I am given to believe by some readers that Outlook has done somethingexceptional by putting a bookseller on its cover.I am told that in recent memory, no regional or national newsmagazine has doneso. Contrary to the trend of putting celebrities or newsmakers or those all toofamiliar middle-class smiles, we had picked a sombre face that had for decades,anonymously, kept the conscience of a city.
You are right, I am still reveling in the Bangalore cover story (December17, 2007) we put out a couple of weeks ago. A bookseller stood superimposedin a corner against an image of two partying girls. The cover caption only said:"Bangalore's best known bookseller finds the city's emerging cultureuncouth." There was no mention of the bookseller's name on the cover orinside in the story. Some readers found this intriguing and there were phonecalls and e-mails to get his name and phone number. It was perhaps a slip on ourpart not to print the name on the cover, but then aren't booksellers ananonymous cult?
A bookseller is first known by the books he keeps and then by the discount heoffers. Very rarely do we put a name to the face that plays such an importantrole in our intellectual evolution. You may buy books on amazon or downloadpages of a classic, but in most parts of the world there is still this healthytradition of buying at favourite bookshops from those familiar yet anonymoushands.
These favourite bookshops are often cramped, tiny spaces and anyone who hasvisited Premier Bookshop on Church Street or Nagasri at Jayanagar Complex willknow what I am referring to. There may be book-malls coming up around Premierand Nagasri, but the browsing-joy that the two offer is simply unique. Whyunique? That's a consuming cultural question that this column will endeavour toanswer at different points in the future. But the key question is: how many whovisit these two bookshops recognise that the friendly-face at the counter as T SShanbag or Venkatesh? For that matter how many know that it is Murthy who ownsSelect, the second-hand shop off Brigade Road; it is Raja at the famousBalepet's Sahitya Bandara; that Vidya Virkar furthers the legacy of her fatherat Strand and, by the way, what is the name of the person who runs Blossoms, thecity's most happening bookstore? Similarly so, the man on Outlook's coverwas Puvyasri, short for Pustaka Vyapari Srinivasa, which quite literally meansbookseller Srinivasa. It is a title of sorts, more valuable than an honoriscausa doctoral degree, that U S Srinivasan has earned in the course of hishalf-a-century-long engagement with selling books.
Puvyasri aka U S Srinivasan is Bangalore's first and only mobile bookseller.Yes, he does not own a few hundred square feet on some busy city street. Hismobile bookshop is best described by tweaking a 12th century vachana byBasaveshwara: His legs are pillars and his shoulders the shelves. (The originalvachana rendered into English by A K Ramanujan in his classic Speaking ofSiva reads:
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"The rich will make temples for Siva
What shall I,
a poor man,
do?
My legs are pillars,
the body a shrine,
the head a cupola of gold")
Puvyasri is perennially on the move, untiringly covering the diagonal ends ofthe city, faithfully sticking to the never-reliable public transport system. Hismobile shop opens at 6 am in the morning and prefers to shutdown by 11 am, bythe time the sun gets harsh. In these five hours the books are delivered at thedoorstep of a reader and all transactions mandatorily happen over a cup offilter coffee and either dosa, idli or upma.
Puvyasri insists that he has no customers but only friends. His network offriends has ranged from litterateurs to scientists and politicians. AuthorsBhisham Sahni and K S Duggal, space scientist Satish Dhawan, theatremen FritzBennewitz and B V Karanth, Justice E S Venkataramaiah, filmmakers M S Sathyu, MV Krishnaswamy and Girish Kasaravalli, communist leader Inderjit Gupta andformer chief minister Devraj Urs are among many others who have purchased booksfrom him. He does not forget to complain that Devraj Urs never returned anautographed copy of Fidel Castro's book History Will Absolve Me, whichwas lent to be read and returned from his personal collection. He also joyouslyshares his mail exchanges with Bhisham Sahni spanning decades.
Puvyasri never takes orders for books, but only eruditely passes them on. Heoffers a customised service by shortlisting the books that may interest hisfriends and allows them a week or so to browse and decide if they want toinclude it in their personal library. 'To each according to their need' is hismotto. Once the book is sold, Puvyasri collects the money through irregularmonthly installments. In fact, when he appeared on the cover, many people madeguilt-calls saying that they owed him money for books bought 20 or 30 years ago.
It is with regret that one has to say that the fast depleting idea of thepersonal library has been central to Puvyasri's mission of selling books. Heremained a bachelor to sell books and if you thought he took to selling them tomerely earn a livelihood, you are mistaken. He has always blended an ideologicalpurpose with it and very loosely described it would mean changing the socialdirection of knowledge.
Puvyasri also has a very impressive lineage. He comes from an illustrious familyof scholars. His father was a member of the Royal Asiatic Society and hisgrandfather, H V Nanjundayya, was the first vice-chancellor of MysoreUniversity. Stating all these facts may itself make you feel that Puvyasribelongs to another world. A world that may have quietly passed away. When Iasked him about this, he said: "It is my firm belief that books will thriveforever, despite the onslaught of electronic media. However, it is sad that thepricing of books have become irrational. We should also do something tochannnelise the majority of our young minds, who are indulging in the secularstupidity called cricket, while distancing themselves from books and othermeaningful cultural exercises."
When Puvyasri invites you home, he emerges from behind a capacious curtain thatruns from ceiling to the surface with catalogues of books. Friends who know hisLeft-leanings jokingly refer to this as the iron curtain. Even as he shrugs thecomment, it is evident that age and the 'weight' of his profession have caughtup with him. His shoulders are slightly tapered and his legs are bowed. He is apicture of frailness. But the enthusiasm has not dipped. And he is happy tonarrate many memorable incidents and experiences about his book-selling.
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He now nurtures a secret desire to become an author himself.
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It is a sheer coincidence that I am writing about Puvyasri and others of hiskind in a month when Bangalore has got its biggest book-mall in the 21000 squarefeet Reliance Time Out on Cunnigham Road. Can we dare to make a new year wishthat people like Puvyasri are not relegated to nostalgia?
