They used to be everywhere. On the shelves, on his table, on chairs. They spilt over from open cupboards. One had to step over them carefully as they made their way into the recesses of his tiny bookstore. He was very comfortable in that den. He would reach over, standing on his chair, to take one from the shelf above. He would crawl on his knees to ferret another from under a cupboard. His customers would stand near the door, just as I did on many afternoons during my office break. We would stand there and call out the name of an author and their latest book. Without a trace of annoyance that we had disturbed him during his lunchtime, he would crouch on the floor to retrieve it from a stack of “new arrivals” while his curd rice and pickle sat untouched on the table.
T S Shanbhag, who died recently, was not just a bookseller. He was an institution, larger than life. He was among the last brave warriors who struggled to keep his bookshop going as large multinationals threatened smaller businesses. His small Premiere, with its broken steps and overflowing books, was truly premier in all aspects – just like its owner, who not only loved books but was able to recognize others who did.
Here is one instance - RK Narayan’s The Writerly Life had just hit the stands in the early 2000s. Not surprisingly, Premier Bookshop had sold out all the copies by the time I arrived there. “Are you sure there is not even one left?” I pleaded. Shanbhag smiled sadly. He understood his readers’ emotions where books were concerned.
Read | Farewell, Mr Shanbhag
“I can try next week,” he said. I shook my head. I wanted the book for my son, who was boarding a flight to the US the same night. I turned away, disappointed. The bookseller said nothing. That night, we were having dinner when the doorbell rang. A smiling Shanbhag held out RKN’s book. “This is for you,” he told my son and vanished.
I visited his bookstore the next day and discovered how he had managed this feat. “Someone had taken three copies yesterday. I requested them to return one which I would replace next week.”
I also discovered his “customer” lived in Basavanagudi in the south of this city. Shanbagh had travelled all the way to the northern end to deliver the book. But that was Shanbhag, a small bookseller with a big heart. They don’t make people like that anymore, do they?