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Cubbon Reads, Bangalore (2026)

19/06/2026

I’ve noticed, organised religion often creates belongingness and it instills in you a sense of purpose.

One may be tempted to ask what is purpose?

When looked up in the dictionary, it betrays to you its meaning, “the reason for which something exists.”

I happen to believe, purpose is meticulously crafted; then stretched and tested, till it tells you where you lie. Where you begin and end. You extract from it the core of who you are.

When I first stumbled into Cubbon, half sleepy, half ambitious, I saw in front of me a plethora of people and no constructs to sort them with. As I went along creating and curating, I flipped and flapped my way into finding and being. Cubbon gave me tools and liberated me by doing so.

Taking photos so that the light hits the subject a certain way, capturing a certain emotion. Documenting it, we’re all journalists at one point or another.

Reading the confessions of a soul as complex as your own, separated from yourself by a page and some 3000 odd miles. Being a witness to the complexity of humanity while being a participant of it. I understand why God may be jealous.

Epiloguing it with the soft joy of sharing it, the evocation of hushed conversation, complementing and clashing like the ocean at high tide. Cubbon Reads has us huddling around ideas, in a grave manner, as if it’s all the treasure we have. Ensuring our lives do not pass us by while we remain voyeurs. Cubbon Reads intervenes and intertwines, braids the lives of people who otherwise would not have been. It is my becoming, my creation, and the means to an end of my search. It has become my religion and taught me the only language I know: prayer in; Cubbon is cawing crows and each Saturday I kneel down the same altar, the altar of this parable.

The purpose of devoting your entire life to it is to find yourself along the way.

12/06/2026

I remember Rishikesh, with a long platform there. The way people stood at the edge, laughing a little too loudly, trying to convince themselves they weren’t scared. Bungee jumping. That strange place where fear and excitement become the same thing.

Something similar stopped me last Saturday during Cubbon Reads.

A geometer moth caterpillar, an inchworm, hanging in the air by a single silk thread. No platform, no crowd cheering it on. Just this tiny thing, dangling. Apparently that’s what they do when they feel threatened. They let go. They drop on silk. And they wait there, suspended, until it’s safe to climb back up.

I had missed the dramatic part. By the time my camera was ready, it was already on its way back up. Unbothered and unhurried.

So, I turned away to photograph some of us readers for this post, and that’s when I saw a feather. On the grass, easy to miss. Probably a Black Kite’s.

All things I noticed while out and about in the park last week, reading with my fellow readers. All things I’d have missed if I stayed in my cave that day tucked inside sheets. Or while sipping macha in a slick new cafe in the city. Things I now have a visual memory of when I encounter them in a passage in a book.

I used to collect feathers as a kid. I’d forgotten that about myself. I’d pick them up like they were something worth keeping, because they were. Totally unnecessary really.

Just like how a reader chose to bring their copy of Persepolis as a tribute to Marjane Satrapi. It resulted in nothing. No fanfare waiting for it in heaven.

But in all this futility, I got a few minutes to myself today, almost like an archive of my memories building.

31/05/2026

What if we wrote this post with AI? It might have read something like this.

On Saturday morning, hundreds of strangers gathered under a canopy of trees with one thing in common: a book. No agenda. No networking. No productivity hacks. Just people reading.

AI might also smuggle in a couple of self-congratulatory sentences with its clichéd construction, "It's not X. It's Y." Such as: "It's not a gathering. It's a quiet rebellion." Or the more blah version, "It's not content. It's context."

There's something innately impersonal about AI. The lack of humour, the lack of emotions, both these translate into a lack of relatibility.

When we put out a call for writers as curators last week, we received a bunch of responses. Sadly, nearly 30% were written by AI. Quite ironic, isn't it, to have writing about nature be artificially written?

Cubbon Reads is now a part of Bangalore's culture, and as the documentarians of culture, we take the curator job very seriously. We have shown up, weeks after weeks, not missing a Saturday—come what may. Rain, hail, or police complaint! We have seen seasons change, trees shed and regrow their leaves, birds raise their families. We have seen communities for painting, knitting, and origami mushroom from within Cubbon Reads, and grow on their own.

When something as simple and original as Cubbon Reads could come up from somewhere deep within ourselves, right here in Bangalore, it is unthinkable for us to use borrowed thoughts to write this caption. It has to come from the heart.

Writers whose words wear their heart like a locket, we are waiting to hear from you. Send us a sample Cubbon Reads caption to become the next writing curator. Don't even dare to use AI. Not even to edit. Send your raw and real caption to [email protected]. We are continually shortlisting and will onboard the next batch of curators the coming Saturday.

See you coming Saturday? Or else, send your AI notemakers to make a summary of books. 😋

📸 .ms.kumar

24/05/2026

Evolution is beautiful. It registers the most random things in our brains for a bunch of reasons. It may have started as a way to escape threats, but as we started to settle, our brains started registering small comforts too.

Like the weather today.

The overcast and the chill weather reminded me of the day I first set foot in Bangalore: It was cold. But overcast.

Coming from a humid place where it rains 90% of the year, darkness is associated with no schools, power cuts and getting stuck at home. I thought that would be what I would be at Bangalore.

But somewhere along the way, the meaning changed. Overcast slowly stopped being indicative of dark days.

Maybe within the growth the city presented itself with, the pieces of literature that followed me from home, or with those evolving with me.

Like today, at Cubbon Reads, we saw Mother Mary talking through Arundhati Roy to many readers today (at least 7 that we noticed). The book, in itself, carries the author's personal experience, memories and emotions tied deeply to the author’s own relationship with her mother, proof again that stories are born from lived experience.

An Urdu short story collection called Lihaf, its Urdu lines, reminded a reader of Manto. And we know Manto is the product of his own experiences.

Books, I feel, are strange that way. They put you in the midst of neurons which fire in the brains of authors, the society, and the times they lived in. Within the park, these very books, curled up in the shade under trees older than the lives we've known, navigate you to associate the time where you are, the smells you smell, the other readers and other people visiting the park, to your related experiences, with each turning page.

And standing within the park, today, with the sky overcast, the smell of the mud rising, I smiled back at the 22 year old kid who landed at Bangalore. You were wrong, kid. And now when you smell this smell and feel this weather, you can smile at the silent community sitting all around, reading. You'll be alright - evolution is beautiful!

🖋️:
📸: ._ .ms.kumar

17/05/2026

“Do you remember the first time you came to Cubbon Park to read?” someone asked me once.
And just like that, I started to reminisce the day that was nearly two years ago.

I was still new to the city then, uncertain, vulnerable, trying to find my place in somewhere that felt completely alien to me. But with that uncertainty also came a newfound sense of freedom and Bangalore presented itself as a blank canvas waiting to be explored.

The first time I went to Cubbon Park, I went alone, with a book and a picnic mat to give me company. It was a warm spring morning, with the yellow bells in full bloom. Children ran in every direction, playing games whose rules I no longer remember. People strolled along the pathways while their golden retrievers trotted happily beside them. It filled me with immense joy to watch all that merriment and commotion breathe life into a single space.

That day, for the first time in a long while, I found the peace to truly sit down and read. Yet in between the pages, I would find myself distracted by the stillness.
I'd grown so used to the daily mayhem of everyday life that I'd forgotten what calmness sounded like.

Since then, whenever I want to take a step back from my chaotic routine, I find myself returning to Cubbon Park, searching for perspective. I watch people move through life at their own pace, and somehow my own worries begin to feel like a speck in the dust. I see friends laughing together on the grass, someone sitting alone beneath the lush canopy with a quiet smile, a vendor pouring steaming cups of tea, a little girl teaching her grandmother how to blow bubbles. In those moments, I’m reminded that it’s okay to slow down sometimes.

So much has changed since then. Neighbourhoods have grown, friends have left for different cities, a new metro line has opened and my favourite coffee shop has shut down. Yet it comforts me to know that whenever life becomes difficult, as it sometimes does, I will always have this little sanctuary waiting for me every Saturday, offering solace among the trees. All I need to do is pick up a book, grab a mat and answer the calling.

03/05/2026

Over the years, it has become harder for me to take time out of my life to read. I remember many years back how I would skip class just to finish the last few chapters of a gripping novel. Breakfast and lunch were just words to me. I was young and had barely any money or responsibilities. All I had was time. And freedom. But somewhere along the way, that instinctive craving I once had for books has all but faded into a dull sense of practicality.

Last night was no different. I lay on my bed with a book in hand and a promise to read. I could hear the soft whisper of rain tapping against the broad Ayurjack leaves in my front yard. The air had cooled just enough for me to cozy up in my blanket without it feeling suffocating. Ideal circumstances. I turned on the warm yellow lights and read for about ten minutes. Completely immersed. Nothing could stop me. I felt free again. For ten minutes.

My anxieties, briefly put on hold, returned - almost offended that I had achieved silence. I should be reading something productive. I have an exam coming up. I need to upskill. Earn more. Fix my sleep. Move out. Make something of my life. The same old chorus. I couldn't read anymore.

Today though, in Cubbon Park, I faced none of those apprehensions. I sat under a sprawling mahogany on a cloud-white and blue mat with Crime and Punishment in hand. The remnants of last week's rains were still visible. Old leaves had fallen and greener ones took charge of the canopy. The ground held a tinge of wetness. Towards the south-east edge of the park, you'd spot half of tree 3281 and 3502, wind-swept and broken on the pavement. Larger groups sat under the shade of the old tree, while smaller groups and lone readers preferred the quietness farther away.

As for me, today in Cubbon Park, I was able to read for an hour straight without interruption. I see everyone around me read, and I get this comforting feeling that my problems aren't mine alone. That we are all going through it, and yet we still show up.

If you've been struggling to read for a while, try doing it here, under the shade of our park, amongst others doing the same. It might help you. I know it helped me.

See you next week?

26/04/2026

“Why Cubbon Park?”
Someone asked me, when I mentioned that a bunch of us meet there just to read together, as strangers, sitting with books, journals, newspapers, and simply reclaiming a space for readers.

And it’s a fair question. In a beautiful city like Bangalore, you could read anywhere, exquisite cafes, bookstores, or your home, why here? Maybe the answer begins with the park itself.

What we now know as Cubbon Park wasn’t always this open, lived-in space. Laid out in 1870 during the British era, it started off as a more exclusive, colonial garden, eventually named after Sir Mark Cubbon, the then Commissioner of Mysore.

Over time, as the city evolved, so did the park. It was eventually renamed Sri Chamarajendra Park, but for Bangaloreans, it never stopped being Cubbon Park. What once symbolized colonial order slowly became something else entirely: a shared, living space that belongs to everyone.

It's a poetic reclamation of a space that always belonged to us. Today, in a city where we’re constantly trying to keep up, Cubbon Park feels like a return to stillness, to community, to something simple and human, it's comfort wrapped neatly between trees, sunlight, flowers, people, and a shared history. It’s always been at the center of Bangalore’s identity, quietly holding it's authentic space while everything else changes.

So why Cubbon Park?

I could say it’s the 6,000+ trees from across the world, turning it into a mini forest in the middle of chaos. I could say it’s the history, or the silence, or the way time slows down the moment you step in.

Maybe it’s in the odd number of murder mysteries this weekend, a newspaper spread across the mat, a journal taking down notes from the book, or the ever returning self-help readers striving to be their better selves everyday, or—the warmth, the calm, the collective pause we all come seeking.

I can just give you words. But that would not be enough. So if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to read in the middle of a forest that grew alongside a city, come find your space at Cubbon Park! 🌿📖

📷: .opened
🖋️:

20/04/2026

Did you ever notice that the stairs at the Cubbon Park Metro narrate a story, one sentence at a time, one staircase at a time? Each stair is one sentence and as you reach the top, the story completes. It is rather easy to miss if you take the escalator, rush up the stairs, or simply aren’t paying attention, but if you begin reading a little before the staircase and move unhurriedly, you would most likely be 10 minutes late but 10x happier! It is as if Cubbon Park was beckoning all of us to read even before we reach Cubbon Reads.

If staircase wasn't enough, the park itself serves as the city's greatest reminder to read. At the heart of the park, it cradles the ravishing red building of State Central Library. It celebrates both reading and silence, the ethos of Cubbon Reads. And if you think, there aren't more reading reminders, try spending an afternoon in the park until hunger gnaws at your belly. Surrounding the park are some of Bangalore's most famous eateries, but along with them, there are also some of Bangalore's beloved bookstores to feed your soul. The majestic collection at Blossoms that feels like a labyrinth, the rare book collection at Bookwork, the basement treasure of Goobe's, the antique Select Book Shop or the historic Higginbothams.

The park is orbited by all things reading. From the metro to its premises to its surroundings. And to those oblivious to the magic surrounding Cubbon, the park drops poems in the form of flowers—the purple tabebuis or the yellow amaltas, and if you're lucky, also Bangalore's most beautiful gift, its mild afternoon drizzle.

You can't escape words at Cubbon. It is only apt that the world's largest silent gathering of readers takes place in Cubbon Park. And that the movement started from here—there couldn't have been a better place! Cubbon Reads is a tribute by citizens to the park's enduring legacy of holding literature & poetry in and around itself.

Come, celebrate words with us every Saturday. With books or newspapers, love letters or research papers, even shampoo bottles if you wish. Language no bar. As long as there are words, there isn't a better place to read.

📝
📷 ._

12/04/2026

A Bangalorean year does not measure itself in 365 days. It gathers, loosens, and gathers again through moments of rise and lull, through departures that stretch and returns that feel inevitable, always circling back to the city’s familiar itineraries, the ones that anchor and restore. At the heart of it all lies Cubbon Park, where Cubbon Reads holds space like a quiet promise, waiting to receive you once more.

This is my third such year of learning how Bangalore breathes through its heat. The sun insists, lingers across long afternoons, yet the winds arrive faithfully, carrying a kind of reassurance. I wait for the rain the way one leans into hope, not with urgency, but with trust that it will return, sooner rather than later.

There is a stirring now, a hum that gathers and renews itself, most tenderly felt in Cubbon. The city begins to clothe itself in pink and yellow and lavender, letting blossoms knit a canopy that feels both fleeting and familiar. Beneath it, Cubbon Reads unfolds again, not as an event, but as a return. People settle, reopen pages once left mid-thought, lean into stories that waited patiently. Seasons drift, but this ritual finds its way back, again and again.

And much-so perenially, the books, the readers, their mats & coffee mugs arrived, and with them, small acts of becoming. Recursion by Blake Crouch bends time into loops, The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris unsettles, Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown unravels, Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom softens, Pax Indica by Shashi Tharoor reflects, Children of Time by Adrian Tchaikovsky imagines, and, The Diary of a CEO by Steven Bartlett questions.

And somewhere between the restless winds and the rain that almost arrives, hope begins to return in quiet cycles. It lingers, recedes, and finds its way back, much like seasons shifting, stories unfolding, and footsteps retracing familiar paths. Cubbon Reads gathers itself again in that same spirit, and in its return, reminds us that some things do not simply end, they wait patiently to be rediscovered.

📷: .ms.kumar ._
✍️: ._

07/04/2026

Imagine if Cubbon Reads wasn't free to attend.

A poorly written AI tagline would probably promote it like so: "Join us for a serene morning where stories unfold under the shade of beautiful trees. Pay 499 and book your spot". Yikes.

This edition of Cubbon Reads was rife with interesting contradictions and I will tell you all about them.

Someone was reading a Kannada title Idanna Odbedi which translates to 'Don't Read This'. Amidst book piracy crackdowns that are being undertaken in the country by publishing houses, a reader confidently showed up with a PDF print of Ikigai. Smiles erupted on our faces as we examined the blue, neatly spiral bound book.

The sad sight of phones in young hands was replaced by a happy feeling as we saw three girls read books of their interest. Their guardian affirmed the importance of inculcating reading habits in children early-on. Two readers claimed their side in the movie vs book debate and chose to read Project Hail Mary, with one having read it long before the movie had come out.

We shifted from foot to foot and glanced at our clocks, eagerly waiting for readers to stack books, while our readers continued to read for a little longer, the weather being a relief thanks to the clouds that kept making their arrival known.

Readers who frequent Cubbon Reads now greet us with a tiny knowing smile, well-versed with the flow of the interaction that awaits them. As public spaces start shrinking and people put community behind a paywall, it becomes even more important to reclaim what belongs to us.

The next time you contemplate to 'book your spot', perhaps you can come to Cubbon Park, spot us with our books and sit down to read. Trust me, you won't feel alone. See you next Saturday?

📷 + ✍🏽 .opened

Cubbon Reads

19/06/2026

12/06/2026

31/05/2026

24/05/2026

17/05/2026

03/05/2026

26/04/2026

20/04/2026

12/04/2026

07/04/2026

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