The kiss of spring

The house that I recently moved to stands at the junction of a street crisscrossing the road. My house is located in an uncluttered, orderly suburb, discernible with the other known suburbs in the city. However, I am not sure whether it qualifies for a 'top' suburb. Neither do I mind much about qualifiers. Lined with comfort cottages, bordering on red tiled roofed period houses, the suburb road and the streets are lush and lavishly green - the trees throwing in together heralding spring.

When I moved into this part of the city, the trees, imposing and colossal, stood stark-naked avouching the shift in the seasons. It was winter then, receding reluctantly in time. Walking on the road and sometimes the different streets, cushioning the suburb, in the final winter month, I could feel the nature's nakedness with the blue expanse of the sky scrutinising and searching all that colluded beneath, our suburb's spartanism. It was an amazing experience watching the wintry sky, the buttery sun burning soft on the skin.

I had few companions walking their dogs. The pavements were mostly deserted, our road hardly witnesses hustling traffic with few swishing by to evade the expressway traffic as much as they can. The grass patches, hemming in the tree trunks, were mostly slush and sterile. Only the cars parked on the streets, zoomed into indolence. The houses, too, gave into the arms of Morpheus. For the first time in years, revisiting my memories back to a country where I lived for a while, I was face-to-face with human activity similarly shrouded into seclusion. But for now, winter has withdrawn not to be back until next year.

Like our rooms, the trees and its branches were sitting tight, the wilderness laid into waste. On my regular walks down the road to the grocer's and public transport, I used to look up into the early spring sky wondering when shall we witness the trees teeming with life, emerald in colour. The silence of the suburb has already been sweetened by the balmy scent in the weather. I am starting to look forward to the walks, but making no sign of haste as the fresh morning rimy air has delayed the season's prime.

The magic spell did arrive albeit a little late. The thin spray of the sultry breeze has put a stamp on our suburb's environs. Spring has arrived. Leafy throughout, the road and the streets has sprung up flourishing. The liquidambar trees, traditionally found in old English gardens, makes for a blue-green embroidery on our suburb's fabric and fora. Entwining and clinging, the leaves swell in the first flush of the morning. In spring, small spherical heads of tiny green flowers appear, and the blooms are inconspicuous, they are followed by distinctive, spiky, woody seed capsules.

Raw and rousing, the foliage of these trees spread out all embracing, kissing. The nature's first kiss of the season, so fresh and ethereal. Spring is truly the tonic of our innate intelligence, refreshing and renewing. Walking down the road, I feel lively but civic decency bars me from going wild. Else, I would have hopped, skipped and jumped on my way down the lonesome road beneath the rich green mural. These days as I look up to snatch a glimpse of the bright spotless sky, the towering trees embraces me abysmal. The sun rays, seeping through the palmately lobed leaves, pecks on my cheeks warm.

The clouds and the rains, propping up in between, are not pleasing and they do not even greet with good grace. 'Perfection' in entirety, I believe, is just an overtone of being 'phantasmal'. Amazing are the moments only when we cultivate the 'spring' burgeoning in the pink and prime of life. 

The cruise cut loose

Loading, unloading and reloading - in a nutshell, this has been my life since the last two years. Mostly jarred although I did my best to play the game. How much tranquiled was I on the track? Honestly, not much. Often bootless. I was gradually made aware of the flurry about to come down with full force. Surprisingly, I was unprepared for the turn my life had laid out.

While moving in and out, I collected my furs and furniture, casks and crockery, books and baggage, gems and gadgets. What I left behind are the boutiques and the bakery, the lounge and the luncheonette, the banks and the bookshops, the groceries and the galleries. Nevertheless, the personal trusting and the thistle got a pruning. Memories from these movements are like seeds, when randomly dropped, sprouts in our own sunshine to sunflowers. I could not discount the darkness though.

The silence in the anguish flashed back like dusk before darkness. We carry our pains, heavy as a heartbreak, sustaining the emotional intelligence while leaving indelible impressions behind. These have been so true to my life. Even to this day, I acknowledge transporting the agony within though some medication has muted it to an extent. But the memoirs come with the permit from the mind. Never to be erased. 

My connections with most humans have been cold. Some happened to be by chance, casual, not complete. Conversations, from myself, blew like a mist through the mountainous landscapes. Crickets, as in relations and acquaintances, make a lot of noise. We can hear them but cannot see them. When we pass by them they become quiet. Then there are shields people put on. Opaque to innocence, the lapping waves of my deep churning crashed against the steep cliffs and the times uncounted for. With time, a state of calmness, marked by ceaselessly rolling waves, shaped my final movement.

Nature is naked. It crowns us with charm. No wonder nature is healing, happy and handsome. Cruising through nature as in life, I never had the option to choose my cabin. The anticipation of not knowing what I'm going to see upon entering it, or what incredible panoramic ocean views my eyes should watch out for has always abandoned me drifting, disconnected. Nature wends with measured steps - some facile, some labyrinthine. My life's cruise is purposefully rough, testing the spiritual strength forever. Unleashing it into the mystic world of the waters, only to be soaked in an immersive experience, my self-assurance has now dissolved in a fleetingly light fuzz of sweetness, sharp and spiteful.  

A weekend eavesdrop expedition

“It's the way to educate your eyes. Stare. Pry, listen eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long” - Walker Evans.

Recently I was out travelling to a well-known spot in the city outskirts mostly frequented by families of shoppers. I had been there many a times before but every time I make a trip to the place I yearn to go back only for the colossal presence that opens up before me bit by bit. The master planning and the conceptual planning of the site is indeed astounding. 

 

My real intent of sojourn, in the course of my recent trip, was as aimless as ever. It was a late afternoon. The sun was warmer on the back and a light breeze fanned the lush leaves of the huge tropical trees and the motley paper lanterns lining the street of the site. I wheeled around the neat manicured vast landscape, dropping in for a brief moment at a local ice cream parlor for a vanilla scoop, with my senses disjointed and the walk moderated by the sight of the colourful weekend crowd, young and old, eating out, shopping either at a pell-mell or leisurely pace. People, in general, were in cheer except for few kids who howled for reasons best known to them. The mood was an upbeat one, the sauntering effect of a long weekend brought upon by a local festival, and the air was drunk in smoke, beers, laughter and popular folk music drumming out of bistros and cafes.

Sinking onto a roadside steel bench, after an hour or so, slowly reeling in the sightings around, I found company. The company, a young couple who I later found out to be professional mates, was physical but mine was virtual. I eavesdropped their conversation in halted English. The man, sporting Mediterranean features and accent, was tall, fair and in mid 30s dressed in a tee and cobalt blue jeans and tennis shoes. The lady in bare minimal make-up, an Asian elder to her mate, had jet black straight hair dressed in a laced see-through white shirt paired with black leggings and cheap flowery sandals.

The couple, waiting for a hop-and-skip bus or so was my wild guess, kickstarted a conventional conversation on professional jugglery. Only then did it dawn on me and the way they addressed each other that the young couple were professional acquaintances. The droll moments were just beginning to unravel.

"I wish I could make 10 million (in the local currency) every year and retire happily in a posh neighbourhood buying myself a small property," reflected the lady in her singsong voice. "An engineering degree does not fetch us far."

The man piped in "Oh, I see you have a dream buying yourself a property. Good and I do understand because you travel a lot you said." He sighed and started again, "My life takes a routinely affair - I have to be ready by 9:00am for office, come back to the house by 5:00pm and then switch on the television for half-an-hour before I go in for a shower, sit down to study for a couple of hours before the house-mates drop in and by 9:00 we all have dinner together, watch soccer on television and I'm off to bed by 10:00pm. I am hardly a night person, you know."

"So when do you finish your thesis?" asked the lady. The man was pursuing his Ph.D on some subject, which remained undisclosed during the conversation, that was supposed to be completed in six months' time.

Also, he turned out to be a bachelor shuffling his life between office and research papers and happened to share a flat with others to pay off a big rent which is a perennial problem in international cities. I inferred there was some, hidden in the colloquy, domestic help that prepared the meals, did the dirty dishes and laundry and cleaned the house.

The man seemed at ease with his life, loved his routines and did not wish them to be disrupted. However his one-time sigh put me in a tight corner - was he happy with the way his life stretched out or feigning, but only for a moment, to be in his mate's shoes whose life was far more enterprising?

He certainly did not earn much as on date. The lady did and her accounts gave me a vivid picture. "Right now I have rented out a small apartment all by myself. My entire day and evening is spent inside the office or on business tours, and the nights either at home or hotels. On weekends I do my laundry, iron my office clothes and cook."

"Do you have a washing machine to help you wash your clothes?" asked her mate. "Oh yes, otherwise I'll be lazy to do them by hand, you know," chimed the lady. To me, she aired a sense of self-dependence that was distinctly absent in her male counterpart. Did the frequent business travels from one city to another helped shape her self-sufficing nature, I pondered, or any other inherent reason that were clearly not a part of the conversation?

I am not sure whether both worked in the same company but their language of professional discussions hinted coming from a similar educational discipline - engineering. "One of my friends, you know, lives in Bangkok, but spends quite a considerable amount of her professional time in Dubai or Abu Dhabi and her working hours are not that stretched," quoted the man. "She works for an oil and gas company, earning big time with lots to spend at and takes breaks in between going to big places for holidays."

"Yes, oil and gas industry pays well," said the lady. "Oh it would have been nice to work for one 'coz of its big benefits." "Ah, I see, you aim for that property you spoke about," laughed the man. Sitting side by side I was not able to see their faces but gauged the lady's embarrasment for the way her dream was spoken of. She echoed, "No, no I was just kidding you see."

No bus did arrive, the couple continued in gaiety, and with the evening settling in I wished to hop into a taxi on my own. The idea just struck in me but put into implementation by the man beside me. A taxi drove along and the man jumped into the street, waving his hand to stop by, started giving directions to the driver on the route to his destination. The driver conceded and the couple, after a cordial hug, separated going their own ways - the man got inside the taxi and the woman walked off. I understood she lived closed by in the neighbourhood.

I waited, all alone on the bench in the pink hours of the twilight, for another taxi to come by.

“If money is your hope for independence, you will never have it. The only real security that a man can have in this world is a reserve of knowledge, experience and ability” - Henry Ford. The woman, though independent and earning, based her educational degrees in search for further material comforts not satisfied with the present means of sustenance. The man, dependent on others for his domestic trappings, exuded a sense of calm and comfort in his not so happening life. His talks, though, never charted into the future life imagery. He accepted his daily life as it came along.

I wonder how a short trip to a nearby known turf would open a Pandora's box for me revealing human traits that define a city in which we live - the standards of its living, the issues that ails its common man and the affordable solutions that follow. The eavesdropping, not fair at all times, also aided my thinking capacity - the same city which we share at the same time responds to people differently outlining their attributes to life on a palatte that comes in varied sizes and an array of colours. Few take it safe and content while the rest wallows in the fear and insecurity precipice.

Red with rage

"Sri Krishna said: O Arjuna, There are three gates leading to the hell — Lust, Anger and Greed. Every sane man should give these up, for they lead to the degradation of the Soul."

"Sri Krishna said: O Arjuna, One develops attachment for the sense objects by thinking about the sense objects. Desire for sense objects comes from attachment to them, and anger comes from unfulfilled desires."

"Sri Krishna said: O Arjuna, Delusion or wild idea arises from anger. The mind is bewildered by delusion. Reasoning is destroyed when the mind is bewildered. One falls down from the right path when reasoning is destroyed."

"Sri Krishna said: O Arjuna, Those who are free from anger and all material desires, who are self-realized, self-disciplined and constantly endeavoring for perfection, are assured of liberation in the God in the very near future."

"Sri Krishna said: O Arjuna, Pride, arrogance, conceit, anger, harshness and ignorance—these qualities belong to those people who are of demoniac nature."

This is what the Bhagwad Gita says on "anger".

It is but rational that every human being falls into the anger trap. And I am no exception. I admit that some of it is inherited from paternal genes. As one grows up especially when the euphoria of adolescence embraces delirium all worldly sense gets derailed. With the budding of youth, life is at the crossroads - awkward and riotous. The booby trap of anger is cavernous enough for a free flat fall. Realisation of rationale dawns at a time when you find yourself to have missed the bus long gone. You mellow down to a life not cherished with acquiescence.

 

Is flushed with rage worth? Over the years with age beckoning maturity, I realised my physical strength dissipated at a horrendous speed after a deadly brawl sucked in rage. That left me spiritless for days together and clueless when conducting activities that needed utmost zeal. I even lost my appetite for food and roamed around the house in unkempt hair. Surprisingly my lips got sealed for hours right after the raging episode. What sapped me most was lack of concentration on any book I read or any activity I carried out that needed mental vigour. I acted silly, taking stride of my pride hurt, exaggerating on an imaginary victimhood. Eventually I got myself doused in depression.

 

Now when I turn my thoughts to those volatile fuming episodes I find them utterly capricious and graceless. That was certainly not me. No oddity in guessing your instincts correct once smitten.            

 

As changing seasons caress and make love to the nature regaling her with a sense and spirit so do age and actions leave man, from buoyant youth to maturing grey, in bare introspection. I consulted my family doctor - the first steps were embarrassing but the next ones were easy. Speaking out helped. At every time I became angry at the behest of someone else's actions or words I started writing down in my diary: what was the issue, the settings that made things go wrong, what was my stance and continued inventing words and lines on paper until I found the tide inside me ebbing. On top of it my love for travel acted as a fillip in rejuvenating my senses. Long walks to the nearby gardens or the city library and lakes, bookshops and bistros, spa and salon brought back the laughter in my life.

To me travelling and reading, the dear choices I have made in this life, conditions the frail nerves a lot. I have observed and felt strongly that on many a passages, while meeting strangers and re-living their established routines that are in no ways different from what I travel through, my resilience to endure the tests of time take roots that are profound; bit by bit etching into my anger and arrogance, pride and parsimony and sulk and suspicion.

"Travel makes one modest, you see what a tiny place you occupy in the world" - Gustave Flaubert.    

I also know people who enjoys cooking or swimming or watering flowered pots or shaking a leg when their blood boils. Trust me these pills act perfect.

It is easy to address but hard to act. Anger is such a demonic constraint in our everyday lives, accentuated in cities and corporate spheres that can harm not only a man's senses but also pollute a soul. With my own experiments I have found that forgiveness ushers humility to one's character. Anger in a way is weighty in nature. One cannot do away with burdens overnight but only with patience and perseverance. In many cases I still have miles to walk and really unsure of the extent of chagrin within when life throws the gamble at you - there are no definite solutions or thumb rule to follow. To remain calm inside is a hard choice to make but we have to adapt and adhere to it strongly. Yoga and meditation, as in detoxifying agents, swab a handful of mental clog.

The outward manifestation of cheer, through physical journeys to distant lands or mental journeys through the pages of a book, is but an inward reflection of a mind, body and soul in contemplation. Dag Hammarskjold justly said that "The longest journey of any person is the journey inward."

 

Bookshop fables

Belonging to a kaleidoscopic nation gilded in culture and traditions, food and festivals, humanity and hospitality, I am but natural akin to love books, cherish and cultivate art and literature. More so when it has been handed down to you from one's parents who takes delight in reading. 

 

In my childhood it was a monthly ritual for my father to take me to his friend's brother's bookshop "Katha - o - Kahani" at College Street in north Calcutta. College Street is every book lover's sanctuary. Hundreds of big and small bookshops and publishing houses dot the narrow lanes and bylanes of the old part of the regal city gracefully sealing approvals even to the meagre booksellers to lay out their limited yet assorted treasures on the shrunken pavements lining the College Street. The archaic buildings of the University of Calcutta, the quaint Coffee House, colleges and administrative offices gave the Street a labyrinthine setting resplendent with a glorious past.

 

Tales of the Coffee House confabulations, that was similar to “Foro Romano”, where who's who of the Calcutta politico-literary circle gathered over cups of coffee and tea, sandwiches and snacks and a comradely smoke for meetings and interactions, debates and discussions are now retro profusely narrated inside and out by literary zealots. 

 

I remember the times when I was sent inside the brightly lit standard sized bookshop with my father leaving strict instructions to his acquaintance to look over me while he ventured out on his errands. Barely aged six or seven and steadily holding onto a piece of paper which I had taken extreme pains to copy the authors and books from newspapers and magazines or overheard in school parleys, I would hand it out to one of the shop's assistant who bade me to sit on wooden stool in a remote corner out of the active shop entrance passage and vanished with my dear list.

It had to be a long day and my father's friend's brother engaged me with Russian fables, Thakumar Jhuli, Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, Asterix, Goldilocks and Rudyard Kipling, blank pages and crayons to get me started. He was magnanimous to order sandesh from the adjacent shop every time I visited. I was a quiet child and do not think I ever caused any alarm on a busy business day of the bookshop. I found myself contented enough to gaze at the neatly stacked shelves, the fingers of the assistants running through the lines briskly picking up the author or publisher they were shouted at over the counter. The smell of the fresh hot off the press pages of a book and the old coat of the paint of the bookshelves was fetching - the musty young odour hung in my senses for long.

Growing up I was given a free hand to go through the pages of any new book I laid my hands on in the shop or any title or author that caught my fancy. With age I could freak out to other bookshops in the vicinity, peak inside the dimly lit printing houses on the College Street and linger for hours on a book at a store on which I have laid my heart on but budget did not comply.

One of my college friends was very good at bargaining and that is a skill you need to fiercely manifest while buying any good from a peddler on the streets of Calcutta and unfortunately that I was not blessed with. My friend hugely helped me procure some gems, although second-hand, at prices beyond my imagination easing the burden on my pocket. Till this day I owe her (my friend) gratitude beyond words as she used to travel through the traffic snarls of the north part of the city from down south accompanying me just for my cause.  

My parents never said "no" to any book I wished to possess but of course they delimited a sum that I could spend on books in a month. I was as happy as any child could be when given a candy and more so my parents readily indulged as I had no other wish to yap at.

Many years have passed by then, with each changing city and country my local bookshops swapped one for the other. The lanes altered, the landscapes expanded, I read more authors unknown of  in the pre-internet days, hobnobbed with new publishing houses but the charm of delving deep into the chock-full and colourful lines of a book shelf at a store is riveting even to this day.

I admit that over the years the world changed for better and worse and so did our books, publishing houses, our writing style, our reading habits and our snippety book-learning habits. Today I am really not surprised to see the veneer of the bookshops with all its ostentatious decor, swanky coffee places, jazzy audiobook corners, richly hued wallpapers, lucent kids' corners replete with books, glitzy stationery, stuffed toys and shelves done in bold colours jammed with books from moneyed publishing houses. The cacophony of the trade in these mega bookshops is more pronounced than the clairvoyance that germinates from the pages of a book that a shelf is so proud of. Mushrooming e-book business start-ups, with limitless choice and discounted prices on offer, also have led bookshops to lose their gloss.

There are small towns, till to this day, housing Gothic contoured neat and painted bookshops intact. What is more surprising is that here we end up reading books in death of silence and get to know of small time publishers devoid of any advertising blitzkrieg. Often I have found Doric paintings shielding the sodden plaster peeling-off walls of such treasure houses.            

 

"The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page" - Saint Augustine. Our journey into the edification of the bodhi is often in the lookout for the bathhouses of tome. The pus from the pen on the paper is just what a soul needs for prescience and prudence. There is nothing else to prove.   

The way we paint life

What can be more beautiful and laid-back to start 2015? Happyily recoiled on my sofa with a mug of hot chocolate in one hand and a good book in the other. I am talking of my present close knitted affair with "The Snow Leopard" by Peter Matthiessen. Travel writings have a wonderful way of bringing us close to landscapes, people and habitats, culture and traditions, soul and sanity, and obliteration and oblivion.

A book, an act or a place transports us to meditate on life and its philosophy. Sometimes we despair and sometimes we laugh out loud. Who facilitates our reflections on life? Who is the harbinger of one's introspections? Life is a vast cauldron where the cook empties ingredients both bitter and bland. The meal prepared is feasted upon by all but taste buds differ. But then feasting environs differ from one man to another.

"Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music,
seasons come dancing and pass away -
colours, tunes and perfumes pour
in endless cascades in the abounding joy
that scatters and gives up and dies every moment."
                                                                    Gitanjali, Rabindranath Tagore.  

What is fascinating about life is that it is not important what humans think of it - we are just a miniscule in the entire canvas - but how life raptures us in its splendour. Some may qualify the phase as a "trance" but I love calling it "comma" before a "full stop". The life we weave around before hitting the "comma" glorifies the texture, the pattern and the shade of one's fabric. None of us are skilled at what we weave but we are crafty in spirit living every moment of our lives though most of us fail to realise the essence of life's art.

Life is a fascinating subject. The birth of an heir in a Hindu household is ushered in by blowing conch shells signifying the celebration of "life" or the existence of being. The hallmark of a man speaks of the life one conceptualises. The shades of character in a man vary that owes its allegiance to the roots of his birth, cultural sanctuary, knowledge and experience. A man's ethos in conducting one's mind and soul to steer clear of the grim scenery at hand makes for a fitting tribute to life. In today's world we very often term it as "crisis management" or "reputation management" bringing out the light of the man and a leader is born.

Living in adherence to one's convictions throughout a man's existence is a "life" in cognizance. Rarely a man succeeds. The seasons that come and go during his being brings with it sun and snow, rain and rarity. The canvas has all colours in it, only the painter's incandescent style gives the life's framework a whiff of fresh air. That does not mean non-existence of a drab portrait whose insipid strokes cannot be brought to "life". Like in death - the shell of the soul perishes but not the soul that is yet reborn. Of course this has to do with the way of how I see "life".  

"All life is a journey, not a home; it is a road, not the country; and those transient enjoyments which you have in this life, lawful in their way,—those incidental and evanescent pleasures which you may sip,—are not home; they are little inns only upon the road-side of life, where you are refreshed for a moment, that you may take again the pilgrim-staff and journey on, seeking what is still before you" - Anon.  

In the company of bibliophile

"The habit of reading is the only enjoyment I know in which there is no alloy. It lasts when all other pleasures fade. It will be there to support you when all other resources are gone. It will be present to you when the energies of your body have fallen away from you. It will last you until your death. It will make your hours pleasant to you as long as you live." - Anthony Trollope

 

Books have been my world ever since life's epicarp mellowed. In my earlier posts I have written about my love for pen and paper especially the printed ones, smell of the de novo pages unwrapped from a plastic sheath just bought or the yellow crusty pages of a book pulled from the shelves of a library. The touch and feel of the inked words spun a magic on me and even today the whiff of the mad rush charging my senses of holding a book in my hands is no different. Reading and collecting books, more so, adds to the space my soul yearns for in this life.   

 

To me, the joy of reading books and reliving the author's fine prints of life knows no bounds. I can happily stretch my lazy bones on an elbow chair for hours together unmindful of the clock chimes and way behind the usual meal timings. Giving a miss to baths too. I am candid enough to voice that in yielding to the euphoria of the book world, I am, from childhood days quite remote and reserved.

Often your love for something can reach the brim of someone's benevolence. People mistake your aloofness as conceitedness. Not all kinsmen regard your conduct pleasing. You tend to become clumsy in all that is sociable.  If your life's priorities are notably different from that of others and not conventional enough to suit the society's fabric, you'll be cut out of the customary pie.

Folks who know you long enough will be happy to tow the line of conformance in all walks of life as long as you lie low in their circle. Folks who feign unfamiliarity of your nature often try best to exploit you going miles that are preposterous in nature. Knowingly they enjoy opening the can of worms for someone who rarely mingles with the crowd let alone talk. Those who genuinely don't know your "outlier" character is bound to misinterpret you.

So is the company of a bibliophile welcoming?  The response would be a mixed one I suppose. Observing all these years, especially in the circle of kith and kin, a muted affair holds onto the twig of the ties. For people who share their lives with such oddities can be burdensome. Normal people whose activities are commonplace, works the other way around - they coax bookworms to come out of their safe ports and engage more with the life's flow. Their perceptions are, indeed, baffling sometimes unnerving themselves completely. Very few weigh their options well with the booklovers and take delight in sharing their mindspace with them.

However bibliophiles seek no pleasure in disquieting their mindset and hardly view life's prism from common man's lens. To them, books are paragon of excellence offering insights and wisdom of both the acknowledged and the anonymous world, answering life's uncharted territories. They rarely bow down to peer pressure, albeit a few, and freely ride the road less travelled.

I have often believed that holding onto one's love resolutely leaves you with a deep satisfaction abound. Book readers and lovers may not have a goal to score but they are spirited inwards searching for life's cognizance. The gladdening of the heart, while holding a book in hand, is immeasurable. Maniacs they may sound yet they become monstrous upon finding any damage done to his/her precious collection. For the love of books, imagination soars, innovation runs deep, impact is creative and the future of mankind metamorphoses into absoluteness.

Relish  reading!