The proud words that I had a ‘library room’ in my house remains etched in my memory. I was telling my teacher about the secret place that I relished, tucked away on the first floor of my home. Here was a room that never failed to attract footsteps. It had various names such as book room, study room and grandma’s room till it became the library room.
Sunlight pierced through two big windows as if whispering to the books that they deserved a bit of cheer. Bright curtains swinging merrily with the wind ensured that beads of sweat glistening on the forehead disappeared quick. There was a small step stool, to reach the ‘hard-to-reach’ books on the top. Aunt decided that the many shelves deserved a makeover. They were draped in old white dhotis to keep off dust. An easy chair and soothing music from a collection of cassettes doubled the joy of poring over books.
Here, English, Tamil, Sanskrit, French and Hindi jostled for space. Of course, not all the occupants of the shelves were new. There were very old books competing with the latest ones. A discerning eye could even spot 1940/1950s editions of books by famed authors. The covers look faded, the pages moth-eaten and yellowed but once you open the book you are transported to another world and wonder at the countless hands that browsed these pages.
It had bound editions of popular, vernacular, historical fiction which were serialised in local magazines, the pages painstakingly arranged in order and bound together at the local binding unit, for those who craved mystery and intrigue. I could even spy school books with scribbles which transported me back to my school days.
The room also harboured secrets and the lucky ones could spot a few lurking inside the pages. It could be an old recipe book lost inside a big fat encyclopaedia or granddad’s laundry bill lying unnoticed between the pages or even a list of daily expenses in grandma’s scrawny hand on the back cover of a book or a flower, dried and stuck between the pages.
It was considered a lucky room by the exam takers who considered the atmosphere conducive to earning showers of praise from the teacher when results arrived. For others, beset by insomnia, the serene environment soothed nerves and a fat book from the shelf would soon whisk them away to the Land of Nod. It was also a favourite spot for tricksters. Exam time meant spending hours in the library room with the much-maligned science textbook with a comic secretly tucked inside.
It was a place to relax, to enjoy the humour/drama in the pages and where love for the Sanskrit language blossomed afresh. It was where grandma plaited children’s hair while spinning tales, where traditional board games were played and elders engaged in bookish talk or gossip. Here school homework passed off smoothly with the promise of a special book to read. I recollect the many “balancing a book on the head”contests that turned this room into a laughter zone and the buzz around the art and craft classes and singing sessions during school vacation with books sourced from the shelves.
The bonding with food did make this room extra special. The piping hot pakoras or bondas supplied by mom kept the reading list growing, the supplies of steaming tea or coffee disappeared in a jiffy and cookies vanished into thin air once a pile of comics or old photo albums was plucked off the shelf.
I recall grandma’s hands fondly wrapping many a book cover with a newspaper to add a neater look and mom’s hands performing many a ‘rescue surgery’ in the room to old, ‘falling apart’ books giving them a fresh lease of life.
Many decades have passed and the books from this room have journeyed far and wide. Some have returned, some have not. I realise that the shelves are not just stacked with books but with memories that linger. My eyes light up when I hear a voice asking me in this day and age, if the library room still exists.
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