That Friday, five years ago has been the best day of her life till recently. Now she wishes she never entered that library, where she met that heartbreaker; but she recalls pushing open the heavy swing door and went into a large hall with a tiled chessboard floor.
About forty to fifty shelves of neatly arranged books fanned out from the central reception area. Behind the shelves were comfortable leather armchairs and large barricaded tables for quiet studies arranged in rows.
The cold and hushed atmosphere was occasionally punctured by laughers and loud whispers. The entire hall smells of old books and bleach.
Row after row of neatly lined books with their spines facing outward, colour-coded with dots, fiction section arranged in alphabetical order. She scanned slowly until her eyes met Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's "Half of a yellow sun". She took it out, and then went behind in search for a place to sit and devour the book.
