As sunlight poured through the window, I rubbed my eyes and squinted to get a clearer view. The morning welcomed me — another day of new ideas and, of course, plenty of reading hours! Indeed, it was Saturday.

I quickly made my way to the breakfast table and grabbed the copy of the weekly children’s magazine. My mother always complained that I was more interested in the magazine rather than breakfast itself, but I couldn’t help it. It was something I waited the whole week for.

In no time I had read everything inside. Clearing away the dishes, my mind tried to decide what I must read next. This is one of the most difficult decisions for me, and I go through this arduous task every day.

However, the ritual remained the same, I quickly (in about 1.5 hours) read the first two books of the Harry Potter series for the umpteenth time and then scurried through the pages of Matilda; Roald Dahl equips me with the most creative vocabulary and I’m grateful.

By this time, I could sense my mother’s temper rising. Apparently I was ignoring my homework to re-read the books I had already read multiple times. How I wish I could explain to her the pleasure of taking a journey with your favourite characters time and again. Yet, I must not get her angry, I must stay in her good books. I need to visit the weekend book sale in the evening for which it’s necessary to please her.

I quickly settled myself at the study table and, with great expectations, started with the math exercises. It made no sense and I would’ve given up on it had it not been the fact that the other task was writing a book review for the English class. I found myself exceeding the word limit as I wrote the trials and tribulations of Oliver Twist with deep emotions. I’m sure I was able to draw parallels between the difficulties I faced in algebra and the hardships Oliver faced. With the editing of the final draft, I was gladly done with homework.

After this I spent around five minutes (although my mother says 30 minutes) gazing at my bookcase. Admiring the wonders it held, the storytellers resided within those wooden blocks, it stored magic. Had it not been this wide, I’d hug it forever. With this thought, I took out a new book from the ‘my favourite shelf’ on the bookcase; the one which was lined with Enid Blyton’s enchanted stories. In no time, I was at the conclusion of the mystery. I couldn’t help but admire Blyton’s skill of weaving a tale and it left me wondering whether I could become a detective like those children in Blyton’s stories or perhaps a writer who’d pen down her own mystery?

With this, it was time for lunch and followed it with a nap. Immediately, after waking up I embraced the task of convincing my parents to take me to the weekend sale. Somehow, like every time, I was able to convince them despite my mother telling me that I still had 17 new books on the bookcase but my father was always ready to fuel my love for reading which ended up in me buying nine new books. My happiness knew no bounds.

Back home, I made myself cosy with a cup of hot chocolate and the latest read. I was too engrossed to realise that it was almost dinnertime! Mother could not understand my habit of forgetting meals unless she dragged me back to reality. I have in mind to explain to her how difficult it is to leave the land of Hogwarts and settle down for a formal task of eating dinner.

I continued reading for another couple of hours before bedtime. Saturday was almost over. My mind was busy weaving tales.

But hey! I have this question, why are we readers called bookworms? This word lacks the creativity and imagination that we actually possess. I’d someday take up the task of coining a more profound word; given that I don’t have any books left to be read. Winks!

Published in Dawn, Young World, May 14th, 2015