Bionic — almostisland
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almostisland
I used to be a thief. I didn’t steal gold or silver. Not even hard cash or diamonds. No clothes, gadgets, TVs, radios, or kitchenware either. But it is true that I used to be a thief, albeit not for long. I stole books. Like a slick, crafty pro.

I was fond of reading, but as you well know, it is an expensive hobby. Books have never come cheap in any era, and my pockets were essentially empty regardless of the era. It was this circumstance that compelled me to steal a book for the first time. And in that ‘first time’ I found such pleasure that I stole again and again.

Aren’t stealing and kissing alike? Having stolen once, the urge to steal rises in us. The genie of desires looms out the mind’s lamp. When lust awakens, our senses leave us. Books are also a lust, though of a good kind!

Like a woodworm devouring everything without discrimination, I used to devour anything that could be read. From books and newspapers to magazines. When there was nothing left to read, I would get restless and read old letters. Finishing them, I would read their envelopes. The instructions in fine print on the outer edge of inland letters. Lala Ramnarayan’s almanac. Leaflets, folded over eight times, inside medicine cartons, containing literature about the drug in various Indian languages. I read the scripts I knew, and the scripts I didn’t, I gazed at them as if they were pictures. Unfortunately, that also came to an end soon. But misfortune never ends. It just assumes different forms, something like energy.

In the early nineties, circulating libraries were very common. In Mumbai, such libraries were oftentimes situated on handcarts that could be pushed. Books were available like vada pav and onion pakoras. There would be a handcart library, as easily found as a cigarette stall, at every other street junction. With a deposit of ten to twenty rupees, one could become a member of a cart library. The book was lent for a period of three days, with a daily fee of a rupee or two. Past the due date, it attracted a small fine.

The handcarts had their own characteristic taste for books, stocking mostly crime and detective fiction, whereas my interest leaned more towards literary works. As for Hindi literature, these carts didn’t stock anything beyond Premchand, Jaishankar Prasad and Acharya Chatursen. The same was the case with Marathi and English language books. Although Marathi and English did have a rich tradition of non-literary novels that, without being shallow or silly, brought me enough readerly pleasure.

I had the membership of many such carts, but like an efficient book-termite, I finished their stock. The kind of reading I desired wasn’t easily accessible to me. It was on the market, but the big swanky bookshops of Mumbai were totally beyond my means. And so I scoured the city, its multitude of claustrophobic lanes, on the lookout for a new joint.

Pretty soon I found a new place, a theeya; it was far from my home, but bountiful with a wealth of books.

We couldn’t call that theeya a bookshop outright. It was some sort of ‘crossbreed’ between a wastepaper shop, stationery shop, and cart library, meaning it stocked all such items. The spacious hall bulged along all four edges with books. As in a supermarket, I could simply go in and pick a book I liked. This was an altogether new experience for me.

The membership fee was more than that of other places, and even the daily fee was higher. But it also had new kinds of books. One could find not just Yeats, Shelley, Keats, and Byron, but also Ted Hughes, Stephen Spender and Samuel Beckett. And an entire stall was for Shakespeare, with multiple editions of the same book! In Hindi, there were not only Premchand and Prasad but also books by the likes of Dharamvir Bharati, Mohan Rakesh, Manohar Shyam Joshi, and Kamleshwar, usually found only in pure literary bookshops. I was exhilarated. I went on taking books, one after another. I started to take my siblings along, and joyously recommended it to my friends.

That theeya had a strange rule– there were some select books that couldn’t be borrowed. We had to buy them in order to read. As in life, where things inaccessible to us attract us, the books I couldn’t afford to buy allured me. I was helpless and without options. A lover’s love calls for patience, but desires are restless. I wasn’t patient. I was the descendent of desire. Drowning in wistful desires, I would look at my temptations, openly drooling, casting a quick glance inside, turning them this way and that, umpteen times.

And then I stole the first book of my life.

The bookshop was managed by Mehta Sahib, a middle-aged but agile man, who handled everything alone. He was too busy at the counter outside to check what was transpiring inside the hall. I waited for days on end, until one day, finding myself quite alone, I rammed a book into my pants, and pulled my shirt down to cover it. It wasn’t a big book to be noticeable from the outside. My heart was racing madly. Inside me, a ‘Morality-Kumar-Virtuous-Saxena’ was raising the alarm, making a noise. But at the time, I had to behave normally, pretend as though nothing had happened. Those were tense moments. Just like every time, I placed a book on the counter, paid the fee, Mehta Sahib entered it in his register, and I came out with the book. No one could know that surreptitiously wedged in my pants and resting over my belly was another book. I slowly made my way homeward, glad that no one could see my legs turning to jelly inside my pants.

Throughout the journey, it seemed as if someone was following me. It seemed as if at any moment, they would suddenly intercept me, lift my shirt up, and a stolen book would peep out from there, putting me to shame in the broad nakedness of daylight. I was so conscious that I didn’t even try to feel the book from over the shirt, but I could tell, it sat there unmoving. That was consolation enough. On reaching home, the first thing I did was go to the bathroom and pull the book out; and for a long time after that, I took deep breaths to regain my sanity. I was nonetheless pleasurably surprised that I was so competent in an alien skill.

My first theft had gone without a hitch.

It was Albert Camus’s The Stranger in Hindi translation. A slim volume, the book made a deep impression on my mind: Reflections redefining questions of morality—suggesting our very existence and identity on this earth are in fact a colossal immorality. No one has any right to measure us based on our actions. We don’t have that right ourselves. It is not necessary that what’s seen as moral by people around us will be moral. Things that are declared immoral by others can fill our personal world with moral light.

I was so curious to read that book that I didn’t feel any remorse whatsoever that I’d stolen it. I came from a family that, true to tradition, considered keeping even a single rupee that didn’t belong to them a serious offense. My father once walked back four kilometres to the market to return the extra three rupees the shopkeeper had given him due to a calculation mistake. Stealing a book was therefore a great crime I had committed, and yet, I felt no remorse, simply because I had read about Camus’s greatness in various articles, and my eagerness to read the book was stronger than my recent transgression and its potential consequences.

As soon as I began reading The Stranger, I realized that even the main character, Meursault, doesn’t feel any remorse or sadness. Meursault’s mother has died, but there is no grieving in him. In the second half of the book, he is put on trial for committing a murder. Now, a murder is an ordinary, everyday matter for a judge or a lawyer, and it doesn’t surprise them. What surprises them is this character’s removed nature. He displays no feelings of guilt or remorse or even pride for his cruel action. Meursault killed in self-defence, which typically means a reduced sentence. But the judge, astonished by the utter lack of feelings (which is not even an offense), sentences Meursault to death.

Not to feel guilt and not to show guilt are two different things. Philosophical debates have gone on for years among literary critics on whether Meursault experienced any guilt or not. In fact, Kamel Daoud wrote an entire novel, analyzing Meursault. However, the important aspect, as clearly emphasized by Camus himself, is— the absence of a manifestation of guilt.

It is commonly believed that if you do not explicitly express an emotion, then you do not possess it. Humans are demonstrative animals. All of their business runs on the strength of performance.

If you don't love someone but display a great love for them, they may forever believe you love them. Conversely, if you love someone deeply but don't show even a hint of it, the poor soul may never realize that you love them.

The accepted moral standards and societal norms dictate the gamut of human emotions and behaviour, which Camus in his book records. Dostoyevsky's Raskolnikov and Camus’s Meursault, both feel the hollowness deeply established in human behaviour based on social norms.

Yes, I didn’t have a single ounce of guilt about my crime, but my case was totally different from that of Meursault. My intensity was no match to Meursault’s laser focus. And yet, I started to feel a connection to him. That first stolen book was, for many reasons, like a sweet laddu to me. Aren’t stolen pleasures sweetest? I savoured that book again and again. I was young, reckless, lured. Taking a risk, not getting caught in it, and reaping a sweet fruit from it—all of these concocted a heady intoxication.

I began waiting and scheming my next book heist.

The ways of thieving a book are actually simple and straightforward. You find a place to hide it. Be vigilant and ensure that no one is watching you while you commit the act. Also, try not to arouse suspicion.

What is theft?—It is betraying someone’s trust. It is playing a wily-watchful game on someone who, for a brief moment, is distracted.

We used to refer to stealing as ‘dhaampana’ or ‘covering up’. There was no grandeur in the word ‘stealing.’ That word had become feeble in itself. We were the public. Mumbai’s young and intrepid. We would discard such worn out words. Bring in grand and flashy words. Every geography has its own exclusive private language. For instance, the word pair ‘boyfriend-girlfriend’ is so bookish and formal that we removed it from our linguistic register. Instead, we found the excitement of love and its playfulness in ‘chhaava-chhaavi’. In our Marathi influenced Bambaiya lingo, ‘chhaava’ is a male lion cub and ‘chhaavi’, a female cub.

When someone’s girlfriend showed up, we’d playfully say, “Your chhaavi has arrived!” Such a sentence, informal and utterly personal, would amp us up, fill our youthful minds with emotions— bhai, apan chhaava hain, apan sher ke bachche hain! (Bro, we are chhaava, we are lion cubs!) Now, if I overhear someone addressing themselves in a similar fashion, I feel what cheap language the boy’s using!

In our Bambaiya language, ‘dhaampana’ or ‘covering up’ is a rich and victorious word. It is associated with the sense of victory. Therefore, right after ‘covering up’ the book, to be filled with a victorious feeling was a very natural and spiritual act. To connect such impassioned acts to the heart or even the soul is nothing but a demonstrative imperative.

Good wishes are good wishes; by saying ‘heartfelt good wishes’, they won’t become any grander. However, in language, we repeatedly dole out phrases like heartfelt good wishes… heartfelt gratitude… A good wish will always be a heartfelt sentiment. It wouldn’t be a physical thing. Even if it were, it wouldn't be distributed so openly, in this free and casual manner, without any objection.

Such demonstrative imperatives cannot be removed from language, because they are created from the fabric of our nature.

Stealing is also one such fabric.

When I bragged about my thieving adventure in front of my friends, I realized that they’d all been swiping something at one point or another. In every person, there lives a thief in some form. If not stealing material things, then perhaps heart, or mind, or even something spiritual.

Do not think that just because everyone is naked in the bath, I’m defending my nakedness. I’m merely trying to say that what I considered a great risk was an everyday thing for the rest.

Stealing a book was never an everyday thing for me. It was a great celebration. It involved a long mental preparation. Book stealing was a divine act that happened once or twice a month, like the new moon or the full moon night. I stole many books, in various ways. I stole for a year.

Sometimes, I would first place the book on the counter, then unwatched, slide it off the counter. On the pretext of tying my shoelaces, I would bend down, and quickly shove it into my cloth bag. Other times, when Mehta Sahib took out books from the almirah, with his back to me, I would quickly toss a book out into the parking lot, right under a car. Or, when a few friends engaged in a pretend-fight at the counter, I would make a quick getaway with the book.

The philosophy was—there are various ways to find God! The measure of success was—whether, in the end, I found God or not!

And one day, I was caught.

When Mehta Sahib lifted my shirt, and from my pants pulled out the book—whose cover had become slightly damp with my sweat—then all my derring-do went to the hills. I stood there atremble and fearing a severe beating, waited for the blows to fall… now now now, while in my mind, I steeled my cheeks, head, and back for the impending beating.

Since I went to his shop almost every day, Mehta Sahib kind of knew who I was. He took me to the counter and made me sit by the side of it. Aside from that, he showed no reaction and went about attending to his other customers.

Every moment was becoming difficult. I felt like a frantic prisoner, anxious to run away from there. I was scared that the way he kept me waiting, he might either summon the police or his colleagues, and then they’d all whack me big time.

I wanted to tell Mehta Sahib—Whatever you’re going to do, just get it over with. But he kept me in suspense. He would motion me to remain quiet if I fidgeted or whispered. Waiting for a hearing is worse than punishment!

Nearly half an hour passed while sitting there. I was scared! I was not accustomed to being in such a situation. I was ready for any type of punishment.

When the counter was empty, and it was time to shut shop, he finally turned his attention towards me. He began enquiring: Who are you? Where do you live? What does your papa do? Where do you study?

I faithfully answered all his questions. And then came the father of all questions— “Why did you steal the book?”

“I love reading, but I can’t afford every book; sometimes the cash isn’t there.”

We kept talking for a while. Not once did he ask me to apologize. He was probably hoping that I’d do it myself. But I made no apology. It wasn’t arrogance or disrespect. Meursault completely occupied my mind—he was solemnly affirming my lack of guilt.

It was fortunate that Mehta Sahib was not a judge or lawyer from Camus’s book. He handed me the punishment without actually pronouncing it. He put the book that he had pulled out from my pants back into my hands, and said, “Keep the book as a gift from me. Whenever you want to read a book, come on here. Read it here, or take it home, but don’t steal! When you have money, give it. If you don’t have money, then don’t, but don’t steal! Just tell me and take the book. Ask me for the book! You get it? I would have given you the book just like that.”

Such idealistic things and moralistic words I would read in a Premchand or Sudarshan story. I didn’t expect Mehta Sahib to be like the characters in their stories. Being spared from punishment did not let the crime fade into oblivion. That gesture of Mehta Sahib was so filled with a kinship and gentle intimacy that I was flooded with guilt. My eyes welled up. Suddenly I was ashamed of the thefts that I had relished for a year.

I have never particularly liked idealistic books. I endorse the couplet by Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi, which goes like:

I am so in love with human flaws

that an angel cannot be my yardstick

But life is multicoloured. Mehta Sahib must have had many flaws, too. In me, they can be found brimming. Nevertheless, our inner emotions are awakened by events like these. Indeed, human beings play various roles, one of which is that of an alarm. I like remembering Mehta Sahib. I hadn’t gone to his shop for ten days after I was caught. But when I finally went, I stayed there for hours, reading books. On several occasions, I also handled the counter in his absence, and even during those times, I read books. Raskolnikov and Meursault are still my favourite characters. And I’m still trying to understand the drama of human nature and behaviour. We are all five-faced performers—never knowing which face we’ll wear next!

Emotional idealism may hold little value in art, but when it unexpectedly comes in our lives, it becomes memorable and priceless. People full of emotional idealism are rare in life, which is why if they happen to cross our path, they leave a lasting impression on us.

Whenever I remember Mehta Sahib, I’m reminded of a story by Naiyer Masud. And I’m reminded of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, who appears as a character in it. The story is The Myna from Peacock Garden. Its main character is Kale Khan whose young daughter yearns for a hill myna. Kale Khan gets employed in the Nawab’s private gardens, and there, he spots a singing hill myna. He steals that myna and gives it to his daughter. An investigation is ordered. The kotwal arrests Kale Khan, and the matter goes to the Nawab. The Nawab laughingly tells Kale Khan—Miyan, you only steal in a house where requests go unheard. You should have asked me just once!

I feel that it is not Nawab Wajid Ali Shah but Mehta Sahib who speaks through Naiyer Masud’s story.