It was around twelve-thirty in the night. I was lying on my bed. Sleep was miles away from my eyes. Apparently, my eyes were closed, but I was completely awake. I was exhausted from tossing and turning with my eyes shut. In a state of absent-mindedness, my eyes suddenly opened wide. In front of me, on the cupboard, many of my books were kept in an organized manner. Silence prevailed in the room. Only the ticking sound of the clock's needle could be heard. My gaze remained fixed on that cupboard for a very long time, and I got lost in my past.

That was the time of my student life, and I was residing in a boarding school. At that time, I was obsessed with books. Apart from textbooks, reading non-academic books in my free time had become my hobby. After school hours, when all the children would go out to play, I would sit in the room with my books, until the evening call to prayer (Maghrib Azan) would sound. Whenever my friends asked me to go somewhere, I would refuse.

Time used to be short, but my dedication was such that the books would fall short. I would search far and wide to bring books. Money was scarce, so I started looking for a library.

It was evening time; passing through a crowded market, I had reached a deserted road, which was my desired destination. After walking a short distance, a narrow street appeared. Seeing the library board at the entrance, there was no bound to my happiness. That day, I took many books from there. Now, I would visit the library two or three times a week and bring books to read. On Wednesdays, when I had to go home on Thursday, I would arrange the books on Wednesday evening itself. Seeing me, other friends also started reading books. This cycle continued, and before I knew it, almost a year passed, but I was indifferent to it. Even after leaving school, my passion for reading continued.

Just then, the clock shook me by announcing the strike of one. My eyes were still fixed on the bookshelf, but I had emerged from the ocean of imaginations. The books were standing orderly on the shelf, which I had bought with great enthusiasm. And even after two or three years had passed, I had never picked them up to read.

Along with the new books, there were also many books that had lost their title covers. I began to look at them closely. Some pages, having separated from the book, were hanging from the cupboard. For a brief moment, compassion arose in my heart, and I was about to get up to fix them, but suddenly it felt as if the pages screamed out.

"Miyan (Sir), let it be... leave us alone... You thought of this miserable condition of ours today? Aren't you the same person who used to claim to love us? And yes, what did you used to say? 'I love books very much, books are my friends, I cannot sleep without books.' Oh, unfaithful human! What has happened to you? You were not like this. By keeping us like this, you became indifferent to us for years and years. Have you kept us for show and hypocrisy? Do you want your friends and associates to see us kept on the cupboard and consider you a good reader with refined taste? To think of you as an educated man?..."

While screaming, the voice of those pages began to tremble, but still, like a helpless victim, it started saying more.

"No, no... absolutely not, you cannot be like this... You do not love books at all now. You have now fallen in love with the internet. You cannot live even a single moment without the internet now. That place on your pillow where you once used to place us books with love, today you have given that place to the multimedia mobile of the internet. Yes... yes, even now the mobile is kept by your bedside. For God's sake, stop claiming to love us now..."

In the trembling of the voice, those pages went on saying God knows what else. My eyes were still fixed on that cupboard. Despite not being a reality, that scene appeared real to me. Those pages had become silent after describing the bitter reality of my day and night. I tried once more, but before I could get up to fix them, the tearful pages retracted into the books on their own, and the books began to cry.