There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed That’s what Ernest Hemingway said. But I suppose that he said it at a point where his bleeding had started to give him life.... Continue Reading →
I guess it’s fitting that I have a jumble of thoughts that I want to pen down about this book, but it’s all muddled up, and I find it hard to articulate adequately all I want to about reading this... Continue Reading →
Last year I had decided to be more deliberate about writing reviews of books that I read, almost immediately after I am done with them and before picking up the next book. I began seeing the benefits when I went... Continue Reading →
His obvious respect for his peers, his observation of what to imbibe from each of them — Dravid’s quest for perfection, Ganguly’s never say die spirit, Kumble’s lionheartedness, Dhoni’s equanimity, Tendulkar’s commitment to and passion for his art, Sehwag’s happy go lucky style, Zaheer’s laidback demeanor inside a tough core — penned with much thought and oozing with candour, made me love this book quite a few feet deeper. Dravid once said at a LitFest that I attended in response to a query of when he would pen an autobiography that “if I write a book, it ought to be an honest book and that could invite unwanted attention and chaos for my family and myself. I am not ready to put them or myself through that. So no immediate plans to write one”. And Laxman’s memoir possesses that honesty.