BOOKWORMS AND LIBRARIES

 “Harry — I think I've just understood something! I've got to go to the library!”

And she sprinted away, up the stairs. …

“But why’s she got to go to the library?”

“Because that’s what Hermione does,” said Ron, shrugging. “When in doubt, go to the library.”

 And if you can’t place this quotation, don’t read any further!

Talking about libraries, a la https://sureshsubrahmanyan.blog/2022/03/13/booked-for-life/, we too in Chennai in the 70s and 80s were graced with the British Council and USIS. Yes, the cool air was most welcome but so were the hours of leisure, of selecting and checking out books.

We could only check out four books at the time from the BC, and that was not sufficient to keep us going for any length of time. We could borrow cards from others who were not such avid readers but the staff knew me personally and there was no way I could take on another identity. Ms. Sivagami was in fact the sister of my chemistry prof. I dreaded to think of the tales she would carry back of any such shenanigans and the ensuing ‘shelling’: You have sullied the name of our respected institution! On special occasions, such as drama competitions, I did appeal to the better nature of Ms. Sivagami but had to carefully lay the ground for my unusual request.

So we spent hours in the library reading. It was a pleasure to be surrounded by books which had seen a lot of wear and tear but were carefully maintained. Copying down copious notes on literary criticism which I could never recall during the exams. Whispered conversations with friends from other colleges I would see only at the BC library. Sharing stories about which novel we were discussing in our respective classes. Getting tips on exact dates  of when favoured or needed book would be returned for a convenient checkout.

Library visits once through the week was just about doable and as far as possible combined with another event such as a play or film on the premises. However, these weekdays dropins were usually a rushed affair since the closing time was 7.00 pm and we didn’t get off from college till the co-curricular debates or play rehearsals got done at 5.30 or 6.00. Saturdays would see us bright and early in the library, after a heavy brunch to keep us going for the day.

In the main library room, the tables were too high and the paired chairs too straight-backed for comfort. Sitting on the low stools provided in the racks was a convenient when browsing the shelves. But to actually sit and read for hours required me to be there early enough to stake a claim to a chair in the corner facing the wall to afford privacy, stealthily tucking my feet under me, out of sight of the staff and not distracted by non-readers who came in to escape the heat and humidity.

A major attraction was the anteroom, revealed only to diehard readers. It was a crowded room with a couple of desks piled high with books and paper, usually unoccupied since the staff was busy in the main library hall. It was furnished with a couple of chairs along the wall, much more comfortable and private than the main room. There they were, rows and rows of Samuel French playscripts. Slim editions on fragile paper which was already yellowing. The Mouse Trap – my first introduction to Agatha Christie the playwright, familiar to me only through her Poirot and Miss Marple novels. My first dramatized version of Dickens’ Christmas Carol. Conan Doyle wrote plays? I never would have known, except for the French collection. 

A couple of months before the intercollegiate or intracollegiate drama competitions, I would spend hours combing through the French collection for suitable one-act plays. The helpful staff would sneakily hold them for our second reader. Once she and I had narrowed it down to the top two or three, we were allowed to check them for a final decision by the larger panel back in the college, a very special privilege indeed.

Years later, when I recalled a particular anthology of one-act plays for a school production, I went back to the library. I was very disappointed that the book was not on the shelf, had, in fact, been withdrawn. Most of the old guard had retired and I wasn’t sure how my weird request for publications details of an ancient book would be received but the newer staff was just as friendly and helpful and dug out the anthology from the anteroom where it had been consigned to a Discard pile. The staff smiled indulgently when I jumped on it with mewling cries of pleasure, eventually donating it to my school library.

It was the film events at the USIS which were a great attraction for me, not the library. The staff was as polite but the book collection left much to be desired and the layout was not conducive to reading. I should also probably confess that my literary tastes ran more to British than American literature, The Razor’s Edge and Kingsley Amis rather than The Bluest Eye and Norman Mailer.

I wonder if I should go back and check out Herman Wouk’s Winds of War before I watch the series now? But even just gaining entrance into the library now is such a pain…