Did you know that some people have a gene type that causes them to taste coriander like soap? I didn’t, until a week ago. This is because they are super-sensitive to chemicals called aldehydes. But why is this relevant to anything I do? It’s not. Unfortunately, it’s the only thing I learnt in the last month. That’s because all the time I spent was just that – spent!

I moved to my village a month ago since the ineffective third wave of the virus chased us away from the city. Considering how brutal the second wave was, I must admit that I was scared. Fortunately, it did not cause much mayhem. It looks like people have not just developed immunity, but also an attitude of nonchalance. The virus is just another cold. We haven’t defeated it, but we’ve learnt to live with it.

The time spent in the village is lovely for two reasons: One, there is absolute silence all through the day and night. There is no cacophony of loud children testing the sturdiness of window glass or the annoying scream of Royal Enfield’s modified silencers which shakes your soul as it passes by. For someone who loves quiet as much as I do, village life is the best way to extend the lifespan. Two, the calm days here give plenty of time to think. Think about what? Nothing. And that’s the most important thinking one can do. To think about nothing.

Unfortunately, I have to move back to the city to resume my sessions at the Academy. It is a struggle since given a choice, I would rather cocoon myself than move about people exchanging pleasantries. The one thing I learnt since Covid hit us two years ago is that my default is not a people person. It takes hard work to muster up the energy and converse with people. That does not mean I hate doing it. Once I start on with it, it is enjoyable. It is a weird combination that I cannot articulate. I am not a great believer in Zodiacs, but there is something about being on the cusp of Cancer and Leo. You’re neither here nor there – an introvert and an extrovert, both at the same time, without being an ambivert.

In all the nothingness, I managed to read three books in the past month. ‘A Man Called Ove’ by Fredrick Backman was beautiful. Since I had already read his ‘Anxious People’ a few months ago, nothing was surprising to see how well Backman writes. After Elif Shafak, he comes pretty close to being the writer I admire for how well the story is weaved. I wish there was a genre named for books by such writers. These are writings that have a good mixture of a sublime and emotional storyline to which you can relate, but so well balanced with a good standard of humour. I have begun to appreciate such stories, especially after the horrible read of Shubhangi Swarup’s ‘Latitudes of Longing’ which takes you deeper than you are prepared to go with no point of return. Although Khaled Hosseini is not that bad in this regard, his writing has never charmed me as I don’t like my mental state to be taken out for a ride and self-induce hypotension.

Thankfully, the other two books were both non-fiction – always my first genre of choice. One was an uninspiring read of ‘Policymaker’s Journal’ by Kaushik Basu which is a haphazardly written diary of an economist who appears to have solutions to every problem without much pragmatism. I have generally detested Economists for their pretentious intellectuality with which they are ever ready to shoot down every policy, but at the same time whine about problems proposing no practical solutions. There are many reasons I dislike Economists, and Kaushik Basu just gave me another.

The last of the three books was ‘Peril’ by Bob Woodward. Written in his unique style of dramatizing routine events, it records the end of Trump’s Presidency, the disorderly transition, and the first few months of Biden’s Presidency. Although there is nothing new to learn for a US politics buff, the way he narrates the events keeps you engaged and makes it a good read. It is akin to watching a suspense show on Netflix, except that you already have all the spoilers and know how the story ends.

If I had more time in the village, I would’ve dived into some Agatha Christie classics and one by Elizebeth Kolbert called ‘Under a White Sky’ which I half-finished. Hopefully, it can be done in the coming days since my headspace is likely to be free. As much as I resent the move back to the city, I have little choice. Life continues. But, can I wear a good ironed shirt at the top and almost nothing at the bottom? – Not anymore!