There are some books you don’t really “read” in the usual sense. You don’t chase their plot, you don’t wait for something to happen. You simply… sit with them. Like sitting beside an old window on a quiet afternoon, watching nothing in particular—and yet, somehow, everything.   That’s the space Deewar Mein Ek Khidki Rehti Thi gently invites you into.   And once you step inside, it doesn’t rush you.   It almost refuses to.   At the heart of this literary world is Raghuvar Pras

There are days when you close your laptop… and for a brief second, the silence feels louder than the noise you just escaped.   That’s the space this book walked me into.   The Monk Who Knew The Code by Akash Jha doesn’t arrive with urgency. It doesn’t demand your attention. It sits beside you—quietly—and waits until you’re ready to notice what you’ve been avoiding.   At its surface, Aarav’s story feels familiar. A successful software engineer. Deadlines met. Expectations fulf

There is a particular kind of silence that does not feel empty. It feels occupied. While reading At the End of the World by Priyanshu Sunil Sinha, I kept returning to that feeling—the sense that absence itself can become a presence you walk beside.   This is not the loud end of the world we are used to seeing. No collapsing skylines. No heroic last stands. Instead, the novel opens like an abandoned corridor where your own footsteps start sounding unfamiliar after a while. A l

There are some books you don’t exactly read—you sit with them, the way you sit with an old memory you’re not ready to let go of. That was my experience with In the Silence You Left Behind by Sumitra Manda. It didn’t arrive like a story. It arrived like a feeling I thought I had already processed… but clearly hadn’t.   This isn’t a book built on dramatic heartbreak. There are no loud exits here, no doors slammed shut. Instead, it explores the kind of absence that lingers—the k

There’s a certain kind of silence that only shows up when something in your life has quietly run its course—but no one has announced the ending. That’s the silence I found myself sitting in while reading The Rest of Our Lives by Benjamin Markovits.   Not the loud, dramatic kind of silence. The softer one. The kind that settles in after years of compromise, routine, and conversations that slowly stopped meaning what they once did.   Tom isn’t a man in crisis. That’s what makes

I remember the first time I curled up beside my grandmother on a chilly winter evening, the aroma of simmering kahwa filling the room, as she spun tales that danced between the real and the magical. There was always a hush in the air, punctuated by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional shiver of delight or fear. Opening Dadi, Dantkatha and the Djinns by Avanti Sopory felt like stepping back into that very moment, a portal into a world where the snow-dusted valleys o

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

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

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

There are books that talk about business — graphs, goals, growth curves — and then there are books that breathe. Gateway to Africa by...