Books for just 20 bucks

Warm, sweaty and irritable. That is what I was when I came across this gem of a stall. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me rewind and start from the beginning.

Technology and I don’t seem to get along these days. My camera got stolen, my music system’s on the blink, my laptop’s keyboard has stopped working… even the goddamn clock in my room has stopped running. So when my phone started acting up one day after it came back from the workshop, it took all of my self-restraint (and my sister constantly reminding me that my phone cost a bomb) to stop me from smashing it with a sledge hammer. Instead, I wrote a very nasty letter to Sony India Pvt Ltd, and lo behold, they responded! Called me up to say that they were very sorry, and begged me to come to their workshop again.

It so happened that Urmi had stayed the night, so the next morning, the two of us went off to the workshop, which, I swear on Tandoori Chicken, is located in a place that God is seriously considering to turn into an extension of Hell – Laxmi Nagar. Narrow, dingy lanes, traffic everywhere, constantly being assaulted by a hundred horns by frustrated cars, autos, bikes and yes, even trucks, trying to navigate through a slew of humanity – though to be fair, the canine and the bovine world were also quite well represented… well, you get the idea. 

Funnily enough, when we reached the area, it was quite deserted, relatively speaking, of course. What I mean is that a million people weren’t trying to kill each other by running over each other. And we were quite lucky to get into the workshop early, and we were treated quite well. And then, while the waiting was happening that we, our throats parched after a night of boozing, decided to nip down to the nearby juice shop and have a glass each. And that’s when all hell broke loose.

In the 20-odd minutes that we were inside, what seemed like the entire population of Australia (with New Zealand and most of South America also thrown in for good measure) descended upon Laxmi Nagar. I’m not exaggerating when I say that it took us half an hour just to reach the juice shop, a mere 100 metres away. And that’s when we saw the beauty… a man with a rickety stall, selling…books.

He had neatly arranged the books into 4 categories – new releases, bestsellers, Indian bestsellers and assorted books. Each came with their own fixed price – the new releases were for Rs 150, bestsellers for Rs 100, Indian bestsellers for Rs 80 and the assorted books for just 20 bucks.

The books were a combination of pirated, second hand and defected copies, but no book was in an outright bad condition. There were all sorts there – M&Bs, John Grishams, abridged versions of classics, even a couple of books in a foreign language (German, says Urmi). And that’s when we found it. A cookbook, with its cover ripped off but otherwise in excellent condition. And what a cookbook it was! It had recipes for everything from cheesecakes to smoked lamb steak, with quite a few cocktails thrown in for good measure. We didn’t waste any time; all we needed to do was to look at each other and we knew we wanted the cookbook. And that’s when we found the other wonder.

A book of assorted stories by Guy de Maupassant. For 20 frigging bucks. In mint condition. A book thicker than my arm (through admittedly, that’s not very hard). I fell in love immediately. I opened my mouth and no sound came out. Urmi had to pay for it, I was so dumbstruck. And just like that, that shitty, shitty day turned into a good day. And I got my first copy of Guy de Maupassant’s short stories.

---Kartikeya

Meet me at the intersection of chic and Shahpur Jat

At Shahpur Jat

I am torn, quite frankly. Torn between wanting to keep this exquisitely not-so-quaint-anymore little hub all to myself; and between telling everyone that I know, as interested in fashion, food, paraphernalia and the general craze of wanting to do something a Sunday afternoon, of this discovery that I made last week. For revelation would entail losing the right to call it my own...but considering this place has been around a while, it probably is a futile dream anyway! This territorial delight that I refer to is the Shahpur Jat Village, tucked away almost as though to hide itself, beyond the busy harrumphing main roads of south Delhi. Just a bus stop away from its more illustrious cousin, Hauz KhasVillage, my current favourite hotspot has in fact been often called “the poor man’s Hauz Khas Village”, a title its owners vociferously try to live down. I found out as much on my most recent (and in fact my first!) trip to its romantic bylanes last Sunday, when I accompanied my boyfriend on one of his news assignments. He was covering the Open House for The Hindu and I was happily, in a furiously busy looking ethnic skirt, tagging along—not the greatest idea as I soon found out, the skirt I mean—for we trailed along gullies, often muddy, that you wonder at existing beyond the Chandni Chowk area of the city.

Me, browsing through the shelves at Bookwise

  It didn’t take us too long to find the place, however pre-disposed Shahpur Jat may seem to be to tucking itself away. Just ask the auto rickshaw-walla to take the sloping narrow road adjacent to the road that leads to the Asiad Village and chances are that you shall find yourself pop at the threshold of a Slice of Italy. This Slice of Italy in fact is the only thing “conventional” about Shahpur Jat Village, as we were soon to discover. Bravely navigating loose tendrils of an extremely stubborn skirt, I hopped and skipped up the place I had never been. It was beautiful. Coloured in streamers and balloons, every shop on both sides of us seemed to scream out to us in gaiety. They truly were embodying the spirit of the Open House that meant to showcase to the general public of Delhi what it had to offer and how much of it Delhi had already missed! 

We began at Bookwise, this quaint shop in wood paneling that the moment you walk in, seems to open out into a wondrous new universe, stretching out to shelves and shelves of—wait for it—not merely books, but so, so much more. There were paper lanterns and coffee mugs and quirkily designed home accessories; even cartoon-faced paperweights (!), and free little bottles of water and cups of hot coffee offered to anyone that walks in. Kartikeya and I had walked bang into the middle of the story-telling session that was the highlight of the day. Little kids piping in outbursts and responses to the story-teller’s questions thrown at them while they sprawled on the mats. When he was done interviewing Aarti Walia, the co-owner of Bookwise, we were immediately guided by her to Anandini’s Tea Boutique — a phenomenon I found surprising. In a vastly competitive shopping world, where store owners mumble directions to neighbouring stores, people at Shahpur Jat seemed more than eager to help us out! If the wonder at such friendliness weren’t enough, Anamika, the owner of Anandini herself was a bundle of brimming warmth and bubbliness. Ushering us in with a million-watt smile, she talked voraciously about her tea-loving origins. On a little table were lined three different kinds of chocolate—all dark—and sprawled next to them judicious instructions as to which type of tea one should eat those chocolates with. Not only did I LOVE the concept of tea with chocolate, something I’d never heard of before, I was also glad she allowed us a sampling—when we finally had a delectable lavender infusion tea with chilli pine nut chocolate!

Olivia Dar

  Of course the shopaholic in me could not stay rooted in one spot and needed to explore the rest of this labyrinthine maze that was Shahpur Jat. Rows after rows of boutiques with dolled up mannequins, in dresses, scarves, stacked high on sky-high stilettos, ankle straps, colours: umber, magenta, lavender, pink—screamed at me ever so insistently. I followed the call (as I had to) all the way to Olivia Dar and Kardo. Olivia Dar, this happy-looking Parisian, with free-flowing curls and in a fitted white ganjee, told us of how she had stationed herself in India ten years ago and had never felt like leaving. I had, meantime already shot off a couple of fashion questions at her that had Kartikeya slightly stupefied, but mostly relieved. How were these clothes a hybrid of French couture and Indian detailing, as her brochure proclaimed? By way of explanation, she simply pointed to rows of collars—those famous collars that Olivia Dar is especially known for. French detachable collars that she has grown up with seeing her beloved grandmother and mother don, and that she has now introduced to India through bright Indian colour schemes and beads and buttons, often glittery gold sequins that the Indian penchant for bling frequently craves. She had thought of it all—and before I could even begin to browse, she had (again, amazingly good-naturedly) directed us to her neighbour, Rikki Kher, who owns Kardo. Kardo, a line of only men’s clothing, looked beautiful when we entered, as all the lines and lines of pastel, blue, white shirts seemed to catch the light and reflect a thousand smithereens of the highest quality fashion. He insisted their motto was to be traditionalist, to get down to basics, to use the finest tailoring, hide their seams (a detail I marveled at), yet made sure we understood he wasn’t conservative in following new trends either.

Rikki Kher

We were almost done. The only thing that was left to be done was—you guessed it—satiate two tremendously hungry stomachs! Of course we visited all the bigger ones which were in a line—Potbelly restaurant and Café R.E.D, among others — but finally decided on a little almost out-of-the-way café called K.T’s, given my penchant for the cozy and private. After having dug into two of the most sumptuous juicy burgers we’d had in a while (a mutton Gunda burger and a Chicken one) we were pleasantly indolent. The afternoon’s labour had given us liberty to just browse and laze now. And in the little time we remained there now, I happily did so. Of course I hadn’t come armed with enough resources to shop—I’d had no idea of what delights this place offered—but now I knew. I was highly reluctant to leave, but leave we did—only with the promise I made to myself, almost squealing and pirouetting on my long-skirted toes—that we’d be back very soon. Perhaps next week. Perhaps sooner. With a vengeance to shop.

The passageway to Cafe R.E.D.

 Shahpur Jat is a must-visit. You will be all kinds and shades of happy. And if you are anything like me, you will be purring with satisfaction, with two strings of scarves and strappy heels slung around your shoulders. Sigh, there I said it.

--- Urmi