The magical world of books

 Photos: The American Centre library in Calcutta; the National Library  

 By Shevlin Sebastian 

The other day, I received a few cartoons regarding the foreignness of physical books for children on WhatsApp. In one, it showed a boy sitting at a table, with a book in front of him. His mother tells him, “Just open and read it. You don’t need a password.” 

As I forwarded it to a family group, I realised I may be the only person in our family to read physical books and to go to libraries. 

I began visiting libraries in my teens and fell in love with them. On hot summer days, on my weekly holidays, I headed to the American library, first on SN Banerjee Road and later on Chowringhee in Calcutta.

The air-conditioning was superb. The library was so spacious, with carpeted floors and large glass windows. This calm environment helped keep away the manic energy of the streets, the heat, the dust and the pollution for a while. 

As for the books, what a treasure it was. 

American publishers designed their hardcover books so well that one could only stare at them with wonder. And then to be allowed to take four books home on a library card. Wow, what a treat. It was, to quote a title of one of American literary great John Cheever’s books: ‘Oh what a paradise it seems’. 

I was also an ardent fan of Pulitzer-Prize winner John Updike and would be awestruck at his productivity. Over 50 novels, short stories, art and literary reviews. His long-time publisher, Alfred A Knopf, produced some of the best designed books in world publishing. And still does. I may not be sure, but I think they used the Garamond typeface a lot. Which is a font that is pleasant to look at and soothing to read. Nowadays, whenever I write, I use Garamond at 14 points on Google Drive. 

Apart from the books, there were the magazines. I read ‘The New Yorker’, ‘Esquire’, ‘The Atlantic’, ‘Ebony’, ‘Time’, ‘Newsweek’, ‘Vanity Fair’, ‘People’, ‘National Geographic’, ‘Sports Illustrated’, and ‘The New York Times Magazine’. There were so many more, but these come to mind only. 

Some of the other libraries I visited included the British Council library on Shakespeare Sarani (another air-conditioned oasis), the Ramakrishna Mission library in Gol Park, and the National Library in Alipore. 

Undoubtedly, the most beautiful campus belonged to the National Library. It had spacious lawns and tree-lined avenues. You could sit on the lawns and enjoy the sunshine and the greenery with a couple of book lovers (of the fairer sex) during the depth of a Calcutta winter, which was usually in December and January. When it got too cold, we went off to the canteen to have hot cups of tea. And continue with the adda. 

Most people think that patrons of libraries are morose and dull. That they are all nerds. But under that placid exterior, some of them are daring, bold, and uninhibited. In a conservative era, before cell phones and the Internet, they did the unthinkable. Some were even more daring than the in-your-face shows-off in college. But nobody suspected it because they carried these books in their hands and had that studious look on their faces. 

Indeed, several fooled their parents, too. 

So, one parent would tell another, in front of their teenage daughter, “Oh, Moushumi is a quiet girl and very studious.” 

Moushumi would immediately smother the mischievous smile that was forming on her face and nod piously. 

Apart from these delightful encounters, books have given me immense pleasure over the decades. They have enabled me to interact with the minds of the greats of many professions, be it politics, literature, arts, spirituality, history, religion, film, sports, psychology, and philosophy. Even now, every night, I try to put in at least half an hour of book reading. 

In Kochi, where I live now, I am a regular visitor to the over 150-year-old Ernakulam Public Library. In terms of facilities, it’s no match compared to the libraries in Delhi and Calcutta. But they are doing a good job of getting the latest books. 

The last book I picked up a couple of weeks ago was ‘The Escape Artist’ by British journalist Jonathan Freedland. It tells the true story of how two Slovak Jews escaped from the Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland during the second world war. Their aim: they wanted to inform the world about the genocide taking place. It was a heart-breaker of a story.  

The other library in Kochi, which I am frequenting much less these days, is the EMS Cooperative Library in Kakkanad. It has a beautiful building with a park beside it. But the books are old and out-dated. The pages are yellowing. Rarely does the administration buy new books. And the park has fallen into disrepair because of a lack of maintenance. 

I also buy books online. Sure, Kindle is an easy alternative, but I never enjoyed electronic reading. Sometimes, when a prominent personality mentions a book that has influenced them, I check out that book. 

So when double Booker Prize winner Hilary Mantel passed away on September 22 at age 70, I began reading about her life and career. I came across a Guardian newspaper story which highlighted Hilary’s rules for writing, in point form. The second point said, “Read ‘Becoming a writer by Dorothea Brande”’. 

When I checked the book online, I noticed it was first published in 1934. That was a long time ago. What surprised and intrigued me was that it has remained in print since then. Since there were cheap editions, I ordered one on Amazon. 

I have read many books on writing, which focus on plot, character development, setting, theme, point of view and dialogue. But Dorothea’s book was the only one I have read so far which spoke about how a writer should work with the unconscious mind if he or she wants to produce memorable material.

No wonder Hilary recommended it. Because if you read her books, you realise how she has mined her unconscious mind. In the Wolf Hall trilogy, Thomas Cromwell, the Chief Minister of King Henry VIII came across as a living, throbbing human being. 

Another stalwart who uses the unconscious a lot is Japanese writer Haruki Murakami. Dorothea said that for literature, to be powerful, it has to emerge from the unconscious. Writing from the conscious mind lacks vitality and depth. I asked myself a question: could Leo Tolstoy have created the 500 characters in his magnum opus, ‘War and Peace’ using only his conscious mind? I felt that would be difficult. He would definitely need the unconscious for this. 

All this was nice to know. And also depressing. 

Because, how many people can access the unconscious? Sure, every night, the unconscious sends us numerous images in the form of dreams. But in the daylight, how many can access it? The unconscious remains remote and inaccessible. Only a handful of the gifted are able to enter easily. 

Wolfgang Mozart (1756-91), the Austrian piano prodigy, was one of them. The rest of us, including I, are plodding away, plucking small fruits from the lowest branches of the banyan tree of creation, not being given this sublime gift by the Gods.

Despite this lack, writing has provided solace. 

For many years, shyness and an introverted nature had crippled me. I remained tongue-tied in public and in private too, especially in front of relatives and strangers. Through all those years, I kept reading. So, thousands of sentences kept ricocheting through my brain, with no outlet at all. Finally, one day, I got a job in journalism and began dealing with sentences. The sentences from my head rushed out, and I used the tip of my fingers to lead them on to a page during the typewriter era and later onto computer screens. I fell in love with writing. And I found my voice. 

And I have to thank my parents. They let me be. They gave me space. They didn’t put pressure on me to change. Maybe, they instinctively realised each person has to listen to their drumbeat. For some, the beat is loud and crystal-clear very early in life. For others, the drum beats take a long time to start. 

To each his own. 

And my parents gave me the same love during my inarticulate and articulate phases. At the celebrity level, Robert Federer, father of one of the greatest tennis players of all time, said, “Roger is for us, Roggie. Our son and that is what he will stay, and that is what he is.”

Ideally, parents should avoid intervening and trying to speed up the developmental process in their child. It only results in havoc in the child’s mind. As a result, the journey towards finding one’s destiny becomes messy and agonising. And sometimes, it ends in failure. 

(Published in The Story Cabinet)