Being Fair to Book Fair

I had recently been to the fair that steals my heart each time, like the very first time it did when I was in the second grade. I was mesmerized by the wonderful array of alluring stationery and colourful comic books laid out in the book fair when I was seven. I continue to be mesmerized by the stacks of the old spines and new, of books that seem to call out to embrace me with its arms shaped with words, words that steal our heart and reduce the loneliness that we face in our cellular life.

It’s true that every public congregation displays a wide array of human temperaments, but I personally feel that the multitudinous crowd flocked in the book fair is spiked with the most fascinating individualities.

As I walked in through the gates onto the ground that accommodates uncountable hundreds and thousands of books, the wonder took over me, leading my strides into the stalls of leading publishing houses and small-scale bookstores, as the aroma of fresh pages of new books caressed my olfactory senses, alternating with that of wet grass and spicy food being churned out by shacks set up all around the premises to satiate the hungry book-lovers and word-hunters.

And it is amidst this wondrous mayhem, amidst flipping through the pages of new releases and old, impressive titles, that sets of young eyes find way to meet other sets of young eyes embedded in cute faces, suppressing the intermittent coy smiles. Thrown in amongst this assemblage are stooped old figures in dark, muted and old sweaters, of old and forgotten writers who faded away from the periphery of limelight, belonging to the times when writers were identified by their words, not the depth of their dimples. One can’t tell them apart from their closely linked kin of closet writers confined in the bodies of retired clerks with a patched jhola slung across their shoulder, walking tiresome steps in their equally old Bata sandals, flipping through the browned pages of ancient titles in the smaller shops that stock old, tattered and rare books, perhaps in a vague attempt of find a rare gem in the treasury. The frame welcomes contrasting shades as celebrated authors in posh clothing escorted by a scurrying team of guild representatives, guards and volunteers steer past indie authors with sleepy eyes slumped on chairs, sitting behind tables that have a few copies of their printed words laid out on white tablecloths of their desolate stalls opposite humungous set-ups of major publishing houses that have multiple tens waiting in a queue to enter and browse through their shelves. Ten at a time. Glittering eyes of young, aspiring writers observe the spectacle in wonder with bags of books in hand, walking alone or in a group of raucous friends, marching past the grounds with the persistent harangue of that one hipster brimming with complaints, in complete dejection of the society they are surrounded by.

Small squarish installations with manicured trees are lined with people everywhere. The bold lady with heavy kohl-lined eyes taking a long drag from her cigarette, talking to her companions in a voice with distinctive authority that cuts through the nagging cries of children, complaining of tiny paining feet, reaching all the way to the ears of the old couple that never quite able to shed off the ritual of visiting this annual fest, reminiscing nostalgically; demanding their attention towards her who utter their mutual resentment of modernity in women, in unison. Littering all around these squares are more people with paining feet waiting to grab a seat as soon as it is deserted. Oh, there are also regional soap stars, fleeting time near the crowds of the common people from whom they once drew the plentitude of their popularity, now blanched with time; their eyes fleeing far away from their conversations, coveting the fan mobs they once eluded from.

For quite a few years now the authority has been welcoming the active participation of overseas nation to ensure a steady cultural exchange. The prevalent ‘theme’ got a Francais makeover this year, as France participated as the major partner nation, setting up a huge stall with a seemingly high artistic appeal, attracting hundreds of enthusiastic people, eager to engulf bits of France. I too had entered the stall, curious about what lies inside. After a thorough checkup of 5 minutes, which rather contributed to building up a long queue, we finally entered the gigantic set-up with three separate halls inside. What emerged out of the elaborate affair was that, it turned out to be a major disappointment. In a book fair, there was hardly any mention about the rich cultural and literary heritage of France. There were only illusory art installations with a paragraph here and there about France’s historical alliances with India, about some common French phrases and words and about how popular French is. There was hardly any mention of literature as we passed through alleys of digital screens blaring Triptych tales and modern French music. It was outside the halls, in the display boxes attached to the makeshift walls lining the exit that there lay books in an unorganised dismay with a copy of Montaigne’s works and elementary school French books, proudly stating “LOOK BUT DO NOT TOUCH”. Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Voltaire, Mozart, Boulanger and Chabrier perhaps packed up for a distant vacation from the alienating modernism from the fair that is otherwise supposed to uphold the integrity of literature and celebrate it.

A view of the fair from a few years back. Photo taken from the internet.

It happened to me gradually, when I pointed stalls of popular spice brands, selling packets of spices, sticking out from the colony of bookstalls like irritating boils in the book fair. People aren’t really celebrating books anymore. The have given up their search for literature in life, poetry in petty existence and food for thought. The book fair has become just another reason to take an early leave from the drudgery of a day’s work, a minute break from the banality of existence to enjoy food for appetite, unintellectual gossip and glossy propaganda pamphlets distributed by the huge stalls of banks(!), and universities; books being just excuses to savour the grandeur of the annual book fair that is so hyped about. It’s the glowing stalls advertising ebook readers that are attracting crowds of Icarus. It’s the stalls announcing rewards for a trivial trivia contest and 30 seconds of fame on live television that are summoning giggling-gaggling swarms. The dwindling spirit of book fair was mirrored phoney voice of the naive teen who raised her voice when her friend admiringly picked up a collector’s copy of Romantic poetry, nodding her head in disapproval and stating, “Fifty shades is fifty times more romantic!”

The irony lay in stark exposure as the speakers conveying the voices from the main auditorium lamented the decadence of modern society in their response to books and literature, in the unpeopled auditorium while lakhs roamed around aimlessly. I took my quiet exit contemplating how the book fair buzzed with visitors, not readers.

 

 

Note- Photos have been taken from the internet.

Santa is real

It’s the merriest time of the year all over again- Christmas! Christmas trees, jingle bells, presents, Santa, reindeers, glitters, fairy lights, mistletoes, snow, cakes, eggnog- there’s so much to swell the yuletide spirits and fill us with crazy festivity, stretching on till the year end and welcoming another year of drudgery with a smile on the face. Christian or not, of course all of us love the festivity. But, how many of you remember the pain you felt when you first got to know the truth about Santa’s existence?

One thing that inevitably sears through my mind each year on Christmas Eve ever since 2006 happened, is the shattering of my sentiments of Santa Claus. On 23rd December, 2006, I got to know that there’s no Santa Claus after all. All the juvenile years of trying to keep our sleepy eyes awake all night to catch a glimpse of Santa wiggling in through the chimney and placing the presents in the red-and-white Santa socks… all was a mirage. One of the first steps towards “growing up”.

It was a small affair, really. We had been out at the mall, shopping for some last minute gifts when I noticed my mother whispering something into my father’s ear and slipping away somewhere. I couldn’t find her for some one hour, after which she returned with a face that tried hard not to reveal anything. All my efforts of poking her to fill in the gap of that one hour with an explanation rendered fruitless. Back home, my grumpy face was reflective of my mood as I was hurt at the prospect of my mother keeping secrets from me. But, I was persistent. Failing to make anything up to brace herself from my importunate inquisitiveness, my mother momentarily locked herself up in the bathroom. I wish she hadn’t. I wish she had made a story up- why didn’t she? My Santa Claus would have been protected then, if only for a mere few years. For, it was in that fateful moment that Satan (or curiosity?) ticked in my head as I tiptoed into her room, unzipped her handbag and took out a small cutesy baby-pink package with hearts and teddies all over it. It wasn’t tied up, but loosely wrapped. I had just unwrapped a part of the paper, curious further to examine the wiry golden structure in it when my mom burst in through the door, catching me red-handed in action. The hollowness in her eyes as her jaw dropped in shock and quickly twisted in fuming rage, reflected the impending disaster looming in the air. I still hadn’t expected to be hit by the truth, as I stood there shaking from having been caught committing an inexplicable felony. It’d have been better if she hit me instead… instead of hitting me with words, with truth. She bellowed out how the need to hide anything from me has ceased. “There’s no Santa! I’m Santa! It’s me who slips the presents in the sock that you keep by your head, every year!”, she yelled, her words stabbing my soul, giving me the first feels of heartbreak in life. I sobbed inconsolably for a whole week till my mother had to yell once again to make me stop. I still found myself enwrapped in moments of silent tears when I was alone. It was my first Araby. When thorny reality embraced me tight, teaching me the art of latent, silent weeping; and not believing- unlike how Polar Express taught us the motto of “I believe”.

Looking back at it, I realise the irony of the situation as she was burning in the similar shame of being caught, caught holding up a beautiful secret, a happy lie- just as I was caught being the naughty girl, ransacking her mother’s purse. Perhaps I made it to Santa’s naughty list that night, for the rest of my life.

It wasn’t my mother, but me- my curiosity that killed a part of my own childhood. It would simply be a matter of time and destiny till I discovered the truth… even though I wish she had lied to me that night. Perhaps I made it to Santa’s naughty list that night, for the rest of my life. Perhaps Santa had instructed my mother to act on his behalf, perhaps he let out a boisterous heigh-ho-ho as he saw what I did to myself, from high up as he cut through the sky on his reindeer-drawn sleigh, on his way to deliver the gifts to other children.

I got Santa-gifts from my parents for a few more years after that. Till, one Christmas morning I woke up and found there was nothing beneath my pillow- I had stopped sleeping with the sock. I ransacked my bed, in a hope that the gift might have been too small and too precious, lost somewhere amidst the sheets. But indeed there was none. Later that day, I realised my parents had completely forgotten it was Christmas! I woke up with a hollow stab in my heart that morning. Realised, it was too uncouth a behaviour on the part of a 15 year old. A few years after that, I woke up feeling the same way morning after morning. Not on Christmas, not for not getting presents anymore, but because my caring cyber-boyfriend stopped texting me all of a sudden, out of the blue moon, never to be heard again, never leaving any thread of explanation but leaving behind a prominent trail of dreams we dream together, about the future.

you always give my heart away

2017 is nearing its end now, and I’m no more a teen. I’m a grown up and expected to act like one. In my private moments during the Christmas season, I still speak to Santa. In my heart. I complain to him for not giving me happiness, for not rescuing myself from the pressures that life is burdening me with. I don’t ask for a MAC lipstick from Santa. Nor do I ask him to magically present in front of me, the soulmate of my dreams. Even though I had my painful experience of learning Santa is not real, I still believe in him, in secret. I still watch Polar Express every Christmas Eve, wearing a Santa hat and savouring a mug of hot cocoa.

I still write a Wishlist to Santa, asking for him to be there in my heart for the rest of my life, asking for a friend in him who won’t betray, who won’t leave me hanging in the air off the cliff, who wouldn’t just be their to extract their wants and needs from me; asking him to keep the tiny bit of the child in my soul alive, for it’s elixir of juvenile jubilance to nourish my tarnishing soul even when I’m old. I ask Santa to make me feel the jingle bells ringing in my heart like it used to be, in my younger days.

Rockefeller Centre Christmas Tree

But topping my Wishlist is my desire to tread on the snowed pavements and devour the sight of the Rockefeller Centre Christmas Tree and breathe in the crisp Manhattan air- chiming with the lyrical clamour of the people, and rupturing with the festive rapture, echoing the pooling happiness of the people, the season, of Christmas, and Santa Claus, celebrating the birth of the saviour and spreading the harmonious message of love, even if for one swell night.

A very merry Christmas to all of you out there! Feel free sharing your Santa stories.

 

Note- all the pictures have been taken from google image search results.