There’s a curious feeling when you’re about to enter a place you’ve heard a lot about, but have never been to. The air is crisp; you walk with a spring in your step, and your heart almost leaps out with anticipation. I am always affected this way when visiting a book-fair; even as I park the vehicle and step out, I cannot remain still.

I experienced a similar feeling when visiting the Ramkrishna Math. Everyone I knew who was older than forty, and took an active interest in my ‘literary welfare’ had encouraged me to go there. Knowing my penchant for rarely read books, a relative had said, “That’s where you’ll find everything that’s grizzled and old.” So the Ramkrishna Math clearly promised to be a place of solid interest. Would it retain this interest after I had had my fill of browsing?

The premises were certainly quiet and inviting. A vague sense of peace descended upon me as I pulled slowly into the parking lot, inhaling the varied scents of trees and flowers scattered around the precincts. It was already dark when I walked in. The cool, clean air was in sharp contrast to the undisciplined ethos of the traffic outside. I glanced at the building hurriedly, and headed straight inside to the library.

It was a quaint, high-roofed hall, the kind which might have been built before Independence, and the book-shelves were placed in an almost military-like formation. After a few trite formalities, I was allowed to let my eyes wander around them.

But that did it - I had to drop all my initial misgivings here! When I’d thought of it, the very name ‘Ramkrishna Math’ had conjured up images of dull religious tracts and treatises to me --and that wasn’t a very inviting thought! But, as I soon discovered, the library contained much more than ancient Marathi granthas about the essence of religion. As the librarian himself proclaimed, with beaming eyes, “Our collection is not limited to Marathi or English only; we have books in five languages.” In one corner of the room, shrouded in darkness, was a section entitled ‘Eng/Philo’ and on a closer look I could make out titles by Spinoza and Bacon and Schopenhauer. A sidelong glance brought me to another little door by the same wall. “Where does this lead to?” I asked him. He merely signalled forward, and I stepped in. The room inside was considerably smaller in size, but equally populated by books. Here, in the narrow space between two elongated racks, you could sit all day and be surrounded by books --doing justice to that line from Jude the Obscure, ‘The boy is crazy for books, that he is.’ On one side I found stacks of Blake and Coleridge, while on the other were works by Sydney Sheldon and other such crime writers. Wow, I thought, what an eclectic combination.