Book Returns Policy

Back to that childhood trip to Hyderabad. One day my Uncle Naeem had taken me to a bookstore called A.A.Hussain on Abid Road in the town center. (At the time, I actually believed all of my relatives were unemployed because they devoted endless amounts of time to us) .
We browsed for hours and I remember asking for a particular title and the owner came out to meet us. When my uncle told him I had come from London, Mr Ali did a sort of semi bow and said very simply:

" I am sure this little shop cannot compare to anything you have seen"

I found it strange for someone who was in sales to be so self deprecating. I had not yet learned the words: 'Post-colonial insecurities and self loathing'. But I was touched by his humility and the pains he took to find all the books I requested. It encapsulated the spirit of India for me forever more.

Last year we were back in India at a rather lavish wedding of a distant cousin of mine. All the Hyderabadi elite seemed to be there. A few days earlier, I had asked my Uncle Naeem if he would take me to a bookstore so I could find something on the history of this city . He reminded me about our trip decades ago and we laughed. He then informed me that the editor of Siasat was at this wedding and did I want to meet him.

Did I ?
Siasat is Hyderabad's biggest newspaper. They are also a small publishing house. We had been hearing about this newspaper since we were children. It is a staple in most of our relative's houses. My eldest Mamoo has a daily ritual of reading it on-line in Toronto.

So I was introduced to Mr Zahid Ali Khan. He had that indefinable 'elite Indian gentleman' look- the elegant white sherwani, the nonchalant air and impeccable manners. He reached into his pocket and amongst a huge wad of rupees was a business card which he gave to me. I think there are a few people in the world who are a little bit more famous than Mr Khan but in my quest for my Indian roots, this was a very exciting moment in my life. Let me explain that I still cannot really read one entire word of Urdu but this bears no real relevance to this story. He told me names of a few books and where I could find them. He then invited me and my whole family to visit him at his office the next day.


We parked in the tiny alleyway and walked over to the office not knowing what to expect. The offices were on the second floor. There was a room-ful of people hammering away at typewriters (gasp!) with Urdu keys on them. Others scribbling on notepads in shorthand. Real short-hand- dashes, dots and funny little symbols. ( An aging Aunty-Luddite-Lady's ultimate dream) Not a blackberry or an Itouch screen in sight. I was almost giddy with excitement. Then the managing director came out and invited us all into his office. He told me all kinds of tales about the early days of journalism then asked me where I lived. I did not expect the hilarious outburst:

"Oh Chicago? what is that AWFUL place- Devon Avenue?! That gossip haven???"
That's the place where if Shaheen is making khitchri and kheema in her house in the morning, then Sharmeela HAS to know about it by the evening"
I giggled at his audacity. There we were in Hyderabad, not exactly a tittle-tattle-free zone. He handed me a pile of books, a few in Urdu, and then one very special one. A huge red volume with beautiful Mughal illustrations on the cover, a history of Hyderabad with many rare old photos. Mr Khan wrote a whole message in Urdu that my mother read out to me later that evening. Something like : 'Never forget where you came from'
Every five minutes someone would enter the room and tell him he was needed and he would stall them. Finally, we felt guilty and let him get back to work.

When I returned to the U.S. we had a small party for a few friends and relatives. I had left the Siasat book on our coffee table, for pretentious decorative reasons. I never expected anyone to actually open it. One of my cousins asked if he could read it. I was thrilled to see him engrossed in it.

Then he asked if he could borrow it.

How could I explain? Er, it's about a bookstore on Abid Road that I went to in 1975. Short-hand, Shaheen, Sharmeela and Mr A. A. Hussain.