<p>Some 25 years ago, I had just completed my graduation. My effort to get a government job, however, was not as desperate as my desire. Besides, my pocket expenditure was soaring to keep pace with a growing obsession to ‘adda’ in tea stalls with my unemployed counterparts. Therefore, I decided to take tuitions to meet my expenses, much against my own earlier idea that taking tuition is ‘to building other’s career at the cost of one’s own.’ <br /><br /></p>.<p>Riding on my old bicycle then, I preferred the narrow C I Office Road, skirting the main market, to avoid unnecessary traffic jams. Opposite the C I Office, there stood an obscure tea stall. On my way bach home in the evening, I would never fail to drop there to buy a 25 paise cup of liquor tea and a 25 paise cigarette. <br /><br />The inside of the tea stall was as dark as a cinema hall to a late comer, necessitating a few minutes to adjust one’s vision. It was furnished with a low scaffold like bench made of bamboo props, a kerosene-stove, a three-tier open shelf incongruously stacked with glass jars of cheap biscuits, tin-cans containing tea leaves of inferior quality, sugar and an unclean saucepan of cream-less milk, a kettle, a matchbox etc. What was out of place, though, was a small pile of books in one corner. The tea stall was hardly frequented by customers. <br /><br />Every time I entered there, I found a dark emaciated middle-aged person engrossed in some book in the dim light of the lantern. Being a regular customer, it was not necessary for me to give my order. Leaving his book propped open, the man would light the oven and put the kettle with water, sugar and tea leaves all together to avoid extra care. He would then return to the open pages of the book until the tea was ready. Later, he would merely glance as I left a 50 paisa on the wooden box and plunge back into his book.<br /><br />Meanwhile, my tuitions did not last more than a year. Deplorable performance of my two students in both the semesters necessitated the appointment of a new tutor. My meek voice was the main defect, the illiterate mother of the girls pointed out. After this, I did not have to use that road again for years. <br /><br />Another book lover I met in the journey of life was Samiran, a high school teacher and my post-college friend. He was an avid reader, too. Although, his compulsive obsession to his family chores, he very often whined, was the main impediment in the way of him indulging in his devotion to books. <br /><br />Once, I related my experience with the book-loving tea stall owner whom I had met 25 years ago. Samiran expressed his eagerness to meet the man. One evening, we dropped at the tea stall on the same C I Office Road. <br /><br />The same darkness, furniture and a small pile of books sat in the same corner with, of course, the same person engrossed in reading a book. It seemed as if time had stopped there. I ordered two cups of liquor tea and two mini cigarettes. I asked “How much?” “Rs 10,” he said. The only other change I noticed was the spectacles that the man was wearing. <br /></p>
<p>Some 25 years ago, I had just completed my graduation. My effort to get a government job, however, was not as desperate as my desire. Besides, my pocket expenditure was soaring to keep pace with a growing obsession to ‘adda’ in tea stalls with my unemployed counterparts. Therefore, I decided to take tuitions to meet my expenses, much against my own earlier idea that taking tuition is ‘to building other’s career at the cost of one’s own.’ <br /><br /></p>.<p>Riding on my old bicycle then, I preferred the narrow C I Office Road, skirting the main market, to avoid unnecessary traffic jams. Opposite the C I Office, there stood an obscure tea stall. On my way bach home in the evening, I would never fail to drop there to buy a 25 paise cup of liquor tea and a 25 paise cigarette. <br /><br />The inside of the tea stall was as dark as a cinema hall to a late comer, necessitating a few minutes to adjust one’s vision. It was furnished with a low scaffold like bench made of bamboo props, a kerosene-stove, a three-tier open shelf incongruously stacked with glass jars of cheap biscuits, tin-cans containing tea leaves of inferior quality, sugar and an unclean saucepan of cream-less milk, a kettle, a matchbox etc. What was out of place, though, was a small pile of books in one corner. The tea stall was hardly frequented by customers. <br /><br />Every time I entered there, I found a dark emaciated middle-aged person engrossed in some book in the dim light of the lantern. Being a regular customer, it was not necessary for me to give my order. Leaving his book propped open, the man would light the oven and put the kettle with water, sugar and tea leaves all together to avoid extra care. He would then return to the open pages of the book until the tea was ready. Later, he would merely glance as I left a 50 paisa on the wooden box and plunge back into his book.<br /><br />Meanwhile, my tuitions did not last more than a year. Deplorable performance of my two students in both the semesters necessitated the appointment of a new tutor. My meek voice was the main defect, the illiterate mother of the girls pointed out. After this, I did not have to use that road again for years. <br /><br />Another book lover I met in the journey of life was Samiran, a high school teacher and my post-college friend. He was an avid reader, too. Although, his compulsive obsession to his family chores, he very often whined, was the main impediment in the way of him indulging in his devotion to books. <br /><br />Once, I related my experience with the book-loving tea stall owner whom I had met 25 years ago. Samiran expressed his eagerness to meet the man. One evening, we dropped at the tea stall on the same C I Office Road. <br /><br />The same darkness, furniture and a small pile of books sat in the same corner with, of course, the same person engrossed in reading a book. It seemed as if time had stopped there. I ordered two cups of liquor tea and two mini cigarettes. I asked “How much?” “Rs 10,” he said. The only other change I noticed was the spectacles that the man was wearing. <br /></p>
