The World Book Fair 2026: In Retrospect

When you forcibly polish a thing or a place, scrubbing it until it gleams, it may shine for a while, but its soul is bruised. The annual event of New Delhi World Book Fair at Bharat Mandapam suffered a similar fate this year. Spread across the five halls of Bharat Mandapam, the fair felt exactly like a sanitised hospital ward – where every theme, every stall, every object, and every dissenting view/perspective or "unfavourable" book had been mechanically X-rayed by a "third eye," and systematically purged.

The moment you stepped in, if you didn’t catch that specific scent of books, everything felt hollow. That aroma of old paper dissolved in the air, the sharp flare of ink mixed with kerosene, the pickle-like tang of starch and flour paste, the scent of damp cloth clinging to thick cardboard bindings – there used to be so much that agitated the nose, eyes, ears, throat and all other senses. Along with it came that restless twitch in the fingers to buy every book, even if one’s shoulders were buckling under the weight. When legs grew weary, navigating the corridors of stalls, sitting on the jute carpet and waiting for the "chai-wallah bhaiya" used to be more agonising than waiting for a lover. 

But he would appear from nowhere with his sweet, black tea, manifesting like Narad ji. But that was once upon a time; those were different days when time stood still, when books didn't teach us to hate, when history wasn't rewritten on a whim, and a book fair offered books, not rosaries or idols.

At the World Book Fair at Bharat Mandapam, New Delhi. Photo: Rajinder Arora

Entering the hall, visitors were confronted by soldiers in dark glasses and uniforms, clutching rifles, while a military contingent carrying the tricolour marched forward in a victory cry. This wasn't the Delhi Police; it was the army, standing guard over "security". For a second, a doubt crept in: was this a book fair or a defence expo? Walk a bit further and an entire wall meticulously detailed "Operation Sindoor." A bit more, and you were surrounded by the hardware of the three military commands. 

Armoured vehicles, the Arjun Main Battle Tank, warships, and fighter jets – all were stationed in a grand courtyard, their walls lined with portraits of martyrs, displayed with heavy solemnity. There was also a statue of a troop capturing a peak and hoisting the flag, featuring a Sikh soldier. Standing before that frozen curated sculptural display were real, breathing soldiers from the BSF and the Gorkha Regiment.

Once and only if your eyes retreated from such display, perhaps one may have found a book. From behind wooden partitions, the scent of "Coffee Day" style Americanos or Cappuccinos beckoned, and you walked toward them half-heartedly because there was no tea to be found. You had to shell out two hundred rupees – the money you’d saved to buy a book of Basho’s Haikus. Mentally, you were counting the change left in your pocket. A dear friend told me how, year after year, he used to collect Rs 20,000 to take home stacks of books. I looked up at the sky, but seeing the grimy black ceiling of the hall, I was convinced that even if god exists, god wouldn't hear me beyond that roof, and I would never have Rs 20,000 for books. 

The author at the World Book Fair. Photo: Rajinder Arora

Though I can buy many books of my choice now, I never forgot the days when the fair lasted 15 days, and we would spend all 15 sitting before stalls, gazing at books with a heavy heart, returning home with nothing but price lists.

This year, the fair and its surroundings were cleaner than ever. Clean toilets. Clean lawns. So much had been "cleaned out"; readers – cleaned out; children – cleaned out. Money from the pockets of the youth – cleaned out. The 50% discount that publishers offered – cleaned out. Queues of school children – cleaned out. Cheap food and tea stalls – cleaned out. Renowned international publishers – cleaned out. How much more "sanitisation" could one have asked for?

So, what if people couldn’t buy books? You could feel happy watching youngsters making reels in front of the many "selfie points" created by fair officials. There were tricolours fluttering, a nationalistic zeal in the air, Vande Mataram playing on the public address system, and massive portraits of the prime minister giving messages about virtues of education and patriotism. Sadly, one could also see many authors waiting to be interviewed, hoping a reader might come by for an autograph or a selfie.

It felt good to see the growing dominance of the Hindi language. I wish that in such a grand space, one could have also seen Urdu and Punjabi. Publishers of those languages should have participated in larger numbers. The government and the National Book should have supported them in participation. I believe reading is as essential as a good diet and good health. Like every other year, I got exhausted wandering the fair, but before collapsing I found my "special" stall.

This was the stop in the fair where the heart just wanted to drop anchor. A place where, along with brilliant books, one met the people who crafted such beautiful dreams. When it comes to books, ‘Dil toh bachcha hai ji’ (the heart is but a child). In childhood, I was in love with those brilliant, colourful, large format, hardback, whimsical Russian books; as I grew older, those Russian books vanished, and their place was taken by the books produced by Ektara. 

The Ektara stall and their books washed away all fatigue – these are a tonic for the soul. To me, the books there were so delicious I could have literally eaten them. I sat there cross-legged on the floor, and seeing my bedraggled state, a friend eventually brought tea. One by one, I devoured all the new books right there and filled my bag. I did the same this time. I found a book that made the regret of that Rs 200 coffee evaporate soon. I didn't find Basho’s Haikus, but I found a book of Hindi Haikus titled “Arey!”. 

Himanshu Vyas's 'Arey!' and other books. Photo: Rajinder Arora

Sitting there among his favourite readers was Himanshu Vyas, the wonderful author of “Arey!”. What a radiant smile he had, what love in his eyes, and what sweetness in his voice. I asked him to write something on my copy of his book. And guess what, I received a Haiku, a freshly coined – just my Haiku, which no other reader in the world has, for it now binds our names together. Salaam, Himanshu ji, and thank you. I made one mistake – I didn't take a photo with him. The aura of a great writer was so luminous it made me forget the mundane.

People call Ektara books and the magazines, Cycle and Pluto, "children’s literature". That is a total lie; it is injustice to adults; a cruelty committed against our spirit. If you want to keep childhood alive within you and your heart, you must buy and read every Ektara book. These books aren’t about "knowledge," or the spirit of reading my friend; they are about waking that human within, seeing the goodness, awakening the love, the brotherhood, the secular bond that overflows from Ektara’s pages.

In this year’s book fair, there was also a lovely corner where you could send letters to your loved ones. Shiraz Hussain of the Khwab Tanha Collective had taken up this responsibility. Shiraz had not only installed a handmade letterbox; he gave out beautiful colour postcards and postage stamps for free. In Hall 2, at the Rajkamal Prakashan stall, you could find a smiling Shiraz, a profound artist and calligrapher. You could see the calendars, posters and bookmarks designed and printed by him. 

The author with Shiraz Hussain at the World Book Fair. Photo: Rajinder Arora

We have very few such souls left in the world. People hurried to meet him and write letters to their families or their beloved. It was a beautiful sight. Zindabad, Shiraz Hussain.

However sad some aspects of it may have been, the book fair was still good – a million times better than wandering through a mall. The 10 days of the fair duration I can renounce everything else and just wander here 24 hours a day. Many friends came visiting the fair from other cities which gave me an excuse to keep going back until the very last day. See you again next year.

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