Last Saturday, I decided to do something I used to enjoy several years ago—visit the library.
I have been a member of Reader’s Delight, the circulating library, for the past several years. My father took me there when I was twelve and told me, “You like reading, don’t you? See, there are so many books here. You can read as much as you like.” When he paid the membership fees, I looked around thrilled and felt that it was indeed a paradise of books.
I was quite a bookworm then. I do not know exactly when I broke up with books, but it was definitely not a sudden break up. It happened gradually, and I hardly realized it. I just felt that my reading days are over, that I no longer had the time or patience to read. I just felt irritable and couldn’t read more than four pages of a book.
Some days back, I began thinking about reading again. I even wrote a post on the seven dangers of reading, hoping that it will help me stay away from books, but ended up reawakening my old passion for books instead.
Now if you fast forward to last Saturday, you’ll find me walking down Light House Hill Road, Mangalore for the first time in years. The experience was soothing, relaxing, and almost therapeutic.
Nothing had changed. The road was still the same although the footpath was new. It climbed up the hill and then went down it on the other side to connect with Balmatta Road. The traffic was heavier and the crowds were thicker, but it was still the same old road.
And the Reader’s Delight board was still there, much to my delight.
The library was still the same, except that it had more books now. I stood between the shelves, staring at those books in delight. I finally realized why I had always felt that something important was missing in my life. When was the last time I read a book? I could hardly remember—it was that long back.
I came home with a P. G. Wodehouse and a Richmal Crompton, determined to regain my lost hobby at any cost.
I vowed that, come hell or high water, I would never again stop reading books.