Murder is easy. And comfortable.

I grew up with readers. 

Here's a lengthy background. My maternal grandparents lived in an apartment that used to brim over with their many children, cousins of variety, and the continuous passing-and staying-throughs of myriad relatives. By the time I made my admittedly late entry into the world, the apartment was inhabited by my grandma, my chhotomama, my chhotomami and my six-year-old sister. My mom, thanks to my robust residency within her, was in and out of hospitals when I was growing up. Either that, or she'd be away on work. With people not very adept at dealing with a temperamental me at our house, I used to be foisted on my grandma and aunt for several spans of time. I grew up seeing my sister, my first cousin, eat at the table while reading a book. Any meal of the day, she'd have a book beside the plate. There was a shelf on the wall in the bedroom at my mamarbari that held most of the books I read growing up. And like the hand-me-down clothes I had from my sister, as well as the enrollment at all the same extra-curricular activities (dance class, drawing class), I followed her into the obsession with never going without a storybook. 

My chhotomama is an avid reader as well. And at our flat, Ma had a shelf in our room crammed with her books. That four-rack shelf had two racks of my father's stuff, and two full of my mother's reading material. My school books, by virtue of their importance, got space in my dad's childhood desk-cabinet combo. God, did I hate the school books! 

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that storybooks have perhaps been my most constant companions, so much so that I used to be (still am?) that weird kid at birthday parties who'd find a book to read while others played social games. As an aside, that "still am" mentioned above is still true. Only, the parties now consist of alcohol and grown-up talk apart from food. But I still carry a book. 

I digress. This already tiresome background check was brought to us by something my chhotomama said. I'd accompanied Ma to her appointment at the dentist's, whose chambers are right next to the apartment where my chhotomama and chhotomami stay: 15 minutes from our home. So, it goes without saying that we visited with my uncle and aunt. I made myself at home on the couch with the latest book I was reading. When I took a break to blow on my coffee to cool it, chhotomama read the blurb on the back and said, "why are you reading these books? They depict the same story over and over: some people go somewhere, somebody dies, others die..." I said I like them. Which, of course, led to Ma and my uncle putting forth a stellar criticism of my reading habit. I ONLY read crime fiction. 

Now, like in higher classes and much higher studies, students pick their own subjects, I have read a variety of genres when younger and have made my decision in my wise old age: Crime fiction brings me joy. I cannot bring myself to read other genres. They bore me, or my mind wanders and fails to return. 

My childhood reading material (those that I enjoyed) was sourced from either my sister, or the school library. And the options weren't many. On offer were possibly the entire library of Enid Blyton's works, and later, Agatha Christie's. I began my legitimate reading life with The Famous Five and The Secret Seven. These were later joined by The Five Find-outers and Dog. Poirot and Marple, and the Beresfords followed. Bengali books that I could read I found at home: Feluda WAS a detective and Professor Shonku's adventures always had an aura of mystery. Later on, when Bengali books were on offer at school (our school library system was strange. We were given the option of regional books later in life), I'd already picked my flavour. I gradually progessed from Colonel to Byomkesh, with a smattering of Pandav Goyenda, Arjun and Jayanta-Manik courtesy of the annual Durga Puja specials and 'Shuktara'. I became a member of several libraries, including a mobile one that appeared in our neighbourhood once a week. And I think I made a conscious decision back then to read crime fiction. Fantasy didn't hold much allure, for me. 

But what my uncle said was true as well, maybe not specifically that story progression, but there ARE certain tropes and patterns that define crime fiction. It got me thinking, that I do actually read and re-read the same story - written by a whole host of different people, with different names of characters and various backdrops. But, in essence, it's the same story of murder-investigation-solution. And certain authors write the exact same story in every subsequent book. And there are only so many ways to kill people. And the investigation always focuses on motive and opportunity. And the motive is always either money, love or power. And there are red herrings aplenty. I'm just glad that, even now, sometimes the twist in the tale really manages to catch me off-guard. A lot of times, it doesn't. Yet, I read. The same old story. Like Sisyphus; knowing it will go a certain way, I still read uphill, only to begin again when the boulder rolls down with a new book, the same story with new characters. 

There's something to be said of fan fiction here (it's the other thing I read). Someone on the internet said fan fiction readers read about the same two characters falling in love in uncountable ways and in multiple universes. And I think that's beautiful. And true of anything that makes you happy.

It is in nature to pursue happiness. 

I read murder mysteries because they give me an understandable narrative frame in a world that's unpredictable, fraught with global and personal upheavals that are out of my control. Reading is also about control. A book gives me the freedom to pause, take a breather; something real life isn't known to offer much. 

On a silly note, like one picks a spirit and sticks to it lest mixing alcohol ends in a bad reaction, I have chosen my poison. 

I read because the authors have written. They have imbibed their work with love. I read for authors, like my friend Bijoyini, who once enthralled a motley group of classmates with a made-up-on-the-spot ghost story (ghost stories are part mystery, I firmly believe). She continues to spin stories and has gradually started putting them on paper, and on the internet. And even if her prose leans towards slice of life, and I'm more into carving out slices of life (murder pun entirely intended), reading about her observations makes me feel like I'm reading a serialized tale. There's always the lure of "what's next?" Isn't that the core of any mystery story? And I, who would like to write something entertaining but am not confident enough to write for others, feel compelled to read others' words in a silent show of support.

Those who can't write, read.