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The school veranda was damp, the air heavy with the smell of wet dust. I was wandering purposelessly, trying to escape the rain, when I crossed into a room I had never noticed before. A small board hung above the door. Library, it read.

Until then, libraries existed for me only in cartoons and films – grand, silent places filled with mystery. This one was smaller, almost modest. The shelves were worn. The books looked handled, familiar. I stepped inside hesitantly, unsure of what one was supposed to do in a place like that.

Illustration: Pariplab Chakraborty

I ran my fingers along the spines and let them decide for me. I pulled out a book at random. It was a fairy tale about giants. I found a corner and began to read.

I do not remember how much time I spent there but as the bell rang, suddenly, I had a feeling of being pulled back into the present. I borrowed the book and took it home.

That evening, with the rain falling steadily outside, I finished the book in one sitting. There was no effort involved, no sense of discipline. Reading felt almost instinctive.

After that day, the library became a quiet part of my routine. I began borrowing books regularly, waiting for the end of the school day so I could return home and read in peace. I found a small place for myself next to the window. That became my reading corner.

Over time, the books changed. Fairy tales made way for longer stories, and then for novels filled with people instead of magic. But the feeling remained the same – the slow disappearance of the world around me as I gently turned the pages; the comfort of being elsewhere without having to leave.

Looking back now, it is tempting to describe that day as a turning point. But at the time, it was simply a child stepping into a room by chance and staying a little longer than planned.

That is often how these things happen. Not through grand decisions or dramatic moments, but through small, unremarkable acts that settle into our lives quietly. An afternoon given over to rain and silence. A door left open. A book picked without thinking. 

Years later, when I think about how reading found its way into my life, I do not remember titles or lessons. But my memory can still trace back the smell of the wet dust, the sound of the school bell and the weight of that book in my hands.

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