The last time he had let anyone touch him, Tanishq was 27 and had nothing on his body. And after the session of the passionate lovemaking was over, it had begun to rain outside, and it had continued to rain like that for some time. He was sitting on his bed, wiping the sweat off... Continue Reading →
The coaches in the Indian passenger trains, despite all the discomfort they offer to its passengers, provide them with the facility to stop the train at their will. An act of reparation for something wrong that the train or the railway management has nothing to do with, for a predicament that has been created by... Continue Reading →
This is to all the readers who, at some point in time, end up losing their grip on life (and by life, I mean reading), and having lost their weapon then struggle to cope with the adversities in life. This is about how I regained my confidence in reading.
But more importantly, this is a heartfelt gratitude towards a pre-eminent Indian philanthropist and writer - Mrs Sudha Murthy.
A friend once told me that writing emanates out of loneliness. I didn't know what he meant by that. 'Of course', I said, 'you don't often see a writer in a football stadium typing with a foam finger on just like you don't see a team playing football inside the room'. He smirked and added,... Continue Reading →
Manu Joseph's ‘The Illicit Happiness of Other People’ is at once a funny and a remarkable take on Indian milieu - one that could only be produced by the keenest of observers or by someone with the most cynical eye. Channelled observations and cynicism are, I am forced to believe, immensely rewarding. This book is... Continue Reading →
Colossal in both scope and magnanimity. This is not a book on war; it's definitely not a book on peace. Rather, it's a book on everything that lies in between these two - it's a book on hope, love, unpredictability of the future, and one's very search for the ultimate purpose of their existence. Period.... Continue Reading →