I went to the local bookstore today after a long time. Maybe a couple of months since I last visited it, but two months is a long time for an addict. It’s long enough for the smell of the freshly pressed paper (as in books that have gone through a press and that are pressed together in shops) to vapourise.
This doesn’t mean new books didn’t arrive on my desk: I received last week a surprise gift from our daughter, the latest book on AI. Aakash Singh Rathore’s Will AI Murder Us All? The Moral Psychology of Artificial Intelligence deals with the ethical and existential challenges of AI in the Indian context. Just days before, I bought online Dr Nitin Mehra’s You Are Not a Problem to Fix: Modern Psychology Meets Ancient Wisdom, in which he questions the assumptions that who we are is not enough and we need to be better, stronger, happier; we need to fix ourselves. I am grateful to Dr Mehra’s mother, our close neighbour Geeta Bhabhi, for bringing it to my notice (it’s organic marketing, sure) because this is that rare self-help book that encourages you to get out of the modern self-help trap by showing that there’s no problem in you to fix.
Then I couldn’t resist ordering online Manu Joseph’s most recent Why the Poor Don’t Kill Us: The Psychology of Indians after reading an excerpt here on Substack. I have only looked at its jacket and cover, but it promises to hold up a mirror to us hypocritical and exploitative Indians of privilege.
This list isn't about how great a book lover I am. My library of hundreds of books is evidence enough. But it hides the fact that I am a slow and inconsistent reader. A lifetime of reading waits in my library, yet I can't stop adding to it. As if it will lengthen my life.
This isn't about the coincidence of psychological reads on my desk. It is about the psychology of coincidence.
I walked through the narrow aisles inside the bookstore, taking care not to topple tall pillars of books with my left or right shoulder and responding to “Excuse me!” requests by moving sidewise to let others pass. This used to be a bookshop, with a warm coffee-and-tea corner and with space for worms to pore through pages. The ownership changed to a business chain, and it changed into a bookstore. It is no better than a raddi shop buying discarded newspapers, books and notebooks, where there is no need or scope for anyone to walk in. But it has tonnes of fresh books whose pleasure I cannot resist.
“Excuse me!” said a young man, and I turned. I recognised the face: salt-and-pepper spiked hair and lightly trimmed beard, his large red-framed glasses sitting on a prominent nose, and smiling eyes. I recognised him instantly, but he didn’t connect to my friendly glance. I removed the mask I was wearing because I had the flu and hoped he would recognise me despite my baseball cap. It took a straight eye-to-eye jab and “Do you recognise me?” for him to notice and recognise me.
We exchanged notes about our lives: he and his wife have been working on a new app for their community of book lovers called Booknerds. It is due to be launched in December. I told him about my writing “practice” and mentioned the classic book on writing that I had just finished. I could not remember the name of the book or its author when he asked.
“What are you reading now?” he asked next. I showed him Rathore’s book right there in the store and told him why I already love it.
He showed me the book his wife has recently published: I Wrote a Book! Now What?, a practical guide from The Book Marketing Girl who has coached authors in book marketing for more than a decade. I remarked it’d be a perfect fit on my shelf on writing and getting published. Then I complained about how little space there was to move around in the store.
“If you’re around for a while, my wife will be here. She’d love to see you,” he said. We talked about their community events, which I had attended a few times, and promised to remain in touch. I was still searching my memory for his name when his older daughter walked in. Now in 5th grade, she has grown tall since I last saw her a few years ago. How time flies, we both said.
An energetic “Hi!” greeted me as she walked in after the girl. I explained why I can’t shake hands or hug (flu!). Of course, almost everyone in town has the flu now; we commiserated. We exchanged pleasantries. She said she met my wife in another store in the mall and came to the bookstore to meet me. But there is no way she would have known my wife. I dug through my memory for a connection, because my wife never went to their book community events. I said her husband was updating me on their new app venture and her book.
They exchanged glances for a moment. “She is not my wife,” he reminded me politely. I glanced at them, left towards him and right towards her. The girl had vanished behind the book pillars.
“You didn’t recognise me?” she asked.
“Of course, I did!” My cross-wired memories snapped back into place in a flash. She was Neelam Ji, the ebullient owner of Harul, a boutique homestay in Chakrata, who had hosted my wife and me for two weeks and whose retreat had sparked my writing practice after many years.
“Sorry! My brain had switched you and his wife for a moment,” I sheepishly apologised, flailing my two arms left and right and bringing them together to indicate how the cross-wire connection had happened. My dark brown skin probably hid my red face, but I hoped they could see my embarrassment.
I enquired about Neelam Ji’s homestay business and complained that she never came to meet us when she was in town. She quickly updated me on her life events. We want to be at her homestay in the winter to see the snow, I said. She took my leave, promising to let us know when it snows.
Neha and their younger daughter had joined her husband when I turned to them for a second round of apologies. He took a photo of Neha with me, the author with a reader. We joked about organic marketing and about coming to the bookstore if we wanted to meet friends. I was in a rush by then to get somewhere, but on the way out, I bought Neha’s book.
It was interesting; I pondered how the mind and memory work, or don't. My memory is fickle at best. I remember faces well and can recognise people even after years, but I often can't dig out their names or place associations readily, especially as I age. Neelam Ji walked in right behind Neha’s daughter. I recognised her face, but my mind quickly assumed she was Neha, even though I had just seen Neha’s photo on the back cover of her book. Neha’s husband Rohan, whose name I remembered in the end, must be more astounded than I was about how my mind switched the memories of two completely different people.
It is all mental, guys! I love you all the same.
Books mentioned in this story:
Will AI Murder Us All? The Moral Psychology of Artificial Intelligence - by Aakash Singh Rathore
You Are Not a Problem to Fix: Modern Psychology Meets Ancient Wisdom - by Dr Nitin Mehra
Why the Poor Don’t Kill Us: The Psychology of Indians - by Manu Joseph
I Wrote a Book! Now What? An Author’s Guide to Marketing That Actually Works - By Neha Raj
Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life - by Anne Lamott
(The writer is a former journalist and communications professional.)