Dear Publishers,

I write to you from a city where monsoons arrive like promises and leave like heartbreak, where the local train carries dreams pressed against windows, and where books have always been my anchor in the beautiful chaos. I write as someone who has haunted second-hand bookstalls on Sunday mornings, bargaining over dog-eared Ruskin Bonds and faded Desais, whose fingers know the weight of a well-loved paperback the way a musician knows the strings of their instrument.

There is a particular ache that comes with loving books in times when they slip further from reach, not unlike watching the evening express pull away just as you arrive at the platform, knowing the next one might not come for hours. This ache lives in millions of us scattered across continents, united by our insatiable hunger for stories and our growing inability to feed it.

We are the college students surviving on cutting chai and dreams, photocopying chapters because textbooks cost more than our monthly travel pass. We are the mothers who pause at bookstore windows, mentally calculating rent money against the picture books our children eye longingly. We are the young professionals squeezed into shared flats, whose book-buying hands remain embarrassingly empty while our modest salaries disappear into EMIs.

When I was younger, when Mumbai’s bookstores felt like kingdoms I could afford to rule, buying books was like breathing. A paperback tucked into my college bag was as natural as the railway ticket in my pocket. Discovery happened accidentally: a stranger’s recommendation overheard at Crossword, a cover that caught my eye while browsing after watching a matinee show, an author whose name promised adventure in languages I was still learning to love.

Now I enter bookstores like a careful diplomat, armed with mental budgets and exit strategies. The books call to me like street vendors in Crawford Market, but my pockets echo with the hollow mathematics of middle-class aspirations. I read the first pages standing in aisles, trying to justify prices against grocery lists and auto-rickshaw fares.

This transformation has rewired my relationship with reading itself. I’ve become cautious where I once was adventurous, sticking to familiar authors like visiting the same restaurant because you know exactly what the bill will be. The thrill of discovering an unknown voice has become a luxury I can rarely afford. I stand in bookstores reading opening chapters, sometimes consuming so much of a book while standing that the guilt forces me to leave empty-handed.

The bookstores of my youth are disappearing like old cinema halls, victims of economics I understand but mourn nonetheless. The ones that remain feel increasingly like exclusive clubs rather than democratic spaces. I watch the booksellers, those passionate custodians of literature who once pressed unexpected titles into my hands, now stand helplessly as customers browse but rarely buy.

There’s a cruel irony in being told we live in the golden age of content while finding ourselves priced out of the very medium that shaped our minds. Every day brings fresh calls to read more, think deeper, escape the shallows of social media. Yet when I attempt to answer these calls, I’m confronted with price tags that transform intellectual nourishment into economic luxury.

I want to make something clear: this isn’t the voice of entitlement speaking. I understand the alchemy that transforms blank pages into bound stories: the author’s toil, the editor’s craft, the designer’s vision, the printer’s precision. What I’m describing is the slow strangulation of a love affair, the gradual realisation that something essential to my being is slipping beyond my reach, not because I value it less, but because I simply cannot afford to value it as much as I once did.

I remember when bookstores felt like temples where anyone could worship regardless of the coins jingling in their pocket. There was always something for every purse, from humble newsprint editions to grandest hardbound treasures. Now, even simple paperbacks command prices that once bought substantial collections.

What breaks my heart most is watching the next generation navigate this landscape. The children in my building, bright-eyed and curious, face barriers I never encountered. The weight of a book in their hands, the accumulation of a personal library, the casual lending among friends: these rites of passage that created lifelong readers are becoming rare privileges.

I think of all the books that changed my life, and how many began as chance encounters: impulse purchases made possible by affordable prices and unhurried browsing. The novels that taught me about worlds beyond my own, the poetry that gave language to feelings I couldn’t name. These transformative meetings happened because books were accessible, not just intellectually but economically.

Today, as evening rain drums against my window and my own shelves stand testament to better times, I feel like someone separated from a beloved by circumstances beyond their control. My love for books burns as fiercely as ever, but the means to express that love grows more constrained.

I am not alone in this longing. We are everywhere: in crowded locals where people read on phones because physical books have become too expensive, in libraries with waiting lists that stretch for months, in coffee shops where we nurse single cups while reading borrowed books. We are the readers you haven’t lost but haven’t been able to reach, the customers who want desperately to be customers again.

This letter rises from hope, not defeat. We still believe in the transformative power of the written word. We still dream of bookstores that welcome rather than intimidate, of browsing that ends in purchasing, of personal libraries that grow with our curiosity.

Somewhere in this city of dreams and survival, solutions exist. We trust that you, who understand the magic of storytelling, can also weave new stories of accessibility and inclusion. The readers are here, waiting, wanting, ready to return to the fold.

With all the love that once filled bookstores and hopes to again,
Nirav
On behalf of readers everywhere

The views and opinions expressed in this post are those of the author in their personal capacity and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of their employer or any affiliated organisations.

This essay first appeared on 08:08 AM Reads, the author’s Substack.