It was for quite some time that I had been hearing about the Kolkata book fair, about how it is impossible to see the whole of the book fair and how publishers from all over India come there and how it is the largest book fair in Asia. The Telegraph added fuel to the already uncontrollable desire to visit the book fair in spite of being constrained by professional commitments, as it published photographs and articles about it.

Throughout the week, I had been looking forth to the arrival of the Saturday, when I would finally get to see the largest book fair in Asia. Somnath, who is here on a holiday, called up to inform me that he too was interested. The rendezvous was fixed for 11:30 am sharp at Nandan. My eagerness could not resist punching a line at Somu, when he arrived ten minutes late - "When does the clock strike 11:30 in Kolkata?"

Somu proposed tea and as a rule, I do not refuse a cup of tea. It was my first experience with tea in earthen pots, as Somu insisted that being in Kolkata and not drinking the pot-tea is sacrilegious. Sridhar, who has been for quite some time, intrigued by the economics and disposal of these earthen cups, sought an explanation from Somu - our beacon of Kolkata for the day. Somu was quite nonchalant in his reply "Sometimes, they are crushed and thrown off, at other times, they are washed and reused." The dustbin that lay nearby held a lot of cups which had a scope of being 're-cycled' with cockroaches and other insects licking off the remnants of tea. Sridhar took enough precaution to see that the cups were broken!

We passed Chowringhee and Birla Planetarium, to reach the gates of the Kolkata Book Fair. Seeing nobody except the security men at the gates, I was a bit intrigued, till we understood that we were a bit too early for the fair opened at 2:00pm.

The next two hours would have been the longest I would have expected to spend, had it not been that we went to Maharastra Nivas - in search of the elusive place to stay and had the good fortune to travel by the Metro - from where started my romance with Calcutta's own, India's Pride.

Two o'clock and we were promptly back at the gates, prudently buying entry passes at the Metro station itself, and thus avoiding the serpentine queues for tickets.

The atmosphere inside was auspicious and electrifying. Auspicious because it was the biggest temple of books and Rabindra Sangeet added to the mood. And electrifying because unending rows of stalls - overflowing with books - stood lined up.

The Kolkata book fair is being organized for the last twenty-seven years by the All India Publishers' Guild and this year being declared as the year of regional languages, a lot of open stalls hosted books in regional languages. Some of the best publishers from all corners of India were here. (Sometimes, this declaration of 'years' gets a bit on my nerves. What significance does a year have for a regional language? ) There were a lot of local bookstalls that had set up their shops. Marathi publishers were conspicuous in their absence as was expected!

Anyway, I was in the Kolkata Book Fair!

Wherever eyes reached, they could see only books. It was a singular experience and as I look back, my romance with books flashes upon my memory. I don't remember which was the first book I had read, which was 'out of scope' of the prescribed syllabus in schools. But one of the first memorable books that I remember was 'Shreeman Yogi' in Marathi and then 'Kane and Abel' in English. There was once a time when I had drunk up the Nancy Drews and Hardy Boys and Enid Blytons, only to be replaced later with Sidney Sheldon and Arthur Hailey and then with others. I sometimes try to co-relate my reading habits with those of the hero of Chekhov's short story The Bet, (modesty be damned!)

As most of the local stalls had names painted in Bengali, I patted myself for having at least learnt a bit of the Bengali alphabet to make sense of some of the books and authors' names. To be frank, I was confused as to where to start. 'How am I going to manage this?' If somebody could have described my face, the fitting simile arising into mind, would be the gleam in the eyes of a lady, awed by the saris in Nalli's.

I devised a game plan. I first struck of all the classics - I can get them in Strand. I immediately cut out the local bookstalls - since I can go to College Street any time. I struck of all those books, which I could get anywhere else. This was some thing special, and it demanded something special!

And rewarded I was by this prudence as I found out a couple of Hindi bookstalls selling Premchand's entire literature. There was Harivanshrai Bacchan's literature and many other Hindi authors - of whom I am, frankly, quite ill informed.

The Penguin bookstall was perhaps the biggest and the best collection of all Penguin books at a single place. Others worth their names were Oxford and Cambridge. The Anand Bazaar Patrika stall seemed to have good books, as people thronged the bookstalls standing in serpentine queues through the afternoon sun and dust.

If there was one thorn that pricked my heart it was that I did not know Bengali. I vowed, I would learn it and soon find myself reading Rabindranath's poetry, Sharatchandra's sketching of human emotions, Bankimchandra's patriotism and then Satyajit Ray's stories - all in Bengali. That was the reason I did not buy any of their alluring translations in English. If only I learn this language, I have literature for the next ten years to read and for doing that I would love to be in Kolkata for the next ten years.

There was a separate section devoted to spiritual literature, which hosted the Aurobindo mission, Ramkrishna Mission, Chinmaya Mission and such other bookstalls.

By this time, my friends were already bored and decided to push off. Sorry, I cannot come, I still have miles to go before I leave. Rude as it might sound, I was thankful that these people went off; else I was constrained in movement. It's similar to running the government with only one party at the helm and then running it with a thirteen party Common Minimal Program.

I roamed and roamed around the book fair. I saw some real classics available in the rare book section, at quite affordable prices, so did I see some very new books - especially the way people flocked to David Davidar's The House of Blue Mangoes was quite promising. I could see books on the roadside, while there were many artists displaying their skills in painting at 'Your portrait for Rs. 50/-'.

Watching people is such a fascinating thing. You can see the actions, the faces, the moods and then make stories out of it.

There were children scampering behind those Harry Potter series, while their overbearing fathers prompted them to pick up the Ramayana instead. Then there were disturbed women, looking gruffly and confusingly at their husbands spend a fortune on these 'useless' books which they would have to dust later on. Then there were parents coaxing their boy to go through a book on Science, while the boy kept on looking at that girl with ice cream. It is left to prudent readers to guess what he was actually looking at. College girls with their usual giggles and sighs, discussing about Naipaul's 'Nobel Prize' winning book, as they held The Bend in the River in their hands. And boys will be boys!

At Penguin, a funny incident took place. Penguin has recently come up with a new edition of Kamasutra and a whole shelf was filled up with copies of the book. A man was standing at the shelf and going through a copy as two girls reached there. Having seen the book and the man, they took a step back and stood giggling and pointing at the man. The man, realizing he was their target of amusement, kept the book and walked away - visibly embarrassed. As soon as he left the shop, the two girls pounced upon a copy each and proceeded to the counter!

It was evening and the crowd had made movement impossible. The food stalls were in tremendous demand and so was tea. People had by now relaxed on the ground, forming groups and enjoying the atmosphere. Resting their legs and exercising their mouths simultaneously. The lack of awareness of public cleanliness was quite evident as wrappers and cups lay strewn around. Water flowing from the makeshift basins had created islands in the walking tracks making it even more difficult to move around.

The people were not at all in a hurry. That, they reserve for the bus or the tram in the early morning or evening - mostly evening, if at all they do. The Fair was a place to ramble, to walk hand in hand, and to smell books, to sit and enjoy, relaxing after a long passionate walk through the bookstalls on the lawns. A book, a cup of tea and a cigarette and passionately devour what you have just 'possessed'.

In the end, my legs gave way. The legs dragged the spirit away from what is necessarily a book lover's paradise except that my wallet as usual left a lot to desire!

And as I came out, I again had an earthen-potted tea. This time, it smelt different.

The layer of dust settled on the tongue and the smell of dried bookbinding gum, lent a special taste to the tea - something that will bring me back to the fair in the years to come.