New Delhi, Oct. 14 -- Shobhaa De's The Sensual Self is not a book; it is a bloom -- nocturnal, fragrant, unafraid of its own scent. Like raat ki rani unfurling at dusk, it intoxicates slowly, spreading across your mind until your own pulse begins to hum to its rhythm. De writes with the shimmer of jasmine oil and the sting of sandalwood smoke -- her sentences supple, scented, and scorching, her silences as important as her speech. She invites you to "abandon good sense," to "ditch the rulebook," and instead "own your sensuality," no matter your age or ache.

At seventy-seven, she has done what few writers dare -- she has made pleasure a philosophy, not an apology. This is a book that glides from the boudoir to the ghats of Banaras, from s...