the visit
It’s a lazy Sunday morning, September 2015, in Bangalore. The city’s atmosphere makes everyone a little sluggish. Deciding to shake off the weekend haze, I went out and found myself wandering the streets of BTM. Suddenly, a small shop caught my eye, filled to the brim with books—as if there were no bricks in the walls, only shelves and stacks of paperbacks and hardcovers. Curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped inside, calling out to see if anyone was there. An old, weathered hand raised itself from behind a towering pile, and a soft, respectful voice answered, “What do you want, sir?”
Startled, I scanned the room until I spotted an old man in the midst of this sea of books. “Hi,” I replied. “Is this a library or an old bookshop?” He chuckled and explained that it was a private library where one could rent books with a small subscription fee. As I glanced around, I could see that the shelves were packed with nonfiction and rare, old titles. Excited, I asked about the subscription, already imagining how much I’d save by not buying books every month.
“Five hundred rupees per month, sir,” he said. His use of “sir” made me feel oddly formal. Trying to keep it casual, I asked, “But, what do you do? Why would you rent books out for less than the cost of each one? What if someone doesn’t return them?”
He gave me a knowing smile and replied, “You’re too naive, young man. I can always tell who’s genuine.” Intrigued, I kept asking him about himself, wondering how he’d come to be surrounded by so many books in this little corner of Bangalore. In a low, steady voice, he explained that he was a retired employee of the State Bank of India and that each one of these books had been read by him. I took a step back, startled. Did he just say he read all these books? It seemed impossible, especially with so many heavy nonfiction works filling the space around us.
We exchanged a few words, and I promised to return after finishing my current book. But days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. I never quite made it back to the little shop, caught up in the busyness of life.
Finally, months later, I went back. Peeking inside, I searched for the old gentleman, but a middle-aged man stood in his place, eyeing me with curiosity. “Can I help you find something?” he asked. I muttered the name of a random book, still scanning for the old man. Noticing my distraction, he asked if I was looking for someone in particular. I hesitated, then asked, “There was an older man here a few months back… Do you know when he’ll be in?”
The man’s face softened as he took a step back. After a long pause, he answered quietly, “He won’t be coming anymore. He… he was my father. He passed away last week.” I stood there, stunned, the weight of his words sinking in. Just months ago, I’d spoken with him, marveling at his life and his collection of books. Now he was gone, and I hadn’t even taken the time to know him better.
In that moment, I understood something that would stay with me: life is fleeting. If you want to reach out to someone, do it now. Pick up the phone, pay a visit, make the effort—before the chance is gone. I left the shop that day with a heavy heart but a clear resolve to cherish the connections I might otherwise take for granted.