facilitate my writing. It would make me feel good. It would make me look good, it was going to launch my writing career. I
was going to be a superstar.

I started picking up the journals thinking that perhaps they were too shy to call out and that if maybe, I made the effort
they would begin communicating with me. I felt like a judge in the Miss Teen U.S.A pageant. Some journals, looking
ravishing on the outside, with impeccable credentials, (covers kissed by Monet and Van Gogh), once opened spoiled all
illusions of grandeur and elegance and brought one back to earth from the heavens above with a huge BANG! Lines too
narrow, pages covered with quotes by Jerry Springer or poems that Jewel loves.

The real nightmare however, began
when all of a sudden, I opened up a journal and was starring at nothing. Gleaming cream, unadulterated, virginal paper
smiled, nay beamed up at me. I wanted to hug the journal. I brought it closer to my nose and inhaled its fresh
manufactured scent. Nothing smells like the perfume of a new book, a new notebook or a new journal. The possibilities
that all of a sudden abound from the abyss of ones mind are overwhelming. I caressed the covers of the hard cover
journal and smiled at it lovingly till I began to actually imagine my initiation of the journal.

I was nervous. I had no idea how
I wanted to introduce my pen into the sweet and pure pages of this innocent and beguilingly fresh young journal. I could
make a million mistakes!! To begin with my technique hadn’t been perfected. Ever since the advent of my Compaq
Presario in my life, my hand writing had gone from legible to legible chicken scratch. I could not subject these beautiful
sheets to such a macabre scene, such was my hand writing. The immaculate surface kept beaming at me until I couldn’t
take it anymore. I wanted this journal, I wanted it very badly. I realized I was an amateur in this game the journal was
playing with me. It needed a strong and steady hand. It’s unlined status stood out as a challenge. I dare you to desecrate
me it said. I dare you to make me more beautiful than I am. Can you make me shimmer and shine in your words or will
you maul me with your unfinessed touch? Are you going to be Emily Dickinson or Pippi Longstocking? I felt bewitched.
My heart did not allow my hands to put the journal down. My silly heart thought that perhaps I could woo the journal to my
bidding. Maybe I could draw lines in it, eh? ‘Would you like that? I have this nice embossing kit. You know, it would look
swell on those pages. I could perhaps divide the page in such a way that it wouldn’t seem like uncharted territory, I would
have a guide in short to help me explore the empty space you have, to keep me on track, in essence. I won’t stray too far
that way and spoil any of you. I won’t. I promise’. The gleaming pages sneered at me. ‘You want to draw lines, you
won’t stray too far? Hah! Some adventurer you are. You don’t know the first thing about how to handle me. You haven’t
been weaned from your lined notebooks yet. You think you are capable of joining the ranks of the journals voyeurs, you
make me laugh. Go on, try what you will with me. You cannot satisfy me, you do not have enough courage to track my
body with a skilled hand. You do not have the confidence to adulterate my gorgeous sheets like that. You, my child, still
use pencils’.

The damned journal seduced me, turned me on, let me hope, fall in love and crushed all my dreams with one look. The
unlined surface mocked my inexperienced and pencil loving self. Did I still want the journal? Yes, I did. I was passionately
in love with it by this point. It had held me spellbound for ten minutes. I could no longer hear the Dona Juana
unsuccessfully flirting, the soft jazz or anyone around me. I was held completely under the power of the unlined cream
smooth paged journal with the brown hard cover skin. It was the reincarnation of A R Rehman’s voice. It was the super
star I wanted to be. I was the one not worthy of it. It didn’t want to take me home to it’s parents and today, the price was
just too high. I sighed and lowered the book back to its place on the shelf. It did not call out from there because I was not
up to par. I resisted the urge to pick it up and feel the power one last time. I didn’t think it would a: appreciate it and b:
even notice my devotion. My restlessness had not abated. I walked over to where my sister was. She had three books and
a mocha. I envied her the warmth and serenity.

"You have no books?" she said to me surprised.

I held my head high and said in a grand show of bravado.

"No, not today, nothing called out to me. Not my loss, you know. No big deal."

It was time to go and in a show of defiance, I paid for and walked out with a SOLO, beverage for one hand painted 12 oz. Cup and 11 oz. Pot. I had been very sick. I needed my rest and some hot tea. I left my restlessness between the pages ofa temptress that will probably haunt my writing in her smooth ivory skin, fresh and sweetly scented.