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.

Impatient Reader.

It was around midnight when I had the urge to finish the book I started in the morning,

on a bumpy cab ride, I opened the first page to mark it with my name,

the ride made my name look illegible,

a little less elegant, a little less cursive,

the words, as I discovered, were everything that my handwriting at the moment wasn't,

they were elegant,

full of life and what one could call, soul wrenching and thought-provoking,

my delight of discovering a new writer and the romance with his words came to an abrupt halt as I reached work,

after making a mental note of spending a sleepless night to finish it, I resumed my activities,

that midnight, however, was a different tale altogether,

a book I procured so carefully from a second-hand bookstore was nowhere to be seen,

scouring the bags, rooms and areas under the bed yielded no favourable result,

with disappointment writ large on my face, I took to venting out on all mediums I could find,

no amount of coaxing from my fellow readers eased me as I subjected my brain to a great deal of ridicule,

its forgetfulness, recklessness and the mere ability to leave a book in the cab was unforgivable,

but as my plight worsened, I ordered another copy of the book and decided to endure the long wait of seven days,

7 sunrises, 6 sunsets, I calculated, didn't seem long as I imagined engulfing myself in the words of that writer,

so right now, I have a new friend coming my way, sunshine in my pocket, and the thought of living and breathing new words,

I am an impatient reader again.

Respite.

(Originally written for Paragraph.)

On a walk that deemed unfit for a cold winter night, he set off in a direction he never took before. The soles of his shoes were barely firm to protect his feet, but the condition of his windcheater was even worse. The streets were desolate as he paused under every streetlight before he moved any further and the wild wind did no good to his chapped cheeks. For a moment, he wondered if he was going in circles agonizing over the only shelter he left behind. Having no option left and no human in sight, he ran, engulfing himself in darkness and cold. He came to a halt when he saw a distant light. Catching his breath and senses, he approached the light. When he came close, he noticed that it was an all-night library. Glad to have found a roof for the night, he went in to find himself surrounded by large bookshelves and his long-lost lofty dreams. Life and blood rushed back to his cheeks as he held the hardcovers and inhaled the scent of the paperbacks. Maybe the world of fiction did more to the homeless than reality.

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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.

Mindless Thoughts.

I just cannot tell you how I spend many nights staring at my bookshelves. I have so much to say and so many stories to tell. But the words that my mind is carefully churning do not reach the tips of my fingers. It's on these nights, I particularly wonder if I can write only when my life breaks into tiny chunks and vanishes into nothingness. There are nights and then, there are these nights. When it is raining so beautifully outside my window and I sit inside, staring at the things around me wondering if I can muster some sentences that make sense or sound warm. I stop listening to music, I stop reading and only pay attention to the raindrops creating a slow pattern of music that I go on and on to.

It's on nights like these that I think what am I going to do if I wake up one morning and fail to put words to paper?

Share Your Life With Someone Who Is Worth Your Sundays!

“Sitting with her on Sunday evening — a wet Sunday evening — the very time of all others when if a friend is at hand the heart must be opened, and every thing told…” 

― Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

What can be more beautiful than a Sunday morning? 

As the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through my house, I listen to my parents softly chatting about Indian politics and Literature, I know my Sunday has begun already, in the same old fashion, that has been prevalent for the past 22 years. I walk into the balcony, and enjoy the soothing music in the background. The unexpected rain makes your sunday even better. 

A Sunday is like a breath of fresh air.  You know it.

In the past 22 years, I recollect very few instances where I was rather forced to spend my Sundays without my family. To me, my sundays are strictly restricted to my family. This is a really funny unwritten law that my father passed on to me and my sister, and we love following it. Happily! I tend to spend my sundays reading, writing, watching Telugu classics, and sometimes, discussing about Indian mythology and Literature with my mother. We have been taught that a sunday is a pure indulgence. It is supposed to be spent doing things you love the most-talking to your family, dining with your family, and reading comics. I remember receiving a Tinkle or Tintin comic every sunday as a child.

Sometimes, all you need is a laid-back Sunday. You know it.

It is a rather established fact that every family spends sundays in a certain fashion. You know, some families spend their sundays watching movies, plays, and some spend with their extended family, some clean their house together, and of course, there are many more that are on the list. 

In this hectic lifestyle, a sunday is an only day where a family does all the things. Together. I mean it. Literally. It is one of the few days, where I see my sister and my parents doing a lot of things together. It is happiness and we all know it.

Now, most of us must be wondering why one should share their life with someone with whom they want to spend their sundays. Because sundays are a boon. They define you, they define the goofy things you do and a lot more. A sunday is like an ice-cream that is savoured every moment, and the person you share your life with should be the one who can be your partner in crime, on a lazy sunday. You, in every way, should be able to imagine yourself with your partner, sitting on a couch, reading a book, or watching a movie on a sunday, 5-10 years down the line. That is a sheer bliss, right?

And you know you should spend your life with that person because you are ready to sacrifice that one exotic day of your week on that person. It is so simple, right? Like the person fits in there, like an addition to your family, to your life, to your sunday. 

When you find that one person who makes your blissful sunday even better, just the way a cup of strong coffee makes a rainy day better, your life automatically turns beautiful in more than just one way.

You know it.

So, why don't you go make your sundays better?