Felled by sticker shock

We soon became good friends, the old man as well as little Tinku, his niece8217;s son. The old man was a hopeless book lover an anachronism even in those pre-TV days, with a lover8217;s passion for reading and possessing books.

Two entire walls of his one and a half room home were hidden behind dizzy piles of books rising directly from the floor His wife, he said, had left long ago in utter disgust. His only other enthusiasm was for mangoes in season, particularly alphonsos.

He ate his meals with his niece, who lived nearby. Her child, Tinku, and books, books, books these were his world. His entire pension went on them. Evenings, we often walked together to the railway station bookstall to see the latest Penguins and admire the shiny pocket books.

Some months later, this wisp of a ghost from a past age had a violent collision with present reality on Lighthouse Hill Road, while the old man gazed lovingly at a frontispiece, a Minister8217;s son, plump, coarse and lusty, took a sharp U-turn on his powerful motorbike, skidded, and slammed into the old man8217;s legs. The bike dragged him and finally dropped on his head. Tinku, now walking, was unhurt physically.

As they lifted the old man, he was heard to mumble plaintively, 8220;Human body delicate, appa! delicate!8221; That was the last complete sentence he ever uttered.

For five months he was in a coma, being fed through a tube. Then one day, Tinku placed a speck of Alphonso pulp gently between his lips. Five minutes later, it had disappeared. It took him a year to recover, though partially. He would sit at the window gazing out with sad eyes. The book on his lap quivered rhythmically with his knees, and he dozed off before completing a page. He struggled to blurt out single words, which only Tinku could understand.

This continued, while Tinku grew up and went to school. I had joined a Kannada publishing firm. One day, our MD mentioned the coming International Book Fair in Bangalore. I held my breath!

He said I should hire a Maruti van and take our books to the fair. I thought: let me do at least one decent, unselfish deed, and take the old man and Tinku to Bangalore.

He stood the journey well. At the fair, he was in a state of high nervous excitement. He picked up a book on Rembrandt and tenderly passed his hand over its glossy pages a lover8217;s caress. We carefully selected just a few stalls, including his early love Penguins. At one stall, he picked up a lovely new paperback of collected poems and signalled incomprehensibly. Tinku said: 8220;He8217;s asking: how much?8221; The price was in pounds. I asked a girl, who consulted a conversion table, and finally said: Rs 375. He stared at me, uncomprehending, and made guttural noises. I repeated the figure. He shook his head, then picked out another book, and looked at me. I went through the rigmarole again. Finally, the girl said: 8220;Rs 466, sir.8221; The old man shook his head violently.

Then he collapsed. He is still in a coma. Maybe this mango season8230;