Browsing Beyond the Covers: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

—A Budding Author’s Window to Changing Reader hood

"There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favourite book."

 -Marcel Proust

Recently, I had the pleasure of attending a book exhibition held in the verdant lawns of a renowned university. It wasn’t just the cool breeze or the scent of freshly printed pages that held my attention; it was the people—students of Humanities, Science, and Commerce—browsing through the exhibits with a keenness that both surprised and delighted me. As an author myself, I was curious: what drives these young readers? What are their yardsticks for selecting books in an age dominated by digital distractions?

Contrary to the assumption that young readers are impulsive or driven solely by flashy covers, I observed something far more heartening. Students weren't buying books haphazardly, nor were they seduced merely by a bestselling author’s name or the brand of a reputed publishing house. Many were thumbing through prefaces, flipping to the acknowledgments, reading indexes with care. I even overheard one student say, “Let’s look the author up on Google—has she written anything else?” A group from the Literature Department was discussing the relevance of contemporary Indian poetry, debating whether the confessional tone of Harnidh Kaur’s The Inability of Words echoed Sylvia Plath or diverged into its own postmodern syntax.

Clearly, the modern reader is informed, intentional, and inquisitive.

As I meandered through the stalls, I engaged in conversations with students who had already made up their minds about what they wanted. Some sought poetry, both contemporary and classical—Keki N. Daruwalla’s Collected Poems, Ranjit Hoskote’s Jonahwhale, and even self-published chapbooks by campus poets. Others leaned toward historical nonfiction—titles like Ira Mukhoty’s Heroines or Manu S. Pillai’s The Ivory Throne were being leafed through with reverence. I noticed a surge in interest in genres such as speculative fiction, climate fiction, and even graphic novels that address political history or gender identity. It was no longer just about popular bestsellers—it was about relevance, resonance, and rigor.

This experience transported me back to my own youth, when reading meant waiting for new arrivals at the district library or buying the latest works by celebrated authors from the town’s trusted bookshop. There was something quietly ritualistic about those visits—the thrill of a hardbound copy, the joy of hidden margins in borrowed books. But one couldn’t deny that the space for lesser-known voices was limited. Budding authors rarely found a place on library shelves, and self-publishing was viewed with suspicion. The current wave of campus exhibitions, college fests, and community reading corners now offers a much-needed platform for these emerging voices.

I met young writers—still in their final year of college—bravely showcasing their self-published works. A political science major had authored a novella exploring caste dynamics through a time-travel fantasy. A commerce student-turned-poet shared her debut collection Unfolding Origami, a blend of confessional free verse and haiku. Another, who had written a series of short stories about queer identity in small-town India, said, “Even if five people read it and feel less alone, I’ve done my job as a writer.” Their confidence wasn’t naive—it was informed, reflective, and grounded in purpose.

Of course, the democratization of book access has its pitfalls. Sometimes, a book’s title or blurb might be polished to perfection, but the content may lack depth or craft. However, this trial-and-error process is itself instructive for readers. And for writers, even a single conversation with a genuine reader can ignite the desire to write better, with more honesty and insight.

What struck me most was the way these young readers treated books—not as relics of the past or mere academic burdens—but as vibrant, living entities. Their conversations evoked the timeless reminder of Virginia Woolf, who wrote in The Common Reader that reading demands not only the mind but also “imagination, insight, and judgment.” Indeed, today’s readers—more than ever—embody that trinity. Even the scattered copies of classics weren’t gathering dust; I saw students flipping through Orwell, Toni Morrison, Ismat Chughtai, and Mahasweta Devi with equal curiosity.

This resurgence is not just confined to literature departments. I saw biology students engrossed in books on the philosophy of science, architecture students poring over illustrated editions of urban history, and commerce students debating whether Yuval Noah Harari oversimplifies historical processes in Sapiens. The interdisciplinary interest is, in itself, a welcome departure from rigid academic silos.

As a budding writer myself—still wading through the muddy waters of edits, rejections, rewrites, and that occasional lifebuoy of a kind reader’s comment—this exhibition felt like a quiet affirmation. There are readers out there. Not just browsers or blurb-skimmers, but real readers—those who pause, linger, underline, and sometimes argue with the text. And that, for any writer, is both a solace and a spark.

It also reminded me that books are not merely bought—they are befriended. A well-thumbed volume on a hostel shelf, a borrowed poetry collection with coffee stains and scribbled exclamation marks, even a self-published novella tucked between famous names—all have stories beyond their spines.

In an age of swipe-ups, scroll-downs, and short-form summaries, there’s something splendidly subversive about sitting down with a book—an act that says, “Dear world, hush a moment. I’m eavesdropping on someone’s soul.” And the best part? The voices are getting more varied, vibrant, and valiant with every page turned.

So yes—book reading isn’t just "still in." It’s quietly staging a renaissance in lecture halls, libraries, hostels, and hearts. And perhaps, somewhere between a second-hand Dostoevsky and a dog-eared debut, the next great writer is reading… and readying their pen.

After all, who knows? That shy soul behind the stall, rearranging their stack of unsold stories, might just be tomorrow’s literary lodestar. So go ahead—judge the book after reading it. You might just stumble upon your next unforgettable friend.

As Jorge Luis Borges once mused, “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.” If so, then the lawns of that university—and the luminous curiosity of its readers—felt nothing short of celestial.

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Setu, August 2025