Sapner Boi
Sapner Boi
(Dream Book)
I was combing through College Street in the muggy March light of 2015, chasing a ghost—the first-edition set of Srikanta, all four parts, by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay.
My quest for old books has always had an air of pilgrimage. As a schoolboy, I had scoured the pavements of Ajmal Khan Road in Karol Bagh, sniffing out dusty treasures. Later, I rummaged through the bookstalls of Gariahat, and even Darjeeling, where musty cartons lay half-forgotten under the misty mountain sun. But College Street—Boi Para, the Mecca of books—that was different. Here, I was chasing both a title and a memory.
It was while turning away from a glossy modern bookstore that I saw it—tucked between a crumbling sweet shop and a digital Xerox centre: a faded stall with a hand-painted board that read: Sapner Boi.
“Dream Book,” I chuckled to myself. It looked anything but dreamy—old wooden shelves sagging under the weight of memory, cloth covers fraying at the edges, and a crooked umbrella keeping out the sun. But something pulled me in.
A bespectacled old man, white-haired and smiling, waved me over.
“Babu, ki khujchen?”
I told him about Srikanta.
He didn’t bother to check the stacks. “Nai,” he said calmly. “But wait…”
From a shelf behind him, he pulled out a treasure: a first edition of Devdas, also by Sarat Chandra. My breath caught. I ran my fingers along its faded cloth spine, the pages yellowed, the type faint.
“I’m Narayan Bose,” he said. “The stall’s mine. Since long before Café Coffee Day came to this lane.”
He gestured to a battered wooden stool. I sat, and stories poured.
I told him about my book-hunting adventures—Ajmal Khan, Gariahat, Darjeeling, even a long-lost Russian novel I’d once found in a tea shop. He laughed and said, “You must be waiting for a magic book to find you.”
Then, almost casually, he pointed to a stack of handmade graphic stories. The covers were plain, stitched with thread. Inside: hand-drawn comics—Tintin in unfamiliar territories, teamed with Feluda, no less. The drawings were meticulous, filled with Bengali wit and a child’s wonder.
“Not for sale,” he said firmly, almost protectively.
Just then, a little whirlwind swept in. A girl of about nine, with oversized spectacles, jeans, a bright yellow top, and a backpack weighed down with imagination. She pulled out a handmade graphic notebook and handed it to Narayan Babu.
“This is Mishka,” he said. “Bengali father, Malayali mother. Shifted from Bangalore recently. Walked in one morning and began sorting my books.”
She glanced up at me, curious but not shy. The notebook she’d brought was a graphic story based on Jayant and Manik, my own childhood favourites by Hemendra Kumar Roy. Her illustrations were detailed, humorous, alive.
“She shares these with kids in the nearby slum,” Narayan Babu added. “And when customers come with children, she keeps them busy with her books. She's... part of the shop now.”
A Decade Later
In May 2025, I was back in College Street to visit my publisher, Abhijan, when I felt an urge—more instinct than intention—to revisit Sapner Boi.
The stall stood there still. The signboard had been repainted but retained its old-world charm. The familiar smell of old paper mingled with the scent of brewed coffee, drifting from a CCD dispenser neatly installed in the corner.
Narayan Bose sat like an aging banyan tree—frail, eyes watery, hands trembling but warm. He remembered me.
“Devdas, 2015,” he said, smiling.
And there stood Mishka, now a young woman—taller, confident, still wearing slightly oversized glasses. The stall had evolved under her care. A small chalkboard listed storytelling sessions every two hours. A few benches and cushions were scattered around, and subtle background music played softly—piano notes, gentle and emotive.
I stayed for the 2 PM session. Mishka began reading from A Gentleman in Moscow. Her voice was steady, lyrical—each sentence spoken like a musical note. As Count Rostov paced the corridors of the Metropol, Satie’s Gymnopédies floated in the background. She had paired the reading with music so perfectly, it felt like watching the novel unfold on an invisible stage.
When she finished, no one moved. The stillness said everything.
I left quietly but not empty-handed. I bought a copy of Keigo Higashino’s The Final Curtain from the shelf—a little something for the flight ahead.
Epilogue
Before leaving for Australia, I had asked Samaranand to stay in touch with Narayan Babu—and, indirectly, with Mishka. I passed along a list of Bengali and English children’s books I wanted him to buy from Sapner Boi from time to time—ostensibly for the books, but really so that Samaranand could keep a gentle eye on her well-being through Babulal and Soumya.
In truth, I had grown fond of her—drawn by her spirit, her imagination, her strange, beautiful world of drawings and dreams.
During my last visit, Narayan Babu shared with quiet pride that Mishka was now studying English Literature, pursuing a B.A. Honours degree.
That little girl who once stitched together Tintin and Feluda in a notebook was now walking steadily into the world of letters—book by book, story by story.
And Sapner Boi, the Dream Book, continued to shelter them both!
