I remember the exact moment I discovered The God of Small Things—the air sticky with monsoon humidity, the smell of old paper, the faint clatter of a train in the distance—and how the world Roy created felt impossibly alive in my hands. Until then, the Booker Prize was just a shiny emblem, a distant flag waving over literature’s vast plains. But Roy made it pulse with heartbeat, heartbreak, and mischief. Picking up Mother Mary Comes to Me decades later, I felt that same elect

When I closed the book, it felt less like shutting a Kindle and more like slamming shut a courtroom door echoing with unanswered...

There are some stories that don’t knock at your door with grand entrances — they slip in quietly, like a whisper in a crowded room. His...

Imagine this: the sound of rain tapping against your window late at night, that soft rhythm that makes the world slow down. You’re curled...

Have you ever stumbled across an old letter in a drawer—creases soft with time, ink fading, but the emotions inside still startlingly...

Imagine this: you pick up a book thinking it’ll be another doctor’s memoir — maybe filled with medical jargon, some predictable patient...

You know that little thrill you get when you pick up a book and within the first few pages, you sense it’s going to keep you up way past...

Some stories shout for attention. Others, like The Ballads of Niam by Amit Verma, quietly draw you in, and before you realize it, you’re...