I really don't believe in being too fussy about religion. Of course I don't like others to be fussy as well. As far as is race is concerned, it's a pity. But I don't pity Bipasha Basu or the sort who were hurled abuses in London. And since it's post Shilpa-Big Brother, it's quite fashionable these days to be racially assaulted and whine -- who knows you can get your ticket to the big screen with all that hype that people worry about.
I won't get much into it.
As far as I'm concerned, nothing really bothers me apart from class. The trouble with class is -- and I think you read that bit on my previous post -- that it can't be bought very easily. Going by the textbooks, I come from an upper class family household -- and that we live in an upper middle class fashion is only by choice and contemporary circumstances. But as far as the class, my dear old man preserves it in his dignity.
Pride is something I have learnt from him, or I'm studying it still. And as he sits there in his tiny bookshop, sometimes frowning, sometimes grinning over an old joke, dealing with fuckers who come and ask him the worst set of questions to ask a bookseller (I want that yellow cover book, I can't remember the name right, do you have it?), sipping his coffee and disappointed every single day of his 23 year old booksellers life -- very few people understand that his knowledge of books is broader than yours and mine. Now most bookshops in this city are controlled by the middle class business man, the industry too, and people who have the tiniest idea of what books read like. They not only control it -- but they also screw it.
Robin Potter, Sydney Sharma, Harry Sheldon -- call it the way you want it, you'll get it. Not in a bookstore but even the dump seller knows what you're talkin about.
In some sort of way my father, the bookseller, is a Sisyphus of modern times. The sheer class buoys him -- and he will never reveal to the world that behind that tiny desk where he sits uncomfortably -- he comes from a direct royal family. That his childhood was different -- and close to the spoils of royalty, unspoiled. That he once grew up with servants, elephants, libraries and a father who was a visionary gentleman. He's seen it, I haven't.
He doesn't care. He's given it all, and he'll give it all over again. But he won't tell you. He saddened too much.
I won't get much into it.
As far as I'm concerned, nothing really bothers me apart from class. The trouble with class is -- and I think you read that bit on my previous post -- that it can't be bought very easily. Going by the textbooks, I come from an upper class family household -- and that we live in an upper middle class fashion is only by choice and contemporary circumstances. But as far as the class, my dear old man preserves it in his dignity.
Pride is something I have learnt from him, or I'm studying it still. And as he sits there in his tiny bookshop, sometimes frowning, sometimes grinning over an old joke, dealing with fuckers who come and ask him the worst set of questions to ask a bookseller (I want that yellow cover book, I can't remember the name right, do you have it?), sipping his coffee and disappointed every single day of his 23 year old booksellers life -- very few people understand that his knowledge of books is broader than yours and mine. Now most bookshops in this city are controlled by the middle class business man, the industry too, and people who have the tiniest idea of what books read like. They not only control it -- but they also screw it.
Robin Potter, Sydney Sharma, Harry Sheldon -- call it the way you want it, you'll get it. Not in a bookstore but even the dump seller knows what you're talkin about.
In some sort of way my father, the bookseller, is a Sisyphus of modern times. The sheer class buoys him -- and he will never reveal to the world that behind that tiny desk where he sits uncomfortably -- he comes from a direct royal family. That his childhood was different -- and close to the spoils of royalty, unspoiled. That he once grew up with servants, elephants, libraries and a father who was a visionary gentleman. He's seen it, I haven't.
He doesn't care. He's given it all, and he'll give it all over again. But he won't tell you. He saddened too much.
Labels: Class
posted by jairaj at Wednesday, November 28, 2007
4 Comments:
Your dad owns a book shop? *wow*. From one, probably naive and unacquainted viewpoint, it does sound like one of the most interesting things you can do. Any chance you're letting on which one? :)
And hello after eons - I'd fallen off the earth for a bit, but this time, I'm back to stay :)
I actually thought of this post when I was heading for the bookshop next to Benetton in Priya the other day, as I'd drawn a blank as to the names of the books and/or authors I wanted. I took a detour to the Reliance next door and went online to refresh my memory before heading into the bookstore.
I wont spill cause I have to keep this place anonymous. Even though this place is not the best well kept secrets. But close.
haha, i know that bookshop. Been there a zillion times. That's a secret I know of--but I didn' know about your dad's background of owning elephants. well, that secret is out now! :)
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