𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐉𝐃 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐲𝐞
- Madhukar Dama
- Sep 24
- 3 min read
I live a quiet life now, away from the rush, in my little homestead with my wife and my two daughters, Adhya and Anju. We grow what we eat, we live without much noise, and the girls have taught themselves to read and write in their own rhythm, unschooled, unhurried. The world outside sometimes feels distant, but books still reach us like old friends. One such book that has stayed with me is The Catcher in the Rye.
I love it because Holden Caulfield’s voice never felt like a made-up story. It felt like someone whispering his loneliness and confusion into my ear. I saw myself in him—the part of me that once felt out of place, searching for truth in a world that is full of show, lies, and performance. I felt his anger at “phoniness,” but I also felt his tenderness—his grief for his brother, his love for his little sister. His contradictions made him alive to me.
I loved his honesty. He said awkward things most of us hide. He laughed at himself. He cursed. He rambled. He said things I have thought but never said. That rawness touched me more deeply than polished wisdom ever could.
There was one passage in the book that I carried with me like a seed in my pocket. It reminded me of the life I wanted long before I actually lived it here, far from the noise:
"Anyway, I wouldn’t have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they’d have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They’d get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I’d be through with having conversations for the rest of my life. Everybody’d think I was just a poor deaf-mute bastard and they’d leave me alone. They’d let me put gas and oil in their stupid cars, and they’d pay me a salary and all for it, and I’d build me a little cabin somewhere with the dough I made and live there for the rest of my life. I’d build it right near the woods, but not right in them, because I’d want it to be sunny as hell all the time. I’d cook all my own food, and later on, if I wanted to get married or something, I’d meet this beautiful girl that was also a deaf-mute and we’d get married. She’d come and live in my cabin with me, and if she wanted to say anything to me, she’d have to write it on a goddam piece of paper, like everybody else. If we had any children, we’d hide them somewhere. We could buy them a lot of books and teach them how to read and write by ourselves."
When I read this, I felt a strange ache of recognition. That longing to escape the noise, to live quietly, to raise children who learn in their own way—it was Holden’s dream, and somehow it became my reality. Not exactly as he imagined, but close enough to make me smile at the coincidence.
Holden wanted a cabin in the woods. I have my little home in the fields. He wanted a partner who was quiet. My wife, who also loves silence, walks with me in this life. He wanted children who could be free of the world’s phoniness. Adhya and Anju, with their books and their curiosity, have made that dream real in their own way.
The book stayed with me because it was never really about America or New York. It was about being human—lonely and tender, angry and loving, lost and searching. It was about that secret wish all of us carry at some point: to protect innocence, to live honestly, to keep the world’s lies at a distance.
When I think of Holden Caulfield now, I don’t think of him as a boy wandering New York streets. I think of him as a quiet companion who helped me see my own path more clearly.
And that is why I love The Catcher in the Rye. It is not just a book I read long ago—it is a voice that walked with me until I found the life I was looking for.
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