The City of Books and Many Dreams
Growing up in Calcutta in the 1970s and 80s was nothing short of joyful. Life was simpler, the technology was simpler, and love mostly meant books. For me, books came from lending libraries—especially Oxford, that magical old bookstore with endless rooms like a maze, tucked away with treasures at every turn. The library sat at the very end, and countless hours slipped away as I searched for discoveries.
Jean Plaidy’s sweeping European histories disguised as novels transported me to castles and courts. Billy Bunter made me laugh, while Alex Haley’s sagas—set in airports and hotels far removed from our world—made me feel worldly and sophisticated. Harold Robbins, of course, offered my first glimpse into sex; I’ll never forget my aunt catching me with one and cocking a very disapproving eyebrow. Then there was Jacqueline Susann, with her scandalous heroines, making everything feel just a little risqué.
Stepping outside Oxford onto Park Street, another kind of magic waited—the magazine men, sitting behind shining piles of comics. I can still remember the thrill of Archie, Richie Rich, Woody Woodpecker, and the whining, wheedling I did with my parents just to get one “every second day.” Over time, I built a collection so large they were bound together, my pride and joy—though, like many things, they got lost somewhere along life’s journey. In Calcutta, though, it seemed everyone was reading.
The British Council library was another beloved haunt. On holidays, I’d have our cook pack me a little feast—ham sandwiches, a bag of Club potato wafers, and a thermos of nimboo pani. With my partner-in-crime, a girl named Tuncy (why her parents named her that, I never dared ask—her aggressive ponytails made her slightly terrifying), we spent entire days from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. among its sprawling collection. Then we’d carpool home, sun-drunk on stories and magazines and British newspapers.
There were smaller libraries too—at the Saturday Club and the Dalhousie Institute—but they lacked the charm and the riches of Oxford. The DI librarian especially seemed determined to keep children away; we crept about there like spies, trying to be invisible. And of course, my school library at La Martiniere for Boys: perched above the famous round chapel, it was itself a perfect circle, filled with light from tall bay windows. Our weekly library period was the highlight of my school life. It was there I first discovered Tintin and Asterix, and instantly fell in love—for life. It was also where Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew sharpened my appetite for mysteries.
Books filled my childhood. They shaped me, delighted me, and gave me worlds far beyond Calcutta—and yet bound me to it forever. We left the city long ago, but, truth is, I never really left. A part of my heart still lingers in those libraries, among the sunlight falling through bay windows, the dusty shelves at Oxford, and the bound comics I once treasured.