The afternoon sun baked my back as I walked down the unmarked trail. Around me, cows grazed on grass that had yellowed in the heat. I could hear the Arabian Sea lashing against the coast in the distance. I turned a corner, and there it was, the object of my search: a building as blue as the houses of Jodhpur standing in the midst of straw-coloured fields. ‘Bibliotheque’, announced the sign above the door. ‘Granthaalai’. I had reached Gokarna’s library.
A middle-aged man stood at the doorway, a child playing at his feet, both bare-chested. A TV was running inside. As I began to take off my shoes, the man called out: “You can leave your socks on.” The hall I entered surprised me. I’d expected a small room with a few shelves filled with dog-eared paperbacks. Instead, I saw books everywhere, heaps and heaps, piled on the large tables in the middle of the hall, stacked on bookshelves along the perimeter, placed sideways on shelves along the back. There were more books here—35,000, I learnt later—than in most surviving bookshops in Chennai.
I examined the row nearest me. A thick volume titled Elementary Statistical Methods sat with its spine resting on Charles Dickens: A Biography . Below was The Taj Mahal is a Hindu Palace by P.N. Oak. I’ve been in libraries that don’t follow the Dewey classification, but the Blue Library’s ordering scheme was beyond my comprehension.
I looked up to see an old man walking at the other end of the hall. Every few steps, he pulled a book out, admired its cover, flipped some pages, and set it back. I walked over and asked if he was the owner. He didn’t turn around.
“He’s hard of hearing,” said the middle-aged man I’d met at the door. “Are these his books?” “Yes, but I take care of them now. I’m his son.”
Hariyam said his father was 86 and had started collecting books as a teenager. As his collection grew, others started adding to it. The library is around 70 years old, but not many people visited—about five guests on a good day, mostly Europeans.
As I peppered the reticent Hariyam with questions, a European and her child, the only others in the library, approached. She had a Russian children’s book in her hands, and wanted to know what the deposit was.
“Oh, for that,” Hariyam said, “nothing. You can bring it back if you want. Maybe someone else will find it useful. But if you lose it, it’s fine.”
“No, no, we’re honest,” she responded, “we’ll bring it back. Are you sure there’s no deposit?” He waved her away, and she left with a quick ‘Namaste’. Turning back, Hariyam asked, “Are you a journalist?” “No,” I said. He smiled and turned his back on me.
I was left with the books—French, Russian, German, possibly Hebrew. I discovered later the reason for the strong European influence: the ‘Study Circle’ library, as it was formally known, was rebuilt with the help of Tabet Elias, a Frenchman. I also discovered that it had ancient Sanskrit texts written on palmyra leaves. I didn’t see the leaves, but I did find other treasures, including some of the world’s least-read books.
On my way out, I saw the old man again. He was still pulling out books and putting them back, a timeless act that had gone on for seven decades in a town that had changed beyond recognition. I wondered if he alone understood where every book belonged.
I wandered into the blazing sun and headed for Kudle Beach. On my way, I ran into Izel and Jean and as we chatted, Jean related a story about the “crazy” Blue Library. He said the old man had trailed him as he walked around the library. When Hariyam was within earshot, the old man barked a question in Kannada. When Jean asked what the old man had asked, Hariyam said he had wanted to know if Jean was a boy or a girl.
According to Jean, the old man couldn’t read. “You mean he can’t read French?” “No. He can’t read anything. He just walks around staring at covers.”
The illiterate librarian of Gokarna.
I thought back to how the old man had pulled books out and reshelved them, handling them like they were his children. No, I don’t think I believe Jean.
But in a place like Gokarna, anything seems possible.
The author is a short-story writer and short-filmmaker.
