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...

Each book in my library has a unique appeal. I never walk across my book-sheves without stealing a glance at the spines of the stacked volumes. Often, I linger over them, when such a fancy seizes me and the moments of my life are not bogged down by the demands of a workaday routine. Sometimes a chance remembrance brings a whiff of a scintillating experience I have had reading a book. I then head towards them with a zeal. I dive into my collection, one genre leads to another, a book of an author reminds me of his other works, glimpse of a book peeping from the rear prompts me to bring down the row in the front; I sit surrounded by mounds of books, pick one from the pile and live again the time I had spent with the book – years, perhaps decades, ago.   Words of the author breath life in to the inert pages of a book. This is the character a book is born with. Each reader brings to a book, a world all his own, because no two individuals are alike. With every new reader book unf...