Unknown Bestsellers
Supermodel Padmalakshmi is in town this week, according to The Hindu. She has traveled from the east coast of the United States — just like me — for a brief visit to the hometown. And that is where the similarity ends. She’s visiting her grandmother. Meanwhile, I don’t even want my relatives to know I’m in town. I find the exercise of meeting most relatives exhausting and the feeling is mutual, I’m sure — it is really hard to give them those palatable updates on my life without rocking their smug worldviews. I make no claim on their time.
Consequently, there is precious little for me to do in Chennai. The quiet corner of a temple with a cannonball tree, the store that sells peanuts in newspaper cones, and the open-air market for fruits in a narrow lane off the bazaar — all gone. But the place which made a reader — I wonder if it is still standing. One evening, my feet take me there.
I used to borrow books from a lending library where cobalt-blue shelves stretched from floor to ceiling. Our school library kept classics and encyclopedias locked in glass cabinets. My father didn’t see why students should read anything other than textbooks. To him, “story books” were quite a waste of time.
The owner of the lending library was once a waste-paper dealer. The city’s wealthy discarded books along with their monthly stack of newspapers — by the kilo. And the man set aside these discarded books and, often times, magazines as well. Soon, his clients began renting titles from that pile. His inventory clamored for a new home.
Past the stores that sold bridal saris and jewelry, he set up shop nearly five decades ago. He still stands behind the register, chats with customers, and keeps an eye on everything around him. I don’t believe he reads anything — not even the Tamil magazines. Though he was no longer in the waste-paper business, he continues to stock used books from various sources. This is extreme recycling at work. I doubt these shelves have ever held a brand-new book. And if no one complains, why waste good money on something as frivolous as newness?
I first visited this library when I was still in primary school. The staff had clear instructions to shoo away non-members, but my friends and I needed to inspect the offerings before handing over our membership deposits. My friends and I decided to exchange books to maximize returns. By the time we finished high school, some of us became compulsive, if indiscriminate, readers. Then, we all went our separate ways.
And now I was back. On that bustling commercial street, I strolled past multi-storied sari shops, all air-conditioned, with attractive window displays. My feet took me to the storefront with the cobalt-blue shelves. The owner was behind the counter. He had aged the way characters age in a school play: he wore outsize glasses and had some grey in an otherwise full head of hair. He didn’t seem to recognize me. Hesitantly, I began to browse. Then, I remembered. I had not claimed the refundable membership deposit of Rs.10 — roughly the equivalent of 25 cents — so technically I still belong though I no longer remember my membership number.
An uncle of mine had shuddered at the sight of me reading one of these books. He mimed a borrower scratching his backside as he flipped through a magazine. I laughed, but it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference to me. Where else would I get a steady supply of books?
In its heyday, this place served an assortment of members: men and women, young and old, those who read in the vernacular and those who read in English. It fulfilled its purpose. Now, there were mousetraps on the floor. Maybe, I had just never noticed the mustiness, the nth-hand books, and, yes, the clunky mousetraps before.
“Any particular title you want, Madam?” asked a voice, cutting into my reverie. It was the owner, with whom I’d haggled over the rental of a book many a time. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Manohar Malgoankar’s The Devil’s Wind and asked for other books by that author of princely sagas. “But this is his best book, Madam,” he said indignantly. A lit major with a dissertation on Malgoankar’s works couldn’t have sounded more convincing. Such titles used to be housed in a separate wing before, so I turn my head towards the flight of stairs. “Upstairs, sold Madam,” he said in a woeful voice, but he did not look particularly sad about this.
We used to access that wing — via a tricky staircase — unconnected to the main entrance. Stray cats took shelter from the relentless sun, right by the landing. The staff shadowed us to make sure we didn’t make off with books without stopping first at the front desk. Past the tailors’ stores, they followed us as if they had just remembered about some important errand in the bazaar below. Occasionally, they did catch a pilferer. “A person, who goes to school, should know better than to steal,” the owner would tell the offender. What does going to school have to do with one’s ethics?
The owner’s sons have college degrees. Many they even have office jobs — I don’t know. What I do know is that they won’t inherit the business. Unlike the competition, the owner hasn’t computerized operations. He is on his way to being phased out. “Nobody reads anymore Madam,” he tells me with a shrug.
Why does he bother to run the place at all, I wonder. The Age of Kindle is upon us anyway. Just then, a patron wanders in asking for the latest issue of some magazine. It has been checked out. She doesn’t seem to particularly care. She sets down her grocery bags, and begins chatting with the owner about this and that. Eventually, they drift to the topic of grown children and bemoan the habits of this generation at some length. Maybe, this is the reason the place is still open — it lets the owner socialize.
Dusk is falling fast. In this newly prosperous city, traffic gets impossibly chaotic during rush hour. I have a feeling the library won’t be there the next time I visit — some textile retailer will have annexed the space. This is Chennai’s Saks Fifth Avenue after all. Near the exit, I see a shelf with the label “Unknown Bestsellers.” What does that even mean? Bestsellers which are not as well-known as they should be in these parts? Who told the owner about them?
Unfortunately, I cannot linger to find out more. The crush of evening shoppers will descend on the main road any minute now. The very thought fills me with panic. Hailing a passing auto-rickshaw, I head home.
“I don’t go to many places, but I do love to go to simple tiffin rooms to eat a paper-thin, crispy dosa. I also visit Sukra Jewelers to see their silver items, and Nalli, to pick up bolts of silk fabric. Otherwise, it’s pretty much the temple, vegetable shopping, and home routine,” Padmalakshmi had said in her interview. Does she actually shop with the masses or is just the kind of thing a celebrity tells a reporter?
En route is Nalli’s, where Supermodel Padmalakshmi supposedly buys bolts of silk fabric. Parrot Green, Turmeric Yellow, Mittai Pink. Even muted colors will look good on her. Outside, on the sidewalk cart, a seller displays white guavas (with the occasional pink one), pineapple slices, and raw mango cut into grins. I keep my eyes peeled but, of course, I don’t spot the celebrity among the throngs that evening. I hope no relative of mine has spotted me either — in this old town which is still so dear to my heart.
Related links:
- The New Yorker story by Salman Rushdie featuring the real-life tsunami that struck Madras .
- Love, loss and dosas