I have always been fascinated by the ‘local bar/coffee shop’ motif in English sitcoms. It was a recurring theme in most TV shows of the 90s and 00s1, and was a place where the primary characters would gather, exchange quips, and then diverge to lead their lives with the episode’s script taking them in separate directions. It was rarely the scene of a pivotal plot moment, and yet it defined the soul of the show. It was common ground - a place where the characters could forget about the anxieties and uncertainties of their fictionalised lives; a place where they had the comfort of being recognized as ‘regulars’; a place where they could just be.
In my 20s, I yearned for such a local bar where the bartender would know my name and would ask, “The usual?” every time I walked in. I would nod, and he would uncap a bottle of Maaza and slide it across the table to me.2 I would take a long gulp and we would exchange a few words, but spend the rest of the evening in companionable silence.
I never did find that local bar but I do now have an approximation of it: my local bookstore-library.
A little over a year ago, I had written a newsletter issue about books and bookshops. In it, I recalled my earliest memory of a bookstore, spoke about discovering bookshops in foreign cities, and the sheer joy of being surrounded by shelves stacked with books. (You can read it below.)
I had ended the issue hoping to wean myself off the habit of buying books online and returning to independent, brick-and-mortar bookstores. As luck would have it, just a few months later, I discovered Trilogy.
Tucked away in a corner of Bandra, Trilogy is a book-lover’s paradise. Once you step inside this world of wood and paper, time loses all shape and meaning. (I had once entered the place as a clean-shaven man and exited with a scraggly beard.) Books, of every conceivable genre, vie for your attention and handwritten notes compel you to pick up titles you would have otherwise ignored. You can scarcely tear your eyes off one rack before they are entranced by another.
Before you know it, the crook of your elbow is laden with books up to your chin and you find yourself standing at the billing counter with a goofy smile on your face. You know you’re buying far too many books than you should - the colour rises in your cheeks as you remember the unread books at home - but you have embraced tsundoku as a way of life. Besides, the best bookstores are known to cast spells that compel you to buy their wares, and human will is but naught before magic.
For some of us, the best bookstores can also be overwhelming. There is an incredible amount of information and knowledge out there in the world, and a bookstore physically imposes this fact upon you. So much to read, so little time. This realization had always bothered me but in an anodyne, detached sort of way.
Things are different now. I upended my life to ̶b̶e̶c̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶w̶r̶i̶t̶e̶r̶ focus on writing and I can no longer afford to be half-hearted in my quest for knowledge. I now have a more immediate need to know because without knowledge - without a clear understanding of this world - what are my words worth? But there seems to be no end to knowing. I compile lists upon endless lists of essays and novels and short stories I ought to be reading, but haven’t started any of them. I bookmark dozens of interesting articles and flounder in a sea of open Chrome tabs, the words washing over me but leaving no mark or memory.
At its worst, the fear of not knowing enough can be crippling. I have no rare insight or unique opinion to share with the world, so why should anyone care about what I write? Is it not better to be silent than to be banal? It bears saying that this is not the infamous Impostor Syndrome at play. My lack of erudition is not imagined; it is a tangible, rock-solid fact that confronts me every time I pick up an unread (by me) classic.
In these periods of despair, it is difficult to even conceive of writing, much less string words into sentences. The past few days have been just such a time.
Why then, do I persevere (albeit in a mopey, moany sort of way)? Because I fear I may never know enough to write, unless I write enough of what I know. The path to knowing is long and arduous. I intend to walk it as best I can, but I do not know when - or, if - I will ever make sense of this world. If I were to wait for wisdom, I may end up never writing anything at all and that would be a crying shame.
Far better, instead, that I write now using what little I know and hope that in the years to come, I will learn more and know enough to write something that is truly meaningful. And if I don’t, well, I could always write a self-help book.
Cheers (I know it is a 1980s show but I watched it later on account of not having been born when it debuted), Friends, Coupling, and How I Met Your Mother, for instance.
Over the past decade, the star of the ‘local bar/coffee shop’ seems to have declined - perhaps due to the rise of the mockumentary format of comedy shows.