In memoriam

Ram Advani 1920-2016

FOR me, Ram Advani Booksellers has always been focal point of the Hazratganj landscape. Fortuitously it happened to be next to the Mayfair Cinema and below the British Council Library. All three are gone now. The BCL was the first to close down, followed by Mayfair. Now with Ram Bhai’s passing, Hazratganj has no charm left.

My earliest memories have all these three linked inexorably. The BCL provided all the reading material for me as I went through the school. On the way in or out, I religiously checked out the film posters in the Mayfair lobby. Two to three films were shown in a week along with the afternoon and morning shows and, therefore, there was a huge turnover of films, most of which I would never get to see on the screen. Similarly, at the bookshop, there were books that I could never afford to buy. Advani Sahib sometimes noticed me perhaps because of the BCL books I often carried. Sometimes he looked at them and made a comment or two. However, he never tried to sell me a book, nor did he mind me lingering without buying anything. The relationship was distant and formal. I did, however, buy my first novel – Pearl S. Buck’s The Good Earth from him.

I moved away from Lucknow to go to university, but on my visits home I still went browsing in his shop. He was curious about what I was reading, particularly for European history. My entrée to his private den, the mezzanine section of his shop, became possible, in part because of my sister who had been appointed to teach sociology at Jesus and Mary College in Delhi and was building up the sociology section of the library. She found Advani Sahib to be the best resource and the books she ordered were delivered to her library even before she was back in Delhi. This relationship continued and I often played messenger. We began discussing books, with his quizzing me on what I liked to read. He saw me buy a book, Cage and Aviary Birds and within two years I knew enough about keeping birds from the books I bought at his shop to have my own flourishing aviary.

Those meetings were pleasant largely because of his gentle personality and the ambience he had created at the shop. His office was wood panelled with mounds of the latest books on his table which he encouraged me to look through. Western classical music played constantly. I learnt that he listened to Mozart at the shop and Beethoven at home.

It was only when I returned to Lucknow in 2002 that I really got to know him as a person and appreciate what he stood for. I had returned almost rootless to Lucknow with no one except close family to talk to. His shop became a refuge, which I began visiting daily. And he welcomed me back as if I was a long lost friend.

Some things had changed. He had abandoned his office and spent all his time in the main shop. New books, not available on shelves anywhere else in Lucknow, still appeared daily on his table. So did all the Lucknow walas who had any interest in books or reading. And then there were the visitors to Lucknow who I would never have otherwise met: renowned scholars, students beginning their research, famous authors as well as first time ones, journalists – you name it. Among the regular visitors was Professor C.M. Naim from Chicago who came home annually to Barabanki. In his company Advani Sahib became Ram bhai to me too.

It did not matter who it was, Ram bhai was equally helpful to all and I admired his patience and generosity. He went out of his way to find books, helping people with references and introductions and eventually even to ship not just the books they had bought from him but all their research materials that they had gathered. And quite routinely, he invited them out for a drink at the Golf Club. Often I found him surrounded by American students who were in Lucknow for a summer semester reminding me of tutorial classes – the students making notes as he spoke.

And it wasn’t just researchers. Very often visitors walked into the shop just to meet him because they had been advised to do so by their relatives or friends. They did not buy any book, but he would talk to them as one would with any guest. It was as if he was on some tourist advisory and I often teased him that he was turning into a must-see imambara. He would smile shyly.

In situations of an emergency he often asked me to man the shop, which had a thrill of its own. Talking to him was like receiving lessons in the history of Lucknow. He had wonderful stories about people of Lucknow – writers, rajas and ministers – some extremely amusing and some that gave you goose bumps like the one about Attia Hosain discussing publishers for her just completed novel, Sunlight on a Broken Column. He talked about the gas lights being lit every evening in Hazratganj, of the deer in the zoological garden grazing across the fence on Park Road, and who used to live in which house as we drove around Lucknow.

Ram bhai completed 95 years in October last year. Earlier in June, he had lost Darshi (Sudharshan), his wife of 64 years. Those close to him saw that he was already a broken man, even though he soldiered on bravely at the shop. In November he broke his hip. Every time I called on him, he talked about when he would be ready to go back to the shop. It was always ‘next week’.

We knew he would never be back in the shop and that we had to get used to a Lucknow without Ram bhai! And now that it has happened, it is not going to be easy.

Saleem Kidwai