Imagine our life as a stochastic process. One thing leads to another, and it is just a matter of chance that we find ourselves in a place, far away from another, having taken a path that was equally probable yet with vastly different way points. We call these choices or circumstances. What if at the end we realize not everything was that random after all? Would that knowledge be any more comforting? Jenny Erpenbeck's Kairos opens and concludes with this unanswerable question

On music, resistance, and the human refusal to be silenced This morning, during my normal scroll through my Instagram feed, I stopped at an Outlook post featuring Ali Ghamsari , a young Iranian musician playing his instrument at the gates of the Damavand Power Plant — playing on, in the face of Trump's announcement of the annihilation of Persian civilization. The post also featured another musician, Hamidreza Afrideh . His music school had crumbled back to earth. He played s

He did it for the second time now — and I was ready, though barely. The first time I had picked up a Nathan Hill novel, it was because I trusted NPR . On my drive back home from work one evening, the radio announced that Nathan Hill had arrived with his debut — The Nix . As an obedient disciple, I took the next turn, parked in the Barnes & Noble lot, and walked straight to my house of worship. I started on the book that very evening. Oh boy — he had arrived, all right. It wa

For the last three years, April has been my favourite month — not for its mangoes or its lazy, stretched-out afternoons, but for the small, delicious ritual it ushered in. The drawing up of reading schedules. The curated list of books. The orders placed online, and then the quiet joy of waiting — watching for the courier, feeling the weight of each parcel, the unhurried pleasure of browsing through new spines and making tidy piles according to the reading schedule. April mean

Rental Family is the story of a sturdy American who lands in Japan pursuing an acting gig — small commercials, the kind that pay the rent and bruise the ego in equal measure. Seven years pass. He picks up small parts here and there, but nothing of real consequence comes his way. Then, one unremarkable morning, he finds himself cast as a grieving American at a mock funeral, the kind of role you take without fully understanding what you've walked into — until you are already i

I had met her at a poetry reading session. She was taking small notes in her journal, sometimes switching to Kannada. During the Q&A, she asked the very question I had been about to ask and quoted a book that lit up my curiosity. I passed my journal to her in a quiet gesture, asking her to write down the title. She wrote it down neatly. After the show, I had to rush to get the poetry book signed, but not before I'd had the presence of mind to ask her for a social media handle

दोस्तों ने कहा, देख के आ — बहुत बेदर्द है यह माँ-बेटे की कहानी। तो चली गई मैं एक शुक्रवार की शाम त्रासदी के बुलावे पर। स्टेज के एक कोने में, लैंप शेड के तले, एक हॉट प्लेट पर कॉफी रखी थी, एक किताब — बाइबल जैसी लाल, एक शीशे की बोतल पानी से भरी हुई, और एक प्याला। हाँ, एक चश्मा भी। दूसरे कोने पर एक अकेली कुर्सी। मानव कौल जल्दी ही आ गए। हॉट प्लेट ऑन की, कॉफी बनाई, और कुर्सी पर बैठ कर पीने लगे। धीरे धीरे ऑडिटोरियम भर गया। फिर सूचना के बाद उन्होंने हमसे अपना बचपन का नाम पूछा। मैंने

There is a phrase that has always unsettled me: “selling yourself.” Once a corporate cliché, it is now the ruling doctrine of modern existence. In the age of platforms like LinkedIn, we no longer work, create, love, or even grieve without imagining an invisible audience. We are selling ourselves constantly—often without clarity on to whom and increasingly without clarity on why . Once, Human Values Were Never for Sale Before this era of compulsive self-commodification, socie

In Sally Rooney's writing, I was told, nothing tremendously consequential ever happens; it is all inside your head. I had no idea of what that meant though, until I read through Intermezzo , her latest. And this reading was a revelation of what effect prose can yield, and how, under the will and craft of a maestro, it can bend and transform into a device which is quite novel. The book starts with conversations about a funeral, and this death of a father shadows the entirety o

I haven’t been able to read much these past couple of months. Poetry, yes—plenty of that—but no prose. I was desperate to read and yet couldn’t. Never in my life have I struggled to consume words like this. After rapidly switching between books, (none of which could hold me)—books on craft, simple stories, purposeful stories—I finally picked up The Vegetarian by Han Kang. If I had to describe my state while reading it, I would simply say: the book stupefied me. For days afte

“ It’s an unnatural state for a person to have no history. History makes us someone. Gives us a context. A shape. ” — Severance , Episode 3, spoken through the quiet tenderness of Irving Bailiff. ( John Turturro ) Some mornings I wake up feeling strangely lighter, and as the first ray of sun slips into my left eye, it feels as if I am someone new. In that moment, I often wonder whether life would be easier if I could shed the weight of my memories. Just as we clear the memory

Last evening, I watched him in his natural habitat— being effortlessly brilliant. Danish Husain . I had first listened to him at the Bangalore Poetry Festival , where his chiseled eloquence, non-conforming attitude, “I said what I said” energy, and laser-sharp observational eyes hooked me instantly. So when Sonali told me his plays were coming to Ranga Shankara , I was already halfway in the queue (in my mind at least). But of course, weekends being weekends—full of cooking,

Yesterday, my house help had fallen sick, leaving me to balance the Mikado of domestic logistics while chasing the green ticks of a normal busy Wednesday. I tiptoed across my calendar like someone performing slow-motion Tai Chi—strategic, focused, and painfully aware that any wrong move could send the whole day toppling over. I haven’t felt that level of concentration since I played Minesweeper with the ferocity of a child desperately trying to impress her father. But of cour

Stranger Things happened to us once in 2016 and then again in 2026. For many reasons, we never followed it closely over the years. But when we returned to it in 2026, the story came in waves. It soaked us in its humor, love, emotions, and messiness, and then promptly drowned us in anxiety and fear, compelling us to pray for this small family that kept growing against all odds. The writing alone deserves a long discussion on some other unhurried Sunday. Yesterday afternoon, wh

"Por que, por que" she pressed her glasses in mock indignation - tiny goblets - against the tumblers held by the owner. The night was a little nippy but people waited patiently, smoking, drinking; people bundled up with Glovo delivery baskets strapped, awaiting the pizzas. We had walked the alley that had tiled artwork with faces and poems of Florbela Espanca and her love for the vast plains of Alentejo, beyond the Tagus. I did not see her at first. In fact, we had only chatt

The reversals It is seven fifteen, A tells me. We are both awake as the noisy neighbours from adjacent rooms knock at each other's, calling for 'mummyji' or enquiring 'ready ho gaye kya'. A draws away the blackout curtains but it is only the blobs of white light globes from the street below that glow; the sky hasn't lightened up at all above the Fulham Public Mortuary that overlooks our hotel. We are in London, a few days before Christmas, and my son tells me how the air feel

One could choose the onward journey for speed and precision, but the return might still be on the slow line. A return for documented identities and paraphernalia, however temporary. And then one might see the sunburst of oranges on every house tree, the peeling paint of Ovar and the shine of Cacia as a return north from the sweet Aveiro is ordained. One must stop at Espinho for the mirth that beauty brings. This is where one will find her face between the handrails,

Why do you travel?

The first morning in London, I woke up to cheerful voices on the other side of the wall. “Good morning, Mummy ji. Good morning, Papa ji.” I jerked awake and sat upright on a bed that clearly had strong opinions about comfort, and none of them were favourable. After a few seconds of frantic self-orientation (Where am I? Who am I? Why am I awake?), I reached for my phone on the bedside table. 7:15 a.m. My mind immediately went into crisis mode. It has been years since I have wo

You are the only crack I can snort. The only bubble of oxygen I draw in. You are the last prayer my beads can count. You are the last leaf I have painted for myself.