Column | Shrinking space for books

The Washington Post’s book review section is now twice-dead. In 2009, the newspaper’s Book World supplement was lopped off to cut costs. In 2022, the Post relaunched Book World. But it did not survive the latest bloodbath where the newspaper axed 300 jobs on February 4.

Book reviews are struggling the world over. And it’s a vicious circle, writes poet and critic Adam Kirsch in The Atlantic. Not enough people want to read book reviews. So publications cut book coverage which means readers do not hear about new books. “As a result they buy fewer books, which makes publications think they are not worth covering,” says Kirsch.

Attending  literary festival in India, it might not feel that way. I have seen people standing in a snaking line in the rain to get their books signed by author Amitav Ghosh. At the Jaipur Literature Festival, the crowds were so overwhelming on the weekend, I thought I might get trampled. When Kiran Desai and Jhumpa Lahiri shared a stage for the first time ever at the Kolkata Literary Meet, I couldn’t find a seat.

But there’s still a sinking feeling even as we drink the free wine at the afterparty. The news about The Washington Post came as I was attending yet another literary festival in India. As I talked about my own new book, it felt a bit like Nero playing the fiddle while Rome burnt. It was as if the literary festivals were the last sanctuaries sheltering an endangered breed — people who love books.

Passing traditions

Even as the Kolkata Book Fair boasts record footfall (32 lakh) and record sales (₹27 crore) this year, we keep hearing the same refrain — no one reads anymore. The sales figures do not tell us what kind of books are being sold. Are they novels? Or self-help books? Or coaching manuals? But one thing is clear: all is not well in the world of books.

A first-time writer visiting India complained about how hard it was to get any traction for her book. In the shrinking world of book reviews, it is hard to get a foothold unless you are already a name. But until you get that foothold, you cannot become a name. That vicious circle again. She had travelled all the way to India, excited to promote her book but struggled to even get the word out. Her publicist was busy with other bigger names on their roster. The irony is she needs the publicity more than they do. They are already famous.

But that’s just the business of marketing books. What is a more bitter pill to swallow is to wonder if we are living in a world that’s slowly falling out of love with books. Or perhaps it does not need them the way we once did. Growing up in Kolkata, books let me imagine the sunlit islands of Corfu, the moors of England and the magical hills in San Francisco, places I had no hope of visiting at the time.

Books were our rite of passage. We all went through the Ayn Rand phase, secretly read the dirty bits in Harold Robbins and pitted our brains against Satyajit Ray’s detective Felu-da. During summer holidays, I curled up in bed every afternoon with a book, trying to read more slowly, hoping to make the book last longer. When I won some prize at school, I was allowed to select the book I wanted. I spent forever trying to choose, then opted for the fattest book, to get the most bang for my buck. (Sadly, it was a rather dull book and I don’t think I finished it.)

Age of decline?

In a world of smartphones, we have plenty of other attractions competing for our attention. We don’t read less. We just read fewer books. Even I do and as a writer, that feels shameful.

But just as I was despairing about being a writer in this age of decline of books, I stumbled upon the Instagram account of a woman in a small town in Bengal. Like many Instagrammers, Pujarini Pradhan (@lifeofpujaa) chronicles her daily life — cooking on a clay stove, chopping vegetables on a curved bonti, washing clothes three times a day. And she speaks in English so that her small-town neighbours don’t know what she is talking about. She says no one can shame her about her accent either. In a state where culture remains Kolkata-centric, she is a breath of fresh air. And she talks about books.

I watch her talking about Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns. “It broke my heart into pieces,” she says. But my attention is elsewhere. Behind her, stacked on the floor, are towers of books, perhaps some 200 books, books that transport her far away from Midnapore.

Books still matter in the life of Pujaa. And in mine.

The writer is author of Don’t Let Him Know, likes to let everyone know about his opinions, whether asked or not.