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Today’s book comes from a psychiatrist with a long clinical career, someone who has probably spent decades listening to people untangle fear, love, anger, envy, shame, guilt, hope, and every complicated mixture in between.

"The Book of Emotions" by Salman Akhtar is essentially an attempt to simplify emotions in everyday language. Akhtar explains where emotions may originate, how they overlap, and why human feelings are rarely neat little isolated boxes.

Interestingly, Salman Akhtar is also the brother of Javed Akhtar, and the book almost feels like it sits halfway between psychology and poetry. There’s a distinctly lyrical tone to many of the explanations, with plenty of metaphors and similes woven into the discussion.

The structure itself is rather charming: 26 emotions, one for each letter of the alphabet, from Anger and Boredom all the way to Yearning and Zest.

The writing is very accessible and something like literature. This is not a dense psychology textbook filled with intimidating terminology. Instead, the book gently walks through different emotions and tries to make them understandable for an ordinary reader.

That said, the explanations remain fairly surface level. The book is intentionally light and easy to read, so it never goes too deeply into psychology or psychoanalysis. At times I found myself wishing it would dig a little further instead of quickly moving on.

Still, I can see the book being useful for someone struggling to understand their own emotional state. In that sense, it may work as a kind of introductory window a starting point that helps people reflect a bit more deeply about what they are feeling and why.

What I found amusing was that Akhtar has apparently written over 400 papers and 108 books and when I looked at some of those titles, most seemed deeply academic, the sort of thing that would comfortably sit inside a psychiatry course syllabus. Which made this comparatively light and poetic little book feel slightly out of place among them.

Personally though, beyond that, I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the book. Overall, an interesting enough read, thoughtfully written and easy to finish but one that left me slightly uncertain about where it truly fits.

What a wonderful time to complete reading a book about mangoes: during mango season itself. I must admit, I consumed quite a few mangoes alongside reading about them, which felt like the only correct way to experience this book.

I picked up the signed copy of Mango: A Global History by Constance L. Kirker and Mary Newman from Midland bookstore, and it turned out to be a thoroughly delightful little read.

The book treats the mango as far more than just a fruit. It looks at it as a cultural object. Which, honestly, feels completely appropriate for mangoes. No other fruit inspires this level of emotional investment.

The authors take us through mangoes in Hindu and Buddhist mythology, Mughal gardens and royal experiments, European colonial trade routes, and eventually into the Caribbean, Southeast Asia, and modern global food culture. There’s even discussion about preservation, commercialisation, and changing food habits.

One thing that genuinely surprised me was just how widespread mango culture is outside India. Somewhere in my mind I had subconsciously assumed the rest of the world merely “also eats mangoes.” Turns out the fruit has travelled remarkably far and adapted itself into many cuisines and traditions.

The book itself is short, beautifully illustrated, and packed with little bits of trivia and historical anecdotes. It’s the kind of book you can comfortably finish over a couple of relaxed evenings, preferably while holding a plate of sliced mangoes nearby.

And honestly, that combination may have improved the reading experience considerably.

Overall, a charming and informative read, especially during mango season. It left me both slightly more knowledgeable and considerably more hungry.

"The Permanent Resident" by Roanna Gonsalves turned out to be one of those books I could connect with far more personally than I expected. The book is a collection of short stories centred around Goan and Mangalorean Catholics who have become permanent residents of Australia, mostly around Sydney. And somehow, the cultural setting felt strangely familiar to me.

Having lived in Goa for about 14 years, Mangalore for a similar amount of time, and having spent three months in Sydney, I found myself recognising little details everywhere; the food habits, the church culture, the humour, the anxieties, the family expectations, even the subtle social awkwardness of migrants trying to fit in.

The book won the NSW Premier’s Literary Award Multicultural Prize in 2018, and I can see why. These stories quietly capture what it means to exist in between places.

Most of the protagonists are Indian women in their thirties and forties, trying to balance work, family, faith, relationships, and survival in a society that is sometimes indifferent and occasionally openly racist. The recurring theme is that uncomfortable state of being permanent residents who are not fully “from here” anymore, but no longer entirely “from there” either.

That in between feeling runs through almost every story.

The characters are often qualified but underemployed, fluent in English but not always fluent in the social codes around them, constantly aware of visas, paperwork, background checks, and the invisible pressure of proving they belong.

Now, personally, I never experienced the kind of racism described in the book during my short stay in Sydney, but then again, I was there more as a visitor than someone trying to build a life and career. So perhaps I simply never encountered that side of things.

What I appreciated most was how grounded the stories felt. There’s no melodrama here. Just ordinary people navigating loneliness, longing, migration, identity, and small moments of dignity.

Overall, a deeply moving collection, especially if you can culturally connect to the world it portrays. For me, it often felt less like reading fiction and more like overhearing fragments of real lives.

Well, today’s book was something rather special. Reading it took me straight back to another Bombay, the late 1990s Bombay that I first encountered as a confused newcomer trying to figure life out.

Back then, one of our family friend, a Goan Catholic gentleman living around Sandhurst Road, was helping me with job hunting. As part of those journeys, we wandered through the old neighbourhoods of South Bombay, small lanes, old buildings, bakeries, churches, gossip filled balconies, and communities where everybody seemed to know everybody else.

Those few months gave me a very different understanding of the city.

And 'Bombay Balchao' felt uncannily close to that world.

The novel revolves around a Goan Catholic neighbourhood in old Bombay and follows the lives of the Coutinho family and their neighbours across generations. The story moves through romance, marriages, widowhood, migration, neighbourly gossip, family tensions, and the slow transformation of the city itself.

What really worked for me was not the plot alone, but the atmosphere.

The book captures a very particular kind of Bombay life, warm, nosy, crowded, emotional, and deeply rooted in community. Exactly the sort of neighbourhoods I remember walking through in the 1990s. And having spent 14 years living in Goa, I probably connected with the cultural flavour even more strongly.

There’s also a certain sadness running quietly underneath the book. The Bombay it describes feels quaint, almost frozen in time. And honestly, I’m not even sure that Bombay still exists anymore.

The last time I visited those areas a few years ago, so much had changed that the neighbourhoods felt almost unrecognisable. The old atmosphere seemed swallowed by a newer, faster city.

Perhaps that is why this book stayed with me. It wasn’t just a story, it felt like revisiting fragments of memory.

Overall, a warm, nostalgic, and quietly moving read for anyone interested in old Bombay and the communities that once gave the city its unique texture.

So I admit, I’ve been a bit inconsistent with my book reviews here lately. I happened to come across some genuinely good books, and they completely took over my review writing time. Today’s book was an interesting surprise.

Like most people educated through the Indian school system, I grew up studying Kabir’s 'dohe' throughout my Hindi learning years. I still remember a few famous ones even now. But if I’m being honest, beyond the textbook couplets and exam answers, I barely knew anything about Kabir himself. Now that my kid is studying his poems too, I can at least throw in a few interesting tidbits at the dinner table, thanks entirely to 'Kabir, Kabir: The Life and Work of the Early Modern Poet Philosopher' by Purushottam Agrawal.

This is not a simple biography. In fact, calling it just a biography would be unfair. The book is part literary criticism, part cultural history, and part argument against the many ways Kabir has been politically appropriated over time. Agrawal presents Kabir not merely as a saint or devotional poet, but as a radical thinker who challenged orthodoxy, caste hierarchy, religious identity, and pretty much every neat social category available at the time. One of the book’s central ideas is that Kabir belongs neither fully to Hinduism nor Islam, and certainly not as some modern secular mascot conveniently adjusted for contemporary politics. Instead, Agrawal argues that Kabir was fundamentally a poet of questioning. Someone who deliberately used everyday language to speak directly to ordinary people while rejecting rigid religious authority.

What I really appreciated was how the book made Kabir feel alive and intellectually relevant rather than frozen inside school textbooks.

Now, fair warning, this is not exactly a light read. There are sections where the academic analysis gets fairly dense, and I occasionally slowed down considerably. But the insights were worth it.

The book shed light on Kabir in ways I had never encountered before, and it helped me appreciate his poetry far more deeply than I ever did during my school years memorising 'dohe' for marks.

Overall, a thoughtful and rewarding read, especially if, like me, you thought you already “knew” Kabir because of school textbooks.

Today’s is only a brief post. This is one book I’m yet to actually read!

I picked up this signed copy along with a few others from Midland bookstore, but somehow never got around to starting it. The summary says the story is about how a household changes when fear, illness, and confinement force everyone to look closely at one another.

Well… that’s about all I can say for now. Hopefully someday this book moves from the “signed and admired” shelf to the “finally read” shelf.

After my 350th book, which was also a story from Afghanistan, today’s book takes us back to 1970s Afghanistan once again. But this time, the focus is on something even more forbidden in that society: LGBTQ identity and love.

"The Carpet Weaver" by Nemat Sadat is a deeply emotional story set against the backdrop of a country slowly collapsing into violence and intolerance. Sadat himself is known as one of the first openly gay Afghans to publicly advocate for LGBTQ rights, and that personal connection gives the novel a certain rawness.

The story begins in Kabul in the 1970s, where Kanishka, a teenager from a well connected family, slowly realizes that he is in love with his childhood friend Maihan. Unfortunately, this is Afghanistan, where such feelings are not merely frowned upon but can be life threatening.

As the country becomes increasingly unstable, Kanishka’s life slowly unravels. He loses his father, his family is pushed into displacement, and eventually he is forced to flee through Pakistan. Some of the harshest sections of the book are set there, especially his time working in brutal carpet weaving camps before finally making his way to the United States.

What struck me most was how the book combines personal identity with the tragedy of war and migration. Kanishka is not just escaping conflict; he is escaping a society where he cannot safely exist as himself.

The writing is straightforward and accessible, which actually makes the emotional moments hit harder. There are no elaborate literary gymnastics here just a very human story about love, fear, survival, and exile.

It’s certainly not a light story emotionally, but it is an important one. Readers interested in books dealing with LGBTQ struggles, identity, migration, and life under oppressive social systems will probably find this a very rewarding read.

Overall, a hard hitting and moving novel that stayed with me long after I finished it. And as you can see from the attached sticker, I picked up the signed copy from the Mumbai's Relay bookstore, during my frequent flying days.

In one of my recent reviews, I had mentioned picking up a stack of signed copies at the Mumbai airport terminal bookstore. Well, today’s book is one from that haul.

"Designed to Win" by S. Devarajan tells the story of Tata Elxsi, a company whose stock I held for many years while having only the vaguest understanding of what they actually did. In my mind it was always, “Yes yes… software something.”

This book finally helped clear that mystery to some extent. We get glimpses into the products and innovations the company worked on, “Maya” being one example that stood out for me, but the book is less about technical details and more about how the company itself evolved.

What Devarajan really focuses on is the spirit of the early liberalisation years in India and how a group of forward thinking people, including Ratan Tata, helped shape the company’s identity and growth. There’s a strong sense of experimentation and optimism running through the narrative, which makes the story quite enjoyable.

The book is structured more as a collection of anecdotes and memories rather than a tightly constructed corporate history. It hops between stories, personalities, decisions, and moments that together weave the company’s journey.

And honestly, that works in its favour.

It makes for a very easy and approachable read, I finished it in about three days without much effort. After me, my wife immediately picked it up. She has a particular fondness for business books and management memoirs, and she ended up enjoying it quite a bit too. Though, predictably, she also began offering philosophical reflections on leadership and the CEO afterwards, which apparently was included free with the reading experience.

Overall, a good and engaging read, especially if business history, Indian companies, or entrepreneurship as a genre interests you. Not overly technical, not excessively self congratulatory, and pleasantly readable throughout.

I made my first post in this series on 16th Feb last year and now, almost a year later, here we are at Book No. 350. For this little milestone (and a signed one at that), I thought I’d pick something special, something almost chosen by this sub.

Because let’s be honest, "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini is practically a weekly guest here. Rarely did a week pass without someone posting about it. I had, of course, heard of the book, but the 'ad nauseam' appearances here definitely nudged me from “someday” to “fine, let’s do this.”

So when Kunzum Bookstore featured a few signed copies of the 20th anniversary edition, I didn’t even pause, I just ordered it. Now, I won’t really review the story itself. At this point, it might be one of the most reviewed books out there, and anything I say will probably just echo what’s already been said far more eloquently.

But what I will talk about is the foreword of the 20th edition, which, surprisingly, became my favourite part.

Hosseini writes about how the book came into existence, how more than half the manuscript was lost when a floppy disk crashed (nightmare fuel, honestly), the long string of rejections from publishers, and even criticism from sections of the Afghan community for not portraying the country in a “positive” light especially regarding the depiction of Hazaras.

I couldn’t help but think this would absolutely happen to an Indian author too, if they dared to show anything less than a perfectly shining version of the country.

He also reflects on the success that followed, his foundation, and a few anecdotes from his life post fame. It’s honest, a bit vulnerable, and unexpectedly engaging.

In fact, for me, the foreword was just as compelling as the novel itself.

Overall, a book I truly enjoyed, and more importantly, one I might have continued postponing if not for this sub constantly bringing it up. So here’s to Book No. 350 and a thank you to everyone here for pushing me (gently but persistently) toward a book worth reading.

If you spend any time scrolling through Instagram or Facebook for diet advice (especially in an Indian context), there’s a good chance you’ve come across Amita Gadre and her no nonsense reels. Clear, science based, and refreshingly free of fads.

The last time I shared a book on nutrition here; Book No. 311, I had strongly recommended staying far away from that author’s advice. Well, this one is the exact opposite. "What, How Much and When to Eat" is the kind of sane, sensible guide I wish more people would pick up.

In fact, it’s so accessible that after I finished reading it yesterday, my 80 year old dad and my 13 year old kid have both started reading it, taking turns. (Full disclosure: the kid does have a school assignment on nutrition labels, so there may be some strategic motivation involved… but still, I’ll take the win.)

The book starts with proteins, gives a quick and clear primer, and then moves into practical food choices for both vegetarians and non vegetarians to meet daily needs. The same simple structure follows for fats, carbohydrates, vitamins, and other macro and micronutrients, each section breaking down myths and answering common questions without sounding preachy.

There’s also a short and interesting section on new age diets and supplement trends, which makes for a nice, relevant addition without going overboard.

What I really liked is how easy the book is to follow. No jargon, no extreme positions, just practical advice you can actually apply in daily life. It feels like the kind of book you don’t just read once and forget, but refer back to.

Overall, a book I would strongly recommend if you’re looking to make sense of nutrition without getting lost in internet confusion. One small caveat, vegans might feel a bit left out, but otherwise, no real complaints.

Also, I had pre ordered the book on Amazon because the author promised signed copies for all pre orders… and honestly, how could I miss that?

My last Arun Shourie book was way back at Book No. 7, and now, 340 books later, here we are again.

To begin with, I didn’t expect this kind of Shourie. Given his background as a former BJP minister and a fairly strong nationalist voice, I wasn’t exactly bracing myself for a deep dive into rationalism and skepticism. Turns out, I was quite wrong.

"Two Saints" looks at Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Ramana Maharshi, but not in the usual reverential way. Instead, Shourie approaches them with a questioning lens, poking at the very foundation of how we understand saints, miracles, and mystical experiences. We’re talking visions, trances, out of body experiences, near death encounters the whole spiritual catalogue. And Shourie essentially asks, “Alright, but what if there’s another explanation?” He attempts to interpret these phenomena through natural or psychological causes rather than supernatural ones.

Now, this is where the book got interesting for me.

The spiritual discussions and teachings sections? I’ll admit, I speed read through quite a bit of that. It gets dense, and unless you’re deeply into philosophy or mysticism, it can feel like wading through heavy water.

But the parts where he offers alternate explanations for so called miracles; that’s where the book really clicked. There’s something quite refreshing about seeing deeply revered figures examined critically, yet not disrespectfully. Shourie doesn’t try to dismiss them; instead, he argues that they can still be revered without the need for supernatural claims.

That balance is what makes the book feel unusual.

It’s not often you come across a work that is willing to ask uncomfortable questions about belief, miracles, and mysticism, especially topics many consider beyond criticism. Whether one agrees or not, the book certainly nudges you to think a little harder.

Overall, not the easiest read, not always engaging, but definitely an interesting and somewhat unexpected one.

To begin with, I picked up "Unfaithful Music & Disappearing Ink" by Elvis Costello from my long term pre loved bookseller, @bookhub_01. At that point, I had hardly listened to any Elvis Costello music. In fact, if someone had asked me to name a song, I would probably have smiled politely and changed the subject.

A few months later, I finally started reading this rather intimidating 600+ page memoir and the writing style completely floored me.

This is anything but a conventional rockstar autobiography. There’s no chronological march from childhood to fame to reflection. Instead, the book moves in loops, jumping across time, circling back to memories, songs, relationships, and moments that still linger in Costello’s mind.

We move between his childhood in London and Liverpool, the making of songs, awkward relationships, career highs, and the strange unpredictability of a life spent inside music.

One of the real pleasures of the book is the sheer amount of musical trivia tucked into it. There are wonderful stories about collaborations with Paul McCartney, Allen Toussaint, and The Roots, along with countless behind the scenes moments that shaped his career.

Early in the book I realised that it helps enormously if you actually know Costello’s music. So I did what any slightly obsessive reader would do; I had Alexa continuously playing an Elvis Costello playlist while reading. It turned the memoir into a sort of soundtrack experience, where songs suddenly appeared in context rather than as isolated tracks.

What I especially appreciated was the attention to detail behind songwriting. Costello writes about songs with the same obsession that you find in artists like Bruce Springsteen or Bob Dylan, where lyrics, phrasing, and tiny musical decisions all matter deeply.

The book is long, meandering, and certainly not for someone looking for a quick celebrity memoir. But I found that part of its charm.

By the end, I had gone from knowing almost nothing about Elvis Costello to at least recognising his songs and confidently producing a few trivia nuggets about his career.

Which, honestly, feels like a fairly successful outcome for a 600 page commitment.

In the company annual forum that I mentioned yesterday, I met a few Ukrainian colleagues and their families. Because of the conflict, many of them are now living across different countries in Europe, building temporary lives far away from home. That stayed with me and somehow led me straight into today’s book.

"Rumours of Spring: A Girlhood in Kashmir" by Farah Bashir is a heart wrenching memoir about growing up in Kashmir during the late 1980s and early 1990s, when violence, curfews, and military presence slowly became part of ordinary life.

Farah Bashir, a Kashmiri photojournalist, writes not as a historian or political commentator, but as someone remembering a disrupted childhood. And that is what gives the book its emotional strength.

This is not a memoir built around major political events. Instead, it lives in small details: school exams, family rituals, bus rides, cinema visits, music, neighbourhood gossip, first crushes, awkward adolescence, and even the quiet embarrassment of growing up. Life continues but always under the shadow of fear.

Normality and tension exist side by side. One moment there is laughter at home, the next there are curfews, disappearances, and uncertainty outside.

At its heart, this is simply the story of a young girl trying to grow up in a place where fear becomes routine.

And for me it made an memorable read. Because the book is not really about politics or explaining the Kashmir conflict. It is about everyday life under terror.

The writing is gentle and reflective. I found myself slowing down while reading. It's one of those books that quietly reminds you that wars and conflicts rarely produce winners only people trying to carry on with ordinary lives in extraordinary circumstances.

Well, I went a bit cold here for the last week. Our company’s annual forum took over life for a while, which meant rehearsals, presentations, and the mild anxiety of speaking in front of people while pretending to look completely relaxed. Thankfully, the presentations went well.

The forum also meant airport hopping, and that naturally led to dangerous territory: bookstores. The Bookscetra at Mumbai Airport was particularly tempting and had a delightful pile of signed copies. I picked up six books before my carrying capacity and lung capacity, gave up in protest. Someday they’ll all feature here.

But in the meantime, today’s book takes us into another kind of world: the digital one. Not the harmless internet of cat videos and recipe searches, but the carefully constructed world of political narratives and manufactured realities.

"The Art of Conjuring Alternate Realities" by Shivam Shankar Singh and Anand Venkatanarayanan is one of those books that quietly makes you put it down every few chapters just to stare into space for a minute.

Singh, a former political consultant and author of How to Win an Indian Election, teams up with Venkatanarayanan, known for his cybersecurity work and research into digital threats, to explain how narratives are built, amplified, and made to feel true, even when they are entirely false.

The authors explain how politicians, cybercriminals, godmen, intelligence agencies, and even nation states shape public perception.

A central idea in the book is ON3C, Objective, Narrative, Context, Campaign, Content a surprisingly simple framework for explaining how manipulation campaigns are constructed from the ground up.

The examples are wide ranging and often uncomfortable: online misinformation around “love jihad,” social media outrage cycles, propaganda, protest movements, cyber operations, and the repeated messaging that slowly shapes public anger or belief.

What I appreciated is that the book doesn’t frame disinformation as purely political. It also looks at the technical side bots, surveillance systems, data harvesting, and digital ecosystems that quietly amplify whatever story needs to spread.

Despite the complexity of the subject, the writing remains accessible and not a dry academic study filled with jargon

Overall, I found it an eye opening read. The slightly depressing part, of course, is that the people who most need to read books like this are probably the least likely to pick it up.

After all, digital 'vikas' is a very comfortable world to live in.