There are moments in life when words leave the page and quietly take root inside you. They become more than stories. They become something you carry—shaping your memories, guiding your imagination, and offering solace during the noisiest or loneliest hours. For as long as I can remember, books have been this quiet, constant presence in my life. They’ve helped me understand the world, yes, but more than that, they’ve helped me understand myself.

My earliest memory of books isn’t tied to any particular title or author. It’s more a feeling than an event. A weight in my lap, the smell of the pages, the quiet thrill of discovery as I turned them one by one. I remember the stillness of those early reading hours. They weren’t filled with noise or drama, just an expanding sense of possibility. Stories didn’t feel like fiction; they felt like keys—unlocking places I hadn’t imagined yet, making room inside me for wonder. While some children had favorite toys or television shows, I had stories. They were where I went when I wanted comfort, where I turned when I needed answers.

As I grew older, books continued to be my refuge. They travelled with me across classrooms and summer vacations, across cities and homes. They were there on long bus rides, during stolen moments between classes, under the blanket with a torch when I was supposed to be asleep. Some of the most important friendships of my childhood were made over shared reading lists and exchanged paperbacks. And while many memories from that time have blurred, I remember vividly the joy of discovering a new library or the quiet pride of saving up for a new book.

In my teenage years, reading stopped being just a habit. It started to feel like identity. It was during this time that I realised books could do more than entertain. They could reflect. They could challenge. They could affirm. I began to read more widely, more intentionally. Fiction wasn’t just escape anymore; it became revelation. I read to understand the world I was growing into and the person I was becoming. Books gave me access to experiences I hadn’t lived through but could feel deeply. They taught me empathy before I even had the word for it.

I started exploring translated works and lesser-known Indian authors. For the first time, I was reading about places I had actually been to, people I might actually know, dilemmas that felt like they belonged in my world, not just in some faraway place. That feeling, of being seen in a story, was transformative. It was also the moment I realised how much of our literature, especially in English, left so many of us out. And so began a quiet, personal effort to seek out what was missing. I started choosing books deliberately, following voices from the margins, listening harder to stories that weren’t always told in the mainstream. My bookshelf started to reflect the kind of world I wanted to live in—plural, complex, and curious.

Reading also became political. I learned about social justice not just through activism or education, but through novels, essays, memoirs, and poetry. Books taught me about caste long before I heard about it in formal settings. They gave me insights into feminism, mental health, queerness, migration, and memory. The right book, at the right time, can change not just how you think but how you act. For me, it created a lifelong belief that reading isn’t a passive act. It’s a form of engagement. It’s a commitment to understanding and unlearning.

Years later, I found myself not only reading and recommending books, but building entire communities around them. I joined and eventually began to lead the Bombay chapter of the Broke Bibliophiles, and what started as a small gathering of like-minded readers grew into something far bigger than I had imagined. We’ve hosted over 400 meet-ups and 90 author conversations. I’ve seen readers turn into writers, strangers into collaborators, and stories into starting points for real change. We’ve gathered in bookstores, cafes, public parks, and living rooms, united by nothing more than a shared love for books.

There is something almost sacred about talking about a story with someone who has read it too. There’s a kind of intimacy in it. A shared understanding. A moment of connection that goes beyond the characters or the plot. In those moments, you’re not just talking about a book. You’re talking about your own fears, dreams, questions, and convictions—filtered through the safety of someone else’s narrative. That’s what I love most about community reading. It makes the solitary act of reading deeply social.

I now work in the book trade full-time, and it still feels surreal to me that I get to spend my days surrounded by stories. Working at Crossword Bookstores, I’ve seen firsthand how powerful a role a bookstore plays—not just as a retail space, but as a cultural and emotional anchor. I’ve met young readers searching for their first chapter book, parents rediscovering stories from their childhood, college students picking up poetry collections, and grandparents looking for large-print editions of old classics. Every day is a new reminder of how diverse and alive our reading public really is.

Recommending a book to someone is a deeply personal act. It’s never just about the title. It’s about where they are in life, what they’re feeling, what they’re hoping for. And when they come back and tell you it resonated, that something shifted inside them after reading it, you realise just how magical this work really is.

Reading, in today’s world, feels more vital than ever. We are surrounded by noise, by speed, by distractions. Everything around us is designed to shorten our attention spans, flatten our thinking, and rush us through life. But reading asks us to pause. It invites depth. It rewards slowness. And in that act of slowing down, of sitting with another person’s thoughts and experiences, we become better versions of ourselves.

Books cultivate empathy. They stretch our imaginations. They challenge our biases. They remind us that the world is far more complex and interconnected than we often allow ourselves to believe. Whether it’s a child learning to read for the first time, or an adult reconnecting with reading after years away, the effect is always profound. Reading makes you softer. And it makes you stronger.

Which brings me to World Book Day. A day that, for many, is simply a reminder to read more. But for me, it’s a celebration of a lifelong companion. It’s a chance to pause and look back at the shelves I’ve filled, the pages I’ve turned, the stories that have shaped me. It’s a day of deep gratitude—for the authors who’ve dared to put their truths into words, for the editors and publishers who bring those truths to life, for the booksellers and librarians who keep the ecosystem alive, and for the readers who keep the fire burning.

It’s also a day of hope. Hope that more children will fall in love with stories, that more translations will find their way into the hands of readers, that more marginalised voices will be heard and celebrated. Hope that we’ll keep choosing curiosity over cynicism, nuance over noise, and compassion over apathy.

Every time I open a book, I feel like I’m opening a door. Sometimes it leads inward. Sometimes it leads far away. But every time, I emerge changed, even if just a little. And for me, that’s the real power of reading. It doesn’t just entertain or inform. It transforms.

So here’s to the books we’ve loved, the ones we’ve lost, the ones waiting on our shelves, and the ones we haven’t even imagined yet. Here’s to the readers we’ve been, the readers we are, and the readers we’re becoming. On World Book Day and every other day, may we always find ourselves in the pages of a story.