Some gifts arrive quietly, asking for nothing, yet leaving a lasting warmth in the heart. Recently, my husband received one such gift from a friend - a humble, old book titled Delight by J. B. Priestley, an English Novelist , born Sept 13, 1894 - August 14, 1984. In the era of lost art of reading to be presented with such a gem is so precious especially when the book was printed in 1949 at the Windmill Press in Kingswood, Surrey, Great Britain. I expected nothing more than a pleasant read. But when I opened it, I stepped into a small miracle. The moment I touched it, I felt a quiet thrill, as if my fingers had brushed against history itself. Published just before Indian Independence, it sent cold shivers through my spine as I noticed it belonged to a library, I felt a little queasy .
Yet, holding it, my heart twitched a little. This was once a beloved library book. How did it leave its home? Was it lost? Stolen? Borrowed and forgotten? Did the library close down? Did someone love it too much to return it? Was it sold in a dusty auction, or carried away unknowingly during some move? There was a muted ache in thinking of a book wandering away from the place it once belonged.
A little sad thought lingered... and yet, I felt happiness too. But then again - perhaps this was its true journey. Perhaps it was meant to travel.
On the very first page, a gentle reminder by Walter de la Mare ( English Poet 1876-1953) whispers:
"Look thy last on all things lovely, every hour. Let no night seal thy sense in deathly slumber till to delight Thou have paid thy utmost blessing..." In simple words, the poem is reminding us:
Notice beauty always.
Don't live life half-asleep.
Give thanks for every joy.
Let your heart stay awake to wonder.
Inside the cover lay an old library card, fragile with age, yet alive with stories. Its earliest date read 17 March 1950, when Mrs. W. Ernest most probably tucked this very book under her arm and carried it home. After her came many more:
Mr. Griffith, Mr. J. O. Johnson, Mrs. Sam, Kumar T. K. Roy, Mr. Ogg, Major Willy, Mr. Puri, Mr. Lane, Mr. Malcolm, Mr. C. W. H. Ansell, Mr. Wilmer, Mr. Bee, Mrs. Tufuell, Dr. Chatterjee, Mr. Cumming, Mr. S. Verma, Dr. N. De, Mrs. Wilshaw, Mr. D. C. Royals, Mr. S. Ghose - and finally, Dr. Chatterjee, who returned the book on 11 October 1967.
As I read their names, I wondered: Are they still alive? Or have they quietly passed on, leaving their touch in this book as their only trace? Wherever you all are please remember I am lovingly reading it, silently thanking your presence.
Seventy-six years have passed since then. It survived post-war Britain, crossed into newly independent India, travelled through the hands of Britishers and Bengalis, and somehow - perhaps accidentally, perhaps deliberately - left its library home in Darjeeling.
A neatly pasted set of library rules felt like artifacts:
* A subscription fee of Rs. 2 per month per member.
* Opening hours for summer and winter.
* One book allowed for seven days only.
* Four books allowed at a time.
* No damaged books accepted.
* Fine of Rs.1/- per book per week.
Simple. Strict. Beautiful in its discipline. So resonating with my school and college life in Loreto, Darjeeling. How disciplined and simple life must have been then.
And so, after decades of passing through different hands, different hearts, and different lives, this 76-year-old book has found a new home with me - in Daffodil Boarding School, Kathmandu, far from where it began.
From India to Nepal, from 1949 to today 2025, this book has carried history, memories, and silent companionship through generations.
Maybe books choose their own destinies.
Maybe some books wait patiently for the right reader.
Maybe this one waited for me.
And in opening it, I found not just a story -
I found a journey, a history, and a quiet, enduring Delight.
Lama is the founder of Daffodil School
