Bookshops

Bookshops are my temples.

(I could live with never seeing Venkateshwara ever again, with never climbing the seven hills or waiting in the underground halls. I could even survive without kneeling at Saraswati’s feet, or bowing to Shiva's grace. I’d never go to Vatican City, never circle the Kaaba seven times, never see Amritsar in all its glory, if the alternative was to only look for books on Amazon and Flipkart.)

I feel far more comfortable with them than with libraries. Libraries seem stern and forbidding, and I’ve never been in one that hasn’t inspired just a little guilt in me. The idea of taking a book and having to give it back is awkward. I’d much rather keep it, put it in my bookshelf and then pluck it out every now and again so that I can remember why I read it. I want to buy books, dammit, and keep them and store them and not have to give them back. They can live on my bookshelves, on my tables, on my floors.

Every good bookshop has character. Regardless of whether they’re part of a chain, or an independent bookstore still alive in this age of bland uniculturalism, good bookshops know what they are, and know what they love. I remember going to Premier Bookshop in Bangalore, a long time ago with Appa. I bought H Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines there, having wrestled (unsuccessfully) with the pile of books that it was underneath, until the owner came along and helped me retrieve it. I have not been back since, and I’ve lost my chance to return. But as a shop it was something else. Just the idea that somewhere in there was a book for me (peraps perhaps even the book for me), that was the dream I had then. I guess it’s the same dream I have every time I enter a bookshop now, and it’s often bookshops with character that fulfil that dream.

Some bookshops are silent, more by mutual consent than by actual rule. Lutyens and Rubinstein is this kind of bookshop, where there are conversations about books but more often there are simply books, and people looking at them. It is not a very big shop, but it is beautiful. The first time I went, I had to leave after half an hour. I’d already spent too much money by that point. Others are loud, hustling and bustling. The Strand is one of these. Books are stacked in seemingly haphazard piles, and it is filled with activity, and people. They say they have 18 miles of books. Sreya took me there and I only managed to walk down one of them. I have no doubt that if I ever lived in New York City, I’d have to ration my visits to The Strand.

Some bookshops are more special than others. I love Foyle’s on Charing Cross Road. I’ve spent hours upon hours in there, reading poetry and fiction and yes, fantasy, and I haven’t regretted a minute of it. It doesn’t hurt that it’s close to LSE and it sells textbooks and it’s open until 9pm. I love Hatchard’s on Piccadilly. I remember the first time I got told about Hatchard’s, I was doing some work experience in London and I was talking about going to bookshops after work, and someone told me that Hatchard’s was on Piccadilly, that it had great books, and that it was just a ten minute walk from Green Park station. I went to Hatchard’s four times before I realised it was right next to Fortnum and Mason, and The Ritz. Even now, those aren't the things I think of when someone says Piccadilly to me. Piccadilly is Hatchard's.

I think the first bookshop I went to was Walden in Punjagutta. Hyderabad was a one-bookshop town when I was growing up (actually, I think it still is). That bookshop was Walden. Thatha took me fairly frequently, and I remember going through random shelves, picking up books, and then remember being warned that I could only have one (Amma would not budge about this. Each one of us could get one thing, and that was it. Thatha didn’t mind as much, but by that time it had been firmly ingrained into my head. One thing, and one thing only). When I drive past Walden now there is a small pang of regret and nostalgia that hits me, because I often do so in my way to Landmark in Banjara Hills, which is still a little soulless but certainly better than Walden.

I remember (and I don’t think I could ever forget) the Landmark in Nungambakkam. Walking down those steps into the basement was like going into another world. There was a watchman there who made us go into the shop one way, and out of it another. When I went to the Landmark in Spencer Plaza it was a revelation. That shop was literally three different shops in one. I spent a month in Madras just before tenth class, and most of it was spent in the Landmark in City Centre. Madras’ bookshops are many, I have no doubt, but the ones I know best are its Landmarks (pun fully intended).

The thing about bookshops is that once I come out of them, having bought too many books, is that they fill me with elation. I leave and there’s a smile on my face because I’ve just been to a bookshop, and that’s just awesome. I genuinely love the idea that there are places to go and buy books, and I love the fact that those places exist, but it’s when I go to those places and they’re everything I thought they’d be that I genuinely can’t help walking around with a smile on my face for the rest of the day.

There’s a terrific quote by Desiderius Erasmus that goes: ‘When I get a little money, I buy books. If there is any left, I buy food.’ I am inclined to agree, except perhaps that every now and again I might expend some of my fortune on Hobnobs.

When I am an old man, with any luck fat and rich with too much money and nothing to spend it on, I would like to build a bookshop. A thousand years ago my ancestors might have built a temple, commissioned skilled craftsmen to sculpt its stones and hired venerable priests to chant hymns morning, noon and night. I would merely like to have a place of words of my own, in a city like London or New York (though I’d probably settle for Hyderabad, which I have no doubt will still be a one-bookshop town even then) full of good books, most of which I’ve read. There would be a little corner for mythology, a rather large section of children’s stories, a shelf full of poetry, and yes, a wall filled with the best fantasy ever written.

I don’t know what I’d call it. Mamidipudi’s sounds a little too formal even for me. Sharan very kindly volunteered C. Pindimiriyam's. I am fairly sure only he could run a bookshop called that and still be taken seriously. Calling it Mango Village would be ideal, but only if I could get a replica of that metal image thing that's outside Nainamma's house.

Regardless of its name, it'd be a good bookshop. And even if it never gets built, I'll always have this corner of the internet, where I will say things about books, and writing books, and reading books.