Friday Fables - In Heaven We Feed Each Other

While undertaking research for a work related project, I had the precious privilege of going through several parables. These were extremely short stories which were profound enough to put life into perspective. I decided to stalk a few of them here - the Home of my Thoughts. Henceforth, each Friday, I will try to gather some ageless wisdom, wit or perspectives, which I believe, add more value to life. These could be folk-tables, fables, parables or simply, granny stories.

The first in these series is a Chinese folklore, which is an apt comment of the values of love, care and concern for others, and the fact that we are little beings if we are not able to think of our fellow brethren before us. Why this parable was particularly striking was because it echoed an episode of Star Plus' Mahabharata, where the plot of this tale was a riddle for the Kauravas and Pandavas to solve. Needless to say, Kuntiputra won in this incident, which I am pretty confident, was a later interpolation. 

Anyway. The story. 

There was an Old Chinese Man who knew he would die soon and he desired to know what Heaven and Hell look like. He approached a Wise Man in the village with his request who led him down a strange path, deep into the countryside. 
They came upon a large house where they found men seated around a huge table with scrumptious variety of food laid down. The strange thing was, all the men around the table were thin and hungry, because they held chopsticks which were 12 feet long. Getting such huge chopsticks to feed themselves was impossible! This was a scene of Hell. 
The Old Man and Wise Man then went to a similar house, where people were happy and well-fed, despite having chopsticks 12 feet long. When the puzzled Old Man asked how this was possible, the Wise Man replied, “In Heaven, we feed each other.”

PC - Glogster.com

Kitaabon Sa Rishta - Part 1

Main kitaabon mein uljhat-ti
Kabhi kahaani ki parton mein sulajhti
Nazm si khoobsurat
Ghazal ki nazuk
Ashaar si daqeeq
Aur sher si bebak
Meri zindagi zard panne samete
Phalsapha ban chali thi
Gham ka sabab na thi woh
Khushnuma ho chali thi
Khayalon ka anjuman
Safed chaadar se dhaka tha
Sard fizaaon ka majma
Kitaabon ke oopar khada hai
Yeh kitaabein, mulaayam baatein
Kadak panno mein bolti hain
Sardiyaan hi toh sach hain
Yeh raaz kunkuni aankhon si kholti hain

Source - bookjunkiepromotion.com

P.S. - This is the first of a four part poem. Next part to come up in a few days. 

Erased

Part I - Unwritten

Part II - Rewritten

Part III - Erased

It rained today. It rained all over my story today.

It rained with ferocity. I witnessed the mad love making of rain and wind cast gloom and bliss together in the city. I had a crazy schedule and a dozen tasks to finish in remote corners of the city, but I knew to which centre my day would converge. By six, I had to be where I was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The first two days I spent beside the green water of a still lake, located within a bubbling hub of urban jabberwocky, were what enticing aromas of Earl Grey were made of, or what the smoky seduction of his piercing gaze was made of. The third day made the Earl Grey go undrinkably cold. It also made smoke smell like the irritation that smoke is.

I had first met him at this secluded, pretty spot beside the lake, flipping the pages of his little green diary, throwing down velvet caressed words as impalpable ripples on unbelievably still and lifeless water. His words were what he was made of. His expressions - casual, yet precise - were his weapons of choice to illuminate a moment by voicing them, or sadden the climate by withholding them. I loved listening to him - to whatever he said. So, when the next day, he was reticent (but charming as hell), even the usually garrulous girl in me felt it pressurizing to be the one talking. I could clearly not think myself saying anything half as worthy as the lamest thing that came out of his lips. I would have loved to speak the language of silence with him, but he did not know I had already been doing that since the first hour we spent together, and I did not know how to actually make this language known to him.  I was with him in my mind, and, I had a feeling, he was with himself, in his own.

I walked back to the same spot beside the lake yesterday, but he was not there. It felt odd. I walked on, sat down there, opened my diary, and scribbled whatever I remembered of the earthy countenance of his. Amicable, and inscrutable dwelt beautifully within the features which now seemed distant. I had his number, hesitantly yes, but I called. No answer. And so became the trend for my next eleven calls made over several diurnal and nocturnal hours. I slept with the trepidation that he has disappeared on me - my chance at poetry had disappeared on me. Today, amid a hectic schedule of dry powerpoints and dull meetings, I managed to find time to be fearful and indignant at the same time. How could he disappear on me?

Braving rains now threatening to be violent, I reached the same spot today as well - but he was not here. How could he be - it was raining, right? But then again, he was not here, or anywhere around. Drenched, I smiled helplessly, and leaned across to the same place where his hands had caressed mine. His fingers, rather boldly, had then curled around in a firm grip - the embrace of gestures ever so natural that I had failed to notice it till I actually did. I did not feel coy, I just lived.

Today, I felt raindrops run in a ticklish path down my neck - and I sat down, wishing, if that tickle could have been caused by him, his words that touch. He could not have been here in this downpour - I was mad to think that. But I was here in this downpour - mad enough to do that.

He was glorious, sure, but undecipherable still. He was beguiling, yes, but unwritten still. He gave names to feelings I had not felt since ages, but he demanded to be erased now. He was my chance at poetry, but probably I was not his. At some core, insistent, crying part of ours, we all want to be written, but while I was writing him, probably he was sketching someone else. To think again, I was writing him, and I was sure he was writing himself. And it hurt. Hurt enough to make me calm.

I walked away, drenched. I will probably come back here tomorrow, when the sun would be up there, winking at the lake. However, I will not forget him not being here when it rained, and when it was dark, and when I was alone, searching for even the tiniest reflection of his. He will probably be back here, but he will not be back here.

As I said, it rained today. It rained all over my story today.

Clicked by Aaqib Raza Khan

Rewritten

Part I - Unwritten

Part II - Rewritten

There are these mornings when you step out of the bath and have your hair eerily smell of him. And this, with the smokiness of his smell alive in your shampoo. How does that happen, I have no clue, but I believe that smell makes a man. Smells help you remember people, especially those you've met only a few times and have happened to draw too close for comfort. Of course, I am not talking of people -I am talking of him, whom I had tried to breathe in via the cup of Earl Grey. Too close for comfort. At this nervous proximity, features dissolve and olfactory senses takes over. Do you remember your breath quickening the last time he touched you - not with his touch, but his vulnerabilities? The classic search and yearning for your own, personal Byronic protagonist takes over all senses - and ridiculous, smoky smells become enticing. Smoke is addictive, they said. Its bad, but addictive. So perhaps is he. And I still say perhaps.

The initial impact is always the strongest - matched in intensity by a brackish wave crashing against your senses to leave you psychologically and emotionally uprooted, with little premonition left of the good and the bad, the right or the wrong. You're submerged, and you might even begin to enjoy the floating, light sensation, scarce reflecting on the fact that in moments the salty, scratchy liquid would have entered your nostrils, choking you; your eyes, burning you; and your heart, stopping you. You're not floating, you are drowning. But do you still fight for survival? Do you shake yourself up and urge the delusions of a grand journey to vanish? Do you apply all your might and push out this thing that is choking you from the point at which lies the source of your existence? Or do you give in, and flow and hope that perhaps in time you'll reach an island all yours. Not pretty, but yours. After drowning that deep, coming alive to humanly necessities would irritate, at least for sometime.

It was not easy to grasp him, literally and figuratively. However, that the difficulty would begin manifesting as a corrosive, intense force within me so soon was something I was not prepared for. I cried, but even worse, I did not stop enjoying. It was like the romance which fatalities inherently comprise of. The ride with the jerk was getting jerkier - but would I like it as much if it were any different? He was not as indecipherable now as he seemed dubious. He was unwritten still, and gloriously so, but I rewrote him in the moment I saw him allow me to walk away. Our acquaintance was a few days old, but we had begun expecting some ridiculous, scarred part of ours to be tended to by the other. Weighed down, and weighing down.

He smelled of smoke. Not just that, I reckon he was a creature of smoke. If you could hallucinate molten smoke, that's how his eyes would look at their worst, and their best.

My memories of him are of the moments I spent with him inside my head, no necessarily in his arms. And this should change before smoke rises to narrate its own tale.

By Leonid Afremov

Unwritten

There is this clear, brown, whiskey-ish tinged glass of Earl Grey resting lazily on the table in front of me. Its been sitting like that for ten minutes now, and even though I really want to sip in the warm liquid and feel my nose and throat react to the subtle strength of the concoction like a cold child wrapped in the benevolence of a blanket, I merely inhale the aroma and stop. And smile. And remember. Wasn’t he similar to this cup of tea – magnificent in his beauty like amber in a crystal goblet, but someone to inhale, not someone to sip from too soon? Or ever?

I wasn't falling for him. I did, however, for a brief moment, fall into him. He had a careless stare, but one which could pierce right through you when he so desired. He had a million irrelevant details to talk about, but somehow, when his velvet voice touched the words, they acquired importance, even if they were mouthed out in a slumber-deprived, slurred speech. There was so much visibly wrong about him, and yet, there was nothing I could point at that I did not like. He had it, he flaunted it. And no, not in the average style of a self-possessed narcissist. I mean, narcissist he was, but strangely enough, he flaunted his vulnerabilities with, almost, a performative ease. Perhaps that’s what he was – a performer, and a darn skilful one at that. Perhaps I was seeing him exactly as he wanted to be seen by me, my own judgement feeling miniaturized under his imposing (yet not arrogant) personality. In plain terms, perhaps he was a jerk. But then, perhaps he was not. And this dint of a fiercely enticing possibility kept my senses in an overdrive – for I had to use some, and curb some. I was not yet sipping, you see.

At the end of it all, I reckon I could finally arrive at a safe inference about him. He was not a majestic idea bound in the rhythmic prosody of a refined poem. He was the gloriously unwritten plot of a novel which held the promise of indecipherability since its inception in the author’s brain. If anything, he was that. To top it, he had a cute smile. And since remembering that smile puts me off-track in a strangely lunatic sort of way, I should probably focus on gulping down the cup of Earl Grey, now cold, but also pregnant with reflections of my thoughts, or him. A cup of tea, sometimes, is all it takes. 

Baker's Dozen - A Review

I will begin this review with a quote, which has got nothing to do with the book. It is by one of my favourite writers, whose writing style is something I have always tried to learn from.

"People ask me why my style is so simple. It is, in fact, deceptively simple, for no two sentences are alike. It is clarity I am trying to attain, not simplicity. Of course, some people want literature to be difficult and there are writers who like to make their readers toil and sweat. They hope to be taken more seriously that way. I have always tried to achieve prose that is easy and conversational. And those who think its simple should try it for themselves." - Ruskin Bond

In my entire journey with Baker's Dozen, this fond quotation was ringing in my head. Not because I wasn't enjoying what I was reading, but because I was applying a lot of my brains into understanding thoughts which I would much rather flow with. Writing in a fashion which is complicated and extravagant is perhaps the order of the day, and it carries with it streaks of brilliance too, but it is not something which gives you the comfort of book you may snuggle in the bed with. This, I am saying despite having enjoyed the ELLE Tranquebar book of short stories thoroughly.

Baker's Dozen is the kind of book which enchants you from the time you receive it in your hand. The minimal art-work on the cover, and the thought behind the title are the first things you marvel at, and the ride promises to get better. Contrary to what one might expect, it is not a collection of 12 tales, rather, it has 13 hand-picked short stories - the 13th thrown in for good luck, just like bakers traditionally would do with a loaf of bread. The stories come divided into two sections - one by ELLE and the other by Tranquebar - and both sections have stories which are gem-like in their sparkle. I remember being a little harried with the plot of the first story, only to become a big fan of the author, Sharanya Manivannan later. Her story, Greed and the Gandhi Quartet is nothing like what you might have ever read in the name of short fiction, ever. Her narrative is in the form of a conversation, leading to a richer storyline at the backdrop of it all. Something to learn, something to simply be impressed by, something also to connect with.

The story which falls second on the list of my favourites from this book is The Howling Waves of Tranquebar by Madhulika Liddle. It is a story whose end did not surprise - but the craftiness and imagination of the author deserve a full score. Set in an eerie locale, this story takes the reader from shivers to amusement - and it one of the most amazing examples of good and effective story telling.

Baani and Salted Cashews, by Payal Mukherjee and Divya Sreedharan respectively, take up compelling social issues and create a hard-hitting narrative about them. Salted Cashews tells you about the kind of perversion which exists in our society at a subterranean level, capable of and successful in robbing of the innocence and gaiety of childhood. Baani takes one to the world of refugees, their struggles with life on a daily basis. You will find other stories in this anthology throwing light on various facets of existence, including love, including sexual advances at workplaces, including dreams and desires, and so much more.

To state in a single sentence - this is a thoroughly enjoyable book, a collectible, where no two stories are alike, where you need breathing space while hopping from one tale to the next and where, you will end up being enamoured by the kind of writing talent which exists in India. My only problem with the book is its often cryptic, high-flown language. I will admit, I tried hard but could not complete Mridula Koshy's stories at the end. I am the kind who stubbornly pursues even a very boring novel just for the satisfaction of having finished it. And these were short stories I abandoned. They might be stylistically brilliant, but they do little to prove that good literature is the one which needs to be embellished with incomprehensible narration. Literature is supposed to reach out, to touch, to perhaps also reform - a little simplicity in telling a tale in what I would earnestly hope for in future stories which come my way.

It could've easily been a 4+ star book for me, but just for the amount it made me toil, I think I would settle with 3.5 on 5 stars.

Book Details -
Author - Various authors
Publisher - Tranquebar/Westland
Published - 2013
Book Source - Review Copy
Genre - Short-fiction/Anthology 
Price - Rs. 250
Pages -  192

The Smile Which Went A Hundred Miles - Guest Post by Anamta Rizvi

Sophie sensed the tangible pandemonium around her. Mystified by the utter baffling crowd, she pretended to be calm. But this pretension made her fiercely anxious. She just had to move from Central Secretariat to the Govind Puri station but the stuffed crowd was surely being a catalyst in her angst and was fuelling her claustrophobia. She told herself,” Just step in the metro and that is it”. Pacifying herself was now the only option. Coming from a small town, metro seemed a humongous deal. She noticed her insignificant presence around. Nobody bothered where she came from. Nobody cared for her claustrophobia. Nobody had time to even look up at her.  Leave alone to help her. Unwelcoming is Delhi.  Being pushed and pulled and shoved, she entered to experience her first ever metro journey. Sophie stood terribly shaken in that callous ambience. Familiarity was not even a tinge close in those indifferent faces. Amidst the cacophony, she noticed the girl across her. Their eyes met and a meaningful smile was passed by that girl. That little curve that goes up towards the eyes unveiling bliss and lightening one’s features, that smile was a profound solace to Sophie. Among the strangest of the strange faces, that smile in the moment of her weakness gave her an uncanny secure feeling. She smiled back with the same cheer in her eyes. Just at the moment when that girl was stepping down at Lajpat nagar, Sophie happened to glance at the locket that she was wearing which said Aliena. Sophie smiled and the metro moved forward.  

It was indeed a big day for Aliena. Half an hour before time, she once again checked the order in which she had filed her published articles. This job was horribly needed. Not only that it would just pay the heavy rents and bills but it will help her to carve a niche for herself. It was just not a job for her, it was WRITING. She waited in the magnificent parlour of that publishing house. The calmness of that atmosphere, the essence of the teak wood furniture, the magnificent tranquillity certainly got on her nerves. She knew her experience was way too less than many others but she was well aware that her skill and dedication were her strengths. On being called, she gathered her stuff, settled her coat and carefully walked ahead. As she stepped on the elevator, she felt someone’s presence right behind her. Just casually turning, she was welcomed by a smile. That smile made her smile and it miraculously made that incessant thudding of her heart ease. It reminded her of her own magical power. Her own beautiful smile! She turned again to acknowledge him but just heard someone greeting him by the name Rishabh. Aliena smiled and moved forwards.

Today’s pending work yet again was added to his already plethora of work. Driving back home, Rishabh was figuring out how he will manage the whole schedule for this work packed coming week. Not only were his incomplete targets taking a toll on him but the coming Wednesday was his wedding anniversary. An off in the middle of the week would surely cost him a lot. But his continuously nagging wife was a bigger issue than most of his important tasks. The Axis bank board reminded him to pay the fees of his seven year old son. Too weary to go through the formalities today, he thought of delaying it for tomorrow. Tomorrow would be impossible; hence he did the bank duty. He recalled if he had to pay any other bill and that reminded him of a series of regular errands. It was nine in the night now. His endeavour to reach home early was yet again in vain. Waiting for the green light at the signal, he observed the unending buzzing of his city. Glancing outside, he happened to see a lean fellow on his bicycle and the pillion rider was a young anorexic girl in a sari with her brightly coloured bangles. Holding in her hands was probably their infant who seemed amazed by the surroundings. That man looked back at him and gave him a smile; a smile that made Rishabh smile back. That smile of the lean fellow was impregnated with sheer bliss, and in spite of his dark skin, he saw a tinge of blush and his thick moustaches smiled along too. Honking of the cars made him realise that the light had turned green. Rishabh smiled and moved forwards.

On the way Rishabh recalled an article that he had read on the power of smile. The author said, ”How under rated is this half moon curve on our face. Apparently, we all have it but are deplorably stingy to use it. What harm if you give it to someone once a day. What harm if that curve on your face can make a terrified soul relax. What harm if that uplifting of your cheek make and angry being cool down. What harm if that semi circle of your lips breaks the ice between two strangers. What harm if that beautiful thing on your face ends the animosity between two persons. What harms if that movement of your muscles helps you relax the tension of your own body. The million dollar smile has been taken too literally I believe. Hey my miser readers, you are not actually paying those dollars. So stop being Uncle Scrooge and smile away to glory. Smile to celebrate every moment. Smile to give happiness around. Smile to drive away sorrows. As a matter of fact, Smile is the world’s simplest phenomenon to impart happiness. Smile, to be aptly noted, is a one syllable word and has been deliberately meticulously chosen to make it light weighted, easily spelt and most importantly widely and effortlessly functioned. Why are most of our pictures with smiles our favourites? Because my dear readers we look beautiful when we smile. It makes the world around us smiles. This reminds of a couplet... Ghar se Masjid hai bahot door chalo yun karlein/ kisi rote hue bachche ko hasaya jaaye. So let us pledge to smile to the ‘knowns’ and to the ‘unknowns’.”

Recalling these words from an anonymous author, Rishabh smiled and reached to his Smiling Home. 

By Anamta Rizvi

Anamta Rizvi was the first friend I found at Jamia Millia Islamia - much before I even knew that I would be taking admission to this university situated at the end of the world for me. To have her around is to have sophistication and exuberance showered on you each moment. She is a fabulous writer as well, and I am blessed that I have her as a classmate, a co-worker, and as an amazing friend. 

Rhapsody in February

I was buying hard and fast into the argument of the cynics. What is so special about this day? Western or Eastern, it is an absurd tradition. How can the celebration of love be confined to a single day? It is just a propaganda. It creates so much pressure. It builds expectations. It is mad. And then in India, it is dangerous too. Valentines. Big deal!

So, yes, it was decided. This is a day to remain locked up at home. With my candles, and cakes, and flowers. Wait, no! Wasn't I just ridiculing the very concept of this day? And now, I plan to, like the painful cliché goes, be my own Valentine? I smirked. I am a sad case. It is all absurd. Not only is it a day to suck brain and money out of the fooled consumers, it is also a day designed to make the likes of me pathetic and lonely. Everything is wrong with this day. What are you all, smeared with crimson, happy about? Get a life. 

Its seven in the evening. The sun took longer to erase its trail from the sky tonight. I wait for it to sink before I go for my rendezvous with the light breeze outside. It is convenient. I can stroll on the terrace with a goofy smile on my face, and no one will know. I can walk, and churn stories in my head, layering them with apposite facial expressions, and no one will know. I can remember him, feel a ticklish sensation in my heart, have a drop or two shed from my eyes, and no one will know. To amuse myself, I can draw a long, filmi sigh, and no one still will know. These nights are my own - they help me live and breathe like no one's watching. Secure in dark. Looking down (literally) at the world. Looking back in time. It really is a spoilt day 

A gentle melody wafts up on the breeze. I hear it for some seconds, and then it fades. I must have hallucinated. Are my imaginations that strong? I hear it again. This time, fainter. It disappears again, but not before my lips curve into a smile. I feel like exploring, discovering, reaching the source of this sound. Only, I am rendered immobile. With a weak, confused smile on my face. Did I hear it? For some seconds, yes. It sounded familiar, but, didn't it? I wish desperately to hear it once more. I try to rouse the music by the power of my will, concentrating hard with closed eyes. There. It hits again. Not my ears, but my heart. It comes closer, those lovely strains of the piano. I feel light on my feet, and my dimples deepen. I can visualize the nimble fingers working their magic to write romance with music. 

With laughter matching the rhythm of that melody, I open my eyes. I know this composition. With a lump in my throat, I look back to last Valentine's, when he played it for me. He did not just play, he made it for me. We were not just celebrating Valentine's. We were celebrating the day which brought us together, about half a decade back. 

His love continues to throb like music in my heart. He did get lost in the pages of time somewhere, but the love lingered. Like sweet music, like pious tears. 

Today, I cannot reach him, but I can write to him. If I could, this is what I would... 

Kyun tu achchha lagta hai, 

Waqt mila toh sochenge.

Tujh mein kya kya dekha hai

Waqt mila toh sochenge

Sara sheher shanasai ka davedaar toh hai lekin

Kaun humara apna hai, waqt mila toh sochenge

Humne usko likha tha kuchh milne ki tadbeer karo

Usne likhkar bheja hai, waqt mila toh sochenge

Aur mausam, khushbu, baad-e-saba, chand, shafaq aur taaron mein

Kaun tumhare jaisa hai, waqt mila toh sochenge

Ya toh apne dil ki maano ya phir duniyawalon ki

Mashwara kiska achchha hai, waqt mila toh sochenge

Kyun tu achchha lagta hai,

Waqt mila toh sochenge, 

Waqt mila toh sochenge

Happy Valentine's Day!

To all of you. 

Spread the love!

(I do not know the poet of the above lines. Do share if you do.)

Best Of The Written Word from 2012

The world of books has always had a fantastical appeal for me. It is rich, wide, effervescent, dynamic, real, imaginative and so much more. Books are a panacea for troubled souls like me. They are constant companions – on journeys, in college and in bed too. For me, books are also a way to look back at a great year and relive fond periods by remembering the books I read then and how they affected and enriched my thought process. Here, I share with you the best picks of the written word from the year 2012, in two sections. The first of these two sections comprises of my pick of the critically acclaimed books from the past year, and the second section has my favourite five from the popular fiction category. If you missed out on any of these this year, worry not! Procure them still, for the written word does never lose its charm.

Critical Recommendations

Breakout Nations by Ruchir Sharma

In this record-making bestseller, Ruchir Sharma takes his readers on a tour of more than two dozen emerging market economies. Weighing in on economic and political factors, Mr. Sharma addresses the timeless question of what is it that makes some states succeed and others fall. In a very methodical narrative, this book tracks the basic data of these countries to suggest if these states are likely to sustain growth momentum or lose it gradually. It is an intensive book, thoroughly engaging for those with an interest in economics and geopolitics and one of the most read books of this year.

Publisher – Penguin

Price – Rs. 599

Narcopolis by Jeet Thayil

Though criticised for lack of a coherent plot from more than one corner, this book is still high on my list of recommendations. This book not only managed to catch ample amount of international attention, but also realistically took its readers to the darkened alleyways of the drug-culture of Bombay, in a whirlwind commentary of abuse, sex, violence, love and death. There are many who were outright disgusted by the book, others left with mixed feelings. However, there is a great section of literary critics who paint this part cacophony, part symphony – Narcopolis – in glorious words. Not a must buy book, but a must notice book for all.

Publisher – Faber and Faber

Price – Rs. 499

           Joseph Anton by Salman Rushdie

Besides his deft writing, another thing which has given a definitive spurt to Rushdie’s image (and perhaps credibility) as a writer is his infamous tryst with a fatwa. Of all his works, The Satanic Verses is perhaps the most popular – not because people have read it, but because of the controversy which hijacked the literary merit of the book. In Joseph Anton, a biographical account, Rushdie shares his version of the story. And this attempt at telling an honest story is more gripping than most thrillers you would come across.

Publisher – Jonathan Cape

Price – Rs. 799

 Behind The Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo

Slumdog Millionaire opened the international audience to the dirt and squalor rampant in India. In her book, the Pulitzer Award winning author, Katherine Boo takes her readers on a microscopic expedition through the same decrepit world. This book centres on a slum called Annawadi, languishing somewhere in the underbelly of Mumbai and narrates the story of Abdul, who has a heart full of hopes and hands full of recyclable trash.

Publisher – Penguin India

Price – Rs. 499

             Return of A King by William Dalrymple

To be honest, I have not read this one. But Dalrymple is the kind of author whose works create buzz even before they hit the market. From the little I have read about the book, via tweets and reviews, this saga of the first Anglo-Afghan war is sure to keep you riveted. It also promises to provide you parallels in the contemporary world of an anachronistic event. Dalrymple has based this book on extensive research and facts gathered from all corners of the world. I am definitely going to lay my hands on this one as soon as I can!

Publisher – Bloomsbury

Price – Rs. 699

The next set of books is my favourite five from among those I received for review in my capacity as a book blogger. I must admit, the kind of talented writers being unearthed by publishing houses in India is incredible. The reading culture is on a high trajectory and so is the publishing industry. Yes, a lot of crap gets churned out in the process, but hey, I am here to pick out few of the better ones for you!

      The Taj Conspiracy by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar

Even before I thought of making this list of the best, I knew this book would be on it! Manreet, a writer of tremendous reckoning, created an indigenous, gender variant of Robert Langdon – named Mehrunisa Khosa – who sets out to unravel a mystery woven around the Taj Mahal. Mehrunisa is a renaissance expert, and is well versed with the legends, facts, and myths surrounding this great monument of love. Find a hint of Ludlum, and sprinkling of Dan Brown, but a thoroughly enjoyable and fresh script of death, deceit, mystery and thrill in this book by Manreet.

Publisher – Westland

Price – Rs. 250

Roll of Honour by Amandeep Sandhu

This is the second novel of author Amandeep Sandhu, and it takes a reader through the rough terrain of perhaps the most violent decade in India’s history since independence. Set against the backdrop of a decade which witnessed gory events including Mrs. Gandhi’s assassination and the consequent anti-Sikh riots, Sandhu narrates the story of Appu, a school prefect entering the senior most year of his military school, and his attempt to come face to face with his identity, his battle to preserve his friendships with friends from other religions amid venomous, vehement and provocative speeches made by his fellows influenced by the ideology of Khalistan. Vivid and hard hitting – the message of this book stays strong with me, months after reading it.

Publisher – Rupa Publications

Price – 275

           Marathon Baba by Girish Kohli

This is perhaps an unlikely entry on this list, but I cannot possibly ignore a book which began entertaining me from its first line and did not stop till the very end. Earmarking itself in the category of ‘kick-ass’ fiction, Marathon Baba, besides being a laugh riot, is an immensely witty and engaging book. What is it about? Well, it is about a man on the run, who has been warned that running is injurious to his health. Rest, I cannot possibly describe this awesome book by Kohli in any fitting words. This is the kind which has to simply be read and enjoyed!

Publisher – Fingerprint

Price – Rs. 150

Asura by Anand Neelkantan

This book is on my list of the best because of the skill, innovation and experimentation of the author, which lent a new hue to our ancient revered epic - Ramayana. Asura is the story of Ravana, his tails, travails, his failings, his ascent to power and his eventual defeat. This book should not be confused to be a mythological treatise – it is a light, intriguing read which fictionalises mythology to develop an easy narrative for entertaining a reader and making him empathise with the Ravana side of the story. I did think the concept of the book had more potential to be exploited. Having said that, this is definitely one of those books I will remember from this year.

Publisher – Leadstart

Price – Rs. 250

      Urban Shots Bright Lights (Edited by Paritosh Uttam)

This book is an anthology of short stories set against the urban landscape of India. It is one of the four books published under the “Urban Shots” series, giving a chance to several promising young writers to have their work published. The collection of stories in Bright Lights was the best of all the four, and I am bound to say it because one of the best short stories I have read in life – called Father of My Son – was its pick of the stories. The stories in this book cut across cultures, across feelings, faces, incidents, musings, recollections, realizations and much else. Few stories attempt to touch, few attempt to teach; but almost all attempt to give you a personalized glimpse into the life of a common, yet unique Indian inhabiting one little corner of the crazy cultural panorama that the Indian landscape is.

Publisher – Westland

Price – Rs. 199

As I always say, let’s make ours a book friendly world.

Have a great book-filled 2013!

Tweet to me at @Saumyakul

Read more of my articles at Scroll360.in

Lost Libido and other Gulp Fiction by Salil Desai - A Review

I have no idea what gulp fiction means. Is is the kind of fiction which is so awesome that it makes you gulp? Or makes you choke with excitement? Or makes your heart stop momentarily under the thrill it creates? Whatever it is, it is a potentially amazing, rather, fatally amazing genre of fiction to experiment with. And Salil Desai, in his third book, has done a marvellous job of introducing and promoting this new and curious genre of writing in the market.

I am still gasping from the effect the second last story of this compendium - called Lost Libido and other Gulp Fiction - had on me. I could talk about that one story at length, and of course, Cul-De-Sac, the name of the story I am caught under the spell of, happens to be my favorite of the lot. It is funny, innovative, creative, weird, weirder  and just so exhaustively awesome, that despite being one of the longest of this 17 story collection, I still wished it wouldn't end. I wanted it to give me more moments of hilarity. I wanted to see to what level the author's imagination could stretch. And stretch it sure can. Not so much imagination as wit and observation. Salil Desai, in this collection of short stories drawn from mundane lives of urban individuals has proven himself to be a master of both - wit, observation - and perhaps a lot more. 

Lost Libido and other gulp fiction is a book which single mindedly sets out to dwell on the darker side of humans. When Angel Lucifer was expelled from Heaven and given the unholy title of Satan, he vowed to keep extracting revenge from the most dear creation of God - Man. And he did not stop at the exit gate of Garden of Eden. He followed Man to Earth, and is almost as important an influence in Man's daily activities as God, or Goodness is. Only we seek to refute this obvious fact time and again. Salil Desai's book will not paint any heavenly pictures of human existence. It will not tell you how beautiful life is, how goodness always triumphs, how truth is consistent, or how love is the basis of existence. It will show you a mirror of your lives, our lives. It will tell you how an average individual, caught in the rigmarole of routine jobs copes up with stress which his confused existence heaps on him. People today, specifically talking of India (since this book uses urban India as a backdrop), are dealing with a life which is always in flux, where competition lurks in ugly manifestations and where desires and expectations often get the better of man. If anything, Salil Desai's book will break the image of a perfect world which you conjure, very specifically in a story interestingly titled - Our Friendly Neighbourhood Murder.

Each story, which finds a place for itself in this anthology, is worth talking about individually. Very few, if any, disappoint the reader. The only reason I had of being disappointed with a few stories was that with the first two stories, Salil establishes a high standard from himself - one that as a reader you fervently hope doesn't dip at any cost. I have said this before, and I maintain - In the mad pace of life all of us have adopted for running towards nothingness with, short stories are ideal breaks one can afford to apply when distractions are sought. Only, be careful of reading a book with as promiscuous a title as "Lost Libido" in public transport. Like I did on my daily journeys in metro. People stare. But that is also fun in a way.

So, anyway, this is a 3.5 on 5 stars book for me. My favorite of the lot were - 

1. Cul-De-Sac - Enough reasons explained above.

2. The Maths Conundrum - As a child, I had a horrendous time trying to cope up with the devil that mathematics was. I understood what little Nakul went through while being unable to cope up with the same, though I had no idea his predicament would acquire such tragic proportions. 

3. Our Friendly Neighbourhood Murder - Dark. Awesome. Brilliant. Leaves you asking for more. 

4. One Monday Morning - A whole family, spending its last happy day together. Why last? Well, read to find out. I only wish the ending gave me more. 

5. A Susceptible Conscience - This story is one in which all of us, invariably, will find an echo of ourselves in. How easily we convince ourselves, how easily we think we deceive the omnipresent powers - read this one to know. 

More Ghost Stories of Shimla Hills by Minakshi Chaudhry - A Review

This book, I believe, is a sequel to an earlier book with a similar theme. Not restricted to hills alone, most places in India have myths, legends and stories surrounding their existence. People inhabiting such places occasionally refute, but mostly subscribe to popular beliefs, even when they allude to something unthinkable - as in supernatural. A story surrounding ghosts and spirits is a listeners delight! However, it could be a nightmare for the one who lives through it. India is a land which believes - in Gods and spirits. Unravelling this very facet of Indian hills - Shimla to be specific - Minakshi Chaudhry has come out with a collection of tales about ghosts and apparitions, collected by meeting people and hearing their stories.

Shimla, formerly Simla, the Summer Capital of the British, and now the Capital of Indian state of Himachal Pradesh, is a top tourist destination in India. Home to many colleges, research institutions and temples, Shimla is also one of the top entrepreneurial destinations in India. Beyond what is known to the outside world about this scenic hill station, there are many facets of this place known only to the locals, and perhaps, also understood only by the locals. Shimla is home to many ghosts and spirits, who have entrenched themselves in the local lore. These ghosts do not have a mythological origin; mostly they are an expression of unfulfilled objectives of life of persons belonging to the British or post-British era. Ghosts depicted in this anthology of short narratives are not a negative force - there are many who are caring and benevolent. Spirits are sometimes whimsical and other times they manifest only when disturbed or disrespected. It is easy to talk with conviction about their existence once you have immersed yourself in the fantasy world created around you by this book.

The narration of the book is light, and in parts capable of transporting you to the pleasant climate of Shimla. The stories, though interesting, I would admit, are not captivating. Despite being a small book, I took time to finish it, because, despite dealing with something as intriguing as ghosts and supernatural, it could not form a relation with my imaginative mind. This book is more suited for a younger audience. As an adult, I would have revelled in more literature about a legend, more knotted tales. Most of the apparitions talked about in this book are flat characters, with no shades to them. The narrative mostly is informative and descriptive, lacking an element of mystery and thrill. Very few stories, if any at all, would remain with you, as anecdotes to pass on to other people. An okay read, I would award this book 2 stars on 5. Somehow, Ruskin Bond completely captures your imagination when it comes to tales about hills, especially ghost stories. A comparison with him is inevitable if a similar genre is picked up by any author, and to live up to that comparison is an arduous challenge indeed. Good effort, with some lost potential, I would say.

PS - I am confused, do you call such a book, drawing on local legends, fiction or non fiction?

(Reviewed on request from Rupa Publications)

Book details-

Title - More Ghost Stories of Shimla Hills

Author - Minakshi Chaudhry

Publisher - Rupa

Price - ₹ 150

Pages - 147

Nude and other short stories - A Review

Intriguing title, isn't it? Well, try reading a book loudly proclaiming 'Nude' (calligraphically embedded in a suggestive figure) on its cover in a crowded metro, and the piercing stares of passers-by shifting from the cover to the engrossed reader will tell you exactly how intriguing this title is. Part provocative, part alluring - a title like this can compel you to conjure a lot of thoughts about the kind of content offered in the book. Most of those thoughts involuntarily tilt towards the bolder side. Alas. This title was just one among the many titles of short stories which make this book, and is in no way indicative of generic essence running through those stories.

Nude and other short stories is an anthology of short fiction pieces which won The MAG 2011 short story writing competition. The nineteen short stories published in this anthology are penned by bloggers from across the country, and they deal with people, circumstances, incidents and human psyche, among other things. Few stories, including the titular 'Nude' are such which make you stop and notice the maturity and sensitivity of the authors. Still others, like Karma Yogi, which is for me an aimless biographical sketch, go nowhere near catching the imagination of a reader. It is a thin book, with crisp content, but not a lot of stories which one might be tempted to flow along with.

I have to admit, I am one of those who do judge a book by its cover, no matter how antagonistic it sounds to a popular dogma. With a cleverly chosen title, a graphic artist could've (should've) churned out something more tantalizing, inspiring. Besides a few stories, its cover is another thing which does not work for me with respect to this book.

The foreword by an anonymous editor serves as a beautiful introduction. Thereafter, the only stories which I liked and took home (literally, since most of my reading is done while commuting), are -

1. Nude by Purnima Rao - A very smart title for a sensitive yet subtle tale. Subtle, but giving away hints of intensity. Telling anything about this story is perhaps ruining what it has in store for its readers.

2. Of Dreams and that thing called Fate  by Himangshu Dutta - The tale of an orphaned kid, left to cope by himself on the cruel streets of the world. How his story ends is exactly how his story had started. Spoiler? No. Reading it will be much different than reading about it.

3. The Lost Earrings by Kalpana Abhijith - Like a modern fable. Of thefts and repentances.

4. The Suicide Note by Vivek Singh - The plot is as much as the title reveals. It is the expression of the author which honestly left me enchanted and enriched. This is one story I could not help flowing with.

5. The Traveling Suitcase by Manu Chaudhary - A heartwarming tale of goodness.

There were many other stories which had a great potential, because they drew inspiration from very real and relatable themes, like The Perfect Girlfriend, The Unfortunate Episode etc. However, their potential remain untapped, because these stories did not cross over into the realm of imagination. To me, it seemed I was reading a narrative of someone's life, that too not in the most outstanding language. In all, this anthology was just about an average book for me. 2 stars on 5 is my verdict.

The Luck That I Am

Aadya had visible creases on her forehead. She stood pensively in one corner of the Rajiv Chowk Metro Station, eyes staring intensely at the metro tracks. Someone, she remembered reading in newspapers, had been received by these very tracks a few months back with an open embrace to escape the rigours of life. Was Aadya contemplating the same course of action? No. Not quite. She was contemplating a course of action which takes her away from these destructive thoughts. However, nothing today was helping her cause. Not her thoughts. Not her surroundings.

She kept still as a metro creaked to halt in front of her. A girl was hurrying in her direction, face lit up with smile, eyes lit up with love. Her smile widened as she approached Aadya, however, in a dazed state, Aadya realized, the smile was meant for the guy standing next to her, leaning stylishly against the wall which Aadya's limp body was falling over. The anonymous, gleaming girl came and eased into a hug, pressing herself passionately, yet carefully against the guy. Their hug might have lasted for an eternity. Aadya felt repulsed at the open display of affection. Why, you ask? Ah, well. It was the same embrace Aadya had been dying for. Not from a boy necessarily. From anyone. Anyone whose one hug could for sometime dissolve her worries - her family, the fights, the miscommunications, the stress and the directionlessness. Wishful thinking, she knew.

Half an hour later, Aadya saw herself staring at a strange, bustling crowd. Heads covered in humility, eyes deep with faith, numerous faces headed in the same direction. Far down the alley, disappearing behind the bend. Aadya felt scared, but she had heard of this place and its wish granting powers. She had heard of the golden domed Dargah, nestled in the midst of winding alleys, of Delhi's most loved sufi saint - Khwaja Nizam-ud-din Auliya. However, it was not his', but the name of Hazrat Amir Khusrau which had caught her fancy. Only recently, Aadya had come across these lines -

"Saajan aisi preet na kariyo, jaisi lambi khajoor

Dhoop lage toh chhaon nahi, bhookh lage phal door."

The desires Aadya had allowed to take root in her heart had a queerly similar quality to the object of love warned against in the above lines. Her love, her desires, were simply not coming true. Standing outside the mesh which protected Hazrat Khusrau's tomb, Aadya contemplated how sad her life is. She concluded, her life is perhaps the saddest of everyone standing around. She stood there, head covered in a fuschia hued dupatta, when she felt her left foot flinch as if a rat had scurried over it. She jerked her leg as a reflex, and ended up hitting a little human figure huddle near her on the floor, She regretted her action even before she had completed it.

Clad in a dul pink T-Shirt and shorts, an almost balding girl sat near her, peeping into Hazrat Khusrau's dargah through the net carved out in stone. Aadya's hands were still raised in a dua, but her eyes were transfixed on that strange looking, little girl. She could tell that the balding kid was a girl solely on the basis of that one smile which Aadya received in return of the unintended kick. That was the only time that girl had looked up, and despite the visible, insurmountable stiffness in her arms and legs, her feminine attributes had been vividly coloring her tired, colorless face. The little girl secretly stole Aadya's heart away. And then, the same little girl caused a tear to trickle down her cheek. The tiny feminine bundle near Aadya's leg was sick. How, she did not know. But sick for sure.

A lady dressed in humble shades of brown appeared out of nowhere, and pushed her pink clad daughter to kiss the stone carvings outside Hazrat Khuswau's tomb, and ask him to make her fine. "Chalo Sabeena, deewar ko choom lo. Aur peer saab se bolo ki humein theek kar dein. Taaki hum khoob khel sakein, iskool ja sakein, and apni mummy ka dhyaan rakh sakein. Chalo, jaldi se dua karo. Pata hai, yeh sab theek kar dete hain." Her, Sabeena's mother whispered into her ears. What caught Aadya's attention were not so much the words, but the infectious smile on Sabeena's mother's face. Her pretty daughter was in a sorrowful state, or so Aadya thought, but here, the mother and her daughter seemed far from grieving. It seemed, that with the dua for getting better, they were also sending via Khusrau, words of gratitude to Allah, for giving them whatever they have, and for looking over them. Such faith!

Aadya gently sat down, giving little Sabeena all her place to play and soak in the sacred air around the dargah. May be the influence of the place reverberating with so much faith was therapeutic. Aadya could not be sure. She closed her eyes, and burst out crying, uncaring for who was or was not seeing her. No one was. It was as if the place understood that grieving is a personal activity, not to be intruded upon. She would have cried for a long time, for she only stopped when her eyes ran dry. As the smell of incence wafted up her nose, Aadya felt as if the burden of a million tonnes had been lifted of her chest. Her mind, which was ready to implode was now throbbing with pain, but with signs of life. Resuscitated, she lifted herself, and walked out slowly from the dargah.

While slipping on her shoes, she was promising herself to smile. She had not a wish left in her heart out of the numerous she had come to seek the answering of. On an impulse, she wanted to wish for pink-clad-blading Sabeena's well being and happiness. But no, she decided against asking for that. She decided in favor of having faith. Through the gestures of that tiny rat whose hand had caressed her bare feet to draw her attention, Aadya had witnessed a lifetime's lesson. No worry seemed insurmountable now. A tiny farishta was all it took to lend her some faith. In our world, sadness coexists with bliss, melancholy with mirth. Experiencing both is necessary to experience life. A little faith and gratitude in our hearts is all it takes to balance those two emotions, and to be able to find the best learning out of the worst situation in life. It is necessary to thank, insane to blame, now understood Aadya. There was a conscience screaming to be heard inside her. There were thoughts waiting to be turned into actions. Everything she needed, she had it within her.

May be she understood all this by herself. May be little Sabeena was actually a divine messenger.

A Calendar Too Crowded by Sagarika Chakraborty - A Review

"Yes, my never-to-be-born daughter, I know this is all so true,

But the darkness of death is better than an unequal life that

lies ahead- you should know that too!

So sleep  my little one...sleep for a while in my womb,

For tomorrow the same is going to be

re-christened as your tomb!"

- Can You Hear Me, Ma; Sagarika Chakraborty

The above lines are vivid, lucid and they put on display the remarkable sensitivity of author/poetess Sagarika Chakraborty, whose debut novel I am going to explore in this post. For the book which announces her arrival in the world of published authors, Sagarika has chosen to delve into an issue which is universally acknowledged as the collective failing of mankind on the road to progress, the issue of failing to accord to almost half of humanity the respect and dignity which they are entitled to as being living and breathing members of the world. Call it gender bias, women emancipation, female oppression - the core idea which the author has persisted with in the book is to give a voice to those numerous nameless, faceless women, who undergo tribulations on a daily basis just because they possess, by no choice of their own, a pair of XX sex chromosome.

A Calendar Too Crowded is creative collection of stories and poems regarding womanhood, and lost promises of history at granting an equal, if not an elevated status, to the women who give and preserve life. Why I call it creative is because of the very interesting layout of the book, which is divided into twelve parts coinciding with twelve months. In each month, the author has identified days which are celebrated internationally or regionally as days of importance with respect to empowerment or glorification of females, and a story or a poem has been spun around the essence of the same day. For instance, on February 6th, Italy observes Widow's day, themed around which, the author has crafted the poignant tale of a nameless little girl, widowed at the age of seventeen, whose entire existence was then considered an abomination, whose very identity became that of a witch who devoured her husband (Witch Without A Broomstick). To mark the Anti Child Prostitution Day, falling on April 4th, a story called Selling A Body To Gain A Mind has been included, which sensitively, yet sensibly dwells on the relationship of a prostitute and her daughter. Around 20 stories/poems have been presented in the same format, each of which narrate the story of a girl/woman dealing with numerous taboos and regressive traditions stifling their very existence on the face of our planet.

These stories needed to be told. There is nothing extraordinary about the simple narratives presented in this book except for the fact that as women, having observed the prejudices working against us in family, society and professional sphere, we can relate to these stories without even trying. A wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a lover - in each relationship, women have been expected to play an exceptional, glorious, self-sacrificing and tradition bound role. We all go through these different relationships. We all experience at some point of time the cumbersome expectations which each act brings with itself. If we are lucky enough to not have experienced any discrimination and suppression, we all know stories of our friends/colleagues/relatives who are undergoing unimaginable sufferings solely on the basis of their gender. The fairer sex has been relegated to the position of the second sex, with force and conviction and adamant refusal to change the status quo.

One of the remarkable things which Sagarika has done in her novel is to have highlighted the hypocrisy of progressiveness which entire mankind is proud of. By quoting again and again the example of Panchali, the author has enforced upon a reader's psyche the fact that how in the ancient times, which we understand as primitive, women were regarded as equal, they were respected, allowed their choice and their opinions held weight not just in domestic, but even administrative affairs. A systematic erosion of taken-for-granted equality has been brought about in preceding centuries, the ugly manifestations of which we see in cases of domestic violence, incest, marital rape, work place harassment, molestation, eve teasing, dowry deaths, foeticide, infanticide, child marriages, widow codes, sati pratha, honor killings, and an endless list of related issues. Many, if not all, of these issues find echo in Sagarika's stories. She talks of an aged widow wanting to settle down with a life partner at the age of where people expect you to wait out your death. She takes you into the mind of expecting mothers who seldom think of anything other than what is good or bad for the life inside them. She makes you meet a victim of trafficking and gives you a peek into her psyche with a melancholic rush of emotions. She explores the life of a woman who chose to be a homemaker when the heights of success were themselves knocking on her door. All this and lot more. A Calendar Too Crowded is an apt name for a book which emphasizes on the fact that each day in the life of a woman is a story worth telling in itself.

Where the book does not work for me is in the predictability of almost all stories. Not much of innovative content. The stories are more like musings. You can flow along, and know where you are headed throughout the way. An occasional mention of mythological and historical figures who stood out as women of courage and dignity is interesting, but I felt that the author made similar kind of mentions at too many places, which made things look slightly repetitive.Also, totally out of the ambit of literary criticism, I think the book is priced a little on the higher side. On the plus side of things, relationships were explored beautiful. I did shed a tear or two while being transported deep into the lives of women whose portrayal was sensible and believable. My favorite stories out of the collection, which I will strongly recommend to others as well are The Homecoming, Sisters By Chance And Not By Choice and Knowledge Beyond The Printed Letters. Finding An Ideal Mother For My Unborn Child was one story which was fresh in terms of both, the narration as well as the perspective. These stories rose above the helplessness, and spoke of nurturing relationships and able choices.

All in all, it was a balanced book. Great thought, but the potential of the book, I felt, was far more than what came out in the final execution. 2.5 stars on 5 is my verdict for this one.

P.S. - Having worked closely on issues of gender, and with young girls victimized by their own loved ones, I could not help but feel extremely happy about the fact that a young author put her heart and mind into coming out with something like this. This critique aside, I am quite a fan of Sagarika's spirit, and her lovely smile!