The sparkling summer sun brought with it warm, cherished memories. I felt the soft caress of the salty breeze and heard the rustle of leaves as the trees swayed, whispering to one another. My curls danced in the wind. With arms wide open, I embraced the warmth as if I were holding summer itself.

The lively day and my cosy hideout in Ratnapark took me back to my school days, when I would follow my friend Radha, who always carried heaps of books, to the shade of a large peepal tree in our schoolyard. We would escape from the dull routine for a while. I would lose myself in the chirping of birds, playing with dogs, and enjoying nature’s symphony while Radha disappeared into the world of her books, oblivious to everything around her. Sometimes, it was frustrating that she wouldn't respond to my little friends or share the moment's beauty. But I was equally mesmerised by her passion—how she would get lost in the rustle of turning pages, laughing, crying, and reliving the journeys of new characters. It was a world she savoured, one where stories came alive for her.

I was perplexed to see Radha swing from laughing like a lunatic to crying as if her heart had been broken. I never understood the power of words or how they could be strong enough to change a person’s life. I didn’t realise that the wisdom within words could charm someone and make them fall in love with stories. As I recall, Radha was so captivated by the world of fiction and fantasy that she always carried a book or two, sneaking moments during our regular classes to read her favourite novels. Her emotions would mirror the stories—she would squeal with joy if her hero got a happy ending and be distressed the entire day if something bad happened to her favourite characters.

It often baffled me that she seemed unaware of our curriculum or the importance of studying for good exam results. While I fretted over exams and report cards, Radha seemed untouched by the pressure of rankings and marks. I always believed reading anything outside our textbooks wouldn’t help us climb the academic ladder. But she would insist that regular books didn’t appeal to her and that they couldn’t quench her thirst for uncovering the mysteries woven into words and literature.

Once, I asked Radha how she developed the habit of reading. She told me it started with her grandparents, who narrated stories from the ‘Hitopadesh’ to her when she was very young. Her father also played a part, bringing home small collections of magazines like ‘Muna’, further cultivating her love for reading. Gradually, this led her to a deeper affection for storybooks. Over time, she became immersed in novels, fiction, and poetry and found herself enchanted by the world of books and libraries. She became so captivated that she couldn’t go a day without reading.

I thought she had lost herself in the world of heroes and heroines and that the reality of report cards would eventually snap her back. But she carried on. Books became her friends, her constant companions through the happy, sad, and difficult times. In the process, she seemed to forget about me, her best friend—who carried her piles of books to the schoolyard and saved notes for her to study before exams. Was that even possible?

Sometimes, I would glare at her, hoping she’d realise I was real, but she’d simply glance at me like I was acting crazy. Back then, I thought she’d forget herself before she’d forget her books—and I still do. She often suggested that I read during my free time to understand life better, and I’d scoff, asking, “What’s there to know about life? Your heroes and heroines?”

She always said she couldn’t describe her joy when holding a book or the magic of words. She was so attached to reading that if anyone questioned her, she would chuckle softly and say, “I’m not reading—books are breathing life into me.” She didn’t care what others thought. She believed that the soothing rhythm of turning pages could never be understood by someone who hadn’t curled up with a book. That struck me.

Her solemn words from our past still linger in my present. The chaos of life has kept us so busy and occupied that we rarely meet or talk. Yet, I often think of her whenever I start a new book. Over time, I’ve come to believe that the touch of powerful words can change a person’s life, leaving us yearning for more. But rare gems aren’t found every day. Our devotion and passion to uncover the unknown and navigate the highs and lows leads us to the salvation of understanding and wisdom.

I’ve come to believe in the power of words—not only to strengthen but also to melt a person’s soul. I realised that reading is not just for academic ranks but for life. It is a privilege for book lovers to lose themselves in stories and experience joy through literature. And now, I’ve fallen in love with the language of books and the magic of literature.

One incident from my past suddenly flashed before my eyes. I vividly remember a day when I had just started teaching, telling a story to my class as a primary-level teacher. A little girl asked me, “Why should we read storybooks if they’re unrelated to our textbooks?” I was at a loss for words, completely stunned. At that moment, I saw a reflection of my younger self—just like I had once asked Radha the same question, wondering why we should read storybooks.

How could I explain to that little girl that storybooks are the foundation of our lives? How could I tell her that characters like Akbar and Birbal help us navigate real life through words, teaching us to view the world with a broader perspective? I replied, “We should read storybooks to become book lovers.”

She sheepishly smiled at me and returned to her seat. I didn’t realise I was giving a plausible explanation at the time. But today, as I rose from my cosy hideout in the labyrinth of Ratnapark, with children screaming in joy and chaos around me, I found myself turning the pages of ‘Tuesdays with Morrie’ and seeing life from a new perspective. I realised I was falling in love with the book as I left the park.

From struggling to understand the value of books as a young girl to becoming a book lover in adulthood, I’ve come to accept that without books, there is no world beyond our ignorance.

Without books, the world remains unknown—they are the lifeblood of every generation. At long last, the realisation dawned on me: Can’t we read books simply to be book lovers? Shouldn’t we love them for what they are? Can’t we read just to appreciate them? Can’t we read just to live life? The answer, I realised, was quite obvious.

As I continued walking, I felt a fresh sense of purpose, as if I were starting a new journey. A grin spread across my face as I embraced the calm around me, and the rustle of pages, which had always captivated me, promised to unveil the wonder of words for years to come—and many more years to go.

Bajgain is based in Itahari.