When August was about to end, I was in the middle of three books. Obviously Rowling got the priority overnight reading privileges and Cuckoo’s Calling didn’t have to be unread till September.

I did not have expectations from Dan Brown’s Inferno. And it lived up to my expectations. Repetitive and unapologetic it was, the errands of professor Langdon were pretty much pointless this time because whatever he was interpreting didn’t resolve anything. He seemed to have completely lost the plot towards the end. Just good research and cheap tricks do not a good thriller make.

Dan Brown’s humanity may be rushing towards doom, but my sanity was saved and nurtured by one Harold Fry who walked 600 miles and made that decision on the spur of the moment. Rachel Joyce’s The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry made me cry buckets towards the end of his journey. It is amazing how after all these centuries of literature one can still infuse a breath of fresh air while it is still about those cliched ‘ordinary extra-ordinariness’ and ‘journeys that help you find yourself’.

Harold walks for his loss, walks for his faith, walk with his simplicity, walks with his family and friendship and in the end his walk simply symbolizing ‘doing something’ where there is ‘nothing doing’. He aims to reach an ailing friend before she passes away, but he wants to walk to her, put an effort in reaching her to keep her alive.

“If I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, it stands to reason that I’m going to get there. I’ve begun to think we sit far more than we’re supposed.” He smiled. “Why else would we have feet?”

Sometimes I think reading for the heck of it is also an effort like Harold’s walk, the kind that we make to reach out to the imaginary realities of writers.