The Best Seat in the House Isn't Near Any Book

There’s a green chair in my bookstore that nobody else wants, and that suits me just fine.

It sits right next to the billing counter, tucked beside a big glass window, and after the day’s work is done, this is where I disappear to. Technically, I’m still on the floor. Unofficially, I’ve clocked out and turned into the store’s unpaid, unbothered anthropologist.

Through the glass, the coffee shop next door runs its own small theatre every evening. I can’t hear a word of it, but I don’t need to. There’s a very specific hand gesture people make when they’re negotiating a business deal, and a completely different one for describing how badly someone’s day went. Faces do most of the talking anyway — the wide, unguarded laugh of good gossip, the polite closed-mouth smile of someone waiting for their turn to speak, and my personal favourite, the judgey squint reserved exclusively for other people’s life choices. I may not know the plot, but I always know the genre.

Inside, right across from my corner, the shelves run their own quieter drama — new arrivals up front, a shelf for local authors trying to get noticed, bestsellers holding court like they’ve earned it. Business hasn’t been kind to bookstores lately; maybe it’s the phones, maybe people just don’t read the way they used to. But the ones who do walk in? I find them endlessly, affectionately funny. Maybe because watching them is a bit like watching myself with better lighting.

Half the joy of a bookstore, it turns out, isn’t the books. It’s the people who’ve never technically bought one but love being in their presence. First-timers walk in like they’ve entered a museum — delighted, slightly nervous, dying to take a photo next to the “Bestsellers” sign. Then they clock the staff and, with visible disappointment, remember that they’re being watched. When someone actually approaches to help, they smile too quickly, avoid eye contact like it’s a pop quiz, and mumble something noncommittal. I get it. I’d probably do the same. Curiosity is a wonderful thing right up until someone asks if you need assistance.

But nothing this week bested the father and his three kids.

They came in, fanned out across the shelves with the focus of tiny professionals, and each picked a book they’d clearly fallen a little bit in love with. Then came Dad — and if you’ve ever met an Indian father in a bookstore, you already know where this is going. He looked at the picks with the weary authority of a man who has seen this movie before and delivered the line every desi kid has heard in some form: “You’re not even going to read this. It’s a two-day interest, that’s it.” Not cruel. Not even really annoyed. Just... performing a role he was born to play, apparently unaware that half the store, including me, was enjoying the show. He told them to pick something else. They stood their ground. He countered with the ultimate parental threat — finish this one, or no more books, ever. And the beautiful part? Everyone won. The kids kept their books. He got his taunt in. Nobody’s ego left unsatisfied. I sat there thinking of my own father, who has said some version of that exact sentence to me more times than I can count, in more or less those exact words.

A few hours later, I was somewhere in the pages of Days at the Morisaki Bookshop when a very different kind of energy walked in.

She was probably in her seventies, grey-haired, in a pink kurti and blue jeans, moving with the kind of quiet confidence that makes age look less like a limit and more like a decision. She needed a hand with the stairs — steadying herself carefully on the way up and down. But she knew precisely which book she wanted and exactly why. She greeted every staff member by memory, asked after people she hadn’t seen in months, and talked about the old days the way you’d talk about an old friend you’re hoping might visit again. And then she opened her book — no glasses, no hesitation — and read faster than I do on a good day.

She needed help getting up a flight of stairs. She needed absolutely none reading the thing she loved most in the world. There was something almost funny about it, except it wasn’t really funny at all — it just quietly rearranged what I thought a “book lover” was supposed to look like.

I still don’t sell many books from this chair. But I’m starting to think I’m collecting something else entirely.

Anjali Chinwan
At the Book Cafe of The English Book Depot

BOOKS OF THE WEEK

Triumph of the Indian Republic: My Life, 

My Struggles by Ram Nath Kovind

ABOUT THE BOOK

India has never seen a president like Ram Nath Kovind, fondly remembered as ‘Everybody’s President’. Here, in his own words, is the story of his life—public and private—told with uncompromising candour, modesty, and a sense of drama characteristic of an exceptional storyteller.

Triumph of the Indian Republic: My Life, My Struggles is an inspiring success story that has many lessons for today. In this, Kovind recalls his childhood in Paraunkh village of Uttar Pradesh with warmth and pride, and the events in the later years that made him a leader of courage, integrity and clear-minded optimism. He takes readers on a compelling journey—starting with his earliest political aspirations to his stint as a Member of Parliament in the Rajya Sabha, followed by his term as the Governor of Bihar, and finally his election to the highest constitutional office of the land. Kovind brings readers inside Rashtrapati Bhavan and offers a rare, behind-the-scenes view of the themes and crises that defined his five years in office. He reveals hitherto unknown dynamics of Indian politics and international diplomacy, and embarks on a fresh and fascinating exploration of the phenomenal reach of presidential power. From leading the nation during Covid-19 to handling the issue of President’s rule in Maharashtra, this richly detailed, deeply human narrative is full of insights.

Triumph of the Indian Republic: My Life, My Struggles uncovers the storied life of a leader whose courage and compassion has left a lasting impression on the fabric of our nation. If you have ever wondered what it’s like to walk in the shoes of the President of India or wanted to get a ringside view of the inner corridors of presidential power, this is the book for you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ram Nath Kovind was sworn in as the 14th President of India on 25 July 2017. Prior to his election to the highest constitutional office of the land, he was the Governor of Bihar. He was elected as a member of the Rajya Sabha from Uttar Pradesh in April 1994, and served two consecutive terms till March 2006. He has been part of numerous parliamentary committees, and has gathered in-depth experience in governance. A lawyer by profession, he served as Counsel of the Union Government in the Delhi High Court from 1977 to 1979. In 1978, he became an Advocate-on-Record with the Supreme Court of India. He is an avid reader and has keen interest in books on politics and social change, law, history and spirituality. He is married to Savita Kovind, and they have a son and a daughter.

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My Early Days at The English Book Depot

It started a year ago, on a rainy afternoon. I had a headache and desperately needed a coffee — that’s how I first stumbled into Barista and EBD (The English Book Depot). I ordered a cold caramel coffee and a slice of chocolate cake, then looked around. A cafe and a bookstore, together, under one roof — I had never seen anything like it in Dehradun.

That first visit turned into a habit. I’d buy a book, come back, buy another. Somehow, every time I was near Barista, I’d end up walking into EBD instead.

A year later, I decided to actually join.

Day One

On my first day, I met Dutt sir, who introduced me to Santosh uncle — the man everyone calls “the encyclopedia of books.” He knows every title, every shelf, every story tucked inside every cover. He became my guide.

My first task was simple: fix and clean the classic and literature shelf. Santosh uncle stayed close the whole time, quietly checking in — how I was feeling, whether I was doing okay, showing me exactly how the books should sit. That day I learned the classics go up alphabetically. Once the shelf was done, the rest of the time was mine — I could read whatever I wanted. That, I think, is the best part of this job.

Day Two, Three, and the Days After

Day two went much the same way. On day three, I didn’t show up — my grandfather had been admitted to the hospital. When I walked back in on day four, the store felt warm and welcoming, like it had been waiting for me.

Vikram sir, the manager, asked why I’d been away. Word had already gotten around, though — everyone in the store somehow knew about my grandfather, and each person asked after him. That small thing meant a lot.

I went back to cleaning and rearranging shelves like nothing had changed.

Today — August 20

After finishing my work, I settled into my usual corner, right next to Vikram sir’s table, to get some of my own work done. That’s when Kabir walked in — a six-year-old bundle of energy and curiosity, waiting while his mother sipped her coffee.

Kabir lives near FRI and plays football every day after school. Today, though, he hadn’t gone to school — his class had a competition running, and sitting through hours of it in the auditorium had bored him completely.

For a six-year-old, he communicates remarkably well. He picks up random topics, tells you exactly what’s on his mind, and somehow never throws a tantrum while doing it — calm, clear, and surprisingly obedient. He took my hand and led me around the store as if it were my first time there, even though he clearly knew every corner of it better than most adults. He wanted to know everything, and when I explained things to him, he listened carefully and actually understood.

Then he went outside with his mother, and I got back to editing something on my laptop — until he wandered back in, sat down beside me, and asked what I was doing. He offered to help with my editing, which was sweet, considering he has no idea what editing even is. Still, the gesture caught me off guard.

Then he told me he knew how to work a rug-making machine at five years old. I was floored.

He left with his mother soon after, and I went back to my desk — but the conversation stayed with me the rest of the day. I hope he comes back soon. I’d like to hear more of what he knows.

Anjali Chinwan

At the Book Cafe of The English Book Depot