Book pirates and a reader
Book pirates and a reader
It was one of those sultry days towards the end of July,
when the most of monsoon is supposed to have passed
away. Sun often cheated the clouds to appear, the drizzle
persisted intermittently however. Real rain now occurred
sporadically only for a few hours during nights or early
mornings.
Heat and humidity sapped the vigour, leaving one craving
for the cooler and drier autumnal days, when weather no
more added to the agitation the daily life entailed.
Held up due to one such episode of drizzle at New Road one
late morning, under the awning of a jewelry shop not open
yet, a seller was selling books at the same place. Obviously
his shop had to move as soon the shop opened.
I scanned the Nepali, English and Hindi titles available with
him. In English he was selling Jeffry Archer, Chetan Bhagat,
Amish Tripathi, Poulo Coelho,–and strangely, Khalid
Husseini, too–among many others. The Self-help books of
Shiv Khera were available in all three languages. It hinted at
how most readers sought guidance or wisdom out of a
book.
I thought Husseini did not belong there. Thinking if I could
bargain a deal I checked its price. The seller carefully turned
the pastic-covered book to show me its price in Dollars and
Sterling-pounds.
I was not impressed but he said, “It is actually seven
hundred rupees on conversion but I will give you a discount
to do my Bohani. You can pay six-hundred only.”
I thought distastefully if he was going for an over-kill. Books
sold like that on a foot-path are mostly pirated copies of
successful books or those that the seller would not mind
selling at a junk price if they remain unsold with him.
The sad face of Khalid Husseini came to my mind. Since a
writer was being plundered so freely, I decided I will partake
in the loot, for being a fan and a reader I had bigger claims
on the author than this tawdry book seller.
This thought angered a bit to me as I closely watched the
unshaven, shabby face of the seller. I saw the latent anxiety
on his face as any time now the shop we were standing in
front of could open and he will have to move putting all his
books in a sack.
It was my time to make the Kill.
“I will pay only two hundred rupees. Everyone knows these
books you are selling are pirated copies. So showing me its
price in Dollars is of no use,” I said.
“OK sir. You pay two-hundred fifty rupees and the book is
your,” He said.
Before I paid the money I opened the plastic cover of it to
make sure that the book was not ridden with spelling
mistakes like one such book I purchased in Bombay a long
time ago. Then the information technology was not so
ubiquitous and pirates retyped a book word-by-word before
printing it. One could only have reverence towards their
tenacity in making pirated copies of a book. They worked
harder than the present generation of the book pirates but
were not literate enough to omit the spelling mistakes.
Thankfully, this Husseini’s book was a scanned and then
printed copy. I paid the money and left the place as the
drizzle had stopped now and a bright sun was making things
gloomier due to its heat.
K. C. Bhatt
