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Some books arrive in your life like a loud motivational speaker with a mic that’s a notch too high. Others slip in quietly, pull out a chair, order cutting chai, and say, “Listen, try this one small thing today.” One Habit a Day belongs firmly to the second category.I remember reading it late one evening, phone on silent, the house finally exhaling after a long day. No dramatic before-and-after pr...
I finished Tumhari Aarshi late in the evening, phone face down on the bed, the room lit by a single tube light that had begun to hum faintly. I remember my shoulders were slightly raised, as if I had been bracing myself without knowing why. When I closed the book, I didn’t move at once. Not because something had struck me dramatically — but because something had quietly refused to leave.There was ...
There are some characters we inherit, not choose.Their meanings are handed to us early, wrapped in certainty, repeated until curiosity feels unnecessary. Ravan arrived in my life that way — already concluded, already named, already sealed. Evil was not something to be examined; it was something to be defeated. The story had taught me where to stand long before I knew how to ask why.So when I picke...
I closed the book in the late afternoon, when the house had begun to sound hollow again. The kind of quiet that arrives after lunch, when even the ceiling fan seems to turn more slowly. My legs were stretched out. One foot rested against the table leg without thinking. For a few seconds, I didn’t move. Not because I was overwhelmed — but because I felt oddly relocated.As if I had returned from som...
I was lying on my side when I finished it.Not the dignified, upright posture of a “serious reader.” Just me, the phone slipping slightly in my hand, one knee drawn up, the fan making that familiar uneven sound it makes when it’s been on too long. Evening had already crossed into night. My first thought wasn’t insight. It was quieter.So this is why my days feel unfinished.I didn’t think of time. I ...
I remember noticing my hands first.They were still holding the book, long after the sentence had ended. Not gripping it. Just resting there, as if letting go would mean admitting the moment was over. The room had begun to dim in that slow, undecided way evenings do — neither day nor night, just tired of choosing. I was slouched, slightly crooked, aware that my body had been still for too long. The...
I noticed my breathing before I noticed the quiet.Not the dramatic kind of silence that announces itself, but the softer one — the kind that slips in when the mind stops reaching for the next thing. I was sitting by the window. Late afternoon light. The book closed without ceremony. And for a few seconds, I didn’t feel the need to move.That is how Fragrances Unseen stayed with me — not as a volume...
I remember finishing this book on an ordinary afternoon — and feeling unexpectedly still.Not the triumphant stillness of motivation, but the quieter kind. The kind that comes when someone has spoken honestly enough that your defences don’t know where to stand anymore. I was seated, book resting face-down, noticing my shoulders had dropped. As if something inside me had been allowed to exhale.Limit...
There was a softness in the room when I finished this book.Not silence exactly — more like the kind of quiet that follows a memory you didn’t know you were carrying. I was sitting still longer than needed, aware that something gentle had brushed past me and stayed.The Three Greens didn’t arrive loudly. It didn’t demand attention. It behaved like a childhood afternoon — unannounced, unhurried, and ...
The fatigue arrived before the admiration did.Not physical tiredness — something deeper. The kind that settles in the shoulders when you realize how long power has been carried, argued over, bent, and bruised.I finished the book late at night. The house had already decided to sleep. I stayed back, sitting upright longer than needed, aware of a quiet inside me that hadn’t been there before. Not sti...
