ziz had always believed that books fell in two categories: the textbooks his teacher asked him to wrap in brown paper; and the two storybooks he guarded fiercely, like a snake at his home. In Turbat, his hometown, books were treated with great reverence because there were few of them. There were only a few bookstores in the street nearby, and they stocked only textbooks, guides, dictionaries, and a small collection of storybooks. Aziz had bought and repeatedly read every book to the extent that he knew the books by heart.

Aziz had never seen Karachi, unlike his elder brother, who had studied at the Karachi University.

On a chilly day, as the wind gusted fiercely, Aziz’s father announced that the entire family would spend the winter vacation in Karachi. Aziz was flabbergasted. He looked forward to many things: the cool breeze; tall buildings; and Lyari, which he had seen in movies. But he had never imagined that the best part of his visit would be a street flooded with books.

On a cool Thursday morning, Aziz and his elder brother decided to go window shopping. Dressed in his winter Balochi shawl, they stepped into Urdu Bazaar. The moment they entered, he paused. He had never seen so many books.

He felt like the world had exploded into books.

There were books everywhere. Both sides of the street were flooded with bookshops and stalls, overflowing with colourful covers. Novels dangled from ropes like festive decorations, and every bookshop was overflowing with titles. Some science books stacked there nearly reached Aziz’s shoulders.

Standing there, Aziz realised how his life in Turbat had been different. He had thought that books were a luxury. But here, people were snapping up books as if buying fruits in a market. In his hometown, he would spend a month searching for a good novel; there in Urdu Bazaar, he could find ten versions of the same book in minutes.

Aziz stared at the street with his mouth wide open.

“Is this... all books?” He whispered to his brother.

His elder brother laughed. “Why not! What did you think Urdu Bazaar was?”

Aziz was unable to respond. He was busy absorbing the sound of flipping pages, the shopkeepers calling out prices, and the smell of ink mixing with the sharp winter breeze.

If a book bazaar can exist in Karachi, why not Turbat? Why not in Gwadar, Panjgur, Khuzdar, Kharan, Awaran or Washuk? Why can’t mobile libraries travel to schools? Why don’t publishers, educators and writers work together to bring diverse reading material to every district?

They stepped into one of the bookshops. There was barely space to stand. The store held books on space, civilisations, poetry, robotics, coding and even guides, on how to make your own telescope. The shopkeeper, an old man with glasses and dyed hair, smiled at him.

“First time in Urdu Bazaar, beta?” He asked sympathetically.

“I never thought so many books existed,” Aziz said with surprise.

The old man chuckled. “Books are stars. Just like you can’t count the stars, you can’t count books.”

Aziz grinned bashfully and grabbed a book on ocean life. The bright picture of a jellyfish and the whales reminded him of Gwadar’s blue waters. Next, he discovered a book about planets, then a crime mystery, and finally, a book about a sharp detective. As his hand reached out, his heart grew.

“How do people choose?” he asked.

“This is the magic of this place,” responded his brother. You don’t know what to choose.”

He then chose a novel, a funny storybook, and another history-oriented book. It didn’t matter to him that they weren’t brand new. To him, they were a treasure—a winter gift to himself. As he held the books in his hands, he felt something new. He realised that the world was far bigger than he had imagined in his small room in Turbat. There were civilisations inside the books he had never heard of; characters he had never met; and ideas he had never dreamed of.

That night, as he lay on his cousin’s rooftop in Gulistan-i-Jauhar under a clear sky, he felt amazed and sad at the same time—amazed to have experienced a sea of knowledge in Urdu Bazaar; and sad knowing that thousands of passionate children in Balochistan could never experience this. He was excited to tell his school friends that a single street in Karachi held more books than entire districts in his province.

Yet, the visit also gave him hope.

If a book bazaar can exist in Karachi, why not Turbat? Why not in Gwadar, Panjgur, Khuzdar, Kharan, Awaran or Washuk? Why can’t mobile libraries travel to schools? Why don’t publishers, educators and writers work together to bring diverse reading material to every district?

That day, Aziz realised that towns don’t need fancy libraries or bookstores; they just need access.

The writer is a freelance contributor based in Turbat, Kech.