No one visited that library. Still, the librarian opened it every evening in the hope that someone might come to borrow a book. He would sit on the half-wall of the veranda of that old building for a short while. Then, getting up, he would go inside and sit on the chair – it was in worse shape than him – behind the table and start reading. Since the past few years, he had been reading the massive and authoritative dictionary, the Sabdataaraavali, by Srikanteswaram. Once the day’s reading was over, he would replace it among the books in the reference section. He would then press down with his frail finger that inverted half-circle of iron that seemed reluctant to fall into the little well of the lock. Making sure that the lock wasn’t hurt, he would check if it had actually clicked. By the time night fell, the librarian would have closed all the doors of the library and left.
It was on one such day when the librarian was replacing the Sabdataaraavali that he fell into it and was trapped inside. He tried to call out a couple of times. But he couldn’t. He tried to shake himself free to run to safety, but his limbs were entangled in the words. He wanted to clap his hands and make a noise, but they were fixed firmly between two pages. His hands opened only when the pages opened. When he did not return home even after midnight, his wife and children went out looking for him. They came to the library. The librarian tried to call out to them to tell them that he was inside the dictionary, but he could not.
He realized that though the title of the dictionary included the word “sound” – sabdam – he could actually make no sound. His wife and children searched for him everywhere – under the almirahs and inside the drawer of the table even. They did not find him. The older son closed the door of the almirah containing reference books before they left. He locked it. The door of the library too. The family and the local community started searching for the missing librarian. They advertised in the newspapers. Complained to the police.
From the next day, naturally, the librarian stopped opening the library. One day, a thief who was trying to hide from the police sneaked in there. If only he could see me, the librarian wished fervently. But he did not. The thief would stay inside the library the whole day and go out at night When he got bored of waiting for the evening, the thief started browsing through the books.
The librarian saw this from inside the dictionary and was delighted. The sight of the very first reader in the library made his eyes well up with joy. But the thief just browsed, never read. But his hand reached every book. He touched the books. Let the books feel the joy of at least being touched by someone, prayed the librarian. But when the afternoons grew warmer, the thief would fan himself using the books. This was unbearable to the librarian. Unable to scold him or even make a noise, he sat quietly inside the Sabdataaraavali.
One day, the thief used a small iron wire and poked at the lock of the reference books almirah. Its doors fell apart, like two arms opening wide to the thief. He gawked at the books inside in the same way some people do when they see obese persons. He opened those big books one by one. Some of them are heavier than they look, he noted with surprise. Also, besides examining their weight, out of habit, he could not help checking whether there was something inside each. The disappointment of finding nothing inside even a single book was not befitting of his profession; he did not feel it. He took out each book one by one and opened them. Sabdataaraavali was placed next to Amarakosam.
When the thief pulled out Amarakosam and began to flip through it, the librarian’s heart began to race. His hands are going to reach out to me next! He will see me when he flips through the pages, he thought. He will be startled, scared. Maybe he will scream. Or grab another book and swat me hard, killing me. He stayed there, eyes shut; not knowing what was going to happen when the thief pulled out the dictionary. Sensing it, a huge shiver came over him, covering him fully like a blanket. The book felt heavier than the others, so the thief carried it to the table with both hands. Then, as he turned the pages, he found a man, the fear taut on his face, scrunched between the pages. The sight of the fearful old man made him laugh. The librarian laughed too. Then, at that very moment, they heard the sound of someone knocking at the door. The thief believed that it was the police; the librarian was sure that it was the reader he had so long waited for.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Sound’ in Malayali Memorial: And Other Stories, Unni R, translated from the Malayalam by J Devika, Penguin India.
