Kohima, Nagaland: At just 23, a member of the Rengma community and a recent master’s graduate of Tetso College, Hechuya Magh has come to understand reading less as an exercise in accumulation and more as a way of locating herself within the world. What began as a simple interest slowly became, in her words, “a way of understanding both myself and the world around me.” Books, she says, “have been my companions through quiet moments, difficult days, and new beginnings,” offering not only comfort and perspective, but also “the reassurance that every emotion we experience has already been felt and beautifully expressed by someone else.”
For Magh, the number 66 was never meant to become a literary achievement. It was simply the number of books she happened to check out while moving through the familiar rhythm of academic reading, curiosity, pleasure and leisure. Yet, much later, the same reader would return to the library as a special guest to launch a new wing—an almost fitting continuation to a relationship that had begun with nothing more deliberate than the impulse to pick up another book.
Perhaps that is why the story of the 66 books is more meaningful when the number itself is taken out of the equation. According to Maonglemla Jamir, Assistant Librarian/Information Scientist at Tetso Library, who has been working at the college for six years, the library has, during that time, grown into a collection of approximately 16,000 books, alongside print journals, magazines, newspapers and electronic resources including NDLI, DSpace and Shodhgangotri. The newer facility now adds a dedicated reading room, an Indigenous Study Centre and technology-enabled services such as RFID circulation and biometric monitoring of library footfall.
It is against this institutional backdrop that Hechuya’s 66 checkouts become significant. Jamir describes her as “an exemplary library user” who demonstrated “consistency, responsibility, curiosity, and a genuine passion for learning” throughout her master’s programme. She was not simply using the library to complete academic requirements, but also to “broaden her knowledge and explore diverse areas of interest.” That also explains why the library chose Magh to inaugurate its new facility. Rather than treating the occasion as one requiring an external dignitary, the library placed a reader at the centre of a space created for readers. As Jamir puts it, the intention was to remind students that “a library is not defined merely by its books, infrastructure, or facilities, but by the readers who use and value it.”
“I never consciously set out to check out 66 books as a TBR challenge,” Magh says, explaining that the reading grew naturally through her research studies, personal interest and leisure. As an English major, much of the academic reading came with the territory, but she remained someone who “wanders beyond the prescribed reading list.” A title could catch her attention from a library shelf and find its way into the next reading list before she had much reason to justify the choice.
“The number is less about how many books I checked out and more about the kind of relationship I developed with the library during my time as a student.”
It factors in what many would say are “books to read instead of doomscrolling,” which feels daunting because what we experience now is an odd psychotic state of mind—I need to grow followers, create my voice, but also flaunt what is fed into your system. Let alone amidst all the happening Substack essayists who garner an audience—“so I took the much-needed break,” or “that new hobby to pick to be less around the internet”—but which of us really succeeds in terms of the metrics that are being talked about.
The Books Market size is expected to grow from USD 131.23 billion in 2025 to USD 135.49 billion in 2026 and is forecast to reach USD 157.88 billion by 2031, with a 3.11% CAGR over 2026–2031. Continued demand for printed titles, rapid adoption of audiobooks, and the rise of subscription reading platforms are shaping revenue prospects. Format preferences are fragmenting as commuters favour audio, younger readers adopt e-books, and collectors seek premium hardbacks. Publishers are sharpening omnichannel distribution, expanding direct-to-consumer storefronts, and experimenting with AI-enabled production to offset shrinking brick-and-mortar shelf space. Regionally, Asia-Pacific leads sales, the Middle East and Africa post the fastest growth, and Latin America benefits from government literacy drives. Across every region, piracy, paper shortages, and VAT inconsistencies temper momentum but also drive operational innovation (mordorintelligence.com).
The Asia-Pacific alone is estimated to grow at the highest CAGR over the forecast period (2026–2031) at 4.13%, with the Asia-Pacific accounting for the largest market share in the Books Market in 2025 at 36.66%.
So when someone says, “Books feel like a waste of time,” it helps to hear what else they might mean. Also, it is wrong to blame the reducing metrics as a thing about a generation, as Huy Nguyen wrote in his essay The Disappearing Habit of Reading Books: On Reading Stamina, Excerpt Culture, and the New Embarrassment of Being Slow, and how Nguyen justifies it:
“If we want books to matter again, we can’t only say ‘you should read.’ That line has been said for centuries. It has never been enough. We have to make reading feel like a reasonable way to live. We have to give it social permission and build real time around it and not limit it to moral of it.
For Magh, the beginning of a reading experience is often instinctive. “I think the cover is only the first invitation,” she says. “What ultimately makes me stay is the writing, the subject, and whether the book speaks to me in some way.” She confidently admits to having “developed a kind of instinct over time,” and, “I have learned to trust mine.”
She particularly finds poetry the place where the same poem can appear distant at one stage of life and deeply personal at another. Magh confesses before arriving at one of the more quietly perceptive observations in her interview: “we often change more than books do.”
It is perhaps this belief that makes rereading such an important part of her literary life. To return to a book is not merely to revisit its words, but to test what has changed in the person reading them.
The most meaningful books in Magh’s collection are not always the most pristine, as she would say. Rithvik Singh’s Warmth is the book she has annotated the most, with several lines and passages marked because they resonated with her at different points in her life. Another book she frequently revisits is Elongshila Jamir’s It Ends to Begin Again, whose pages also carry the traces of her reading through annotations and folded corners, further stating, “A well-loved copy of my favourite books is slowly becoming worn out from all the page-turning and revisiting,” she says. And rather than seeing this as a sign of neglect, she regards those worn pages as a kind of record.
Many readers would relate to it aptly as “material intimacy” here, which is increasingly absent from the language of digital reading. Which is also why she would hesitate to lend a book that carries strong sentimental value or extensive annotations. It is not merely the possibility of losing the object. It is the possibility of parting, however temporarily, with something that holds personal memory.
Poetry, naturally, remains central to this relationship that Magh has found. It absolutely leaves so little to judge and yet returns a feeling of fulfilment should she be asked what a book may be about. Well, at least I felt that way, or perhaps neither of us gives ourselves away too much despite being mouthful about the literature aspect. Rally, for me as the interviewer, to meet the other person whose story is not a violation of a non-fictional name we may both be aware of, and I retract back to the first impression she set on the news update I’d stumbled on while thinking if a possible story was achievable. Brevity—so did her picks on her poetry readings that she likens to “the language to understand” emotions that are difficult to articulate.
When asked if she was open to book loaning or the “here to know me” trend, she’s rather selfish—the reasons held best by the justification that “a book that has strong sentimental value to me or one that I have personally annotated extensively. It is not necessarily because I don’t trust my friends; it is simply because some books become too personal to part with.”
Among contemporary writers who have remained with her are Rupi Kaur, particularly Milk and Honey, The Sun and Her Flowers and Home Body; Rithvik Singh’s Warmth, I Don’t Love You Anymore and Thank You for Leaving; and Vaidehi Prajapati’s It’s Ok to Grieve. Yet her reading life does not remain confined to contemporary poetry from beyond the region.
She repeatedly returns to Naga voices: Vishü Rita Krocha’s Yearning and From the Broken Earth, Aduo Solo’s My Dream Girl, and Renthunglo Tungoe’s Wild Flower. She also takes particular interest in young and emerging Naga writers, whose work, she feels, deserves the opportunity to be read beyond familiar circles. If three books had to be placed before a reader wanting to understand her literary taste, Magh would choose Warmth, It’s Ok to Grieve and Sedenguno Lhousa’s Poetry Like Pineapple.
The choice perhaps gives away more than a list of favourites ever could. The first reflects her attraction to intimate and emotionally vulnerable writing. The second speaks to her sustained interest in grief, healing and the difficult work of living alongside pain. The third connects her to Naga literature and to experiences that feel culturally closer to home.
Her academic journey introduced her to another set of writers—Salman Rushdie, Chinua Achebe, Kamala Das and Nissim Ezekiel—while personal reading allowed her to discover poets whose words reflected emotions she had not always known how to articulate herself. I think what’s applaudable is her sensible, achievable reading slots and itineraries, even as she admits to a contemplated comfort zone with as little distraction as possible so that she can keep finding the gem after saying she does not jump into review materials with glitzy factors, but makes it as personal as possible.
When asked about the kind of conversation Nagas ought to be asking of literature
Beyond encouraging emerging voices, how would she assess the current state of contemporary Naga literature? Or the kind of conversations Nagas ought to be asking of it? In her reflection, she describes Naga literature as being in “an interesting and important phase,” but believes the next stage should involve a willingness to expand what can be considered worthy of literary attention in order to give it a more distinct critical dimension.
“Cultural identity is important,” she says, “but Naga literature should not feel restricted to only one kind of narrative about being Naga.” What she questions is not the relevance of identity, but its tendency to become a literary expectation. “We should also be able to write about the private life of a generation, the emotional contradictions and the changing aspirations, the forms of grief that do not make it into historical narrative”
Of course, there is an expectation that a particular, focused group must be written about and explained time and again through a hierarchy of history, landscape, spirituality or collective memory, but Magh does not dismiss those subjects. Instead, she asks whether they are sufficient on their own. And perhaps her sharpest formulation is the one she reserves for the future: The argument is not for Naga literature to become less Naga in order to become more widely read. Rather, it is for the literature to trust that specificity can travel.
In her own definition of what Naga literary space could be, albeit that the state has a strong quality of writers, stronger publishing networks, digital platforms and wider critical engagement could help them reach a broader readership. However, international recognition should not be the only measure of literary value. The priority should be to create honest and meaningful literature that speaks both to our own communities and beyond them.
The library’s own understanding of reading appears to move in a similar direction. Jamir believes student readers should be part of conversations “that go beyond books and academic requirements”—from critical thinking and information literacy to research ethics, responsible use of AI, culture and contemporary issues. Through its Book Club, Story Swap workshops and participation in literature festivals, the library is attempting to make reading a shared activity rather than a private academic exercise.
The library’s reach, however, is not limited to the college community. Jamir says outsiders and other interested readers may also access the library by enrolling as members, subject to the applicable membership rules and policies. “We believe that knowledge should be accessible to everyone,” she says, adding that the aim is to make the library a welcoming space that nurtures curiosity, encourages reading and inspires lifelong learning.
Magh’s own experience with literature also complicates the stereotype of the bookworm as someone who prefers books because ordinary conversation feels less available. It is also the principle behind her Bookstagram reviews. She is interested in stirring interest to discuss the emotions, reflections and lessons rather than a summary breakdown of the plot. That conversation is also why she resists simple judgments about literature and its creators. On whether art can be separated from the artist (writers such as Albert Camus, Francis Bacon, or even George Orwell) who in recent debates have had aspects of their personal lives questioned or criticised, Magh admits, “I think it’s complicated.” She believes a work can retain value beyond its creator, while acknowledging that knowledge of an author’s conduct inevitably alters the way readers interpret what has been written.
“For me, the question is not always about completely separating or completely merging the two. It is about being able to hold both perspectives at once,” which ultimately suggests that two truths can coexist without one having to erase the other. What she emphasises is the anchoring challenge of being “willing to engage with complexity rather than reducing every discussion to a simple yes or no answer,” while saying, “knowing the context in which it was written can sometimes reveal additional layers of meaning. At the same time, I believe readers should be allowed to bring their own experiences to a text.”
The reader who may one day write
For now, Magh is certain of one thing: she intends to remain a lifelong reader. But reading for long enough inevitably creates another question. What happens when the person who has spent years receiving stories begins to give in to the desire to be heard? Or rather, to be open to critics. Is it a stereotypical complexion when she confesses to authoring a book? Maybe not—even the most popular Japanese writer, Haruki Murakami, was also a lifelong learner and had been involved with translation works before unlocking that he could pen very unique content, which has, to date, sold over 150 million worldwide. Not because what she will write would be a pure noble concept, adding, “I don’t yet know whether it would take the form of poetry, essays, or fiction, but I would want it to carry a perspective that is uniquely mine. For now, I am happy to remain a reader, trusting that perhaps, in time, all these years of reading will teach me what I have to say of my own.”
Which brings the story, rather neatly, back to the library.
The 60+ books were never a challenge, and perhaps that is precisely why they matter. They were not collected for display, but encountered in the course of becoming someone who reads. The library, as a space, enabled her to wander beyond the prescribed list, and all of it, together, towards a larger literary question.
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