The LL and a Swift Departure.
The London Library was once my favourite place to fall asleep. There was a stillness within those walls that I could not experience anywhere else in the world. Not at the top of a mountain, not in the thick of a forest and not in the vast plains where I would lose myself in remote and lonely expeditions. Escaping into the wilderness was my refuge, my passion and it brought me to life, but it did not give me peace. I found myself, at all times, in silent discourse with the air, the trees and the old, wild spirits that lingered in their midst. But books... books only spoke if one pulled them from their resting place and compelled them to open up and reveal their secrets. Otherwise they remained still, waiting patiently to be explored and enjoyed, or not, from their small allotment on the shelf.

And so, in some strange metaphorical (or delusional) way, the greater the number of books I was surrounded by, the more silent the world became. And if you have been to the LL, you will recall the thousands upon thousands of books, neatly assembled on open access shelves that fill seven full floors to the brim. And it wasn’t merely a notional sense of being surrounded by them. The solid iron floors were punctured with holes, so that from the basement (where the topographical studies are kept) one could glance up at the kaleidoscope of tiny apertures that, when focused upon, proffered a glimpse of the seventh floor. There were leather spines and loaded shelves as far as the eye could see.

My preferred place to read, or to pretend to read while I slumbered, was The Reading Room. The Reading Room might easily have been confused with The Sleeping Room, given the comfortable leather chairs, the warm lighting and the stern looking fellow behind the desk in the corner with the world ‘SILENCE’ etched into a sign that sat upon his desk. Snoring didn’t count. One could not demonstrate prejudice against innocent sleepers for a transgression that was beyond their control.

This was, of course, many years ago. The library itself has been in existence for well over a century and a half. For those of you who are vague enough to be unsure, that makes it older than I am. Though it wasn’t as expansive as it is today, it was a well respected institution even in the days when I researched, studied and slept within its confines. Until recently, the antiquated functions and mechanisms of the library remained largely unaltered.

And so it was with some surprise that I re-entered the old building and that long-since-passed era of my life just a few days ago. With a touch of uncharacteristic melodrama, I almost brought my hand to my eyes to shield them from the ghastly bright red t-shirts with “London Library” scrawled across them, worn by every member of staff, presumably to remind the senile old scholars who frequent the establishment where exactly they are. You know, in case it should suddenly happen to slip their minds.

I discovered that gone are the days of card-indexes, manual searching and Luddite charm. The LL has now joined the evil electronic empire. And sadder still, the meditative quiet of The Reading Room had been replaced by the steady and pervasive thrum of a dozen laptop computers.

I can, at least, report that there is an old world aesthetic that has survived the recent and somewhat disturbing modernization of the LL, and I stayed long enough to read a fascinating 1792 publication by Thomas Forrest called 'A voyage from Calcutta to the Mergui Archipelago, lying on the east side of the Bay of Bengal : describing a chain of islands, never before surveyed.' Twice. But then, I’m a fast reader.

As I left the building, I decided that I had enjoyed my last taste of London for the time being. I made up my mind to return to the Manor long enough to settle my affairs, and entrust the caretaking of the estate to my sweet but savvy young lady friend. Following that, I would set off to the land of my childhood. There were memories I wished to relive there, some more recent than others.

The meaning of quiet is largely unknown in India. There is magic, colour and movement in the most secluded spaces and in the darkest shadows. A sign with the world “SILENCE” could not be bought in Delhi with a bag of gold coins. It would be a crime against the spirit of the city.

Though I told myself it would be a welcome contrast to the empty rooms of the Manor, or the unwelcome progression of the LL, inwardly I was unsure. For the first time since I was a boy, I felt awkward and apprehensive about leaving my home. I feared that after decades of enjoying my stolen youth, I was beginning to show my age.

Was the world still my oyster?

I would soon find out.