A lazy Saturday night. No beers. No games and neither cricket. No people around for a talk. The loneliness dives in when the words suddenly become your pals.

Reading. For the sheer pleasure of it. For the sheer excitement that surrounds it. For the sheer knowledge it can provide. For the sheer learning it can give. For the real power it can give you, to think. The words and paragraphs carve out the sensibility of man's intelligence and profound ability to apply, that sometimes, other professions lag behind. But there has to be some discipline imbibed while you are in front of them.

Books can be read out of curiosity, hype, references, advice or the fun of it. Of all the reasons, the fun of it is what turns a true reader, the book lover. And that doesn't come by completing a certain prefixed target in number of books for a time period. It comes from the fact of not putting that book down when it is required, not caring until the last page flips over, not feeling anything unless you close it finished and think what you just felt.

Books though need a way to be loved. You need to care for them, smell them, roll your fingers over them, feel for them and own them. And they love you back for that. You need to care for books for what they are, not for what you feel. You need to accept them as persons, accept them as well wishers and as friends although the latter is over-hyped, they can never become friends unless it gets you thinking - that's what friends do.

Books also turn into a relationship. You need to read till the end of it until you know what to think of it. They expect you to get back in the eventuality of a break. And that requires dedicated proactive approach. They are attention grabbers. You show your bookshelf and are bound to get some raised eyebrows from the non-readers and praise from fellow interest people. You might not have explored the relationship, but will be judged for the love of it.

Wish I was drunk and put in some philosophical post-drink talk. This'd have come better.