Is it just that sometimes one chooses the wrong books for reading or that one is not receptive to the stories and characters in the books? In the last four to five weeks, I have read only two books - one, an utterly forgettable book called, "Suspects" written by One-who-need not be - named- cos- it- was-not-noted and another by Chris Ryan.

Both were fragmentary. The former had some steamy scenes interpolated into the story using some psychological dimension. The latter was to have been a gripping tale of an insider turning murderer in one of the Government intellegence agencies. Both failed miserably in holding the reader's (me) interest. I feel it would be better to go back to old and tested stories that are stacked in the cupboards of my house. Might unearth some good ones.

In such distressed times, I turn to two Asterix books bound into a volume that I have. They have never failed to restore my faith in pleasures of reading. Oh, how well imagination flows in these books. Cacophonix's unshaken faith in his musical talents, Obelix's simplicity, Asterix's maturity, the gladiators' games with words than with muscles, Caesar's eccentricities...ah, what a balm for a tested and sore soul. I read these two books which I presented to my sons in 1988 constantly turning to them at the dinner table, at the bed and when I am watching some inane TV show. There is a warning that the books can be touched only by Shyam, Santhosh and Vijay, written in some childish scribble, probably by one of the three. What a treasure this bound volume is for me. for more than one reason.