On Visiting A Library Poem by Sharad Rajimwale

In the vast, shadowy corridors of the quiet library echo
the muffled footfalls of unknown steps.

Some remote shaft of light
shows rows upon rows of volumes sitting on tiers
of shelves the way someone carefully arranged decades ago...
Those hands are gone, and shadows crowded around over generations.

Eyes wander distraught and lost
spotting carpets of dust on the rich volumes.
There are thumb impressions and some fingermarks too

Many years ago when we were less advanced and less noisy
all manner of visitors used to open these books
and spend hours with them in isolated corners.

There was a traffic of books from hands to the shelves
and back- -a regular unending commerce of ideas
and the spacious halls used to hum with cautious
whispered discussions, and eager steps....
That's how a living culture of tastes came to be shaped
over countless years.

Now everything lies wrapped in dead, undisturbed calm.

Only the sinking sun peeps from behind
thick window curtains
and dusky shades rush to shroud it all.

They don't need it now.
One feels sad for G.K. Chesterton, F.R. Leavis, C.S.Lewis, Matthew Arnold, , Arnold Toynbee, Charles Dickens, Edith Sitwell....
that galaxy of flaming minds
that seems to have wheeled far away from the orbit
mobile-savvy, computer addict seekers of facts.
The books stand there on the darkling shelves
ready as ever
to offer a guard of honour
to anyone who steps in front of them!