Alive For Go-Ahead Men : A Delhi Press Magazine

Ihave a passion for reading books. There was a time when I could afford to buy 3 or 4 books every month. This practice continued for years and I succeeded in building up a fair collection of my own.

However, when the price of books started escalating, in the 1980s, I found myself unable to cope with the expense. It was certainly no comfort to know that the paperback edition of a novel, that I had once bought for just Rs 5 from a bookshop in our city, was now selling at Rs 100.

Then, I came to know of a ‘kabadi’ bazaar in Delhi, where old books in fairly good condition, apart from a miscellany of other things, were available at ridiculously low prices. The lure of this inexpensive literary fare was too strong to be resisted. So, I started visiting this kabadi bazaar twice a month.

In the beginning, owing perhaps to my lack of experience, I was not much of a success in striking bargains with the wily shopkeepers there. Those who knew the ways of this market would have laughed at my naivete and gullibility. I would rummage through a pile of books, looking for a title that suited my taste and, when I lighted upon such a book, my eagerness to possess it would be so clearly written on my face that the shopkeeper knew he could get whatever price he asked for it.

However, with experience, I learnt that a little bit of drama and play-acting were necessary, if one wanted to strike a profitable bargain. One day, while I was rummaging through a heap of books, a middleaged man in a golf cap came there and started meddling with the same heap. Shortly, he got hold of a book that seemed to interest him.

“You’re lucky,” I said to him, “to have found a book of your choice so soon.”

To my surprise, by way of a reply, he darted a quick look in the direction of the shopkeeper, who was at that moment busy talking to another customer. Then, winking at me with a roguish smile on his face, he furtively raised his index finger to his lips, indicating that I keep quiet and not spoil his game. I was somewhat perplexed for a minute but, pretty soon, came to know what the fellow’s game-plan was.

“How much for it?” he asked the bookseller, holding up the book to him.

The man took the book from him, looked at it rather thoughtfully, and then, shooting a quick, appraising look at the golf-cap, said brusquely, “Ten rupees!”

“What? Ten rupees for this old, dog-eared book?” cried ‘Golf-cap’, his eyes popping out in wellsimulated amazement. And then, quite abruptly, he turned to leave. “What’ll you pay for it?” asked the shopkeeper. “Two rupees,” replied Golf-cap. The man threw the book back into the heap, saying that he did not want to starve his children by foolishly accepting Rs 2 for a book that he knew was well worth more than Rs 10 in the market.

Golf-cap once again picked up the book from the heap, idly turned over its pages, frowned disapprovingly, and then, in a tone of finality, said, “Will Rs 4 do?” “It’ll be Rs 5,” was the reply. “Take it or leave it.”

Muttering something about the growing rapacity of booksellers, he paid up, put the book in his bag, and then made for another shop nearby.

Of course, I could never rise to the artistic level of the man with the golf-cap, in striking bargains for old books but I did come across some rare titles that were long out of print and not easily available even in libraries. And some second-hand books that I acquired from the kabadi bazaar have a certain aura of romance and mystery about them.

For instance, The Adventures of Hajji Baba, by James Justinian Morier, that I bought in 1990, had adorned the bookshelf of one Sunil Mukerjee, in 1945, who was at that time a student of B.A (Hons). On the title page, Mukerjee had written not only his name, the name of his college and the class of which he was the student, but also the date, month and the year when he bought this book.

Surprisingly, in a corner of the same page, Sunil Mukerjee had, perhaps in an unguarded moment, also written, ‘Oh, my love, Aarti!’ I find this line especially intriguing. Now, whenever I open this book, I wonder whether Sunil Mukerjee is still alive.

If, in 1945, Sunil Mukerjee was a young man of about 20, he must be a grandfather now. I wonder what became of his love, Aarti. Is the grand, old woman, with whom he now takes his evening tea and shares his reminiscences of days gone by, is ‘O, my love Aarti’ or some other woman? Another bulky old book, The Good Companions, by J.B. Priestley, which I got at a bargain price from the same bazaar, had once belonged to some Devdutt Sharma. Sharma, it appears, took his reading a little too seriously.

He has mentioned on the title page of this book the date, month and the year, when he started reading it. On the last page, again, is the date, month and the year, when he finished it. Then, on the inside of the hard cover, he has expressed his opinion of this novel – a paragraph of gushing praise!

However, the book I cherish most is an old and slightly musty-smelling edition of Emma by Jane Austen. I bought this book in 1980. The previous owner of this book was one named Lakshmi Menon, who had bought it in 1940.

The first time I went through this book, I was a little surprised to find, tucked between its pages, a postcardsize photograph of a strikingly beautiful, young lady, probably in her early 20s. The photograph had, of course, acquired a sepia tint with the passage of time. Gracefully dressed in a chiffon saree, the young girl in the photograph had big, smiling eyes and exquisitely-curved lips.

I thought it must be the photograph of Lakshmi Menon, for it is not unusual for the reader to use anything handy, including his or her photograph, as a bookmark and then leave it in the book.

Interestingly, Lakshmi Menon had written on the flyleaf of this book not only her name but also her complete address. Normally, readers do not write their address on books they read, but Lakshmi Menon was one of those who do.

Her book induced me to be a bit adventurous. Here is an opportunity, I told myself, for chasing romance, as I sat browsing through the book in my study. I decided to write to Lakshmi Menon at the written address and then wait for her reply.

Of course, I realised it was very unlikely that Lakshmi Menon would still be living at the same old address, after more than 40 years.

However, in my letter, I mentioned how I had come by that book, which had once belonged to her, and how I had found in it a photograph that I presumed was hers. Imagine my amazement when, after about one month of posting that letter, I received a reply. Yes, I did, and it was from Lakshmi Menon, now an old woman and living in a small town of Kerala.

My letter had, surprisingly, reached her after it had been redirected to her a couple of times from different places where, in the past 3 decades, she had lived with her husband. The latter had worked with an insurance company.

She recounted that she was carrying Jane Austen’s Emma with her while she, along with her husband (who was now no more), was travelling from Bombay to Delhi in those days of World War II. She wrote in her reply that she had, perhaps, absent-mindedly left the book in the train. Yes, she owned she was in the habit of using old photographs as bookmarks, but she could not quite recollect now how she came to put her photograph in the book that was now with me.

I sent her the photograph along with the book. The photograph as well as the book was hers, indeed, she told me in her reply letter. She was profusely thankful to me for sending her that old photograph.

After this, a sort of pen-friendship developed between us and, every year, in the first week of January, I would receive a New Year greeting card from the lady, with unfailing regularity. This practice continued till Lakshmi Menon’s death in mid-1990s.