Reading in Metro

                                             

The first time I took an underground metro my mother took a half day leave from work, invited her colleague and her kids, packed us all a lunch and hailed an auto. We were all planning a picnic. I doubt whether I would now call it a picnic. Because the instructions to us then were: we will board from Patel Chowk metro station; go to the last station and then come back the same way. We kids were very deflated to see that once inside underground, there was nothing much we could do other than just slide from one silver seat to another silver seat. Climbing on poles had yet to enter our imagination. When I asked my mother why did she not let me carry any of my toys, she said, because it was a different kind of picnic.

Now however I make sure that every time I travel in metro, I have something to read. As much as my first sense of boredom comes from traveling in metro; metro ‘picnic’ was a fulfilling experience that day.

Over the last decade, reading as an activity has become more visible in public transports. I became alert to it while I was on my school bus – people cramming for tests, writing and completing practical file work. I saw Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince in hardcover for the first time in the bus and subconsciously made a mental note of its price. Once, I saw a young boy tearing a page from geography notebook, as the ink from his blue gel pen made a nice river all along the page. Our bus conductor would always advise us against reading and writing in bus – eyes will get weak, he would say while reading almost everything written behind trucks and buses. Another day, I took Mockingjay on a short road trip with me, and my eyes regretted it as soon I reached the part where Katniss was moving around in District 12, taking in the ruins and becoming more and more sorrowful, which is to say, my eyes hurt while reading Chapter 1. I slept most part of my reading, my head lolling back.

As I grew up, reading while traveling became important

It was nice to have company. It was a good distraction from the small talk. It was one of the things I could be in control of while traveling. It rendered to escaping – a journey undertaken within a journey.

It was good to make sense (or not) of the visuals outside and the world inside a book. It was absolutely remarkable to realise that not all books can be read anywhere – that there are perfect weather conditions for a book too, ideal reading conditions and these may not always be zones of quietness.

The amount time I have closed The Finkler Question on Violet line is more than the number of times I have registered Rina Simone saying ‘Please mind the gap’.

The God of Small Things co-incidence

On a breezy October Saturday afternoon, I boarded Yellow line at Kashmere Gate. My co-passenger had just gotten up to deboard and beside her was a girl reading earnestly. I saw in small ant-black letters PAPPACHI’S MOTH staring at me. The copy of her book was larger in size than mine and that is how I met A, a first-year student in DU. She was reading The God of Small Things, when I showed her my copy of the same book. Her thoughts were definitely in some other universe when they suddenly reconfigured, as she gave an ‘OH!’ of recognition. Her eyes lit up, “It’s so good na”, mildly melting at the sight of the book. I nodded at her. When I did not look away, she added, “Yeah, but a bit difficult too.” My inner student thanked her for saying that.

I shared with her how I read it wayyyyy back in school and that I was so proud of having finished it in a week. She laughed like she understood the feeling of children wanting to show off after having finished a book. As we chatted along, I got to know that she is a frequent metro traveler, “I usually do make it a point to read in Metro, because I have 30 mins of free time. I don’t get time to read otherwise. I am doing Sociology honors, you know.” “So, do you also listen to audio books or read on other devices?” “No. I like to smell and touch books. I like to hold them.” With a hint of unsteadiness in her voice she mentioned how the crowd and their loud voices in metro sometime do more than just disturb her. “When it is crowded, it is really difficult to read, especially in the morning time. I take the blue and yellow line. So, I literally have to”, laughing at incredulous nature of it all, “fold myself and the book to read. I do love reading in metro though. Sometimes, it is so upsetting… I am in between an important paragraph and suddenly these loud voices would just break the flow.” “But are there no good memories of metro reading?” “Hai na. Once I literally cried (in a crowded metro) while reading A Thousand Splendid sons... My co-passenger got worried and asked me if I was alright. I said ‘yeah’ feebly. But that book made me so emotional. Have you read that book?”

I shook my head and told her about a Ruskin Bond book. I had finished reading Uncles Aunts and Elephants in metro and without realizing, started beaming at everyone in the metro who looked at me because I was so happy. “It was all involuntary”.  What I didn’t tell her was that at that exact moment, words from Ghachar Ghochar were ringing in my head and that too, in Rina Simone’s voice, as if announcing the next metro station no longer interested her – ‘Language communicates in terms of what is already known; it chokes up when asked to deal with entirely unprecedented.’   

In the same week, while traveling to Durgabai Deshmukh Metro Station, Pink line, a woman dressed in blue jeans and black checkered shirt, purposefully took out her earphones and a hardback with a black cover. She began reading, but was distracted most of the times. I therefore did not have any guilt in disturbing her, so I gently tapped on her arm. She looked at the green leaves floating in water and a resting small pink bougainvillea flower which appeared to have fallen from somewhere – this was the cover of the book and it took her some 3-4 seconds to recognize that we were both holding the same book. I had recognized the book again from the set of words that were in the topmost center of the page, PARADISE PICKELES AND PRESERVES.

She smiled a small smile on recognizing the book and said “This is actually not my book. It is my father’s. Old copy. I am not a habitual reader. I just thought I will read it today”.

Reading might be a solitary activity but reading in metro isn’t

There are people who recognize chapter names, book covers, may even surreptitiously read side by side, may even stop you to ask a review. So many times, we lose track of stations that we are supposed to de-board on, all because we are so engrossed in a book.

“I see a bright deep tangerine book shining every now and then. I don’t even guess, I know it is The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck. It is interesting for me to see people of a certain age group reading certain books – Every time I go to office, I usually see young urban working class holding the tangerine book. I am seeing less of Chetan Bhagat these days. There is a Jodi Picoult that I just saw today. Women’s compartment usually have a lot of women reading almost all the time that I have travelled,” said a woman in her mid-thirties, who takes metro once a week and also liked judging people for the choice of their clothes and the complimentary books they read. “I even count surfing on Myntra as reading. Every time I refresh there is a quote that appears on screen and tries to make a case in the favor of buying clothes.”

A young content writer working in Noida once mentioned how he sometimes just closes his book and observes people as sometimes it is more refreshing. And it doesn’t pain that it also helps in getting ideas for the characters (of a novel) that he is writing.

When people are looking at you while reading, when you close your book after reading an excellent poem and think, while staring at the visuals that are passing by, as metro on Violet line curves along Badarpur flyover; reading in metro does not remain an isolated experience.

We are driving slowly, the road is glass.  

“Imagine where we are was a sea once.

Just imagine!” The sky is relentlessly  

sapphire, and the past is happening quickly:

The lines above are from Agha Shahid Ali’s Snow on the Desert. One cannot help but feel the isolation that these lines are creating for the reader but we also have to take into account the evocation produced is because of metro too. That as we are traveling in metro, our reading experience is being paved for us.

Try reading Kaveh Akbar’s My Kingdom for a Murmur of Fanfare or Wislawa Szymborska’s View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems.

When body becomes like a book

Early morning rushes are something to definitely fear especially if you have seen Kashmere Gate or Rajiv Chowk. Yellow line would always keep swarming and just keep ingesting people, Violet line would keep flagging pre-recorded sorry messages “There will be a short delay to this service. We appologise for the inconvenience caused… ” at least five times in the journey. Blue line would always be brimming and you would never be able to decide what time is it ever empty.

Even in such desperate times readers can always be seen desperately trying to cling to their book in the crowd, trying to not lose track of the passage, reading by folding the book. They can be seen either leaning against the pole, or standing with laptop bags in front, pressing their two fingers against the door glass for support, and a book in the other hand.

Once a boy was hooked in his reading of Hitchhiker’s Guide to Galaxy so much that at Sikanderpur station he was pushed outside by the Rapid metro crowd, but instead of raising alarm, he quietly stood aside and got in through the next door of the coach.

Reading spaces in metro

We all enjoy a good light, a good chair, a good place to sit and read. At Mandi house, people seat themselves under the tube light lit hoardings. At Green Park, students can be seen taking up circular seating near the staircase. In metro, the comfortable coach junctions are more crowded in the evenings than in metro. The corrugated rubber near the junction is another space that people lean on and read newspapers in the morning as the metro snakes its way along. The reading junta also leans along the poles, supports itself on the glasses of both sides of the door and the doors that do not open at every metro station. The end of metro coaches has also seen scenes where people take out newspaper and sit, as they dig in the bag for Pratiyogita Darpan.  

At the metro stations with interchange facility like Hauz Khas, INA, which also amounts to people walking a lot and reading books but not bumping into each other. Reading in metro then can also become about learning about metro station as a space. Reading in these spaces then can make us hopeful that there is a future where reading books can be seen as normal as the pitter-patter of metro is. 

The pain of reading

In the summer of 2018, I was commuting in metro for three hours every day. I was reading Many Lives and Many Masters only during my commuting hours. It is a book that I would never go back to, but it didn’t make me realize where my time went while reading. Somehow my physical pain of standing was taken up by the act of reading which immediately wafted into imagining a connection between two different worlds.

Orhan Pamuk in his book My Name is Red, has a beautiful prose: “When you love a city and have explored it frequently on foot, your body, not to mention your soul, gets to know the streets so well after a number of years that in a fit of melancholy, perhaps stirred by a light snow falling ever so sorrowfully, you'll discover your legs carrying you of their own accord toward one of your favourite promontories”.

It is not hard for me to understand why I loved reading Ruskin Bond more in a metro than at home– the noise, the smells, the terrains of some world cannot be felt when you are static. Delhi metro creates a world of its own as soon as you enter, but this world serves as an entry point also to the book as I opened it. The sight, chatter and the whiff of women’s coach evoked a new memory. I can no longer read the same book without thinking about how colourful the coach looked.

I believe some words only make sense when you are literally traveling, so as to understand the metaphorical passage of immersing yourself into some other world. Some words are better felt with the passage of time and space.

Books on Delhi Metro (BoDM)

“This is a very strange incident. The doors of the car had just opened at Pragati Maidan metro station. I saw a book kept on twin railings of the staircase. I ran towards it, got hold of it, and dashed back inside the metro. Later, I wrote to BoDM asking them if I could join them as a volunteer.” The sunny afternoon of November in Connaught Place Park was privy to many of such stories as a bunch of around fifteen volunteers met to discuss their next month’s drops.

But unlike this enthusiastic reader, there are people who get suspicious of books dropped, although if you see the places of drops, you will realise that the books are very strategically placed – to catch the eye of a commuter: Kept on the side of escalator, railing of stairs, between door handles, seats on platforms- places where they will not get in the way of walking.

However sometimes the results may be funny. “They think it might a bomb or they fear getting caught in the act. I personally therefore do not make it a point to stop there to see the book being picked up. Sometimes we wait, sometimes we hide, sometimes we leave. Sometimes people pick it up, flip through it and leave it there again… We trust people who take these books to re-drop them. There is also a BoDM sticker on front cover and a note from us inside. The staff of Delhi Metro, CISF people posted in metro stations are also curious about books and ask us for books… We have started dropping books of Hindi and Urdu too.”

Team BoDM persuades  readers to re-drop

Another book fairy shared this observation, “I have come to realise that reading books in metro is also about knowing your metro stations. Vidhan Sabha is empty during morning hours so I tend to not drop there. If I have a Hindi book, then I usually drop at Chandni Chowk metro station, because I know there will be more takers of such a book.”

Making Reading more accessible and visible

As I was listening to these stories, I realized that in so many years of commuting in metro, I have never been able to see any books being dropped. Since the volunteers are usually using yellow and blue line, the frequency of drops at these stations is highest. However, the incidences of drop at Red and Green line are increasing. For Pink and Magenta line there was only one book fairy. “People connect with us on social media. They ask us where we are going to drop and have sometimes asked us to wait for them before we drop. Sometimes we wait, after all the person is showing so much effort in order to pick that one book”, said a volunteer. “But the re-drops are around 40 percent, not as much as one would expect. The only way we get to know about a re-drop is when they share on social media and tag us. And it is really something to say as our main motive is that people should start reading more.”

But do dropping books on metro is equal to reading books in metro? I think not. What BoDM is trying to do is foster reading. It doesn’t matter whether people read in public or private. The important thing is that people read.

Since people are travelling long stretches of time and distance every day, reading a book in metro helps in focusing. It serves as ‘me-time’, as a jumpstart to another refreshing evening, as a meditative exercise, as a space to conserve energy, to concentrate and get away from distractions. Isn’t it ironic that to close off the distractions of this world, we are ready to plunge in another world with distractions all around us?

To see people reading in metro, is like seeing libraries walking. There is so much to know - read, learn, communicate, understand, marvel and wonder about everything, that finally just the presence of seeing people read, gets the ‘picnic’ started.

We need books. We need citizens who read. The more people see reading in public places – be it reading to each other, reading from smart phones, reading from newspapers, reading from kindle, the more chances are we will be able to understand how much there is yet to know!

Back of Books

                                             

This article will be talking about the world of books and the actors who populate this world, before the book reaches the hands its reader.
 

Mandi House metro station is located at a very favourable place for the art lovers of New Delhi. Inside the metro station, hoardings can tell you about various art events at Indian Habitat Centre, National School of Drama, etc. Outside the metro station, with all the larger banners and billboards, you can get to know about various theatre and dance shows. Sahitya Akademi Library, Delhi Public Library, Oxford Bookstore are at walking distance from this station. At regular hours, you can find people paying 5rs for chai, sipping conversation in between and eating crack jack biscuits. There are also make shift shops where you can buy chips, namkeen, sweet potato, chaat, handkerchiefs, socks, earphones, mobile covers, etc. The Jamun trees that line the Copernicus road provide enough shade during the worst summer days and also act as umbrella when the unpredictable weather of Delhi chooses to confirm its arbitrariness by raining in November. The roads are however unsurprising because of the traffic jams during morning and evening hours as it connects to the busy stretch of Connaught Place, India Gate and ITO. The pavements are regularly chalked with coloured drawings – sometimes kids, sometimes women, sometimes men, sometimes a young boy, sometimes a middle age man, can be seen drawing on these tiled pavements with deep interest.

It was one such evening. Three young men, sat with an old battered black radio, formed a circle and were sketching with coloured chalks on the pavement that leads to Mandi House Metro Station. The sound of Kishore Kumar was impressing a smile on almost all metro goers and many were looking at the coloured covers of books spread on the tiled sidewalk but no one really made a stop there. Another constant at this station’s route is a bookseller, who sits near the exit of metro station. He sells bestsellers. The bestsellers are set and spread in a way so that you see all the books. I was interested in this art of setting up books – a way to garner attention – it was like books were themselves getting up a little bit and calling out to you to have a look at them. ‘Pick me, Choose me’. 

In the front row sits Chetan Bhagat’s new book. In the last row lies Ministry of Utmost Happiness. All the books are covered with cellophane packaging except for Ministry of Utmost Happiness.

My curiousness and the sound of Kishore Kumar gave me a push to ask him about books. I have always wondered about the relationship of books with sellers. A few months back, I was at ITO’s traffic light when I saw a man on the footpath counting books in sets and not as a singular item. He did not put the books in a bag. With one hand he took a bunch of books and placed it in the bag. He packed the books in sets, carried those 20-30 book titles in a battered white plastic bag on his back and continued walking to wherever he was going.

Near Mandi House

The bookseller at the metro station is a man who sits behind a desk covered with white plastic. The desk is two feet higher than the ground. The plastic seems old and looks like it has been reused several times. On it he sells mobile accessories. Adjacent to the desk, on the ground is the collection, spread again on old white plastic, that invited attention but not sales. He says he sits only in evenings. “From 4 to 9.”

This is also the time when Mandi House is most active and bustling. It is the time when office goers go back home and students like me return to their homes.  I ask him “Do all the books get sold?” He looks at me, pauses, studies me and then says “No. But look at this...” He points at the wide expanse of his plastic sheet and the books kept on it. He stretches his arms. Surely, the white plastic sheet on the ground takes more space than the mobile desk which has covers for mobile phones too. “But how do you get to know which books are being sold, or what people are buying, because I can see that all the books that you have are best sellers?” I ask. “We know. We keep a list. We keep getting updated. Just look at this…” He prods me to look at the collection. He proudly shows them to me. “Look at this one, Room 105, Chetan Bhagat’s new one.”

He corrects the arrangement and puts the bestseller Chetan Bhagat in the first row for other heads on walking legs to see. I wonder how comical might people look from a place where he is sitting and selling books. I saw mostly legs hurrying. In between our conversation, his eyes are alert to plausible customers and he keeps looking at other people, who for a moment slow down to see the books but no one really stops. He keeps books in a slant position, such that each book is being supported by the other book’s back. All the book titles are also visible to passers-by. It is only the books in the last row that are lying flat and are hidden by the shade of the tiled platform above it.

Along with the books he also sells tempered glass for mobile phones, back covers, etc. He sits on the broad tiled pavemented railing that runs along the footpath. Behind him are plants that have sharp leaves. I ask him how many books are sold in a day. His answers are monosyllabic and evasive. I understand that I am being intrusive without telling him my reason for doing so. He shakes his head and fidgets with the rubber band in his hand. I ask him where he gets the books from. He says “I get it myself.” “But, where do you get these books from?” He looks hesitant. He asks why I am asking all this, finally.

It is my time to get nervous as I am not really sure if he will answer me or dismiss me. I tell him that I am writing about books and their life before books are made. “Matlab, you are looking at Writing. Because before the books come, it is the writing that happens. People write books. Then you read these.” I laugh at myself. I correct myself. “No. I mean that I am looking at the time in life of books before they reach someone – like how you get it, how you store it, where you store it…” He cuts me, for good in between and seemed a little excited “Oh, I got it.” He points to his collection of books and says “I get these from Daryaganj. I carry these myself in this bag.” He shows me threadbare canvas bags with big bold letters of ‘Eagle brand masala’ written on one of the bags. The letters have eroded over a long period of use. The bags are not large enough and I wonder how he tries to put all these books in one bag. Another set of bags has been kept under his seat. He gets up and tilts the seat cover for me to see. “A lot of care needs to be taken. See”, he arranges the tempered glass’s boxes on the desk and shows me how he succeeds in packing books and putting them together. He places one layer of books vertically and then above it, another layer of books horizontally. He uses his hands and forms a ‘T’ to explain to me. He describes how he takes care of the books. “This way, books do not fold and their covers do not fold. I clean them myself. Need to be wiped after regular intervals as this is a busy road and dust settles on them quite frequently. I dust them (books). The plastic covering prevents the books from getting dirty. I covered these myself. We don’t get these covered from the market. You can see for yourself that these are clean right now.” I nodded in agreement.

“Where do you go in Daryaganj to buy?” I ask. “Aree, you won’t find all of these at Daryaganj. These are special. Some of them...” “Yes, they are. Look, at that cover of Harry Potter book. Blue one. I have not seen cover like these in any of the bookshops in Daryaganj.” “Exactly! We get these from various places.” “Like?” “Daryaganj only, but many places.” “So, what do you do with these after you are done for the day?” “I take them back.” “To Daryaganj?” He shakes his head with energy and says “Akshardham.” “How do you carry them? Rickshaws?” He shakes his head resolutely and says “No. By BUS. Rickshaws will take 100 Rs, for just taking this much load” and laughs when he says this.  “So, what do you do for example if the books do not get sold?” “We exchange with people who want them. There are people who ask us or call us that we need so and so book. We go and give it to them.”

“But then what is your primary business?” I ask.  He opens his arms a bit more this time and directed his eyes at the desk and grazed both his hands in air, as if throwing some playing cards around, as if there is a visible treasure that I am not seeing, “this” pointing at the white plastic clad desk. “I sold only 10 books last week. With this (mobile accessories) I make around 1000-800 Rs. per day.” He is sad to admit it and his shoulders drooped as he gets bitter when he looks at the books. It is then I ask him whether he accepts people bargaining. He said yes but looked defeated. Like someone admitting that he didn’t have much choice in matters like these. He says that he changes price accordingly. But it doesn’t look like he likes doing this.

While we were having this conversation, a young man in a hurry, stops and asks the price of a book. He points at the book. The book seller blurts out the name of the book with utmost ease and says “200”. The young man leaves without saying anything or looking back at the book or the book seller again.

I ask him about the competition from other book sellers at Mandi House or Rajiv Chowk as he usually works in Darya Ganj or Mandi House. “There is no point going to Rajiv Chowk. There are already a lot of people (booksellers) there. If I am only selling 3-4 books in this area, entry of one more person in the market will defeat both our sales. So, no one enters. Why would they?”

The seller was seeing books as goods. As a consumer of books, I see books both as goods and as a service. Goods are the items you buy; service is an action that a person does for someone else, for example, teaching. In communicating with booksellers and libraries I was seeing the act of dealing with books both as a good and as a service. A bookseller in the process of giving me a book is also initiating my reading experience.

If you go to bookshops in Daryaganj, you will realise how busy the sellers are. That at every point of time people employed in bookshops are involved in more than one activity. That these sites are not just about books. That these sites are not only the pleasure of books or about the beauty of books or about how time seems to stop in libraries. That these sites are about labour. That the sights we see are infected with exertion. That these sites are about effort involved in making books reach a reader. Maybe we realise it at the billing counter, or when the package gets delivered, or may be much before all of that, when we have to make sure our books don’t turn yellow.

It is at the billing counter where you see what is being sold and what is being bought. The books that are being sold are not the only things that are being bought here. There are pencils, pens, fevicols, stapler pins carefully placed near the exit of the shop or near the bill counter. There are pencil boxes, water colours, coloured A4 size papers, being bought. The famous Book Bazaar in Daryaganj, is a large bookshop which sells books according to weight- ‘100 Rs for a kilo, 200 Rs for a kilo’- these cards can be seen hanging outside as well as inside the shop. Books are not just stocked on shelves here, there are cartons that are filled with books. In such cartons, rarely are people correcting the arrangement of books, they are just searching for the right book. What is more important to sellers is that a 100 Rs. book does not mix with 200 Rs. book. There is a separate carton for picture books, for CDs, for pencil box, for colours, pencil colours, crayons.

At Daryaganj: The early hours when the space is being set up for books and readers. Music by Indian playback singer Mukesh in the background.

These card boxes demand effort. To search for a book demands effort. And then getting disappointed when you like none of the contents in the box, demands an equal struggle to move to the next box.  

The thrill about buying books is also in gaining entry in the immediate surrounding where these books are kept; it is about remembering not just the story inside the books but also the story around books; about recollecting right next to which books did I find Why I am a Hindu, or how Diary of a Wimpy Kid is at the back of the bookshop where they keep Arihant’s 16 years Solved Papers for AIIMS.  

The delight is not just in finding a book. It is the labour around books that fulfils such moments of delight and these laborious moments that are mostly hidden away maybe in our bills, or the time you take in the queue, or how you would like the shelf could have been better cleaned. What makes a book worth is also the moments of its immediate surroundings. Someone has kept books there in the shelf, this is called cataloguing. A reader kept a book on the wrong shelf, this is called mistake. You complained about the dusty bookshelves, next time maybe you will find the shelf a little less dusty, this is called taking care. You may also find hard bound copies of that classic, or the rolled and yellowed pages in that book of poems and hence choose to buy something else.

Scene from Sahitya Akademi Library

What interests me about the hidden labour is the act of sacrifice. This hidden labour is as much as a thing in motion as the book is. This kind of attention to the process of following the life around books or things-in-motion, returns our attention to the things themselves. When people say ‘it feels like time is stuck in libraries’, to understand this feeling we have to follow the things themselves, for their meanings are inscribed in their forms, their uses, their trajectories. In libraries, the jacketed books, the yellowed books, the folded books, the dust that appears to never have loosen its track and always settling on shelves, in between spaces between two books, all contribute to make that feeling even more apparent. The physical thing called dust collects and contributes to timelessness.

A person who helped me out at the bookshop in Daryaganj, sits at the back, is not employed by the bookshop. He says that he likes coming there and helps with the sales. He has some idea of where books of which kind are kept. He confidently points, while sitting in his chair, to corners where cook books are, where coffee table books are, where JEE Main prep books are, where Yoga books are.

At Daryaganj, recently more of such ‘sell by weights’ bookshops have come. At one of the bookshops the seller tells me “We were earlier at Nai Sadak. We have been there for more than 10 -15 years. We came here 5 years back. All the other bookshops that you see around yourself have just come up. We are the oldest here.”

The life of books is not just about the reader or till the time the book is being read or till the time someone in Daryaganj keeps seeing themselves as the oldest haven of books. The life of books is also about till the time the book remains in that carton. 

Computer Science text books being used to support things. 

Circulation is not the word that I am looking for. There are books in houses that are used as paperweights, as a way to level something up, as a way to support the frail picture frame. Class 12 computer science books are kept underneath mixer grinder so that it does not fall off. Reading is not the only function of books. However, it is true that I have once read all those books. But what happens after reading that object. It is equally important to see what happens to a book after you read it. As much as there is ‘before’ side of the book, there is also ‘after’ side of the book.

One of the doors at the community library in Sinkanderpur has this poster stuck.

Even in the 'before' part, some books will always remain at bottom in the carton, unattended, sometimes attended. The labour behind books needs to be observed and valued as much as the book.  Even if the canvas bag is torn and weary, it is still being carried on someone’s back. That back may be aching or might be on medication.

Scene from a Community Library in Sikanderpur

Tu chal ke toh dekh, peeche seat khali hogi

1:50 p.m.The sky above the rickshaws looked clear. The road from the back gate of  AUD  to Kashmere Gate Metro Station is one of those roads where you can see people walking in the middle of the road, carefree. This road is also where rickshaws ride on the sides. A large section of the road is taken up by parked cars of the shopkeepers (and builders) in this area.

Like a great day, this day also started by noticing how high the sun stood and its brilliant heat. The class of Literary Journalism was taking a field trip and Delhi Metro was the field. The students stood at Gate no. 7 and little did they know that escalators were going to remind them of inertia that day. We were standing at the station’s entrance gate, near the entrance of ISBT bus terminal, a lot nearer to public toilets, beside a paan peek stained wall, under the hoarding which proclaimed Kejriwal’s mission and a mostly clean outside.

It is this vivid and varied outside that makes me marvel at the inside that is Kashmere Gate.

Kashmere Gate Metro Station is an area of great research for me personally. It is the largest metro station in Delhi and the only 3-line interchange metro station in India. I always thought that it would be in the race and thought Rajiv Chowk might emerge as a winner in the ‘largest’ metro station category. However, I was wrong. Recently, I started reading the signs of it too – Kashmere Gate has Burger King, Chayoos, McDonalds, 2 WHSmith stores, Sahitya Akademi bookshop and a few more eateries. There are 8 exit and entry gates to this station. You can easily get lost inside and outside this station. It is only when I got lost at one of the exits that I got to know about the enormous area this station is built in and is still being built. Once inside there are levels to this metro station but once outside you realize that the escalators were bound to trick, lifts were bound to ease you and those coloured footprints only made your life easier inside the station, not outside. It is at this station that I have been maximally asked questions about line interchange, directions, gates, exits, how do I reach so and so place.

Silver of the Metro

At 2:14 p.m. I boarded the Violet line going towards Escorts Mujesar, navigated through the silver of the metro, zig zagged around the poles and found a seat. Someone while pushing his friend to the later coaches said tu chal ke toh dekh, peeche seat khali hogi… His words had the wisdom of an experienced traveler. These experiences are what I used in the journey because I went all the way to the last coach. Later coaches had comparatively fewer people. I took out my notebook to write the timings and the record the time at which the metro makes a stop at each of these stations. 

At 2:26 p.m. A man asks me to interchange seat on Mandi House. I sit opposite another man and notice how the voice in the metro has increased and there is a loudness in it.
At 2:30 p.m. we reach C. Sec and I notice that 30 people are looking at phone. Those who are not using phone have closed their eyes or are staring straight. There is no one I find with a physical book in hand or anyone reading newspapers.  My neighbor looks into what other people are doing in their phones; he shifts his gaze on my notebook and reads. I stop writing and shift so that he knows that I know. But he doesn’t catch the movement, I think.
At 2:38 p.m. we reach Jangpura and there is a tired feeling that sets in the coach. Two women walk inside and remind me of my relatives when they meet in metro as they say– Tu Baith, Nahi Tu Baith. They both sit beside me and talk about material of suits and what is the latest stuff in the market of suits. One of them also asks about what the next station is after every few minutes, the other woman calms her by telling her Abhi nahi aaya.

I was looking at how people cross their legs and occupy seating spaces

My neighbor looks into my notebook and I write that down. I do not attempt at hiding it because I too was reading the conversations of other people. And still with all this reading, talking, it was the loudness of the male voice that kept drowning out the voice of the women beside me.  
At 2:40 p.m. we reach Lajpat Nagar, the metro goes over ground into the light of afternoon and the light suddenly makes the coach seem a little more spacious. While the train was on its way to Kailash colony, the gates along the line blocked my view. All I could see were these white terraces with numerous small dots on them – dish antenna, brightly coloured buildings, orange, red, white, cream coloured houses and telephone company towers, which make regular appearances through out the journey.
At 3:07 p.m. I reach Sarai and the metro feels lighter as we were reaching the end. I recorded in my notebook the camaraderie- winks, small bits of leg pulling and the loudness of HAHAHA.

Near Badarpur

So many times, it felt as I looked outside, how metro was travelling on a border – as if I was reading the world from two edges and none will be as true as what I am reading them right now to be. The distance of this reader was evident. There is no zooming in or zooming out while reading these kinds of scenes. It felt like following a trail or a linear narrative, as you make your way on the sides. I was noticing the edges. If to my left I saw a green cover, then to my right I only saw red bricked houses. If to my right there were corporate towers or posh localities then to the right there will be short small dirty red houses whose localities and lanes still made space for a little bit green. However, these stretches kept alternating. There was not a clear belt or specific rule that the houses on my right side were always in rich localities. These sights kept taking turns and were never limited to left or right side. But whenever these contrasts appeared, there was never a hint of one class making a dent against another class. It looked instead the case of accumulation – one class collected on one side of the flyover, another class collected on the other side of the flyover.

                                                 

At 3:21 p.m. I notice the absence of a person, sleeping in the seat opposite me, resting his head on the glass. He had just gotten off.
At 3:30 p.m.  we reach Escorts Mujesar and through the doors across me I notice a clear separation between a well built, cleanly, painted houses on one side and zone of red brick houses with a Maruti Suzuki plant irregularly sticking out.  

At 3:45 p.m. I boarded the train once again to reach Kashmere Gate. Through out the journey what kept me on hooks was that I would notice a book. Despite all the reading I was doing, no one asked me why I was writing or what I was writing. I went from coach to coach but could not find anyone reading books or newspapers. This was quite contrary to the experience I have had on yellow line. I have always found the presence of physical books, even if it is a Homeopathy book on yellow line.

Could not find books

At Bata Chowk an old man walked in and took the seat under ‘for old and disabled’, even though there were other seats he could have taken as the metro was empty. The older men in my coach were all standing or seated in the corners. There have been times when I have been asked to shift to seats for reserved for women. There have been times when I consciously make the choice of sitting in middle or in between two people just so that there is more visible presence of women – so that more women can find spaces in metro. While going from coach to coach I was looking at this visibility perhaps but visibility of books. I was also looking to find a book dropped by ‘booksondelhimetro’ but in so many years of traveling in metro, almost every day, I have never found a book.

At 4:33 p.m. we reached Kailash Colony and the rain drops started slashing against the window pane the general mood of the metro also changed. People leaning on the doors noticed the weather and chattering rose. I was looking at hoarding of Modi on one Petrol Pump, near Harikesh Nagar when someone remarked ‘Aaj Bharat Band hai’?

No one answered. Some fumbled in their pockets and checked for phones. I was perplexed, but finally as I reached Kashmere Gate, I was desperate to check whether the weather at Badarpur Border had picked up with that at Kashmere Gate.