If you’ve read any of the previous pieces and are wondering if I’ve abandoned the First Impressions approach entirely, well, I don’t quite know either. Bear with me?

Goobe’s and I met entirely by accident.

It was a pleasant evening. I was walking down Church Street amidst the bustling crowds that gather every weekend, earphones in, volume high enough to subdue the incessant din. There I was, running a good pretence of a well-adjusted person out and about, when a sharp pain in my foot jolted me back to reality. Looking around rather angrily, I found the culprit to be a small signboard placed on the footpath, next to a set of stairs that led to a basement. The sign read Goobe’s, the O’s drawn into an owl, written in chalk. Underneath, a buy one get one offer on pre-loved books.

Near the entrance, a large black and white artwork of a vast library, with owls at the base of shelves, engrossed in their books. A good thing to walk past on your way in.

Naturally, I hobbled downstairs, pain and anger subdued.

The space was a basement, lit warmly, with lime green walls and industrial metal shelves running floor to ceiling. Used books and new books in roughly equal measure, all organised by genre. Posters, stickers, photographs covering whatever wall the shelves had left free. Goobe means “owl” in Kannada by the way. Something I only discovered when writing this piece. Maybe I’m not as inherently curious as I’d like to be.

The used books section was the best I’ve come across. Not for volume but for what’s actually in it. This is not the usual second hand shelf of the same ten authors you find everywhere. It goes deeper and stranger, surprising on every visit. It’s like a love affair where you keep finding new things no matter how well you know each other, keeps you hooked.

My favourite find there was an old copy of Salesman in Beijing - Arthur Miller’s diary of the months he spent helping stage Death of a Salesman in China — a quintessentially American play performed for an audience with a completely different cultural landscape, still finding its footing after Mao. The book has been out of print for years and I haven’t found it anywhere since. I had also bought my copy of Death of a Salesman there, on an earlier visit. Destiny, in a way.

Goobe’s also offered a twenty percent discount on new books and would order anything they didn’t stock. It was one of the few places where reading remained accessible in the physical form, irrespective of your preferences or class.

I bought books from Goobe’s the way people buy groceries. As a necessity and usually without ceremony. Most of what I read during those eight months in Bangalore came from there.

In my mind, there are two kinds of relationships. First, the kind you want to keep secret, afraid that letting them into the world would make them lose their magic. And second, the kind you want to stand on a rooftop and announce to anyone who’ll listen. Ours was the second kind. I took every single friend who came to Bangalore to Goobe’s, sometimes before anywhere else. It is, in my very objective opinion, the first place anyone in Bangalore ought to visit.

On my last visit before I left the city, I finally asked Ravi, who owns the store, for a recommendation. He suggested The Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson. Climate fiction, set in a near future where the world is finally being forced to reckon with itself. Meenakshi was working that day too. She suggested something else entirely, something I’d never have picked up on my own - The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne. A classic of absurdism, she said, with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you want to read something immediately.

There is this one evening that I think about more than any of the other visits. There was a panel discussion of comic book and graphic novel writers at the store. The shelves had been moved towards the walls to make space and coffee table books were stacked on the floor as makeshift seating. There were four speakers and about a dozen or so of us in the audience. I sat and listened for an hour and a half. The writers spoke about their lives, their work, what it takes to keep making things.

What stayed with me most was the difficulty of the path they had chosen. All of them had walked away from things society considers quintessential — corporate jobs, fancy degrees, even relationships. It looked like it had been worth it.

I had quit my job that morning, and was looking ahead at an indefinite stretch of unemployment. And yet, it was the first evening in months that the voices in my head had gone quiet. I have rarely believed in fate, but I needed to be there that day.

I left Bangalore without saying a proper goodbye. I’d told myself I’d go one last time, and then didn’t. I’ve never been good with farewells.

Goobe’s is still there on Church Street, in its basement, behind its chalkboard sign. If you’re ever in Bangalore, please go down the stairs. Tell them I said Hello.

The two visits were almost exactly a year apart, as I was in Goa for the Serendipity Arts Festival on both occasions. I was staying at a friend’s place in Panjim, and he drove us all the way to Madgaon just so I could scratch the vacation bookstore itch. What did I ever do to deserve such friends, I don’t know.

Madgaon, or Margao, is a fairly suburban city, one of the few places in Goa that doesn’t feel touristy at the outset. Maybe that means Dogears gets a better fare of regular locals than passing tourists.

The shop has an “oh that’s so pretty” kind of presence on the street, without being an obvious stand-out. They had Christmas decorations up when we were there, with a naughty or nice signboard out front. You’re supposed to leave your shoes outside, like when you enter someone’s home or a place of worship. Certainly makes you more mindful of the place, and well, keeps the dirt out, which was probably the point.

I recognised the lady at the counter from the store’s Instagram. This tells you two things – one, they make rather fun reels, and two, I need to get off my phone more. We said hello to her, and promptly got to browsing.

The store was chock-full of books, but elegantly. Nothing was overflowing per se, and yet there were books in every direction. It seemed like every little bit of space had been cleverly devised into a shelf - walls, tables, portions of the floor, windowsill, even stairs. I sincerely hope to see some hanging off the ceiling on my next visit.

We decided to go upstairs first and work our way down. The first floor was divided into two sections - children’s books, and a pleasant surprise, used books. This was the first time I’d ever seen used books so well organised. For once I could actually try and find something, instead of throwing out a prayer and hoping for the best. There were “staff picks” here too, two book towers worth of them. They even had books on sale, three books for as little as Rs. 100. They’re certainly doing their part for making books accessible.

The ground floor was new books with some merch and cultural tidbits thrown in between. The sections weren’t your usual “Fiction - Literary” but witty phrases - The Japanese section was titled “From the land of the rising sun”, the sci-fi section was “Your portal to other realms”. The store was full of recommendations in the form of handwritten notes – with their rendition of blurbs. There was a separate shelf called “Pardon my French” - full of English translations of French literature. I know where to get my next Proust if I ever do manage to finish the one I started years ago.

While my friend and I were busy pointing at books we’d read and being rather pleased with ourselves, Leo, who owns the store, walked in lugging a box of books. Being a bookseller must be a back workout in itself. I besieged the poor guy before he had time to catch his breath. I tend to get unduly confident at the most inopportune moments. We introduced ourselves, complimented the store, spoke about the art festival. I requested Goa specific recommendations and he showed me to a full shelf of exactly that. The books he picked out, and I got, were -

• Goa: A Daughter’s Story by Maria Aurora Couto. A history of Goa told through one family’s memory.

• The Bitter-Fruit Tree and Other Stories by Prakash Parienkar - A collection of short stories rooted in Goa, translated from Konkani

• The Brave New World of Goan Writing and Art 2025 — a collection of stories, poems and essays from Goan writers, edited by Selma Carvalho. It’s published by CinnamonTeal, a publishing house run by none other than the wonderful people of Dogears. Can I now brag I’ve met publishers? I know, I’m rather fun at parties.

Leo, we soon learned, doesn’t just run a bookstore and a publishing house, but is also part of Independent Bookshops Association of India, which is, well, what the name suggests. I suspect Hermione may not be the only one with a time-turner. He also mentioned a list of independent bookshops in India, that he and a blogger named Zigzackly had put together – Link

While we were getting our books stamped and pocketing the complimentary store bookmarks, we had a look at the merch and other items in the front half of the store. My friend got a wonderful map of the festivals of Goa. I, on the other hand, found an amazing tote bag featuring Mr. Proust himself.

This photo was taken the next day at Larder & Folk, Panjim, which is only the best café in all of Goa.

On the drive back, I was going through zigzackly’s list on my phone. Barely a hundred stores, in a country of a billion people. It is as unsettling today as it was then.

I’d gone to Kochi for the Biennale, sometime in Jan. I’d hardly ventured out of Old Kochi, preferring to explore the city on my feet. I remember being extremely tired the day I went to Printed Matter. I’d spent the whole day wandering around Jew town and had the bright idea of walking all the way back, because who needs functioning legs anyway. I only had a rough idea of where the shop was and was worried I’d miss it, but I shouldn’t have been. There’s no way you can simply walk past a storefront this pretty.

It was only while looking at the sign that I realized that “Printed Matter” isn’t your typical name for a bookshop. Most tend to be rather direct, with the word “book” stuck in somewhere. After spending an inordinate amount of time gazing at the beautiful façade of the place, I walked in. Said hello to the lady at the counter, kept my bag down on the nearest stool I could find.

The store felt new. Everything was bright and colorful, like it had not yet experienced the dampening effect of time. What struck me most was the atmosphere. It wasn’t the hush-hush seriousness of a sanctum of book worship, but a place built for conversation, for interactions. The place puts you at ease in a way few others do.

The side walls were lined with wooden shelves, full of books and other tidbits, the back had a coffee bar set-up, with two stools in front of it, sort of like bar-seating in a pub. There were a few scattered benches and stools, with sufficient room to navigate between the shelves. There was an old stereo playing cassettes, placed right above the Favorites section.

One glance at the books would tell you that everything was a product of considered curation. There was very little of the airport collections, which is always a good sign. There were these witty handwritten notes everywhere, sometimes elaborating on the sections, sometimes just quotes that make you pause and smile. My favorite of those texts? – “Picture books for lost adults”.

It took me a while, but I worked up the courage to ask for recommendations. Gouri, who runs the store, asked if I had any genre preferences, as any reasonable person would. However, me being my annoying self, asked her to recommend anything that she’d read and liked. It’s worked amazingly well for me so far. The books she recommended (and I got) were –

· Maria, Just maria – an English translation of a Malyalam book by Sandhya Mary, about a rather special woman reminiscing her life in Kerala

· They gather around me, the animals – a book of poetry by Kunjana Parashar. I was lucky enough to get a signed copy

· The Songs of our people – A photobook of sorts by Anurag Banerjee, documenting the stories of Meghalaya’s music scene

She had much better taste in books than yours truly, as might be obvious by now. I sat on one of the bar stools to have my coffee and talked the poor woman’s ear off - about the store, how it came to be, the experience of opening up a bookshop. She was far too gracious about it. None of that is quoted here because a. I don’t quote people without permission, sans dead authors & b. I don’t have a very good memory.

Before leaving I asked if I could take a few photographs, those are the ones you see here. If they seem like a monkey with a camera took them, please note I already know. They had a store stamp, so obviously all my books bear one. The stamp is the same barcode you see on the storefront, blue, with Printed Matter underneath. Scanning it doesn’t lead anywhere, a friend had me try.

While walking out that I realized I’d never even introduced myself. Basic manners, completely absent. Went back in, shook hands like a five year old, and headed out again. Only then did I notice it was also closing time.

I’d walked in when it was still light. I left in the dark, with my bag a little heavier, my heart a little lighter.

This is about the people that love books. And bookshops.

It’s divided into three sections.

First Impressions — I’ve been lucky enough to travel quite a bit over the past few years and visit a fair few bookshops. India has a severe dearth of those, as I’m sure you know. I’ll share what I saw, how I felt, if anything interesting happened, and what books I got there. This is the only section I have material for as of this writing. The ones below are things I hope to write in the near future.

Store Tours — This is where I reach out to the people that run those bookshops and ask them to tell me about their store. How it came about, how it progressed, what they stock and why, their favourite details about daily life there. A lot depends on the kindness of people here.

Conversations with Booksellers — This is the essence of the project. I want to hear the stories of people dedicating their lives to books. Booksellers being my favourite people in the world, but also people who work with and around books, and maybe someday, people who write them.

I fell in love with books when I was five or six. My first bookshop experience was a Scholastic book fair at my school. I grew up in a small town, pre-internet, at least in my neighbourhood, where that fair was the only time all year we’d see books like that. It was surreal. I looked forward to it all year, and I’ve been reading ever since.

I discovered the real thing fairly late in life, but oh, when I did. It was like letting a kid loose in candyland. I just could never get my fill, and bookshops became my haven.

I grew up a bit and got a job in sales that let me traverse at least half of this beautiful country. Wherever I went, I went looking for a bookshop. I’m sure you can guess that most places didn’t have any. Some few did, but they were businesses first, bookshops later. Run by people who saw books as commodities. But I also found the gems. Places run by readers. People who treated their trade as a bookshop first, who understood what a book might mean to the customer walking through their door. These are the people and places I cherish most in the world. And I wish, I sincerely wish, there weren’t so few of them.

I want to tell you about these places and these people. I only hope they’ll let me, and that I’m worthy of telling this tale.