We are in progress

Chapter 3

He is awestruck.

Even though, I did make a scene and made him leave his shoes out after forcing him to take a trip to the bathroom down the hallway (with him, complaining all the way and back) to wash his hands—I still can tell, he's mesmerized.

I say that because we've been here for the past 45 minutes and he hasn't spoken a word. He is brushing his fingers on the titles of the books and pulling out the ones he finds intriguing.

I stand back and devour in his reaction. I've never met anyone with the same passion as mine. Sure, I'm part of book clubs and have many friends who read, but I've almost never felt the bubbling happiness I'm feeling right now as I look at Sohan.

The library is one of the largest rooms in the house. I've, technically we—my brother and I, arranged a number of shelves to stand with books according to their genres. Some shelves hang on the wall, while some sit on the study table on the far end, while a music system sits at the right corner.

He turns around and walks up to the center of the room, where a few beanbags and cushions reside. He places the six books he helped himself with and sits himself on the floor.

Looks like he forgot I'm here. I swallow back a laugh and clear my throat in attempt to capture his attention.

His head shoots up in my direction and his eyes widen.

"Sorry, I'm really overwhelmed," he says, with a nervous chuckle and proceeds to stand up.

I laugh and motion with my hand for him to keep sitting. "No, no. Please, keep sitting," I smile down at him. "I understand."

I walk up to him and sit beside him on one of the beanbags.

"Your collection is huge. It's like all the books in the entire world is in front of me." He gushes out dreamily and abruptly stops to look at me. "You know what? I'd like to die in here."

I laugh at that.

"How many books are here?" He asks me, his eyes swimming with wonder as he looks around.

I follow the movement of his eyes. "There must be at least over ten thousand."

He nods. "I presumed more. You read them all?"

"Nope," I tell him. "There are a few books that I never could get myself into."

"All these are yours?" He asks.

I shake my head. "Oh no, there are books up in here that were owned by at least the last three generations of my family."

"That's so cool," he gushes.

I chuckle, looking down at the books he has scattered up on the cushion. "Historical fiction?"

"Very much. One of my favorite genres."

I nod. He then asks me, "What's your favorite genre?"

"Ooh, a tricky question that one," I say, tucking a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. "Um, right now, maybe philosophy."

"Cool," he nods.

"Yeah," I say standing up and walk to the shelf labeled, Historical Fiction. "Have you ever read Amitav Ghosh's work?" I ask, standing on my toes to get the out book I've been seeking.

"Nope," he answers from behind me.

I dust the book with my palm and hand it to him.

He reads the title out loud. "The Shadow Lines. Amitav Ghosh."