I still remember the exact pause in the conversation.
“I see a red auto library passing by my house every day,” a member of the AACCL library said to me, almost casually, while we were talking about something else entirely.
That sentence stayed with me. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t polished. But it landed. There was recognition in it, familiarity, even a hint of pride. Something had entered the daily rhythm of the village so quietly that it no longer needed explanation. A red three-wheeler filled with books had become part of the landscape, like the vegetable vendor or the evening walk by the river.
And honestly, hearing that brought me a kind of joy that’s hard to explain without sounding sentimental. But why shouldn’t it? For anyone who believes that libraries are living things, not buildings, that one sentence said everything.
When a library starts moving
Bookworm’s Travelling Autorickshaw Library, lovingly called the Auto Library, is a recent addition, but it already feels older than that. Older in the way something feels when it fits naturally into a place. The idea is simple on paper: take the joy of a rich library collection and the library experience itself into the community of Aldona, in Bardez Taluka. But the reality is much more textured.
This is not a van that drops books and leaves. This is a three-wheeler library that rolls into neighborhoods, stops near homes, schools, and familiar gathering points, and opens its sides to invite people in. It carries over 800 books, a carefully curated collection of children’s literature that caters to all age groups. There’s something deeply Goan about it too. The scale, the color, the pace. It doesn’t overwhelm. It doesn’t announce itself loudly. It just arrives.
The color red and what it signals
People keep mentioning the color. “That red auto.” It’s funny how color becomes memory. Red makes it visible, yes, but it also makes it friendly. It’s not institutional. It doesn’t look like it belongs only to schools or officials. It looks like something that belongs to the street.
One afternoon, I stood a little distance away and watched a child run toward it barefoot, stopping just short, as if unsure whether this thing was real or allowed. Another child followed, then a grandmother, then a parent who pretended they were “just passing by” but ended up flipping through a book anyway. The book which caught this child attended was The Jungle Book . The auto didn’t rush them. It didn’t demand silence or rules right away. It waited.
That waiting is important. Libraries have always been about time, but when you put them on wheels, time becomes even more precious. The auto doesn’t stay forever. There’s a gentle urgency to it. Read now. Browse now. Ask now.
Bringing the library experience, not just books
What makes the Auto Library special isn’t only the number of books, though 800+ titles in a three-wheeler is no small feat. It’s the intention behind it. The objective is not book delivery. It’s a library experience.
That means children are encouraged to choose, not told what to read. It means conversations happen. “You liked this one? Try that.” It means returning a book becomes an event, not a chore. Sometimes children start talking about the story before they even hand the book back.
I have seen a shy child hover at the edge for weeks before finally stepping closer. I have seen children who rarely speak in groups suddenly animated when describing a character they loved. I have seen parents surprised by the kind of books their children choose when given freedom. They choose non-fiction, born books, fantasy books etc.
This is what happens when reading moves out of enclosed spaces and into daily life. It stops being a task and starts being a habit.
Aldona, everyday life, and a moving library
Aldona is not unfamiliar with culture or community spaces, but there are pockets where access still depends on distance, time, and awareness. The Auto Library gently dissolves those barriers. You don’t have to plan a visit. You don’t have to dress up reading as something special. It comes to you.
That’s why that comment mattered so much to me. “I see it passing by my house every day.” Not “I visited it once.” Not “I heard about it.” Seeing it every day means it has become routine. It means children expect it. It means adults notice its absence if it doesn’t come.
One day, a child asked, “where is the auto rickshaw?” because it hadn’t arrived at the usual time. That question alone is proof of belonging.
A personal moment that stays with me
There was one afternoon when a boy picked up a book called Happy Families- Mr Creep The Crook by Allan Ahlberg , flipped through a few pages, and then closed it carefully. I assumed he wasn’t interested. But he looked up and said, “I will take this next time. Today I want a smaller story.”
That kind of decision-making is rare when books are scarce or controlled. The Auto Library gives children permission to choose based on mood, not expectation. Big story today. Small story tomorrow. No pressure.
I walked away thinking about how many of us lost that freedom early. How often reading became about syllabus, levels, or usefulness. Watching it return, quietly, through a red autorickshaw, felt like something healing.
Why this matters more than we say out loud
In a time when attention is fragmented and screens are everywhere, a moving library might sound quaint. But maybe that’s exactly why it works. It doesn’t compete loudly. It offers an alternative. A pause. A physical book handed from one person to another.
The Auto Library doesn’t claim to change lives overnight. It doesn’t need to. It builds familiarity, trust, and curiosity, one stop at a time. It plants the idea that stories are part of everyday life, not a luxury or reward.
And perhaps the biggest success is this: people no longer explain it. They just say, “You know, the red auto library.”
That’s when you know it has arrived.
Blog written by: Melcom Braganza