Beginning a new book is like going on a journey. The actual reading is preceded by days of longing, anticipation and excitement. I plan, I contemplate, I dig through all my unread books, quite making up my mind that this is the book I’m going to read next, and I let my anticipation rise accordingly. Then, all of a sudden, my eyes fall on another book, and it beckons invitingly. Change of plan. I simply have to read it, shooting down all my earlier ideas.

I had quite decided to read The Children of Hurin, when I realised that it has been atleast two months since I last read a Paulo Coelho book. Except for excerpts from Like A Flowing River and pieces in the ‘Deccan Chronicle’ on Saturdays, I haven’t really seen much of him. Reading Coelho always seems to me like an unpredictable journey, with lessons of life strewn along the way without being preachy. The best thing about his books is that I feel like imbibing from them. I remember what I like in them. They don’t make me sceptical; even the most incredible things seem possible. So, yielding to impulse, I picked up The Zahir.

Probably nothing matches a book for company and comfort. These long summer afternoons will be made enjoyable through all the random bits and pieces I will end up reading. I always smell a book before I begin it. I feel the cover, the letters, the spine- a book can really put you on a high. There’s nothing like a book that’s pretty inside and outside.

Now I’m looking forward to this new journey. I’m just a few pages into this book, but I can’t wait to finish it. This is one more feeling that’s really hard to understand. I can hardly wait to begin a book, and once I’m into it, I can hardly wait to finish it. And once I finish it, I feel like the journey ended all too soon. Can somebody explain?