There are some things I believe in strongly and one of them is – everyone needs at least three things in life: something to do, someone to love and something to look forward to. And I, for one, always have so much to do, whether it is being lifted by a wave of music, walking in the mysterious twilight of foggy winter streets, busying myself in a book or rustling up an exotic meal for my family. Like you, I too have people to love and the very thought of them brings a warm, fuzzy feeling in my heart. And then, there is always that one true thing I always have to look forward to for the whole year. I wait for it with the impatience and ardour of a lover awaiting his beloved, a miser waiting to count his gold, a traveller waiting to hit the trail of the unknown, an artist waiting for his muse and the child waiting for the giant ferris wheel at the fair or the tinkling bell of the ice-cream man.

And what is it that I wait for with such a heightened sense of anticipation? Simple. It is the annual book fair, or two book fairs to be precise, which help me indulge in a life long obsession to read and possess as many books as I can. I chaff against the tugs and pulls of obligations at home and office. I plot and scheme to steal away to that magical wonderland of books, where I come upon one amazing thing after another, and I get curiouser and curiouser like Alice. And when I am finally there, thrusting my hand through the cubby hole for my entrance ticket, I feel I am outside the pearly gates, just waiting to be warmly ushered through to heaven.

But wait, hold your horses. You can’t stroll into a book fair just like that. A mountaineer needs his crampons and balaclavas. A scuba diver needs his oxygen tank and flippers. A corporate type needs his business suit. A book lover also needs to be dressed for the job. I say job because book browsing and book buying is serious business, not to be taken lightly, and demanding acute powers of concentration, judgement and decision-making. A true blue book lover should be sedately dressed, preferably in Fab-India type kurtas and Kolhapuri chappals, looking suitably intellectual to impress the booksellers and get a neat bargain. No flamboyant colours and bling bling, dahlings. They won’t take you seriously and might actually be rude. It is an equally good idea to wear glasses because you have to pore over the blurbs promoting the book and also check out if the bloke is shortchanging you inspite of the promise of the ten per cent discount he dangles before you. And do stay away from stilettos and any kind of high heels. All that traipsing around will have your feet killing you, and put a spanner on your plans to meet your beloved authors. I myself wore cushioned sneakers, laces tied up firmly, and floated around like a dandelion.

Then there is the matter of timing. You can’t be casual about it. It’s not that you have to look up the almanac or something, but the best bet is the afternoon hours, when the crowds are thin, nobody tries to breathe heavily down your neck or tread on the corn on your left big toe. The salesman are far less frazzled at this leisurely time of day and will help you locate authors like Anais Nin and Jack Kerouac. I actually had a hotshot bookseller crawl on his hands and knees for a Mario Vargas Llosa I was ready to sell my soul to the devil to possess. It was a comical sight, he was, after all, a heavy man and I steeled myself from bursting into giggles till he had it wrapped up and given me a hefty discount. A word of caution though. All those book stealing kleptomaniacs out there, who get a kick out of filching books, should not visit the fair in this time of day. The trick, dearies, is to go for it when the crowds create a bedlam and no one knows that the Marquez, which was on the shelf a moment ago, is now snugly hidden under your shawl or the baggy pocket of your capris. Do carry some money, honey, so you can pay them if you get caught.

There is another rule I religiously follow when I am at the book fair. And that is – avoid all the friends and acquaintances you bump into. They have this pernicious tendency to hold you up with some useless prattle, distract you from your book buying mission or recommend authors that set your teeth on edge. They are also into wrinkling up their noses and nagging that the best publishers have kept away from this book fair, just to let you know they know who the big daddies of publishing are, even though all you see them buying is Shiv Khera and low-cal cook books. They also have this alarming tendency to persuade you into an eatery on the grounds, where you find yourself swallowing greasy Indian style chow mein and glumly wondering how to get away.

The trouble with book fairs is that plenty of people go there for the wrong reasons. Some go to enjoy the open space, free from the murderous traffic. Some go there to increase their stock among colleagues and friends – been there, done that kind of thing. Some go for the varied fare at the eateries. The pimpled teenager goes there to gawk at all the pretty girls who are asking for Chetan Bhagat with their high, sing song voices. Many bumble about because they have nothing better to do.

Over the last couple of book fairs, I have observed a phenomenon that troubles me greatly. There are fewer and fewer children visiting the grounds. Parents I know are filled with apathy when it comes to buying books. A lady friend explained it was because books were so expensive, when I know for a fact that her kid plays only Fisher Price toys and wears Ginny & Jony apparel. Videogames, television and internet have totally supplanted reading and you now have kids who do not have the key to unlock their imagination. No wonder, they are bored witless and have such limited interests. They are barred from a magical kingdom whose delights they will never savour. It breaks my heart.

Book fairs are also a time to catch up with the seasonal friends I have made over the years. I am a regular fixture at the book fairs, and as my college teacher joked that I buy books by the sackful (I really do, by the way), I am given the most cordial treatment by some booksellers, who make a killing from my weakness. I totally forget about them for the rest of the year and then suddenly, they are there, waving me to a chair, sending the boy for coffee and launching into a skilled spiel on the latest publications. As most of them come from Kolkata, I slip into reasonably fluent Bengali, even rolling my eyes in mock horror and exclaiming “Maago!” when I feel they are overcharging me. Believe me, these sentimental bhadraloks always fall for that. It warms the cockles of their hilsa-greased hearts and, before you know it, the prices are falling like the Wall Street crash.

Some years ago, I was asking for Vladimir Nabokov Lolita (a middle aged man lusting for a nubile girl) to a genteel man with silver hair in my best boudi behaviour. The man dropped whatever he was doing, looked at me sternly under his bushy eyebrows and gravely counselled I had no business reading such books and he wouldn’t give it to me even if he had it. I was tempted to tell him I had already run though Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Norman Mailer, not to speak of DH Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, when I was only in my teens. If reading such explicit books increases your chances of being in purgatory, I was already in the hottest part of hell. I just strolled out, asked a salesman three stalls away to get me Lolita from the moral crusader and when the deed was done, I was grinning like the cat who had swallowed the cream, and the saucer too!

People who are not besotted by books can never understand the sheer elation of emerging from a book fair with bundles of books. It is like the heady madness of first love. There is a song in your heart and the eagerness of plunging into adventure. Books set you truly free because you can escape the body, the identity you are trapped in, to be anyone, go anywhere, do anything. You have as your friends people like Orhan Pamuk and Jorge Louis Borges and Isabel Allende and Margaret Atwood and Richard Feynman to tell you of their life’s experiences, to look into the deep, mysterious heart of their souls. You can appropriate their experiences as your own and grow all the more richer and wiser for it. You can fill your horizons, expanding beyond all limits till your wide reading makes you a true citizen of the world. Which fancy car or price of real estate can do that?

And do I get guilt trips because of all the money I spend buying books? Not at all. Books are not an extravagance but as vital as the air I breathe. They are the wind beneath my wings and my shelter from the slings and arrows of life. Books help me touch eternity, savour life every day and make this world a beautiful place. When I re-read old books, it is like I have found my lost selves, the persons I was when I was sixteen or twenty five.

And finally, there they are lined up on my bookcase, all fifty-eight of them, ranging from Freakonomics to the complete lyrics of the Beatles. I put on some music, slip into a snug housecoat, curl up on the couch and plunge into my love affair with words. This is my idea of heaven, and I am getting to live it in my lifetime.

– indrani_raimedhi@reddiffmail.com

website: www.iraimedhi.com

Indrani Raimedhi