NANTU, THE BOOK SELLER

Nantu, the Book Seller

“Nantu, please display it on your shelf,” the old bearded author pleaded softly.

Nantu, a lean young man, poorly clothed, reluctantly took the heavy volume, and mechanically put it on a dusty shelf. He was chewing betel leaf. His lips were stained and teeth all black as coal.

“Ah! Where are you keeping it? It’s not a note-book. It’s a reference. It took ten gruelling years. It’s for you and us! Here I documented our land and its people with painstaking details…” the author’s face was flushed, his voice choked, and eyes hazy.

“What’s the price?” dryly asked Nantu.

“A thousand only. But don’t worry I give you at half. Sell it at five; keep one hundred yourself, and the rest you refund. No problem,” the aged author benignly beamed.

In astonishment Nantu hitched up from his stool, took out the book and briskly handed it over him as if a fire caught him.

“Why?” the author screwed his eyes. A harrowing look struck him.

“Sir, from my childhood days I learnt my business skills from my adept father. I am in the line for two decades and more. It’s not a town. It’s a village stall. Most of my buyers are school-going children, and a few from the Gobardhan College. They ask for note books, chocolate bars, pens, footballs, racquets, gift items, diaries, competitive books, and syllabus based readymade Xerox materials. I sell all these types and somehow make a living. Your book, Sir, is a misfit. I’m sorry…”

“I understand my boy, but you may have one or two known faces who want to know the history of their land and locality. Offer them,” the author painfully explained. Beads of sweat were splayed on his creased temple. The expression he wore on his face was quite difficult to describe. Words bubbled within his stomach, but he could not voice it.

Nantu scratched his head irascibly and closed his eyes for a while. He seemed to be painstakingly recalling some names.

The author stood still and carefully surveyed the items of Nantu’s shop one by one. The shelves were disorderly stuffed. It hurt him. If he was the owner he would have kept all items in order — one stack for diaries, one for notebooks, one for plastic flowers, one for chocolate jars, one for dishes, one for cosmetics, one for school text books, etc. He bit his fingers. “Books must be displayed in front shelves. They’re wheels of our culture. But lo! They are buried under dust and cobweb in a dim corner. Is it a way of keeping culture alive?” He growled and mumbled to himself.

“Nantuda, give a gift item,” shrilly shouted a student running from nowhere. The boy gasped.

Nantu was startled. He quickly opened eyes and frenziedly asked, “For whom?”

“My girlfriend, for her fifteen birthday bash.”

“Where is she? Call her. Let her choose. After all it is her day!” Nantu glowed.

“Sir, if you have any work in the bazaar, please finish it first and then come, I see what I can do….” Nantu laughed meaningfully and coaxed so persuasively.

“O, tut… I forget it again. Thank you for reminding, my boy. I need a packet of satoo. Okay, Nantu I’m coming.”

The author trudged towards a grocery shop.

The birthday girl came from a nearby corner with a look of a rising celluloid star and snidely chose her gift — a Cadbury chocolate box. The boy paid, and they joyously jumped together into the sky and rosily departed flying through the aromatic air.

Half-an hour passed.

The author returned. Nantu was dozing under the tiredly whirring fan.

“Nantu,” the author cleared his throat sweetly called.

“Sir, I can’t help you. I’m very much sorry. I take note of all aspects of the market. But if you still insist on keeping the book, you can. If it is cut, I’ll inform you,” Nantu drowsily put.

“Nantu, you are a charming boy! I’m really impressed!” the author readily took his leave.

Three years had already passed. The author had not yet a call from Nantu.