At first glance, my bookshelf looks carefully put together. Political science and international relations texts from college sit alongside Marathi literature, a few novels of fiction and romance, and biographies of political leaders. It gives the impression of balance — academic, cultural, and personal — as if each section has been placed there with intention.
But a closer look complicates that impression.
Some of these books have been read carefully, annotated and revisited. Others remain half-finished. A few haven’t been opened at all, bought with the assumption that I would get to them eventually. The shelf still feels like a reflection of me, but not a complete one.
A bookshelf today does not simply show what someone has read; it often reflects what they feel they should have read.
Across conversations with students, this distinction comes up repeatedly. Books are chosen not just for interest, but also for what they represent. Certain titles — political theory, widely discussed non-fiction, or books that circulate heavily online — carry a kind of visible weight. At the same time, other forms of reading remain less foregrounded.
“I read a lot of self-help,” one student said, “but I don’t really mention it.” Another pointed out that while she reads romance regularly, those books rarely make it to the front of her shelf. “They’re there,” she said, “just not where people can see them.”
The difference between what is read and what is displayed isn’t always intentional, but it is consistent enough to notice.
Part of this comes from aspiration. Books are often bought as much for what they promise as for what they offer. Self-help books, in particular, reflect this pattern: not always read fully, but kept, returned to, or simply held on to as markers of self-improvement.
“I buy books when I feel like I need to get my life together,” another student said. “Even if I don’t finish them, I like knowing I have them.”
In this sense, reading isn’t always about completion. It is also about intention.
What makes this more visible today is how reading has moved into public spaces. Social media has turned books into objects that can be arranged, styled, and shared. A bookshelf is no longer just functional; it can be curated. Certain colours, editions, or genres appear more frequently, creating a recognisable aesthetic.
This visibility quietly shapes what people choose to read. A title that appears repeatedly on reels or recommendation lists begins to feel familiar even before it is opened. It gains value not only through reading but through visibility. Over time, this shapes choice — not always consciously, but persistently.
The same logic extends beyond personal spaces. Public figures often appear against bookshelves in interviews or online videos, where the titles in the background are rarely incidental. They tend to signal seriousness, history, politics, and theory, creating an impression before anything is said. In these moments, books function less as texts and more as cues.
“I feel like my bookshelf says something about me,” one student said. “Like people will assume things based on it.”
Those assumptions are part of how bookshelves work now.
Books are rearranged, brought forward, or left out entirely. Some are displayed more prominently; others remain in the background. Over time, the shelf becomes less of a record and more of a selection, shaped by habit, preference, and sometimes hesitation.
Unread books complicate this further. They aren’t simply unfinished tasks; they represent intention. They sit alongside completed books without distinction, suggesting a version of the reader that is still in progress.
A bookshelf holds what has been read, what is being read, and what is yet to be read. It reflects interests, but also ambitions. It includes both familiarity and effort.
And that mix is what makes it revealing.
Not because it offers a precise picture of who someone is, but because it captures something less stable — the space between who they are and who they are trying to become. In that sense, a bookshelf is less a finished portrait and more an ongoing draft.
(Arpita Sonawane is a political science student based in Mumbai who writes about youth culture, media, and everyday political expression. Her work explores how Gen Z navigates identity, language, and social change in contemporary India.)
