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."

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