After work today, with time pooling in empty minutes around me, I went off alone to a largish bookshop near my office. I'd heard about the store several times, but never gone. Now, an hour before closing time, I went in.

I didn't find a book. But I found stories.

Thread.

With no agenda and no list of names in hand, I wandered. Apart from me, there were about six other people in the store—dwarfed by the large shelves, all shuffling sideways with their necks comically tilted.

I love how no body cares about double chins in book stores.

1.

As I walked across the many shelves of Indian fiction, the idle banter of a boy and girl—on a 'romantic excursion', I surmised—filtered towards me through the many tomes that separated them and me.

I will not eavesdrop, I promised myself. Will just find book, and go. Yes.

2.

Eavesdropping while I thumbed through a Bengali translation, I discovered a challenge had been given. The boy—who had a rawish, deep voice—had been tasked with finding the girl a novel she should read and he flitting from shelf to shelf was throwing names & begging for clues.

3.

Was he the better read one, I wondered and eventually discovered—no.

The plot here was more nuanced. The book that would be recommended by him for the girl, would be a litmus test of sorts, I realised. An epilogue to whether they could have more chapters together.

4.

"Jeffrey Archer?" our hero asked. Giggling, our Countess of Books said, "Oh when I was younger."

"So you read TS Eliot then?" He asked next & I wondered what had prompted that level of escalation!

"Oho! Next" came our answer.

[Even Google listens, a part of me told myself]

5.

Presently our lady was saying, "...he was my father's favourite author."

"Oh, W Somerset Maugham is the name of his favourite book?"

"No, Author! My father's favourite author," came back the answer.

"Yes. Ofcourse. I know, I know," replied our hero.

Plot point, I thought.

6.

Chuckling, I continued my walk down Bestselling Authors, making mental notes.

Well-read girl with well read parents. Boy, trying hard to impress, a little unsure of it all. (Creep listens in)

Stop, I warned myself. But now, at this point I was too invested to let go.

7.

"Oh well just choose a book," she was saying.

And he, nonchalantly, said, "I already have something. Just wanted to see what you would like."

~Plot point 2!~

"Oh what? You do?" She asked. "You've bought something already?"

"No.. But I have something in mind."

Aha! Climax

8

"What!" exclaimed our girl, and our boy, I assume, produced something that made her squeal and giggle and say, "Oh you idiot. How mean! I wouldn't read that!"

Ah, humour, I laughed to myself while crossing a Cyrus Broacha. Felling women since the beginning of time...

9.

[To be continued. But my train has reached the station. Getting home and finishing this]

Them and I walked different paths after this, and it was after I'd found two books I quite liked and thumbed through an author's note that they wandered into my path again.

It was one of those scenes peculiar to a book store.

10.

Where you stand in front of a display, reading the titles while mentally calculating how much time it may take a fellow peruser to reach your display. When they get close enough, they may be kind & skip your shelf, or you may generously move behind allowing them access.

11.

It is all in the mind, and all unsaid. And often done without exchanging a glance—but it is the currency we readers deal in: consideration for our tribe, a quiet understanding that we are all here, together, in pursuit of a good night's reading.

12.

However, as hero game closer to me, heroine looking through titles, he caught my eye. I'd been thumbing through a slim book "Best love letters from literature", reading how the Browning-s went from formal to romantic over letters—and it struck me.

13.

I placed the book back, tapped on it, and smiled at him. Then, left, walking on over to the other side, wondering if my silent message had been received.

For the next 20 minutes I was mostly undisturbed, undistracted—browsing through books and not people.

14.

Only fleetingly did I pause in my hunt for good non-fiction to wonder about a woman by the food books section—black dress, curly hair, darkly painted lips and, strangely—walking shoes. I didn't have time to ponder much, though, for it was closing time, we were told.

15.

I kept down the Rs 700 non-fic book that I told myself I couldn't possibly afford right now, and on my way out—heard two familiar voices.

"No, it's a gift fro me!" he was saying.

"Well thanks," she said, sounding positively happy.

16.

I turned, saw a familiar book disappearing into a cloth bag, smiled to myself and left silently.

In the auto to the station I wondered about how words from dead letters of dead lovers would ignite yet another story. Another story, that had perhaps begun in a bookstore.

Hope.

No, world, I did not find a book tonight (and the unread times by my bedside are celebrating).

I did not find a book, but, yes, I found a story. Whatever conspired to make this happen, this strange bookmark in my listless evening—thank you.