Some books arrive in your life like a loud motivational speaker with a mic that’s a notch too high. Others slip in quietly, pull out a chair, order cutting chai, and say, “Listen, try this one small thing today.” One Habit a Day belongs firmly to the second category.   I remember reading it late one evening, phone on silent, the house finally exhaling after a long day. No dramatic before-and-after promises. No “change your life by tomorrow” bravado. Just a steady, calm voice

I finished Tumhari Aarshi late in the evening, phone face down on the bed, the room lit by a single tube light that had begun to hum faintly. I remember my shoulders were slightly raised, as if I had been bracing myself without knowing why. When I closed the book, I didn’t move at once. Not because something had struck me dramatically—but because something had quietly refused to leave.   There was a pause. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention.   This book did not arrive lo

There are some characters we inherit, not choose.   Their meanings are handed to us early, wrapped in certainty, repeated until curiosity feels unnecessary. Ravan arrived in my life that way — already concluded, already named, already sealed. Evil was not something to be examined; it was something to be defeated. The story had taught me where to stand long before I knew how to ask why.   So when I picked up this book, I didn’t do so with reverence or rebellion. I came carryin

I closed the book in the late afternoon, when the house had begun to sound hollow again. The kind of quiet that arrives after lunch, when even the ceiling fan seems to turn more slowly. My legs were stretched out. One foot rested against the table leg without thinking. For a few seconds, I didn’t move. Not because I was overwhelmed—but because I felt oddly relocated.   As if I had returned from somewhere nearby that I’d never actually visited.   This book didn’t behave like h

I was lying on my side when I finished it.   Not the dignified, upright posture of a “serious reader.” Just me, the phone slipping slightly in my hand, one knee drawn up, the fan making that familiar uneven sound it makes when it’s been on too long. Evening had already crossed into night. My first thought wasn’t insight. It was quieter.   So this is why my days feel unfinished.   I didn’t think of time. I thought of energy. Specifically, where mine had been leaking without my

I remember noticing my hands first.   They were still holding the book, long after the sentence had ended. Not gripping it. Just resting there, as if letting go would mean admitting the moment was over. The room had begun to dim in that slow, undecided way evenings do—neither day nor night, just tired of choosing. I was slouched, slightly crooked, aware that my body had been still for too long. The first thought that came wasn’t articulate. It was simpler.   I’ve been rushing

I didn’t open this book looking for courage. I opened it expecting information.   What I found instead was a quiet lineage of bravery—lives lived when there were no safety nets, no hashtags, no reassuring headlines saying things will get better. Over The Rainbow: India’s Queer Heroes doesn’t rush at you with noise. It walks beside you, calmly, carrying stories that were never meant to be erased, only ignored.   Edited by Aditya Tiwari, this anthology brings together nineteen

Some books don’t begin when you open them. They begin much earlier—in the life you are already living.   Small Actions, Big Results: 31 Habits for a Supercharged Life began for me somewhere between an early-morning routine I try hard not to skip, a basketball court that still teaches me discipline at forty-plus, a reading habit that once turned into a world record, and the quiet inheritance of values my father left behind—without ever calling them habits.   I rarely pick up s

Some books don’t begin when you open them.   They begin much earlier— in the quiet fears you carry about love, in the endings you never got to choose, in the stories you were forced to leave unfinished.   The Things We Leave Unfinished met me exactly there.   I picked this book up with assumptions. I’ll admit that upfront. I thought I was walking into a glossy, trope-heavy romance—something indulgent, dramatic, maybe even forgettable. Instead, Rebecca Yarros quietly dismantle

Some books don’t wait politely for your attention — they kick the door open and sweep you into another world before you even realize you’ve crossed a threshold. Circle of Days by Ken Follett did that to me. I wasn’t prepared. One moment I was sinking into my sofa after a long day, absently flipping pages just to unwind, and the next, I was standing barefoot on the Great Plain of prehistoric Britain, tasting dust in the air and feeling the raw ache of ambition and conflict pre

What does it mean to race against time—not metaphorically, not poetically, but in the brutal, breath-snatching, pulse-in-your-throat way where every second could save a life or end one? I asked myself that question somewhere around 2 a.m., sitting alone with a cup of ginger tea gone cold, unable to put Jeffrey Archer’s End Game down. It’s funny how books sometimes choose their own reading conditions: silence outside, a faint hum of the ceiling fan, and a story that refuses to

I didn’t pick up The Art of Focus on a calm morning with incense burning and soothing flute music in the background — although that might have made me look more aligned with the title. Instead, I opened it on a messy weekday evening, surrounded by half-finished tasks, buzzing phone notifications, and a mind that felt like 37 browser tabs open at once. Ironically, I reached for a book about focus while being the least focused version of myself.   And maybe that’s exactly why t

There are some books you don’t read — they read you. They peel you open like an orange, sting the soft inner parts you thought you’d hidden well, and leave you sitting in silence long after the final page has closed. The Bell Jar is that kind of book. I picked it up on a tired Tuesday night, expecting a literary classic with polite gloom, maybe a sprinkle of poetic sadness. Instead, it dragged me by the collar straight into the suffocating hush of a mind unravelling — and I’m

Some books don’t knock gently. They kick the door open, drag a chair into the centre of your life, and say, “Sit. We need to talk about the dream you keep postponing.” The Storypreneur’s Playbook: Fifteen Inspiring Stories to Unleash the Entrepreneur in You by Prateek Roy Chowdhury and Nitin Babel is exactly that kind of book — the kind that arrives like a storm and leaves as quiet clarity.   To be honest, I first heard about this book from a close entrepreneur friend — a wom

There are books you read with a cup of tea in hand, letting the warmth seep into your palms while the pages gently turn. And then there are books that snatch the cup right out of your grasp, sending it crashing to the floor because—what just happened? The Mussoorie Murders by Divyaroop Bhatnagar did exactly that to me. I opened it expecting a quiet weekend read. Instead, I found myself wide awake past midnight, staring at the ceiling, replaying clues like a detective who refu

There are books you read. And then there are books that read you. I wasn’t expecting that kind of encounter when I opened The Aware Being Code late one night, intending to sample just a few pages before sleep. But somewhere between the author’s quiet invitation and the mirror it held up to parts of myself I rarely sit with, I found myself wide awake at 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, asking questions I didn’t know I needed to ask. Questions about purpose. About the wounds we

I still remember the first time I heard Piyush Mishra live—his words flowing like a river that refuses to be dammed, each syllable carrying the weight of years, pain, joy, and unrestrained passion. The air itself seemed to hum with his energy, each note and gesture leaving invisible ripples that lingered long after the applause. Holding Tumhari Auqat Kya Hai now, I realize reading this book is like stepping into that same river—letting yourself be carried along, immersed comp

The funny thing about constitutions is that most of us don’t think about them until something shakes us. A protest on the street. A headline that burns our eyes. A conversation that leaves us unsettled long after the tea has gone cold. For me, it happened on a quiet Sunday morning, sunlight spilling across my table, newspapers spread out like a battlefield of opinions—and suddenly, I felt the weight of a question I had never asked myself seriously: Do I truly understand the C

I didn’t ease into When I Hit You — it felt more like stumbling into a scene already in motion. The kind where the camera is trembling, the soundtrack has gone silent, and you realise you’ve entered a story that isn’t waiting for you to settle in. Friends had mentioned how intense it was, but nothing prepares you for the way this book grips your collar and says, “Stay. Watch.” A few pages in, I knew I wasn’t reading for leisure; I was witnessing a life being peeled open.   Me

Some books don’t begin on the first page; they begin in the pause before you open them — in that quiet suspicion that what you’re about to read might just drag you into a world where ambition smells like cologne, betrayal sounds like a sliding boardroom door, and success tastes a little metallic, like fear. The Acting MD 2 made me feel exactly that way. Before I even reached chapter one, I had this uncanny sense that I had stepped onto a tall glass elevator inside Indus City