The scent of paper and ink lingers in the air, a sensory invitation into the world of bookselling in India. The weight of a novel shifts in a customer’s hands as they flip through its pages, deliberating between this one or the other, or perhaps both. A bookseller watches from behind the counter, well-versed in this quiet ritual, knowing when to interject with a well-placed recommendation and when to allow the magic of the book itself to do the persuading. To be a bookseller in India is to inhabit a world that is as much about passion as it is about business, a profession that exists at the intersection of storytelling, commerce, and cultural preservation. It is a journey filled with both reverence for the written word and the endless struggle of survival in an age that sometimes seems eager to leave the physical book behind.

Like many in this trade, my love for books began long before I sold them. Books were not just stories but a refuge, an education, a means of traveling to places I might never see with my own eyes. The first time I stepped into Bahrisons Booksellers in Delhi’s Khan Market, I understood that a bookstore was not merely a place of transaction—it was a living, breathing space where conversations unfolded, where literature met history, and where booksellers were not just vendors but custodians of literary heritage.

Opening a bookstore in India is not a straightforward endeavor. The country’s publishing industry is one of the largest in the world, but for independent booksellers, margins are thin. Rent is high, footfall is unpredictable, and the ever-looming specter of e-commerce giants threatens to render small bookstores obsolete. Location can make or break a bookstore, but prime real estate is often too expensive for the kind of store that prioritizes curated selections over mass-market bestsellers. Many booksellers find ways to make do—setting up in quieter corners of the city, shifting to second-hand collections, or creating niche markets that online platforms struggle to replicate. Some thrive in the chaos of India’s famed second-hand book markets—Daryaganj in Delhi, Avenue Road in Bangalore, Flora Fountain in Mumbai—where books, old and new, change hands in transactions that feel almost ceremonial.

Curation is what gives a bookstore its soul. Stocking books is not a matter of simply ordering bestsellers and hoping they sell; it requires a deep understanding of the ever-shifting reading habits of an incredibly diverse audience. Rather than focusing too heavily on international bestsellers, only to realize that the Indian reader is far more multifaceted than simple sales lists would suggest. Literature in regional languages continues to thrive—Bengali, Marathi, Tamil, Malayalam, each with its own giants, each with readers as devoted as any fan of Murakami or Orwell. Meanwhile, non-fiction has surged in popularity. Business books, self-improvement titles, political analyses—books like Atomic Habits and The Psychology of Money sell as quickly as any thriller, a reflection of a young, ambitious population eager for personal and financial growth.

But what truly sets a bookstore apart is not just the books but the people who walk through its doors. The collector who hunts for rare editions of Ruskin Bond. The college student looking for Bhagat Singh’s essays on revolution. The retired professor who spends hours in discussion about post-colonial literature before leaving with an armful of books. The child whose mother brings them in for their first book, the beginning of a lifelong journey. Booksellers become curators not only of books but of experiences, learning the tastes and preferences of their customers in ways no algorithm can replicate. They are part of a larger literary ecosystem, one that includes aspiring writers who nervously ask if they can leave their self-published works on the counter, local poets who hope their chapbooks find an audience, and book clubs that treat the store as a second home.

Despite the magic of these human connections, the challenges of bookselling in India are immense. Chief among them is the near-impossible task of competing with e-commerce. The discounts these platforms offer—often below cost price—make it nearly impossible for brick-and-mortar stores to compete. It is a common, disheartening occurrence to see a customer pick up a book, admire its cover, ask for recommendations, and then, with a quick glance at their phone, decide to buy it online instead. Some do this openly, scanning barcodes or price-checking as they browse. The phenomenon, known as showrooming, has devastated bookstores worldwide, and India is no exception.

Piracy is another battle, one that hurts not only booksellers but authors and publishers as well. Street stalls in every major city sell cheap, poorly printed versions of bestsellers, their prices a fraction of what legitimate copies cost. Readers who might balk at buying a counterfeit smartphone have little hesitation in purchasing a pirated book, unaware or indifferent to the impact this has on the industry. Meanwhile, high rental costs continue to drive even the most beloved bookstores out of business. Strand Book Stall in Mumbai, Fact & Fiction in Delhi, Giggles Bookshop in Chennai—all were forced to shut their doors despite their legacy, their contributions to India’s literary culture unable to save them from the relentless pressures of the market.

And yet, some bookstores endure. Bahrisons thrives, not just because of its history but because it has adapted, expanding while still maintaining its essence. Blossoms in Bangalore remains a haven for bibliophiles, offering both new and second-hand books, fostering a community through events and readings. Rachna Books in Gangtok, nestled in the hills, has become more than a bookstore; it is a cultural hub, its shelves carefully curated to reflect the literary heritage of the Northeast. These bookstores have found ways to offer something online platforms cannot—community, curation, experience. Some have embraced social media, selling through Instagram or WhatsApp, delivering books through local courier services. Others have turned to subscription models, sending curated book boxes to readers across the country. The most successful have leaned into what makes bookstores irreplaceable: the conversations, the serendipitous discoveries, the quiet, unquantifiable joy of stepping into a space filled with stories waiting to be found.

Ultimately, the survival of bookstores in India depends on whether readers continue to value them. The love of books has not diminished—if anything, Indians are reading more than ever. But whether they choose to support physical bookstores or succumb entirely to the convenience of online shopping is a question that remains unanswered. There is hope in the resurgence of bookstores that are reimagining themselves for a new era, in the young readers who still delight in the act of browsing, in the parents who insist on bringing their children to a bookstore rather than a screen.

Being a bookseller in India is not for the faint-hearted. It is a profession of long hours, thin profits, and constant uncertainty. But it is also a profession of deep fulfillment, of moments that make the struggle worthwhile—a child’s first book, a conversation that lingers, a reader discovering a book they never knew they needed. Bookstores may evolve, they may shrink in number, but as long as there are readers who cherish the weight of a book in their hands, they will never truly disappear.