Review: Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom

I am¬†was propped on a bed at my maternal grandfather’s place. I struck a lottery when I found for novels stowed away in a corner of a cupboard.

There’s Arthur Hailey & Sidney Sheldon apart from Mitch Albom. Unfortunately, the edges of the first fifty pages or so of Hailey’s first novel (guess which one?) have been munched away.

But that’s okay. I still have the others. I feel like hugging all these old books with their yellowing pages and cracking spines with all the strength in my arms. Books are such absurd things; they enchant despite shoddiness that time slaps from cover to cover.

Mitch Albom has a way with words.

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He ambled down the stairs to the dingy room in the farther corner of the basement. Shutting the door behind him, the janitor flexed his muscles as he stifled a yawn. The night would be long, with a topping of some backbreaking cleaning to do.

In an unbroken ritual of sorts, he cleaned his toolbox and reorganized his plumber’s kit.
Armed with his ‘briefcase’ (why, his trusty mop and duster)and a bucket of water, he climbed back to the second floor.

He had been sweeping the office floor for only a while when he felt water under his boots. He grunted listlessly: he always managed to ruin a good pair, pants or boots. He turned up the lights a little and discovered that it was a large pool of blood.

He called out, tip-toeing in the direction of the blood flowing free as a river.

He thought he saw the outline of a woman in the dark. She did not have one hand.

He quickly switched on the lights: there was no one in the men’s restroom.

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I had dared to reveal my love for him when my parents tried suggesting suitable men for my hand in marriage.
They were horrified at first; to think that their darling daughter had sealed another’s lips with hers and locked hands with someone while walking down the cobbled path to the city garden.
I am twenty six years old: what can I say?
The date and time were fixed so they could poke and prod him at length.
Even though my parents were the ones who would do most of the talking– I could tell– they were anxiously setting straight every piece of furniture at home, dusting the shelves endlessly and stocking the pantry with things I have never seen.
The last time I saw cookies in the left cupboard was on my eighteenth birthday. The time agreed upon came and flew away. An hour passed, then another.
He did not come.

My parents knew better than to tell me they told me so, but the finality in their voice was unmistakable. Once again, I had disappointed them.

That evening, I got a phone call informing about a man who miraculously survived and walked away.

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