It's tough being a book purist. It strips away your ability to casually enjoy an adaptation and be done with it.  Books and movies being two entirely different ways of ingesting information, it is not feasible for the act of watching something on a screen to replicate the slow-burn gratification of reading the same thing from a page. Irrespective of how successful a screen adaptation has been in entertaining viewers who are not familiar with the source material, it can only attempt to engage the curiosity and hold the attention of those who are. Barring that, it can never seem to do full justice to the book. And so, purist bibliophiles are doomed to be eternally plagued by onscreen versions of their beloved works.  It cannot be helped. The written word has an undeniable charm of its own. Each book is an experience we have lived through. We may not have seen its events, but we have definitely felt them. The instant we begin reading, the visuals start taking shape in our minds...

I once came across a book lover's post on social media about how unexpected it was for them to grieve so much over the deaths of fictional characters; to which someone had replied that it felt even more painful to hear those characters called 'fictional'. I found this oddly comforting - to know that there are fellow creatures who get as invested in the characters formed by the pages of a book, as I do. Literary characters do exist in the collective consciousness of bibliophiles around the world. We know and remember them from each of the different worlds in which we have sojourned through books, just as much as any of the real people we have met at different stages of our lives. It is as Dumbledore says - "Of course it's happening inside your head ... Why should that mean it's not real?" Only in this case, it is not merely a single person's head, it is a collection of ideas and memories that we share with the author as well as thousands of other read...

  To misquote the basis of the Anna Karenina principle : good friendships are all alike; every bad friendship is bad in its own way. I cannot help but feel a significant shift in the nature of friendships over the years. I am not referring to the manner in which our approach towards these relationships changes as we grow older. That change is natural enough, and therefore, inevitable. Nor am I willing to subscribe to the increasingly common opinion of dystopians who blame the apparent decline in the quality of friendships on social media, which in fact, if used wisely, ends up saving many acquaintances which may otherwise sink into oblivion. Social media is no more a novelty than the telephone was, when it was first introduced to human societies largely dependent on letter writing. Socrates is said to have considered even books (the emerging breakthrough technology of his times) or rather the written word on paper, a threat to human memory.  In this context, I believe social...

A slow reminiscent smile steals over my face as I walk briskly along the platform, lugging my suitcase. My mind is flooded with memories of the days when the station was still called Madras Central. The memories are so vivid, I can almost smell the tamarind rice my mother used to hand over to me while I sat cross-legged in the window seat with a book on my lap. I marvel at the superpowers with which our  mothers and aunts managed to pack and push around a miniature canteen, complete with all the paraphernalia, no matter how short or long the journey. We seem to have always travelled without ever relying on the expectation of any external provision of amenities and to have roamed about like tortoises with our own self-sufficient little habitat strapped right on to our backs. And oh, the food! Lemon rice, chapatis with tomato thokku , idlies with generous coats of molagai podi seeping through their pores - dishes that lasted long and tasted better with time. They were always accom...

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an Austenite who has lost count of the number of rereads, must be in want of an alternative source of comfort. I write 'comfort', as that is the foremost sentiment, the most prominent and defining feeling I experience while reading her novels. Anyone with an affinity for the classics would vouchsafe his or her love for a hundred different works. But when it comes to the question of the particular set of books to which you instinctively and compulsively reach out while facing adversities, Austen staples have always been my go-to comfort reads. This is also precisely the reason for the  disapprobatory glance I steal at anyone who brushes the likes of Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility aside by categorising them as mere commonplace stories of romance.  In order to truly and fully appreciate an Austen novel, you need to be able to constantly read between the lines, as, in my opinion, subtlety is what governs her writing. Th...