The Secret Library
A forgotten storeroom, a mound of specimen books, and a young reader’s secret treasure. This is the story of a library that never existed—except for one devoted borrower.
It was a
strange library, with a modest collection of about thirty slim paperbacks,
neither indexed nor arranged in any order. It had no librarian, no catalogue,
no borrower, and no 'Issue' & 'Return' Register. A secret library, with
access to only a single reader.
No, the
books were neither porn nor banned, subversive literature. Each was an
anthology of select short stories, essays, and poems by eminent English
authors.
Why, then,
was the library secret? Because the reader and keeper had bought none of these
books, but borrowed them from his professor—and forgotten to return them.
The
Professor was erudite, a respected scholar, and a much‑loved veteran teacher.
Every working day, he pedalled his old bicycle at an unhurried pace to the
university, three kilometres from his bungalow. On weekends and holidays, he
spent all his waking hours in the spacious veranda, reclining on a long chair with
a stack of books on a little tea‑table beside him. He spoke little, even to his
wife and sons, and only when necessary.
The young
man, still in his teens, had begun college. On holidays, he walked to the
Professor’s bungalow, nestled between the Medical College and the PG Hostel—not
to meet the Professor, but his third son, a classmate.
They
discussed books, syllabus, and miscellaneous 'study' matters, while a vigilant
mother in the adjoining kitchen tracked their conversation as she chopped
vegetables. Her son’s new friend seemed harmless, but was still an untested
commodity. What if he had bad habits and corrupted her innocent boy?
When they
stepped out for a stroll on the quiet streets of the small town, the boys
discussed girls—cautiously at first, then with abandon. The innocent son
relished his disciplined diet of only one fag a day.
During a
long summer vacation, the young man was hungry for books but couldn’t afford to
buy any, nor did he have access to a library. One day, he discovered in the
Professor’s house an odd storeroom without racks or almirahs, its floor
littered with hundreds of books—bundles toppled over by arrogant new arrivals.
The books had formed a central mound and several subsidiary mounds, as though
awaiting a bonfire.
"Why
are these books on the floor? What are they, anyway?" he asked his friend.
"Oh,
just specimen copies. Every year, publishers send five copies of each anthology
they finance and publish, hoping Dad will prescribe them as textbooks. He’s
Chair of the Syllabus Committee."
The
Professor picked up one from the new bundles, glanced at the contents, noted
that the currently prescribed books were better representatives of great
writing, and dismissed the bundle to the store. He had no idea what happened
thereafter, nor did he care.
The
Committee’s policy was to prescribe new books only once every five years.
Established publishers loved that; hopeful new ones didn’t, and kept sending
five copies each year, praying for better luck. Textbooks, after all, are the
bread and butter of publishing.
"May I
take a look at these books?" "Sure, go ahead."
Every visit,
he navigated the jungle, careful not to step on a book for fear of displeasing
Ganesha and Saraswati. He picked one, browsed, borrowed, read, and returned it
before taking the next.
How could he
not fall in love with anthologies of fascinating stories, one‑act plays, and
essays? One day, reading a humorous story on the bus, he laughed so loudly that
fellow passengers turned to stare.
In each
anthology, the icing on the cake was the brief but cogent 'Introduction' by the
Chief Editor, usually a renowned professor—quite useful for exams and
impressing the examiner.
He couldn’t
bear the thought of losing these gems, and forgot to return them. His
conscience never raised a red flag: he had borrowed just one out of a bundle of
five. Who knew if the heap had twenty or more of this title?
After a year
or two, a raddiwala was summoned to clean up the store, making room for fresh
arrivals. He stuffed the decaying books into jute bags, paying a nominal amount
since the cheap paper had turned brittle, unfit even for paper bags. Perhaps
the chanazor garam vendor or paan‑sellers used it to serve customers.
Though he
visited his friend’s house regularly for five years, the secret library’s
inventory remained capped at thirty for two reasons. First, during his post‑graduation
years, he enjoyed access to the well‑stocked university library. Second, the
small bedroom‑cum‑study at E‑24/2, shared with his younger sister, had just two
built‑in racks for miscellaneous items including their course books, and were already
filled to capacity.
So, was it a
stolen library? "No," protests the young man.
"A book
is meant to be read, and I had read and re‑read these books. They had become
dear to me. I couldn’t bear to lose my friends.
What if I
sometimes forgot to return them? Didn’t I save my dear friends from a life‑term
in that condemned cell?
My Professor
is no more. But I guess he’d have accorded post‑facto approval to my Secret
Library."
***
