The Book That Made Me Love Reading

I never liked books.

Growing up, books were nothing but a burden to me. They were heavy, boring, and always connected to school, homework, and exams. Reading felt like a punishment—a painful task forced upon me by teachers who thought it would “shape my future.”

I didn’t believe that.

I believed life was meant to be lived outside—in the playground, in the streets, in the fresh air—not stuck inside staring at pages filled with words I didn’t care about.

Books were not my friends.

But life, as it often does, had a surprise waiting for me.

One lazy afternoon, my friend and I were playing football on the street. The narrow lanes of our neighborhood were our stadium, and we kicked the ball with all the energy two restless kids could carry. With one hard shot, the ball flew off my foot and rolled into an old, dusty corner of a nearby market.

It landed right inside a small, forgotten second-hand bookshop.

I chased after it.

When I stepped inside, it felt like I had entered another world—a place stacked with books of all sizes and ages, their pages yellowed, their covers faded. Dust floated in the sunlight that slipped through the half-broken windows. The shop smelled like old paper and memories.

I spotted the ball stuck between two wooden crates. As I reached for it, my eyes accidentally fell on a book right next to it. The title caught me off guard.

It read: “Why You Should Fall in Love with Reading.”

I don’t know why, but I froze. It felt like the book was talking to me.

I picked it up out of pure curiosity. The cover was torn, the edges were rough, but something about it made me pause.

The shopkeeper, an old man with thick glasses, smiled and said,

“That one? You can have it for five rupees. No one ever buys that.”

I shrugged.

“I don’t read,” I said honestly.

He laughed softly, as if he had heard that a thousand times.

“Neither did I when I was your age,” he replied. “But that book changed my life. Maybe it will change yours too.”

I don’t know what pushed me, but I bought it. Maybe because I felt like I owed it to the old man. Maybe because something in me was curious.

That night, I casually opened the book before going to sleep. I wasn’t expecting anything. I thought I’d read a page or two and then toss it aside like every other schoolbook I ignored.

But it was different.

The book spoke directly to people like me—the ones who didn’t like reading. It explained why books weren’t meant to feel like a punishment. It said books are windows, not walls. They can take you to places you’ve never been, introduce you to people you’ve never met, and teach you things you’ve never imagined.

The words weren’t heavy. They weren’t complicated. They were soft, almost like a friend gently talking to you.

I found myself turning the pages. I read about the magic of stories, about people who had changed their lives just by reading the right book at the right time. I read how books could teach you things even the best schools might miss—like kindness, patience, curiosity, and dreaming big.

I was hooked.

For the first time in my life, I stayed awake late into the night not to scroll on my phone, not to watch TV—but to finish a book.

The next morning, something inside me had shifted.

Instead of heading to the football field right away, I went back to that dusty bookshop. The old man looked up, surprised to see me again.

“I finished it,” I told him.

He smiled knowingly and handed me another book.

“This one’s on the house,” he said.

That became my routine.

Every few days, I would return to the shop, and he would recommend another book. Sometimes it was a story, sometimes a biography, sometimes a motivational book. I started discovering how much fun it was to explore new ideas, visit new worlds, and meet characters who stayed with me long after I closed the book.

Reading, I realized, was not just about gathering information. It was about feeling connected to something bigger.

Slowly, my habits changed.

At school, I found it easier to understand my lessons. I could read faster, think deeper, and remember things better. My grades improved—not because I forced myself, but because I genuinely wanted to learn.

My parents noticed the change.

“You’ve become quieter these days,” my mother said one evening.

“I’m just reading,” I replied.

She smiled but didn’t understand what was really happening inside me. I was falling in love—with books, with learning, with the beauty of stories.

Reading didn’t just make me smarter. It made me more patient, more curious, more open-minded. I started asking bigger questions about life, about people, about what I wanted to do in the future.

I realized the books were shaping me.

Years passed, but my love for books only grew stronger. That tiny, forgotten bookshop became my second home. The old man became like a mentor to me. He never charged me much—sometimes he didn’t take money at all. He just wanted to see me read.

One day, when I was much older, I went back to visit the shop only to find it empty. The shopkeeper had passed away. The shelves were gone, the dust had settled, but the memories remained.

I still carry the first book I bought from him—the one that changed everything. Its cover is even more worn now, but to me, it’s priceless.

People often ask me,

“How did you start reading? What made you love books so much?”

I always smile and tell them the same thing:

“Sometimes, one random book finds you at the right moment. You don’t choose it—it chooses you.”

Final Thought

Books are not just paper and ink. They are doors.

And sometimes, you open the right door without even realizing it.

We often ignore books because we think they’re boring or old-fashioned. But sometimes, the smallest book, sitting quietly in the corner of a dusty shop, holds the key to changing your entire life.

My life changed because I gave one book a chance.Maybe yours will too.