Who is a good reader? I don’t know!! What I know is I am not a good reader. A habit that I have tried to inculcate over the years but have never succeeded. When some of my more intellectual pals discussed politics, thrillers, or economies my prime goal was to use my two ears-GIGO(get in get out)-that’s an easy strategy when you know  that you do not know anything. I had never been the first one to miss a discussion on Bollywood. The zone has been limited and I had never bothered to broaden it. 

I often, mentioned to a good friend that I would like to start reading. He was the one who both read and wrote beautiful pieces and had a selection of books to go through. He suggested me a trick to start with simple, less tantalising stories like rom-coms. I almost thought on his idea and glimpsed through the book shelf at WH Smith. The prefaces did not appear to gain my attention. Yet, the fact a good writer needs to first read could not be overlooked by me.

Having finished my training and driving lessons, I was left with ample time to do something more. I tried painting, writing some romantic poetries and cooking but of course, how much of that fancy food could I stock up in my tummy? I needed something more passive yet occupying. My partner is  extensively into reading and I left the responsibility of finding me something that will grip me for hours.

He went to the local library and picked up a thriller for me. The story was woven around a business corporation in Sweden and its lost heir. The author went into extreme detail to let the reader’s imagination tinker. With every page one could imagine how was the set up of a room, the whole village, the characters, the cafe, the kitchen and the coffee brewer, the atrocities, the gamble and the vengeance. Every tiny detail painted a picture. A picture of thousand senses. 


Initially I was reluctant , read a chapter a day, trying to build my interest. But before I could realise the story turned into a case of finding of a lost soul and how it had not been discovered for 37 odd years. The author has woven an intricate web and despite all my efforts to imagine I was left clueless. Like I was the journalist, I queried- what may have gone wrong? Who was the killer? What was the motif?

I was on an off  that weekend. After finishing the daily chores, I sat on the couch with the  500 pages  , I was curious beyond surprise. The why , who and how would not let me sleep. So I started again at 9:00 PM on the Saturday night and continued till 5:00 PM on the Sunday evening with barely a four hour sleep,30 mins of freshening up and 30 minutes of meal. 

A sigh of relief cuddled me when I eventually discovered what happened to Harriet Vanger. I closed the blinds for some sleep but my brain never slept and kept revising the events and the investigations. 

It was in ages that I had picked a book with no expected conclusion and a story that intrigued me. My imagination was set on fire. Every little conversation, love making,city travel, decoding the encrypt, and connecting the bits kept me into it.

Finally,  I have discovered  my taste. A good thriller was an adrenaline rush for me. This is passive yet employing. I had enjoyed reading for the first time . The author has written a trilogy and I am yet to dig in the remaining two. 

Perhaps, the moral is try before you deny!!


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