Romantic Library of Great Lakes

August 23, 2009 | Posted by fightclubfrenzy << back to blog

After reading for a while, she lifts her gaze away from the book spread open before her and looks through the glass window, ruminating, as if in a trance she continues to stare into the window; sound of someone shifting in his chair, of someone coughing apologetically, of people murmuring hoping that the encumbering silence would eat up their hush-hush voices; few exchange glances with the ones sitting beside them, and as if a centuries old dictum is sculpted inside the library, the others reciprocate with countenances affirmative, understanding and briefly diagnosing the material laid open before the protagonist.

Some one flings the door open letting in sound of the helter-skelter of people lodging their bags in the pigeonholes, of someone shrewdly pulling out books to return them, men and women involved in haste discussions drawing them to an abrupt end as they proceed to enter the library.

And, she enters holding a book close to her heart as if in a lovely embrace, but parts with it at the counter. As she passes by, the sound of her frock caressing the floor brings the lady staring into the window back to this world, she stares at the other, and both blush to put an end to the awkward moment; she reaches out for a magazine, flips the papers over before sitting herself on a chair that creaks softly with her sitting on it, and someone sitting lonely in the corner with his pen fixated on the paper lifts his gaze and stares in the direction of the ruffle, but, caught by the suddenness of the lady returning his gaze as if in denial of an acute blame insinuated upon her, he shifts his gaze towards the entrance.

As the time for dinner closes in, someone coughs incessantly from upstairs and out rightly dispenses with the excuse in the end; stealing glances now turn into enquiring gestures, slow and brief shifting in chairs now turns into rapid scuttling; sound of newspapers feverishly turned over by famished fellows, of someone heaving aloud, for the timely culmination of his reading; people now talking across to the ones beside them, at first in phrases, then in interludes of references to the books and magazines lying before them, eventually into a metamorphosis of a subject of interest, perhaps about a novel, or about a celebrity, or about a movie, music…

Someone hurriedly climbs upstairs, for he has forgotten his room keys; someone dejected in demeanor looks around, for he barely finished jotting down material for his project; someone replaces the books into their shelves, as if he has an innate dislike to empty spaces in the library shelves; and the men and women exit the library towards the dinner hall with the sound of photocopying machine sinking in the background.

The Library hall at Great Lakes holds a resonating charm of the traditional reading rooms of the yester years. Near the entrance are two PCs leaving one with an impression of modernity; as one approaches the reception desk, the sight of new arrivals is riveting. But as one leaves the superficial aura of modernity, the hall extends both ways deeply into shelves with interludes of closets so fine and beckoning that one cannot escape the impulse of sitting in one and in the newly found loneliness, slowly shed off cloaks of modernity and descend into the ulterior halls of the nineteenth century.

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