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Books and the Eternal

Biangle
By Subroto Mukerji

Say what you will, a book is a book is a book. Not just any
old book, mind you, but the one thats just perfect for the occasion...or
for your current obsession. I mean that in a very personal sense; I have
noticed myself bumping into exactly the thing I need to satisfy my
latest intellectual fad (theyve ranged from the mystery of Easter
Island to the likelihood of angel visitations). Ive heard it saidand I
believe its truethat there are no coincidences in life. If that gives you
an idea that I have a mind like a sieve, you could be right. Almost
every thought is finely filtered as it passes through it. There are also
those who wryly observe that the strain is showing. Ha Havery funny.
Its an open mind I have, though some maintain that thats
just another way of saying that things pass through it smoothly and
keep going minus any noticeable drop in velocity, like a magnum bullet
through cheese. Not that it matters: I have to keep feeding it stuff the
way stokers on the Queen Elizabeth II had to shovel coal into her
boilers. And so, as I was saying, Ive noticed that over the last several
years, Ive run into the perfect book just when I badly needed it to
shore me up.
Take the case of Space, Time & Wormholes. I didnt
believe Id ever get hold of it till I climbed those steep stairs to Marcos
Melody Room merely because I liked the number they were playing for
the public benefit over their extension speakers, down on the sidewalk.
It was a haunting melody, with a wonderful sonorous quality about it,
compelling enough to temporarily divert me from an appointment with
my bank manager. It drew me up the stairs and into the brightly-lit
showroom.
It was a CD by a group Id never heard of, based in the
Deep South, but a bands lack of fame or sense of geographical
propriety has never prevented me from buying their music if I fancy
their stuff. I guess thats how good bands surface, even if theyre from
Dixieland. They sell because their product is a winner, like Stonewall
Jackson. After Id bought the CD, I couldnt help eyeballing the books
on the shelves at the back. Books I cannot resist; ask my bankers.
An accountant (by definition, a primitive, parasitic, and
often toxic lifeform) would have pounced upon my tendency to splurge
on the printed word by putting up a note to the Management pointing
out the urgency of plugging leakage of income under the head
miscellaneous (unremunerative) expenditure. I, on the other hand,
being highly allergic to accountantsas also to other assorted
venomous vermin such as Tarantulas and Puff Addersdo hereby
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condone the outflow by insisting it be logged under long-term

investments.
I really didnt expect to see anything beyond a few John
Grishams and Ken Follets, because books in a music store, Ive noticed,
are like sales girls in a car showroom: theyre there purely for their
decorative value, not for fulfilling any functional imperatives. The first
thing I noticed was dust. Now thats a good sign as far as Im
concerned. Dusty books usually mean slow-moving stocks (unlike
dusty girls), so hefty discounts are commonplace (also true for dusty
girls).
Closer scrutiny, however, revealed that they werent
exactly old. They just needed a swipe or two of the feather duster, this
useful accessory obviously being reserved for the music under retail.
There werent too many of them anyway, and while there was the
usual pulp fiction by people who seem to churn out a thriller every six
weeks (I suspect its the work of a software package thatll come to
light as soon as the Press gets wise to the trick), I noticed a few serious
works on subjects that had intrigued me in the past.
And the Past was my current preoccupation, if you get the
drift, since Id gone from metaphysical expositions into the nature of
Reality (that called for more than a nodding acquaintance with
Einsteinian Relativity and Quantum Mechanics) to the concept of Time
itself. Cosmology had made me aware of the fact that looking across
billions of light-years of space at obscure star systems was equivalent
to peeking billions of years into the past.
This was challenging, because according to many scientists
and seers, there was no such thing as Time and everything that ever
happened, is happening, and ever will happen is happening
forever...right now. So where did that leave me apropos those stars I
saw?
Anyway, all this talk of seeing stars brings me around, in
my own roundabout way, to informing you that I finally found Dr. Edwin
Steins book on time travel called Space, Time & Wormholes, a book
Id wanted to buy almost like since Time began. It was with mixed
feelings, however, that I took it from its shelf. The pricethree large
digits on the stickeradded up to a lengthy discourse on fiscal
discipline that my bank manager would undoubtedly unburden himself
of in due course. His patience was running low on the subject of my
overdrawn account, and of late hed taken to phoning me to call on
him as soon as was convenient.
Since I was on my way to meet this shylock before I got
sidetracked, I decided that I could risk it by buying the book. The debit
would only appear in next months statement of account, by which
time who knew what sundry credits would materialize to offset it.
Having thus quelled my conscience and bought the said article, I was
going through it on my way downstairs when I collided with someone
and dropped it. It seems the person Id bumped into was similarly
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engrossed on the way upstairs, and the law of gravity had done the
rest. Both tomes hit the stairs in unison, as did our heads each other as
we bent to retrieve them (our respective books I mean, not our heads).
I tell you, it certainly felt like Id lost my head (and my
initial feeling was borne out by subsequent events...though I run ahead
of my story here). A short-pitched delivery had once caught me sharply
behind the left ear before I could duck, and I was strongly reminded
now of that headless feeling as I straightened up, empathizing with
young Ichabod Crane of Sleepy Hollow. I knew how he must have felt,
poor chap. Coping with maniacs who gallop around the countryside on
moonlit nights with their heads tucked under their arms isnt my idea
of good, clean entertainment, whatever points in favour of the motion
may be tabled by Mr. Washington Irving.
Rearranging the scrambled contents of my cranium, I
sought the correspondent party, who, probably similarly affected,
would expect a solatium. Heads have rolled for less. So I looked up
very cautiously indeed, just in case I saw nothing upwards of the neck.
Not that sighting my jousting opponent had any particularly soothing
effect, for I found myself looking deep into the bluest, loveliest, and
truly the most outraged pair of eyes Id never looked deep into.
Then she snatched up a book and was lost in the surging
press of humanity that flowed past Marcos Melody Room. I stood
rooted on the stairs, light-headed and heavy-hearted, for with her had
departed Dr. Steins labour of love, leaving in its stead the deathless
prose of one Jessica Galloway on the earthy subject of Perennials &
Potted Plants. I wilted unseasonally.

One thing Ill say on the subject of Bank Managers (a

couple of observations and no more: theyre a sub-species Ive
researched for some years now before coming to the conclusion that
they are a necessary evil, like laxatives), theyre a fairly tolerable
bunch of stiffs when a defaulter walks in to keep an appointment, even
if hes fifteen minutes late. I mean, like Halle Berry-Bond, they let you
live sos you can die another day. Theyre a bit like stinging nettle;
contact with them makes you break out in a rash and itch all over, but
you soon get over it.
A cup of weak tea and a strong lecture later, I found myself
back on the pavement, scratching myself vigorously and wondering
how I could recover my book from the mysterious blue-eyed stranger
who had purloined my purchase. I retraced my steps to Marcos Melody
Room in the hope of getting a lead to her identity. No dice. They had
no idea who she was, shed paid cash, and she wasnt a regular. The
trail was cold.
I had to use my head in this crisis, addled though it was
after its violent encounter with another of its kind. It ached like Billy-O.
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Id heard of hard-headed people, but this was three much. I needed to

pop an Aspirin urgently before my hat size changed permanently. Then
the penny dropped. She must be feeling in need of a pick-me-up as
well: I didnt think I was that soft in the head, know what I mean? So I
headed for Perfect Pillations on the next block, hoping shed had the
same idea.
The stygian gloom of the old chemists shop (my chemistry
needed a significant dose of additives just now, so I ignored the
anachronistic word on the faded sign-board) floated into view, and I
caught myself wondering, as I often did on such occasions, as to why
these pill peddlers kept their darned premises so dark. Perhaps it had
something to do with the psychology...no, make that melancholy...of
disease. A melancholic capsule cruncher would buy more medicines
than were good for him, thereby alchemizing into a hypochondriac: the
pet fantasy of every pill-pusher.
Id meant what Id said about keeping my head in a crisis,
but heres a well-deserved mention in despatches for my neck. Long
grudged its board for the outlay involved in keeping it in collars and
ties, this singularly unappetizing extension had earned its keep by
amply demonstrating its keen attachment for its appendage,
surpassing its design specifications in the process.
But its performance was again due for reappraisal (it being
still under probation), vis--vis consistency, for just as I sailed into the
gloom at twenty knots sans radar, I ran hard aground, jolting my
timbers from bows to stern. I use the word hard because its the word
that Conrad would have used under the circumstances, though it didnt
quite suit this latest calamity.
It was, in fact, a soft collision, thank heavens (no thanks to
the carpetingwhich was thin and frayedfor not absorbing the shock
of contact with terra firma), on account of the inherent qualities of the
object Id collided with. It seemed to be my day to meet life head on.
And then I wished the carpet was deeper, and that someone would
hurry along and quickly sweep me under it, throbbing cranium and all.
In my delirium, I thought about how authors always refer to
ships in the feminine gender, perhaps because they (ships) can be
temperamental at the best of times. I could appreciate the sentiments
of the men who introduced this literary innovation, for as I lay there
trying to ascertain the extent of damage to the superstructure, I
realized that my vessel was berthed alongside a craft whose sleek lines
gave it away as being one of the aforesaid gender.
The word temperamental would be le mot juste here, for
she was in a temper, and her mental equilibrium was under severe
stress. For the second time within the span of half an hour, I found
myself looking deep into the biggest, loveliest, and simply the most
enraged pair of blue eyes Id never looked deep into.
Strong medicine they were, well suited to this apothecarys
abattoir, but a stronger dose awaited me. When Id bought Dr. Steins
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magnum opus, I knew I was in for some heavy stuff. My apprehensions

were validated now, for the afore-mentioned magnum opus descended
with stunning force on my head, thereby adding a fair number of
galaxies to the known universe.
Now whereas my friends have always maintained that my
head performed two vital functions, viz., it served to keep my ears
apart, and also that it found something useful for my neck to do, let me
assure you that I waspursuant to my interests and investments in my
neckconcomitantly and irrevocably attached to its accessory as well,
both fundamentally as well as sentimentally. Whatever its book value,
the rough handling it was receiving today was a matter of grave
concern for me as its proprietor, notwithstanding the virtuoso
performance of my neck.
Since recovering my book was worth the risk of being
decapitated, I stooped quickly and gathered it gratefully to my bosom
as I regained my feet. And then I suppose I must have succumbed to
my exertions of the morning, for suddenly the deck tilted crazily, the
stars went out, and I sensed rather than felt myself bite the dust again.
Jack Dempsey couldnt have put me out any faster, even with a
horseshoe concealed in his right glove.
*

The Readers Digest Junior Omnibus, 1958 edition,

contained an article by Paul Gallico, who climbed into the ring with
Dempsey so that he could give his readers a first-hand account of what
it felt like to be kayoed by the World Heavyweight Boxing Champion.
He succeeded admirably in his endeavours, and was no doubt amply
recompensed by a generous cheque from the publishers for dutifully
sniffing his smelling-salts. But without at all downsizing Gallicos feats
both journalistic and pugilisticI submit that his compensation was
in no way superior to mine.
Take it from me, being kayoed by a non-World Champion
also has its plus points. For, as I came to in the casualty ward of a
nearby hospital, the beneficial impact of books was never clearer to
me. To be sure, Gallico received the best of medical attention after he
kissed the canvas, but I cannot see how it could have been better than
the care I was receiving. For the third time that day, you see, I found
myself becalmed under azure eyes the exact colour of summer skies.
Poor Gallico, who lacked the gumption to bump into anything better
than a smelly boxing glove...
Captains log: Stardate 2004. We are lost, marooned in
Deep Space....Those timeless, dazzling blue eyes are awash in brine,
and all misted-up and worried-like. The peerless brows that frame
them are knotted in tension. The loveliest lips God ever made are
hovering inches from my cheek, and teeth like priceless pearls are
chewing the lower of two rosebuds to shreds.
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The view from the bridge is spectacular, if you get me,

Steve. No Caesar or Pharaoh ever had it this good. Beat that if you
can, Gallico! The fragile starship Id bumped into twice, packed a
haymaker of a Sunday punch. The softest, gentlest hands in the
universe are stroking my brow tenderly. Enlightenment dawned: a
good book is a knock-out in the right hands. The fog that enshrouded
me dissolved abruptly, sundered by a lusty tropical onshore breeze
that seemed to blow from some distantand no doubt uninhabited
tropical isle nor nor west of Pitcairns Island.
The more impatient among you willat this delicate point
in my narrativethreaten to string me up from the mizzen-mast if I
dont come to the point quickly, so Id better confess that when we
retired to her apartment for a cup of tea, we found we had common
interests aplenty. I had developed a sudden (and permanent) passion
for perennials, and she insisted that space-time had fascinated her for
years. She brushed away my concerns for her health by convincing me
via natural means at her disposal that she was in pretty good shape.
With my head spinning as giddily as a gyroscope, I was drawn
inexorably into the vortex of the eternal biangle.
And heres the bottom-line. With so many books forming a
Barrier Reef between the two of us, we put our heads together (gently)
and came up with the perfect solution: an eBay auction. Blimey! The
overdraft adjusted itself from the proceeds thereof! Besides, who the
dickens needs a mouldy old book when theres superior reading matter
available in the form of bewitching blue eyes?
Though weve both lost interest in books, my bank
managerwhos stuck with hiscertainly hasnt. Hes in a buoyant
mood, not having had to go down with his ship over the irregular
overdraft. Having pinched Shylocks thunder by neatly carving out his
pound of fleshalbeit minus a Portia or a Perfect Pillations to foul his
propellerhe still figures on Lloyds Register.
Yet his compass bearing is badly skewedhes 180 off
course, as a matter of factin thinking that I have an eye for books but
no head for figures. For all his petty triumphs, hell never grasp the
finer points of a divinely-ordained corporate merger, even if you slug
him over the head with Space, Time & Wormholes. Or even with his
ftid General Ledger, for that matter. (Heady thought, that).
But lets not be too hard on him. Bank Managers are to
blue eyes as cacti are to cornflowers.

Subroto Mukerji