T C A Srinivasa-Raghavan: Raddi by the book

Now that my friends and I are getting quite long in the tooth, when we meet occasionally we discuss the usual things that those on the threshold of complete decrepitude talk about. All topics have a common feature, comprising things about which we can do nothing.

Actually, “discuss” is not quite the word because no one listens to anyone else. Everyone’s minds were made up half a century ago.

But once in a while a new grievance comes to the fore. A few days ago, at a dinner where we were under close surveillance and supervision by the wives I invited the old dogs over to my home to take away around a 100 books that I am not going to read again. They decently reciprocated the invitation, doubtless on the same grounds of space and the hassle of dusting them.

I asked one of them about the criteria he had used for discarding. It was then that the usual mixture of grumbling and opinionated assertions gave way to something that could be actually described as a discussion. 

Not that there was much agreement, perish the thought. But it made for a nice change. Some patterns emerged in the criteria that had been used. 

Most fellows didn’t want to throw away all the books they had inherited from their parents, only some. Within this there was bias in favour of the books the mommies had read. Doubtless the wives would be hanging on to the books their daddies had read. 

Sentiment and reason

Another important reason for not discarding a book was the “my wife will kill me” problem. I asked one or two of them what was so important about these books. Both said they were gifts from the near and dear. Fortunately, very few Indians gift books.

Next came the books that had been acquired when everyone was young, or younger. All wanted to cling on to these even if most of the books (a) were rubbish, (b) had not been read, (c) were outdated or (d) all three. 

Sentimentality, I realised, played a role in determining which book – mind, not author – would go the knackers. There was, as the courts like to say, some “application of the mind” in this case.

Obviously, this did not apply to pot-boiler fiction. Exit, therefore, the Jeffery Archers, John le Carrés, Dick Francis and such like. 

I had fought the brave battle a few years ago which had ended in a 1965-like stalemate: All my favourite fiction has been packed into cartons and stored in lofts, never to be seen by human eyes again. 

But what is considered just and fair for the goose is not so for the gander and her offspring. Thus, a very tricky problem mentioned by all was the books that the children leave behind when they move out. They will not take these with them nor allow you to throw these away. What was worse, the mothers will not allow them to be packed away in lofts. 
 

This is a problem like the p = np problem in computer science — not solvable. It asks whether every problem whose solution can be verified by a computer can also be quickly solved by it. The answer is no. 

One special category of “not-to-be-discarded” books was the so-called reference volumes, on the wholly specious grounds of “I don’t know when I will need them”. This is complete self-serving nonsense, of course, as far as the books are concerned but the argument can’t be refuted. 

It is nonsense because if it is a genuine reference volume, the stuff it contains can be found on the Net in an updated form. And if it is opinions you are looking for, why call it a reference volume? But one must say the ploy works well, especially if you can snarl a little when such a book is mentioned as a possible for the kabadiwala.

Regrets only

As with all discussions when ageing men gather, gripes and grievances always surface eventually. In this case it was the books discarded by mistake and which now cost thousands of rupees even on Amazon’s used books shelves.

For example, we all rued throwing away the Billy Bunter books. You can’t get them for love but a lot of money, at least by Indian standards, will do the trick. Another lot is the Biggles stuff. There are many such titles.

That is why I have now started collecting Enid Blyton books. If you have any, bring them on.