Bouquets and Books

DAUDAYAL MEHRA, MY granduncle, belonged to a Punjabi Khatri business family, which migrated in the nineteenth century from Peshawar to Amritsar via Lahore and then moved to Banaras (now Varanasi). From Banaras, the patriarch of the family, Gorakhnath Khatri, respectfully called ‘Baba’, moved to Calcutta (now Kolkata) along with his two brothers, Durga Prasad Khatri (my grandfather) and Daudayal Mehra. Gorakhnath Khatri worked hard to es­tablish the family hosiery business (as representatives of Anderson Wright & Co.). While Gorakhnath Khatri’s voice boomed inside our household and he decided the affairs of the family, the middle brother, Durga Prasad, was a mild-mannered individual with few ambitions of his own. He retired early from the family business and lived a content life, detached from the daily cares of the family business. Soaking in the sun, yoga and a massage every day would bring him great satisfaction. He ate one meal a day, gorged on all things sweet and loved his 555 cigarettes—a simple life, albeit lived regally. The young­est of the three brothers was D. Mehra, who was fond of my father, N.D. Mehra. My father had just passed his matriculation exam and the lack of zeal that he saw in his own father made him gravitate towards his more enter­prising uncle, D. Mehra. He aimed to make a mark in life.

The New Market area in Calcutta is a municipal mar­ket that defies Rudyard Kipling’s ‘East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet’, for here European architecture fuses effortlessly with the desi landscape. Inaugurated on New Year’s Day in 1874, the Gothic building was designed by Roskell Bayne, an architect who worked for the East India Railway Company. Dot­ted with hundreds of shops and kiosks of various sizes and styles, the market initially catered to the sahibs, alienating the local Bengali and making it an elitist space. When the Union Jack came down from state buildings on 15 August 1947, New Market, owing to its association with the rulers, suffered a nationalist back­lash even though the traders were all Indians! Gradually, these lines blurred and the locals made New Market their own. Boasting of selling everything and anything under the sun, this maze of bustling commercial activity was one of D. Mehra’s beats. One rain-soaked day, when he was selling hosiery, he attracted the attention of a Scottish book sales representative, K. Jackson Mar­shall, who was in New Market selling books. Marshall watched D. Mehra at work and was impressed by this young lad’s sales technique—how he was able to sell ho­siery in an aggressive yet persuasive and courteous way. Marshall walked up to him and posed a question that would change the fortunes of the Mehra clan forever.

‘Would you be interested in selling English books?’ Marshall asked, getting straight to the point. But D. Mehra knew his limitations. He had dropped out of school because the family had been unable to pay for his education. He was a dhoti-kurta-clad hosiery seller who didn’t speak English. Despite his restless energy and determination to experiment, Marshall’s offer seemed like something that would be too much for him to pull off. His market—the bhadralok (gentlefolk) and babus of Calcutta, newly Westernized and English-speaking—tended to look down on other Indians, especially those who weren’t fluent in English. D. Mehra was aware of the challenge of being taken seriously as a seller of English books. But Marshall was a shrewd judge of people and wasn’t about to give up so easily. He continued to badger D. Mehra to try his hand at selling books. The latter continued to refuse. After days of persuasion, the young hosiery seller relented. Marshall was overjoyed. ‘Come and visit me at the Grand Hotel tomorrow,’ Marshall said.

A decade before Independence, the Grand Hotel was a glittering symbol of colonial supremacy. D. Mehra knew beforehand that he would be denied entry to the hotel if he turned up dressed in his dhoti. Nevertheless, he showed up for his appointment as scheduled. As he’d expected, at the entrance of the lavish hotel, the Indian doorman refused to let this fellow Indian enter. Undeterred, D. Mehra began remonstrating with the man, saying he was expected by one of the guests at the hotel. Hearing the commotion in the hotel lobby and seeing that his potential recruit was at the centre of it, Marshall came hurrying down and apologized to D. Mehra for the hostile reception. They went on to discuss the terms of the business, and the young, would-be entrepreneur agreed to try his hand at selling English books.

To his surprise, D. Mehra found that his family was support­ive of his decision to sell books rather than hosiery. His eldest brother gave him the go-ahead and his mother gave him an un­orthodox piece of advice to succeed. She told the budding young bookseller that if his first customer was a Muslim, his business was bound to succeed. This could be dismissed as superstition, but, to me, it is representative of a time pre-Partition, when the two communities, Hindus and Muslims, lived in amity and their trade, profits and losses were dependent on each other.

On 17 August 1936, K. Marshall gave D. Mehra three books to sell—The Collins English Gem Dictionary, Chambers Dictionary and Pears Encyclopedia—it was a momentous day. He would need to pay for them the following day. His business turf would now be the bustling book market of College Street where his sales­manship would be tested. Humbly, he placed an old bedsheet on the pavement opposite Presidency College, just under the staircase of 18-B Shyama Charan De Street, and displayed his books. He did not have the money to even pay for a rudimentary stall to stock his books, nothing to protect his wares or himself from inclement weather. The only thing that kept him going was a steely desire to succeed in this venture. Soon enough, a dapper, pipe-smoking gentleman, who was passing by, stopped and picked up The Collins English Gem Dictionary. He was not car­rying money and offered to pay by cheque. D. Mehra could not trust this monetary instrument called a cheque, which he knew nothing about. So, he asked to be paid in cash, much to the amusement of the pipe-smoking gentleman.

‘Okay, I will bring you the money and take the book. But don’t sell it to anyone until I return,’ the man told the young bookseller. Later that afternoon, the customer returned with cash and bought the book. He introduced himself as Professor Huma­yun Kabir, who went on to become the minister of education in the government of Jawaharlal Nehru and whose nephew, Altamas Kabir, became the Chief Justice of India. D. Mehra’s mother’s prophecy that he would find success if his first customer was a Muslim came true. Rupa’s first customer in 1936 continued his association with the publishing house till his death in 1969. Once the young salesman sold his first book, there was no looking back. He would soon establish and christen his new company Rupa.

1. Mehra was an avid Calcutta theatregoer and a fan of Sisir Kumar Bhaduri, known as the father of modern Bengali theatre. One day, D. Mehra was watching a play in which there were two characters named Sona (which means gold) and Rupa (which means silver). He was so taken with this play that he decided to name his company after one of the characters. He opted for the humble Rupa, over her glittering cousin Sona. This was entirely in keeping with his character. My earliest memory of watching a play is at the Empire Theatre, a relic of the British Raj. As a child, I went to watch the towering Prithviraj Kapoor perform the lead role in play called Paisa, which talked about the moral degrada­tion caused by greed for money.

My granduncle was a man of simple taste who led his life according to Gandhian principles. Yet, he had dreams. Within a year, he rented a single room in the same building outside of which he had started selling books. Rupa now had an address: 18-B Shyama Charan De Street. It started with three employees: D. Mehra, my granduncle and the founder, N.D. Mehra, and Jyoti Sengupta, the manager of the company. No salesperson was hired, and all three of them were selling, billing, keeping a check on inventory and managing accounts. As the cash register kept ringing, the team needed a full-time accoun­tant. In walked Bhagwati Das Khatri, who was called BDK. He worked from two in the afternoon till dusk.

War clouds were hovering over the world once again and by 1939 we were forced to leave Calcutta and open an office in Allahabad (now Prayagraj), another educational and intellec­tual hub of that time.

THE FREEDOM MOVEMENT was at its peak through­out the country and Allahabad was at the centre of the nationalist ferment. It was the city of Motilal and Jawaharlal Nehru, of Purushottam Das Tandon and Madan Mohan Malaviya. The fervour of patriotism permeated the city’s ecosystem and it was awash with anti-British sentiment. During this time, D. Mehra offered a service that he was proud of till the very end of his life. He supplied Rupa books to Panditji, as Pandit Nehru was respectfully called, and to other jailed freedom fighters. In one of his letters to his daughter Indira, Nehru wrote, ‘A firm of booksellers in Calcutta—Rupa & Co.—with a branch in Allahabad, have sent me books from time to time. They have been good books as a rule and new English publications.’

One day, D. Mehra was caught while bringing books to the jailed freedom fighters. The local daroga, an Indian, came to our house with an arrest warrant for my granduncle. He was ac­cused of supplying reading materials to freedom fighters in jail, which was deemed an anti-national activity. D. Mehra, while being an absolute patriot was also a sharp businessman who knew exactly how to walk out of danger.

He told the police inspector that the books he supplied came from England. His arrest would mean that the local police considered material published in Britain as anti-national. He cautioned the inspector that any action taken against him would insult the King’s language and the Crown. The hapless daroga now found himself in a quandary; unable to figure out a response that would match the way D. Mehra had turned the tables on him, he had to leave without making an arrest.

Interestingly one of the books, The Wisdom of China and India, by a Chinese scholar Lin Yutang was published in 1942 during the Quit India Movement. Pandit Nehru’s Glimpses of World History, the first non-Eurocentric history of the world was pub­lished for the first time in 1934 by an Allahabad-based publisher, Kitabistan. The book, a collection of 196 letters written between 1930 and 1933, during Pandit Nehru’s incarceration in various jails, was written in an informal manner and was meant as an introduction to world history for his daughter. It was magisterial in its breadth and approach to world history. The New York Times later described it as ‘one of the most remarkable books ever writ­ten’. Allen & Unwin, a British publisher, bought the global rights for this book and later approached Rupa to sell it in the Indian market. The book begins with Pandit Nehru’s first letter to Indira, in which he wrote, ‘On your birthday you have been in the habit of receiving presents and good wishes. Good wishes you will still have in full measure, but what present can I send you from Naini Prison? My presents cannot be very material or solid.’ This lamentation of a father for not being able to send a birthday gift to his daughter was a poignant moment. But Pandit Nehru surely was a gift for us. Rupa sold so many copies of the book that we built our Allahabad house using profits made off it, at a princely sum of a few hundred rupees at that time!

After the end of the Second World War, we returned to Calcutta, to pick up where we had left off. The war clouds had disappeared, leaving behind a battered and bruised world. It was time to heal and reset our lives. The silver lining for us though was that Rupa now had an address in Allahabad too.

We had to look for a new, preferably bigger office in Calcutta while retaining our old office at 18-B Shyama Charan De Street (which was used as a warehouse until the 1990s). We finally settled on 15 Bankim Chandra Street, which housed the Indian Coffee House, easily one of the most bohemian and intellectual addresses of its time. Ideas and ideologies brewed over mul­tiple cups of coffee; poetries and stories were penned here in unmitigated spirits. Two floors above this creative mayhem, the Rupa office was set up, the atmosphere of the place adding to the charm of the books. Business was going steady and soon K. Jackson Marshall came into the picture again. This time, he had six new paperback titles from Penguin, and he gave their Indian distribution rights to Rupa. Paperbacks were rare those days and all the titles were an instant hit. Our accountant BDK was busier than ever!

After setting up shop in Calcutta in 1936 and in Allahabad in 1939, it was time for us to expand further. In 1954, Rupa’s Bombay (now Mumbai) office was inaugurated. Our footprints were now in western India as well. I was six years old then and I remember staying with my parents in a flat in Sion, with one room allotted to us and another to our Bombay manager Mr Bhuvan Bhai Patel, who was also living there with his family. We were there for two months. Since I was not able to attend school, a good Samaritan neighbour, a Gujarati lady and her daughter gave me tuitions during our time there.

By 1960, Rupa became an established name in the game. D. Mehra’s philosophy of keeping consumption to a minimum and living a modest lifestyle became the company’s guiding light. Stationery was strictly rationed and a pen was only replaced when it was no longer worthy of being called one. All employees had to clean the floors and bookshelves, and everyone was expected to be punctual. D. Mehra was a self-taught man. He was a smart negotiator but knew that an early entry in the business had deprived him of the luxury of immersing himself in books. So, he read and read. He read everything, from all the authors that mattered—like John Updike, Thomas Mann, George Bernard Shaw and George Orwell—to dictionaries and encyclopedias. A team player, he had a group of advisers who would assemble in his office in the evening, where new manu­scripts were read out loud and discussed. Debates and dissenting voices were encouraged. He diligently read editorials from The Statesman, Amrita Bazar Patrika and Hindustan Standard, attended lectures and seminars and numerous reading sessions. He matched his commercial skills with his intellectual curiosity.

In 1960, James Laughlin, the chairman of New Directions Publishing company in New York, visited Calcutta. The scion of American steel giant, Jones & Laughlin Steel Company, Laughlin ventured out of his family steel business and found his calling in poetry, prose and stories. Being a prolific writer and poet, he founded New Directions while he was still an undergraduate at Harvard University. He looked out for new writers and underdogs. He instantly liked D. Mehra when they met, and it was natural that he persuaded the latter. He con­vinced him to publish Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha. And with Siddhartha began Rupa’s journey into publishing.

(This is an edited excerpt from Never Out of Print: The Rupa Story: The Journey of an Independent Indian Publisher by Rajen Mehra)

booksDaudayal MehraHermann Hesse’s SiddharthaJyoti SenguptaND MehraRajen MehraRupa Publications