A beautiful location in India where the sun greets the mountains and the clouds caress the land. Where the beauty of nature embraces your soul—Nainital. Nothing less than bliss is this land of glistening lakes, verdant hills, and soft winds. Where nature softly whispers the secret of eternal bliss in your ears. Here, the roads wind by crystal-clear lakes and lead to the splendour of the cities and the serenity of the forests, where everyone finds joy in the little things in life. However, there is one thing in life—sadness—that we can obtain without even trying.
Almora, a city nestled in these lovely valleys, was embellished by the British with several exquisite things, and the common people took care of it after they left. The strains of peaceful tunes that the winds here convey ease people's hearts. The immaculate streets are lined with numerous ancient homes and businesses that are still filled with the echoes of the past. One of them was the National Library of Almora (Est. 1887), which was named Mirdarshan Library after independence. There was a small golden bell tied to its door, which used to ring as a signal of someone's arrival. The wall beside the door had a tiny, transparent window that allowed a clear view of the inside, where a young man, whose hair looked light brown in the light of the lamp, wearing a red woollen sweater over a yellow shirt, was busy cleaning several thick books with a piece of cotton whose pages had turned yellow.
'𝘛𝘪𝘯... 𝘛𝘪𝘯..', At that moment, the doorbell gently rang, and a young lady entered the library, illuminated by the sun's beams. In addition to her crimson dupatta, the lady was dressed in a white salwar kameez. The lady had long, beautiful black hair, which enhanced the beauty of her appearance. With a gentle click, the door closed behind her, and the sunlight vanished from the room. She made her way past the book-filled shelves to the young man's desk, where he was diligently tidying the books. She just stood there, staring with her dark brown eyes at him without saying anything. Neither of them said anything for a while, and there was just silence. The young man felt that he should be the one to start, and he took his eyes off the pile of books, looked at the lady, and said, "Yes." His eyes—the colour of intoxicating champagne—beckoned her over with nothing more than a wink and a smile. If gods existed, they would hide away in his eyes. However, while the girl glanced at him, he was trying to read her expressions—her pale face, which included a tiny mole that accentuated her flawless features, and light pink cheeks and lips that were slightly red and smiling. It was a face that seemed to have been meticulously created.
"How can I help you?" Speaking a little louder this time, he said.
The young lady blinked her eyes and, "Good books, that's what I desire." Her voice was soft as she spoke.
"Good books," He laughed a little and, "I believe all books are good, ma'am." He said.
"Yes, but there are some books that take you on a journey away from this painful world—a journey of dreams." She spoke in a calm manner.
"So you must have chosen a companion for this pleasant journey of yours." He said with a smile.
"Yes, Shakespeare." She said.
"Nice. So which of Bard's creations would you like to have? Maybe Romeo and Juliet."
After hearing this, she quietly grinned and said, "No, Macbeth, actually."
"Macbeth. It seems that you enjoy travelling on mystical adventures."
"Perhaps it is best that way."
"Okay, so Macbeth it's." He put the cotton piece he was holding in one of the desk's drawers and moved towards the dimly illuminated bookshelves at the rear of the library. Gently, he leaned in the direction of the bookshelves and ran his fingertips across the books. The woman next to the desk was observing him silently as he was working. After a while, "Perhaps this place needs more windows." In an imploring tone, she spoke.
"A library that has dim lighting does well because it makes it easier for you to travel into the world that the books are trying to entice you to visit." He remarked this while pulling out a light-brown book. "Here Shakespeare's magic is a little less, hence some of his works become victims of oblivion," Wiping the dust from the book with his shirt sleeve, he returned to the desk carrying it.
"Your book," Placing the book on the desk, he began to flip the pages of the lengthy register that was kept there. "Do you want to buy or borrow this book?" With his eyes on the register, he said.
"I will borrow it." She said.
"Okay," When he came to a page that was only half full, he turned the register towards the lady. "Here." As he spoke, he gave her a hefty, black fountain pen. Using her right hand, which had light red nail polish on it, she took it and began filling in the details. The young man was observing her as she filled in the details. "8th November," He said.
"Sorry?" Glancing at him, she said.
"Today's actually November 8, 1959, not November 7. You have mistakenly written yesterday's date instead of today's." He said with a thin smile.
"Oh...sorry." She said.
"You can cut it and write on the next line without any issues."
"Okay," She tucked her hair behind her ear so it wouldn't fall on her face and began adding the details again. She made a small sound as she set the pen down on the register's open page after filling out the information. "Thanks," As she took the book off the desk, she said.
"Simply attempt to send the book back to us as soon as possible, undamaged." In an imploring tone, he said.
"Sure, I will try." Saying this, she smiled lightly and started leaving the desk. She paused her stride at the gate and focused her gaze on the bookshelf next to the door, filled with several volumes whose covers would captivate any horror novel enthusiast. "There is a little dust on Mr. Roy's creations," She touched one of them and said, "Give them a quick cleaning; they're really popular right now."
"Oh..Rudra Roy. It is in demand, indeed. I'll be careful, thanks." He said.
The lady gave him a gentle smile before opening the door and leaving the library.The young man's eyes fell upon the open register, where several words still had moist black ink.
"Maithili Verma." He said softly.