Shrine to words.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

The radiologist seems to unite some of the best blessings of existence. He lives in a Sector 50 high-rise in Noida, sharing a spacious apartment with his parents, his wife—a dermatologist—and their two children. The bed in his bedroom is of Burma teak wood, inherited from his late grandmother, who had acquired it when she lived in Burma. And then Sushant Mittal has something more. His bedroom has a wooden case filled with books.

This is his library.

Last week, a college library in the capital caught fire; thousands of books at Pitampura’s Sri Guru Gobind Singh College of Commerce were burned to ashes. It was a short circuit accident, and fortunately no injuries were reported. But the spectre of burned books is historically terrifying. It recalls the destruction of the great library of Alexandria, or, closer home, the annihilation of the ancient university of Nalanda, which had a great number of handwritten books. In such a context, Sushant’s library—and every other private library in the city—offers some consolation, no matter how big or small they might be. Sushant’s book collection is not massive, but here in Noida, a world besieged by malls and multiplexes, it exists like a shrine to words.

The top shelf has Amartya Sen, Kazuo Ishiguro and Geetanjali Shree, though the largest space is claimed by our great chronicler of mountains and mist, who turned 91 this week. Ruskin Bond’s best stories remind Sushant of the nature as it is supposed to be. Pointing out his favourite Ruskin Bond, Sushant says that he purchased ‘Rain in the Mountains’ from a lake-facing bookstore in the mountain town of Nainital.

Some of the other authors crammed into the book case include Tagore, Naipaul, Anita Desai, Namita Gokhale, and William Dalrymple.

As Sushant continues to chat, a layer of mist forms on the glass pane of the bedroom window—this being a rainy afternoon. The book case’s glass pane, in turn, shows a reflection of the misty window.

The attention gradually shifts from the radiologist’s books to the t-shirt he is wearing. It shows a Matisse painting. Once, while visiting a family friend’s house, Sushant spotted a large two-volume art book titled ‘What Great Paintings Say.’ He spent the next few months prowling through many bookstores but couldn’t find the hefty volumes. The search ended at a book fair, where he discovered an abridged single-volume edition of the book. It now adorns his living room.

Meanwhile, the rain has almost stopped. Sushant’s wife, Sarika, steps into the room. Sitting down on the footstool beside him, the dermatologist jokingly says that she has passion for many things, except for the books. Both graciously agree to pose for a portrait, with Sushant holding a paperback titled “Beyond the World of Apu: the Films of Satyajit Ray.’