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I still remember my first book fair. I was in school then, and back in those days, the fair was held at the Maidan. That vast, green expanse—often called the lungs of the city—would momentarily surrender itself to all kinds of artistic and intellectual pursuits beyond the commercial world. One such space was Mukto Mela.
If I remember correctly, Mukto Mela took place in the Maidan, opposite the Tata Centre. It was a vibrant space where one could witness Shakti Chattopadhyay, already a cult poet by the late sixties, composing poetry on the spot. Prakash Karmakar would be absorbed in his easel, while others engaged in singing, reciting, or dancing. Around this time, Sandipan Chattopadhyay introduced his Mini Books—each a mini volume dedicated to a writer or poet. Still in school, we would eagerly await each new edition. Even after half a century, I vividly recall the one featuring Shakti Chattopadhyay’s poems with illustrations by Prakash Karmakar. Soumitra Chattopadhyay could often be seen puffing on a cigarette, laughing at a joke—probably one cracked by Sunil Gangopadhyay.
The Book Fair itself was commercial but in a different way. Among the sprawling stalls of established publishers drawing large crowds, there was Boi Bazar, where one could find secondhand and slightly damaged books at massive discounts. That was our hunting ground. I still remember the thrill of discovering a 19th-century edition of Diwan-i-Makhfi—a collection of poetry by Zeb-un-Nissa, the celebrated poet-daughter of Aurangzeb. She spent most of her life imprisoned and died around 1702. The very fact that a 16-year-old could find and feel excited about a book like Zeb-un-Nissa in the fair speaks volumes about the kind of intellectual space it once was.
Why was I thinking about all this? The human mind is strange—it keeps making connections, even when you don’t intend to. The spot where I stood was on the outer ring of the fair. Just across the road was a barricaded area, strictly off-limits—no one was allowed to sit there and draw, sing, or recite. Some protested, but the authorities justified it by saying that the fair was for the buying and selling of books, nothing more.
A group of media students approached me for an interview. When I mentioned that I had been attending the fair since its inception, they were amazed. They asked me how book fairs of the past compared to those of today. I shared my thoughts but I failed to see any spark of excitement—or even regret—in their eyes.
It is unsettling to think that people are not reading as much anymore. But then I grew up in a para in North Kolkata where our home was the only one with books beyond the Panjika. Yet it was the period when excitement over books still ruled. Some claim that more books are now sold in Tier-2 cities than in Kolkata. Maybe. What is reassuring is that people are still reading. But the problem lies elsewhere. Those in the business of selling books seem to be suffocating the very space that nurtures the ideas behind them. Have we, as a society, developed an aversion to intellectual exchange? Is this fear of free thought stifling the emergence of new-age Shakti Chattopadhyays?
Or have we simply become worshippers of mediocrity? And don’t think twice about choking the space for creative thinking?
P.S. The books in the pix are a fraction of what I bought. They are just to illustrate.
