I studied only up to elementary school but books taught me everything I needed to know.  Narra Jagan Mohan Rao 

kiranmai tutika  I amaravati

Take a quiet turn from the busy Lenin Centre in Vijayawada, and walk towards the north of the CRDA office. The traffic fades away, replaced by the faint, musty perfume of old paper and timeworn wisdom. On this small street, nestled among aging buildings, stands a modest bookshop with a sign that reads “Prachinaandhra Grandhamala” and “Amaravati Gradhamala”.

Inside the shop, surrounded by leaning towers of worn-out books, sits Narra Jagan Mohan Rao — a 72-year-old man whose love for literature has not only shaped his life but also safeguarded the literary heritage of Andhra Pradesh.

“I studied only up to elementary school but books taught me everything I needed to know.” He once tried his luck in the hotel business, only to face losses that would have broken the spirit of many. But for Jagan, that failure was the beginning of something far more meaningful. “I looked at the hundreds of books I had collected over the years and thought—this is my wealth. Why not share it with others?” he recalls. And so, Praachinaandhra Grandhamala was born.

This is no ordinary bookshop. It is a temple for literature lovers, a sanctuary for rare Telugu texts, and a meeting place for the nostalgic, the curious, and the committed readers of the past. From long-lost Telugu classics to rare, out-of-print literary gems, Jagan's shelves whisper stories that might have otherwise vanished into oblivion.

Ask any regular here and they’ll tell you—Jagan isn’t a bookseller. He’s a curator of history, a guardian of letters. If a customer is looking for a particular book, he notes it down. When it lands in his hands—sometimes months later—he gives them a call. “People don’t bargain here, they cherish the books they buy and find it hard to leave the stall,” says Teja, a customer. There’s no marketing, no flashy signboards, no digital catalogues. Just Jagan, his books, and the scent of stories waiting to be rediscovered.

His shop has become a lifeline for students and literature lovers who cannot afford new books. “I only deal in used books,” he says. “And many youngsters roam the streets on bikes, collecting old books from households and selling them to me. It gives them some money—and keeps books alive.” Jagan doesn’t earn much, but he has enough to eat and live with dignity. “I never applied for a pension. I never asked for land from the government,” he says simply. “Books gave me everything.”

Today, he worries about the future of reading. “People don’t read the way they used to. Now, they search for a few pages on Google and move on. The depth is lost.” He fears that, with the decline of libraries and reading habits, language itself is slipping through the cracks. Even so, he continues his mission. His wife occasionally visits the shop and sits quietly beside him. “She waits until we go home together,” he says with a gentle laugh.

Jagan hopes that every school in Andhra Pradesh will have a library, and he was heartened to hear that Education Minister Nara Lokesh is supporting that idea. He also hopes the government will take initiative to reprint rare Telugu books and preserve literary treasures that are at risk of being forgotten. For the casual visitor, this may look like just another used bookshop tucked away in a quiet lane. But sit down, speak with Jagan, and you’ll walk away with more than a book—you’ll carry the memory of a man who turned his love for literature into a lifetime of quiet, powerful service.

In an era of fleeting digital content and vanishing attention spans, Narra Jagan Mohan Rao stands as a reminder that words, when cherished, never grow old. If you’re ever in Vijayawada, follow the scent of old paper near Lenin Centre. You might just find more than a book—you might find a story waiting to be told.