Daryaganj Book Market

Before I start my reportage about the visit to Daryaganj book market, I must confess that it is a place I had craved to visit for many years, and my love for this place goes a long way back to the doordarshan days when the address "Nayi Kotwali, Daryaganj, New Delhi - 110002" used to be displayed after the news programme on TV for any leading information about the lost (and found) people. This love started merely as a curiosity about the name "Daryaganj". During college days when I picked up a lot of hindi literature, I found this word mentioned in several paper backs at the back cover as a part of the publisher's note and my growing curiousity took the shape of a strange kind of affection for this place. I got the opportunity to visit the place on the last sunday, hence my account of the place could be deemed laced with self-indulgences and pre-concieved notions of mine.

You must imagine a day with a perfect morning, neither too hot, nor too cold. There must have been moderate rainfall on the previous night, which is what makes the air little damp, pavements little slippery and roads muddy. Dampness which could have led to intolerable humidity, had it not been for the mild and cloud capped sun. All in all, a perfect day to visit Daryaganj book market.

On the way to the book market, most of the shops are shut and streets are mostly clean, garbage cans have been cleared and there is plenty of space for everyone on the streets. As you cross the shopping area, you notice a small community park where few old men are chatting, some are reading, few women are chatting amongst each other holding their chunri with one hand close to their face to cover it from playful sunlight.

Entering the book market from the opposite side of the street has a particular advantage that you can notice the business going on from a distance in a larger perspective. Most noticeable are of-course the books lying or rather arranged on the pavements, but then there is more than that. There are T-shirts, caps, locks, ties, shoes and several other small leather made knickknacks on sale as well. Hence the term “book market” already sounds a misnomer. Anyway, you move on crossing the road and jump right in the heart of the market and suddenly loose your sense of space akin to a fish market, a place for which chaos will be an understatement. People are pushing you and brushing past as you are trying to make sense of the situation. Shopkeepers are asking you to either move on or leave the pavement as this is “business hours”. When you side-step you realize you are blocking the entry to staircases, those narrow and winding steps, probably leading to shop keeper’s apartment.

On this side of the road everything looks so vibrant as if you have entered a different world, the traffic is whizzing past at crazy speeds, shop keepers are lively, even the beggars are lively. A shopkeeper is telling his customer, “bhai khareedo ya na khareedo, kitab aise mat feko” (Whether or not you buy the book, handle them with care). Here people make no bones about their business; they usually do not have eager smiling faces which you usually associate with the shopkeepers in malls. Here the trade is much more rough and pushy but the offers are ludicrously cheap and the choice is endless, hence nobody really cares about pleasantries. Some one pats on my shoulders and asks me to keep my cell phone inside lest someone might snatch it away. So simple yet so meaningful were his gesture that you don’t realize that he is actually mute. A shopkeeper is laying the books on the pavements, yet another is mopping the pavement. A sewer has opened up near by owing to the filth around, but sellers don’t mind cleaning the road themselves. A little ahead a circle of crowd has been formed, as you move closely you see a Muslim (because of her black robes) woman drinking water from a tap and people are waiting for their turn. All in all, a commotion of sorts.

A little ahead half the road is dug up due to some reconstruction work and the moving traffic winds down slowly through. Next to a small dig out within the construction site, two people are sitting facing each other on chairs which they have somehow managed to put there. They are chatting easily over a cup of tea while puffing out bidis with no attention whatsoever to the mounting jams nearby. Traffic jams does not last much as a bus drives away after some passengers have alighted at the stop. They are all college kids, with their sporty caps, Nike shoes and bag packs, talking noisily with each other, strolling past casually as if it’s a walk in the park.

A cycle rickshaw is steering its way in the maddening traffic; there is something very unusual about it. It is not noticeable immediately but as the rickshaw comes close you realize that its driver barely has one arm. He is pulling it away with full-blooded rigor never compromising the balance and speed. It is loaded with sacks of books and it suddenly comes to a grinding halt almost with an unusual crash into the pavement, few shop keeper leap towards it and start unloading with a sense of alacrity. Rickshaw driver is helping them unload the books while few guys start to unpack them with usual finesse. The job is over in a few minutes and someone hands over the cash to rickshaw driver, a paltry sum of 20 rupees for a perfectly relaxing Sunday morning he just had.

If you are already soaked in sweat, you can sit on a stool in a nearby cobbler’s shop, while watching him at work. His hands are absolutely and completely blackened with boot polish as if his body is a devotee of his work. His face is prematurely old; hair is unusually black and disheveled; His body language is lethargic as if he had been starved for centuries and you feel somehow his whole life has been subsumed by darkness. Meanwhile somewhere else in the market the entire young crowd, of which a mention has already been made earlier, gravitates to a particular shop in the market which has occupied a major real estate in pavement and still some books are being laid out. They have managed to put up huge shelves where the books are arranged methodically by an expert. People are languidly browsing the books as the collection is really impressive. Exactly next to this shop is music store of leading repute, but it is no surprise that it is virtually empty because a few paces ahead another music store has been set up on the pavement selling pirated stuff for dirt cheap prices.

A few minutes ahead there is a government approved wine shop which can give any book shop a run for its money. This shop stands in perfect contrast to the book market, even incongruent. Shopkeepers don’t shout here, people don’t spend much time here either, they know what they want, they order it, shove it in pockets and leave, not even bothering to keep the change back in their wallets while fully aware that pickpockets are everywhere. Imagine their sense of urgency on a Sunday afternoon.

It is mid-day and the heat is beginning to take its toll on you. You wander in streets and watch the happenings around you with very little recollection. In this state of mind you can see names but fail to appreciate the humor behind. Book market’s explosive character could also be attributed to the unusual titles it boasts like “Do pairon wala bomb” (A two-legged bomb), or how about “Dilli ke darindey” (Beasts of Delhi)? This market is probably yet to reach the peak of its business as some sacks of books are still lying on the pavements, even on the rickshaws, but you realize that you are too fatigued to continue any further exploration.