One Book to Read Before You Die

Many of us have read countless books over the years—some truly transformative, others so forgettable they could double as sleeping pills. I’m no exception. A few books have left such a deep mark on me that I still carry their lessons around like emotional luggage (the carry-on kind, not the lost-at-the-airport kind). Among my all-time favorites are The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin Sharma, a fable about chasing your dreams and finding your true purpose—ideally before your knees give out, and The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, an exhilarating novel dripping with optimism. The latter gently insists that anything is possible if you want it badly enough: just follow your dreams, listen to your heart, and apparently ignore logistics, budgets, and common sense. Then there are timeless masterpieces like Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, and Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations—each a brilliant, essential read for anyone trying to navigate life’s glorious mess.

Most of these I’ve read once or twice, but one book keeps calling me back like an old friend who knows all my flaws and doesn’t judge. That book is J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. At first, the title didn’t grab me—it sounded vaguely like a farming manual for depressed guardians. But once I dove into the first few lines, I found myself laughing out loud at its raw, goddam cynical expressions. Now, whenever I feel blue, I reach for this book. It keeps me company. It helps me forget—especially that embarrassing thing I said in 2007.

The Catcher in the Rye is a goddam must-read before you die. The language is vulgar, crude, yet strangely humorous—like a grumpy uncle who somehow makes you feel better about your own failures. Set in the 1950s, the story is narrated by a young man named Holden Caulfield, a character many believe mirrors aspects of Salinger’s own life. Holden is a complex figure—seemingly a failure, a restless outsider who struggles with alienation, loneliness, and a distinct lack of a GPS for life. At times, he’s disaffected, disgruntled, and deeply sarcastic, retreating into a world of his own making—one he calls full of “phony” people and ideas. (Spoiler: according to Holden, almost everyone is phony. Including, possibly, the guy who invented sliced bread.)

The book was admired by former U.S. President George H.W. Bush, who called it “a marvelous book.” I couldn’t agree more, and let’s be honest—any book that gets a president to say “goddam” in his head is doing something right. I love its voice, its raw honesty, and how Holden’s frustration spills out in unforgettable phrases: “goddam,” “it kills me,” “how I hate this,” “he’s a moron,” “pain in the ass,” “bastard,” “crazy”—expressions that keep you laughing, even through the sadness. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s absolutely worth reading. Just don’t expect Holden to like you. He doesn’t like anyone. But somehow, that’s exactly why you’ll love him.

Colours

Spring season is here, but there are no natural flowers budding in Bangalore. All you can see are flowers in pots, and all these pots sit on high-rise buildings. There are hardly any colors on the ground. In Bhutan, this time of the year is a celebration of spring. It would be indescribably beautiful. Holi, the Indian festival of colors, still lingers. You can see many garlands of flowers in florist shops and many displays of color powders (raags). You can also see many college students with faint, unwashed colors on their faces.

Colors make our life. They add beauty to our lives. We love colors. But it seems one of the teachers in my previous school was quite dull when it came to colors. The teacher simply didn't care about them. I remember this:

In one of the final exams (2008) for mathematics, there was a question on coloring different shapes—triangles, circles, squares, etc.—for Class I. Some students were provided with colors, but not enough; many didn't have any. I didn't realize how poor our education system was in some remote schools like Tsirangtoe Lower School in Tsirang. The storekeeper said sadly before the exam that the store was out of stock of color boxes. "The government can't buy everything now," he said. He was damn right, but where could some poor students get colors in their lives? That was another gripping story. But good things took a turn after a year. Farm roads soon came to Tsirangtoe's villages, bringing in a good amount of cash through work and selling products. This made even the poor able to sweep hundred-rupee notes frequently from their hands. The government always has a way, I learned from this instance.

Now, coming back to that color exam: a teacher also always has a way. So, the teacher slowly dictated to those who had no colors that they should write the words RED, GREEN, BLUE, etc., inside the blank shapes. Helen Keller knew all the names of colors, but she hardly knew what red or blue was because she became blind before she could grasp the world of color perception.

Coming out of the exam hall, I pulled a student aside behind the exam building and gave him a test. I asked him if he could name all the colors, which he did perfectly well—like a parrot. Then I picked a blue rose from the nearby garden and asked him its color. He gave a deep look at the blue rose, hesitated for a moment, then smiled and said, "...um... red, sir." I smiled back and said, "Roses are not always red. There are blue and white roses too. This is blue." The student directly cussed me, saying that he didn't care about anything besides marks in the exam, and he confidently announced that he had written whatever the teacher dictated. He was right. Just marks would do.

And that was it. Some of our underfed students, if asked to name colors, could name all twelve different colors. But if asked to identify among twelve different colors, they had no choice but to think hard and say blue for red, green for yellow, and black for white. Why? Because they have not seen colors practically, even though they have two big bull's eyes. Our teaching lacks practicality and applicability. We are made of theories. There are many instances where computer degree holders could not operate computers. What a shame! Jobs demand experience, not so many theories, and not so much dictating from chairs. Some of our Lyonpos and ministers simply speak good poetry from their chairs.

The purpose of learning is knowing something. Isn't that true? Knowing the colors. How can students develop cognition and recognize things? Whose weakness was it? The concerned teacher? The storekeeper? The examination system? Or the education system of the country? We must think about this and avoid being blind despite having two bulging eyes to identify everything. A good point here: Helen Keller was blind and deaf, yet someone colored her life.

Fry in the Summer

Though this lousy summer is still a little far off on the calendar, I can feel the damn season has already arrived in Bangalore. It's shown up early—like an uninvited guest who refuses to take off their shoes, then asks for a cold drink.

This year, unlike last, the weather has become much hotter. Last year around this time, it drizzled. Gentle rain. Cool breezes. Hope. This year? Nothing. Just heat. Dry, miserable, soul-sucking heat. And everyone's talking about how lousy the weather has become. It surely is! Damn this global warming. 

Last week brought two holidays. On Tuesday, Holi. On Friday, Good Friday. And you bet they were goddamned holidays. Not because holidays are bad. But because I didn't celebrate either of them. Not a single colour. Not a single prayer. Just two lousy holidays spent on my lousy bed in my lousy room.

Sitting on that bed, I tried to engage myself in my own activities. The problem was, I had no idea what those activities were. So I did what any sane, bored person would do: I opened the internet. Then I closed the damn laptop. Then I opened it again. Then I flipped through pages lying scattered next to my bed—uselessly, like a confused penguin at a desert resort. I read some phony writings. I walked to and fro in my room like a caged tiger that has given up on life. I wrote something that was complete bullshit (and when I write, I type on my keyboards—plural, because I own two and use neither). I opened the refrigerator and drank a single cold drop of water. Just one drop. The rest was too warm to call water. I visited the toilet. Came back to my lousy bed. Then did it all over again. Goddamn it. I felt I was inside a cell. A hot, badly decorated cell with no air conditioning.

Then I thought: I need to do something. So I gave myself a long walk. In the sweaty, blistering sun. Brilliant idea. Outside, children were playing cricket. Running. Shouting. Sweating buckets. Enjoying themselves. It really killed me. How could those little craps bear the heat of the sun? Do they have no sweat glands? No sense of self-preservation? Are they secretly lizards in human shorts?

I walked to a shop to read the temperature. The number on the wall flickered: 31. Not so bad, I heard. New Delhi had just reached half boiling point. Some other parts of the world were even worse. I don't know how people survive in those blistering places. The thought alone killed me. Right there. Next to the shop selling cold drinks that I couldn't afford because I spent all my money on mosquito repellent.

The room has been sweltering like anything. The fan's blades cannot be seen when they move—they become a ghostly blur of disappointment. So you look for a cool shower. You imagine it. You dream of it. Cold water. Relief. Salvation. But the shower is not as cool as you expected. Heated warm water drizzles out heavily. Bet me. The warmness is enough to make you sweat more than before you entered. You step out dirtier than you went in. God, I hate that. I hate it with the heat of a thousand suns—which, ironically, is the very problem I'm complaining about.

By evening, mosquitoes dance around like they own the place—and honestly, at this point, they probably do. I don't know where they come from. I close every goddamn tiny hole. I seal windows. I block doors. I stuff socks into gaps I didn't even know existed. Do they come from the sink's hole? The drain? The neighbor's soul? I use coils. Sprays. Creams. Electric bats. Ancient curses. Nothing works. They always loiter around, hunting for prey—and I am their all-you-can-eat buffet. They literally kill my sleep. Night after night. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Right next to my eardrum. That sound. That evil, high-pitched, demonic sound that belongs in a horror film.

One day, I woke up in the morning and saw three mosquitoes sleeping next to me. Permanently dead. Their tiny bodies were swollen with red blood. My blood. I nearly puked. It killed me. Again. I meant it this time.

So here I am. Hot. Tired. Mosquito-bitten. Waiting for winter in a city that has forgotten what winter means. Damn summer. Damn Bangalore. And damn those three little vampires who died happy, with their bellies full of me.

This World is Yours

To My Son

The sun has the whole universe,
and you too have all—
in front of you, a vast stage
to play the game you have never played.

You have everything:
generosity, merriment, tears, hurt,
love, care, good, bad—all of it.
It's how you see,
how you move forward.


To me,
you are always joyful,
with a piece of a good heart.
You are optimistic as you are,
and as powerful as a man needs to be.
A person's personality
shines through joys and goodness.


You are good in all.
To become the best, you try.
And sometimes in life—independence.
Bother not what others do;
bother only what you do.

Let no one hurt you in the end.
Let others speak well of you.
Self-hope sometimes lifts you—
you need that expectation.


Your future is as shiny as coral,
for you have everything
that a man sometimes doesn't have:
health, wealth, character,
good rapport, confidence, persuasiveness—
these will truly win you through life.

May God bless you always.
And my wish is God's wish, my son.