M.R. Venkatesh, who works for The Telegraph from Chennai, was in Calcutta recently. He narrates his experience of trying to buy books at the National Library

I stepped on the lush green, sprawling and serene lawns of the National Library for the first time, a long-yearned place of pilgrimage since my aborted mission as a philosophy research fellow.

Skirting past the stately main building, I went to the newer set of buildings at the far end where the office of the librarian is located. Before the first monsoon clouds soaked Calcutta and me, I was anxious to gift a few copies of my recent monograph on two contemporary Indian philosophers to the library.

That work was quickly over. With little time on hand, I thought one should not ignore the library’s main shrine and rapidly paced towards the main building.

In the foyer of the entrance, on the left I saw an ill-kempt notice board with a list of publications by the library. I rushed to make enquiries, as some titles caught my fancy.

An employee unpacking materials from a cardboard box directed me to the librarian in the new building if I wanted to buy any of the priced publications. I darted back to the new building where the assistant librarian directed me to another employee.

The junior employee, after speaking to someone in Bengali over the phone, directed me to the stores section, housed in an annexe building and referred me to the superintendent in charge there.

“The superintendent has just gone to the main building,” said the security guard, directing me to a lady. When I told her I wished to buy some publications, she pulled out a four-page cyclostyled copy of the book list.

I ticked the books that interested me. Adjusting her spectacles, she added up the prices and told me I had to pay in another section in the main building. But first, I had to wait for the stores superintendent to return to see if the books, six in all, were available.

A stern-looking gentleman came and took his chair at the other end of the long room leading to the stores chamber. Cobwebs abounded on either side of his seat, with two fire extinguishers to his right under a thick coat of dust. Tables on either side that led to the superintendent’s seat were lined with old, half-rusted Remington and Godrej typewriters. There was also a computer, apparently fallen into disuse.

The lady official took my wish list to him and conveyed my “intent of indent” in Bengali. The superintendent called me, offered me a chair, surveyed my countenance. ‘It (the search) may take some time,’ he seemed to mumble. I explained to him I was from Chennai and had to return that very day.

Shaking off his reluctance, the superintendent got up and pulled out a steel cabinet file drawer. In a sleight-of-hand operation, he took out what looked like an old porcelain vase, and curled his hand into it to fish out a bunch of keys like a magician. He then unlocked another steel cabinet with one of those keys to take out another bunch of keys.

With all the military discipline at his command, he marched towards the stores room, and opened its doors with the second set of keys.

Inside the stores, the two officials searched for a while until a third came and took his chair after paying obeisance to the photos of Sri Ramakrishna, Swami Vivekananda and the Goddess Durga. The lady requested him to help them and after another 10 minutes, the books were found.

Reaching her table, the lady asked me to ‘verify’ the titles, took out the chit where she had done her sums, told me to pay Rs 463 in the cash section in the main building and return with the receipt.

I ran again to the main building and paid at the dimly lit counter with one phase of power gone in the library.

Gladdened by my feat, I returned with the receipt to the lady’s table at the annexe and thought everything was over. But I found her slowly nudging the keyboard of one of the ancient typewriters, typing out in duplicate the details and the prices of the books.

Another 10 minutes passed until I discovered that it was a delivery note authorising me to take possession of the books and take them out. She wrote ‘delivered’ on the two sheets and asked me to sign against another word ‘received’. She then gave me a copy of the ‘delivery note’, saying it ‘must be given’ to the security man outside.

One full hour had already passed, and it began to pour heavily. The lady empathised: “Oh! It has begun to rain,” she said, handing me six books.