Krishna Shastri Devulapalli | If It’s Tuesday, It Must Be Strawberry
I guess my friend sent this link to me because the website of our wee indie publishing house says (rather grandiosely, if the expression on the face of a leading writer — as she was listening to our little speech — was anything to go by) ‘Bringing real writers to real readers. One book at a time.’
A couple of days ago, a friend forwarded a link to me with the message ‘Remind you of anything?’
The link led me to Morioka Shoten, a tiny bookstore in Tokyo. Japan does specialise in tiny things (with the same vigour that the US specialises in the opposite). You think Japan, immediately bonsai, sumi-e, bonkei and haiku, of course, come to mind. All examples of how conclusively they’ve shown the rest of the world that less is more.
So what was unique to the tininess of this bookstore?
Well, it sells only one book.
Yes, you read that right. You don’t go to this shop to browse, ask the bookstore clerk what she recommends or buy a bunch of stationery items. You go to Morioka Shoten to buy that one book they have on the shelves. All their shelves. For that one week. And if you go the following week, there’s still only one book. But a different one. It’s like Balkumar Softy Centre in the Pondy Bazaar of my childhood (among the earliest soft serve ice cream vendors in Madras), which, for one rupee on a Monday, would give you Vanilla. Followed by Strawberry on Tuesdays, Pista on Wednesdays…with (drum roll) Chocolate reserved for the weekends. Take it or leave it. And, boy, did we take it.
But who dares do this now, the age of infinite choice, gift-wrapped and served instantly at your doorstep with bells on? How does an entire shop make do by selling just one book, or more precisely, multiple copies of the same book, when others in the business have added stationery, coffee, baked goods and bare-knuckle boxing just to survive? (Okay, I exaggerate a bit there.)
Very well, apparently, considering how many book lovers the shop attracts from all over the world.
I guess my friend sent this link to me because the website of our wee indie publishing house says (rather grandiosely, if the expression on the face of a leading writer — as she was listening to our little speech — was anything to go by) ‘Bringing real writers to real readers. One book at a time.’
Worry not. This piece isn’t a sly plug for my business. It’s about what limitless choice has made us, and between the options of no choice, limited choice, and infinite choice; why I think infinite choice is no better than no choice at all.
Not too long ago, I watched an old interview with the incomparable George Carlin in which he confesses, that for all his so-called misanthropic humour, he actually likes people. Provided he engages with them one person at a time. But the minute they are part of a group, however small, he instantly finds them less likeable.
I couldn’t agree more.
If you’ve got to a certain stage in life, you’d think you could control this somewhat, having the luxury to say no to most group situations. And strive for individual interactions, whether personal or professional. Not really.
Most interactions today, however exclusive you may think they are, actually involve you unwittingly becoming part of an orgy. Because, thanks to the infinite options one has in the palm of one’s hand, almost everyone you come across is secretly or brazenly straddling a bunch of people — choices, basically — every single minute of the day.
You think you are having an intimate conversation, often with someone who has sought you out, while you are actually competing for attention with all the humans on the various platforms they are juggling at that given moment. Whether you like it or not, you are now the member of a group you had no intention of joining.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but buffets make me lose my appetite, and art galleries make me nauseous. I don’t care which part of the world I am in, giving the pointlessly, insanely large breakfast spread the go by, I invariably stick with what I have at home: scrambled eggs. And when I go to a gallery, I long to be Steve McQueen (or Pierce Brosnan) from The Thomas Crown Affair, where I have the liberty of sitting for as long as I want in front of one painting, ignoring the hundreds of masterpieces waiting to overwhelm my senses, and drink in that work. (While suppressing thoughts of stealing it, of course.)
Like the curators of Morioka Shoten and Balkumar Softy Centre at the production end, I, think, we, too, should endeavour to be curators at the consumption end. When the world is telling us, look, there’s bigger, there’s more coveted, there’s sexier, one song, one show, one book, one person, one experience at a time is what we should be aiming for. Without the fear of missing out. Muting capitalism’s toxic, ever-present voice in our head, going ‘Hey, buddy, you’re settling for this??’
Maybe we would feel less depleted then. And stop wondering about where our inescapable sense of isolation, deprivation and wanting comes from. So, if it’s Tuesday, go for Strawberry. Stick with it, pay attention to it, savour it, process the experience. That way, you have a better chance of being fulfilled than having small, hurried, unsatisfying licks of Butterscotch, Pista and Mango, while secretly craving the currently unavailable Chocolate.