An Archive of Forgotten Gujarati Book Art: Interview with Somnath & Rameshwar Bhatt

When brothers Somnath and Rameshwar Bhatt stumbled upon a trove of Gujarati books in the small library of the Navjivan Trust in Ahmedabad,  it led them to start an unexpected piece of collective research. Mukhprushth (મુખપૃષ્ઠ), Gujarati for “cover”, is their Instagram-based archive, documenting the vivid and often overlooked design language of mid-century Gujarati book covers.

Mukhprushth cuts through our Instagram feeds with quiet clarity. It resists nostalgia, instead offering a space for rediscovery—of forgotten designers, radical histories, and the layered visual identity of Gujarat itself.

In this conversation, the Bhatt brothers reflect on the origins of the archive, the role of design in shaping memory, and how their work opens up new ways of seeing—and being—Gujarati.

How did this archive come about, and why have you chosen to document book covers specifically? 

Somnath: Last summer, my brother Rameshwar and I  visited the Navjivan Trust to meet our friend, writer, and screenwriter Raam Mori. He gave us a tour of the historic building, which is still active today and hosts a vibrant publishing roster and regular public programming. 

Towards the back of the building, we stepped into the small library of Gujarati books that they carefully host, where Raam showed us the books. As I began to browse, Rameshwar and I were stunned—the cover designs were some of the most interesting I had ever seen. I started taking photos of as many of them as I could. After returning to New York from Ahmedabad, I couldn’t shake the feeling that others might also get the same sense of awe that we did. As a designer, I was deeply moved by the bold and thoughtful choices made by the writers and designers behind these works. What began as a moment of awe slowly evolved into the beginnings of an archive.

I called my brother Rameshwar that night, we made plan of going there once a month and taking simple photos of the front cover, back cover, half-titles, and colophons of these books and share them on an Instagram account we started called Mukhprushth which means a cover in Gujarati.  Rameshwar would go to the library amidst his busy shooting schedule once every month and send me what he would shoot. I would edit, crop, and post these covers. 

How old are the books and are you strict about documenting within a certain time period? Where do you source the books from? 

Somnath: Most of the books we have published so far have been from the Navijav Trust’s library, January of 2024  Rameshwar and I went to the MJ Library and documented some book covers there, Sheetal Bhatt the food writer and food historian on the same trip shared her collection of Gujarati cookbooks from her library, the trusted Internet Archive and Asia Art Archive’s online archive, some of the online audience also sends books from their bookshelves.

How do you perceive the archive? Do you see it as a political tool, a space for knowledge sharing, or a way to preserve Gujarati visual culture/identity?

Rameshwar: Archiving feels like the impetus of a student in search of a teacher, drawn not just to formal instructions but to the essence of their vision, their aesthetic language. It is more like seeking beauty and meaning through discovery than attending structured and predetermined sessions. We never know what we are going to see next, or even feel next. Therefore, the process is devoid of control, only an organic assembly. That is the very delight of relaxation as well as discovery. And of course, I especially love this because it allows me to collaborate with my brother. 

Somnath: Preservation is always the hope, but for me, discovery is the true goal. Ours is by no means comprehensive or exhaustive, but then again, no archive ever truly is. Archives are always a series of gaps. And those very gaps—the unknowns—can become fertile ground for new questions, new connections, and new encounters.

Archives carry with them an aura of discipline and thoroughness, but they’re also the language of institutions, of authority, and often of cultural elitism. I’m not sure most people encounter new ideas through the lens of formal archives or academic research—it can feel inaccessible, even exclusionary. Personally, I have a somewhat fraught relationship with the archive.

Does this work feel urgent to you? And why does it matter to preserve this particular art form? 

Rameshwar: This question reminds me of something my father once told me when I began making films some ten years ago. He said, “Just walk down streets and experience with your keen eye. Because walking down Indian streets is a visual feast.” That has held true throughout my life and creative work. 

I see India as a land of living plurality. There is never just one way—there are always many ways. This has led to a stunning range of visualisations and expressions that I continue to discover, fondly and curiously, every single day.

But I also see that there is so much quietly being lost in India. This isn’t to say that everything must be preserved forever, but one must try to absorb as much as one can before it reshapes itself. I feel a certain quiet anxiety in not knowing, or in other words, not meeting, when a building—or a book—might end up forgotten. As a visual storyteller, the aim isn’t always revival; more often, it’s about capturing the grammar of these forms for inspiration, for lessons, for a deeper understanding, and most importantly, for the delight that it carries. Just like meeting an interesting person feels like!

Somnath:  What struck me most when I first saw these book covers was the realisation that there is a whole lost lineage of type designers, illustrators, and art directors—people who were designing books with the same kind of intent, innovation, tact, and care that we aspire to today. 

As we moved through the collection, book by book, I began noticing small names—often tucked into the edges of covers or hidden in the back pages—marking the designers and typographers behind them: Kanu, Khatri, Pramod, Bansi, Mangal, Soni, Chetak, Prasanna, M.T. Pathan, Shiv Pandya, Ramesh Raval, Thakor Rana, K.K. Hebbar, Adil, Uday, Jay, Rajni, Mahendra, Chandra, M.B. Bhat, and L.D. Parmar, who created wildly experimental, glitchy, even psychedelic covers. Occasionally, we’d come across women designers too, such as Yamini. 

Because book design and illustration have traditionally been treated as trades rather than “fine arts,” I think they’ve often been left out of art historical narratives. Their creators rarely receive any recognition or archival regard as fine artists. 

Discovering these names helped me situate my own practice within a broader lineage of makers. It made me ask: Why did we forget them? Who were they? What were they thinking about? What other work would they have made? What were their lives like—beyond these tiny bylines? 

If book covers give face to a book’s personality, then what has assembling this archive taught you about the personality of Gujarat’s literature? 

Somnath: Gujarati literature has long been avant-garde —not just in its literary forms, but also in its visual culture. The books I’ve encountered span a remarkable range: from memoirs and experimental plays to translations of communist texts, poetry, novels, revolutionary Dalit literature, and historical fiction. 

Equally striking are the visual tactics and formal gestures used in the storytelling of the book covers. Techniques like collage, halftoning, figuration, photo-manipulation, psychedelic motifs, type as image, and abstraction all point to a deep and nuanced awareness of global art and design history and trend —and an intuitive ability to reference and reinterpret it with incredible tact and originality.

Do these book covers unsettle any myths or stereotypes about Gujaratis?

Somnath: Oh yeah, that Gujaratis are only good businessmen. While that may be true, they have been progressive intellectuals, artists and impeccable storytellers. 

Rameshwar: Gujarat has long been an active center of scholastic, political, social, and cultural movements. It has played a pivotal role in shaping progressive ideas and giving momentum to significant revolutions. One striking example we found in our research is how the king of Jamnagar made the Gujarati poet Kant write a poetic rendition of the Iliad in Gujarati and commissioned the painter Lancelot Speed to illustrate this entire poetic volume. This is just one example. The region has not only been a crucible of thought and reform but also a hub of intellectual exchange. The press and printing industry were particularly active, fueling public discourse and amplifying voices that shaped the course of history. Take for example the magazine Kumar or Vrishchik by Gulammohammed Sheikh and Bhupen Khakkar. 

In what ways do the book covers perpetuate existing social norms? 

Somnath: One encounters fascinating attitudes toward women in the covers of Sheetal Bhatt’s collection of old Gujarati cookbooks. These portrayals closely mirror broader cultural norms—women are often shown as contentedly domestic, anchored in the kitchen. What’s particularly interesting is how these covers visually trace the evolution of the Gujarati kitchen itself: from traditional chulha stoves with women seated on the floor, to more modern, Western-style countertop kitchens, complete with pressure cookers and refrigerators in later editions. 

Among the most striking finds is a Gujarati cookbook dedicated entirely to non-vegetarian recipes—a rare and unexpected departure within the traditionally vegetarian culinary landscape of Gujarat.

Most love story book covers  tend to lean into the sentimental: romantic portrayals of a nayaka and nayika under moonlight—the hero playing a flute while the heroine reclines in his lap, scenes drenched in idealism and yearning. Books that delve into love triangles, however, are particularly compelling. They introduce elements of imbalance, betrayal, and mystery, often mirrored in their visual language—through angular compositions, sharp contrasts, and unsettling symbolism.

What I find most intriguing, though, are the abstract covers. These move beyond literal representations of the plot and instead attempt to capture the emotional or thematic essence of the story in non-figurative ways. They offer a more interpretive, layered visual language—one that invites the viewer to feel, rather than just see.

One thing that strikes me as a common aesthetic trend is the fluidity and playfulness of the typography, where do you think this comes from? 

Somnath:I wish I knew more about where it all comes from. So far, the most I’ve been able to learn is about Kanu Desai—an artist, illustrator, and book cover designer whose name appears most frequently when tracing the visual history of Gujarati books.

Originally from Bharuch, Kanu Desai moved to Ahmedabad as a young man and lived with his maternal uncle, who strongly disapproved of his artistic ambitions. Despite this, he pursued his passion in secret—watching Western films at night and sketching characters from the screen, quietly developing his hand and eye.

In his work, you can see a fascinating blend of influences that I speculate are: the fluid elegance of Art Nouveau, the earthy grace of the Ajanta cave paintings, and the subtlety of Japanese aesthetics—all aligning with the Tagorean visual language of the time.

Through assembling this archive, has your own relationship to your Gujarati identity changed? 

Somnath: What strikes me most is the duality of holding tradition in one hand, and a dream of the future in the other—both tender, both true.

How intentional is the release of each Instagram post? Are the posts in dialogue with each other? 
Rameshwar: What I like about everything I do is that I collect and curate through my eyes. Such a triumph of a collection! While I develop a repository of delightful sights and feelings, I learn that time changes everything except something in me which is surprised by change! 

I don’t know about Som, but it is not intentional at all for me. I have not assigned deep meaning to it nor do I wish to derive forced depths out of them. The documentation has been fundamentally based on the sense of “Wah!” (Wonderment) upon my sight. It is as honest as that. When I see a book cover while shifting through hundreds in a rack, certain covers, the assemblage of typography and illustration gives rise to a response of “Wah!” in me. That is when I stop and photograph. It may also be informed by our own aesthetic preferences. I first filter through my taste, then Som’s.

Is there a reason you largely avoid writing captions to explain the historical/social context of each book? 

Rameshwar: Everything points at another thing. There is a universal relatedness that is concealed in every presence and every encounter. Something my grandmother Ela Bhatt  began to call it as “Anubandh”. This beauty of a universal relatedness excited me more than the temporality of its particulars. I can’t speak for my brother, but I often find myself hesitant to assign too much context to something that excites or unsettles me. Sometimes, offering that context can unintentionally narrow the viewer’s own experience or interpretation. What moves me might move them differently—and I’d rather not place boundaries around that possibility. Adding unnecessary restrictive and scholastic baggage may trap the experience or the form of the object in the prosaic world of descriptions. We aim to let our curations unconcealed those rhizomatic networks. 

You invite people to participate in the archive with you by sharing their books. In what ways is this collaborative approach important to you?

Somnath: It is not consciously collaborative but ideas can only get stronger if there are more than one person behind them.  Rameshwar and I feel incredibly fortunate to be part of a uniquely diverse and generous community of collaborators. We would particularly like to thank Vivek Desai of Navjivan trust, Apurva Ashaar, Soham Patel and Raam Mori. 

Rameshwar: It becomes an exchange, almost like bees gathering pollen: the honeycomb holds the best of the forest, and each “best” is the finest curation of a particular flower. By opening the assemblage to others, I delight in roaming the forest with fellow bees and rejoice! (a subtle wink).