Thamel is in full voice. The streets shout, scooters argue, cables sag and tangle themselves into incomprehensible knots. When the city swells to that pitch, I seek refuge. I look for bookshops the way others look for chai. A quiet banner interrupts the commotion: Pilgrims Book Shop. A fitting name for one who feels like a pilgrim in a marketplace that needs rescuing. I slip through its slightly retired doors into a dim lit, carpeted room perfumed with paper and sandalwood. Maps lean against walls, posters compete for attention, postcards that still believe in handwriting, an array of handcrafted souvenirs, scented soaps, incense holders, stationery, hand-painted wrapping paper and tote bags. For a moment I wonder where the books are being hidden. A friendly smile directs me up a flight of wooden stairs. There I find an elderly and intent man, Mr Hari, perched before a screen, small citadels of books rising at his desk. He is so absorbed that I hesitate to disturb him. Beyond him, the space opens up into rows of books shelved by genre, patient and composed. Pilgrims is old, established, faithful. Like a quiet companion, it has served us well with books since we lost all of ours in 2020. I finally catch Mr Hari’s attention. A few words are exchanged. He accepts my copies of Unearthed with gentle practicality. Relief arrives softly. I walk out lighter, happy that the book has found a resting place in Kathmandu. I wander back into Thamel’s labyrinth. The narrow streets lead me around in circles, in semi-circles, into alleyways that funnel scooters and motorbikes and cars all wanting a piece of the road. Coming full circle at the junction I come across another little bookshop, Nepal’s Book Depot, better known as Biblionepal on the online scene. We’ve ordered from them many times but curiosity pulls me inside. The front room is tidy and cosy with travel books and mountain maps and bestsellers lining the walls. There is just enough space to browse, to move, to sit on a step, to huddle around a corner with a volume half open, to turn the shoulders around to get to the rear of the shop. I pass through the threshold and stop short. I gasp. Books ascended from floor to ceiling. Shelves overflow and then seem to vanish entirely, replaced by uneven towers of books sprouting from the floor and running parallel to where shelves ought to be. It’s as if gravity has surrendered. Then I spot them. The unmistakable spines of the Penguin classics, a black galaxy spiralling upwards like a nine-foot literary totem. Nearby, Everyman’s Library. Crimson Vintage Modern classics. The books are snuggled tightly like slices of a multi-tiered cake rising towards the ceiling. Layer upon layer of the human experience compressed in ink and paper. I cannot see who’s pressed up there kissing the paintwork nor do I know where to look first. The sight is wild. Exhilarating. Expansive in that way where one feels space is not built of bricks or stone, but of time accumulated. I find myself thinking how this little Kathmandu bookshop tucked into a narrow street is better stocked with serious literature than any bookshop I’ve known in Kuala Lumpur. There must be readers here who defy doomscrolling. And the most wonderful thought follows. That Unearthed might belong among the authors who shaped me as a reader and writer. In a world that rarely pauses, these bookshops stand like small acts of resistance that still believe in staying. The next day, I returned with Little A and a small stack of Unearthed, freshly printed in Varanasi and carried in by Ram, still holding the quiet smell of new paper. Little A’s eyes widened instantly, “Whoa, can you imagine sleeping here!” I grin. We stand reading, fingers turn pages into new worlds, then old ones, familiar spines and long-promised titles from decades-old to-read lists. Time pauses in there, then slips away unnoticed. We look up and realise it has run ahead of us. Back on the streets, books packed carefully, we catch the night bus back to Pokhara. Unearthed has finally found its way onto Nepal’s shelves. And Little A leaves with a few worlds tucked under his arm.
Now available at Pilgrims Book Shop and Nepal’s Book Depot (Biblionepal), Kathmandu.
