Where Words Wait: Inside the Lanes of Little Magazine

🖊️Anushka Das

The morning of January 27th arrived at the Boimela Prangan not with a bang, but with a weary dust-covered sigh. The manic energy of Republic Day, the surging crowds and the tricolour confetti had finally loosened its grip, allowing one to wander a little further, past the obvious spectacles of bestsellers and towering pavilions, where the fair rearranges itself. The lanes narrow. The noise softens. And suddenly one enters the little magazine section- a different republic altogether.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of rough newsprint, banners hung overhead, and everything felt less transactional. Here, stallholders didn’t wait behind counters. They called out to passersby, beckoning them not to buy, but to pause. One of them placed a book in my hands and urged me to read the first chapter. The gesture felt intimate, an invitation rather than a sale.

 

Readers arrive here deliberately. One such figure had bypassed the “Foreign Zone” entirely to find “Hetubadi” in this space, which is not driven by profit but self-interest and conviction, sustained by readers who make the effort to seek them out. Content, not gloss, mattered here. One of the publishers remarked that beautifully designed books mean little if what is inside is hollow. Some of the magazines are thin, even hand-stapled, yet they hold weight.

 As the day progressed, a poet stood waiting anxiously to learn whether his 20-line heartbeat had finally made it to print. People, he opined, often choose forty-rupee magazines over four-hundred-rupee books. For him, the shrinking space for long-form thoughts was a metaphor for the modern world, yet the “literary itch” remained uncurable.

 

The section felt alive with such quiet defiance. Nearby, the “hippy” vibrance of the zone remained undimmed by the morning lull. Hand-painted banners swayed overhead, and a stall managed by queer community stood bold and brave; its badges and magnets shimmering under the yellow pavilion lights, a testament to the “different dimension” this lane provides.

As the sun began to dip, amidst the grandeur of Kolkata Book Fair, the little magazine section proved it wasn’t just a relic of a pre-digital age. It became the vessels for voices waiting patiently and stubbornly trusting that those willing to slow down would hear what it had to say, counting on them who returned year after year, to the dusty lanes where every day is a Republic of Speech.