He stood at a corner holding a bundle of his published writings. People lazily browsed through some of the pages of his books, gave a nod of appreciation and moved on. For some it was a leisure time at the 19th World Book Fair, a family picnic. For Lakshman Rao, however, few precious hours were lost. Without a trace of exhaustion on his forehead, and an empty cash-box, he left pragati maidan disappointed with the crowd that pretends to read. Murmuring words to himself, he takes out his rickety cycle from the stand, stacks his books on the carrier and begins to paddle away. Humming old Hindi film songs and moving his cycle zigzag in Delhi traffic, he prepares himself for the day ahead.
Browsing through a pile covered under a dusty tarpaulin sheet, Rao grabs a pan, an old wooden stool and a bucket. As he assembles these bits and pieces, a pavement corner outside Hindi Bhawan near I.T.O, suddenly transforms into a tea stall. A huge plastic sheet is spread next to him for his most treasured possession- his books. Neatly covered in cellophane packets, he positions them well, for bystanders to catch notice. Within minutes, there is commotion. Udham Prakash stops his auto right in front of the stall and seeing him Rao hurriedly pours water into the pan. His customers have arrived. Auto drivers, government officials, labourers stand next to him waiting for a hot cup of tea. He mixes tea leaves with boiling milk and adds little more water watching additional customers arrive. “Milk is expensive”, he says.
When I asked him how much milk he bought the first time he opened his stall, with tired eyes Rao said “three litres. Out of which only half litre was used. I drank the rest half. I sat distressed knowing two litres will go waste. Suddenly a man appeared and asked for 50 cups of tea.” His eyes sparkled remembering the incident so vividly, “Oh I knew my business had started.”
The incident happened years ago and since then Lakshman Rao comes to the same spot every single day. “My customers wait for me”, Rao says. I saw that, when a young girl waiting for her tea left because she thought he was taking too long. He tried to stop her but others had to be served too. Looking at me Rao only smiled and offered another matthi, a salted cookie. I obliged and continued to talk. He showed me his recent publication, Ramdas. The first edition of this book was published in 1992. He accumulated money all these years to come out with a thicker issue and an edited version. He takes special care of Ramdas. A real story of a boy from his native village in Amrawati, Maharashtra, who drowned to death created an everlasting impact on Rao. It encouraged him, then a teenager to pen down his thoughts and by the time this book was finished, Rao knew he wanted to become a writer. Take him to a serene lake today, and he can be seen lost in some other world, perhaps recollecting the day he made a wish. Back then he only had a dream.
While one of the customers was busy sipping tea and chatting on phone, Rao took out some papers and began to scribble. I wanted to ask what he was writing. I didn’t. Realising he had taken too much time engrossed in words, he suddenly looked up to check if there was a new customer. He turned to me and inaudibly said it was another manuscript. “I am writing another book, as sales from Ramdas helped me get some money.” Then gently he put back the paper and pen and vigorously pumped the gas stove. More visitors were approaching us. He told me it is a group of theatre enthusiasts from across the road. Clad in kurta and jeans, the boys and girls chatted away sipping hot tea and discussing their rehearsal.
Rao sells each book for Rs. 300, printed clearly on the hard cover of every edition. Perhaps he guessed what I was about to ask and remarked, “Even when I die I will make sure my books are printed in hard cover, because that is what makes a writer’s image”. And what about the price, does he feel price is as important for his image? He shook his head and with a look of immense wisdom replied, “An expensive book does not get me more money. I market my work well. Marketing is the most difficult job in a writer’s life... I am a writer, and without solid support also a publisher, a distributer.”
He was once refused by a renowned publisher who, in Rao’s words ordered him to “Get out”. Surprisingly, he holds no vengeance today. Instead, he feels thankful for no favours were done to him and he learnt his lesson early. Now, Rao pens down literary drafts during nights when the family is asleep in their one room house.
He adores the calm silence after a day on Delhi’s chaotic streets. The books are published when the money is enough, and he distributes them in school and college libraries. His mode of transport is his cycle, at times also a confidante.
Busy multi-tasking to fulfil his dream of working as only a writer, Rao has performed enough struggle. At an age of 54, it seems incredible to watch him exhaust himself ruthlessly to balance family responsibilities and a teenage wish. His dreams refuse to die down and so do his barriers.
Posing for a photograph, Rao sits erect, making sure he looks attentive. I tell him to remain casual, but he reacts strongly saying it will not look nice when printed. After a few exchange of words, there is a sudden change in camaraderie between the photographer and Rao. Aiming at the photographer, Rao looked at me and said, “He is the same man, who clicked my first ever photograph for a national daily... two decades ago, at the same spot. As if two friends catching up after a long time reminiscing of good ol’ days, I was suddenly the odd one out.
Rao, adding to instances which shaped up his life talked about his recent felicitation from the President of India, Pratibha Patil. Some more awards were on the way, to which he very excitedly invited me. “So are you finally getting recognised”, I interrupted while he was narrating his itinerary to me. He was ready with an answer, but a labourer appeared and asked for a cup of tea. I decided to let it be.
The sun was about to set and Rao had done considerable business for the day. He lit an oil lamp and pumped his stove again. Like a silhouette in a dark lazy street, Rao became a figure refusing to pause. Either his hands jostled between the tea pan and cash or his thoughts wandered to a character he was shaping up in his mind. The wind blew and hit our bodies with unkind precision. I tucked my hands inside my black shawl.
With a sheepish look and an awkward voice I asked if he is planning to head home, as the cold was becoming unbearable. He laughed and said, “Well it isn’t raining at least, or I don’t need a shade to hide from the blazing sun.”
I am glad it was dark and the lamp did not register my guilt.
The tarpaulin sheet attached to a banyan tree behind him, gives him respite during summer. The same becomes a tiny shade during monsoon. In winter though, he comes wrapped up in a sweater, creased shirt collars peeping out.
Before a goodbye, I bought the latest edition of Ramdas from him. Like all customers who come and go, I too moved away leaving the silhouette to jostle between two worlds. Browsing through pages of the book, a paragraph from Ramdas read: “Suddenly tears began to flow from his eyes. What was in those tears? A mere history of seven months, those tears had an image of a new era, which broke even before taking shape…. and withered away forever.”
Only… for Lakshman Rao, seven months were really 27 years.
Rao saw me leave and came running to me, calling my name. “I forgot to tell you, I bought a colour T.V. recently!” The happiness of his latest purchase was too obvious in his eyes.
After a moment of broken thoughts Rao continued. “Well I do not watch T.V., I am just happy my kids have one for themselves.”
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