THE LOST LIBRARY CARD Dr Sarita Chauhan

The Lost Library Card

Dr Sarita Chauhan 

Anaya had grown up in a world where books no longer smelled of paper or ink. Stories were streamed through headsets, textbooks floated as holograms in classrooms, and novels were whispered by AI narrators who never paused to breathe. She loved them, of course—her friends laughed at audiobooks together, and exams were impossible without the school’s VR archives. Yet one day, when she found the stiff rectangle paper kept very neatly in the drawer , something inside her shifted.She had never seen such postcard kind of thing in her life .

It was pale blue, edges curled, with faded letters that read: Municipal Library, Cardholder: Savitri Mehta. Below was a tiny photograph of a smiling young woman—her grandmother—who had died before Anaya was born.

Why would someone treasure this when every word in the world now lives on a chip? Is there  any use? Umpteen questions ravaged her mind .

That evening, while her parents argued about traffic and bills, Anaya slipped the card into her pocket and decided to find out.

The municipal library sat at the corner of Old Bazaar Street, squashed between a crumbling movie hall and a juice stall. She had walked past it many times, never noticing the peeling paint or the crooked board. Now, standing at its rusted gate, she felt like she was entering another century.

Inside, rows of shelves leaned like tired soldiers. Dust lay thick on the wooden floor, and a single tube light flickered above the entrance desk. Behind it sat an old man, white hair falling over his glasses, absorbed in a crossword puzzle.

Anaya slid the card forward timidly.

“Does this still… work?”

The man adjusted his glasses, squinting. Then his eyes widened.

“Ah. Savitri.” His voice was a mixture of surprise and tenderness. “She was my favorite reader. Always borrowing poetry. Never returned this last book.”

He pulled out a register, its pages brittle with age, and ran a finger down the list. “Yes, here. Tagore’s The Crescent Moon. Borrowed, never brought back.”

Anaya’s chest tightened. “Can I borrow a book… with this card?”

He chuckled. “Child, no one borrows books anymore. They’re shutting this place down next week. A mall is coming.”

But something in her stubborn gaze made him hesitate. Slowly, he opened a drawer and slid the card under an ancient scanner. A beep—weak, but real—filled the silence.

“Well,” he said softly. “It seems the library remembers her.”

The book he handed her was heavy, cloth-bound, smelling faintly of rain. When she opened it at home, a yellowed slip of paper fluttered out. On it, in graceful handwriting, were the words:

To my future reader,

If you find this, know that stories do not end when systems collapse. They outlive shelves, screens, and even the people who hold them. Carry forward the rhythm of words. That will be my gift to you.

It was signed: Savitri.

Anaya’s fingers trembled. She had never met her grandmother, yet here was a voice speaking across time. She read the poems deep into the night, whispering the lines aloud, letting them linger in the room like incense.

The next day at school, she showed the note to her best friend, Kabir.

“You’re going to save the library?” he teased.

“Maybe I am.”

He rolled his eyes. “Anaya, you can’t fight bulldozers with poems.”

“Then help me try,” she shot back.

That Friday, Anaya dragged a few classmates to the library. Some laughed at the musty smell, others coughed in the dust, but when the old librarian placed books in their hands, something happened. They began to read aloud—hesitantly at first, then with growing excitement.

One girl recited a Hindi couplet about monsoon clouds, her voice echoing in the empty hall. Kabir read a Sherlock Holmes story, complete with dramatic pauses. Anaya herself opened her grandmother’s book and let Tagore’s verses spill into the air.

For hours, the library was alive again. The old man leaned back, tears glistening in his eyes. “It’s been years since I heard children read in here,” he whispered.

They promised to return the next day, and the next. Word spread. By Sunday, a dozen children crowded the aisles, bringing friends, cousins, and even parents. The juice-stall vendor joined in, reading an Urdu ghazal that made everyone clap.

It was as if the library, long asleep, had awakened to greet them.

On Monday morning, the demolition trucks arrived.

Engines rumbled outside the gate, and men in helmets carried blueprints. But they found the entrance blocked—not by chains, but by children, each holding a book or a faded library card. Anaya stood in front, her grandmother’s card pressed against her chest.

“This is our library,” she declared, her voice quivering but steady. “You can’t erase it.”

The workers muttered, confused. The old librarian shuffled forward, standing beside her. “We’ll read here until you leave,” he said.

And they did. Voices rose—Tagore, Premchand, Conan Doyle, anonymous poets—threads of language weaving a barricade stronger than stone. Passersby stopped to watch out of curiosity , some called it madness, but still everyone was stopping to see what's happening . Some joined in. For a moment, the noise of engines was drowned by the music of words.

No one knew what would happen next. Perhaps the bulldozers would push through. Perhaps the authorities would dismiss them as children’s mischief. But Anaya knew, with a certainty that felt like her grandmother’s hand on her shoulder: even if the walls fell, the rhythm of words would not.

She raised her voice and read aloud the last line of the poem, clear and bright against the morning air:

“The night is dark, but the dawn has not forgotten us.”

About Sarita Chauhan 

Sarita Chauhan is a writer and author of three books, with a PhD in English Literature. As Chairperson of JSM Group and a TEDx speaker, she bridges vision with writing . Founder of Write Up Your Soul, she nurtures a sacred space for creative expression across cultures and ideas. Her work is rooted in curiosity, connection, and the exploration of human experience. Always seeking new perspectives, she turns words into journeys that inspire and resonate.