I’ve been writing about memories of late,with the kind of ridiculous nostalgia that accompanies feeling ridiculously old- the way one can only at nineteen,and with a strange dimension of distance,too,that seems to detach you from whatever past you are looking back on.
So today a post about G.D. Birla’s libraries popped up on my newsfeed and I was on the bumpy trip down memory lane once again. The G.D. Birla library comes back to me with a certain distinct,pleasant smell that always seemed to cling to its walls.I remember musty-spined books,dust laden volumes lining the walls,collapsing on the floor from bouts of laughter while browsing with a friend once,and a lot of happy,happy times.The library,with its limited collection of books and its odd,quaint charm seems to be,in retrospect,the site of my happiest memories from my last two years of school,my two years in that school.
And I go back to every library I have ever set foot in-the week-long anticipation for and the air-conditioned luxuriance of South Point’s junior school library,the instinctive picking up of a copy of Anne of Green Gables from the senior school library and the beginning of a lifelong romance-big words at my age,but it’s been eight years-the plush two-storied grandeur of Garden High’s library and the extensive sections we,as middle-schoolers weren’t allowed to browse-leading to some natural Harry Potter inspired parallels.
So this is to every library I have ever been in,to every librarian I’ve got on the last nerve of,every book I’ve devoured and forgotten,or not read at all,to all the dreamful wishful whispering amidst the rustle of yellowing pages.Here’s to you.