Nearly every Indian city has a street that proudly houses bookstores. When I lived in Lucknow for my MBA course, there was the iconic Ram Advani Booksellers in Hazratganj. In a city that seems to have kept alive only a tiny bit of its glorious past, Advani's bookstore was a port of call for the visiting intelligentsia, the Vinod Mehtas and Saleem Kidwais of the world, who had made other cities their homes, but felt the need to offer pilgrimage to their original dwelling.
It was rather surreal seeing Advani lord it over a mini empire of books, some of which were frankly incompatible with the Lucknow I came to know. Browsing through the dense shelves, I spotted books on Jean Luc Godard and the French New Wave. There were biographies of Marlon Brando, and a book on neoplasticism jutted uncomfortably out of one corner. It seemed like the 15 km distance between my institute, whose boundary merged into a mulch-covered barn where fat cattle grazed, and Advani's bookstore was the distance between darkness and light.
In Mumbai, where I lived next, Churchgate houses the beautiful Kitabkhana, a surreal fantasy - come to think of it - with its wood-panelled floors and mysterious staircases. South Mumbai, unbelievably, also makes room for the Oxford bookstore, which has an exciting catch of magazines and children's books. However, the charm of formal bookstores in Mumbai is lessened somewhat by the satisfying roadside stalls in Flora Fountain.
Now in Bangalore, I was told plenty about Church Street, a tiny lane right behind Mahatma Gandhi Road, which performs this service. Once while sauntering there, I came across the lavish Variety Book House, one of whose sections was devoted to international newspapers. When, this being a Saturday, I inquired about the delicious-looking copy of Weekend Financial Times (which seemed to weigh a tonne), the owner sheepishly replied that I needed to come on Monday since that is when the fresh copies would arrive. He needn't have bothered. As someone who had had a ready supply of FT as a Business Standard journalist back in the days, I was more than happy to lay hands on any copy, let alone a week old.
A preliminary online search had thrown an embarrassment of riches on Church Street. One man gushed over the unnamed magazine store in the basement of the intersection between Church Street and Brigade Street, where Persian cats kept you company as you drooled over past issues of The New Yorker. There were multiple entries for Blossoms, stacked to the ceiling, the reviewer promised, with long-forgotten titles - an assurance that gets even the most battle-weary bibliophile salivating. There were other honourable mentions, such as Gangaram and Higginbothams.
Thanks to traffic, one must prepare to drive around the area for a good 10 minutes to find suitable parking, but once that is out of the way, it is possible to bask in the romance. There is a run-down shopping centre that connects Church Street to MG Road, one of those serendipitous discoveries that provide joy and meaning to this rather impractical, worldly-unwise enterprise called book buying.
At Blossoms, I chose two books, one by JR Ackerley whose homosexuality, I had been told, suffused his work in delightful ways. As I paid and made my way to the exit, I heard the cashier tell a customer that dictionaries were available on the third floor. Third floor? I looked around. Indeed, there was a nearly-hidden staircase at one end. How excellent! The search for life between pages can induce a Harry Potter-ish belief in the imaginary. To then find things actually spring to life is to open the closet door to Narnia.
For a bookstore in today's times to exist, let alone on three, spacious floors, is no small wonder. The shelves were inundated with high tomes. Part of the charm of Blossoms was the unkempt way books from different heads mingled with one another. Foucault shared space with Guha, Nehru with Christie. I overheard two elderly gentlemen talk about how Narendra Modi had perhaps not imagined he would really become the Prime Minister, which was a good thing, they added, since it would teach him humility. They moved on and were replaced by a gaggle of college kids rummaging for GRE material. From my perch on a stool in a cramped corner, I browsed for hours and stayed lost.
The likes of Advani and Blossoms may not be widely known but they have proprietors going back decades who bring doggedness and an endearing dogmatism to their trade. As they put up a brave fight against the onslaught of Goliaths like Flipkart and Amazon, they are also aware of the unique service they perform. As I walked through Blossoms, I was overcome with sneezing due to the mustiness and fraying of the items on display. One would have to be a Luddite, true, to disparage the benefits of technology, but there is no denying the charm of bookstores.
