Even before I turned five, I ran away from home — not in rebellion, but in search of magic. I had heard there was a bookstore nearby, and I simply had to find it. I remember the sunlight bouncing off the pavement as I marched, determined, towards the promise of books. When my frantic mother finally caught up to me, I pulled her into the Muttrah store and pointed at the book I had come for: it had a golden cover and a majestic golden lion. I did not know how to read properly yet, but I knew this book belonged to me.
To celebrate the 29th Muscat International Book Fair, I find myself reflecting on this early memory, one of many that shaped my lifelong love affair with books. For me, books have never been just stories — they are living things, secret-keepers, whisperers of wisdom, and sometimes, unexpected friends. I do not believe I find books. I believe books find me.
Over the years, I have dreamt of building a library of what I call “unforgotten books” — books that carry the secrets of the universe, books that heal, books that speak in esoteric languages only the soul understands. Some are ancient texts, some are quietly published treasures and others are the small, unassuming volumes I stumble upon in forgotten bookstores or the free book stands I adore in the US and elsewhere. I wander through these spaces like a traveller moving through a sacred land, letting the titles and textures guide me. Sometimes, quite literally, a book falls at my feet. That’s when I know it’s meant to come home with me.
There is a particular kind of joy in finding a book no one else seems to notice. Once, in a dimly lit American used bookstore tucked between a bakery and a hardware store, I found a dusty copy of a book about ancient symbols and healing practices. It had no price tag, and when I brought it to the counter, the shopkeeper said, “This one? It’s been sitting there for years. Take it.” That book would later provide comfort during one of the most emotionally trying times of my life. How did it know?
Books also have a curious way of diagnosing me. On most nights, I end the day curled up with a mystery novel. But on nights when I can’t bring myself to read — when even the familiar promise of suspense and resolution cannot soothe me — I know something is wrong. That’s when I stop and listen: What is the unease beneath the surface? Books are my litmus test for wellness, my mirrors and my medicine.
Some people chase fame or fortune. I chase golden lions and forgotten manuscripts. I dream of building a quiet room filled with these magical books, a sanctuary where others might also come to find the texts that call out to them. It won’t be the kind of library that focuses on bestsellers or rankings. It will be a place for books that have waited patiently, often for decades, to share their wisdom with the right reader.
As the 29th Muscat International Book Fair invites us once again to celebrate the written word, I celebrate not only the books that line the shelves of glossy stores but also the ones buried in cardboard boxes, hidden in corner shops, or left behind on benches with handwritten notes inside. These are the books that carry golden threads of mystery, healing and soul.
And somewhere out there, I believe, another child is running towards a bookstore, searching for her own golden lion.
Oman Observer is now on the WhatsApp channel. Click here
