Representative image.
Credit: iStock Photo
It was mid-1984 when George Orwell’s dystopian novel set in the eponymous year was making news. I couldn’t wait to read it.
I tried the book in a couple of second-hand shops, even at roadside vendors, but without luck. A friend suggested a bookshop located in a quiet nook in a cul-de-sac off Brigade Road.
It was on the ground floor of a two-storied house, a small gate, and a simple name board, ‘Select Book Shop’. All that I could see was piles of books stacked from the ground to the ceiling in the tiny entrance room. I also got sight of the next room, filled with books.
I stepped gingerly; in the tiny room on the left, an elderly gentleman ensconced in an old chair took his eyes off the book he was reading and looked at me. I smiled and asked if he had Orwell’s 1984. He stretched his hand and pulled out the book, saying, “You’re lucky; this is the only copy I have.”
I paid what I thought was a reasonable price, thanked him, and came away. In two days flat, I finished the book. Orwell had bowled me over.
A few days later, I visited Select to buy Animal Farm. The owner gave me a sympathetic look and said he didn’t have any copies but assured me if the book lands, he would reserve it for me. He suggested Orwell’s Burmese Days, which I politely declined, saying I will wait for Animal Farm.
Since there was no one else in the shop, I began chatting with him and learnt of his name and how he got into the second-hand books business, about his clients that included famous writers, historians, scientists, teachers, and scholars. True to its name, the shop had a select clientele who came not only from Bengaluru but from all over the country, even from abroad.
Over the decades, I frequented the shop whenever I was in the area and picked up a book or two. The best thing about ‘Select’ was the quietude. One could browse calmly and unhurriedly with no salespersons hovering around. K K Srinivasa Murthy himself rose to help only on request.
A couple of years ago, Murthy moved to the first floor, adding more books while his son Sanjay occupied his father’s seat downstairs. Like father, like son, I thought; Murthy himself gave up a lucrative career in HAL to take over the shop from his father. It seems the love for books runs in their blood.
The last time I visited ‘Select’ was in October last year. Murthy looked shrunk, and his voice was feeble. We exchanged pleasantries, and I left.
When I heard he passed away on February 17, it saddened me. But, wasn’t he blessed to have lived up to the age of 95, doing what he loved best—sourcing, reading, and selling good, rare books?
Rest easy, Murthy!