... tidings follow. So if you're feeling cheery, come back later after you read the rest of the newspaper.
Lately, I've stopped defending Bangalore and it's delights to people who walk around cribbing about it. I've stopped myself from reminding them that no one forces them to come here from cities with better nightlife and infrastructure and shopping and whatchahaveit such as Bombay and Delhi. Everyone's entitled to their opinion, and this is a free land. This is my home, and I love it here, however deep a mess it is in today.
Among the many quaint charms of Bangalore, the Premier Book Shop stands tall. Tucked away behind the shadow of a large tree near one end of Museum Road, it's been around almost forever. As has Mr. Shanbag, and his cornucopia of books precariously stacked with practiced shelflessness. Through my childhood and the ensuing ages, I've enjoyed it with almost shameless abandon, scrounging together the money and rarely won KQA gift coupons to buy a book. I've laughed at the absurd titles and blurbs, cried at the higher price tags, and marveled at such feats of balancing books as would shame even the lovechild of Enron and Worldcom.
To cut it short, it's one of THE THINGS in my version of Bangalore.
I'm sorry to bring news of it's impending closure. The story I gathered over the last few days is sad, though common, in this philistine age. Owner of the premises passes on. His daughter has ideas for the prime spot. Mr Shanbag has to leave.
The optimist in me is desperately hoping he finds another location for it. The fatalist in me is digging up all the old coupons to accompany me on my final pilgrimages over the next few weeks.
The END, indeed, is nigh.