Love, tragedy, comedy — for sale at Chandigarh’s old books market

The first thing that hit me wasn’t the smell of books, but of the wet tarpaulin. It was the early 90s and I was at the old Sector 15 book market near the varsity gate on a monsoon evening. Shakespeare laid gasping on the pavement, with Archie comics giving him company. Love, tragedy, comedy — all were lined up for sale at half price.

Old novels, guides that had betrayed their students, a “Quantum CAT” textbook still promising an IIM seat, and, of course, Archie, with Betty, Veronica, Jughead and eternal reruns of teenage chaos.

“Sir, yeh wala lo,” the bookseller nudged forward a worn paperback. “Special copy. Inside, there is love.”

I opened it. On the first page was inscribed: “To Neha, with all my love. May this story always remind you of us.”

“Us?” I muttered. Clearly, Neha had sent “us” packing.

The bookseller grinned, “Sir, love also comes here. First-hand, second-hand, sab milta hai. No warranty.”

I laughed. “So if I buy this, Neha comes free?”

He shook his head. “Only autograph is free, sir. Side effects extra.”

We chuckled as a boy nearby slipped a Mills & Boon inside an economics guide. Curriculum upgrade. Supply and demand — of hormones.

“Funny,” I said, turning the damp pages. “People spend lakhs on weddings, but discard love like a book out of syllabus.”

The bookseller pulled the plastic sheet tighter as the rain quickened. “Arrey sir, love is like the weather — first-hand, it pours like baarish; second-hand, it just seeps through cracks. But somehow, someone always buys.”

And he was right. A moment later, a boy picked up the ‘Neha’ novel. Someone had sold out love; while someone else was buying it again.

I walked away with Archie under my arm, rain dripping on his comic smile. Second-hand love, recycled endlessly. Maybe love never ends — it just changes readers. No refunds. No exchanges. Just another story, waiting for another heart.

It’s strange to think that the market itself is gone now, shifted into neat booths selling old books; the chaos, the smell of wet tarpaulin, the thrill of pawing through books on the pavement — everything has drifted into memory.

And yet, here I am, writing Chandigarh my own letter, inked in laughter, rain, and second-hand love, with a mischievous postscript that reads: “Yours, Sector 15.”

Saurabh Malik, Chandigarh