It was a sultry summer day. Not like the humid ones that made you sweat through your clothes, but the dry ones where the sun pounded on your head and sucked your energies through an imaginary straw like in a Rasna Ad. I stepped into the autorickshaw similar to a voluntary piece of cookie dough that was ready to turn brown and crispy. Heat emanated from the seat, with the vibrating gear and sputtering engine adding to the hot air that singed my skin. I covered myself up with my cotton scarf - for a moment, I felt protected from both the sun and the eyes that stared back at me from the rearview mirror. I removed my money from my purse, checking that I had the change, ready to rush away to the metro station as soon as I handed off the payment to the driver, avoiding any eye contact.
I climbed to the platform skipping the steps alternatively as I usually do. In this fast paced city, an escalator seemed extravagant. Allowing time to briefly pause, the slow hum of the moving belt dictated your pace and was something that many couldn’t afford. Of course, there were hurried people who simply bypassed the law of regulated movement by skipping the steps of the escalator, thinking that this made them faster. On a crowded day, this mind bending feat was however a mere fantasy. The train arrived the moment I reached the platform and I ran to the nearest ladies compartment. As I took an available seat, I was left wondering, was there a way we could bypass the speed of the train? Jump vehicles, jump platforms to get to work faster? We were stuck to the limitations of the train, we had to endure the delays, miss them if we were late and patiently wait for any crossing. Perhaps, these limitations are what remind us that we are human, that even if we could travel at the speed of sound or light, we are still bound by time.
The announcements inside the train and a flurry of incoming passengers jolted me back from my internal train of thoughts. The train stations that were busy on weekdays often lay bare and empty on weekends. The stations that were busy on weekends stayed busy all week. The automated yet eerily familiar voice signalled that the Fort Station had arrived. In an alternate reality, maybe the station really arrived and we were stationery passengers seated within a still train. I stepped outside onto the platform followed by a wave of hot air slapping me across my face. ‘Come back to reality, and make sure you drink enough water today.” I took a sip from my chilled bottle of water, and it soothed my parched throat. I craved more, but strategically lessened my intake in order to save it for the rest of the day.
I had no plans. I was going to simply walk down the road from Flora Fountain, nearby the bookshops and onto Kala Ghoda. The morning newspaper had mentioned it being International Books Day and I wanted to go see books. I also wanted to see art and watch people. The same newspaper had a small notice saying that there was an art exhibition at The Taj and that the entry was free to the public. On a dull Sunday in the peak of May, when my coffee hadn’t cracked me up and the air conditioning had only made me more lazy, it was a brave and adventurous decision to nonchalantly go see books and art. It looks like I maybe had plans, just not elaborate ones.
The intricately designed marble statue at Flora Fountain looked exquisitely alien to the landscape that surrounded it. A delight to look at against the background of a pearl blue sky, it made it harder to appreciate the sculptural beauty if one had to squint their eyes to hide away from the glaring sunlight. I entered into the comforting embrace of the towers of stacked books that were arranged in an orderly manner according to size. If you took a closer look at the towers, they might have seemed haphazard due to the (mis)arrangement of themes or genres, but they were easier to parse through than a Dewey Decimal system.The racks had a language of their own and my eyes drifted seamlessly from one book to the next trying to find the one that seemed most interesting. It needed no instruction, and every book that was tucked in felt like a small discovery waiting to be found. The book towers were built neatly across four sections shaped like an encumberment with four walls and an enclosed space inside. The bookseller was seated near the entrance of the make-do structure, on an old decaying plastic chair, swatting away flies and waving a thin Archie comic to drive away the heat making way for some cool air. Inside the walls made up of books, away from prying eyes, I felt home.
Before a minute had passed in complete solitude, I was disturbed by a tap on the shoulder. A middle- aged man with a Press ID card hanging around his neck smiled at me. “Excuse me, Miss”, he said. The bookseller - the watchman to my fort - looked unbothered. With a bit of unease, I said “Yes?”
I’m from “The Times”.
A famous local newspaper in Bombay.
“Today is International Books Day, and I would like to click some pictures of you reading a book.”
I was uncomfortable with the request, but the thought of my picture appearing in a newspaper, especially with a book, excited me.
“Can you please show me your ID? And, are you sure it is International Books Day?” I asked cynically.
“I don’t think a day like this even exists.” I said, lying.
He scrambled in his pocket for his wallet. Searching through its tattered leather fringes, he managed to find his ID.
“Here, you can trust me. I am a reporter from The Times.”
“Okay, you can go ahead.”, I said, reluctantly.
I tilted my head to the non-facing side of the camera lens. I appeared to look engrossed in a book. First the blurb, then the pages inside.
“Can you move a bit to the outside? The light is better here.”
Like an unwilling model, I stepped outside to my right. The bookseller was still yawning and it looked like he had fallen asleep now.
A couple of pictures later, the reporter smiled. He thanked me for posing. He went on to the nearby bookshop to hunt for more bookworms.
The next day, a copy of The Times arrived at my doorstep. I flipped through it eagerly. The centre page usually had the specials. Celebrations. Women’s day, Science day, and today’s was International Books day.
Inside at the bottom most corner, was a picture of a young girl dressed in a white denim short skirt, and a billowing oversized lavender shirt overcoat. She adorned a pair of eyeglasses, its thickness enumerating the number of books she had read through the years.
The headline read; Bookworms and Disappearing Bookshops in the city. In her hand, was a book with yellowing pages, I imagine the smell being of old libraries and piled up dust. I peered in to look at the title, but I didn't have to. I recognised the name immediately without doubt. “The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak.”
Nearby, an old book from the corner of my shelf, fell with a thud.
Originally written on 28 Feb, 2024, re-edited and published on March 3, 2025.
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