Hole in the heart books are the commonest among things that get lost

Hole in the heart books are the commonest among things that get lost

All of us lose things - books, pens, wallets. Things that are not tied to wrists or necks are lost rather more easily than those that are. But books, among things lost are the commonest of losses and ones that leave a hole in one's mind and heart, apart from one's shelf.

The loss of a book last month has occasioned this trail of thought, and this column. Three valued friends of mine and I were sharing a dais, all four speaking around a book that was being launched. The three were, as I said, friends of mine but were not persons who would ordinarily share a dais. Their views differed, their paths diverged. But here they were, with me, all held together by the author of the book, who was no more. Sensible of the unusual concordance I requested all three to autograph my copy of the book, making it a great keepsake. As I passed the volume down the podium, each took a minute or two to write a brief message and sign it. This was in what is called 'full view' of the audience. As the proceedings ended, a kindly young person came and said would I like to hand over the book and the bouquet that I had received and a couple of other mementos to her and that she would have them placed in my car. I was touched and relieved by the offer and complied.

The reader of this column will by now have guessed what happened. The book disappeared. The exceptional 'combination' of signatures is now the possession of a very clever if undeserving owner. My hosts were contrite. They in fact went a step further. They undertook to have all three 'signatories' contacted and their signatures obtained on a replacement copy for me.

This experience led me to recall other books that I have lost and the circumstances of their loss. And I was sobered by their number and by the stories of their disappearance from my life. One was a book I think I did not deserve to own. It was an inscribed book. And the details are as follows.

My father had met and got to know George Bernard Shaw. I cannot say they were friends, but they knew one another well enough to exchange letters, books. Shortly after the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi, my father sent to Shaw, who admired Gandhi greatly albeit in his own very Shavian manner, a photograph of Gandhi. Shaw acknowledged the gift by a return gift of his own - a copy of his memoir, Sixteen Self Sketches. The slim red volume was made immeasurably more precious by an inscription, which I recall from memory. It said, "To Devadas Ghandi (sic) - from Mahatma Minor G. Bernard Shaw on his receiving a delightful photograph of Mahatma Major." Typical Shaw. And under his signature, Shaw gave his home address which is famous - Ayot St Lawrence. I am afraid I cannot remember the date. The book lay about rather casually in our house until long after my father had died, and Shaw had stepped into history. I showed it to interested visitors but took no more than cursory care of it. And one day from the small shelf in our living room where it used to reside, or one of the tables around it, the book vanished. The inscription robbed us of its ownership. I hope the possessor of the volume is reading this and returns it to me, anonymously.

That much about books I have lost. Now, for two books that were or have been with me though they rightfully belonged elsewhere. The first is an ageing copy of Tagore's The Post Office, first edition, published in 1914 by Macmillan & Co., London. And it has an inscription that I cannot look at without my eyes welling up and my hands going into a slight tremble. The inscription says in deep blue ink, simply, "To Mohan, from Charlie, March 10, 1917," Mohan being Mohandas Gandhi and Charlie, Charles Freer Andrews. He was, incidentally, the only person outside Mohandas's childhood's family to call him by that name. The inscribed page also has a handwritten line in beautiful Devanagari: satyagrahashrampustakalaya. No spaces between the three-word compound, meaning 'library of the satyagraha ashram'. The ashram was set up that very year, 1917, in, 'Sabarmati'. The gift of the book, the founding of the ashram, are both a hundred years old this year, 2017. I have no idea when and how it came into our possession, but there it is. For at least 75 out of its 100 years, it has been in our home's many peripatetic bookshelves and it is now time for it to go back to where it belongs.

Another book, not ours, had also long homed in that shelf. It bore no inscription, but a name, written in a simple, very legible hand: Jayaprakash Narayan. The Lok Nayak's signature was unmistakable. It was as signatures used to be in olden times, the person's name written legibly, in full, not some hurried squiggle. In early 1973, JP came home, in Chennai, to call on my mother to condole the death on December 25, 1972, of her father, Chakravarti Rajagopalachari. Before JP's arrival, I asked her if it would not be right and proper for us to return the book that bore his name in his own handwriting, to JP. She said yes, we must do that. As JP stood up to leave, I showed the book to him and said, "You must have wondered where it had gone." He saw the book, his name, and was quiet for a moment and then said, "I have no memory of this book, really, or of when I gave it away. But it is unusual to get a lent book back and so, yes, thank you, I will, happily take it." I cannot remember the title of the book or its author but have a dim recollection that it was a book of essays by Alva and Gunnar Myrdal.

I will end with a non-book loss.

During Kasturba's last days in the Aga Khan Palace prison, Poona, she had as a 'companion', an ivory carving, no bigger than a small postage stamp, of Krishna asleep on a lotus leaf. This was kept by her near her bedside. Madeleine Slade or Mira Behn as she is better known, says in her memoir, The Spirit's Pilgrimage, that Ba used to look long and lovingly at it. After her death, the image was with my parents and my mother used to bring it out every year during Navaratri when, in Tamil custom, images of deities and 'family dolls' are arranged in rows or steps called the bommai-kolu. The image, 'sleeping' in a jewel box, used to be the centre of all attention and discussion at these kolus. One year when the number of Navaratri visitors, invited and uninvited, was particularly great, my mother returned to the 'stall' after seeing her last visitor off, to find the little box empty. Krishna had vanished. Over these many years, the little thing has perhaps changed many hands in the ivory trinkets market. Or - has been kept by its possessor to exult in its historical value, silently and guiltily.

"He has been released from his Aga Khan Palace Prison" is all that my mother said when she overcame her initial shock. Resignation came easily to that generation.

Author : GOPALKRISHNA GANDHI