Illustration by Uday Deb

The writer had come across the title A High Wind in Jamaica while reading a book review and had since searched for the classic . He continues his search for the book...

One fine day, I went to Modern Book Depot. “A High Wind in Jamaica,” I declared to Kishan Kumar, “It’s called A High Wind in Jamaica”.

“I remember this title,” he replied slowly, “But no, we don’t have a copy. But let me write it down. Maybe I can pick it up when I’m in Delhi”.

I sauntered over to Western Book Depot and enquired of the owner, whom I have always addressed as Uncle, not necessarily due to his age but more on grounds of respects as well as his courteous disposition.

“Ah,” he said, “I remember! It’s an old book. It’s out of print now. Mmm…I don’t know if we can get a copy. Let’s see…”

I wasn’t disillusioned but felt happy that someone else in town had heard about it.

Other books came and went but like first love or like the love you got from your own family, A High Wind stayed with me, faithful in thought and in imagination, a shadow that continued clinging to my soul.

Once in a while, during the occasional official trip to Bangalore, Calcutta or Delhi, I would haunt bookshops. I didn’t bother looking at the shelves.

I simply went up to the owner or the person in charge and asked: “Excuse me, but do you by any chance have A High Wind…?”

They would wander off and fetch a list of the books that were available but none could come up with the book I wanted.

Two years ago, I went to Shillong for the day for lunch with an elderly friend.

Peter Thorose is the principal of St Peters’ School.

A hail-fellow-well-met sort of a man who lives like a pucca gentleman, well-bred in anything he says or does and without harbouring the least bit of snobbery despite all the social and financial status attached to him.

It was a pleasant afternoon and soon after lunch we went up to his office-room.

“You must have a look at my library, you must,” he cajoled and I went in to the wooden-floored, spick- and-span room that had rows and rows of all types of books.

I touched the smooth sides of the new arrivals and then flipped through a few that had seen some years, taking in the smell that only books can possess: wisdom and grace and polished wood carrying the perfume of the Nile and the Euphrates, of Socrates and Mesopotamia and of the universe tucked in moth-balls of imagination. I liked that smell.

And then abruptly, because of the ever-present shadow, I said, “You know, Peter, for years I have been looking for a book. A High Wind In Jamaica. Ever heard about it? There’s no place where I have not looked. Wish you could get hold of a copy for me.”

He looked at me intently, saw that I meant business and said slowly.

“Have you tried the Net? Google?”

I looked at him blankly. But of course, I thought, why not the Internet?

He took me by an arm and escorted me to the computer room where a pretty girl was busy on the keyboard.

“Could you try the Net?” Peter requested.

She took about 10 minutes to work on it and at last when we went to “Jamacia” and then “books” there it was on the screen: A High Wind In Jamaica. Hughes, Richard. Just looking at the name quickened my breath.

“Publisher,” I almost screamed, “publisher”.

But even after several attempts the screen drew a blank.

“I’ll try,” Peter said, thoughtful, happy-go-lucky, charming, suave, well-to-do, Peter who loved the company of humans the way I loved books and lonely spaces.

No, I couldn’t locate the publishers but the book was there.

It was alive and kicking.

To be continued