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Published
in Gulf News, April 25, 2006
Browsers take
a bruising
When
Mr T.S. Shanbhag's phone rings, he invariably has to move a heap
of books to get to it. As he writes out a bill at his desk, he does
so on a stack of periodicals two feet high. And when he sits, you
can see only the top of his head behind piles and piles of books
on a desk whose surface probably hasn't been seen in years.
Premier
Bookshop has 100,000 books crammed into 600 square feet of space.
Apart from a body-width aisle that winds reluctantly around the
shop, there are books everywhere: from the piles that begin on the
floor, to the shelves that touch the ceiling. Teetering stacks cling
to every surface and, in places, they are three or four deep. Regulars
swear there are books that haven't seen light of day in 20 years.
Almost
every visit to Premier is rent with the sound of 50 books tumbling
onto a sheepish customer who has naively tried help himself. Regulars
have learned to simply point out their title of choice to shop helpers
who are adept at extracting a volume from halfway down a pile as
tall as they are.
Premier
Bookshop, established in 1971, is one of Bangalore's best-loved
institutions. Just like the fans of the movie star, Dr Rajkumar,
who recently rioted over the death of their hero, Premier fans are
wracked with sorrow. Their favourite bookshop will close down in
two months.
News
of the closure hit the local press in a wave. My mother cried when
she read it. People commiserated with each other. There's talk of
a "Save Premier" campaign. I don't have a lot of hope
though. In the last few years some of Bangalore's most defining
fixtures have been but ephemera in the face of money and bulldozers.
Not
that Premier has any architectural relevance. It's a basic shopfront
in a dismal building from the Seventies. But its location is excellent,
just off Bangalore's famous shopping street, MG Road. And this is
the main cause of its demise.
On
the surface, we are losing Premier to something as banal as a lapsed
lease. But the real reasons run painfully deep. Thanks to Bangalore
Booming, the building owner can command a rent astronomically higher
than one Mr Shanbhag can pay. Premier Bookshop will, undoubtedly,
be replaced by something radiant in glass and stainless steel. Something
with a window display.
As
with many of Premier's regulars, I am genuinely disturbed by news
of its passing. Mr Shanbhag has seen me buy a lifetime of reading.
He has watched my mind grow, starting from my picture-book days.
He has seen all my fads, all my pretensions, all my phases.
And
while the shop is heaven for the browser, don't be fooled by the
chaos. People who need a book in a hurry have been astounded by
Mr Shanbhag's memory. There's no database here - either electronic
or written. Ask him for a book, and if he doesn't have it (this
is unlikely), he'll know instantly. If he does, he'll think for
five seconds, then walk you across to a pile behind a pile behind
a pile, and pull the book out.
And
it's not something we've taken for granted. Premier has been celebrated
over the years for its quirks. We can't believe that we will soon
have no real alternative to the big bookshops. The shops that are
spread over acres. Shops with titles well laid out and easily accessible.
Shops where a young thing stands behind a computer and says, "How
may I help you?".
Shops
in which the books lie no more than one layer deep.
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