If I had to define my life, I would choose to define it not by what I’ve accomplished, but rather by the books I’ve read. I’ve spent my whole life passing from one story to the next. To me, it isn’t a choice to pick up the next book but, rather, a need to consume words. I fall hopelessly in love every time I open a book and then break my own heart the second I turn the page to the author’s acknowledgements. And then, I remedy my heartbreak with the next dose of a good book, falling into this cycle of ups and downs as I search for something that will soothe my craving for another story.
This love for literature started in my early years, when I would forego naptime for a chance with a good book. I would wail as they tore the book away from me, my favorites Frog and Toad or Madeline that I barely understood with my limited English. I just loved to trace the words, especially when my mom read them out to me and my brother.
Out of all the attempts my parents made to teach me English, going as far as taking me to a language center, their willingness to take me to the library was the one that gave me my ability to understand English. The immense New York Public Library system cultivated my love for reading, especially their main location in Manhattan. I would beg my mom for a chance to go there, though we lived a good 40-minute train ride away, and I would max out both my and my brother’s library cards with 50 books on each one. I placed them carefully into the laundry cart that I would force my poor mom to lug back, as the librarians smiled at the stacks that reached far beyond my seven-year-old head. I loved Amelia Bedelia and Geronimo Stilton, as they gave me the courage to speak to my fellow classmates. When I would get in trouble in class, it would not be for speaking while the teacher was teaching but for reading under my desk.
When I moved away from the city, the first thing I did was get a library card. My new library had a smaller selection, but I was determined to get through it. I fell in love with fantasy novels here — a love that I would carry for the rest of my life. I read the entirety of Percy Jackson and Harry Potter, but my favorite was the Septimus Heap series, documenting the adventures of a magical young boy. I gained my confidence in my new school from these books — ones of young people put into these brand new, magical worlds of which they knew nothing.
I continued reading throughout middle school, even when I had to go to India when my grandfather was sick and through the COVID-19 pandemic. In high school, my love for reading translated into other activities. I developed a passion for writing, starting a club to write letters to nursing homes. I volunteered at the library, using my knowledge of books to make lengthy reading lists.
Even as I missed school often for doctor’s appointments, I would spend my time in the waiting room wrapped up in whatever book I could find, expanding the variety of genres that I read. I read fantasy as always, like Kaikeyi — a retelling of the Ramayana — and Strange the Dreamer — the story of a boy exploring a lost city. I read memoirs like Crying in H Mart that brought me to tears. I read Like the Movies and People We Meet on Vacation, falling in love with the cheesy rom-com. I read historical fiction, such as A Thousand Splendid Suns and Half of a Yellow Sun. When it came to writing my college essays, I spent hours talking about my love for reading. For my senior capstone project, I explored culture through fantasy, spending months reading and writing page-long reviews.
And when I got to college, I converted my hobby into my education. The same historical fiction that I read during all those doctor’s appointments inspired me to major in History and Writing Seminars, hoping to write something that satisfies the craving for words endured by fellow story addicts like me.
Reshmita Nayudu is a freshman from Chappaqua, N.Y. studying History and Writing Seminars.
