White Magic

If drugs were people you met at a party, ganja and hashish would be the middle-aged guys in dirt-starched jeans sitting on the terrace strumming a guitar. They would say things like ‘dude, check out the moon’ a lot. Acid would be the amateur DJ mixing Buddha Bar and Ibiza trance, trying to catch all the pretty colours drifting from the sound speakers. Ecstasy the young girl touching herself, touching everybody, touching the walls, making love to the world… Heroin. She’s the bitch in the corner...

And so begins White Magic, Arjun Nath's autobiographical first book of how he went from Delhi corporate lawyer to smack junkie in the time it takes you to cross a railway station. But this is not just one junkie's story. It’s the story of two boys. One, yes, the junkie, Arjun himself, but there's a second equally compelling story told side by side through this book - the story of the man who extracts the junk from the junkie. A few years ago after ten years of heroin abuse, Arjun found himself in a rehabilitation centre for addicts, run by a man called Doc. The book tells both their stories, and glows at the points their lives intersect. It is also a “Bombay story”, and the story of a little place called Land. In more ways than one, I was surprised to find, White Magic is at the heart of it - a love story.

A friend from the rehab centre Arjun was at called me just before the book released and asked if I would read it. I was expecting a sob story, a bit of pop psychology, a fawning write up about a god-like doctor and a bit of "The Secret" style inspo. I agreed to read it, more out of mild curiosity and heavy compassion, than anything else. You see, I know a lot of people who've been to rehab. My first boyfriend. My second boyfriend. All three of my father's best friends' sons. Brilliant young girls with eating disorders, meth addictions, heroin obsessions. An addict doesn't always look like what you think he or she will. An addict doesn't have to turn up in unwashed clothes with unkempt hair and a soulless look in their eyes. Actually, he's most likely the one with the most soul in the room. Or the guy with a meticulously tied tie. The girl with the most conservative outfit. Junkies come in all shapes and sizes.

When I ask myself how I knew so many, the answer seems simple. Because we were a generation of excess. We were born with so much to lose. But we confused it with having no room to lose. So we went ahead and gambled. We gambled with our lives each night - we'd drink as the sun went down and we'd drink as the stars came up. We smoked our lungs raw and then laced the cigarettes with ganja. Then we were lacing joints with tobacco. Then we were pulling lines. Off glass topped tables at rich kids' houses. Off the backs of cellphones and CDs. Off each other. We were popping pills - whatever came our way. Grinding up prescription drugs and snorting them. Sipping MDMA at parties. Throwing it up. Taking it laced with crystal meth. Jittery for days. Planning holidays around getting our hands on a good batch of acid. We would do all the above and drive around the city, high as kites, flirting with death, uninterested in consequence. And our bodies - magnificent young rubber band bodies would snap back each morning. Feeling bad? Drink some water. Or just sip a beer, bro.

I know that lifestyle. I've lived it and I skirted the place Arjun and so many I know, reached. I have peered into that darkness and seen boys forget what they love. I have been what they have loved and I have cried over being second to a drug and I have known that there is eventually nothing to be left with but compassion.

I've often wondered why no one ever wrote the story of the "educated Indian junkie". Seeing as it's a fairly common story. Everyone seems to know someone or know someone who knows someone who's been to rehab. In fact, for my generation, “rehab” is no longer a dirty word. But it was up until now, I still believe some sort of distant extreme idea like when people say they’re saving money to travel to the Galapagos or spending their weekends doing parkour. Like woah, that must be interesting but you have to be pretty extreme to be doing that. Personally I've wanted that myth broken down.

When Arjun's book arrived on my table it reeked of cool. The white cover sporting an ashtray from which emitted a strand of enticing smoke said everything you needed to know. You wanted in. I know the kids at the rehab centre he describes on the book. Land, is a beautiful space just outside Bombay, full of people aged roughly 15 to 50, recovering from all sorts of lifestyle excesses, behavioural issues and personal addictions. I call them kids because when I visited I got the sense that that's what they are - whether 25 or 45, they're "just kids". But what a bunch of kids. Any time I've interacted with the Land crew, I've been amazed by one thing again and again and again.

They are not “in recovery”, they are not just "survivors". No. These kids, they thrive. Unlike other addicts, they don’t live life on tiptoe. They live it with gusto.

Arjun's book is all the things I thought it would be - sassy, rough, raw, sexy and funny. But it surprised me with all I didn't think it would be. It is sensitive. It's emotional and bare and sad and sweet. It tells one helluva story and it really, really hurts. So yes, sure White Magic is an awesome book, but what struck me most (and prompted me to write this much about it), is that it is an important book. While certain reviewers have felt Arjun's book lacks the descriptions of drug highs that make other similar stories of excess so exciting, I feel otherwise. I feel this is the book (and Arjun)'s greatest triumph. That it convinces you of the magneticism and madness of pain obliterating opiates without ever actually dwelling on the oft-repeated descriptions that now read like common folklore to anyone who's invested half a day in a Hendrix biography or a Beatles record. No. That Arjun has resisted the petty temptation to glamorise his story for the sake of juicy literature, says one very important thing - he is well and truly over it. He knows there is no merit to be had in convincing the next kid who reads a lot, that there is something there worth tasting.

Very early on in the book (chapter three I think), Arjun writes this:
Names have power. In Japan, they took spectrum analysis photographs of bottles of water that had been labelled on the outside - Joy, Anger, Peace, Hate, Love, Resentment. While the bottles were the same to the naked eye after a week, the photographs of the molecules of water revealed something too startling to have been a hoax; some truths are stranger than fiction. The water in the bottles marked with positive emotions now pulsed in pleasant shades of pink and lime, gently swirling in symmetrical patterns. The other bottles were different - changing in jolts and bursts, chaotic, unhealthy looking blotches of black on virulent crimson. But the point also is simply this - if a paper tag stuck on a bottle can modify the molecular structure of its contents, what might a name given to a person at birth do to a life?

I wonder then if he paused to think of his own name. Arjun is of course the legendary hero of the Mahabharata - the ultimate warrior - but the name also, or rather the word itself, means "pure white". Ten years ago, I'm sure those words meant one thing to Arjun. Today though, six years clean (and that means no drugs, not just heroin or cocaine but nothing not even a joint, no alcohol, not even a glass of wine – that’s how Doc works, and the book will tell you why, scientifically), I'm pretty certain being pure white means something completely different.

I'm not sure what he will write next, considering a mini-lifetime went into creating the subject matter for this one, but if there's one thing rehab teaches you, it's that we live many lifetimes.

Here's to many more, Arjun.

How Not To Be A Twit: Using the online space as a position of strength.

It’s been a week since Twitter invited me, alongside 17 other Indian women, to a conference addressing the #PositionOfStrength held by “women who tweet”. It’s always special when women bring forth and bring together their energies and the 26^th February conference was no different. The invited included Congress spokesperson Priyanka Chaturvedi (@priyankac19), Sowmya Rao (@sowmyarao_) – the young Chennai lawyer responsible for such immense and speedy aid mobilization (through Twitter) during the Chennai floods, Cosmopolitan India magazine editor Nandini Bhalla (@nandinibhalla), Anjum Chopra (@chopraanjum) ex-captain of the Indian Women’s Cricket team, Soda village sarpanch Chhavi Rajawat (@VillageSoda), Roli Books head Priya Kapoor (@PiyuK) and top cop Kiran Bedi (@thekiranbedi) who is surprisingly astute, remarkably sensitive and pretty darned articulate when the cameras aren’t on.

As we chatted about what the words “position of strength” mean for us, told some of our juiciest “troll” tales, and sipped chai, Anahita Mathai (@anahitamathai) from Observer Research Foundation (@orfonline) began to present to us the numbers. It takes looking at those numbers to understand the gendered reality of the Indian internet. As women who do actually use the internet – freely and fully, so to speak – it is hard to remember that unlike in real life, in social media spaces we can somewhat choose who we surround ourselves with. Though this is wonderful and empowering it also blinds us to the reality, that much like in any other public space in India, only 1 in 4 present, are women.

As Mahima Kaul (@misskaul) Public Policy head, Twitter India said, “My feed is full of amazing women, so it feels like there are so many of us online.” But, as she goes on to point out, of the 1 billion tweets sent out every two days, only 8% are from women (46% from men). As I write this though, 11 of the 20 most followed accounts in the world belong to women (only five of the remaining nine belong to men, with the last four being companies or groups). This means that once women are online, there is no dearth of popularity they can achieve or level at which they can be heard. The main challenge is to actually “get in the room”, as Mahima says, “it’s the first step to having your voice heard”. The need for more Indian women’s voices online is at this point not a feminist rant or “imagined”. Worldwide, men make up 51% of internet users and women make up 49%. In India, that 49% drops to a measly 29%.

Tania Sachdev (@TaniaSachdev), the 29 year old, vocal, articulate chess champion and commentator pointed out that, “as Indian women, we have always found strength in numbers”. Be it out on the streets or in the webby online world, we need to encourage the visibility of other and more women, in order to increase the safety of all women.

And what does that safety entail? What are social media forums actually doing about safety? Here’s where Twitter’s Patricia Cartes (@Cartes) steps in with the four tools – ignore (or unfollow), mute, block, report – each one just that tiny bit more aggressive, for whatever degree of troll you’re dealing with. Position Of Strength is also about realizing these tools exist, knowing how to use them and being unafraid to do so. The refreshing thing was seeing how serious Twitter is about actual complaints. Patricia stresses this, encouraging the use of the help and safety centers, as Twitter VP Colin Crowell nods enthusiastically. It’s interesting just how many Twitter (and other social media) users do not know the protocol when it comes to being trolled. Kiran Bedi spoke of how she too was unaware of the mute, block or report options initially. Clearly with a lifetime of experience, reporting came easy to her. To me, not so much.

I told my “twitter story” briefly at the conference that day, and I’ll repeat it here now. I joined Twitter, like so many people, when it first came to India. After a few random tweets to friends I zoned out of it, returning to the more familiar Facebook. When I joined NDTV Good Times and began hosting their travel shows though, they urged me to use the platform and I did. I tweeted my episode links, I tweeted images from the places I was traveling to and I tweeted random comments too. I learnt to reply, to re-tweet or RT. And then the lewd comments began. The show I did – Life’s A Beach – required me to wear a swimsuit at certain points (as one does, on a beach). This was seen as far too “sporting”, for Indian television, by a number of Indian men. From the familiarity of their derogatory tweets it appeared the same men telling me to cover up were the ones most avidly watching the show. Many simply could not believe I was Indian. As if to be Indian I had to swim in a sari and not an inch of fabric less. When someone somehow found out my mother was half German, they were triumphant. Of course, only a girl with “white blood” could lack modesty this way.

After I quit NDTV, bored of what was meant to be a career in travel but was mistaken often as creating masturbation material for a nation, I once again fell into a period of Twitter silence. Then came the “Nirbhaya” rape case. In the aftermath of the horrific and fatal assault on Jyoti Pandey I was among those who took to the streets to protest. I sat at Jantar Mantar, I called on friends to come out and raise their voices, I marched past India Gate and I held banners high. I used Twitter as a weapon and a megaphone both, and I saw the power it wielded. At this point I thought I had truly seen the phenomenal reach of social media. Then I wrote a poem.

The day Paris was attacked – 14^th November 2015, I woke up and wrote a poem about it. I uploaded it to Instagram in the form of a square image with text. (Shown below.)

I linked this image to my Facebook and Twitter accounts, and then I went back to sleep. An hour later I woke up to 10,000 shares on my Facebook. By the next morning it hit 100,000 likes and 165,000 shares. On Twitter, the poem was shared as an image repeatedly. Because the image did not have my name on it, there was no way of tracking how many times it was being shared, liked or read. There were up to 10,000 retweets, but those who shared just the image alone, were untraceable.

When something goes “viral”, it is in essence simply managing to replicate itself over and over again. Exactly like the virus that inhabits a body, something going socially viral also manages to mutate over time. And it did. I saw it firsthand when the hate began. “Being white has nothing to do with it you f*cking c*nt,” “You stupid moron”, “You’re part of the problem you piece of shit,” “You’re a pseudo intellectual,” “You racist b*tch, you’re a f*cking idiot.” Classy stuff. I could be disdainful about it of course, but it stung. The open profiles on Instagram and Twitter suddenly felt like an open invite for the “trolls” to violate me. One Instagram user Tana Schott (@elementalhealingarts) wrote to me saying this – “It went viral because you spoke the truth and that truth is uncomfortable.” I’d like to choose to believe her, even if only for my own peace of mind. For a moment in the midst of all that hate, I almost wished I hadn’t put it out there in all its rawness that I now could not polish.

But then Milind Soman shared it. And Victoria’s Secret angel Doutzen Kroes. And Finn Jones of Game of Thrones. And musician Lykke Li. And inexplicably the entire cast of The Vampire Diaries.

And then Paulo Coelho shared it.

With his 10.6 million followers on Twitter.

Without my name on it.

And…he changed the words so that they would be less “offensive”.

I sat there slightly unsure of what had just happened or what I felt about that. I was humbled and at the same time amazed by the power of the Internet. I sat back and took note of the various kinds of trolls I had experienced over the years. The lecherous men who wrote to me about my body when I used social networks as a television anchor, the sexist and pro-Congress haters who berated me for being an imbecile during the Delhi rape protests of December 2012, and finally the white supremacists, atheists and aggressors post-Paris. The one largely uniting thing about the trolls was that they were mostly male and they mostly used my “femaleness” as the put down. I was too fat, too thin, too tattooed, too bold, too dumb, too compassionate, too feeble-minded. Too underdressed, too overdressed. Too mouthy. Too quiet.

I was put down for my body and mind in turn. As kind people applauded both, others mocked both. I could not imagine the hatred or boredom or incentive it must take to trace the writer of a poem simply to tell them to “get a life” as a certain @zefbank did. But what I could understand was this - that an Assyrian woman from Baghdad living 25 years in the US wrote to me telling me it made her cry. Or that young girls in Mexico were making my poem their profile picture. That Chinese boys were translating it and friends and strangers alike from Colombia and San Fransisco, Brazil and Bangkok were writing in to tell me how much it moved them.

This I could finally understand:

the power of the Internet.

As the controversial poem faded away into the recesses of the Internet and some cat video replaced it as the latest rage, I was left raw, but stronger for the beating. Though I’d lost some sleep over the whole thing, I had in turn gained two things I hadn’t had before. 1) A far vaster platform for my voice (which to be fair I’m only just finding), and 2) the means to protect myself from the voices of those who did not speak to be heard but spoke to drown out others.

In a sort of ultimate teaching of the entire lesson, my friend Nayantara Rai (@NayantaraRai), CNBC-TV18 journalist, showed me how I could get a number of people to tweet at Paolo Coelho. After a few days of people incessantly asking him to give credit where due, he took the post down. Cowabunga.

So, don’t be afraid. Get in the room. And get yourself heard. And therein, lies your strength.

Books Need People

The school I went to had a fantastic art teacher. She's the sort of woman who makes you believe in garden gnomes. Who throws glitter onto the edges of things in perfect proportion, draws roses with an easy wrist and owns a cottage in the mountains where she thinks it absolutely necessary to her students’ education to visit just before their final school examination papers.

She always brought equal parts magic and terror into our school week, sprinkling generously her eccentricities on our days. She could be the ultimate storm on a bad day, cigarette smoke clinging to her clothes and lustrous long black hair which unfurled behind her, escaping the wooden stick holding it for most part in perfect place. And then she could be the gold tip on a winter afternoon, floating into the room with her hands around a cup of chai, gorgeous Gujarati shawl wrapped around her, the mirror work on it reflecting the sunshine and lighting up the room in an array of tiny stars. She would smile and her magenta painted mouth would say words like "viridian” and “Prussian" and “cobalt”. 

She did everything differently. Defiantly. She made us paint a hundred different flowers, just because she adored them each equally. She made us climb hills filled with lemon trees because she believed almost superstitiously that it's what would take us from mediocre art students to truly impassioned artists. And it did. She made us weave with superhuman patience, dhurries on massive wooden looms and pluck Gulmohar during our summer holidays and study a pineapple’s scaly skin as a repeat pattern and chip our nails making mosaics of fish and lotuses and cut our hands on glass for lamps we painted to look like the windows of churches. She was a hard taskmaster and we cursed her under our breath and called her “witch”, but the truth is, she was a good witch and some days we lived for her smile. She was what made school bearable on many a mundane Monday, and her non-preachy effortless, almost collaborative wisdom and naughty humour were refreshing after a day of being spoken to like a child. She made me believe fairies live in the upturned cups of fuchsia flowers and that one of her ancestors had most certainly been a raven. Under her tutelage mountains came to life in lines of coal and we learnt the delicate joys of watercolour.

There were many things that made her magical aside from her most fabulous style of imparting knowledge. These include her Mona Lisa smile, her sons who were so far beyond the rest of us when it came to being cool that some kids mistook them for being the opposite (they were listening to Dylan and reading Kerouac while we tried to find the meaning of life in Nancy Drews), and the very, very special fact that she was magically associated to the best bookshop in town.

You cannot script something this perfect. That this beautiful, eccentric, wicked, wonderful lady who gave us respite from the corridors of math and malfunction in her gorgeous, temperate-climed art department that unfolded like a box of secrets, one room into another, was married to a man who had decided to spend a lifetime expanding his love of books and giving in turn this gift to anyone who would pause to have it. Though I’m certain I would have grown up with a love for Fact & Fiction either way (my parents were both huge fans), being Rati ma’am’s students let us feel like we had some extra-association to the place, and as we began thirsting for the sort of whacky knowledge they weren’t giving us in textbooks, the book shop became our number one preferred place.

Every few weeks I would make a little trip to “Priya Market” in Vasant Vihar with my reading buddy, Ishita Chaudhry. We never had more than 500 rupees between us, and it came together in a bunch of crumpled notes, sweaty from school skirt pockets and long bus rides. We'd enter, the little bell on the door jingled, and we’d say our shy hellos to Ajit uncle and Ravi ji as they sat together, listening to Jimi Hendrix or something we hadn’t heard but wanted to.  The sensation after that was one of being engulfed. Of being swallowed by the whale and travelling through his belly and when you were finally ejected in a huge baptism of seawater, it felt like you would never be the same again because your mind had been stretched and twisted and coloured and enchanted and we came out reeling, each having visited many planets, each with all of one book in our hands. 

Oh we could spend hours there amongst the slim shelves. We would look forward to our “book day” for weeks in advance. In the interim the school library would provide less provocative stuff, but we longed to “have” the books we wanted. We longed to read about sex and drugs and rock and roll. About history and religion, about wars  - not the versions we were being taught but the other side. We wanted philosophy and music biographies. We wanted Jim Morrison’s poetry and dark books on the occult. We wanted love stories. Real ones spanning times of cholera, not those peach covered romances with curly-fonted titles filled with heavy breathing. Back then if I remember correctly, Fact & Fiction sold music too – wondrous box sets of Janis Joplin’s discography and rare Leonard Cohen concerts. I also bought my first box of Tarot Cards there and as a teenager spent many nocturnal hours drawing swords and wands to fight the demons of insecurity and cast spells on basketball playing boys. Sometimes on weekends my parents would take us there, and those days were bounty-days. Instead of the one or two books I had to usually make do with, I got three or maybe even four. Swooning, I’d exit the store, palms sweaty from excitement, books held possessively in bag.

Back then they used plastic bags, then we nagged and nagged and nagged till one day I remember a paper bag being whipped out and Ajit uncle saying "Here you go, we got paper bags! You kids…" And he looked annoyed but as we left he had his trademark amused smile on. 

Over the years I've heard people say the Fact & Fiction bookshop guys weren't friendly, and I always found myself giggling at this. Of course they weren't! They were connoisseurs. In my version of the world they weren't meant to be friendly! Bakers are friendly. These guys, they were meant to be stoic. They were the generals in the Army of Literary Saviours and you earned their respect; each book you read took you a tiny notch higher. I remember the day I walked in and asked for a book on the Beatniks. I must have been about 14 and that day, my time had come. I remember Ajit uncle stood up (something I assure you he doesn’t do when you request a Chetan Bhagat). He reached up and brought down a variety of books, handing them to me while quietly explaining which I could start with, and what each held in store for me. Embarrassed that I could only buy one, I did, and then I floated out the store, knowing I was finally part of some secret club of REAL readers. From then on, whenever I walked in, he had books waiting for me. A history of LSD, a book of all Leonard Cohen’s lyrics, a book on The Who on tour, Hanif Kureishi screenplays and Tom Wolfe’s Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. (Oh Ajit uncle what a masterpiece that was!) What you found in these alcoves you couldn’t find in other bookstores, because nowhere else was the human(e) hand so strong as here. This wasn’t a collection rattled off and mass-ordered courtesy some chart topping list of lurid time-passing bestsellers. This was a handpicked archive of wisdom and wizardry combined, a closet full of secrets and journeys and dormant passions you didn’t yet know you possessed. And I wanted all of it.

So the years passed. I eventually went off to college and my trips became less frequent. No one in my family dares possess a Kindle (yet?) but that said, college degrees, online shopping, lifestyles that had more style and less life in them, and shifting further away geographically all came in the way of the once every few weeks trips we used to make to the little market that had changed a little too. From being one of Delhi’s cleaner, more “happening” markets, it now played second fiddle to the nearby malls where kids go to do everything but read. Last year, I finally made two resolutions of sorts. The first to read more, and the second, to buy my books from independent booksellers. Because ironically, to truly kindle a fire, you need paper.

I made a trip back to Fact and Fiction and found my world intact. The bell on the door jingled, Ajit uncle smiled hello, Ravi ji nodded and I was lost once again to the only love I’ve never parted from…the one consistent companion my life has had. The books came off shelves as if on their own, the right ones finding their way into my hungry palms. Love and war and poetry and art chatted to philosophy as the biographies perched egoistically to one side and the music books chilled with the music system from which Pink Floyd performed faithfully.

For a short time, a sort of peace was restored in my life. I had also managed in adulthood to find a small group of people who still read and make time for it, and they each contributed recommendations and delights that changed my world for the better. Recently, some of them decided to start a small Book Club in Bombay. They named it, most deliciously, Between The Covers. I joined, hoping to add something different to my reading. After much debate they chose to attempt the 800+ page The Luminaries, as a first novel. In keeping with my resolution, I made a mental note to buy it at Fact & Fiction when I had the chance. And then, I saw the article. It was titled (almost too simply, because really how else does one say it) – ‘Why I am shutting down my bookstore in New Delhi’.

Over the last few days I have found myself back at the bookstore, more than once. I feel the need to go back, to sit on those wood floors and pore over words as a sort of ritual in mourning. I buy the books in piles, amazed at how little books still cost. We spend more on a meal or a single drink at a bar. Everything I’ve been waiting to read, I buy. Things like The English Patient and Wolf Hall and the new Jeffrey Eugenides book…I know I will read these eventually, so I buy them all now, together. I reckon these will become keepsakes more precious than other books. Like a pendant you give a child and say, “Take care of it, it belonged to your grandmother,” I see myself handing over my copy of Eva Luna to my child saying, “Be careful, it was bought at Fact & Fiction”. Because in the folklore of my life, this store has been the fairy godmother, Gandalf, and Prince Charming rolled into one. I feel like years from now the books I bought in this store will be held onto still, like a clump of soil from ones motherland, wrapped in a traveler’s handkerchief that you open from time to time to remind yourself where you really come from. I am terrified at the thought of people limiting themselves to best-seller lists, or of people who do not read at all. I am scared for a world in which children do not have the patience to find the meditative stillness of reading, or where they no longer need to use their imaginations because they are satisfied with the pictures given to them, instead of yearning to conjure their own. I lie awake at night sometimes and wonder what happens when a book is forgotten. When no one reads it anywhere any longer. Does it cease to exist?

These days at the bookstore I pick books I want, touch them, read passages and place them on the tiny counter in front of Ajit uncle, asking him, “Is this one any good?” then wait for him to give me his short but always honest criticism. I haven’t been able to mention to him or to Rati ma’am the real reason we both know I keep going back this week, sometimes alone, sometimes with family or an old friend, or then with a new friend whom I’ve told “must see” the store once before it goes. I can’t seem to offer my condolences, scared I will well up and make a complete idiot of myself. I did manage to ask, out of fear I would come one day at the end of this month and see a lock on the door – “So when is the last day?” And he couldn’t answer. All he said, after an emotional pause in which he closed his eyes a moment, was, “Imagine waking up and there’s no Fact & Fiction.” Imagine.

In a strange testimony to that space that gave my life so much sparkle, on the first day this week I went back to make a sort of pilgrimage, I was lost between Naipaul and Anais Nin when I heard a familiar voice. I looked up and saw Ishita, my school “reading buddy”. We haven’t seen each other in forever. We both stood there staring at each other, amazed, before embracing ever-so-warmly. You see…there is irrepressible magic in those four walls.

Goodbye Fact And Fiction. What a marvellous giver of dreams you've been. In a city oft-starved for soul, you should know you provided one restless, angry, and confused kid a halfway home of riches, a land of infinite possibilities and a telescope to all I could have and be and want and dream. They say if you change one life while on Earth, you have done better than most…that your time here has been worthwhile. Well you changed mine. Thank you.

This winter, you, like me, would have been 31 years old. Goodbye old friend.

Here’s an interview with Ajit Vikram Singh:

http://scroll.in/article/747266/my-bookshop-wont-tell-you-what-people-are-reading-a-booksellers-lament-as-he-waves-goodbye

Here’s an older piece by his son Jairaj Singh, who speaks fondly of his memories of growing up in a bookshop – lucky guy:

http://india.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/06/21/bookshop-memories-in-a-changing-india/?_r=1

And here is Ajit Vikram Singh’s own piece, on why he finally made the hard choice of shutting down his bookstore:

http://www.dailyo.in/arts/fact-and-fiction-bookstore-new-delhi-independent-book-shops-india/story/1/5415.html