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Have you ever wondered how your life would’ve turned out if you’d done a few things differently? Pursued a degree in a different subject in college or joined that start-up with your friend’s cousin or even attended a colleague’s birthday celebration that Thursday night? And what if you had the chance to right a wrong or erase a regret? I can’t answer for you but I am fascinated not just with righting wrongs (even though righted wrongs often come with their own can of worms) but how a different choice can divert us to a whole new direction. And in that sense, the smaller choices interest me more because they are often least thought of and yet they could end up changing your life, for better or worse, without you ever suspecting it. That’s partly what The Midnight Library by Matt Haig is about. Published in 2020, this is a novel about the decisions we make and how every choice we are offered is both a fruit of previous choices but also a seed for future possibilities. Except one never knows which seed will sprout which plant. Our greatest triumphs can potentially lead to disasters while the worst of times can be fertile ground for a better life. Speaking of seeds, that’s also the name of the protagonist of The Midnight Library - Nora Seed. We meet Nora on an exceptionally awful day in her life. Everything appears to be collapsing around her. Her cat, Voltaire dies and she loses her job. With her parents dead, her brother estranged and her best friend incommunicado in Australia, there is no one she can turn to. It’s a dreary night making her question her reasons for living. Unfortunately, she comes up wanting. And so, she decides to end it all. This is no great shock to us as readers because the opening line of the novel is, “Nineteen years before she decided to die, Nora Seed sat in the warmth of the small library at Hazeldene School in the town of Bedford.” Clearly, the author, Matt Haig wanted us to see it coming. It’s all part of the set-up for the novel's central concept which is the Midnight Library—a place suspended between life and death, where the clock is perpetually striking midnight. The Midnight Library is filled with books till the eye can see. An infinity of books with different stories but a single protagonist – Nora Seed. These are the infinite lives of Nora, created every time she makes a choice, big or small. The books are portals to all the lives a version of her is currently living in an alternate universe and the Nora of our story can choose to parachute into any one of them and live that life forever. The Midnight Library sets up a tantalising proposition that affords Nora the unimaginably rare opportunity to figure out the answers to the ‘what if’ questions that many of us ponder but will never be able to answer. It doesn’t surprise me that this novel is a bestseller because it taps into human psychology and the awe-inspiring yet just out-of-grasp possibilities of the Universe, eventually leaving us with an uplifting message of even small deeds possessing meaning. As the librarian of the The Midnight Library, Mrs Elm tells Nora over a game of chess, “And even if you were a pawn - maybe we all are - then you should remember that a pawn is the most magical piece of all. It might look small and ordinary but it isn't because a pawn is never just a pawn. A pawn is a queen-in-waiting. All you need to do is find a way to keep moving forward. One square after another. And you can get to the other side and unlock all kinds of power.” Through the many versions of Nora’s life that form the bulk of The Midnight Library , the theme that is writ large is that of the loneliness of modern, urban life and that true connection has little to do with success, money or even network connectivity! But it does have a lot to do with effort. Given that the protagonist, Nora studied philosophy in college, Haig peppers the novel with pithy quotes and references to Gestalt psychology which is basically about how the brain always wants to simplify stuff into recognisable patterns even if it has to fill in the blanks a bit in order to create the pattern. It’s like when you perceive the shape of a rabbit in a passing cloud. For the even more scientifically-oriented or imaginatively-challenged, Haig provides us with a scientific basis for the existence of the Midnight Library. Hint: there are theories of parallel universes and the concepts of quantum indeterminacy involved. Though Haig is smart to keep this to the minimum – enough to satisfy the physics enthusiasts without alienating the folks who’re here for the story. Matt Haig’s style lends itself to a yarn spun simply but very engagingly even with a protagonist who is utterly lost and unmotivated. I don’t mean that as a jibe at Nora. We’re invited into a very trying time in her life and there’s something about her dismay, regret and ‘pity party for one’ demeanour that reminds us all of having been there at some point in our lives. At the heart of The Midnight Library lies the message that there are silver linings to even the darkest of clouds and how, even at our lowest and dullest, we can be someone’s silver lining even if we don’t see how. As Henry David Thoreau wrote and Matt Haig quotes, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” Even with its uplifting message, it's tough to overlook how simplistic and predictable the plot is. Most people would see the ending from a mile away. As did I. However, if you are in the mood for something predictable and comforting, The Midnight Library is a good book to curl up with. It reminds us what we forget most often in a world that glorifies the flashy. In the immortal words of JRR Tolkien, the legendary author of The Lord of the Rings series, “It is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life .”

Learning to drive is considered a rite of passage into adulthood. In my case, it was a voyage that began in 2005 and culminated in 2014. That’s nine years. (I’m beginning to see a pattern here in my posts about learning stuff. And it isn’t making me look good! You would agree if you’ve read my blog about knitting .) Anyway, let’s return to the subject at hand. I decided to learn driving when I quit my first workplace which was located in New Delhi. When interviewing for the new job, I was informed that headquarters of this soon-to-be-launched news channel would be in Noida (a city adjoining Delhi, but in a different state). Public transport that crossed the state border were few and far between. I thought that it would be best to drive the 15 kilometres between our home in Delhi and my new office. ATTEMPT NUMBER ONE And so, I enrolled at a driving school. The dual control cars (with an additional set of clutch and brake pedals installed for the instructor sitting beside you) that most driving schools use, give learners a false sense of competence and thereby, confidence. Having bathed in the reflected glory of driving one of these dual control cars, I decided to take my father’s car out for a little drive on a sleepy Sunday morning on the verdant roads around Lodhi Estate. My brother accompanied me. There was no traffic on the roads. Not even a cyclist. After 20 minutes of driving around on straight roads with no traffic, I decided to test my skills at making a u-turn. That attempt ended in me crashing into the divider. Confusing the accelerator for the brake, I slammed into the concrete divider at such speed that the car ended up perched on the divider about a foot and a half above the surface of the road (As a side note, I think this reflects very well on the construction quality of said dividers). The front bumper had split in half and the front axle broken. I felt awful even though my father remained calm. I assuaged my guilt by paying for the repairs but the accident shattered my confidence. I didn’t get behind the wheel of a car for more than eight years post that accident. WAITING FOR OFFICE CABS Not being able to drive in Delhi was a pain. It meant haggling with auto-drivers who would act like they were doing me a favour by charging a duke’s ransom for ferrying me across the state border. As for getting back home, I would usually finish work at 9.30 pm which was too late to take public transport, if you could help it. As a result, I would wait for an hour to take the office cab at 10.30 pm. A couple of years later, I moved to Noida. Now, I lived just 5 kilometres away from my workplace but was still dependent on office cabs or public transport. Except for the times when a colleague or friend would drop me home. Years passed, and my frustration at not being able to drive grew but never enough to override my fear of causing another accident. THE STORY OF THREE FRIDAYS But this, dear reader, is a story of transformation. It began on a Friday evening. I was at work, eating my dinner at the coffee shop during my 8-9 pm break. I looked up from the book I was reading, leaned back on the couch and looked out through the glass wall, at the night sky. It was a breezy night and the breeze appeared to make the stars twinkle more than usual. A thought floated into my mind, unassisted – I must learn to drive. Now comes the part that makes me sound like a card-carrying member of some cult, but I beg your indulgence. I had the same thought come to me, in a completely spontaneous manner, three weeks in a row. Always on a Friday, while I was eating dinner between 8-9 pm, seated in the same coffee shop in my office building. The Saturday after the third Friday was my weekly off. I woke up around 9.30 that morning. My mother, who was visiting us, and my brother were having a tete-a-tete over cups of tea on our sunny terrace. I walked out in my pyjamas and tousled hair and said, “Let’s go to a second-hand car showroom. I want to buy a car.” My mother asked if I intended taking a shower or wanted to go there in my pyjamas? Ha ha. Maybe, she thought that a shower would wake me up to the harsh truth that I couldn’t drive. Later that morning, we were at the car showroom. My eyes fell on a bright red Chevrolet Spark and I asked the staff about it. It was perfect in all respects. I whispered to my mother that I wanted to buy it. She sensibly asked me to see a few more cars before making up my mind. I followed her advice but half an hour later, I handed over a cheque to buy the red Spark. Since I couldn’t drive, my brother had to drive my first car home. HAVE CAR, CAN’T DRIVE A week or so went by and my car had been sitting in its parking space doing pretty much nothing when my mother and I decided to go shopping one day. I suggested that, instead of calling a cab, we would ask around if someone knew a driver who could drive us in my car. After a few phone calls and a serendipitous turn or two, we found a great driver, Dinesh. He also happened to live close by. As he drove us home after our day of shopping, I asked if he could teach me how to drive. Luckily for me, he agreed. THE A-B-C OF DRIVING Dinesh was a great instructor and after ten days of teaching me the basics, he took me into crowded areas with all possible modes of transportation plying on the same road – buses, cars, auto-rickshaws, motorbikes, cycles, bullock carts and the odd cow who refused to transport itself out of your path. Take it from me, if that doesn’t teach you how to use a clutch and a brake, nothing will. In the last few days of my driving lessons, I started verbalising what I saw (in terms of traffic, turns, road signs, etc) as well as how I intended to deal with them (such as changing lanes or turning on the indicator 50 metres before a turn). This helped because it gave me a sense of control and I found it soothing. I’m quite sure, so did my instructor! DRIVING ON MY OWN My initial days of driving to my workplace (five kilometres from home) and back were an exercise in courage. As any novice driver knows, this included mapping out routes in my mind to prepare mentally for all the turns I would need to make. Also, if I forgot to switch on the car’s air-conditioning, close the window or switch on the music, that’s the way it would stay until I arrived at my destination. Talk about single-minded focus! DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL Eventually, I grew more confident in my driving and could venture out to the nearby markets. Then one day, as I was exiting the gates of my housing sector, a small van, driving on the wrong side of the road, crashed into my car. It was a serious crash. One side of the bonnet was smashed, the front bumper broken and there was a telltale iridescent stain growing under my car signalling the leakage of transmission fluid. I stepped out and surveyed the damage. Livid, I called the police. I was at the police station for over seven hours along with a friend and my brother to get the van's owner to pay me compensation for the damage done. I even threatened to file a case against him. He told me that it would be his twenty-third brush with the courts! I had to leave my damaged car in the compound of the police station that night. It was a depressing night. I felt like a failure for having crashed my car. After several hours of angst-filled overthinking and cursing the fates, I fell into a slumber. The next day, things were brighter. The owner of the van agreed to pay if I withdrew my complaint. An hour or two later, my brother and I dropped off my damaged vehicle at a workshop owned by a friend of my brother’s. His team of mechanics did a marvellous job of repairing my car for a fraction of what the Chevrolet workshop had quoted. A RENEWED SPARK Good as new! This time, I didn’t let the shock of being in an accident get to me. Two days later, I got behind the wheel and drove my car home. It was good as new and it convinced me that all was well. And so, I kept driving. Three years later, I bought my first ‘new’ car. My red Chevrolet Spark may have been second hand, but to me it will forever be numero uno!

Who is a friend? Most of us refer to all manner of people as our ‘friends’. Everyone, from a long-lost schoolmate to a colleague you get coffee with and the guy at the local squash court, is a ‘friend’. And of course, there is that ubiquitous and odd breed called the Facebook friend. Perhaps the gradual dissolution of social formalities, which had previously required people to think in more defined relational constructs, has resulted in this ‘friend’ boom. Or maybe, this abundance of friends is a result of dropping all manner of amorphous equations into one handy little basket. Distinguishing between relationships takes time and effort, and could result in a most unsettling finding - that one does not have many friends and worse still, that one is not a true friend, even to a few. If you were a fly on my bedroom wall that one night about a decade ago, you would’ve seen me journalling (it was a sporadic exercise). This was back in my insomniac era when I considered 4 am a reasonable time to go to bed. It was late enough for even late-night traffic to have been lulled into silence. Except for the wind. It was a cold night and gusts of wind made it colder still. Through that night’s journalling, I came to the realisation that while I had friends, I didn’t feel close to any of them. These friends, on the other hand, considered me a close friend. But I never confided in them. And when I thought about it some more, I realised that they made a greater effort to do stuff together than I did. My approach to friendship was more laissez-faire – easy come, easy go. That got me thinking. THE FACETS OF FRIENDSHIP What creates that warm, fuzzy feeling of having a friend? Is it just an amalgamation of time spent hanging out, catching movies and the usual shenanigans? Over the next few months, the question hung around the backrooms of my mind. Here’s what I figured out. Acts of service (small stuff like calling to check up on them or more substantially, picking them up from the airport), authenticity (following through on the things you said you would do and not faking coolness) and vulnerability (this is a tough one if you like to shelter behind a hardened outer shell) are essential to a genuine friendship. The kind which makes you feel seen and understood. I'm sure there are others who have expressed the idea of how the effort you make for your friend is what makes them special. However, I don't recall any who've done it better than Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in The Little Prince . In that section of the story, the Little Prince encounters dozens of roses that are as beautiful as the snooty little rose he adores on his home planet. All this while, he’d thought of her as one of a kind. Saint-Exupéry writes as the much-travelling Little Prince who has just realised that roses are very common flowers, “You’re beautiful, but you’re empty… One couldn’t die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she’s the one I’ve watered. Since she’s the one I put under glass, since she’s the one I sheltered behind the screen. Since she’s the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). Since she’s the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she’s my rose.” My epiphany aided by The Little Prince was all very well. But life isn’t a one act play. There is always an antagonistic force. In this case, it is that sometimes you start watering the wrong rose and then feel wounded when it turns out to have thorns. Come to think of it, that’s just the nature of things. At least, roses. All of this caused me to ponder about friendship some more. My two cents on the subject is that there are many kinds of friendship and they are all valuable. Human interaction is crucial to mental and emotional well-being. Its degree and quantity depend on your personal inclination. Why then have many of us, at some or the other point in our lives, either felt disappointed by someone we thought of as a friend or been at the receiving end of a cold shoulder and suffered a somewhat confusing end to what we thought was a good connection? Unmatched expectations would be the short answer. Since I (and perhaps you too) do not practise Buddha-like detachment, when I invest in a relationship, I tend to, unknowingly, build in a degree of expectation of similar affection or concern. And when it doesn’t materialise, it’s disappointing. That’s why it helps to know where you stand with the people in your life and where they stand in yours. CLARIFYING CONNECTIONS Analysing our connections can help achieve clarity in terms of the depth of emotion involved and the expectations built into each relationship. And no, I don’t serve this up with a side order of judgement or condescension, as some may assume! A few of my friends (I use the term as a catch-all here) baulk at my penchant for what they consider "grading" interpersonal equations and by extension, "grading" people. They view it as me creating a static pecking order with me looking down at everyone in it. This runs completely contrary to my intention. Human relationships are dynamic and require two or more people. So, while I’m free to recognise a certain equation as a workplace friendship, my work friend is equally capable of doing the same. And probably does, even if they do so unconsciously. So, there’s no question of anyone looking down on anyone else. We’re all in the same boat. Also, equations can and often do change. After all, even our closest buddies were once strangers, and that changed. Purely from a practical standpoint, investing in relationships requires us to take out time for that person. And there’s a lot of stuff that wants or needs our time. How do we prioritise? That’s where my idea comes in. Its real objective is to navigate the complexities of human interaction with minimal hurt feelings on either side. To see each association for what it is - in terms of its roots, sustaining factors, purpose and emotional investment. Being aware of these aspects often gives me an insight into the type of relationship it is, and allows me to enjoy it while it flows, and let go when it naturally ebbs. FRIENDSHIP OF CIRCUMSTANCE OR TRANSIENT FRIENDSHIP Painted in broad strokes, there are three types of friendship. First on the list is friendship of circumstance or transient friendship. It has many aliases - work friend, activity friend, hangout friend, etc. Take, for example, a friendship that grows out of someone being a colleague with a schedule similar to mine, with more or less similar views on the things that absorb us at work. This common ground is the root of the friendship. This relationship is likely to usually last until either office dynamics cause a rift or one of us quits the workplace. A work friend leaving the shared workplace creates distance wherein earlier, there was easy accessibility. Understandably, this often proves to be a hindrance to the continuance of the friendship because now, it takes effort to meet and sustain the relationship. This is where two other elements come into play - the purpose of the friendship and emotional investment. They will now dictate the direction in which this connection moves. The purpose of most office friendships, in my experience, is to blow off steam and have someone to hang out with, have a few laughs, making the prospect of a routine work day a little more enjoyable. In terms of emotional investment, these equations don't call for much. Predictably, my friendship with my former work buddy subsides into infrequent phone calls which end with indefinite plans to meet or the exchange of the odd forward or joke on WhatsApp. You could ask why my office pal and I don't make more of an effort to stay connected? Well, the blunt answer is that there is neither a good enough purpose to do so any longer nor the sort of emotional bond that warrants the extra effort. HANGOUT FRIENDS Another variant of transient friendships are hangout friends who are part of one’s wider circle. The only qualification required is the mutual enjoyment of each other's company, even if only in small doses. These relationships are generally more social than emotional. Plans made with hangout friends are, for the most part, quite fluid and materialise only when mutually convenient. However, there are no hurt feelings as a result of this because the relaxed level of engagement doesn't engender high expectations on either side. So, it all works out just fine! SEASONAL FRIENDSHIP That brings us to the second category of friendship - seasonal friendship. The term is not literal, obviously, since most of these equations do manage to outlast a change in weather! I use the term "seasonal" as a metaphor for the nature of this kind of bond - it engages you in the current moment and you can't imagine it changing. Just like it seems unimaginable, during the summer, that you would ever want to be packed into a thick, fleece-lined jacket coupled with a pair of woollen trousers and three pairs of socks. And yet, there comes a day when you're doing just that! In fact, even throwing a muffler into the mix. Anyway, I digress. In a nod to chronology, perhaps I should speak first of the Spring of seasonal friendships rather than their Winter. They usually begin as transient friendships which grow deeper, organically, due to a combination of favourable circumstances and overlapping spheres of interest. This rapport is further strengthened by the passage of time, joint experiences and shared confidences. Seasonal friends are an integral part of our lives and often, one cannot foresee these bonds fizzling out. And yet, they often do. Even the most durable seasonal friendships tend to run out of steam between year one and year seven. For some reason, that someone a lot smarter than yours truly would have to decipher, seven years is something of a watershed moment in most close friendships. If the relationship manages to make it past the seven-year mark without dissolving into a casual connection, you’ve most likely found yourself a lifelong buddy. Take a moment and think back to some of your pals from years ago - the ones who seemed like they would stick around. My guess is that a majority of those friendships dissipated before they crossed the seven-year milestone. However, the ones that did make it past the mark, are probably still around. This brings me to the last form of friendship - lifelong friends. LIFELONG FRIENDSHIP Lifelong friends are the folks you've known for so long that it seems pointless to keep track of the years. More often than not, you meet them early in life. This seems to me like the Universe's devious plan to make sure you can never forget about all the idiotic stuff you got up to! Or maybe, the people you meet in school, college or in the trenches at your first job get to know you while you're still figuring out who you are, and before you start taking yourself too seriously. Growing up in a shared environment certainly is a good glue but even that is likely to come unstuck unless the friendship is backed by a strong emotional bond, common core values and a sense of being invested in each other's lives. It is these factors that induce you to stay up way past your bedtime to call a friend in a different time zone or move past an argument that would've ended a lesser friendship. It’s the effort that you put in that makes the friendship special. Of these three factors that help sustain a lifelong friendship, an emotional bond is fairly self-explanatory. As for investment in each other's lives, let me attempt an explanation. It’s when your friend’s success or failure feels like you have a share in it because you’ve seen their struggle even though they may shrug it off as inconsequential in front of others. That leaves us with common core values, by which I mean a shared or complementary view of ideas such as integrity, trust, family, life goals, et al. Having a similar outlook on these subjects leads to an understanding that deepens, and perhaps goes beyond, shared experiences and an emotional connection. It is this common value system that makes one's old friends such good advisors when we’re faced with life’s important decisions. They know how you think and what's important to you, especially in times when you may need reminding. They care enough to point out your mistakes in the gentlest way possible so that you can grow. The best part though is that you can count on your friends to pull your leg and make you laugh. Sometimes, that’s all you need – someone to be silly with. Above all, it is the unwavering belief that despite busy schedules, the natural crests and troughs of life and the arrival of new friends, a lifelong friend will always show up, in your corner, when you need them. A friend inspires you to be a better version of yourself even though they know where the bodies are buried (hopefully, only metaphorically. If not, you better hope they’re a great friend!), someone who builds you up while keeping you grounded and is the person you never want to let down. To know there exists such a person, whether next door or two continents away—one who knows all your stories; listens to the bizarre nonsense you come up with, calls it nonsense but listens anyway; is your moral compass in a topsy-turvy world—is that rare luxury called friendship. BE A FRIEND Ultimately, to have good friends, you also need to be one. How does one judge that? Effort. That’s the truest measure. If you talk a good game but repeatedly fail to show up when it counts, then you need to work on that. It’s not enough to say that you had the right intention. It’s like Stephen Covey, the author of The Speed of Trust puts it, “We judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their actions.” As time passes, good intentions alone fail to pass muster. The ones who matter make the effort and those who don’t, don’t matter as much. Though I’d still catch a movie with them.

In the author’s note, Stuart Turton acknowledges that while The Devil and the Dark Water could be classified as a historical novel, it isn’t because some bits of historical detail aren’t strictly accurate. Which is another way of saying they’re inaccurate and he made a choice for them to be so, else they would impede the telling of his tale. So, dear reader, don’t dive into The Devil and the Dark Water expecting to glean historical details or even a believable depiction of what it took to sail across the seas in the 1600s. In fact, even the conduct of some of the characters isn’t quite what you would expect it to be, given the era they’re in. But in my mind, almost all is forgiven thanks to the author’s disclosure that “this is historical fiction where the history is the fiction”. Instead, pick it up if you are looking for a fun yarn with ample twirls and twists. The Devil and the Dark Water is set in the year 1634 and on the Saardam, part of a fleet of seven ships scheduled to sail from Batavia in the Dutch East Indies to Amsterdam. The fleet, ferrying the usual colonial fare of spices and silk alongwith a mysterious and precious cargo, is owned by the United East India Company, the wealthiest trading company in the world. Right before the fleet sets off on an eight-month long journey to Amsterdam, a leper proclaims the presence of his dark master aboard the Saardam and his ruinous intentions for the ship and all on it. The leper then combusts, apparently spontaneously, atop some packing crates. His prophecy, identity and manner of death are the first few mysteries we’re pulled into. Oh, did I mention the said prophesising leper had no tongue? Add another notch in the mysteries column. Aboard the cursed ship is the arrogant and ruthless Governor General of Batavia, Jan Haan. This is a triumphant voyage for him. Having governed the Company’s most profitable outpost for thirteen years, Haan is now on his way to take his place on the ruling body of the company - the Gentlemen 17. Unfortunately for everyone else, it is Haan’s decision whether or not to risk hundreds of lives by persisting with the voyage. Travelling with him is his wife, Sara Wessel, a healer and a lover of mysteries who loathes her husband. Also being transported is a prisoner, Samuel Pipps, who in a twist of fate has gone from being the greatest detective in the world to a convict in a dank, lightless cell. What he did to deserve such a rapid descent in status is another riddle. His loyal bodyguard is Lieutenant Arent Hayes – a mountain of a man with a noble heart and several secrets. Will he and Sara Wessel be able to solve the mystery of strange symbols appearing on the ship's sails, whispers turning common folk into followers of the devil and the disappearance of a witch-finder who suspected one of the passengers of being the devil? Or will the devil known as Old Tom have his pernicious way? The plot of The Devil and the Dark Water unfolds from the viewpoints of various characters giving us an insight into their unspoken thoughts and worldview. This is necessary because no character can possibly be everywhere. Turton steps away from using a third person narrator, which was the preferred narrative style of the era he’s writing about, with good reason. Third person narration doesn’t allow for the kind of half-light and half-shadow effect that multiple first person perspectives can create. An omniscient narrator that doesn’t reveal the most poignant truth about a character who is lying about their true identity would leave readers feeling cheated. Multiple character POVs leap over that hurdle in addition to lending a hand in fleshing out characters. If you think about it, you’ll probably agree that unreliability is better suited to individual characters rather than omniscient narrators. Turton also sprinkles in healthy doses of backstory for each of his primary characters, giving them a sense of grounding as well as acting as the soil for their deepest desires and motivations to take root. The Devil and the Dark Water has several themes such as ambition, greed, gender stereotypes and hatred but behind it all, stands fear. Every character in the book has something they fear and the Devil, of course, is everyone’s fear. How fear can make reasonable and good people do the unimaginable is well-explored. Stuart Turton writes, “Fear was too brittle a material to make good decisions from.” Aside from a pacy plot packed with revelations, cliff-hangers, knife-fights and chases at regular intervals, Turton’s style is probably the thing that kept me hooked to The Devil and the Dark Water . His writing is clever and witty without being laboured. That said, there are parts that lack consistency in terms of character motivations and some explanations of the trickier parts of the plan are just left to our imagination. To add to it, some of the smaller puzzles littered throughout the novel are resolved way too simplistically to be satisfying. In terms of genre, Turton melds together his version of historical fiction with a whodunnit topped with a dash of horror in The Devil and the Dark Water . And while the ending may not be wholly satisfying, it still is an enjoyable read.

The words taciturn and grumpy seem almost pleasant when compared to Ove – the protagonist of this novel. He is the sort of person who seems older than his 59 years owing to his rigidity regarding fairly pointless rules and a blanket animosity toward the rest of the planet. He decides to end his life because he no longer sees any purpose in living on. Ove has a plan and the tools to achieve it. A serendipitous interruption caused by a couple moving into the neighbourhood ruins his design. For the next few days, his meticulous plans to join his wife in death are stymied by some or the other interference. The common elements in all these incidents are his grouchiness combined with an inability to walk away from people he can help. Of course, he doesn’t cooperate graciously but he does lend a hand anyway. A Man called Ove is a book more about peeling away the layers of its protagonist rather than just the events that take place at this stage in his life. Through flashbacks, Backman takes the reader through Ove’s life to show us not only what he is but also why. That’s when we begin to understand his loyalty, his pride in being self-sufficient, his devotion to rules and regulations and his dislike for new-fangled ideas and wastefulness. One of the recurring themes in A Man called Ove is building and fixing things – something of a male preserve in the book. It also fits in with Ove’s idea of masculinity – reserved, dedicated, utilitarian and reliable. The new neighbour also known as the Lanky One, the overweight young man next door, Jimmy and the BMW-driving neighbour, Anders act as foils to Ove. And yet, by the end of the story, both Ove and the reader realise that they too have some useful skills and more importantly, their hearts at the right place. Looking beyond the exterior of a person into their core – seeing their heartaches, weaknesses, fears, secret desires and hopes is another vital theme of the novel. To be truly seen is the gift that Ove’s late wife, Sonja bestowed on him. She’s described as “all the colours” in contrast to his black and white and yet she sees in him, what we as readers also see by the end of the book – a generosity of spirit and a goodness that is rare in this day and age. One of my peeves with this book is its somewhat implausible plot points especially when it comes to neighbours who barge in at all times of day. I’m not sure that’s believable given the curmudgeon Ove is. The other aspect that felt overdone were the similes. I understand that similes and metaphors can make things, especially intangible concepts such as expressions and feelings, easier to imagine and therefore relatable. They’re also fun to read especially when they are as fresh and inventive as Fredrik Backman’s comparisons. However, if a reader were to take a sip of water every time the author uses a simile, I guarantee they would be well-hydrated in a couple of chapters. That, I believe, is an excessive use of the literary tool. Nonetheless, A Man called Ove is a heart-warming book that reaffirms an inescapable truth of the human condition that there are few things more life-affirming and essential than the belief that one is loved and needed. Everything else is negotiable. Note: The Tom Hanks starrer A Man called Otto that dropped on Netflix recently is an adaptation of this novel.

In this debut novel set in Wembley, a suburb in London, we meet a teenage librarian performing her summer job duties half-heartedly and an elderly widower who keeps his distance from books. Not the kind of people who run in the same circles, and certainly, not the sort who would have anything in common. Also, lost and found between the pages of a library book, is the List– a catalogue of eight novels with no obvious similarities- written out for no one in particular just in case they need it. For reasons of their own, the protagonists, Aleisha and Mukesh start reading the novels on the list, forming an unexpected bond with books and each other. The Reading List is divided into nine parts – one for each of the books on the list but starting with The Time Traveller’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, which is not on the list. I can only assume that the author, Sara Nisha Adams wants her readers to perceive the themes that her novel shares with The Time Traveller’s Wife - love, loss and being able to communicate across windows of time. While Niffenegger’s novel carried more concrete and obvious instances of time travel, The Reading List is more about how the list which was composed in 2017 affects the lives of people even in 2019. And then, there are books – the most efficient, cost-effective and ubiquitous manifestation of time travel , in my opinion. The books on the list are ones that most readers would have read or watched a film/series adaptation of, making it easier for us to connect to how the protagonists are affected by them. Also, quite often we can see a mirroring of circumstance between the books and the real lives of the protagonists even if the literal events in the lives of Aleisha and Mukesh are quite different. Adams taps into the tendency of most readers to relate books and characters to their own lives. We’ve all done it though I found it a tad melodramatic for Mukesh to imagine characters from the books he reads following him around Wembley. Both Aleisha and Mukesh gain depth and the reader’s sympathy as the novel progresses, given the challenges in their lives and their efforts to make the most of them by opening themselves up to change. However, Aleisha’s mother’s illness is left unexplained from start to finish and its lack of specificity makes it seem unreal and like something that exists only to further the plot. The secondary characters all seem one-dimensional including Aidan, Aleisha’s long-suffering older brother on whom falls the weight of crushed dreams and growing up before his time. His motivations and desires, which must be powerful given his actions, are ignored and frankly, I found the novel the poorer for it. Aidan is the character I was rooting for, even more than the protagonists and was disappointed with him being treated as a cardboard cut-out and a plot point. Loneliness is the primary theme explored in The Reading List with almost every character experiencing it. And quite often, it is death or the breakdown of human relationships that is the reason for this loneliness but the author also nods in the direction of technology as being a cause of the alienation we feel, whether in the form of cell phones that have replaced conversation or automatic doors that keep people out if they can’t figure out how to work them. The antidote in the novel to this isolation is genuine human connection that can only be achieved by stepping out of one’s comfort zone and limiting belief systems. Another related idea is how little we know even the people we know and how every person carries within them a whole world of experiences, fears, hopes and insecurities. In terms of style, The Reading List is functional but brings nothing that would make it stand out. Even the characters turn out to be what you'd expect them to be. No major surprises there. Through the length of the novel, the identity of the unknown list-maker is pegged as a mystery and is fairly easy to work out. Though I didn’t mind the predictability as much as I did the book’s excessive dependence on serendipity , especially when it came to a letter written by the unknown list-maker to reach out to someone that they could have delivered this final communique to, in a much more direct and sure-fire fashion. That's my two cents on The Reading List . Now it’s up to you whether or not you put this book on your list.

The Plot is a novel about Jacob Finch Bonner, a struggling writer who, frustrated with his dwindling status and its attending indignities, steals a riveting plot narrated to him by a student who dies before completing his novel based on the same plot. Jacob’s book ends up becoming a blockbuster and he, a celebrated author. Life is good as a best-selling author with cross-country promotional tours, talk of his novel being made into a movie and the promise of a hefty cheque for his next novel. There is, however, one tiny fly in the ointment - someone knows his secret and is threatening to reveal it to the world. Jean Hanff Korelitz paints a brilliant portrait of an unsympathetic protagonist with no major redeeming traits and a fair number of affectations – starting with the pretentiousness of his self-given middle name ‘Finch’ in a nod to Atticus Finch from Harper Lee’s classic To Kill a Mockingbird . With this little touch, Korelitz shows us not only his vanity but also places, in his very name, his antithesis. Atticus Finch has been deified in the pages of literature as the epitome of integrity and fortitude - traits Jacob sorely lacks. The feigned modesty of Jacob’s carefully curated but seemingly off-the-cuff “famous author is an oxymoron” quip and his lack of interest in anyone’s life apart from his own doesn’t do much to bolster his likeability. However, that is also what makes him believable because he is so painfully ordinary even at the heights that he has managed to scale. The Plot explores the theme of what defines originality in art which is as good as stated in its epigraph – “Good writers borrow, great writers steal.” The fact that even these six words are attributed to both TS Eliot and Oscar Wilde is apt and poetic. Korelitz eschewing the advantage of a sympathetic protagonist makes the book stronger because its inquiry into the blurry line that separates inspiration from plagiarism, is forced to stand on its own merit instead of being supported by an affable main character. Readers are often willing to forgive likeable or sympathetic characters some fairly heinous acts. Don’t believe me? Just ask Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights , Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Rodion Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment. You’d probably get wry nods of agreement from them. Sadly for Jacob, he is not a character that inspires that sort of clemency. The only saving grace for Jacob is that his antagonist is much worse than him – a fact that is revealed slowly and becomes more horrifying as you turn the pages. The writing is engaging and the narrator’s turn of phrase and ironic tone elevates the story injecting it with humour and insight while also allowing the reader to maintain a psychic distance from the protagonist. The exposition, in the initial chapters, of Richard Peng Hall and the history of Ripley College sets the tone for Jake’s dismal life post his shot at literary fame. Some readers might be put off by the lack of action in the protagonist’s decidedly downward spiral from a “new and noteworthy” author to a part-time professor at a third-rate college to the glorified administrator of a writer’s resort. To me, however, showing Jacob’s worsening circumstances is important to establish his reasons for doing what he does. It’s his ambition combined with his descent into that special hell of impecuniosity and professional irrelevance that forges his motivation to steal his former student’s story idea. The plot of the novel is somewhat predictable since I guessed the two main twists - the climactic revelation in Jacob’s book and the identity of his blackmailer. In the end, what stayed with me was the theme of the novel – what constitutes originality? After all, even Disney’s The Lion King is a rendition of Shakespeare’s Hamlet but surely, we wouldn’t call it an act of plagiarism. I am reminded of a quote I read many years ago, “Ideas are nobody’s property. They belong to whoever expresses them best.” Finally, as anyone who has studied the craft of writing fiction will tell you, there are only seven basic narrative plots in all of storytelling which operate as scaffoldings for the construction of all stories. However, the myriad details of setting, characterisation, motivations, conflicts and narrative style make them individual pieces of expression. So, is Jacob’s novel his own work or plagiarised in its entirety? Read The Plot and let me know what you think.

Set in the hilly environs of an idyllic little village in the Himalayas, this novel sets the stage early with an English activist found bludgeoned to death in the nearby forest. Clare Watson is a victim with many supporters, quite a few enemies and a secret or two. Udayan Mukherjee introduces us to Neville Wadia, a suave, former policeman who stepped away from the force before he could become Commissioner of Police, and his journalist wife, Shehnaz. Moving away from the noise and dust of the metropolis of Mumbai, they chose to settle into an earthy but cosy cottage adjoining a resort in Birtola, a hamlet in the Himalayas. It is here that they came in contact with Clare and her husband, Tom, and struck up a friendship. In the opening chapter, a nightmare leads to exposition about Neville’s past. We are told that Neville is haunted by the brutal killing of a young girl he had sworn to protect. A Death in the Himalayas appears to the first book of a series with Neville Wadia as detective but he has to be nudged into investigating this case by Satish Kalia. Satish is the policeman dispatched from New Delhi to lead the investigation because of the high profile of the victim who was a controversial author and fiery women’s rights and environmental activist. SK, as Satish is referred to in the book, is a long-time admirer of Wadia and asks him to investigate alongside, albeit in an unofficial capacity. That Neville knows and is known by most of the persons of interest is an added advantage to the probe. The line-up of suspects in A Death in the Himalayas is a combination of people with personal and professional grudges against the victim and alibis as wobbly as jelly. The motives also highlight the themes of corruption, the rampant and reckless development of ecologically-delicate mountainous regions and more subtly, the difference in the perspectives of the haves versus the have-nots on such subjects. Another pertinent idea is that of past mistakes or crimes casting long shadows whether in the case of Neville carrying the burden of his failure to keep his word to his witness in an old case or the possible motives for Clare’s murder. As a mystery, it’s sufficiently engaging with an ample array of the genre’s staple, red herrings. But there are certain aspects of the plot that just don’t ring true. For instance, there is a great deal of media interest in the case, we are told. Told, not shown. Never have I witnessed such a timid and rule-abiding set of journalists, that are happy to sit by the side-lines as the investigating agency does its job, as seen in this novel. The author, having been a journalist for many years, would know that. Apart from being more realistic and perhaps furnishing the novel with a plot point or two, it would have injected a sense of urgency into the narrative that is sorely lacking. The momentum seems rather relaxed even after danger is said to be lurking round every corner. The surprisingly lengthy final chapters also curtail the pace of the storytelling. As someone who doesn’t read too many Indian authors mostly because a lot of them have a penchant for needlessly exoticizing the most basic Indian items of clothing or food. I was relieved to not see any of that in A Death in the Himalayas. Whether that is because the author isn’t trying to push his novel into the literary fiction genre that usually tends to look westward for approval or because he wanted to write an unapologetic cosy mystery isn’t something that I’m aware of. Either way, this is a novel written for an Indian audience or anyone who has access to Google just in case they aren’t aware of say, the stereotypes associated with certain communities or are unfamiliar with the famed good looks of a yesteryear Indian actor. For me, the absence of gratuitous explanations of dal as a spiced lentil soup were most welcome. All in all, A Death in the Himalayas is a quick and fairly enjoyable read, best served on a cold day with a hot cup of coffee!

There are days when nothing seems to go right. Perhaps you had an argument with a co-worker or a loved one or missed out on something you were looking forward to. We all know that it happens to everyone and whatever has irked us probably won’t matter in the long run but that knowledge doesn’t always soothe. The irritation of jangled nerves still prickles. I have a few remedies that I use almost every time I find myself stuck in a day like that. They have all been effective and none are to be considered better than the other. In fact, I’ve often used them in combination. The first among equals is listening to music that I enjoy, preferably perky with an up tempo beat. First just listening and eventually singing along to familiar songs can brighten the gloomiest moods. Maybe songs just stir up memories of happier times. Taking a shower as soon as I get home is another tactic I’ve used. Especially on days when I would return from work in a dark mood and even a harmless line from my brother would spark a full-fledged battle given my state of mind. Instead, going straight up to my room, dropping my bag and jumping straight into the shower was the best thing to do. There’s something therapeutic about letting cool or warm water (depending on the weather) wash away the day's weariness while the gentle fragrance of a shower gel being lathered with a loofah soothes fatigued muscles. Even more relaxing is the scalp massage that accompanies washing one’s hair. Just standing under the shower head with water flowing over you is calming. As is the sound of water. I can say with assurance that you’ll step out in a better mood than when you went in. The third remedy is to go for a walk. It helps burn off the agitated energy of an angsty day. Depending on where you live, stepping out for a walk may mean different things. In Delhi, it meant the paved lanes of a gated colony for me. Thankfully, it was quiet and there were quite a few trees and I would often meet the neighbourhood dogs. Here in Belgaum, it’s more scenic but harder on my feet. A rough mud track pitted with stones running alongside fields of corn, cabbage, chillies and rice, depending on the season. The rays of the setting sun over fields flush with vegetation while others lie fallow, resting in deep brown furrows. And the breeze, cool and blowing unhindered. And of course, at least one or two of our dogs come along for company. Sometimes, I like to sit by the stream that flows through the fields and watch shepherds grazing their sheep. No treadmill can match that feeling. Walking alongside paddy fields with Cindy Going for a walk is also an opportunity to commune with nature. Now, I’m not under the mistaken impression that most people are walking through some kind of mystical forest when they go for a walk. Sadly, it’s usually a tarmac road between rows of buildings. But if you have the chance, take a walk in a park or along a path that has some trees or plants. It’ll make all the difference. There’s something deeply healing about walking in nature. Perhaps, we pick up nature’s unhurried ways subliminally. I believe the Japanese have a word for it – shinrinyoku , which when translated, broadly means ‘forest bath’ or taking a walk in the forest for its restorative benefits. To see nature at work in the shrinking of a touch-me-not, the falling leaves of a tree or a squirrel saving up nuts for the winter is calming in its predictability but also in the endless hope that nature offers to all its creations. Things pan out just fine. Even tiny plants with their minute flowers bloom even though they can’t compete with oak trees. A tree shorn of all its leaves isn’t worried about the future. The leaves will return, come spring. And the squirrel will live through the winter even if it drops a nut or two on its way home. And none of this need to be thought of, consciously. It just seeps in. A kind of osmosis. The last of my tried and tested remedies is to go to bed early. My reasoning being that if I’m having a bad day, why prolong it? Going to bed a little earlier than usual helps me grab some extra and much-needed shuteye with the additional benefit of no longer having to think unhappy thoughts of what ruined my day in the first place in addition to side-stepping the risk of making it worse. The next morning, things are invariably brighter, both literally and metaphorically.

Books are perhaps the most efficient, inexpensive and ubiquitous manifestation of time travel. You and I could be sitting next to each other on a park bench, travelling to different worlds and eras, and neither of us would have moved an inch or noticed anything out of the ordinary. Now that’s teleportation without migration! What’s more, we also meet new people in the form of characters who accompany us on our travels, sometimes imbuing our impressions in colours from their own palettes. For instance, we see Pip’s world through his eyes in Great Expectations, making him both the protagonist of the story and our guide. But our tourism of different ages and worlds is not limited to first person narratives. It works even if the narrator speaks in the third person, is sarcastic or given to flights of fancy. A photograph, a video clip or film can also take us back in time but books have the added element of individual imagination that makes the trip more personal. Anyone who ever imagined what a character looks like; the eeriness of a crooked, haunted house or the sound of a dragon's roar can vouch for this. However, what is essential to this form of travel is atmosphere and context. Without them, your experience isn’t likely to be immersive. That’s something I learnt in college, majoring in English literature. It wasn’t enough to read the novel, poem or play. That was the bare minimum. To acquaint oneself with the social, political and economic happenings of the time was crucial to gain a better understanding of what one was reading. In fact, that’s a good thing to remember even for the times we live in– when a tweet can get one cancelled and reactions go viral in a matter of minutes. All this promptness is all very well but to be cognizant of context is crucial to understanding almost anything. This is where books can help. Reading is essentially meditative. To read with the benefit of context allows you to see more deeply and have empathy for what people in times different from our own have been through. Sure, we can laugh or turn up our noses safe in the false belief that we would’ve known and done better. Perhaps. But most likely, not. I believe it is a rare person indeed who would admit that they would’ve been on the wrong side of history had they lived in another time. Speaking of another time, rereading a book can also be a delicious experience. Like indulging in a favourite comfort food like a chicken potpie. You can count on it to soothe you after a long day or be the please-all, fail-safe option for a Sunday lunch. Sadly, in the case of some of my favourite books, I don’t recall my first impressions but can safely say that they were probably different from what I think of them now. Perhaps, because I have changed. Even if the book remains the same. I remember reading Antoine de Saint Exupery’s The Little Prince, for the first time, as a teenager. My father had recommended it. I liked the whimsical story-telling and the charming characters, especially the protagonist and his friends on Earth – the pilot and the fox. Over the years, I’ve reread it a couple of times, discovering new layers and the pithiness of its observations. You could say that the Little Prince allowed me to accompany him not only to the planets he visited but also my own past self. Like the author Celeste Ng puts it, “The story is truly finished – and meaning is made – not when the author adds the last period, but when the reader enters.” In that sense, every reader brings their own story to the page just as the writer unfurls their tale. If you don’t see it, you haven’t looked closely enough at the blank spaces between the lines on the page. Somewhere in the confluence of the two is the world of words. And so, perhaps books aren’t just a means to travel through time. They’re also a portal into a different universe , created when someone cracks open a book. Anyway, I got to go now. There’s a haunted ship, the world’s greatest detective and a few thousand damned souls waiting for me in the year 1634 . See you when I return from my travels.

Confession – I’m a fairly regular watcher of morning and evening routine videos on YouTube regardless of the qualifier or adjective du jour. Common trends include ‘that girl’, ‘realistic’, ‘productive’ or ‘relaxed’. Despite the differentiators, it’s usually the same. Not just the aesthetic of rooms painted white with lots of natural light, a few houseplants, coffee from Keurig or Nespresso coffee machines, colour-coordinated gym wear and skin care that would give Cleopatra an inferiority complex! The routines themselves are fairly basic and yet, I like watching them because they can be inspiring even in their artifice. To be fair, one can pick up a few good ideas like making a to-do list for the day (helps with productivity) or making your bed within the first ten minutes of waking up (checks the temptation to crawl back in). In fact, I learnt the recipe for my favourite chocolate banana oats smoothie from a morning routine video. Night routines are even more movie-like and mellow since they are geared toward winding down for the night. It’s so cosy you can practically smell the cookies baking in the oven. There are, of course, cliches galore – candles, cleaning up spaces before going to bed, cooking a healthy but still Instagram-worthy dinner, luxurious bubble baths followed by, you guessed it, skin care! Somewhere in the mix is also some peppermint tea in a cutesy mug. You might wonder why I watch them if I find them so predictable. Well, because even what is formulaic can be enjoyable and relaxing. Just think of your favourite comfort food. Never fails to hit the spot, does it? While I do allow myself a chuckle or two at how all YouTubers seem to have the pretty much the same taste, I do enjoy seeing how most of the humdrum tasks that all of us perform during our days can be made more enjoyable. Also, I like the element of self-care that all these videos invariably serve up. Self-care can be anything from a walk in the park, to journaling or a sipping a drink sitting in your favourite chair. I’m not the kind of person who has an elaborate daily routine but I see the value in taking some time every day to take a break and doing something I enjoy. When I was working, I would take this break sometime in the middle of my office hours. Nothing beats a coffee in my book! Working in the television news business, my shifts could change almost daily. Fortunately, I would have an hour’s break after a few hours of working and in one of those breaks I would walk down to a coffee shop half a mile from my office. Sometimes, I'd go with a colleague or friend but most of the time, it was just me and a book. I would order my usual frappe and a sandwich if I was hungry, sink into a couch and read for about half an hour before I walked back to the office. This break, spent in the world of a fictional character, afforded me some quiet time away from the shrill of breaking news and the general sense of rushing about that permeates newsrooms. Stepping away from my work environment helped me recharge and come back refreshed. I understand that most people don’t have the luxury of such long breaks (in fact, even a lunch break can sometimes be considered a privilege) at their workplaces but the point I’m making is about how essential it is to step away from your desk or work station or even housework to indulge in an activity that relaxes and rejuvenates you, even if it is only for a few minutes. So if you can, take a walk while you listen to a song you like, read a few pages of a book, do the crossword or a sudoku, chat with a friend or just sit in a quiet corner and breathe. Life can be mundane yet hectic but a change of pace can make a difference.

In Five Years is a book about friendship, destiny and our plans for our lives. Published in 2020 – a year when the pandemic derailed many a plan, it couldn’t have been timed better to fit the presiding mood of unpredictability. It’s a quick, light read. However, if you’re looking for romance with a dash of prophecy, this is not it. Stop reading now and cancel that order from Amazon! The book has a very definite sense of setting – which is New York. It is obvious that the author has lived there given the specificity of her locations. The protagonists’ homes and workplaces signify status and upward mobility. The lead characters are two childhood friends who are polar opposites in terms of personality and life choices – the rational, control-freak corporate lawyer, Dannie who prefers (as we are told repeatedly) the “black and white terms” of contracts over displays of bravado in courtrooms. This is a character who has a specific breakfast marked out for days when she needs to feel like a winner. We get it. Dannie, the character whose point of view we inhabit, likes things to be planned and finessed to within an inch of their lives. In the first chapter, we see that she lives by a timeline, a set blueprint and David, her boyfriend is willing to play along. The other major character in the novel is her best friend Bella, who with her fairy tale name is the quintessential emotionally-damaged but intuitively-grounded, float-with-the-wind, flaky artist (who is also a trust fund baby of indifferent and largely absent parents). She frequently jets off to faraway locales at a moment’s notice. Oh, well. To say that this is a trope that’s getting predictable would be… well, predictable. The Firefly Lane series by Kristin Hannah had a similar dynamic as does the show Gilmore Girls (which I’ve only watched snippets of, but know that it features a mother-daughter relationship that feels more like a friendship between two women with contrasting personalities and a caffeine addiction). The genre of women’s fiction is somewhat amorphous and defined often both by its readership as well its content. To the best of my understanding, the defining characteristic of the genre is that the equation between two or more female characters rather than, say the factors opposing a romantic match, is usually the main source of conflict in the plot. In Five Years delivers partially on that front but the contrast between the protagonists is too on the nose and their friendship doesn't feel grounded. The idea of Dannie’s dream featuring a life quite different from the one she has planned is an interesting premise. This dream, for the convenience of plot comes with a five-year timeline and is the inciting incident that sets the ball rolling. This starting point coupled with the eventual real-life roll out of this 'dream', five years in the future and in the penultimate chapter of the book, act as a frame for the story. The point that context is crucial to understanding events in their true light is well-made but the rest of it was a let-down in terms of narration, characterisation and the frankly, the conclusion. The supporting characters - David, Aaron, Morgan and Ariel lack depth and flesh-and-blood motivations. We never get to see what makes them stick around in certain circumstances or leave in other situations. Completely lacking even that most basic level of agency that is usually accorded to minor characters, they appear to populate the world of this novel only to provide plot points and create a sense of the protagonists having other people in their lives. Perhaps Morgan and Ariel, being a gay couple, are also a token nod to inclusivity. What makes it odder still is that being close friends of both Dannie and Bella and living in the same city, they barely make an appearance post the mid-point of the story. Not even to support their friends during a major crisis. Apart from this, there is the sub-plot of Dannie’s lawyerly work which also pushes her eventually to trust her instincts instead of only the letter of the law. This dovetails neatly with what is missing in her personal life as well. This tying up of loose ends so perfectly into one tidy bow takes away from the story resembling anything close to the messiness and crossed lines of real life. Overall, I wouldn’t recommend it because it flubs its chance of being a touching story about the constancy, love and insight it takes to make a lifelong friendship .