Crooked House

Crooked House is one of Agatha Christie’s most chilling standalone novels. Unlike her Poirot or Miss Marple mysteries, this novel features no recurring detective but instead presents the crime through the eyes of Charles Hayward, the fiancé of Sophia Leonides. Set in the aftermath of World War II, the book combines Christie’s sharp psychological insight with one of her most shocking endings. 

The novel begins with Charles returning from his wartime service and planning a future with Sophia Leonides. Their marriage, however, is contingent upon the resolution of a family tragedy: the mysterious death of Aristide Leonides, Sophia’s wealthy grandfather and patriarch of the Leonides clan.

Aristide, a self-made Greek immigrant who built both a fortune and a dominating family legacy, is poisoned with his own eye medicine (eserine). Suspicion naturally falls within the “crooked house” — a large, oddly shaped London mansion full of eccentric relatives, all of whom had motives and resentments.

The suspects include: Brenda Leonides — Aristide’s much younger second wife, considered a classic suspect because of her age and apparent romantic entanglements. Roger Leonides — Aristide’s eldest son, weak and insecure, overshadowed by his father. Philip Leonides — The intellectual, embittered younger son, who resents his father’s dominance. Magda Leonides — Philip’s flamboyant actress wife, more concerned with drama than reality. Edith de Haviland — Aristide’s stern and principled sister-in-law, who has lived with the family for decades. Josephine Leonides — A precocious 12-year-old granddaughter with unnerving intelligence and a taste for secrets.

As Charles, with the help of his father (an Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard), investigates, he begins to uncover layers of psychological tension, jealousy, and greed that permeate the family. The climax reveals the killer in a devastating twist that defies the reader’s expectations and lingers long after the final page.

The title itself reflects both the physical structure of the Leonides mansion and the moral crookedness of the family living within it. The house becomes a metaphor for the warped emotional relationships, suppressed desires, and twisted loyalties that fester inside. Crooked House relies less on alibis and timetables and more on psychology. Christie delves into how long-standing resentment, power dynamics, and warped family bonds can fester into deadly motives.

Aristide, as patriarch, dominates his descendants’ lives even after his death. His wealth and control both sustain and poison the family, raising questions about dependence, resentment, and inherited dysfunction. 
Christie subverts traditional ideas of innocence by using a child character at the heart of the mystery. This narrative choice is what makes Crooked House especially haunting, and it challenges the reader to reconsider assumptions about morality and culpability.

Charles and Sophia’s relationship contrasts with the Leonides’ crooked marriages. Their love story runs parallel to the central mystery, suggesting that trust and balance are essential in a relationship — qualities missing in the Leonides household. 

Each member of the Leonides family is vividly drawn, with distinctive quirks and believable motives. The novel is less about mechanics and more about the chilling psychology behind murder. The claustrophobic family home adds intensity and enhances the “crookedness” theme.

Crooked House is a masterpiece of psychological suspense, showcasing Agatha Christie’s ability to transcend formula and explore the darker recesses of human nature. It is both a compelling murder mystery and a haunting study of familial dysfunction. With its memorable twist ending and exploration of innocence corrupted, it stands as one of her most daring and unforgettable works. Goodreads 5/5

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The Lost World of Hindustani Music

Part memoir, part cultural history, and part affectionate gossip, this book is an insider’s guided tour of the North Indian classical music ecosystem across the mid-20th century — when princely state patronage was fading, All India Radio was ascendant, and the modern concert hall was reshaping how khayal, thumri, and dhrupad reached listeners. Mukherjee writes as a trained vocalist and lifelong rasika, not as an academic, and that vantage point gives the book its warmth, bite, and intimacy.

Rather than a linear chronology, the book unfolds as a series of portraits, anecdotes, and sharp mini-essays: on gharana identities and rivalries, the guru–shishya parampara, the etiquette of the mehfil, the discipline of riyaaz, and the slow, inexorable pull of commerce and amplification on an art that was once built for small rooms and patient nights. You meet greats through stories — often offstage — so that a singer’s temperament, their tala sensitivities, their pet bandish or vilambit pacing, come alive more than any dry résumé could.

Mukherjee listens for the things connoisseurs care about: the architecture of a raga’s vistaar, the grain and “bhava” of a voice, the emotional intelligence of a taan, how a singer lands a sam or shades a komal swara. He can describe these subtleties without smothering the reader in jargon.

This is as much about people as it is about music: patrons, accompanists, organisers, and the small rituals that made a mehfil tick — who sat where, when a tanpura was tuned, how long a vilambit could breathe before a restless audience fidgeted. The result is a living ethnography of a scene.

Mukherjee is honest about a transition era: from courts and salons to radio and ticketed festivals, from guru-griha immersion to institutional training, from all-night alaps to time-boxed slots. He neither romanticises blindly nor embraces modernity uncritically; the book sits in that productive tension.

Without turning hagiographic, he gives performers dimension — quirks, prejudices, vulnerabilities, and flashes of generosity. You sense why certain bandishes became signatures, why some gharanas cross-pollinated while others guarded style with almost religious fervour.

The writing is lucid and often slyly humorous. Even when he’s opinionated, the tone is more addā than thesis: you feel you’re across the table from a senior musician who has seen a lot and is telling you what mattered.

Continuity vs. change: What is worth preserving — the long arc of a raga, the primacy of voice culture, the accompanist’s equal artistry — and what can adapt: venues, amplification, pedagogy.

Gharanas as living lineages: Not museum pieces, but evolving dialects of musical grammar. He notes both the strength of lineage and the risk of turning style into orthodoxy.

The ethics of artistry: Respect for accompanists, the dignity of rehearsal, the dangers of speed and showmanship, and the subtle difference between tayyari (technical readiness) and real gayaki (aesthetic voice).

Listening as craft: The book repeatedly insists that Hindustani music is a listener’s art. It trains you to hear.

The Lost World of Hindustani Music is not a textbook; it’s a room key. Open the door and you’re in a vanished but still audible world — smoke curling through a late-night mehfil, a tanpura’s shimmer, a vocalist teasing a phrase until it glows. Its value lies in that lived texture: the granular recollections, the unapologetic standards, the love for a music that asks for time and returns it as wonder. Read it to learn facts if you must; read it to learn listening if you can.

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glute exercises

Dare to Run

“Dare to Run” is a first-person account of how an ordinary, once-sedentary professional rebuilds his life around distance running and, eventually, ultramarathons. It’s part memoir, part motivational handbook, tracing the arc from lacing up for tentative jogs to standing on start lines that once felt unthinkable. Rather than offering a dry training manual, Sheth uses stories — false starts, small wins, humbling setbacks — to show how endurance is as much a mental and social journey as it is a physical one.

Sheth writes in a warm, conversational tone that feels like a running buddy chatting on an easy Sunday long run. Chapters tend to be short, punchy, and focused on a single idea — discipline, fear, injury, patience, self-talk — so the book is easy to dip into and surprisingly quick to finish. He favors clarity over lyricism, and sprinkles in crisp, memorable aphorisms (the kind you can hear yourself repeating at kilometre 37). The simplicity is deliberate: he’s not trying to impress; he’s trying to persuade you to start.

The narrative is linear — beginning with the decision to change and moving through training blocks, race days, and the aftermath of big goals. Interludes of reflection break up the action and keep pages turning. Race chapters are the highlights: Sheth captures pre-race nerves, the fragile deal-making that happens mid-race (“just one more mile”), and the quiet, almost private emotion of finishing far better than any slow-motion highlight reel.

A central claim is that identity isn’t something you discover; it’s something you build, one consistent effort at a time. Sheth returns to the idea that ordinary people can do extraordinary things if they’re willing to be boringly consistent.

Running looks solitary from the outside, but the book shows how clubs, training partners, coaches, volunteers, and family make tough goals feasible. The portraits of fellow runners are affectionate without being fawning, and you get a sense of the early, buzzing Indian running scene finding its feet.

There are no “hacks” here — just mindset tools: plan the work, train through the weather, respect recovery, and learn to talk yourself through dark patches. Sheth is honest about fear and doubt, and he treats them as companions to be managed rather than monsters to be slayed.

Ideas about patience, humility, and long-term thinking migrate from the road into work and relationships. The book’s most persuasive passages are where Sheth shows, not tells, how training discipline reshapes everyday choices.

The early pages make the first steps feel achievable, not trivial. He’s candid about how crashes often follow spikes; sustainable routines win. When things go wrong (fatigue, niggles, bonks), the tone is reflective, not macho. Pacing, fueling, and managing negative thoughts are treated as learned skills. If you’re seeking a spreadsheet of workouts, VO₂max zones, and periodization diagrams, you won’t find that here. What you will find is the motivational substrate that makes those plans usable.

The language is friendly and non-technical, perfect for new or returning runners. Sheth neither downplays the work nor makes himself the hero; he lets the process shine. The admission of fear, failure, and self-doubt gives the wins real weight. Readers in India will especially appreciate the snapshots of runs, routes, and races closer to home, showing how world-class goals can be pursued without living in a stereotypical “runner’s city.”

Without spoiling scenes, the book’s high points are the “decision” moments: committing to a plan, showing up in bad weather, resetting after a rough race, and the quiet, almost stunned joy of hitting a finish line that once felt out of reach. These passages land because the groundwork — months of ordinary effort — has been carefully laid.

“Dare to Run” succeeds as an invitation and a blueprint for sustainable change. It won’t teach you everything about training theory, but that’s not its mission. Its power lies in making big goals feel local, human, and achievable — then handing you the mental tools to keep showing up when the glow of inspiration fades. If you’ve ever wondered whether the person you are today could become the kind of person who runs far — this book’s answer is a steady, encouraging yes. Goodreads 4/5

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split stance dumbell row

They Came to Baghdad

Agatha Christie is most famous for her murder mysteries involving Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple, but They Came to Baghdad is a very different kind of novel. It is more of a romantic spy-thriller with international intrigue, political conspiracies, and adventure rather than a classic whodunit. 

The story begins with the seemingly light-hearted and adventurous Victoria Jones, a young London typist who loses her job due to her sharp tongue and carelessness. On the same day, she meets Edward, a charming young man who is on his way to Baghdad for mysterious work. Impulsively — and in classic Christie fashion — Victoria decides to follow him, determined to add excitement to her otherwise ordinary life.

Her decision plunges her into a web of espionage. Baghdad at the time is a hotbed of political tension, with whispers of a secret international peace conference and a dangerous conspiracy that could disrupt the fragile balance of global powers.

Victoria’s adventure takes a sudden turn when a dying secret agent stumbles into her hotel room, gasps out his last words, and dies — leaving her with fragments of a cryptic warning about the conspiracy. From then on, she finds herself pursued, mistaken for others, caught between shady intelligence agents, and forced to use her quick wit and daring spirit to survive.

The climax builds around the revelation of who the real conspirators are and whether Victoria, with her mix of recklessness and bravery, can thwart a dangerous plot that could plunge the world into chaos.

The novel is written almost like a romantic adventure tale, with Christie blending elements of espionage, exotic settings, and light-hearted comedy. Victoria’s pursuit of Edward adds a whimsical and romantic thread throughout. Unlike Christie’s usual detectives, Victoria is impulsive, ordinary, and often blunders her way into danger. But her bravery, charm, and humor make her a refreshing and relatable heroine. She is less of a master detective and more of a plucky adventurer.

The novel has a lighter, more playful tone compared to Christie’s darker mysteries. At times, it reads almost like a comedic thriller. But it shows her versatility beyond murder mysteries. She vividly brings Baghdad and Middle Eastern landscapes to life. The book moves quickly, with a mixture of intrigue, humor, and romance.

They Came to Baghdad is not Agatha Christie at her finest in terms of mystery plotting, but it is a delightful and quirky adventure novel with espionage, exotic settings, and a memorable heroine. It offers something different for readers familiar only with Poirot or Miss Marple, showcasing Christie’s imagination beyond the drawing-room mystery. Goodreads 4/5

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Night Without end

Night Without End is one of Alistair MacLean’s most gripping novels, set against the vast, frozen backdrop of Greenland’s Arctic wilderness. It combines survival thriller, murder mystery, and espionage into a tense, atmospheric adventure that never lets up until the final pages.

The story begins when a passenger aircraft crash-lands on the Greenland icecap after a mysterious onboard incident. The survivors are rescued by Dr. Mason, a scientist running a remote polar research station, and his small team. But what initially seems like a desperate fight against cold, hunger, and isolation soon escalates into something far deadlier.

Hidden among the passengers is a ruthless killer — and a secret linked to a high-stakes crime involving stolen military secrets. Mason quickly realises that not everyone can be trusted, and that survival depends not only on withstanding the lethal cold but also outsmarting a murderer in their midst.

The group is forced to make a perilous journey across the ice, battling blizzards, exhaustion, and treachery, where the danger is as much from human betrayal as from the unforgiving environment.

MacLean’s descriptions of the Arctic are some of his finest — harsh, beautiful, and deadly. The biting cold feels almost like a living antagonist, seeping into every scene. The novel’s title, Night Without End, is literal: set during the Arctic’s long polar night, where perpetual darkness heightens the claustrophobia and paranoia. The environment itself plays as big a role as any human character, amplifying tension at every step.

Dr. Peter Mason — The pragmatic and resourceful scientist who becomes the de facto leader. Mason is a classic MacLean protagonist — intelligent, stoic, and determined under pressure. Jackstraw — Mason’s Inuit colleague, skilled in survival and navigation, whose loyalty and competence make him indispensable.

The Survivors — A varied group, including innocent passengers, a beautiful young woman, and those hiding deadly secrets. The Antagonist(s) — MacLean keeps the identity of the villain uncertain for much of the story, creating a “whodunit” dynamic amid the survival narrative.

MacLean avoids deep psychological portraits in favour of functional, plot-driven characterisation, but he’s adept at giving each person enough quirks and habits to stand out. The pacing is masterful — MacLean alternates between bursts of desperate action and quieter, creeping suspense. Even during moments of rest, the reader senses an undercurrent of danger. The tension is not only about who the enemy is but also how they will strike, especially in such a hostile landscape where one mistake can mean instant death.

In Night Without End, MacLean’s prose is tight, understated, and functional — almost journalistic at times. His humour is dry, often surfacing in terse exchanges between Mason and Jackstraw. The dialogue carries much of the novel’s charm, breaking up the bleakness with occasional wit.

Night Without End is vintage Alistair MacLean — taut, atmospheric, and relentlessly suspenseful. It’s a blend of survival drama and locked-room mystery, but instead of four walls, the “room” is a boundless, pitch-black expanse of ice. While its characterisation may not match the depth of literary fiction, its combination of stark realism, ingenuity, and razor-edged tension make it one of MacLean’s most enduring and satisfying thrillers. Goodreads 5/5

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i am a marathoner

After having run 6 half marathons in Mumbai and 3 more during the year 2010, the beginning of the year saw me resolve to go upto full marathon – why? Because I thought I was ready for it and many of my friends were also graduating at the same time. So, when the time came to fill in the forms for Mumbai marathon sometime in July 2010, I filled in the form for full marathon without any trace of trepidation whatsoever.




My preparation for the full marathon which should ideally have encompassed two or more 32 kms long runs, did not really take off at all because I was doing all sorts of runs throughout the year with the KTM trail half in September, Bangalore Ultra 25K in November and Goa half in December. So the build-up did not take place at all – October was my busiest month in terms of mileages – I logged in 260 kms that month compared to about 140 kms in September, which month also saw few ankle twists taking place – a couple of them monstrous ones. Post ultra, the ITBS came knocking on the left knee – the scourge of all long distance runners – my first injury since I started running.



Nevertheless I managed to sneak in a 30 kms on December 26th of which about 12 kms was barefeet in mahalaxmi race course and 27 kms a week later, barely two weeks to go for the main event. So injuries, lack of proper mileages were the bane when I started off the full marathon on 16th January 2011. my idea was to somehow reach 30 kms and then do the run/ walk or walk/ run or walk/ walk for the rest of the distance, time was not a constraint at all. The days leading upto 16th was bitterly cold and perfectly good conditions for running a marathon. We were eminently pleased with the weather leading upto the marathon and was expectedly awaiting similar conditions on the 16th. Alas, it was a different story on the 16th, as even at 3.30 a.m. it was quite stuffy and I was in fact, sweating – I decidedly thought weather was different today and cursed the weather gods – same thing happened to us during the Bangalore Sunfeast, KTM & Bangalore Ultra – the preceding day was lovely weather whereas a different pattern prevailed on the actual day.



Well, we assembled at goregaon station at 4 a.m. for probably the first ever train to depart on the western railway system – we were raj, arjun, sripad, sohanlal & myself. We had to perforce take a leak at the churchgate station – this was a yearly ritual except last year when they started the half marathon from bandra – met with giles, qureshi all raring to go. Walked down to the azad maidan – on the way we met a couple of foreigners – a Kenyan with a 2.18 time and a Japanese. Security was no problem this year and when we sauntered in to the holding area, the rest of the crowd were already there – zico, amit, srinivas, allan, santosh, ashok and others – tension was palpable in the air – we met up with asha arora – seasoned ultra marathoner from Chandigarh and ashok nath – accomplished marathoner with a 3.15 target time. Met a few more folks, took a few more leaks to completely clear the system, handed in our baggage and went in to the start line – amit sheth was holding his 5 hour bus balloons and Rahul Varghese was distributing head bands to the other runners. Started off exactly at 6.15 a.m. and maintained a steady pace along d.n. road and then to the v.n. road, marine drive – the front runners were already crossing the other side when we hit the marine drive – early ones included ashok nath.



my waist pouch started moving sideways causing me disturbance and I had to repeatedly keep it shifted to the right side which was more comfortable. Apurva shah kept company for some time, then rohit bansal came by and went past to catch up with the 5 hour bus, the pune runners – Nikhil shah & vivek Prasad came by and also went past, caught up with veera who was clutching his sides complaining of side stitch after having decided to run with the 5 hour bus and then sanely decided to do his own pace – mithika came by – we were to push each other in our first marathons – but she was too damn quick and picked up pace. End of marine drive – had to take a toilet break and also adjust my waist pouch – by then the first of the half marathoners started coming in – I kept my pace up the kemps corner incline – where I espied the first runners from our group – tanaji nalavade – hollered out to him – am sure he did’nt hear because he was running at furious pace – kept looking for other runners – there was a sardarji runner who went down the kemps corner flyover instead of up and we had to shout to reach him – Milton came by at haji ali – since the half marathoners were coming up, the positive vibrations from them were rubbing off onto us (am sure they felt the same thing) so the route along the annie beasant road etc. went off like a blip by shouting encouragement to other runners – saw savio with his 2 hour bus – hemant before him, kaushik after him, bharatbhai, supriya, radhika, genieve, Milan, venkat with his 3 hour bus, shashi & others.



When I reached worli sea face – the full runners were turning out from opposite the old passport office, so the same cheering and hollering went on – going still good – there was an undescribable mist tunnel of no use or purpose to the runners – descended to annie beasant chowk in good condition, saw the sun searing out at that junction, but there was enough shade from the buildings – people were lined along the street – though sparsely – and feebly shouting encouragement – reached prabhadevi – when the buzz for which I was waiting for started – this was the arrival of the elite runners – those magnificient athletes from Kenya and Ethiopia – was hoping to get a glimpse of them at the siddhivinayak temple – giving me a double darshan of the goods – and that is what precisely happened – the gods both spiritual and human blitzed past near the temple – going still good – met neeta ramakrishnan at the hinduja hospital who handed me a Cadbury dairy bar – passed suneela at around mahim causeway – she was struggling a bit – but went on to the sea link road – here the sun hit the runners very badly – there was nary a tree cover or shade and it was brutal – sea link started – pain also started – struggle to get going with the unrelenting sun – reached 26 kms and decided to walk a bit – that bit became almost 5-6 kms – tried running but the cramps put paid to any efforts in that direction – first suneela went past – she was running good now and then veera came by strongly – ashish met me at the end of the sea link and graciously handed me a volini cream sachet – sea link ended – still the walk/ struggle run routine – went past the 29.9 kms mat – and walked a few more – until mela restaurant – by then the traffic was allowed to start and by the time I reached the haji ali corner – traffic was in full swing – walked through the pedder road incline – slowly starting to put some effort in running until it hurts – did this same routine i.e. running until either cramps or ITBS or both started nagging me – was determined to finish no matter how much time it took me that day; I was not bothered with my baggage kept at the baggage counter – I was going to finish this one.



Turned the Babulnath corner – this was my arena baby – milton’s monthly bandra-ncpa group runs were of much help here psychologically I was very strong, my mental reserves were very good – continued with run/ walk routine until I turned into v.n. road – and yes, almost there – few runners were ahead of me – kept them in focus and reached flora fountain – few more kilometers and I am there – when I reached the Canada building opp the old handloom house on d.n. road, was awash with emotions because this was the very same building in which my late father had worked in his whole life in a LIC branch – there was an old gentleman in ordinary banians, working shorts and barefoot running determinedly – I gently tapped him on his shoulder and said “well done, uncle” – he just nodded and I went by – determined to get a strong finish – cramps were very strong (evident in the marathon photos), could barely run but did have a running finish to clock 6.10.57 minutes by my watch (later the chip timings recorded 6.10.52 seconds). Very glad to run into madhu who was there at the finish line to greet all us runners, despite not running that day. Finally, I am a MARATHONER.