Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of The Sex Book: A Joyful Journey of Self-Discovery by Leeza Mangaldas

The first time I picked up The Sex Book: A Joyful Journey of Self-Discovery by Leeza Mangaldas, I felt like I was sneaking chocolate from the fridge at midnight—part thrill, part guilt, part curiosity. Growing up in India, even whispering the word “sex” was enough to earn raised eyebrows, let alone reading a book titled so boldly. But within the first few pages, I realized this wasn’t a scandalous manual or a heavy academic tome. It was something far rarer: a warm, judgment-free conversation we should have all had in school but never did.

Leeza Mangaldas is not just an author; she’s become India’s most trusted voice on sex education, known for her YouTube and Instagram platforms where she tackles awkward questions with equal parts candor and compassion. This book feels like a natural extension of her work—an inviting, well-researched, and often witty handbook that doesn’t just inform but also reassures. What makes it stand out is that it’s written by a young Indian woman who dares to dismantle the silence and shame that has long suffocated discussions about sexuality in our culture. That alone is revolutionary.

The premise is simple yet powerful: to answer the questions most of us have stumbled through in silence. Are my genitals normal? Does size matter? Is masturbation bad? She moves fluidly from anatomy to contraception, from consent to pleasure, from queer inclusivity to body positivity. Each chapter feels like sitting across from a friend in a café, sipping chai, listening to her gently untangle myths we’ve carried since adolescence. The tone is never condescending; instead, it’s like someone holding your hand and saying, “It’s okay. You’re not weird. You’re not broken. You’re human.”

Leeza’s writing style mirrors her personality—open, curious, playful, yet anchored in rigorous research. The book’s Q&A structure is breezy and makes it possible to dip in and out, but the richness lies in her ability to weave scientific accuracy with emotional intelligence. One moment you’re learning about the “orgasm gap,” the next you’re reflecting on how patriarchy has warped our collective understanding of pleasure and consent. The prose is peppered with humour, but it’s the compassion underneath that lingers.

What struck me most were the sections on communication and consent. She writes, “Instead of judging someone for saying no, let’s feel gratitude that they are honouring their own boundaries.” That sentence stopped me cold. How often do we translate rejection into shame or anger rather than relief that someone is being true to themselves? It’s the kind of perspective shift that feels small on paper but seismic in real life.

The emotional journey of reading this book is unexpectedly layered. There were passages that made me smile—like her cheeky comparison of vibrators to Ferraris—and others that made me ache, particularly her observations on body image and the crushing weight of unrealistic beauty standards. I found myself pausing often, reflecting not just on my own experiences but on the silence that shaped generations before me. Reading it felt both liberating and sobering: liberating to know there’s space for such honesty now, sobering to realize how long we’ve lived without it.

Strength-wise, the book excels in clarity, inclusivity, and relatability. The language is accessible without dumbing down, and the illustrations enhance rather than distract. If I had to nitpick, at times it edges into being part-memoir, with Leeza’s voice so present it occasionally overshadows the universality of the subject. Some readers might also wish for deeper dives into cultural and legal aspects of sexuality in India. But those are minor quibbles in an otherwise trailblazing effort.

For me, the impact was personal. I imagined giving this book to my daughter one day, so she wouldn’t have to stumble through half-truths, shame, or Google searches. I thought about conversations I wish I’d had with my parents, and how different my understanding of relationships might have been. And I felt grateful that someone is finally cracking open a door that should never have been closed in the first place.

Ultimately, The Sex Book is more than a manual on sex—it’s a manifesto for joy, equality, and self-acceptance. It tells us that pleasure is not a sin, that our bodies are not battlegrounds, and that love can take infinite forms. It’s bold, tender, funny, and brave. If you’ve ever felt confused, curious, or simply human, this is a book worth holding close.

Life is too short to carry shame like an heirloom. So pick up Leeza’s book, curl into a quiet corner, and let her remind you of something simple yet radical: sex is not just about doing—it’s about being. And being, in all its messy, magical glory, is something to celebrate.

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