Tejaswini Gourkhede

Not everyone who writes can be called a writer. Words alone aren’t enough; writing takes shaping, polishing, and restraint. The Art of Being Alone carries a promising title, but the book itself doesn’t live up to it. Most of its pages circle around the author’s personal life, habits, and thoughts. A touch of personal storytelling can strengthen a book, but drowning the reader in it makes the narrative feel self-indulgent. As a reader, I wanted more than endless journal entries. The contradictions made it harder to follow. On one page, the author dismisses the idea of life as a movie. On the next, they tell us to imagine ourselves as the protagonist of our own film. Which is it? A book loses power when it can’t stay clear on what it wants to say. The frequent use of words like curse, tags, movies, series, Netflix feels more like an attempt to sound “relatable” than genuine writing. Not everyone consumes media the same way, and forced references alienate more than they connect. I admire the courage it takes to write and publish a book, but honesty compels me: I couldn’t finish it. The ending was too obvious, the message scattered. Even more confusing was the dismissal of self-care in a book that claims to guide readers through loneliness. Self-care, however small, is exactly where many people find their little joys.

I’m sitting in front of my laptop, having just finished *The Namesake* by Jhumpa Lahiri. I don’t know if I’ve finished the book, or if the book has finished me. From the beginning, I knew this genre wasn’t my usual pick, but I still wanted to try—Lahiri is a name known around the world, after all. At first, I wasn’t that invested, but little by little, the story pulled me in. For me, a book becomes a ‘keeper’ when it lingers in my dreams, when the story continues in my head after I’ve turned the last page. *The Namesake* became that book. A name gives us an identity. A name can strip it away. The same name can crown us a hero or cast us as the villain. A name can build a life—and undo it in a single story. It begins as a seemingly ordinary story of a middle-class family moving to a foreign land, where familiar faces are scarce. My interest deepened when Gogol, the boy at the center, received his name—one he grows to despise. Later, when he has the chance to change it, his innocent loyalty keeps him tied to the identity shaped by his parents. As Gogol grows, he realises he doesn’t share much common ground with those around him. One haunting scene has his class searching a graveyard for namesakes, only for him to find that his name exists nowhere, not even among the dead. That ache—of not belonging—is one I understood. In Indian families, parents often fail to realise their children don’t want to be controlled forever. They long for parents who can be their safe space, not just their disciplinarians. But friendliness is often seen as weakness, as rebellion against tradition. So, the cycle of generational trauma continues—dreams half-lived, values half-understood, and burdens passed down. The losses in the book—death, divorce, betrayal—all felt brutally real. I mourned like Gogol for his father. I understood Moushumi, trapped in a marriage that never felt like home. I could relate to her the most. The not-belonging. The fear of giving yourself away only to be destroyed. All my life, I’ve walked alone. No one to hold me when I wanted to break. And now, though I crave someone who belongs to me and only me, the thought of surrendering that power terrifies me. Because what if love doesn’t heal, but destroys?

I just finished another gripping novel by Freida McFadden, and once again, I’m left stunned. As I turned each page, countless possibilities raced through my mind—none of them right. The ending caught me completely off guard. Without revealing any spoilers, I’ll say this much: the protagonist, a psychiatrist, is portrayed brilliantly—not as someone immune to emotion, but as a human being deeply entangled in them. Despite her profession, she isn't above rage, fear, or the desire to protect her reputation. My first read from McFadden was The Housemaid, and ever since, I’ve been hooked. What I admire most is how her books unravel the complexities of the human psyche, showing that no one—no matter how composed—can escape their emotions entirely. This novel is full of twists, each more shocking than the last. It reminds me that with success comes greater fear of loss, and sometimes that fear drives people to cross lines they never imagined.

Yesterday Night I Killed My Husband is a psychological thriller novel by Indian author Darshan Desale. The story revolves around Monika, who confesses to murdering her husband, only for him to appear alive when the inspector arrives. This sets off a complex investigation involving ancient curses, a serial killer named Kaalnemi, and deep psychological elements. While Yesterday Night I Killed My Husband is an intriguing title, I personally feel it doesn’t do full justice to the actual core of the narrative. The story revolves much more around a cursed ancient dagger and its bloody legacy than the titular confession of murder, which appears quite late in the plot. Much of the novel is dedicated to uncovering the dagger’s history, and the layers of myth and mystery surrounding it form the backbone of the story. What stood out to me was the clever misdirection and psychological depth. The twist involving the killer having Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) was both unexpected and chilling. As someone with a background in psychology, I appreciated how the novel attempted to weave complex mental health themes into its thriller format. One particularly misleading yet fascinating moment was when the killer entered a house where a woman was preparing shahi paneer, and later, Manohar was served the same dish at his daughter’s birthday party. It was a subtle yet effective clue designed to throw readers off track. However, I did feel that some aspects lacked depth—particularly the underdeveloped backstory of Ajit, Monika’s husband. His character seemed like a missed opportunity to add further psychological and narrative tension. Despite these minor gaps, the book kept me on the edge of my seat. It’s fast-paced and definitely a page-turner—one that could easily be finished in under a week. The psychological elements were thought-provoking and made me reflect deeply. As a student of psychology, I often find myself drawn into the labyrinth of the human mind. The complexities are endless. Sometimes, it feels overwhelming—like no matter how much you read or study, you’re just scratching the surface. Human behavior is unpredictable, and you never truly know what someone might be struggling with internally. Every deep dive into this subject leaves me questioning not just others, but also my own identity. Psychology has that unique power: to reveal, to unsettle, and to transform how we see the world and ourselves.