I recently finished reading 'A passage to India' by E. M. Forster and I'm still not quite sure if I've completely parted from the book and its beauty. If I put it plainly, I do not consider Forster as a mere writer. He is more of a musician. He creates a symphony with words, and every part of the novel is part of this rich song that echoes in your mind time and again.

The plot of the novel is quite straightforward, and basically follows the racial tensions between the brown and white skins in a colonized India, when a muslim doctor is accused of sexually assaulting a British lady. While the plot and the characters were certainly charming, it's the overall environment of the book, the kind of India that it paints, was the most intriguing aspect to me.

And I read this while I was returning from a trip to India, on my way back to Europe. So this transition from East to West probably exaggerated the effect. The first few days I was back in Europe, I could not help but notice the aching stillness, and emptiness that suffocated the entire culture. How lifeless is life around here, in the developed part of the world! 

But as time passed, I found myself accustomed to the modern, individualistic and high standard of living, forgetting the charms of my own poor land behind.

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Current Book: "Tender is the night" by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Current Music: "Thrift Shop" Macklemore (this is fucking awesome... :)