There is this notion of slow cooking in India. Indian food consists of a lot of layering of ingredients and spices. But the flavours can only be elevated while the heat is minimal. The low heat lets the simmering happen beautifully.

In the same way, reading needs to be slow, limited. Not aggressive. If one reads too fast, they can't hear the words correctly, and hence, they misunderstand. Slow reading means one gives time to the words in a book to let it do its own magic. There's a particular pace at which books should be read. It helps to comprehend and appreciate the writing, elegant or not entirely.

Today, I read more validly, consciously. Today, reading is more than an escape or entertainment. Nevertheless, I believe any reader would say that they will never be able to read the way they did as a child. The ultimate pleasure of reading is gone.

I read more radically. I put a great deal of concentration in understanding the characters, the stories, the elements, but most importantly, the words. I yearn to understand the words and dream of using the mesmerising ones for my writing. I want to know their meanings, understand them, twist and turn them into metaphors, that unfortunately have many times been misunderstood. I am a slow reader. But slow reading needs a certain kind of dignity, respect towards the book. There is an underlying grace in reading so patiently. It is an immersive process.

Writing to me is a form of reading too. I cannot help but read it aloud while scribbling down things that haunt my mind. This helps me understand my work, to check whether my own words make sense to myself before it does to others. And the sound of English leaving my lips lets me set the tone.

In English, I am myself. I don't feel lost as I did in the other languages I know. I feel a sense of authority. I feel at home.

The problem with a language is that it will never provide me with the luxury of comfort. I will forever be looking behind me, trying to understand or question myself. With language, one can never stop learning. It is generous enough to give.

This may be one of the reasons that I find absolute comfort in this disorientation. This slippage that forms between English and me feels like a good tension. Along with bothering me, it makes me feel as if I am at the beginning again, a student, an orphan, a writer in poverty. And in some ways, it helps me to keep reworking my writings.

I have always felt that a language I've been speaking ever since I was a child, should be known to me, traceable, perfect in a sense to how much I already know. But I was wrong. Language always allows space for imperfections. I realise that I have the freedom to be imperfect, to be incorrect.