Words lie inert on the pages of a book. Process of reading breathes life into them – and the inanimate squiggle of ink on paper wakes up with vigour. Sensibilities and idiosyncrasies of a reader endow the same book with various lives in the minds of different readers. I am often astounded to discover that books which moved me to peaks of ecstasy or depths of gloom, have fallen off the conscience of other readers like water off a duck’s back. Way of looking at the world is shaped by our nature. No two natures are alike. Hence, a book cannot evoke mirror worlds in different minds. Reading a book is an experience like all else in life. Except that it is intensely personal, often involves heightened emotions and feelings, and changes the reader a little, although, only occasionally, and perhaps transiently. Philosophers and physicists do not accord time a prime role in a material world, but the world unfolds in our consciousness on a melody set by time. We experience life in its in...

Reading is a solitary pursuit. It thrives in seclusion. For decades, books have filled my solitude with boundless joys as I sought both - books and solitude - with a perseverance an addict reserves for his fix. Ironically, this lonely indulgence also seeks like-minded people to share the pleasures of the written word, to hear contrary opinions, to be told subtle interpretations that escaped one, and to learn about the books one has not come across. Alas, such company is difficult to come by. This utter deprivation is often suffocating. Literature festivals have become popular in India for some years now. A decade ago, one heard only of the Jaipur Literature Festival, and that too sporadically. Now, there is one in almost every state. Come winter and there is a buzz among book-lovers, which I witness on the media, as one city after another announces its show. These gatherings seemed the right recipe to stimulate, nurture, and sate my craving for the book-talk that I sought in vain, ar...

I was posted at a small hospital in NCR. Work in operation theatre was moderate, just sufficient for a single anaesthetist. Colleagues were pleasant. Surgeon was always full of interesting, amusing, and intelligent conversation. My daughter was studying for a course of her choice in a college of Delhi University and visited us every fortnight. My son, never too keen in academics, appeared to like the coaching he was taking for IIT entrance. Archana had, for the first time in her career, secured a well-paying job in a NOIDA hospital. Station was famous for its golf course: a verdant stretch of rolling turf, with rows of trees guarding its distant boundaries. It lay just across our house. I walked its perimeter in the evenings; three rounds fed my diet of nine kilometers. Large ground surrounded our house where we planted a variety of flowers. In winters I read books here, lazing on a reclining chair, contemplating the good turn my life seemed to be traversing then. Nearness to Air...

I received her in the cartel of relatives that followed Archana, my wife, into my life. She was the wife of Archana’s maternal uncle. I met Archana first, at her place. We sat in a room lined by tall book-cases. From their spines, books appeared old, many were leather-bound. Atmosphere was stiff. None appeared comfortable to make light conversation. Stilted inane talk filled the room and made the air heavy.   Mamiji salvaged the situation. She spoke to me with a candour that belied the fact that we were meeting for the first time. She asked me direct questions about my job. She wanted to know how Archana, who was then pursuing post-graduate degree in Pathology, would practice her profession in Air Force where I had been commissioned a few months back. There was not a trace of hesitation in her voice, but neither did she sound nosy. She keenly listened to my answers. I instantly warmed up to this elderly lady. Those days Mamiji lived in an old house in Bengali Market in Central ...

Drudgery of daily living saps life of its every joy. In drudgery, I do not imply the bleakness of ho-hum chores that comprise work. Most challenging tasks fall into a pattern with numbing familiarity when performed repeatedly over a long time. Even a creative art, be it writing, music, acting, film-making, etc., that seems to promise a fresh perspective every day is just a professional work for the artist. Only those who practice it with the rigour of an artisan excel in their field and create a body of work that public admires as their contribution to the art. I use the phrase drudgery of daily living for the tyranny of work that is necessary to sustain life yet blights it simultaneously. This is the lot of most men - A life of bondage with no redemption in sight. When stuck in this station, they must work incessantly from day to night to afford the means to preserve the breath, only to wake up another day, and begin once again the life-scorching saga. Few people are fortunate t...