He chose the library over comfort. He chose preservation over profit.
In a small village near Mysuru, a former bus conductor named Anke Gowda has spent fifty years quietly doing what governments and institutions often promise but rarely deliver: making knowledge free and available to all. By surrendering eighty percent of his income, his house, and ultimately his own comfort to the cause, Gowda built Pustak Mane into a collection of over two million books — now recognized by the Indian state with the Padma Shri. His life is a reminder that civilization's great institutions sometimes begin not with policy or funding, but with a single person who decides, every day for decades, that an idea is worth everything.
- A 75-year-old man who once punched bus tickets has been awarded India's Padma Shri for building the country's largest free library — a collection of over two million books he assembled rupee by rupee across half a century.
- Gowda and his wife still sleep on the library floor and cook their meals in a corner of the building, having sold their home in Mysuru years ago to make space for a collection that refused to stop growing.
- Pustak Mane draws students, researchers, civil service aspirants, and even Supreme Court judges to a village that was once unremarkable — its half-million rare foreign books, five thousand dictionaries, and two-century-old manuscripts now constitute a national resource.
- The library charges nothing, requires no membership, and turns no one away — a model built entirely on personal sacrifice rather than institutional support, grants, or corporate sponsorship.
- With the establishment of the Anke Gowda Jnana Pratishthana Foundation, the work is being secured beyond one man's lifetime, ensuring that Haralahalli remains a living knowledge hub long after its founder is gone.
Anke Gowda is seventy-five years old and lives inside the library he built, sleeping on the floor with his wife in a corner where they also prepare their meals. This year, the Indian government awarded him the Padma Shri — one of the nation's highest civilian honors — for creating Pustak Mane, a free library in Haralahalli village near Mysuru that now holds more than two million books in over twenty languages.
Gowda grew up in a farming family in Mandya district with almost no access to books. A college professor named Anantharamu recognized his hunger for reading and encouraged him to start collecting. At twenty, working as a bus conductor, Gowda began spending his wages on books — and never stopped. Over five decades, he devoted roughly eighty percent of his income to the collection, eventually selling his house in Mysuru to make room for it. He later earned a master's degree in Kannada literature and spent nearly thirty years at a sugar factory, channeling every spare rupee toward the same purpose. His son Sagar joined the effort. His wife Vijayalakshmi moved into the library with him. They live there still.
Pustak Mane charges no fees and requires no membership. Its holdings include more than five hundred thousand rare foreign books, nearly five thousand dictionaries, and manuscripts approaching two centuries old, spanning literature, philosophy, science, and history. Researchers, students, civil service aspirants, and Supreme Court judges have all passed through its doors. A quiet village has become a destination.
What distinguishes Gowda's achievement is not only its scale but its method. He sought no government funding, no grants, no corporate backing. He simply decided, as a young man, that books mattered enough to spend his life on — and renewed that decision every day for fifty years through small, consistent choices about money, space, and comfort. The Padma Shri places him in the category of Unsung Heroes, a designation that honors what he built while barely capturing what it cost him.
Now, as Gowda moves into his later years, the library is being formally organized under the Anke Gowda Jnana Pratishthana Foundation, ensuring the work outlasts him. Haralahalli is no longer simply a village. It has become a place people travel to — for books, for research, and for the quiet inspiration of witnessing a life given entirely to a single, generous idea.
Anke Gowda is seventy-five years old. He lives in a library he built himself, sleeping on the floor with his wife in a corner of the building where they also cook their meals. This year, the Indian government awarded him the Padma Shri, one of the nation's highest civilian honors, for creating Pustak Mane—a free library in Haralahalli village near Mysuru that now holds more than two million books in over twenty languages.
Gowda grew up in Mandya district in a farming family with almost no access to books. During his college years, a professor named Anantharamu noticed his hunger for reading and encouraged him to start collecting. At twenty, while working as a bus conductor, Gowda began spending his own wages on books. He never stopped. Over the next five decades, he devoted roughly eighty percent of his income to acquiring volumes—so much so that he eventually sold his house in Mysuru just to make room for the collection that kept growing.
After his years as a conductor, he earned a master's degree in Kannada literature and worked nearly thirty years at a sugar factory. Every spare rupee went toward books. The collection became his life's work. His son, Sagar, eventually joined him in the effort. His wife, Vijayalakshmi, moved into the library with him. They live there still, maintaining the simplest possible existence so that the books could be preserved and made available.
Pustak Mane operates without membership fees, without admission charges, without barriers. Anyone can walk through the doors and read. The collection includes more than five hundred thousand rare foreign books, nearly five thousand dictionaries, and manuscripts that date back almost two centuries. The subjects span literature, philosophy, science, and history. Researchers come. Students come. Civil service aspirants preparing for competitive exams come. Supreme Court judges have consulted its holdings. The library has become a destination—a quiet village transformed into a place where knowledge lives and is freely given away.
What makes Gowda's achievement remarkable is not just the scale of what he built, but the method. He did not wait for government funding or institutional support. He did not lobby for grants or seek corporate sponsorship. He simply decided, as a young bus conductor, that books mattered enough to spend his life on them. He made that decision every single day for fifty years, in the form of small choices about money and time and space. He chose the library over comfort. He chose preservation over profit.
The Padma Shri recognizes this not as a curiosity or an eccentric hobby, but as a contribution to the nation. The award places Gowda in the category of "Unsung Heroes"—a designation that seems almost to undersell what he has done. He has created a public institution that serves the entire country, that preserves knowledge in multiple languages and forms, that asks nothing of those who use it. He has done this through decades of personal sacrifice, living within the walls of his own creation, organizing and expanding it with his wife and son.
Now, as Gowda enters his later years, the library is being formally organized under the Anke Gowda Jnana Pratishthana Foundation, ensuring that the work continues beyond him. Haralahalli is no longer a quiet village. It has become a place people travel to in search of books, research, and the kind of inspiration that comes from witnessing someone who devoted his entire life to a single, generous idea.
Notable Quotes
The library primarily serves scholars and students but has also become a resource for aspiring civil servants and members of the judiciary, with anyone able to freely walk in, read, and learn without restriction.— Anke Gowda, speaking to Mathrubhumi
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What made him decide, at twenty, that books were worth spending his entire income on?
He had a professor who saw something in him—a hunger for reading that his own childhood had starved. Once someone shows you that hunger can be fed, you don't forget it. He became the person who feeds it for others.
Eighty percent of his income for fifty years. That's not a hobby. That's a vow.
It is. And the remarkable part is that he never framed it as sacrifice. He lived on the floor of his own library. He sold his house. These weren't dramatic gestures—they were just the logical consequences of deciding that the books mattered more than the comfort.
Why do you think Supreme Court judges came to a village library near Mysuru?
Because it has what they needed—rare manuscripts, dictionaries in multiple languages, depth of collection that even major institutions sometimes lack. But also because word spreads when something is genuine. People sense when someone has built something for the right reasons.
Does the Padma Shri change anything for him now?
It validates the work publicly. It tells the country that this kind of dedication—quiet, unglamorous, sustained—is worth honoring. For Gowda, it probably means the library will be taken seriously as a national resource, not just a remarkable personal project.
What happens to it after he's gone?
That's why the foundation matters. The work outlives the person. But the foundation can only preserve what he built. The real question is whether his example inspires others to build their own versions of this—not libraries necessarily, but institutions born from personal conviction and sustained sacrifice.