Some books are read. Some books are experienced slowly, like a conversation that returns to you every year.   October Junction by Divya Prakash Dubey felt exactly like that to me.   Imagine meeting someone in a city that itself lives somewhere between reality and dreams. A city where time feels slower and conversations linger longer. In that setting, two strangers meet — not to build a conventional relationship, but to create something far more delicate: a connection that ref

There’s something different about returning to a writer.   The first time you read someone, you observe them. The second time, you listen more closely.   Having reviewed earlier work by Bindu Unnikrishnan, I didn’t walk into Spilled Coffee and Some Laughs as a stranger. I walked in with memory. With familiarity. With a quiet expectation of honesty.   And this book met me there.   Some books arrive like loud announcements. This one feels like sitting across from someone who do

There’s something quietly unsettling about a tree that watches you. Not in a mythical, larger-than-life way — but in the way an old house watches its inhabitants age, fracture, betray, and forgive. That was the feeling I carried through The Parijat Tree and Other Stories by Sameer Nagarajan — the sense that these stories are not merely told, they are observed. Closely. Patiently. Almost clinically at times.   This collection moves across decades of Indian life — from the 70s

Some books don’t take you back to school. They take you back to a feeling. A tightness in the chest. A silence you learned to live with. IX B: The Fragile Heart of an Achiever did that to me—not by reminding me of my own classroom, but by pulling me into a memory I hadn’t connected to school life until now.   I grew up in a co-ed environment. Boys, girls, shared benches, shared laughter, shared awkwardness. So, when people talk about the “only boys’ school experience,” I usua

Some books announce themselves with a thesis. This one arrived like humidity on skin—quiet, unavoidable, already inside the room before I knew it. I was reading, but I was also standing on a riverbank at night, ash cooling, water moving, the world refusing to pause for grief. That opening feeling never really left me. Dhara doesn’t ask for attention. It assumes you will eventually slow down enough to listen.   Bal Krishna Thakur’s Dhara: A Journey of Grief, Continuity, and In