y bookshelf is an aesthetic nightmare. Far from being a picturesque Zoom backdrop, it is a cluttered space, a shanty settlement of books of all shapes, sizes and genres. The shelves mounted against the walls of my room aren’t just functional storage units, but also a home for my treasured books. Their chaotic, almost ghetto-like, exterior masks a sense of order only I can fathom. For others, it’s a secret code they have struggled to crack for years.

“You have a lot of books,” I am often told by those who cast judgmental glances at my shelves as if possessing books were a felony or a sin. Resisting the temptation to snap back with a sharp rejoinder, I usually nod, smile and briskly change the topic.

Driven by a heady mix of exasperation and concern, some friends and family members have offered well-meaning, though unnecessary, advice on how I can spruce up my bookshelf. Over the years, I’ve received a slew of furniture catalogues dotted with images of “stylish, high-quality” bookcases. Some relatives have even forwarded links to articles with tips on arranging a bookshelf, prodding me to take the dreaded leap.

At first, I viewed these suggestions as kind gestures fuelled by a desire to save the books I adored from a dizzyingly messy filing system. Ashamed at my own ignorance, I envied the rigour and ease with which librarians collect and arrange books, finding a semblance of structure in what could easily become a sea of chaos.

In an effort to rectify my mistake, I leafed through a catalogue and was instantly confronted by the sheer inadequacy of my knowledge about bookshelves. I couldn’t tell if open-backed shelves were more suitable than alcove shelves. The more I waded through an ocean of choices, the more difficult it became for me to imagine any of these structures in my room. My bookshelf has always added character to an otherwise drab, sparsely furnished room. I couldn’t have dreamed of replacing it.

Unwilling to succumb to defeat, I started reading one of the articles I’d been sent. A seething anger coursed through my veins as I read the second suggestion: “Pare down the books on your shelf.” Simply put, the writer insisted on a thorough cost-benefit analysis to determine which books should remain on our shelves and which ones should be given away. Hoarding, he argued, is a curse that book lovers need to shield themselves from; they need to bid farewell to books gathering dust on their shelves.

Even now, this logic appears incomprehensible to me. Others may enjoy the prospect of applying the rules of Celebrity Big Brother to their bookshelves, but I can’t imagine separating my books from their home for long. All my books have carved a sacred space for themselves on my shelf. Removing books for seemingly frivolous reasons would be almost sacrilegious.

Upon self-reflection, such a drastic ‘paring-down’ would never be a success for me as I’ve never treated my books as commodities. Each book is a living entity rather than an expendable ornament. Some of them entered my life as a unit. I recall buying a copy of Ahmed Ali’s Twilight in Delhi along with Anita Desai’s Bye Bye Blackbird and Esther Freud’s Hideous Kinky. On that balmy October afternoon, the shopkeeper at my local bookstore placed them in a red plastic bag and sent them home with me. Their destinies diverged once they landed on my bookshelves. Each book began competing for my attention — a conflicting push and pull to determine which of them would be the first to reveal their hidden treasures to me. After drawing me into disparate fictitious universes, they now reside in separate corners of my bookshelf, safe in the knowledge that I’ve found solace within their pages.

Memories bind me to my books. I can distinctly recall the circumstances under which I read a particular book as well as my instinctive reaction to the text. Stacking a book on my shelf helps me form a link to those sentiments inspired by the writer’s words.

However, my bookshelf isn’t an ode to my former self, as I tend to revisit some of my books. They thrive on a strange symbiosis, which prevents them from losing relevance. Ever since I began writing reviews and literary criticism, I’ve discovered that I need to revisit five books to write faithfully about one. Every book, therefore, becomes a bridge to another. Steered by this method, it would be cruel to separate books from my shelf in much the same way as we pluck petals from a flower.

A few weeks ago, I found myself grappling with an unforeseen situation which led me, albeit fleetingly, to question this philosophy. I returned home from a work trip to find my room in complete disarray. Owing to an unexpected renovation, my bookshelf had to be temporarily removed from the wall. A gnawing terror besieged me when I saw my books packed in cardboard boxes. As I recovered from the initial shock of this situation, I wondered how my books — those pulsating entities I adored so much — could even breathe after being uprooted from their natural habitat.

Once the shelves had been restored to their original positions, I began the arduous process of resurrecting my bookshelf. I found it difficult to believe how the changes I’d resisted for nearly two decades had suddenly become a searing reality. As I pulled out the endless piles of books from the cardboard boxes, I imagined my well-wishers flashing told-you-so smiles at me or heaving long sighs of relief.

In a fleeting moment of weakness, I accepted this strange turn of events as a sign that change was necessary. I contemplated the possibility of creating one of those eye-catching, colour-coded bookshelves I’d come across in the occasional Instagram post. I would have gone ahead with this plan if I had not inspected a pile of books before placing them on the shelves.

I leafed through the crisp, sallow pages of Tim Vicary’s Mary Queen of Scots and was instantly drawn into a web of childhood memories. When I read this slim text at the age of nine, I was haunted by the numerous betrayals faced by Mary I of Scotland. Her story was still seeded into my consciousness and was possibly seeping into the stories I wrote.

Another book, titled Everyday Life with ALS, had served as a useful guide when me and my siblings were taking care of an ailing parent. Through its insights into an illness I couldn’t control, this book prepared me to bid adieu to a beloved parent.

In those brief moments of contemplation, these books worked in unison rather than vying for my attention. It felt as though they were protesting on behalf of the other inhabitants of the bookshelf and staking a claim to their home. I knew then that my bookshelf didn’t need to conform to any “gram-worthy” standards.

As I write these words, my bookshelf remains an aesthetic nightmare, but it is nothing short of a dream to me.

The writer is a freelance journalist and the author of No Funeral for Nazia