Dictionary defines travel as: to go from one place to another, especially over a long distance. This is travel in space. We travel not only in space, but also in time. Einstein unequivocally equated time with space, making it the fourth dimension of the Space-Time matrix. But time and space have always been used interchangeably in language: Past is behind us while future lies ahead, opportunity passes-us by, and a deadline approaches insidiously. We intuitively speak of life as a journey through the landscape of time , as one is born, grows old, and dies. Unlike travel in space, travel in time is involuntary and inescapable. Other than space and time, humans travel in another dimension in their lives. This is travel in relations with other human beings. Each one of us is veritably a different landscape; Each has a distinctive personality shaped by their unique experiences in lives. Knowing a variety of individuals, interacting with them, and nurturing relations with some, enriches ...
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...
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