K.K.S. Murthy: Bengaluru’s bookman who caught the pulse of every reader Premium

Helming this space adroitly with a twinkle in his eye and a warm smile was K.K.S. Murthy, who passed away on Monday. Ailing with age-related issues over the past few months, Murthy still used to turn up while his son Sanjay ran the store. Hunched in the backseat of a taxi parked close to Select, Murthy would be resting but he always had the time to acknowledge regular customers, who would address him as Mr. Murthy or uncle.

Down the first left on Brigade Road, Bengaluru’s pulsating heart is a tiny lane that curls past fast-food joints packed with college students and tourists. The street leads towards a set of old buildings with fading yellow paint. Some are homes with mosaic or red-oxide flooring and a few others are stores and one such is Select Bookshop, perhaps the city’s first literary lighthouse drawing in readers of diverse interests.

Helming this space adroitly with a twinkle in his eye and a warm smile was K.K.S. Murthy, who passed away on Monday. Ailing with age-related issues over the past few months, Murthy still used to turn up while his son Sanjay ran the store. Hunched in the backseat of a taxi parked close to Select, Murthy would be resting but he always had the time to acknowledge regular customers, who would address him as Mr. Murthy or uncle.

“How are you?” would be followed by another query: “Found anything interesting?” At times his memory slipped but he would ask the reader’s name and soon remember. “Father has health issues, cannot leave him alone at home,” Sanjay would say, while dealing with the regulars at Select. Murthy witnessed 94 summers, and his days were a dalliance with words, ancient books, bibliophiles and intellectuals like Ramachandra Guha.

With many newspaper offices located nearby, Select was also a spot where journalists had impromptu get-togethers. Back in the 1990s, you could walk into Select, pick a book, and keep it back due to an anaemic wallet. He would sense the youngster’s predicament. A discounted price would be mentioned followed by a line, “Pay me next month, no rush.” If the customer insisted on picking the book later, the reply would be, “Okay, I am keeping this book safe for you, till you buy it.”

Playing Cupid between a book and its lover came naturally to Murthy. The literary axis then would straddle between Select and Premier, run by the late T.S. Shanbagh, who too was extremely kind towards book lovers. Another pitstop was Strand at Manipal Centre. Premier and Strand have shut down while Select chugs along with an old-world feel and Sanjay is always at hand, having seamlessly slipped into his father’s big shoes.

Murthy would also inform readers about books that had been bequeathed by others. “Ram Guha has given away some from his collection, check that room, switch on that light,” he would say and point to another tiny space further inside a shop rich in the scents that old books exude – a blend of papyrus, sawdust and a hint of past sweat of bibliophiles.

There were regulars too, the ones who would have tea at Kohinoor and then amble into Select for a chat with Murthy. Clad in a tweed jacket, he would lean his head backwards and laugh when a joke was cracked. There would be one-liners in Kannada and English, an anecdote from a recent book fair perhaps, and at the same time the reader’s preferences would be probed. These are traits that Sanjay too exudes but he doesn’t wear a tweed jacket.