Still reading: Keeping books alive in a digital world

In the heart of Ludhiana, where digital screens dominate conversations and bookstores slowly fade into the background, a handful of resilient bookshop owners stand as proof that print is far from dead. Their shops, often modest in appearance, are rich with character and quiet stories. These are not just sellers of books — they are keepers of culture, memory, and imagination.

Parminder Singh, owner of National Book Depot in Field Ganj, does not think of his work as a business. For him, it is seva — a service to the soul of the city. “Books gave me everything I couldn’t afford growing up,” he shares. “Now I give them away when someone truly needs them.” He recalls the story of a boy who once stood outside his shop, too poor to afford a comic. Singh handed him one without charge. That same boy, years later, returned — now a schoolteacher — to thank the man who unknowingly gave him his first step forward. It’s this quiet compassion that keeps his shop alive, even when sales fluctuate and the digital world threatens to eclipse physical pages.

A few lanes away, near Clock Tower, sits Sahit Sadan, run by Surinder Pal. Pal’s shop is smaller, but its spirit looms large, especially when it comes to Punjabi literature. “We used to gift books,” he says with a smile. “Now we gift gadgets. The books aren’t disappearing — our intention is.” Pal keeps a separate section dedicated to Punjabi novels and poetry. He believes preserving language and literature is as important as any profit margin. And even though most students now come for photocopies or stationery, a few still ask for poetry. That, to him, is enough to keep going.

In Chaura Bazaar, Kuldeep Singh manages the Ludhiana Book Centre, a go-to place for competitive exam materials. But it is not just the IAS guides or NEET prep books that matter to him — it is the conversations that happen around them. “One customer bought a physics guide and then asked me if love could be calculated,” Singh laughs. “Books open up the oddest, most beautiful questions.” During the pandemic, he made home deliveries for students who could not commute, not because it made money, but because it felt right. “It wasn’t profitable,” he admits. “But it kept me human.”

Gurmeet Singh owns Punjab Pustak Bhandar on Daresi Road. His father started the shop in the 1980s, and Singh continues the legacy. Surrounded by textbooks and curriculum-driven orders, he still finds joy in slipping a short storybook into a child’s schoolbook bundle. “Children today know how to Google,” he says. “But do they know how to imagine?” His question lingers — heavy and necessary.

Across all these stories, a common thread emerges. These bookshops — once the backbone of student life, weekend family visits, and literary discovery — now fight daily for relevance. The footfall is lower. The margins are tighter. Rent is unforgiving. But the fire in their hearts has not dimmed. Every single bookseller interviewed speaks of one small joy: the occasional reader who walks in wide-eyed, looking for something real, something that cannot be downloaded or scrolled past.

These shopkeepers are not just clinging to the past — they are holding open a door to a deeper, slower way of learning and living. A way where books are held, not swiped. Where characters unfold in chapters, not 30-second reels. Where reading is not a transaction, but a transformation. They may be few, but they matter. 

In a world that often forgets to pause, Ludhiana’s booksellers are still making space for those who want to listen — one page, one reader, one memory at a time.