2017's Reading Journey and More.

“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.” 

― J.D. Salinger

2017 is a year of great reading. In spite of having an extremely productive year, I've read 125 books. I've done more meaningful writing at work and otherwise, traveled, and published a book. I've widened my horizon and picked less discovered books, writers I haven't read, and went back to the ones that are close to my heart.

I stumbled upon Hanif Kureishi's 'Intimacy' at a second-hand bookstore and carried it home fondly. Only to lose it, two days and fifty pages later. But those pages were enough to make me buy another copy overnight. Scaachi Koul's 'One Day We'll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter' was a part of my latest sojourn. I've keenly followed Scaachi's writing on Buzzfeed and elsewhere, and find her writing humourous. In this book, she talks about racism, immigration, sexism, and more while maintaining her usual tone of hilarity. 

Although Vikram Seth is one of my favourite writers, I've hardly read his poetry, but this year, I've checked it off the list. 'All You Who Sleep Tonight is something that pulled me through rough nights. So did Sarah Kay's No Matter the Wreckage. 

As a child, ‘The Little Prince’ was a valued treasure. Even as a grown-up, I go back to it time and again. When I knew that he was returning as a young prince, I was thrilled. The Return of the Young Prince is also a thought-provoking and delightful short read that bears relevance at this time, especially to millennials. 

The thing about diverse reading is that it exposes you to great literature - the unputdownable ones, but also the colossal bores. When I was younger, I often forced myself to finish a book even if I didn't like it much, but now I realize life's too short to read something you don't enjoy. However, the introduction to the works of writers like Nassim Nicholas Taleb, Kurt Vonnegut, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Simone De Beauvoir has been enriching. I've ended my reading for the year with Tania James, a wonderful storyteller whose short-stories have me unfathomably hooked, and James Frey, whose detail about his time in the rehab filled me with wonder. And of course, there was also a great deal of Murakami and Ruskin Bond, along with a few graphic novels and comics. 

2018 is certainly going to be different and far better. I intend to read only 50 books; I know it sounds funny but I've spent more than two nights researching lesser-known books and writers to create a list which consists of some classics like Watchmen, Vanity Fair etc. Right from Noir fiction to Nordic literature, graphic novels to more poetry, there is a plenty of fantastic reading to look forward to in 2018. 

If you have any book suggestions or think I should read a particular writer, I'd love to hear! 

To take a look at what I've read in 2017, go here:

https://www.goodreads.com/user_challenges/7343804

My book ‘Warm Delinquencies’ is available on Amazon for worldwide shipping. You can order it here: http://bit.ly/2gnn6j9.

Monday Morning.

There was nothing enticing about this Monday morning. I wore my usual black pants with a white shirt. I applied my usual mascara and tangerine coloured lipstick. I picked my usual coffee and newspaper from the local cafe before proceeding towards the station to board a metro to my workplace. It was yet another mundane Monday morning and I was definitely not looking forward to it.

As I was waiting for a friend to join me at the station, I noticed a man sitting on a bench. He was rummaging through the contents of his bag as he muttered something incoherent. There was something awfully plain about him. Something awfully regular. I spent more seconds gazing at him as he finally fished a paperback out of his bag. He carefully plucked his spectacles from the inner pockets of his bag and drifted into his own world of reading. He was probably unaware of my presence, of people walking around him, of the man selling tea behind him, of vagrants collecting stray pieces of paper near his feet. He was oblivious to the arrival and departure of trains as I was oblivious to everything around me. Not very often you come across someone who pulls you into their world at the very first sight. Not because they have exotic coloured eyes or great hair. It is mostly because they are your own flavour of people.

I wished I could talk to him, though. It would have been brilliant, wouldn’t it? To forego the responsibilities of work and walk to the closest coffee shop with him. We’d eat breakfast and talk about how much I loved Woody Allen movies while he’d tell me how he did not like a particular movie of his. We’d order more cups of coffee while he’d excuse himself to smoke. He’d come back to rekindle forgotten memories and lost conversations; we’d talk about our first loves and first jobs. And when we’d walk out of the coffee shop, it’s a little late in the day and we’d decide to watch a movie. In the darkness of the movie hall, I’d look at his otherwise imperfect features in awe while he’d run his fingers on my wrist sending tingles down my spine. We’d look at each other in the darkness like we’ve known each other for days. I am afraid, for years! In the evening, we’d spend hours on my balcony staring at the sunset while sharing crammed secrets. He would tell me about the girl that broke his heart brutally while I’d tell him about the painful death of my pet.

It wouldn't have been perfect but it would have been something.

My reverie of thoughts was easily broken with a tap on my shoulder. My friend was here and it was time for us to leave. The awfully plain yet the perfect guy was not to be seen anywhere. He must have left when I was tirelessly concocting stories in my head.

As I boarded the metro with my friend, I told her, “I saw the perfect guy for me.”

“And?”

“I should have told him a hi, ” I sighed.

But some stories were only meant to live in our head while I was meant to ruin my life with some more Excel sheets today.

A Room Without Windows.

I once asked for a room of my own.

Several months and appeals later, I got one.

But with no windows.

As a person fond of windows, I found this deplorable.

Confined to the four walls of the room with a shelf full of books and a painting of a mountain on the wall, I began to make conversations with words on blank sheets and stories inside books with slightly torn pages.

I fell in love with words and together, we realized that we had stories to tell and hearts to win.

It was in this little room I grew familiar with Elizabeth Bennet and her love for Darcy.

Here, I discovered Shelley and her Frankenstein and grew weary of the mysterious things the world held in itself.

The adventures were many, but I was a lover of windows and longed for a room with one.

And when I got one, I rejoiced!

I was no longer a prisoner of my thoughts and imagination.

Now, I had visitors in the form of pigeons and neighbours who took long morning walks.

I began noticing the tasks of the watchmen in the night, and slowly fell into the regular pattern of life.

I grew weary again, and this time, it wasn't short lived.

I wondered if this was what life was all about? Mornings and nights, noons and evenings withheld probably nothing that the stories I read offered.

Horrified with the banal reality of life, I wanted to run back to the room with no windows.

Where I went fishing with Tom Sawyer and pictured the view of River Thames in the words of Pip.

It was here that I wrote alongside Ruskin Bond and the likes because they were my only windows to the world I desperately wanted to belong.

But like words, there was a lot in life, that once said and done, had no going back.

Meant to Be.

He sat across her in the coffee shop in a bookstore.

No one really knew what came first - the coffee shop or the bookstore.

Blissfully ignorant of the great world around him, he gulped down rounds of mojitos while mocking her love for books.

The world around him slowly transformed.

They parted ways.

She turned cold. And he, a stranger.

She moved across the world and found a new coffee shop with no bookstore.

He wandered off to a land where no one really valued books. Just like him.

Things evolved. People metamorphosed.

But the bookstore and the coffee shop still stood beside each other.

Years later, unmoved even by the biggest tribulations and renewals around them.

Some things are just meant to be, aren't they?

Writing Our Stories.

In my last post, I've said that I've read two amazing books last week and that I would write about them.

I’ve read Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert and If You Feel Too Much by Jamie Tworkowski. The overly sensitive person that I am, I ended up shedding a tear or two while reading both the books. The books were so truthful that I could not help talking about them all the week. Every person I met and everywhere I went, I talked about these books.

I love Elizabeth Gilbert. Call it serendipity or my idea to feel better, I have always read her when I was hitting rock bottom. I remember reading Eat, Pray, Love when I was in college, but it was just a good book. A book that I liked and that was all about it. But the first time I ever had a major breakdown, I picked Eat, Pray, Love again. This time it wasn't just a good book, it was a voice that was talking to me, reminding me that there is hope. I read it once. Twice. I felt better. I watched her TED talks and I read more though I still haven't finished reading The Signature of All Things. When I got to know about Big Magic, I knew I had to read it. Funnily, I read it when I was going through another breakdown, and this time, it was liberating. I read it on my way to work, and I read it before I fell asleep. I read it during breaks, and I read it at every opportunity I could find. I understood it. Loved it. Talked about it. And secretly, I found my lost courage from it.

You know there are instances when you find mentors just around you. And sometimes you don't. Sometimes they are in your city. Sometimes you meet them every day. In my case, it is different. In spite of the miles of distance between Hyderabad and New Jersey, Elizabeth is my mentor, though she is absolutely unaware of existence.

Thank you for writing this book, Elizabeth! I needed it. Just the way I needed Eat, Pray, Love. I've learned so much from it and I know there is so much more to learn. I will live my life with stubborn gladness and it is a promise I've made to myself this year.

---

Jamie Tworkowski's If You Feel Too Much has made me realize that there are people like me. That there are people who waltz their way through pain and emerge stronger. That there are people who never give up despite what happens to them. That people struggle and fight.

I have been following 'To Write Love on Her Arms' for a quite bit of time now and I honestly believe that what Jamie has been doing for people is wonderful. When someone told me that Jamie wrote a book and that I must read it, I was a little apprehensive. I thought I did not need a book that would make me sad. Funnily again, this book was anything but sad. It has beautiful stories and every story teaches you something.

Jamie has always been a strong advocate of urging people to not to give up on their story. And this is amazing because we are all carrying so many stories inside us but we either give up or never talk about them. It is time we do. It is time we write our own stories. Live our own stories.

P.S. Elizabeth Gilbert, you rock my world.

On Turning 24!

“Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life.”

― Mark Twain

It has been six days since I turned 24. Neither do I feel older nor have I turned wiser.

When I was a child, I assumed being 24 was all about having the freedom to eat chunks of chocolate cake at midnight. At 24, I totally know that it is not about eating cake.

I guess it has never really been about the cake.

On the verge of sounding almost cynical and lame, I tried figuring out what I really wanted to do in my life. Aren't birthdays just a reminder to take a solid resolution every year?

Let me tell you about my visit to a local bookstore with my mother. 

The man at the bookstore, who owns and runs the place greeted my mother with the books of her favourite writers. It was strange how he remembered the names of writers and their books at his fingertips. He spoke about Ernest Hemingway as if he saw him writing The Sun Also Rises; he talked about Stephen King as if he confided in him. He talked about Rilke and his ever famous letters like he had one of the letters. He spoke about stories and poems--stories that talked about death and poems that reminded him of his childhood. He spoke about it all with a spark in his eye while I stood there, listening to him in awe. I never imagined a person who might turn 60 in a year or two would see the world by simply sitting in the corner of a quaint bookstore. I never imagined someone would tell me so many beautiful things about the writers I loved.

On my way back home, I figured what I really wanted. 

I wanted someone to talk about my words as if they were written for them, I wanted someone to remember my sentences that flow irrationally in different directions with a glint in their eye. It does not matter even if it was just one person.

But I want that. And how do I do that?

Yes, now it all comes down to one thing - Do more. Write more.

This birthday resolution, honestly, is a part of me being selfish. I will talk more about the resolution soon.

***

This birthday has been quite eventful. I have celebrated it for three days. (I know. I allow you all to take a minute to roll your eyes.) I am overwhelmed with the amount of love and warmth I have received not just from my family and friends, but from strangers and my blog readers too. You all add beauty to my chaos.

I have received a lot of beautiful presents but one thing that has moved me immensely was a letter from my best friend. Thanks a lot for such a beautiful letter, Asisha! You have made my birthday special in many million ways.

That’s what friends do, don’t they? They make their presence and words felt even when we are engulfed with silence and isolation.

And then, there are the other friends who are equally lovely and push me towards taking control of my happiness, and urging me to be wise about choosing the right people and right things. And then, there are more friends who make me appreciate the beauty of the endless sky and sparkling stars.

Thanks a lot for making my birthday wonderful. This post might be a blend of a lot of incoherent thoughts running wild in my head. But my affection and thoughts for you are not incoherent.

As I end this post, let me tell you another thing. Turning 24 is not that bad. I imagined it would be worse when I turned 23.

Looks like it can only get better from here. Good night, everyone!

P.S. I look forward to a similar kind of love and pamper on other days too. Feel free to do so!

Bookstores & Libraries: Their Stories and Enigma!

“I didn't go to bookshops to buy. That's a little bourgeois. I went because they were civilized places. It made me happy there were people who sat down and wrote and wrote and wrote and there were other people who devoted their lives to making those words into books. It was lovely. Like standing in the middle of civilization.” 

― Jerry Pinto, Em and The Big Hoom

A quaint little bookstore, shelves stacked with a diverse range of books, the musty aroma of the wooden lofts, and more books scaling till the roof. Paradise!

Surely, the storekeeper was old, but he seemed to remember the names of the writers on his fingertips.

He was well versed with what they wrote, and the ones that were good.

Conversations with him were lucid, but strangely unusual. He spoke from the experience that came along with the company of books and words. An experience any reader would lust for!

Again, I felt like a child. I knew this is exactly how I felt when I stepped into a library for the first time ever. 

Don't you feel like an entirely different person altogether when you are in a bookstore? Or for that matter, a library?

And let us not forget those nostalgic second hand bookstores where you find books with dry leaves and roses, feathers, notes written by a mother to her son etc.

After buying a bunch of books and comics from the bookstore, my mother and I, we went home in glee. I believe we cannot buy this glee on Amazon or Flipkart.

The whole emotion of touching the books, reading their summary, and purchasing one right away with the anticipation of unleashing its mystery after you go home is absolutely lost each time you purchase a book online.

No, I am serious. I have got nothing against the online stores. I practically live on Amazon.

However, let us consider this scenario too. We go to a bookstore on a whim. (Yes, these days buying books from an online store or going to a library has mostly turned into a whim for 90% of us.) We walk from one shelf to another; we touch one book to another waiting to find that one book that would turn into our favourite for the next 5 years. 

We look for that one book that will end up being a major part of our memories.

In this process, we also reunite with books that have made our childhoods lovely. We do not go home with one book, but with three more books that the librarian or the storekeeper suggests us.

We fall in love with more writers and their words accidentally. 

We explore. We discover.

******

Come 2020, I am not sure if people will still visit libraries and bookstores. Utterly sad, I know. But I don't know. We are so dependent on the Internet. To top it all, rumours like "No bright future for libraries and print versions of books" because of tablets and ereaders is even depressing.

As a child, I still remember going to a library every evening with my mother. It was a ritual she never missed. And I made sure I was a part of it. Even today, my mother purchases books from the local stores instead of relying on the online stores. So does my father.  Taking the cue from them, I have firmly decided that I would purchase books from bookstores only. 

I am quite obstinate about it.

Let me tell you this. Libraries and bookstores are magical. You will never know what stories they hold high up their chest unless you visit them. Walk up to your closest bookstore or library, and fall in love with a world that will cast a spell on you forever.

We cannot let libraries and bookstores go extinct only because we refuse to visit them. 

As long as human race exists, stories and storytellers will thrive. While we are at it, we might as well give our next generation of individuals a fine experience of being in a library than learn about them on their iPad.

That Summer Farewell: A Short Story

Picture Source: Kelly Redinger Photography

“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.” 
― F. Scott Fitzgerald

One summer, I decided to visit my grandparents' town as I was entering my third year of college, and I knew I would find no time to spend time with my dear ones for the next few years. I packed a few essentials, clothes, a walkman, and a gameboy, and reached the town after an overnight journey. It was those remarkable days where life beyond Facebook existed, when long letters were sent to friends during vacations, when pocket money was spent on buying music cassettes, and greeting cards from Archies Gallery; when life was simple yet beautiful.

A week passed and it almost felt like time was haunting me. Every minute was spent counting seconds. I had nothing to do, but gorge on the delicious meals and sweets my grandmother made-her culinary skills were exceptional, something my mother inherited, thankfully. One evening, I decided to walk around the streets and explore the town, I walked aimlessly, noticing every tiny detail. The bougainvillea trees, the stray puppies, people sitting in their courtyards, and children playing cricket in the streets. I followed this ordeal, every evening, for the next five days. But that evening, I decided to take a different route. 

It was just two streets away from my home when I came across a library. I wasn't much of a reader, nevertheless, I decided to go in and read some magazines as I had nothing useful to do. Unfortunately, the library too, was scarcely occupied with any magazines I read. However, I took a copy of India Today, and sat down in the corner.

Little did I know I was in for some surprises! 

I was skimming through the pages of India Today, reading various topics ranging from how Shiv Sena came to power in Maharashtra, and how Bombay became Mumbai to the reviews on Mani Ratnam's Bombay, that hit the screens. This place too didn't interest me and as I was ready to leave, I saw her--she sat right in front of me, she was immersed in a book that looked pretty huge, she smiled often-maybe the lines were funny, I assumed. She was dressed in white, and had spectacles that were a tad bit huge on her otherwise tiny face. She looked delicate with a tiny mole above her lips. She was in a different world, altogether, oblivious of her beauty, and the world around her. I knew I would not be leaving anytime soon. So, I sat there pretending to read the magazine, under the pretext of stealing glances at her. As she left, I took a library membership, for I knew where I would spend my evenings hereafter.

The next evening, I reached the library by 4 P.M, and noticed she had already reached. She occupied the same place; devouring her books like a hungry reader. I have never read books, really, and I could not fathom why anyone would read so much. I had no time for Fiction, I was on my way to become a man of medicine, and I always believed Fiction was for women. Such a stereotypical brat I was! But each time, I saw her laughing, or smiling while reading, or at moments, when her forehead creased, and she wiped her tears, secretly hoping no one noticed her, I wished I too read like her, to have been lost in the world where she was building her own. I craved to be a part of it. 

While I cannot give you the details of all the moments, I know for a reason that only God knew how many evenings I have spent that way, trying to initiate conversations, or pass her notes that I have written back home, hoping she would follow me to the end of the Earth. I was forlorn and lost in eternal damnation--love. I made long STD calls to my friends, explaining them every minute detail of the time spent in the library while they took playful jibes at me.

I was in love, and I let the world know it.

I've passed the entire May just staring at her. June arrived like a whirlwind, and I summed up all my courage to talk to her. With a week left for my return, I did not want to waste my time any longer. That day, I reached the library a little earlier than the usual, picked a magazine, and settled down. The vastness of the library, the fading paint, the lamp shades that looked quite ancient, boasted of the timelessness of the place. How many tales of love does this library hold, I mused to myself, when I saw her walk into the library. She went straight to the massive book shelves, and for a change, she picked a book that didn't belong to the Victorian era. She chose John Grisham's The Rainmaker--a bestseller according to my magazine, and settled down. She looked up, and smiled at me. 

I was overwhelmed with joy and wanted to take a quick backflip. Lost in unduly happiness and bliss, I forgot smiling back at her. I was an utter idiot. A wasted opportunity, I sighed. But, I was wise enough not to pass those notes to her. "You do not pass notes of gushing love to a stranger," my elder sister warned me over one of the phone calls. I sat dumbfounded, looking at her, with an unrestrained smile. Unsuccessful at my attempt of striking a conversation, I walked home rather morosely with a disheartened expression written large over my face.

That night, I paid no heed to my sister's warning, or my friends' baseless suggestions, I tore a sheet from my notepad, and wrote down:

"Summer love, lingering thoughts, anxious nights! Let the Monsoon hold a different charm, with your words." 

Instead of sleeping in peace, I had an inanely restless night tossing and turning in bed, disturbing my grandfather's sleep, inviting snideful remarks from him. I counted minutes all through the day, and ran to the library in the evening, and saw her seated in the place. She wore a red skirt that reached her ankles, and a white top. Her hair was tied up high, and needless to mention, she was lost in her book. I sat across her than she looked up at me. This time, my smile didn't falter, I grinned like a fool, and she returned it back. I looked around just to make sure no one was around us. The library was barely populated, I sighed in relief, and looked at her, not wanting to drag any unwanted attention, I slid the note in the magazine, and passed it to her. 

"Page no. 17," I whispered, and looked at her intently. She looked at the note, and pursed her lips and looked straight at me. Oh no, the last thing I wanted was to get thrown out of this place. But, to my utter shock, she burst out laughing, attracting a lot of attraction. Obviously, the large bills with "silence" written all over them made no sense anymore.

She passed me back the magazine with the note that read, "Words have always been my forte!"

Let us just say that, my joy knew no bounds. I wasn't a man of adjectives. 

The next five days passed exchanging more notes--I've learned that she was studying Literature in a local university, she loved Ruskin Bond, and old Telugu movies; she laughed loud, and cried when her fictional heroes died. There was more to her than what she showed. The ritual of passing notes, having coffee at a roadside stall pretending to be two absolute strangers, walking behind her till she reached home every night happened every day. I spent my nights writing poems and love notes to her--which were totally senseless, but she loved all of them. I loved how she smiled warmly at me. Her letters were always better, and I felt a tinge of guilt to feed her my stupid ones. I preserved all her notes and letters in my bag, and read them time and again. My phone calls to my friends and sister ceased; I dedicated all my time just to her, and gave her flowers every day. Never in my life, I anticipated I'd fall in love. But I did, and it was such a steep fall that I knew there was no return back.

It was time; I had to return to my hostel already. You have no idea how badly I wished the moments to cease. I had no liberty to stretch my vacation. I was studying medicine; and it wasn't a joke, right?

On our last meeting, we sat across each other; silence engulfed us. We looked at each other, and smiled occasionally, but the image of staying away from her tore every fiber of my body. We know we would write to each other, and make those occasional phone calls, but we also knew the repercussions. 

I could vividly remember that meeting--still fresh in my head, the library, her gloomy face, the large wall clock, the books on the table, my sweaty palms, her kohl lined eyes.

***

To be continued....

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Book Review

“All this, all of this love we're talking about, it would just be a memory. Maybe not even a memory. Am I wrong? Am I way off base? Because I want you to set me straight if you think I'm wrong. I want to know. I mean, I don't know anything, and I'm the first one to admit it.” 

― Raymond Carver

I am really fed up. Fed up of these moronic hundred something fiction books, and the self-proclaimed Mythology books that butcher Mythology in many million ways. 

You might call me a mean person, but I had a tough time rummaging through book stores for decent Literature. (Of course, you always have the Classics and the Austen, but I was craving for a new writer.)

Like a spot of sunshine in dramatic moments, my brother sent me Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love for my birthday. 

I have always wanted to read Raymond Carver but never got around to reading his books. Now that I have read two of his books, I absolutely love his work. 

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love is a collection of short stories. There is something utterly mysterious about these stories - stories that are poignant yet surreal. This collection is all about people without any education, logic or imagination whose lives revolve around depression, hatred, tender emotions, alcoholism, and love. 

And love is love, isn't it? Educated or not, imaginative or all, we all are intoxicated by that emotion that makes or breaks our world. 

The stories that were stuck in my head after reading are:

1. Everything Stuck to Him: Our parents always have a version of stories of our childhood. In this story, a father tells her young daughter how life was for everyone when she was a child.

2. Popular Mechanics: I could not stop imagining this story in my head. Bits and pieces, shreds and patches, this story left a huge impact on me for a day or two.

A couple has a conflict; the man packs his suitcase to leave; the woman swears and yells at him; and their baby is crying. They both want the baby and enter into a tug-of-war but the story ends with an ambiguity. The couple end up staying together.

It is a beautiful story and as you read it, you can vividly picture every scene in your mind.

But it is the final story that takes the hot cake. What We Talk About When We Talk About Love is the final story that talks about four friends who sit with around a bucket of ice with a bottle of gin inside it. They talk about love, and who doesn't want to know what we talk about when we talk about love?

This story (and the book) ends with these lovely lines that struck a chord with me:

"I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark."

It is strange how some books become an integral part of your life, the characters that haunt you, the stories that make you curious about the writer. This book will always remain as one of the best books I have read because I met this book as a dear friend when I was looking for a relief.

You can buy the book here:

• ISBN-10: 0679723056
• ISBN-13: 978-0679723059
• Paperback: 176 pages
• Publisher: Vintage; Vintage Books ed edition (18 June 1989)
• Buy it here: http://www.amazon.in/What-Talk-About-When-Love/dp/0679723056

Five Books That Will Change Your Life's Perspective

“People don’t realize how a man’s whole life can be changed by one book.”

  -Malcolm X

This was one statement my English lecturer quoted very often and back then in school, it just made me roll my eyes. I mean, how in the world would reading a book change your perspective towards life? And that was when he gave me a copy of Charles Dickens’ The Great Expectations and ever since that day, I have read that book five times. I do not believe in reading a good book once and shoving it inside my shelf. A beautiful book can never turn obsolete, isn’t it? I am a voracious reader, and I love reading books that belong to different genres, and recently, I have read few books that have changed my perspective towards life, and I believe they would have impacted many readers out there. *Drumroll*

And here is the list:

 Eat, Pray, Love-Elizabeth Gilbert: One day, I was browsing when I saw a quote, “Stop wearing your wishbone where your backbone ought to be”, which made me read this book. And of course, Julia Roberts. Eat, Pray, Love is a story of a woman, her trepidations, her relationships, spirituality, traveling, depression etc. Elizabeth is a very successful woman with a healthy marital life, however, instead of being happy, she was plainly discontent. She leaves behind everything and goes in search of peace, travels to Bali, Paris, India and discovers her true self. What this book teaches us is when we find what we love, and do what we want, everything falls in place.

To Kill A Mockingbird-Harper Lee: To kill a Mockingbird is a genius book, and genius is still an understatement. It won the Pulitzer Prize, and you get a fresh perspective towards life each time you read it. So what is so special about this 1960s book that has never gone out of print? It is still one of the highly read best-sellers. This book talks about love and hatred, compassion, humour and emotions, kindness and severity. Like I already said, this book gives you a fresh and a different perspective towards life every time you read it.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower-Stephen Chbosky: This is a very contemporary book that most of the youngsters relate themselves with. This is a story of Charlie, a teenager who is caught between trying to live his life and running away from it. An intelligent, shy, socially awkward kid that he is, he wants to be a writer when he grows up. He tries to participate in activities, makes new friends, reads good books, makes mix tapes, and has his share of dates, family relationships etc. He is deeply affected with his Aunt Helen and best friend’s death and has a tough time dealing with them. This is such a beautiful book and makes you go hopeful about everything.

Fight Club-Chuck Palahniuk: Now, this book is way beyond epic! This book is a story of a man who has lost himself in the world filled with failure, lies, and unhappiness. He finds comfort in secret underground fight clubs that are held after wee hours. A brilliant book that deals with western consumerism, failure, dark humour. This book, later, was made into a movie with Brad Pitt and Edward Norton in the lead. It is one of the best movies ever.

A Calendar Too Crowded-Sagarika Chakraborty: When it comes to writing, our Indian writers are no less. I have read this book when I interviewed this writer for a magazine. Oh, she is wonderful woman, a graduate from NLU and ISB, and it is quite amazing to see how grounded she is in spite of all her achievements. This thought-provoking book is a collection of poignant stories and moving poems which does not just make you think but also helps you to learn few important dates in the calendar of the life of a woman. The stories/poems in this book are classified into twelve months. Basically, the book revolves around womanhood and it showcases the miseries faced by women. Also, the book has a strong influence of Indian Mythology. This is a highly recommended book.