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
There are books that entertain you, and then there are books that quietly sit beside you — like an old friend, gently reminding you who you really are. Bonds by Tirtho Banerjee belongs to the latter. It doesn’t shout for attention. It lingers. It breathes. It listens. And somewhere between its ten short stories, it holds up a mirror — not to the extraordinary, but to the heartbreakingly ordinary moments that make us human.  I first picked up Bonds expecting to read about peo
There’s something about prisons that unsettles me — not the concrete, the locks, or the barbed wire, but the silence. That heavy, echoing silence that follows you like a shadow, whispering stories you’re not supposed to hear. When I picked up Black Warrant: Confessions of a Tihar Jailer by Sunil Gupta and Sunetra Choudhury, I thought I was signing up for a cold, procedural memoir — a peek behind the bars of India’s most infamous jail. Instead, I found a mirror — cracked, smok
There are some books you don’t just read — you inhabit them. They unfold like an old photograph album, where every page carries a scent, a story, a heartbeat. I Came Upon a Lighthouse by Shantanu Naidu, with illustrations by Sanjana Desai, is one such book. It’s not a biography, not exactly a memoir, but a feeling — warm, humane, and quietly luminous — much like the man at its center: Ratan Tata.  I still remember the first time I turned its pages on a quiet Sunday morning,
Some books don’t just sit on your bedside table — they sit inside your soul, quietly rearranging the pieces you thought were too broken to mend. Love, Hope and Magic by Ashish Bagrecha is one of those rare books that doesn’t shout wisdom; it whispers it. Like a soft rain after months of drought, it seeps into the cracks of your heart, making something bloom again where you thought nothing could grow.  I still remember the first time I stumbled upon Ashish’s words — a four-li
Some stories feel like echoes of your grandparents’ voices — warm, worn by time, and yet carrying the pulse of youth. Rising from the Roots is one such tale. It’s not just a book; it’s a living bridge between generations, where dreams meet dirt, failure meets faith, and legacy is built not by luck, but by labour.  What caught my eye first wasn’t just the premise — three generations, three battles, one enduring spirit — but the author himself. Yuvraj Dangi, just 15, writes wi
There’s a peculiar kind of madness that only Mumbai can offer — the kind that smells like rain on asphalt, sounds like a thousand horns arguing at once, and feels like hope stubbornly pushing through chaos. Vrushali Samant’s Madness in Mumbai: When Forty Gets Naughty bottles that madness, shakes it up with heartbreak, humour, and heat — and hands it to you with a wink. It’s fizzy, messy, and utterly intoxicating.  Vrushali Samant, who’s known for her sharp wit and eye for em
