<p>Growing up, I was a student of a reputed girls’ school for six years. Our institution was nestled amidst a vibrant marketplace, with a lofty boundary wall separating it from the throngs of shoppers. The market was always abuzz with activity, a cacophony of sounds that provided a striking contrast to the serene atmosphere of the school.</p>.<p>As students, we were strictly prohibited from visiting the stores, but there was one variety store opposite the school gate that was an exception. During recess hours, we would flock to this store to purchase materials for our project work, sewing, and knitting. The store was a treasure trove of colourful chiffon, reel stands, wool balls, marble papers, glittering tinsels, beads, buttons, and tracing papers.</p>.<p>Of course, no variety store would be complete without an assortment of chocolates, confectioneries, snacks, ice creams, and cookies. More often than not we would sneak in, ostensibly to buy project materials, but really to indulge in those coveted treats. The store was usually attended by a middle-aged married woman, accompanied by her little son. She would warmly welcome us, allowing us to sit beside her on a narrow wooden bench and enquiring about our studies.</p>.Wedded to a psychologist.<p>She was an avid reader. She would always be engrossed in a book, except when attending to customers. Despite the store’s abundance of goods, a shabby corner held a pile of books. Most of the books comprised classical Bengali literature written by great writers, including Bankim Chandra, Rabindranath, Sarat Chandra, Bibhutibhushan, Tarashankar, Banaphul et al. She would be so absorbed in reading that many times the customers needed to alert her about their presence.</p>.<p>Last summer, I spent my daughter’s vacation at my father’s house, and she had a lot of project work as homework to complete. She needed so many articles to accomplish her projects. As we set out to gather the necessary materials, memories of that variety store came flooding back. My daughter and I stopped by at the store--after almost three decades. To my surprise, the store seemed to have remained unchanged over the years. The showcases were still stacked with a variety of items, but this time, a middle-aged man was managing the counter.</p>.<p>As I glanced around, my eyes rested on an elderly lady, frail and wearing thick glasses, sitting on a wooden chair, engrossed in Tagore’s Gitanjali. The pile of books beside her seemed more voluminous than before. I learned from the man that she was his mother, an octogenarian still devouring books with the same passion. For a moment, time stood still.</p>
<p>Growing up, I was a student of a reputed girls’ school for six years. Our institution was nestled amidst a vibrant marketplace, with a lofty boundary wall separating it from the throngs of shoppers. The market was always abuzz with activity, a cacophony of sounds that provided a striking contrast to the serene atmosphere of the school.</p>.<p>As students, we were strictly prohibited from visiting the stores, but there was one variety store opposite the school gate that was an exception. During recess hours, we would flock to this store to purchase materials for our project work, sewing, and knitting. The store was a treasure trove of colourful chiffon, reel stands, wool balls, marble papers, glittering tinsels, beads, buttons, and tracing papers.</p>.<p>Of course, no variety store would be complete without an assortment of chocolates, confectioneries, snacks, ice creams, and cookies. More often than not we would sneak in, ostensibly to buy project materials, but really to indulge in those coveted treats. The store was usually attended by a middle-aged married woman, accompanied by her little son. She would warmly welcome us, allowing us to sit beside her on a narrow wooden bench and enquiring about our studies.</p>.Wedded to a psychologist.<p>She was an avid reader. She would always be engrossed in a book, except when attending to customers. Despite the store’s abundance of goods, a shabby corner held a pile of books. Most of the books comprised classical Bengali literature written by great writers, including Bankim Chandra, Rabindranath, Sarat Chandra, Bibhutibhushan, Tarashankar, Banaphul et al. She would be so absorbed in reading that many times the customers needed to alert her about their presence.</p>.<p>Last summer, I spent my daughter’s vacation at my father’s house, and she had a lot of project work as homework to complete. She needed so many articles to accomplish her projects. As we set out to gather the necessary materials, memories of that variety store came flooding back. My daughter and I stopped by at the store--after almost three decades. To my surprise, the store seemed to have remained unchanged over the years. The showcases were still stacked with a variety of items, but this time, a middle-aged man was managing the counter.</p>.<p>As I glanced around, my eyes rested on an elderly lady, frail and wearing thick glasses, sitting on a wooden chair, engrossed in Tagore’s Gitanjali. The pile of books beside her seemed more voluminous than before. I learned from the man that she was his mother, an octogenarian still devouring books with the same passion. For a moment, time stood still.</p>
