There are cities you visit. And then there are cities that sit inside you like unfinished conversations.   Reading Kolkata Ø KM by Swati Bhattacharyya felt less like turning pages and more like wandering through a house of echoes. Not haunted in a loud, theatrical way. Haunted the way memory is — soft-footed, patient, persistent.   This is not a book that rushes. It lingers. It circles. It asks you to sit with moments most of us hurry past.   What stayed with me most was the

The first thing Brahma-Patra made me do was slow down. Not metaphorically. Physically. I remember reading the opening pages late at night, phone dimmed, the room quiet except for a ceiling fan slicing the air, when I realised my thumb had stopped its impatient scroll. This wasn’t a book that wanted to be consumed. It wanted to be sat with. Like a letter you don’t open in one go, because you know once you do, something inside you will shift.   Shiv Shankar Jha is not a loud wr