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Megha Majumdar’s debut novel ‘A Burning’ was a New York Times bestseller. It was named one of the best books of 2020 by the Washington Post, New York Times, NPR, Vogue, and Time among others. It won the Sahitya Akademi Yuva Purasakar in 2021 besides being nominated for many other awards like the National Book Critic’s Circle John Leonard Prize and the American Library Association’s Andrew Carnegie Medal. Many readers reviewed it on YouTube and Instagram. 

I haven’t read it yet but quite a few of my friends have recommended it to me. That’s probably one reason why I picked up ‘A Guardian and a Thief’ by the same author. The second reason being a blurb by American essayist Stacy Schiff, whose biography of Vera Nabokov won the 2000 Pulitzer Prize in biography. She writes: “Wondering if there’s a novel out there that gives Cormac McCarthy’s ‘The Road’ a run for its money? Here you go. An indelible piece of writing, in equal parts dazzling and devastating.”

A Guardian and a Thief tells the story of Ma and Boomba and the lengths they will go to for their families. It’s set in near-future Kolkata in India that is plagued by flooding and famine. Ma, her two-year-old daughter, Mishti, and her father are leaving Kolkata to join Ma’s husband in America. But Ma’s purse gets stolen the day after they receive their visas. It had all three passports. Ma tells nothing about the robbery to her husband who believes his family will soon be joining him. 

In Kolkata, she searches high and low for the thief who brought this misfortune upon her family. When Ma finally finds the thief, Boomba, he offers her a deal: He will give her back the passports if she agrees to give him her house when she leaves for America. The story is set amidst a worsening food crisis that drives both Ma and Boomba to do things they wouldn’t have had circumstances been different. Set over the course of one week, the plot revolves around Ma and Boomba’s struggle for survival when the odds are stacked against them. 

Cormac McCarthy’s The Road is one of my favorite books. A Guardian and a Thief is indeed reminiscent of that, and I loved it. What struck me the most about the book is that there are no heroes or villains here. Ma does many things that go against her morals, even stealing from the shelter she once worked at. Even though Boomba is a thief who commits a lot of crimes, he isn’t really in the wrong here. They are both two people trying to do what’s best for their families, and they both operate from a place of extreme love. The title thus applies to both characters. Each is a guardian and a thief. 

The book made me think about how people behave in the face of a crisis, and whether that is a truer reflection of who we actually are. Can you be principled when you are in grave trouble? Or do your instincts of self preservation override everything else? It’s interesting to try and get inside the character’s minds, with their conflicting thoughts and motives. They remind you of people you might know. They are relatable as well–you would easily behave the way they did had you been in their shoes. 

The ending seemed a bit rushed and over the top but other than that, I liked everything about the book–the plot, the setting, the characters, and the dystopian vibe. I found out that A Guardian and a Thief is actually a follow up to Majumdar’s debut novel, A Burning, after I had finished reading it. But the good thing is that it works wonderfully well as a standalone novel too. If you have enjoyed McCarthy’s The Road and have been searching for a story with a similar feel to it, this is one you won’t regret picking up. 

A Guardian and a Thief

Megha Majumdar

Published: 2025

Publisher: Penguin Random House India

Pages: 205, Hardcover

Elif Shafak is well known for ‘The Bastard of Istanbul’ and ‘The Forty Rules of Love’. These books catapulted the author to fame. She has written other books like ‘The Architect’s Apprentice’, ‘Honour’ and ‘Three Daughters of Eve’, all of which I found to be more interesting than the popular titles. ‘The Island of Missing Trees’, published in 2021, is my favorite out of all her works. Set in Cyprus and London, the story is narrated by a little girl and a fig tree that has seen generations of the girl’s family and knows their story intimately. It was fascinating and I have, since finishing the book, given out copies to many relatives and friends.  

I came across ‘Black Milk’ when I was just browsing through the bookstore looking for a short read. It’s a non-fiction work about postpartum depression and Shafak shares how she struggled with it. I will read anything Shafak writes because she does so gorgeously. But the blurb of Black Milk was intriguing. Since I was also going through motherhood, I thought this would be a good book to pick up. I wasn’t wrong. I have perhaps never felt as seen and validated as I have while I was reading the book. 

Postpartum depression affects many new mothers worldwide but it’s something that’s seldom talked about. In Nepal too, you’d be hard pressed to find women who are vocal about their struggles. It’s almost like you have failed as a mother if you are sad and unable to cope when there’s a baby who needs you. Our society puts so much pressure on women being ‘good mothers’ that they turn a blind eye to the myriad of conflicting emotions that women find themselves struggling with mostly because of fluctuating hormones.  

To be honest, the book addresses the question put forth to Shafak by another Turkish writer Adalet Agaoglu: Do you think a woman can manage motherhood and career at the same time and equally well? Shafak seeks to answer this question by dissecting the lives of other women writers and their careers and contemplating over her own experiences of juggling motherhood and writing. There is actually little about postpartum depression. Most of it comes at the end of the book. But it’s still an immersive and insightful read. I just found the blurb to be a bit misleading. 

The Turkish-British novelist, essayist, and activist, who writes in both Turkish and English, recounts how ‘words wouldn’t speak to her’ after the birth of her first child in 2006. She writes candidly about her inner voices urging her to focus on her writing and flourishing career and not be blindsided by the desire to have a baby. She introduces us to a harem of finger sized women who live inside her mind. These are all just different facets of her personality. 

It’s not just her own experiences that she shares in the memoir. She also writes about other writers’ experiences of juggling (or choosing not to juggle) motherhood and writing. She talks about Silvia Plath, Alice Walker, Simone de Beauvoir, and Virginia Woolf and their take on babies and why they chose to have or not have one. She also writes about the wives of famous writers like F. Scott Fitzgerald and Leo Tolstoy and how their talents were overshadowed by their husband’s popularity and analyzes how a patriarchal society reinforces that system. 

There’s a lot to unpack in Black Milk with Shafak questioning what it means to be a working woman and a mother and sometimes being compelled to choose one over the other. I thoroughly enjoyed the book and though it’s not a thick book, I took almost three weeks to read it because I found myself going back to many phrases and pages. My only issue with the book is that there’s a certain lightness while talking about something as serious as postpartum depression with Shafak wrapping up the book in a preachy tone. But I would still recommend it and I’m even thinking of giving it to some of my friends. 

Black Milk 

Elif Shafak

Translated by Hande Zapsu

Published: 2007

Publisher: Penguin Random House, UK

Pages: 267, Paperback

“It’s expensive to be rich,” writes Morgan Housel in his latest book, The Art of Spending Money, released on Oct 7. Housel, bestselling author of The Psychology of Money—already translated into Nepali—returns with a timely and insightful exploration of a topic often overlooked in personal finance: not how to earn or save money, but how to spend it wisely.

While countless books guide us on earning and investing, Housel argues that very few discuss what to do with money once we have it. He emphasizes that spending is not a science with fixed rules, but an art shaped by emotion, culture, and personal values. “Art can’t be distilled into a one-size-fits-all formula,” he notes. “It is complicated, often contradictory, and covers individuality, greed, jealousy, status, and regret.”

The book’s central message is simple: money can improve life—but only when used intentionally. Housel shows how money often becomes a measure of status rather than a source of happiness. Many spend to impress others or keep up appearances, yet true fulfillment comes from independence, meaningful experiences, and strong relationships. A larger home or nicer car only brings joy when it enables real connection—not merely to showcase wealth.

Housel also warns against the psychological traps of wealth. “Money will use you if you don’t use it intentionally,” he writes, highlighting how unchecked desire can distort priorities and identity. There is no universal rule for spending wisely: what brings happiness to one may feel unnecessary to another. The real challenge lies in understanding our own desires and aligning spending with what truly matters.

For Nepali readers, the book’s lessons resonate strongly. Social media, birthdays, festivals like Dashain and Tihar, and weddings often drive extravagant spending to “show up” for friends, neighbors, or peers. Housel’s call for mindful consumption encourages reflection: celebrate traditions and enjoy life, but spend to enrich your life—not to impress others. Simple budgeting, thoughtful gifting, and prioritizing long-term goals over social display can lead to greater contentment.

The Art of Spending Money is not about frugality. It is about living intentionally. The take-home message is clear: use money to make yourself happy, not to show others. True wealth lies in freedom, purpose, and the joy that comes from thoughtful choices, not appearances.

Khampa Rebellion from the Nepali Perspective, the debut investigative work of journalist and documentary-maker Rajendra Kunwar, stands out as a rare and timely contribution to Nepal’s political–historical literature. Published recently and now available at Dobilla Bookstore in Kathmandu, the book offers an in-depth, multi-layered exploration of one of the least-understood episodes in Nepal’s geopolitical history—the Khampa rebellion.

Kunwar, who hails from Huti village in Darchula’s Byas Rural Municipality-6, brings to this work his two decades of experience in journalism, documentary filmmaking, and field reporting on various aspects of Nepal’s society. His habit of traveling deep into Nepal’s rural landscapes to document lived realities lends authenticity and nuance to this research-based narrative.

The first section of the book traces the political circumstances and long-term planning that culminated in the Khampa revolt. Here, Kunwar provides a historical overview of Nepal–Tibet relations and examines how the geopolitical landscape changed dramatically after the 1950s.

The author details the Nepal–China border agreement, King Mahendra’s 1960 coup, and the shifts in Nepal’s foreign policy during this turbulent era. This section also examines how King Birendra’s rise to power reshaped state strategies and eventually led to the suppression of Khampa activities in Nepal.Particularly insightful is Kunwar’s analysis of the US–China rapprochement of 1972, engineered by Henry Kissinger, and how it altered the regional dynamics affecting Nepal’s position and the fate of the Khampas. Similarly, the book offers glimpses of Nepal’s relationship with India and the US.

In its second section, the book boldly probes the involvement of CIA and India’s RAW in the Khampa movement. It presents fresh information on how Khampa fighters entered Nepal via India, and the extent to which Indian and American agencies supported or manipulated their presence.

Kunwar also contextualizes the Khampa activities within the broader canvas of the 1962 India–China War, outlining how the conflict influenced Indian policies toward Tibet and shaped the Khampa agenda. The result is a compelling portrait of Nepal caught between the world’s major powers during the Cold War.

Perhaps one of the book’s most valuable contributions is its third section, which includes first-person testimonies from members of the Nepal Army, Nepal Police, and high-ranking government officials who witnessed or participated in the events of the Khampa uprising.

This is likely the first time such voices have been assembled in one place. Their accounts provide new insights, operational details, and firsthand perspectives previously missing from historical narratives. This section alone makes the book essential reading for scholars of Nepal’s modern military and political history.

The fourth section turns toward the Khampas themselves. Kunwar has interviewed surviving Khampa members or their children, presenting stories of struggle, displacement, loyalty, and political complexity. These narratives humanize a group often portrayed only in strategic terms, offering new information and overlooked issues that deepen our understanding of the rebellion’s human dimension.

‘Khampa Rebellion from the Nepali Perspective’ is an ambitious, well-researched, and highly relevant work. It combines geopolitics, oral histories, intelligence studies, and regional diplomacy into a single coherent narrative.

For students, teachers, political leaders, security personnel, and anyone interested in Nepal’s history, this book provides a comprehensive and compelling account of a pivotal yet underexplored chapter of Nepal’s geopolitical evolution.  Rajendra Kunwar’s work marks a significant contribution to Nepali historiography—one that will likely serve as a reference point for future research on the Khampa movement, Cold War politics, and Nepal’s delicate diplomatic positioning between global powers.