Sometimes things happen. Things you can't reason and things you can't understand. But they will stay with you throughout your life, haunting you like a shadow and suddenly coming back into your mind, when you least expect them. I had one such experience and it still continues to haunt me to this day. It all started in an innocent place. A book store.

It was a normal bookstore. It didn't stand out in anyway. It was neither old as to entice interest in romantics who wanted to spend their evening in a vintage book store nor it was new and cool to attract young people. It was just a big hall filled with lots of shelves and shelves filled with lots of books. There was an obscure back room to keep stock.

The store itself was sandwiched between a bakery and a hospital. The owner, always an amateur philosopher lovingly used to say eat, read and die about the geography of his store. It was as best as any location though. The children were dragged by their parents from the bakery to make them read in exchange of buying them tasty treats and the relatives from the hospital used to come, to buy some books and pass their time.

So, what was my connection to this average book store and what was the haunting experience I had there?

I used to work there back in 2013, when I was a teenager with all the teen angst, heartbreak and carelessness in the world combined. My father, the most modernized man of India, ordered me to get a summer job so I could start learning the value of money and adult responsibilities. So, while all my friends were boarding a train or flight for their vacation, I stepped into a bookstore to start my job.

I love books so I thought it would be bearable for me to get a job in a bookstore. But guess what? No. I absolutely hated it.

The owner, Mr.Shukla, a pot bellied man of sixty, was a retired government teacher who had finally realized his dream of owning a bookstore. (Who dreams of owning a bookstore?). My father introduced me to Mr.Shukla and drove back to his work happily.

"Look girl, I'm very strict (I hated him in that very instant), punctuality is everything to me(How cliché!), and I strongly believe in the phrase cleanliness is next to godliness(you didn't say you were signing me up for a proverb class dad!)," It took the retired teacher another thirty minutes to complete his lecture and actually explain my work here. I refrained myself from biting my nails out of boredom. It wouldn't do to get another lecture on my very first day.

"You have to come to shop at sharp 8:30AM every morning and dust the shelves first thing. Assist every customer and don't let them go out until they buy something. Keep an eye on children; they always try to sneak out with a comic or two. Arrange the books in order, if the customer disturbs it. Keep restocking the shelves. You will have a one hour lunch break at 12:30 pm. At the end of your shift, you will have to give me the full accounting and go home. If I ever caught you lounging at the counter reading a book, I'll deduct your salary." He took a deep breath after this long speech.

So, my first job started that day. I was the only worker there. Before me, Mr.Shukla used to manage the store alone. Now, with my assistance, he got so much time in his hands. He installed a TV in the back room for watching cricket matches and shooed me away whenever I stayed there for more than thirty seconds.

I idly used to wonder if this was my dad's way of taking revenge on me for refusing to join the music class he was so enthusiastic about. Mind you, this was before the era of the smart phones and I had no way of passing time other than sneaking a book to read, always looking over my shoulder to see if I was getting caught. In my opinion, only one with a revenge could inflict this punishment on me.

The people shopping there were no solace either. Most of our customers were, children buying rhymes books, people with middle age crisis buying self help books and old people buying religious and philosophical books. There was no one with great taste. No one I could share my interests with and help them choose a good book.

But the only good thing about the work was, the pay. A thousand rupees a month was a fortune for a high school student. My parents let me keep the money since it was my hard earned one. So, the job continued into my school days. The salary decreased with the working hours since I was only working after school. But still, something was better than nothing. Life was going on.

It was a Sunday in September. There were reports of an impending cyclone and the climate was horrible. It was raining since last night and there were no customers that day. The power supply was also cut. Mr.Shukla had some important work in the bank so he left, leaving the shop to me. He came to rely on me mostly by now.

I sneaked the new batman comic from the shelf and sat at the counter reading with the little light available. The glass door of the store was closed to avoid the drizzling of rain inside. I was so engrossed in the book when I heard the door opening slowly, I almost didn't hear it. I wondered who came to the shop in such weather. I didn't hear any footsteps though. It must be the wind; I told to myself and went back to my reading.

"Hello," I jumped at the sudden voice in the silence. I looked up to see the most ancient human I had ever seen in my life. He must be at least eighty years old. His face was lined with as many wrinkles as the hair on his head. If there was sun outside today, I was sure that the sun light would have reflected from his bald head, lined with silver hair on the front. He was wearing a button down checks shirt and dress pants tucked at the waist. He had a toothless grin on his face that reminded me of Santa Claus.

I realized I was staring at him and then my professionalism started to kick in.

"Hello sir, how can I help you?" I asked wondering what book in the world did this old man wanted to buy in such weather. Our store usually had old people but very limited and regular ones. They mostly buy some philosophical and religious books. I couldn't imagine this man in his ripe old age came all this way to buy a philosophical book. May be he just wanted a shelter from the rain.

"Do you have it?" He asked, his eyes scanning the aisles, may be for the it. I found myself wondering if Mr.Shukla had started any illegal drug business without me knowing. May be the old man was talking in code. But one look at him and I realized how ridiculous that thought sounded. The man looked like he could faint from the overdose of glucose let alone drugs. I should cut down on watching those gangster movies.

"Sorry sir, you have to be more specific," I said eager to get back to my book.

"Doctor Sleep, do you have it?" He asked eagerly.

"Oh,"

It dawned on me what he was asking for. He was asking for the new book of Stephen King, Doctor Sleep which was going to be released today. It was the sequel for the King's blockbuster novel of 1977 'The Shining'. I sneaked it out of my parent's library once which was off limits to me and had nightmares for a week after reading it. It was about this little boy and his family who were stuck in a hotel filled with ghosts in a bitter winter. After the initial fear subsided, I thought the book was so cool and reread it so many times. Doctor Sleep was going to be the story of the little boy Dan who was now a grown-up.

I asked Mr.Shukla about the book and he said that small stores like ours would get the stock last and this disastrous weather could make it even later.

"Sorry sir, we don't have the stock yet. You know this weather." I said gesturing at the rain outside. His face which was filled with a grin a moment ago, fell. He let out a long sigh of disappointment.

"Do you know how hard it was to wait for a book for thirty years?" He asked. I decided not to answer that question. I was fourteen years old for God's sake. I just shrugged letting him know that there was nothing I could do about it.

"I was waiting for the book for so long. There will be no peace to my mind until I read it." He said. I could relate to him. When you start reading a series, you can't be peaceful until you finish all the books in that series. I nodded in agreement with his words.

He was still standing there like his property was robbed or something so I started talking just to dilute the awkwardness.

"So, are you a fan of Stephen King?" I asked.

"Yes." The light came back into his glassy eyes, "I read almost all of his books."

"Now there was not much time left." He said it slowly, I almost didn't catch it.

He went on to tell me about his other favorite works and I was surprised to find myself really listening to him. He was an avid reader just like me and not five minutes later I find myself talking about my favorite books. It was the most interesting conversation I had in a long time. After half an hour he looked at his wrist watch.

"I've to go as much as I enjoyed your company." He smiled his toothless smile, "You are reminding me of my grandson. He likes books just like you. Rare people in these days."

He became sad all of a sudden. His eyes got a faraway look like he was deep in thought. Suddenly I heard the sound of something breaking in the back room.

"I'll be back in a minute." I said to my old friend and hurried into the back room to see what caused the sound. But I couldn't find anything broken. Everything was normal. I searched for a few more moments and walked back to the counter. The store was empty again. The old man was gone. Where did he go in this weather? I didn't even saw an umbrella with him. For that matter he was not wet when he came in here. May be he came in a car, I reasoned and went back to reading my book.

************

It was two days after the storm. I was arranging the new Agatha Christie novels in the shelf. Mr.Shukla was doing an inspection. He had this strong belief that I was sorting books the wrong way. But what he did mostly was to grab a book, look at it from all sides and keep it in the same place. While he was struggling to find fault with my work, his huge gut bumping the aisles, suddenly the old man from the day of the storm came into my mind. The way his almost life less eyes searched for the book and the eagerness with which he wanted to read it. I, myself wanted to read it immediately.

Will I become like him in my eighties? A smile formed on my lips at that thought.

"Mr.Shukla, when are we going to stock the Doctor Sleep book? It is pretty rage now." I asked.

"I know what is in rage, girl." He said cutting me off immediately, "I think they will come tomorrow morning." He said, now scrutinizing the comics section.

"Oh," I answered wondering if the old man would come again or not. I hated to call him the old man. He seemed familiar, like I knew him from a long time. He said I looked like his grandson. I never had a grandfather and I would like a grandfather just like him. It was not normal for me to get attached to people I barely know, but there was something with him. After the books were arranged neatly in the shelves, Mr.Shukla went into the back room to watch the one day series match of India and Australia, leaving the shop to me. As soon as he disappeared into the room, the climate which was your average sunny evening turned to grey in a matter of minutes. Wind started blowing and rain started to drizzle. It was a miracle that the power supply was not cut already. I tried to hear the commentary turning my head towards the back room.

"Has the book come yet?" I jumped at the sudden voice behind me. It was the old man again with the same eager expression on his face. Why was it, he always made his entry when it was raining?

"You gave me a heart attack there, Mr....." I trailed off not knowing his name.

"Mehta," he said.

"Mr. Mehta, there is a good news for you. The books are coming tomorrow morning." I said feeling happy seeing the expression of relief on his face. But there was a thought nagging in the back of my head. Why hadn't he gone to any other bookstore? Why wait until we stock on it? May be he can't travel that far, I reasoned with myself.

"Very good," Then an expression loomed on his face which was unexpected. He appeared worried, his glassy eyes looking more worried than ever.

"Will you bring it to me?" He asked seriously, "Will you bring it to the hospital beside your shop? Ask me by my name. I'll give you the money there."

He walked out of the shop without giving me a chance to reply.

Hospital, I thought. That was why he was coming only to this shop. He was in a hospital. But he came to this shop two times for that book and he couldn't come tomorrow morning. But I decided to do as he had asked me. The hospital was right beside the store. It was not like I had to walk miles in the dark.

*******
The next evening, after my shift was over, I picked the book and paid with my own allowance. It would be good if I could get some tip from Mr. Mehta for bringing him the book.

"Go straight to home, girl." Mr.Shukla gave his usual warning and replaced me at the counter.

"Of course, Mr.Shukla." I lied and started for the hospital. It was raining lightly all that day and the rain increased as soon I approached the entrance of the hospital. I quickly entered the hospital closing the umbrella. I saw this hospital from outside many times on the way to work but I had never been inside until now. It was one of those super-specialty hospitals which contained all types of specialists at one place. Only rich people could afford the treatment here. The insides were stark white like they were straight out of a sci-fi movie, the whiteness disturbed with green curtains at intervals. There were comfortable looking waiting chairs with tired- looking people waiting in them. There was a middle aged woman half asleep in one chair and a teenage boy drinking coffee and looking deep in thought. Something about him seemed familiar. Coming to that matter, these days so many people were looking familiar to me.

I turned my gaze to see a pretty receptionist at the reception desk looking at an old movie playing in the television.

"Excuse me, can you call Mr. Mehta?" I asked hesitantly not sure whether I should ask about him as a patient or visitor.

"We have two Mehtas here. Can you please specify?" She asked after checking in the computer. It never occurred to me to ask the old man's first name and I scolded myself for that.

"Well... I don't know his first name but he may be almost eighty." I said praying that it would ring some bells with her.

"You're here for my grandfather?" A voice sounded from behind me and I turned to see who it belonged to. It was the boy who was drinking coffee in the waiting chairs. Up close, I knew why he seemed familiar. Minus the wrinkles, the balding head and the slightly stooping posture, he looked like the old man, Mr.Mehta.

"I think." I said raising the book. "He asked me to get this for him. So, if you may take me to him, I will give this to him."

He looked between the book and me like I had just said the sickest joke in the world.

"When did he say that to you?" He asked his expression one of irritation.

"Yesterday," I said starting to feel offended. I came here out of the goodness of my heart which was very rare for me. I didn't want to be treated like a street rat by a boy who was barely older than me. He might have caught the anger in my expression so he backed off.

"That's not possible. There was some misunderstanding." He said shaking his head.

"Oh. Come on. Just take me to your grandfather. He will then tell you who I am." I said. He nodded after a few seconds of hesitation. I followed him into an elevator to the fifth floor. Comatose section the red letters on the white board read. I stopped outside while the boy entered the section casually. What were we doing here?

"Come on." The boy called standing in front of one of the doors in the hallway. I felt like my feet are glued to the floor but I finally gave in and followed him. He opened the door and the cool air from the air conditioner hit me numbing my skin. The room was bathed in a soft incandescent glow. The boy approached the figure under the sheets sleeping on the bed.

"He's my grandfather." He said turning to face me, "He has been in coma for a year now. He couldn't ask you for a book."

I still stood by the door now sure he was not the old man I was looking for. He must be the other Mehta. I met the man yesterday for God's sake. He couldn't be in coma for a year. But it would be rude and weird to run out now without looking at him. So, I slowly approached the bed telling myself this would be just another old man. The resemblances in the boy's face must be an optical illusion. But what I saw on the bed made shivers run down my spine and it had nothing to do with the air conditioner.

There he was, the old man who talked to me yesterday evening now sleeping like he never stepped through the doors of the store. There were so many wires and machines attached to his body that he looked like a futuristic merge of robots and humans. I couldn't wrap my head around what was I seeing.

"He was here for a year? You are not kidding?" I asked the boy for the sake of my sanity.

"Yes, as solid as a rock." He said gravely not a hint of fun in his voice. Then I said something which I couldn't understand why I said.

"Can I read it to him?" I asked gesturing towards the book, "You can be here if you are suspicious."

I didn't know what he thought; the boy whose name I later realized was Ram. But he agreed to let me read.

From that day on wards, every evening after my shift, I read the book to the old man who was as well as dead in all aspects except for the ECG machine by his bed side. Sometimes Ram was there, listening to the story I was reading and sometimes it was the allotted caretaker who was always half asleep. This went on until the day the book was finished and the ECG machine showed a straight line indicating that Mr. Mehta was truly dead. There was Ram with me in the room on that day. He escorted me out of the hospital before calling his parents not wanting to explain my presence to them.

I quit the job after that incident. I couldn't work there without thinking about the old man and thus losing my mind over it.

Ram was my senior at the school and we realized it after his grandfather's death. We talked a lot about him but never about the weird way I had met him. I guess we were both frightened to do that.

"I didn't want to believe you at first, you know." He said one day when we met at a coffee shop after school, "But I knew it was true. I looked at your face when you saw my grandfather and the way he died as soon as the book was over. I don't know what to think."

But I knew we both came to the same conclusion. Mr. Mehta loved reading so much that he somehow crossed the barriers to hear the end of a story. Ram and I stopped meeting after sometime. I guess we both wanted to forget about it and pretend like it never happened. But I never forgot and I bet he didn't too.

To this day, I can't look at bookstores and old people who are reading books without a shiver running through my spine and certain glassy eyed old man appearing in my mind.