I love books. I love reading. I love reading books. But for some reason, I wasn't serious about reading until my mid-thirties. I’m late. There is so much to read and so little time left. But what can I do now? Other than creating TBR lists, buying books online, and occasionally visiting the book markets on Nai Sadak and Dariyaganj.

I went to a Bengali medium government school for boys in central Kolkata. During my school days, I was only concerned with reading the books in the syllabus. I hardly remember withdrawing books from the school library. Our library teacher (who was also our sports and geography teacher) was very strict and reluctant to issue books to the students. Issued books were either not returned or returned in very bad condition. The poor teacher had to pay from his pocket for the damages and missing books.

I loved to study but was an average student. I could never score more than sixty-five percent in exams (except one time I got ninety-nine out of hundred in the fourth standard final math exam). My school days were all about reading only not to fail in exams, playing with friends, fighting with the same friends, listening to music, watching movies, copying film stars, singing superhit songs in the bathroom, changing hairstyles, breaking rules, tearing pages mostly from the math copy to build paper planes, having fun, riding bicycles aimlessly for hours, trying very hard along with all the family members to come out of poverty and build a better life, and of course, searching for love, etc.

Probably on my thirteenth birthday, I got a birthday present from my mother (thanks Ma, you are the best). It was packed in blue wrapping paper with white snowflakes on it. I deftly opened it without tearing the wrapper. It was a book. Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, translated in Bengali. I opened the hardcover, flipped through the pages, put my nose almost in the middle of the book, and pressed the book against my face with both hands. I loved the warm smell of the brand-new book, especially printed using yellowish recycled papers. My mother and I had no clue about Ivanhoe or Sir Walter Scott. On my birthday, while returning from the bazaar, she just picked it up from a neighborhood gift shop.

I only read the first few pages of Ivanhoe translated in Bengali but never finished it. My friend A, who unlike me went to a private, co-ed English medium school, one day caught me with Ivanhoe. A had a small collection of books beyond his syllabus. Perhaps A was a book lover or collector or a reader, I cannot tell for sure. But we used to pitch wickets on the manhole cover in front of his house and play gully cricket together from morning till evening on holidays. A was taller and a better right-arm-medium-fast bowler than me. A was good and could make it to the national team, but did not take cricket seriously. A asked me whether I’d be interested in exchanging my Ivanhoe translated in Bengali with one of his books. I said yes and we exchanged books. He gave me his Ivanhoe, not translated in Bengali. Before we lost contact permanently, he often used to say that there is no benefit in reading a book; it’s just a pointless activity to pass the time. I lost A’s Ivanhoe. Only the name of the book, the name of the author, and the warm smell of my book remained with me forever.