‘2639’ that was my library number at the local library I visited while I was growing up. I regularly went there during my early teenage years. Located between my high school and church, it also had a video library and provided services like photocopying. It was run by a father-son duo and was called Kings Library. I stopped visiting it more than a decade ago. With the advent of big stores, pirated books and online versions, along with an increase in my spending power, the need to visit the local librarywalla never arose. However, as the shop was situated on a route I regularly took, I would sometimes take a look at it and somehow feel assured. The library was like a secret friend I had while growing up. The books I took home were based on my moods, the angst, the thrill and romance I experienced then. In an attempt at growing up, I began taking home non-fiction to do some serious reading. It was like candy land; though not free, it was certainly cheap. To save money, I would walk all the way and back, taking a shortcut that I didn’t really like. But those are the things you do for the love of books! Or at least I did!
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I would sometimes do nothing other than read all day during my vacations. I would beg my parents to let me sit with the light on in the kitchen at night to finish reading a book. If permission was denied, I would be up all night wondering what would happen next? Who could be the killer, would he be caught, will the lovers unite! I would lose myself in a book and sometimes find myself in one! I had a voracious appetite for reading! I could do double the reading that my friend would in the same number of the days. This posed a problem for me, I had to the find the fattest book at the cheapest price that I would also have an interest in reading. In the bargain, I did read some atrocious books. But that was the fun of it. Those were simpler times, only I never realised.
One day I noticed the library was closed for more than a couple of weeks and some renovation work was on. I thought maybe the librarian was re-doing the shop. But I was mistaken. He had shut shop completely. In a few days, a brand new shop was opened at that location. A place that once held the memories of my childhood; was now a cold, hard place that dealt only with reality and money.
Heartbroken as I was, I knew that I was a culprit too. I never went to the library and yet expected it to survive somehow. Surely, the librarian had grown old and required an income to survive. I didn’t particularly like the son but it seemed like a practical decision since the library was located at a prime location. Years have passed and yes, I stopped thinking about the library. I found a pavement shop instead that later developed into a brick and mortar shop that sold pirated and original books on a return basis. The number of books I read have certainly dropped and I would like to believe that my standards has improved. Although the Chetan Bhagat book in my cupboard would scream otherwise! (I blame that one on my curiosity.) I can still go all day without eating, drinking or even bathing when I am lost in a book.
The last time I did this was as recent as recent as last year, when I finished Part 1 of the Hunger Games book and didn’t stop till I had finished Part 2. Oh how I wish for more day like these. Last week, I was walking home from my old high school, when I remembered I needed to take a photocopy. I saw a ‘Xerox’ sign ahead and walked in without looking at the name of the shop. And as I handed over my document, I saw a familiar face. He had certainly aged. The face had some wrinkles and his hair was now a mop of salt and pepper. I looked around as he took the photocopy, it was a small shop with filled with books from the floor to the ceiling. Some I recognised, like old friends who I would now be embarrassed to be associated with but had shared some really good fun times. I wondered if I could ask him if my account was still active and then thought better of it, paid him and left. I am glad, the son had shifted the library and did not shut shop completely. The place where dreams are woven with words had certainly shrunk but ultimately survived the realities of life.
Theresa Ignatius is a writer by passion.