As the last golden hues of winter faded into the horizon, something magical unfolded in the heart of Dhaka. The Amar Ekushey Book Fair, more than just a gathering of book lovers, became a carnival of emotions, nostalgia, and the unmistakable warmth of Bengali culture.
The book fair was alive with energy, as a flock of visitors wandered through the stalls, their faces lit up with the thrill of discovery. The sellers, though fewer in number, seemed to have an endless supply of stories to share, while couples in basanti sarees and panjabis strolled hand-in-hand, a touch of festivity in the air.
Children, their hands sticky with ice cream, ran through the crowds, some being playfully chased by their parents, while others sat, absorbed in their colourful books. The soft winter air whispered its last goodbye, with the bell of spring just beginning to ring in the distance. Somewhere, a cuckoo’s song floated through the breeze, as if marking the end of an era and the start of a new, hopeful chapter.
At the entrance, families, students, and lone wanderers stepped into what felt like an enchanted maze of books, their eyes gleaming with excitement. The scent of fresh ink mixed with the aroma of street food—spicy fuchka, crispy beguni, and the ever-trusty kebab—because no literary discussion in Bangladesh is ever complete without a full stomach.
Book lovers navigated the fair like treasure hunters, some with meticulously prepared lists, others relying on sheer impulse. The real veterans—those who had attended the fair for years—walked with purpose, heading straight to their favorite publishers. The more adventurous ones let their hearts guide them, stopping at stalls purely because of an interesting title or a charmingly persuasive bookseller.
A spirited young girl in a basanati saree was seen dramatically bargaining with a bookseller. "Bhaiya, ekdam sesh! Ar ektu koman na!" (Brother, it's totally too much! Can't you reduce it a bit more?), she pleaded, making a case as passionate as a courtroom lawyer. The bookseller, well-versed in the art of negotiation, smiled knowingly, countering with a theatrical, "Apu, target fill up na korte parle amar chakri thakbe na!" (Apu, if I can't fill up the target, I will lose my job!)
The haggling continued until both parties reached a silent agreement—the universal Bangladeshi sign of a successful bargain: a smile and a head nod.
Amidst the sea of bookworms, some hopeful authors sat at their stalls, pens ready, waiting for readers who would turn their words into memories. A young man, clutching his newly purchased poetry book 'Swajotne Amar Kobita' by Md. Robina Hossain, stood frozen for a moment before approaching his favourite writer. "Bhai, apni amar moner kotha likhsen!" (Brother, you have written exactly what I feel in my heart!), he blurted out, his excitement endearing rather than awkward. The writer, accustomed to such confessions, chuckled as he signed the book, adding a personal touch with a quick doodle.
Sakib, a seasoned book fair bargain-hunter from Old Dhaka said, "This is my battlefield—I train all year for it!". Armed with sharp negotiation skills honed in Chawkbazar markets, he had a simple strategy: never accept the first price, always act disinterested, and walk away dramatically at least once.
“You have to make them feel like you’ll leave forever,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Then, suddenly, they call you back— 'Bhai, thik ache, apnar jonno komailam. (Brother, alright, I’ve reduced the price for you.)'
—and that’s when you know you’ve won!”
He grinned, holding up his latest trophy: a beautifully bound classic novel he had just secured at half the listed price.
Then there were the seasoned readers—ones who had the patience to flip through pages before making a choice. Some read the first few paragraphs with an approving nod, while others judged books like expert detectives, scrutinizing the cover, the blurb, and even the weight of the pages before making a purchase.
If the books were the heart of the fair, the cultural events were its soul. Somewhere near the open stage, a young singer performed a soulful rendition of "Amar bhai er rokte rangano," her voice carrying the weight of history while properly immersed in the melody of guiter's rhythms. Children giggled in a corner, their hands stained with watercolours from an impromptu painting competition.
They were once inseparable back in university—four self-proclaimed intellectuals who had spent more time at tea stalls than in classrooms, fiercely debating everything from Jibanananda Das’s melancholic verses to the nation’s latest political turmoil.
Now, after years apart, they had found their way back to each other at the book fair, settling onto the grass like old times. "Listen, poetry should stir the soul, not read like a government notice!" declared Shuvo, waving a newly bought poetry collection in the air. "And politics should be about principles, not memes!" countered Asif, earning an eye roll from Asha, who had abandoned the debate to Google the nearest ramen selling restaurant.
Just then, Fahim, the self-proclaimed philosopher of the group, dramatically recited a Rabindranath Tagore verse—only to be interrupted by a passing street child loudly declaring, "Mama, uni ki pagol?" (Uncle, is he crazy?). The group erupted in laughter, realising that no matter how much they had aged, some things—like their over-the-top debates and public embarrassment—would never change.
"I used to teach literature at a local college," said Faruk Mollah at Matra Prokash's Stall, now retired and running a small bookstall. "After I retired, I thought, why not continue my passion for literature?" He gestured to the array of classic novels on his table. "This fair is a celebration of our language and heritage. Every year, I look forward to meeting my former students who come to visit."
And then there were the unexpected moments—the loud debates at certain stalls where one person swore by Humayun Ahmed’s timeless charm while another argued that contemporary fiction was the future. Somewhere in the distance, a mischievous boy, tired of holding his mother’s bag, dramatically collapsed onto a bench, sighing, "Ammu, ar pari na!" (Mom, I can't do it anymore!) while his mother remained unfazed, immersed in the pages of a newly bought novel.
Rina, expertly balancing a plate of fuchka while her teenage daughter rolled her eyes from Dhanmondi said, "Boi mela without fuchka? Impossible!".
"Every year, my daughter says she’s 'too old' for book fairs, but then she ends up buying more books than me!" she chuckled, watching as the girl sneakily added another novel to her bag.
Sitting at the food corner, they were enjoying the chaos around them. Rina reminisced about her childhood visits to the fair with her father. "Books, friends, snacks—some traditions just don’t change," she said, passing a fuchka to her daughter, who, despite her insistence, was now fully engrossed in her new book.
At Pankouri Publication's stall, a young girl named Simi, studying at Bangabandhu College, Mirpur, her eyes wide with excitement, stood behind the counter for the first time.
Nervously adjusting her watch, she smiled and said, "I used to walk past book stalls as a kid, Now, I’m selling books and it feels like I’m a part of something productive." Her words, simple yet full of pride, carried the fresh hope of someone starting their own chapter in the ever-growing story of the book fair.
As the sun dipped lower, the fairgrounds took on a soft golden glow. Last-minute buyers rushed to grab "just one more book," knowing full well their shelves were already overflowing. Some visitors, exhausted but satisfied, sat on the stairs of Bangla Academy, flipping through their purchases while sipping steaming cups of tea.
Then, as if on cue, the final announcement echoed through the fairgrounds. Stall owners started packing up, friends exchanged reluctant goodbyes, and families took one last stroll before heading home. But no one truly left empty-handed—not just because of the books in their bags, but because of the laughter, the nostalgia, and the quiet promise to return tomorrow, when spring's first bell would once again call them back.
