The bookshelf in my mother's apartment in Kolkata is weighed down by an old history. There are books in the familiar blue and white spine, the old Progress Publishers volumes that include my volumes of Karl Marx's Capital, bought in 1981. Russian classics jostle for space, a bit of Lermontov here and a bit of Gogol there. There used to be children's books, but in the move from one apartment to the other, these might have been slipped into the bags of the kabariwallah. Running my hands over these..