I sauntered out of my apartment at 12 noon a couple of Sundays ago in pursuit of a good book. The temperature, I have since checked, was an ambitious 111 degrees and, as I walked in the direction of the market, I hummed that Noel Coward song about mad dogs and Englishmen. Appropriate – as I’ve noticed that the sight of a foreigner walking for any length of time in Delhi provokes the kind of disdain usually reserved for its street dogs.
I was just getting to the bit about how “Englishmen detest-a siesta†when two thoughts struck me. Surely there are libraries in Delhi? And How much nicer it would be to borrow a book than to buy one! A quick stop in an Internet café confirmed my suspicions. There are indeed public libraries in Delhi. And the nearest one to me was but a stroll away in Andrews Ganj. I strode off confidently towards the flyover and quite soon I found myself outside the gate of a concrete building bearing a blue and white sign, which read Delhi Public Library.
It’s lucky the sign was there because, if it hadn’t been, I would never have guessed this was the place I was looking for. The library in Andrews Ganj is described as a sub-branch, and visitors should take that description literally. It’s a grey concrete block set back from the road in a dusty yard. An abandoned playground, with a broken roundabout and a swing set without any swings, peeled its paint onto scrubby grass. A couple of teenage boys lolled against their bikes by the gates. Inside three middle-aged men sat at the central table reading newspapers under the draught of a listless fan. No one had a book out. I headed for the English language shelves and perused the collection of Penguin classics and the complete works of William Dalrymple.
Amazingly, the very book I had come to look for, Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, was prominently displayed there like an exhibition piece. I grabbed it and hastened towards the librarian’s desk. I was prepared for a struggle. My two months in Delhi have taught me that any official transaction involving me and a service I require is likely to prove problematic in at least five unique ways. “I’d like to take this book out please,†I began, smiling encouragingly. “No,†said the man. “It is not possible to take books. You must read it here,†he nodded as if that were an end to the matter. Faced with this kind of negative certitude, some might have been dissuaded. Not me. My prior experience of worldwide library protocol gave me the courage to insist. I repeated the question a couple of times receiving the same response (Einstein’s definition of insanity) and finally opened the front of the book to point out the borrowing stamps in violet ink. “Yes,†said the librarian, cheerfully contradicting himself, “you must be a member to take books away.†Here we go, I thought. “I’d like to become a member,†I said.
Quite quickly, it became obvious that the librarian didn’t consider me membership material. I showed him my work ID card, a photocopy of my passport and a bank statement with my address on it, but he insisted that nothing short of an Indian voter ID card would prove that my allegiance to the country was sufficiently strong for me to be trusted with his copy of Salmon Fishing in the Yemen. I left, and admitted defeat.
Or did I? Not quite. That afternoon, having acquainted myself with the requirements for DPL membership via the website, I set off once more unto the breach. This time, my destination was the Lodhi Colony library. It was also within walking distance and the website described it as a “community branchâ€, which made it sound a cosy and friendly place. At about 5 pm, I set out again with the sun in my face and crossed a little railway footbridge going north into Lodhi Colony. This time, I found my target easily. It was exactly like the Andrews Ganj branch, even down to the derelict playground. But it was closed and a large pile of rubble in the doorway indicated that this might be a permanent state of affairs. “Hello!†I shouted through the gates, to a man inside. “I’m looking for the library!†He shook his head. “It is closed. You must come back Monday after next at 5.45pm,†he said. I walked away, marveling at this bizarre precision.
You might think that my search should have ended here. A lot of people would, at this point, have hailed an auto to Khan market and patronized one of its many well-appointed bookshops, all selling the tome in question. But I am a fighter. The mission had become a matter of pride with me, and I knew that the only way I was going to succeed was to take my case all the way to the top.
The Central Branch of the Delhi Public library is situated just north of Chandni Chowk, opposite the Old Delhi Railway Station. Built in 1944 by the pioneer industrialist Ramkrishna Dalmia, its red stone façade encloses a courtyard, around which several dark, high-ceilinged rooms house the books. I had taken the metro up from Connaught Place and, as I walked through the wide gates, I was filled with a sense of impending doom that even my eight passport photos and notarised apartment lease couldn’t dispel. I headed straight into the largest room, past the card catalogues in the foyer. It smelt of mildew and dust and old paper. This is more like it, I thought as I passed the European History section full of inspiring titles like Boldness be My Friend, and Age of Chivalry and made for the English Literature shelves. There, winking from the shelf as if to taunt me, was a shiny new copy of Salmon Fishing in the Yemen by Paul Torday. I grabbed it and made for the desk.
“Good morning. I’d like to take this….†I began. “No, no,†interrupted the woman. “That’s not possible.†I took a breath, “Yes, but I have here a copy of my…†“You must be a resident in Delhi to take books out,†she continued, gathering momentum now. “I know,†I said, “I have my passport and a copy of my visa and my lease agreement, which is notarised as you can see, and here is my office ID card, with a photo, and a bank statement.†Ha! I thought. I’ve got you now. The woman gazed thoughtfully my documents, as if torn between the indisputable proofs of my legitimacy she held in her hands and her stronger instinct that the process seemed a little easy. “Do you pay income tax?†she asked at last. “Yes!†I replied, truthfully. “And where is your PAN card?†she countered. My heart sank. “I haven’t got it yet,†I admitted. The woman brightened considerably. “Well, when you receive it, you must bring it here and you can fill out an application form,†she said, handing me back my sheaf of papers. Oh I will, I thought darkly, turning to leave. Just you wait.
(Addendum: Delhi Public Library subsequently contacted me and very helpfully solved all my enrolment problems. I am now the very proud first ever foreign national to hold a Delhi Public Library Card. Salmon Fishing in the Yemen was excellent and I urge anyone who can to make a trip to the Central Branch to see an excellent exhibition they have on the library’s history.)
