I had the good fortune of experiencing the amazing New Delhi Book Fair this year, and the reason couldn’t have been more perfect. The Convent had found its place on one of the shelves there, and it was the perfect pretext to visit something I had only imagined would be this good. I wasn’t disappointed.

The massive scale on which a book fair is conducted in the capital city just blew me away. It wasn’t just your average town book fair. Worlds collided here. Not only was there a large local crowd, but people thronged in huge numbers from different parts of the country. Foreigners were easily distinguishable as well. It was a phenomenal event, with the involvement of the Indian Government too. People showcased their stalls as if their lives depended on it. So many publishers, ones I didn’t even know existed, had set up shops. Cultural activities went on in auditoriums, and there were plenty of food stalls. The Army had set up a little camp; there were tons of security, and big names were summoned as speakers. Debates and whatnot! I was overwhelmed on Day 1.

As much as I wanted to scale the entire place, which was quite difficult, given how huge Bharat Mandappam is, my job there was confined to giving some interviews and ensuring my book was picked up by people brushing through the shelves.

While I was pitching my book to these absolute strangers, I encountered a lot of different personalities. Most of them were very decent; many listened to me intently and congratulated me on my success. Some were as excited as I was, sharing thoughts about my book. Many bought it for the mere fact that the author was interacting with them, urging them to read his work. But then there were some who rejected any advances, assuming it to be small talk by a shopkeeper’s sales guy trying to sell them just any book, which disappointed me a little.

At one point, I felt that interacting wasn’t actually that tough. Once my mind settled on what I needed to tell them, words found me easily. Some were impressed by my fluency and bought the book simply because they had met an author recommending it. I would like to believe, to some extent, that some were charmed, some saw how genuine I was while talking about it, and maybe, in all those countless stalls where it was easy to get lost, nobody spoke to them the way I did. Maybe there was some intimacy hidden in my words, my half-smile enough to convince them that they wouldn’t be disappointed by my ingenuity. I saw some genuinely sharing my thoughts and smile, some interacting with me, sharing their journeys or piecing together a commonality we shared by mere accident. Some had questions, while some felt like they found the answers and left satisfied.

I wanted to talk more to these people, to round all these strangers up over a cup of coffee, a bonfire, and some soothing music, just to hear their stories, because I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t know if they had bad days too, if someone important had left them, if they were struggling with something, if they were constantly battling evil like me, or even if everything was just fine. I wanted to listen to them as well.

All these absolute strangers who carried their stories in their hearts couldn’t say much in those fleeting seconds, but I noticed the desperation in their words, the twinkle in their eyes, people who were equally excited to meet this author, trying to share his enthusiasm for writing a book. What great fun it is to write these extraordinary stories and find a reader willing to hear them out!

What a phenomenal experience! My heart is full of gratitude for all those who decided to stop and pay heed, even to those who just congratulated me, my publication staff, who were helpful, and even the people who rejected me at first, thinking I was just some random staff member trying to sell them something from the stall.

A special shoutout to Monisha Thomas, the author of Unstoppable, whose book I bought right away. Her lovely smile was enough to grab my attention. Even at her age, there was a childlike zeal in her eyes as she shared what she had written, and I couldn’t stop myself from listening to her intently. There was an energy in her that reminded me of my favourite teacher, Kirty Kochar ma’am, a definite crowd-puller through her mere talks. I wanted to talk to her more, but we were both distracted by our potential sales.

Another jovial person I met was Sir Man Mohan Lal, the editor of Aman Ishara, with whom every interaction felt as though I was talking to someone I had known for years. We shared a cup of coffee in the Author’s Lounge after I had spent my money on a cappuccino, only to be informed later that tea and coffee were free for authors.

Then there was Shailika Sinha, author of Between Silence and Song, surrounded by her group of journalist friends, who listened intently to tales of my diseased past. Both of them shared their sympathies genuinely, and it felt good to have a little weight lifted.

Also met Manab Sen, the author of The Eternal Scale, a wonderful, polite soul. We had a quick chat on how difficult it is to get sales without promotions these days.

When I left the place on the first day, I came out refreshed, as if I had found something that had been missing for a long time. I was short of words for the experiences I gathered in those hours. Standing didn’t feel like standing; talking about my creation didn’t feel like work. I could have spent more time with these absolute strangers, talking and sharing things that I rarely share with anyone. Everything felt so good that, if it weren’t for the traffic problems where I was headed, I would have probably stayed till late.

The next day, I revisited the place, and it didn’t feel the same. A little because I was accompanied by some friends, and I had to keep their mindset in mind. Also, I had little to do apart from selling my book. Somewhere, when you know a place, it no longer remains new. A familiar path loses its charm when you already know where it leads. But eventually, when I did leave the Book Fair for good, I carried the entire experience in my heart—the meeting of new people and the yearning to be with them, to talk to these absolute strangers who smiled nevertheless, for being singled out in a crowd for a mere interaction.