Shyam’s bookstall lay at the southern end of our town. His was one of the last shops in our little market place. When I was little, I walked to his shop holding Baba’s hand a couple of times a week. Mostly, this will be in the evenings after Baba returned from the office. He kept a few books but mostly dealt in magazines and comics. Either he or his old father sat behind the counter. Shyam always looked melancholy.
Every visit began similarly but could have either of two possible ends. Baba will greet Shyam and ask, “Is there anything?” Standing on tiptoes, trying to look over the counter, I will hold my breath. If I will be lucky, the barest hint of a smile flitted across Shyam’s somber face. Looking at me, he will nod in the affirmative. I will let loose a little whoop of joy and Shyam will take out of a drawer and place upon the counter an issue of the Anandamela or Shuktara. These were Bangla children’s magazines that we bought. I impatiently awaited each issue and the arrival of each infected me with a delirium of joy. When returning home I will saunter ahead of Baba. But this was no more than twice a month, thrice at most. Most of the visits to Shyam’s ended in disappointment. Then no smile rippled his eyes and I released no whoop of joy. “Not today little brother, may be there will be something next week,” he will say. I will sigh and turn back clutching Baba’s hand. “Never mind, you have a comics to read for now, don’t you?” sometimes Baba tried to console me. But even if I did it will not be much of a consolation. After all, I will know that it will be over before dinner.
I was five when I visited Shyam’s bookstall first and I continued to be a patron till the age of seventeen. In all these years Shyam married, had a child and began to gray. But the melancholy in his eyes never went away. Nor did he cease calling me little brother.
When I turned fourteen, I started walking to Shyam’s bookstall on my own. Now I no more needed to stand on tiptoes to look over the counter. After school, at least thrice a week, I visited his bookstall. I will be expectant, just as I used to be when little. I will be especially expectant in the months of August and September, for that is the time when the special puja numbers of the Bangla magazines come out. The puja numbers of the Shuktara and Anandamela meant the world to me then. Shyam got them for me each year. Every year, for getting those, he received a little advance of money from Baba and express instructions that he must not disappoint me. He never did, as long as he ran the business.
Shyam always managed to gather the most wonderful collection of comics upon his shelves. We all school boys of the town ogled the pile greedily. The Indian edition of Phantom was being brought out by Diamond Comics then. Shyam unfailingly got all the issues. Unfortunately, by the time I was in the fourth standard, my comics reading had come to be rationed. Baba insisted that I do more ‘real’ reading. Perhaps, he also feared that I might catch the contagion of the blithe comics’ grammar. Nevertheless, I still managed to bug a Phantom out of him once in a while. May be, like me, Baba too held a measure of affection for this hero. After all, Phantom’s were the first stories that he had read out to me.
It was the spring of 1996 and the Cricket World Cup was on. Shyam broke to my father that he is planning to wind up his business. I was shattered. His was the only bookstall in the town then. Soon after, he disappeared for a few months, leaving behind his father to run the business. The old gentleman definitely found it difficult to cope. Those were difficult days for me. Sometimes, for a month at a stretch, nothing new arrived on the shelves the old man sat beneath. That drawer too will yield nothing. I was sad beyond measure, there was a limit to which I could re-read my old books and comics. Fortunately for me, whatever other plans Shyam must have made did not amount to much. By autumn the same year he was back in the town. Very soon, once again, the shelves were lined with comics. The odd Phantom again made its appearance. Once again, issues of Anandamela began to emerge out of that drawer, the fount of my most important joys. Shyam was not leaving after all. Not for the time being at least.
When the first faint trace of a moustache apppeared beneath my nose, I grew pretences to wisdom. I took to reading news magazines and Shyam, as far as possible, tried to keep me supplied with those. He seemed rather pleased that little brother is now grown up and attempting to wallow in wisdom. Though I tried real hard to pretend otherwise, my passionate fondness for comics had still not died. I glanced over the newly arrived comics on the shelves with a furtive greed. But every time I did I felt a pang of guilt. It is time for me to outgrow all this, I will tell myself. So, despite wanting to, I bought no more numbers of Phantom. However, I have successfully managed to overcome that first flush of adolescent wisdom. As when I was small, now I buy and read as many comics I can.
An Archie’s gift shop now stands where Shyam’s bookstall once used to be. It sells glossy cards and cuddly toys. I do not know if any wide eyed little boys come to it holding their fathers’ hands and try to peer over the counter. I hear, Shyam left our town a few years ago. May be, he broke the heart of some little boy.
Every visit began similarly but could have either of two possible ends. Baba will greet Shyam and ask, “Is there anything?” Standing on tiptoes, trying to look over the counter, I will hold my breath. If I will be lucky, the barest hint of a smile flitted across Shyam’s somber face. Looking at me, he will nod in the affirmative. I will let loose a little whoop of joy and Shyam will take out of a drawer and place upon the counter an issue of the Anandamela or Shuktara. These were Bangla children’s magazines that we bought. I impatiently awaited each issue and the arrival of each infected me with a delirium of joy. When returning home I will saunter ahead of Baba. But this was no more than twice a month, thrice at most. Most of the visits to Shyam’s ended in disappointment. Then no smile rippled his eyes and I released no whoop of joy. “Not today little brother, may be there will be something next week,” he will say. I will sigh and turn back clutching Baba’s hand. “Never mind, you have a comics to read for now, don’t you?” sometimes Baba tried to console me. But even if I did it will not be much of a consolation. After all, I will know that it will be over before dinner.
I was five when I visited Shyam’s bookstall first and I continued to be a patron till the age of seventeen. In all these years Shyam married, had a child and began to gray. But the melancholy in his eyes never went away. Nor did he cease calling me little brother.
When I turned fourteen, I started walking to Shyam’s bookstall on my own. Now I no more needed to stand on tiptoes to look over the counter. After school, at least thrice a week, I visited his bookstall. I will be expectant, just as I used to be when little. I will be especially expectant in the months of August and September, for that is the time when the special puja numbers of the Bangla magazines come out. The puja numbers of the Shuktara and Anandamela meant the world to me then. Shyam got them for me each year. Every year, for getting those, he received a little advance of money from Baba and express instructions that he must not disappoint me. He never did, as long as he ran the business.
Shyam always managed to gather the most wonderful collection of comics upon his shelves. We all school boys of the town ogled the pile greedily. The Indian edition of Phantom was being brought out by Diamond Comics then. Shyam unfailingly got all the issues. Unfortunately, by the time I was in the fourth standard, my comics reading had come to be rationed. Baba insisted that I do more ‘real’ reading. Perhaps, he also feared that I might catch the contagion of the blithe comics’ grammar. Nevertheless, I still managed to bug a Phantom out of him once in a while. May be, like me, Baba too held a measure of affection for this hero. After all, Phantom’s were the first stories that he had read out to me.
It was the spring of 1996 and the Cricket World Cup was on. Shyam broke to my father that he is planning to wind up his business. I was shattered. His was the only bookstall in the town then. Soon after, he disappeared for a few months, leaving behind his father to run the business. The old gentleman definitely found it difficult to cope. Those were difficult days for me. Sometimes, for a month at a stretch, nothing new arrived on the shelves the old man sat beneath. That drawer too will yield nothing. I was sad beyond measure, there was a limit to which I could re-read my old books and comics. Fortunately for me, whatever other plans Shyam must have made did not amount to much. By autumn the same year he was back in the town. Very soon, once again, the shelves were lined with comics. The odd Phantom again made its appearance. Once again, issues of Anandamela began to emerge out of that drawer, the fount of my most important joys. Shyam was not leaving after all. Not for the time being at least.
When the first faint trace of a moustache apppeared beneath my nose, I grew pretences to wisdom. I took to reading news magazines and Shyam, as far as possible, tried to keep me supplied with those. He seemed rather pleased that little brother is now grown up and attempting to wallow in wisdom. Though I tried real hard to pretend otherwise, my passionate fondness for comics had still not died. I glanced over the newly arrived comics on the shelves with a furtive greed. But every time I did I felt a pang of guilt. It is time for me to outgrow all this, I will tell myself. So, despite wanting to, I bought no more numbers of Phantom. However, I have successfully managed to overcome that first flush of adolescent wisdom. As when I was small, now I buy and read as many comics I can.
An Archie’s gift shop now stands where Shyam’s bookstall once used to be. It sells glossy cards and cuddly toys. I do not know if any wide eyed little boys come to it holding their fathers’ hands and try to peer over the counter. I hear, Shyam left our town a few years ago. May be, he broke the heart of some little boy.
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