There's a chill in the air. Spotify plays jazz and carols. Tucked in my cosy corner, who keeps me company? Books.
Fairy tales and Ikigai, mysteries and The Alchemist, drama and devotion—so many stories rest in our hands. December brings me happiness with a cup of black coffee. I gaze outside my veranda at the new baby leaves on the tree and in my little garden. The air is crisp and cool. I wrap my arms around myself—that magical hug—but what's nestled close to my heart? The book I'm reading this winter night.
Money has bought us fancy things—Kindle, Audible, AI readers, and more. Technology promises convenience at our fingertips. Yet holding a book, old or new, brings back that innocent smile to our faces. There's something magical about turning physical pages. Reading a fairy tale or our beloved Amar Chitra Katha still fills us with childlike delight. Every book carries its own world within worn or crisp pages, waiting to transport us elsewhere.
Each page holds an emotion. Each page has a distinct smell—that musty scent of old paper or the fresh aroma of new print. Each page is beautiful in its own way, telling its part of a larger story. As we read, sometimes skipping ahead in anticipation, we connect deeply with the words. Sometimes they pierce our hearts with longing and separation. Sometimes they make our hearts race at the climax of a thrilling mystery. The sentences whisper to us intimately: you're not alone, healing lives in these pages, and there's always hope ahead.
There's always a leaf clinging to the tree, wanting to live and breathe through changing seasons. Books give endlessly, like long-living trees—offering shade from life's harsh sun, comfort in difficult times, and quiet companionship when we need it most. Every year, like a happy ritual I cherish, books find their way to me as gifts. This time it's Miss Marple and her clever mysteries. Next time something different will arrive. But the wonder of books never fades, never disappoints.
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