Thus thought the owner :
I think I shall just leaves these books outside. Books have homing instincts. They shall call to and find their destined owners if left to their own devices. And so what if they have the price of a song.
Its funny . the man bought the book not for what the author had made the book to be, but because he thought that the margin notes made by the previous owner was hilarious. Madness.
The university students are the best. They browse. For long. They can afford after months. Or never at all. They leave behind the smell of coffee, cigarettes and their touch of themselves on the pages. Like the girl who comes to read quietly everyday…. And after she does, the book smells of her lilies of the valley perfume. And another boy leaves behind a smell of the burger wrapper that was his afterclass daily snack, the last bite taken just as he would reach the store.
Like some books which come in…. with the smell of a reminder of a breakfast, a dog ear, a page much thumbed.
The little signs of dog ears. They tell you so much. The pace at which the owner read it. The mood. A careless mood has a sloppy big dog ear. A satisfied read leaves behind a sigh, a neat tiny equilateral dog ear. A series of curves, nearly dog eared… showing that the owner was going through rapt unputdownable read.
There comes the old lady. She asks for something as vague as “ the hard bound book with a red spine.” It is such a pleasure to choose her a book.
Ah , this book of poetry. She knows just the person who would want it. A young woman, new mother, recent to the neighbourhood. Shy , yet such resilience in her.
There is a treat for the gang. A new bunch of books. Old and new.
M would come by late afternoon. Judge the new books by their covers. He would talk about the color, the fotograph on the cover, or the lack of it. He would pick up the brightest designed chick lit , the one with the weakest story and then return to grumble to us that all of the publishing industry should just be sent to the 15th century to evolve properly. Haha.
J shall have a treat. She and her peculiar knack for nosing out and sorting out books to good, bad, a rare read, a rare edition…… really…. J had a peculiar talent, and bless the girl for saving her so much work.
Coffee. No why should coffee be barred from the bookshop. Read like you want. A second hand bookshop has a story about the owners too, not just cheap prices and unknown authors. A little lemonade spill, a slight smudge, a little note, and a signature only tells you more story.
Sigh. here comes a couple. They shall browse. Pull out a few books. Not put back all them correctly. And then ask her to recommend a book. She knows what to give. A story about the Italian chef for the boy. And a book of letters for the girl. She knew from practice, exactly what mood and what types that called for which book.
A second hand bookshop. Dealing with the wanderlust of books. The erratic unknown authors. The love of past print. An exchange of thought. Leaves behind such a deep respect for the authors and readers. Shows such deep love for literature. Such a hole in the pocket too. The only place where her cat could work with her, and a stray dog or human would wander in to just look.
PS: like a truly seasoned writer... i hereby thank sunandini and atri for visiting the foreign shores, owning the camera, clicking the pic, and giving me food for thought.
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