WHEN I was home in Itki in Ranchi district of Jharkhand last month, the books I had so carefully packed into cartons and sent from Delhi were lying abandoned in a corner, as if someone had shoved an orphan’s belongings against the wall. A thin layer of dust had settled over them. The edges of some boxes had swollen from dampness, and the pages of several books had curled, as though they had soaked up the melancholy of the season.
One day, I took my younger brother along, bought cupboards from Ranchi, and started arranging the books with my nieces. The little girls would sometimes hold a book upside down and burst into laughter, or sniff its pages and say, “Maamu! This one smells so old…” I would smile and reply, “Okay, put it here.”
Meanwhile, my uncle glanced at the growing collection and said indifferently, “You don’t even live here anymore. Why don’t you just give them away? They’re only taking up space.”
At that moment, it felt as if someone had poked into my chest and ripped away years of accumulated treasure. I barely managed to control my voice and said, “The women of the house also have jewellery they don’t wear every day. Why don’t you give that away too?”
I said those words, but something inside me shattered. The real pain wasn’t from my uncle’s comment; it was that my father had quietly nodded in agreement.
I felt like gathering all the books and throwing them into the well outside. If the books disappeared, perhaps this aching love for them would disappear too.
I don’t know why tears began welling up in my eyes that day. I sat on the floor in front of the cupboard for a long time. My nieces had gone downstairs to play. In the hall, there was only me, the books, and the familiar rattling sound of the old table fan I had brought from my younger cousin Wasif’s room.
Sitting there, I thought: maybe it’s not their fault. I’m a fool, mad and stubborn, who has spent thousands of rupees on these books. What do they know about what these books mean to me? How could they understand my loneliness, my sleepless nights, my silent sobs, my failures, my dreams, my hunger, my struggles, and my hopes? They have no idea what is hidden inside these books.
I remembered how many of them I had bought from the old lanes of Delhi, some from the Sunday bazaar, some from footpaths, some from scrap heaps, and some from outside the Jamia library. A few I had borrowed from friends, or quietly took away from their houses. Some were ordered from Pakistan, some from Saudi Arabia, and I had carried a heavy load of books all the way from Iran. For some books, I had saved my pocket money for days. After buying one of them, I wasn’t even left with enough money for the bus fare and had to walk back to the hostel.
Even today, their pages bear stains of tea, traces of tears, and creases from sleepless nights. Inside some of them lie old bus tickets, a few lines written by a friend, or the name of someone long gone.
In London’s cold, silent, and alien nights, whenever I missed my homeland, my streets, my language, the sound of the azan, tea prepared by Ammi, Abba’s scolding, the rains of Delhi, and the roads of Jamia, these books would sit with me. I would open them and feel as if I had rested my head on a loved one’s shoulder and he had gently taken me into his arms.
If only I could tell those who think books take up space: they don’t occupy places, they fill the empty spaces inside us.
People collect bank balances, gold, and property. Unfortunate souls like me collect books because we fear that time might one day steal our memories. That day, I felt with painful intensity that people who love books are perhaps the loneliest in the world, because the world does not understand the value of the things they love.
Evening had fallen. Everyone in the house was busy with their own tasks. A yellow light glowed on the upper floor. I stood before the cupboard, gazing at the books. Then I picked one up. An old bus ticket from somewhere to Jamia in Delhi slipped out of its pages. I stared at it for a long time. Suddenly, it felt as if that boy—the one with dreams in his eyes who once wandered the streets of Delhi hunting for books—had been left far behind. Perhaps he had died somewhere along the way.
I gently closed the book, placed it back on the shelf, and reached to switch off the light. But at that moment, it seemed as if in the darkness all those books were watching me, afraid that one day I might truly abandon them. I turned back and looked at the cupboard again. Some books were slightly tilted, as if exhausted, resting their heads on one another’s shoulders, trying to sleep.
I don’t know why, but that night I felt pity for my books. They had been waiting for me for years. I had come home for just a few days. Soon I would return to London, and they would once again lie shut in this room, gathering dust, silent… just like Nani’s prayers, which no one now recites aloud.
_________________
Mohammad Alamullah is a UK-based academic, author, and journalist, holding two Master’s degrees from Swansea University, UK, and Jamia Millia Islamia. He has authored three books: A Brief History of Muslim Majlis Mushawarat, Few Days in Iran, and Media: Paper to Screen — Scenarios, Problems and Possibilities. The views expressed are solely his own.
