Publishing Culture: Books as Living, Breathing Entities

Or: How I Learned That Dog-Eared Pages Are Actually Love Letters

The first time I borrowed a book from my friend here, in London, I saw notes scribbled in the margins. And I froze. It was a proper heart-sinking, stomach-flipping kind of moment. It felt weirdly personal, like they'd written on my wall or doodled in a family album. I was like ummm… is it time to make new friends?!

That was one of my first real glimpses into how people read differently here, especially in London. Books aren’t just read quietly and put back neatly on the shelf. They’re argued with, questioned, sometimes even scribbled over like an ongoing conversation. It was jarring at first. But slowly - and I hate to admit it - it started to make sense.

That was my introduction to London's book culture, where readers don't just consume your words - they wrestle with them, argue with them, and sometimes win.

Mumbai: Books as Religious Artefacts

Back in Mumbai, books weren’t just books - they were sacred. In our home, we treated them with the kind of quiet respect usually saved for family heirlooms or temple offerings. We had this tall, glass-fronted bookshelf in the corner of the living room - more shrine than storage. No one said it out loud, but you just knew you had to be careful around it. No cracked spines, no folded corners, and god forbid you wrote in one. Even picking up a book with sticky fingers felt like breaking a rule. Books were pristine objects to be preserved, protected, and occasionally read with clean hands and reverent hearts.

My childhood copy of Amar Chitra Katha comics is still sitting on a shelf at my mom’s place - the spine uncracked, the pages as clean as the day we got it. It was read, sure, but read carefully. No folds, no marks, just the occasional gentle bookmark slipping out when someone picked it up again years later.

Lending a book back then felt like handing over a newborn. It hardly ever happened, and when it did, it came with a whole list of rules: “Don’t fold the corners, don’t write in it, and absolutely no eating while reading.” We meant it. There was real fear behind those words.

My college library in Mumbai had exactly 247 English literature books (I counted), most of them falling apart from age rather than use. Students photocopied everything because borrowing meant navigating bureaucratic mazes that would make Kafka weep. We treated those worn copies like archaeological artefacts - precious, fragile, not quite meant for actual human interaction.

London: Where Books Get to Live Their Best Lives

Then I moved to London and discovered something miraculous: libraries everywhere. Not just one per borough, but multiple libraries within walking distance, each bursting with books that people actually touch, read, and - revolutionary concept - enjoy.

My local library in Kingston looks like it was designed by someone who genuinely believed books should be accessible. There are comfortable chairs, natural light, and - this still amazes me - people reading for pleasure on a Tuesday afternoon. No one's whispering apologetically for existing. Children are encouraged to handle books with the kind of enthusiasm that would have given my Mumbai librarians heart palpitations.

But the real culture shock came at Flame Tree Publishing, where I work now among people who understand that books are meant to be lived with, not just admired from a distance. We publish ‘fiction without frontiers’ - speculative fiction that's ‘independent, inclusive, diverse’ - and our readers don't just read; they engage, critique, and respond like books are part of an ongoing conversation rather than monologues from on high.

The Great Translation Tragedy

What breaks my heart is how much incredible Indian literature remains locked away in languages the world doesn't read. It took until 2022 for a Hindi novel to win the International Booker Prize. Geetanjali Shree's ‘Ret Samadhi’ (translated as ‘Tomb of Sand’) was the first Hindi work to even be longlisted, let alone win.

Think about that. India has been producing extraordinary literature for centuries, but most of it has been having brilliant conversations with itself while the world remained oblivious. We have writers crafting sentences that would make Rushdie weep with envy, poets whose metaphors could teach Rumi a thing or two, and storytellers who understand human nature with the precision of psychologists - but they're writing in Hindi, Tamil, Bengali, Malayalam, Marathi and other Indian languages that publishing houses treat like exotic curiosities rather than literary powerhouses.

My grandmother used to tell stories that would have made Gabriel García Márquez pack up his magical realism and go home. But she told them in Marathi, to an audience of grandchildren who were slowly forgetting how to dream in our mother tongue. Those stories died with her, never translated, never preserved, never given the chance to enchant readers in London cafés or New York bookshops.

The Indie Publishing Revolution

This is where places like Flame Tree Publishing come in, publishing anthologies that bring together ‘brand new and recent tales from open submissions sitting alongside classic fiction,’ creating space for voices that might never find a home in traditional publishing. They're publishing collections that ‘defy convention’ and include ‘authentic, sensitive portrayals’ of experiences that big publishing houses often overlook.

Independent publishers are doing what the literary establishment has been too cautious to attempt - they're creating platforms for stories that don't fit neat categories, for authors whose names don't look familiar, for narratives that emerge from places the literary world hasn't been paying attention to.

The Democratic Revolution of Reading

The difference in reading culture here is almost revolutionary. These days, I hear people talk about books the way they talk about old friends - with a mix of affection, frustration, and real curiosity. In cafés or long walks, someone will say, “Have you read… ” and it’s not a quiz or a flex. It’s more like, “I loved this - I want to know what you think.” It feels generous.

Even my 18-year-old son, who used to treat books like chores - something to power through and forget - has started coming home talking about novels his English teacher recommended. Not because they’re on some required reading list, but because she told him, “I think you’d really like this one.” And somehow, that makes all the difference.

The idea that teenagers might read for pleasure isn't treated as a miracle here - it's just expected.

Books That Fight Back

What I'm learning at Flame Tree Publishing is that the best readers are the ones who fight with your words. They write "I disagree" in margins. They argue with your characters' decisions. They question your metaphors and challenge your conclusions. It's terrifying and exhilarating and completely different from the polite reverence I grew up expecting.

When readers write in books, they're not defacing them - they're collaborating with them. Every dog-eared page is evidence that someone cared enough to come back to a particular passage. Every coffee stain tells a story about someone who couldn't put the book down long enough to finish their morning routine properly.

The Beautiful Mess of Literary Democracy

London's book culture is beautifully messy in ways that Mumbai's wasn't allowed to be. Here, books aren’t placed on pedestals - they earn their place by being read, argued with, passed around, loved. There’s less quiet reverence and more conversation. Libraries feel alive - not just places where stories sit on shelves, but where they happen. Kids doing homework in corners, book clubs debating plot twists, strangers swapping recommendations in the checkout line.

Even the publishing world feels different. Independent publishers aren’t just looking for polished, familiar voices - they’re actively seeking out the ones that sound different, look different, come from places that haven’t always had a seat at the table. There’s space now for stories that stretch the edges of what we thought books were supposed to be.

But here's what I miss: the weight of literary tradition that made every book feel significant. In Mumbai, even a mediocre novel carried the gravitas of centuries of storytelling tradition. Here, books compete for attention in ways that sometimes make me nostalgic for that hushed reverence.

Bilingual in Book Culture

I've become culturally bilingual in more ways than language. I can appreciate both the democratic chaos of London's literary scene and the respectful tradition of Mumbai's book culture. I can write for readers who'll argue with my words and still honour the careful craft that my Indian literature professors insisted was sacred.

The real revolution isn't just that people here read more actively - it's that publishing is becoming more inclusive. Geetanjali Shree's Booker win ‘could now blaze a trail for more authors writing in South Asian languages and help bring them to a global audience.’ Maybe my grandmother's stories, if she were telling them today, might find translators, publishers, readers who understand that magic realism didn't start with Latin America - it's been alive in Indian grandmothers' bedtime stories for generations.

The Books That Bridge Worlds

Working in London's publishing world while carrying Mumbai's literary memories has taught me that books aren't just stories - they're bridges between worlds that might never otherwise meet. Every anthology that includes a translated story, every independent publisher willing to take risks on unfamiliar voices, every reader willing to have their assumptions challenged by a narrative from somewhere they've never been - they're all participating in a quiet revolution.

Books feel alive here - not because they’re perfect, but because they’re allowed to be messy, complicated, even a little dog-eared. They’re read and re-read, marked up, argued with, loved hard. They live in backpacks, on café tables, under pillows - not just behind glass on a shelf.

And maybe that’s what makes room for something bigger. Maybe, slowly, the incredible stories that have been quietly speaking to themselves in languages the world hasn’t bothered to learn will finally get heard. Maybe they’ll step into the wider conversation - not as curiosities, but as equals. As stories that matter.

Though I'll admit, part of me still apologises internally when I crack the spine of a new book. Some reverence, it turns out, is hard to unlearn.

And honestly? Maybe that's not such a bad thing.