Lullabies and bedtime stories are, and always will be, a very fascinating event for kids. Whenever I used to be recited either, I would often wonder what was more soothing, the plot or the voice of the person sitting right beside me; narrating the same. Sometimes the gravitas and the mesmerizing aura of the sound would be overshadowed by the haven spun by the almighty words whereas other times, the latter would emerge victorious. Nevertheless, it was with the combined contribution of both- that the magic began. It was as if the events on those pieces of paper were happening with, to and around me. The visualization was absolutely surreal. I could effortlessly put myself in the shoes of the protagonist and go wherever the wind took me.
Soon, the void left behind by the story-tellers had to be filled by my own comprehension of novels as I now possessed real, tangible books. My interest in reading was always supported and encouraged by my parents as they would endlessly supply me with more reading material no sooner did I claim that I had exhausted everything I then had. The more I read, the more I got. Eventually I was in possession of hundreds of books among which I especially fancied books by Enid Blyton and my comic books collection. My parents often used to joke about the fact that if I read course books with the same enthusiasm, Einstein would have some serious competition. The Secret Seven and The Famous Five were among some of my favourite collections and I remember frantically reading them, without the slightest consideration for the outside world. Soon, more books came, my room became my library. Books in my library were always an integral part of my life. I grew with them . With them I shared my joy and sorrow. I shared my failure and success with them and with their help I was able to always find an escape. My books became the witnesses of all my crimes, be it staying up later than I was supposed to, or enjoying some smuggled junk food. They saw me play in study hours (but never study in play hours) and also each one left behind something new, something different in me. Although many of them I never read again, they all became a part of me. Whenever I used to look at my library, I used to begin reminiscing. I often used to experiment intertwining the plots and characters of different books and wonder what would unfold.
As in every novel, the equilibrium was disturbed in my story as well as suddenly I was in a dilemma. The M/S Round Table club in my city was building a library for the underprivileged and would most likely benefit from the contribution of some books. This scenario had me stumped. My mind was blank and my lips lost the might to part. Failing to utter a single character, I turned my back and stomped towards my room, hoping they would take the hint. Sitting up on my bed one eye on those shelves of books, I pondered over the dreaded possibility of parting with my beloved books and wondered how I would get along without them. Deep down I knew that I had outgrown them, I knew that out of the 12, I’m away at a residential school for 9 months. My plans to go abroad for higher studies would result in me spending lesser time with them than the small amount I do now. I also knew that despite how right and complete I would feel by not letting go, this clingy nature was not what they had taught me and in a way this would be the perfect goodbye. Thus, I decided to bring an end to this era of my life and contribute my books to the library by which children ,who are now the age I once was, will greet the books with enthusiasm and hopefully the books will act as a positive influence on them. Instead of being for one, the books will be for many and serve a larger purpose.
As I began to walk out the door, overwhelmed with mixed emotions, I requested the librarian to handle them with care as I always made sure to do the same. Before that incident, I always thought that donating books would be pretty easy for people. But my mistake here was, unlike every other time, this time I did not walk a mile in their shoes and thought about what I would do if this was asked of me. If you ask me, I never once felt that I was giving away books, I was giving away my childhood.
