There’s a strange kind of intimacy in knowing what millions of strangers type into a search bar at 2:13 a.m.   That was the thought circling my mind as I moved through Billion Wicked Thoughts by Ogi Ogas and Sai Gaddam. Not because the material is shocking—though parts of it are—but because it treats private curiosity like archaeological evidence. Keystrokes become fossils. Patterns become evolutionary footprints. And suddenly, what feels deeply personal starts looking statis

I remember closing this book one evening and realising the room around me felt louder than before. The fan hummed. A dog barked somewhere far away. And yet, after Desiccated Land, silence carried weight. This is not the silence of peace. It is the kind that lingers after you’ve heard too much truth at once and don’t know where to place it.   David Lepeska comes to Kashmir not as a saviour, not as an expert parachuted in with opinions ready-made, but as a young American journa

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