I'm reading a collection of short stories that I studied for Literature when I was back in school. Chanced upon a copy of Malgudi Days in a bookshop on one of my many trips to India a couple of years ago, bought it out of nostalgia and left it in my cupboard. It was only when I was going through my shelf last night did I find this book that I once spent days reading and re-reading in preparation for the exams.
The stories are familiar but there is a new pleasure in reading these words again. Perhaps my many jaunts in India has given me a better appreciation of the descriptions of the sights and sounds written in these stories. Perhaps it's knowing that I do not have to remember details of names and the corresponding facts to be questioned on later. Or perhaps it is just really being able to enjoy lying in bed with my book in hand.
Doesn't really matter why, does it. Back to my book. :)