Saba Khan was five when she first began borrowing comic books from a neighborhood kirana shop in Bagh Dilkusha on the outskirts of Bhopal. She would thumb through Chacha Chaudhary and Natraj comics for one rupee an hour, racing against time to finish them before returning the worn-out copies. “I would finish them in a few minutes!” she recalls with the same excitement she felt as a child. But even then, a question gnawed at her — why should anyone pay to read?
It was a question that lingered, even as Saba ’s life unraveled around her. An accident involving her parents and other setbacks led to her dropping out in Class 8. Yet, her love for books never wavered.
Dropout runs libraries
At the age of 14, Saba started her first free library in Bagh Farahat Afza. It was a modest setup where children from the community would gather to read. “Khud school nahi jaati aur doosron ko padhati hai (she doesn’t go to school but wants to teach others!),” the neighborhood gossiped. She wasn’t fazed. Every evening, that library — nothing more than a small, dimly lit room — came alive with young readers eager to escape into a world of stories.
Last month in October, walking with Saba into the lanes of Bhopal’s Gandi Basti, also known as PC Nagar, was like stepping into a hidden pocket of Bhopal. The lanes were narrow but clean, lined with modest homes. With its tin roof, the makeshift library stood out against the modest surroundings. The walls were alive with colourful handmade newsletters and posters crafted by the children who visited regularly. Each poster spoke of the library’s impact, from quotes about books to childlike drawings of imagined worlds.
Saba doesn’t just build libraries; she grooms the young librarians who run them, teaching them to nurture a community of readers. “The kids borrow books, go home, and start their own mini-libraries,” she says, smiling. One of them is Zoya , now 23, who started coming to the library as a curious 11-year-old. She now manages the PC Nagar library. Meanwhile, Saba’s work has expanded to a dozen libraries around Bhopal. Communities offered her spaces to run them. “On rainy days, families make sure the books stay dry, even if the rest of their house gets wet,” Saba tells me.
This year, out of 56 applicants, 22 girls will head to college through the Savitri Bai-Fatima Shaikh fellowships offered by Saba’s network of libraries.
Saba Khan is not alone in her quiet revolution. Across India, librarians like her are transforming the act of reading into something radical, something cool. From the small towns of Maharashtra to the rural corners of Karnataka, these librarians — many of them women — are reimagining what it means to hold a book, share knowledge, and bring communities together through the power of stories.
Goa model in Karnataka
During the Covid-19 pandemic, when schools all over India were closed, Nita Luthria , founder of the Adhyayan Foundation, started a Read-Aloud program in Goa to help children continue learning in a time of uncertainty. “The read-aloud creates a positive relationship with books and reading, especially for children from lower socio-economic backgrounds who tend not to have much exposure to books beyond textbooks,” says Nita .
A tweet about this program caught the attention of Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta, additional chief secretary, Panchayat Raj, in Karnataka. She invited Adhyayan to pilot the program in gram panchayat libraries across two districts. The initiative has now spread to 6,000 gram panchayat libraries across Karnataka. Many rely on them to prepare for competitive exams as well. Adhyayan Foundation, backed by EkStep’s Bachpan Manao, trains library supervisors to lead read-aloud sessions, shifting their role from bookkeepers to community leaders.
In Galibeedu, Yashoda has noticed the shift in the library’s atmosphere since receiving training. “Before, the children would just hang around,” she recalls. “But now we have conversations. They ask questions, and we find answers together. I feel like I know how to engage with them.” This newfound connection between librarian and child has transformed the library from a passive space into a dynamic center of learning and dialogue.
One story that stands out is that of Philomina, a teenage girl with a physical disability who was frustrated by her circumstances and disconnected from her studies. Her mother, who was struggling to manage her temper, confided in Padmavathi, the gram panchayat librarian of Nerugalale in Karnataka’s Kodagu district.
Padmavathi began visiting the girl weekly, reading aloud to her in the comfort of her home. Slowly, these sessions became the highlight of the girl’s week. “Her mother said the girl had become happier thanks to those visits,” Nita shares.
The reading aloud movement is shaping not just children, but also the librarians. Once unnoticed, they are now treated with respect and greeted warmly in their villages. “Children knock on their doors even when the library is closed,” she says. Librarians are even invited as guests of honour at village functions.
Working across rural libraries in Kodagu, Varsha Vijaya Kumar , project manager for the Karnataka Read-Aloud Program at Adhyayan, admits there are challenges as well. Libraries often lack basic amenities like toilets, and in some areas, child marriages and poverty compound the struggle, making it difficult to convince families of the importance of reading and learning for girls. “There are days when I lose hope,” Varsha admits. “But then, I erase it all from my memory and start fresh the next day.”
Changing lives with stories
In Kalyan, Maharashtra, co-founder of non-profit SAJAG, Sajitha S K runs complementary learning centres and a library for children of urban communities who struggle with keeping up at school. The Enread programme at her library has become a tool for societal change. Last year, she held a reading of ‘ Mera Naam Gulab Hai ’ (My Name is Gulab), a story about a young girl confronting the injustice of her father’s work as a manual scavenger. The book by Sagar Kolvankar resonated deeply with the children, sparking a discussion on the dignity of labour.
“The children realised the unfairness of the stigma attached to Gulab’s family,” says Sajitha. “They began to see that change is possible, and they could be part of it.” After reading My Name is Gulab, children in her community began practising waste segregation and even role-playing tasks once seen as shameful.
The storyteller of Tumkur
In Tumkur, Karnataka, Vijiamma, who had once dreamed of becoming a lawyer, found her calling in the pages of the Ammanghata gram panchayat library. For 16 years, she managed the library, but it wasn’t until 2019, after she received training in the read-aloud program, that she truly found her voice as a storyteller.
Now, it’s not just children who flock to the library. Narasimha Raju , a visually impaired farm worker, is a regular weekend visitor. After long days in the fields, Narasimha finds solace in reading. Vijiamma’s library offers a collection of Braille books — about a dozen in total — which have become a sanctuary for him. “After a week of farm work, reading is a stress buster for me,” Narasimha says.
Connecting the dots
As Saba looks back, her thoughts turn to her mother who passed away a month ago. Growing up, she felt embarrassed that her parents were labourers instead of having ‘normal’ jobs. “Now, I feel ashamed that I ever felt that way,” she admits.Her mother didn’t fully grasp what NGOs were, but she proudly told others, “Meri beti bachchiyon ko kitaabon ke zariye taleem se jodne ka kaam karti hai (she helps connect girls to education through books).”
Saba recalls an instance when girls from the Mehtar community were denied admission to a local school because of their caste. The teachers dismissed the girls as unworthy of education. “Their homes are so dirty,” the teachers at nearby Kasturba School scoffed. With Saba and the educators’ support, the girls returned to school the next day, demanding their right to study. The library had become more than just a place to read — it had become a place for fighting back against injustice.
It was a question that lingered, even as Saba ’s life unraveled around her. An accident involving her parents and other setbacks led to her dropping out in Class 8. Yet, her love for books never wavered.
Dropout runs libraries
At the age of 14, Saba started her first free library in Bagh Farahat Afza. It was a modest setup where children from the community would gather to read. “Khud school nahi jaati aur doosron ko padhati hai (she doesn’t go to school but wants to teach others!),” the neighborhood gossiped. She wasn’t fazed. Every evening, that library — nothing more than a small, dimly lit room — came alive with young readers eager to escape into a world of stories.
Last month in October, walking with Saba into the lanes of Bhopal’s Gandi Basti, also known as PC Nagar, was like stepping into a hidden pocket of Bhopal. The lanes were narrow but clean, lined with modest homes. With its tin roof, the makeshift library stood out against the modest surroundings. The walls were alive with colourful handmade newsletters and posters crafted by the children who visited regularly. Each poster spoke of the library’s impact, from quotes about books to childlike drawings of imagined worlds.
Saba doesn’t just build libraries; she grooms the young librarians who run them, teaching them to nurture a community of readers. “The kids borrow books, go home, and start their own mini-libraries,” she says, smiling. One of them is Zoya , now 23, who started coming to the library as a curious 11-year-old. She now manages the PC Nagar library. Meanwhile, Saba’s work has expanded to a dozen libraries around Bhopal. Communities offered her spaces to run them. “On rainy days, families make sure the books stay dry, even if the rest of their house gets wet,” Saba tells me.
This year, out of 56 applicants, 22 girls will head to college through the Savitri Bai-Fatima Shaikh fellowships offered by Saba’s network of libraries.
Saba Khan is not alone in her quiet revolution. Across India, librarians like her are transforming the act of reading into something radical, something cool. From the small towns of Maharashtra to the rural corners of Karnataka, these librarians — many of them women — are reimagining what it means to hold a book, share knowledge, and bring communities together through the power of stories.
Goa model in Karnataka
During the Covid-19 pandemic, when schools all over India were closed, Nita Luthria , founder of the Adhyayan Foundation, started a Read-Aloud program in Goa to help children continue learning in a time of uncertainty. “The read-aloud creates a positive relationship with books and reading, especially for children from lower socio-economic backgrounds who tend not to have much exposure to books beyond textbooks,” says Nita .
A tweet about this program caught the attention of Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta, additional chief secretary, Panchayat Raj, in Karnataka. She invited Adhyayan to pilot the program in gram panchayat libraries across two districts. The initiative has now spread to 6,000 gram panchayat libraries across Karnataka. Many rely on them to prepare for competitive exams as well. Adhyayan Foundation, backed by EkStep’s Bachpan Manao, trains library supervisors to lead read-aloud sessions, shifting their role from bookkeepers to community leaders.
In Galibeedu, Yashoda has noticed the shift in the library’s atmosphere since receiving training. “Before, the children would just hang around,” she recalls. “But now we have conversations. They ask questions, and we find answers together. I feel like I know how to engage with them.” This newfound connection between librarian and child has transformed the library from a passive space into a dynamic center of learning and dialogue.
One story that stands out is that of Philomina, a teenage girl with a physical disability who was frustrated by her circumstances and disconnected from her studies. Her mother, who was struggling to manage her temper, confided in Padmavathi, the gram panchayat librarian of Nerugalale in Karnataka’s Kodagu district.
Padmavathi began visiting the girl weekly, reading aloud to her in the comfort of her home. Slowly, these sessions became the highlight of the girl’s week. “Her mother said the girl had become happier thanks to those visits,” Nita shares.
The reading aloud movement is shaping not just children, but also the librarians. Once unnoticed, they are now treated with respect and greeted warmly in their villages. “Children knock on their doors even when the library is closed,” she says. Librarians are even invited as guests of honour at village functions.
Working across rural libraries in Kodagu, Varsha Vijaya Kumar , project manager for the Karnataka Read-Aloud Program at Adhyayan, admits there are challenges as well. Libraries often lack basic amenities like toilets, and in some areas, child marriages and poverty compound the struggle, making it difficult to convince families of the importance of reading and learning for girls. “There are days when I lose hope,” Varsha admits. “But then, I erase it all from my memory and start fresh the next day.”
Changing lives with stories
In Kalyan, Maharashtra, co-founder of non-profit SAJAG, Sajitha S K runs complementary learning centres and a library for children of urban communities who struggle with keeping up at school. The Enread programme at her library has become a tool for societal change. Last year, she held a reading of ‘ Mera Naam Gulab Hai ’ (My Name is Gulab), a story about a young girl confronting the injustice of her father’s work as a manual scavenger. The book by Sagar Kolvankar resonated deeply with the children, sparking a discussion on the dignity of labour.
“The children realised the unfairness of the stigma attached to Gulab’s family,” says Sajitha. “They began to see that change is possible, and they could be part of it.” After reading My Name is Gulab, children in her community began practising waste segregation and even role-playing tasks once seen as shameful.
The storyteller of Tumkur
In Tumkur, Karnataka, Vijiamma, who had once dreamed of becoming a lawyer, found her calling in the pages of the Ammanghata gram panchayat library. For 16 years, she managed the library, but it wasn’t until 2019, after she received training in the read-aloud program, that she truly found her voice as a storyteller.
Now, it’s not just children who flock to the library. Narasimha Raju , a visually impaired farm worker, is a regular weekend visitor. After long days in the fields, Narasimha finds solace in reading. Vijiamma’s library offers a collection of Braille books — about a dozen in total — which have become a sanctuary for him. “After a week of farm work, reading is a stress buster for me,” Narasimha says.
Connecting the dots
As Saba looks back, her thoughts turn to her mother who passed away a month ago. Growing up, she felt embarrassed that her parents were labourers instead of having ‘normal’ jobs. “Now, I feel ashamed that I ever felt that way,” she admits.Her mother didn’t fully grasp what NGOs were, but she proudly told others, “Meri beti bachchiyon ko kitaabon ke zariye taleem se jodne ka kaam karti hai (she helps connect girls to education through books).”
Saba recalls an instance when girls from the Mehtar community were denied admission to a local school because of their caste. The teachers dismissed the girls as unworthy of education. “Their homes are so dirty,” the teachers at nearby Kasturba School scoffed. With Saba and the educators’ support, the girls returned to school the next day, demanding their right to study. The library had become more than just a place to read — it had become a place for fighting back against injustice.
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