Moments of Epiphany

I have not written since a long time. I have made plans. Elaborate lists with themes. I have created full length stories in my head. I have saved pictures to write poems on. I have clicked images of people and their characters in my head. All for the sake of someday returning to Nascent Emissions and penning them all down, but each week presented a new picture of my own failure to my head. The amount of stories I have now hoarded inside me is nothing short of criminal. And the curious part is, it is not a crime against humanity, so much as it is a sin against my own heart which has now grown heavy, very heavy with the weight of all that is untold, and unshared.

Today, however, something triggered a change, forcing me to open my laptop, even though the hours are late and office time near. I had planned on sleeping the entire day - thanks to the constant dizziness caused by the Delhi smog, till I remembered a commitment. Two very sweet girls - Ditsa and Pushpangana had invited me over to give a short talk at their monthly get-togethers to encourage prose writers. They call their endeavour - Euphoric Epiphanies - a complex name signifying a very basic human urge, that to write and then to share what has been written with so much heart and labour. Of course, in the presence of a warm and receptive audience.

So I dragged myself out, reached the meet-up an hour late with an itchy throat and itchier head (thanks, again, to the Delhi smog), and was given a fabulous welcome note (most of which I missed), post which I shared a little something on prose-and-poetry writing. The writers who had collected at the spot, the beautiful Hauz Khas Monument Complex, gave me more than their ears, when they engaged in a discussion about what they find more solace in - prose or poetry. Surprisingly, most of them found poetry to be their calling, since prose demanded more 'effort', or did not come as naturally to them. While for the latter reason, I feel convinced, I am nowhere as satisfied with writers taking to a form of writing because it is easier. Poetry demands as much, if not more effort, because of the gravitas of thoughts and the unity of meaning which a poet constantly aspires towards while churning out lyrics in the most apt words, with music, and with metaphors yet to be unravelled and understood by the world.

I also read aloud my favourite prose passage from a book titled Ammi - Letters to a Democratic Mother, authored by Saeed Akhtar Mirza. The excerpt dwelt upon the simple, yet profound love story of the author's parents - Nusrat Beg and Jahanara Begum. In the simplicity of that tale, I know many hearts felt the weight of their own heaviness lift off.

It was already a very fulfilling day, but became grand when I received a special handmade gift from the organisers (I love gifts - always remember that!). Ditsa and Pushpangana (and Tavishi) put together a little box crafted like a book for me. This box/book was titled 'Nascent Emissions', and this is when I realised how others still remember what I have conveniently forgotten. With over 230 posts, this blog has chronicled most of me, through the best and worst of times. And thanks to the kindness shown by the girls, I had to get back here and pen a little of whatever I could. Truth be told, a lot came to me in life because of this virtual collection of very personal writings - my first writing assignments, as well as a little recognition in the world of bloggers. This blog, in fact, also served as the live portfolio for my first job!

So, thank you Ditsa, Pushpangana and Tavishi, for putting together this heartwarming labour of love. I would keep it very close to my heart. Thank you also for the pretty bookmarks with prettier quotes on them - all of which, by the way, are my favourites! How do you people know me so well? Cyber stalking, eh? And those notes on coffee smeared pages - sigh! How do I even begin to say how loved they made me feel?

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Continue doing pretty things to make our smog-ridden world a more tolerable place to live in. And thank you, yet again, for shoving the words 'Nascent Emissions' in my face, and having me land up back here, happily!

I hope the associations forged today continue a tad longer :) 

Dear Anonymous Letter Writer - Birthday Chronicles

I make a big fuss of birthdays, each time. Especially if it is mine. Of course.

And you know what counts as luck? When you find others who make a bigger fuss of birthdays than you. And I'm the lucky one, who has not one, but about a dozen crazies around her, who've been investing time and mind into creating little gestures of warmth, leaving a wide, uncontrollable smile on my face.

A recent pretty phenomenon is a red coloured note, which I find stuck to my almirah with the help of magnets, each day when I get back home. These notes/letters contained words of love, which, as hard as I might try, I cannot identify the source of. I thought of cheating, because, it is easy to (all I need to do is steal my sister's phone - I already know the password). But then, I thought of living the experience through. I have analysed the handwriting, the tone, the language, the emotions - and honest admission - I have zero idea of who he or she is. I think the writer is a 'he'. Just, instinct.

So, while I have given up trying to establish the identity of my anonymous pen-friend, let me write him (assuming 'he') a letter of my own. I am doing this, because unresponsiveness is among the things which irks me most in life. Even though I do not know who I am responding to, I will still go ahead and do it, because words deserve words, love deserves love, emotions deserve emotions, and letters deserve letters.

Here goes, a short one, for the person counting down 26 days to my 26th birthday.

Dear anonymous letter writer

I want to thank you. Not for writing to me, but for writing in general. People have quite forgotten the genuineness and touch which ink and paper hold. People have also forgotten that at times, all it takes is one little gesture to completely light up someone's life. Like you are lighting up mine. I look forward to your notes each day. It is a habit I could fondly cultivate. 

Thanks for making me realise how old am I going to be. No sarcasm. I am happy to know how far I have come in life, and also to get a glimpse of how others have journeyed along with me. 

A little word of caution though. When I finally get to know who you are, we'll work a little on your handwriting. No offences, just, my way of saying I think I like you enough to want to work with you. 

Looking forward to note number six. 

Thanks. 

Love, 
Saumya. 

A Heady Brew - Part I

My interactions with various communities, organizations and individuals exposes me to questions about prose, poetry, literature and life, to which people are constantly seeking answers and resolutions. These conversations happen on phone, whatsapp, in person, over drinks, over coffee, on the footpath, in colleges, in plush offices, in ramshackle back-alleys, and sometimes, in my mind too. I don't attempt to provide answers, for, hello, this young girl herself knows too little. But sometimes, certain conversations give me points to ponder on, to deliberate, to keep close. And in my mind, all these conversations, irrespective of their physical reality, are always accompanied by the clink of two glasses.

Here is the first heady brew - not difficult to imagine, I suppose, once you add a sprinkling of rum on his collar, and lean in to drink to his thoughts. While he questions poetry, he probably also inspires some.

*****

"When people hear a good poem, they get inspired, and I get depressed."

Is it, haha! Why?

"Because I don't know when will I be able to write that well."

Hmm...

"Also, there is so much being written, everyday, every second, that I am losing the opportunity of writing original content, because by the time I think of it, someone might have already written it."

And here I was, sitting perfectly relaxed, thinking that poetry is so private and personal, that it can never be made to compete. Why write to counter something that someone somewhere might be writing. Why not write because it matters to you. Because it eases your heart. Because it defines your life. And again, because it matters to you, and when it matters to you. You're never losing out time or thoughts or concepts or words. Trust me on that.

"Hmm. You always make so much sense."

Because I am out of competition.

"I like to think of poetry as my way of escaping from reality, my third level. But it doesn't come to me when I need it the most."

Aah. Save poetry from all the pressure please.

I cannot imagine poetry not coming to anyone unless we ascribe heavy definitions to it, unless we are too keen to specify a certain way in which it should come to us. Poetry is a pouring out. It does not have to be profound by definition. But if it is pure or true enough, it will always be profound.

Put less pressure on the pen. Ink will flow easy.

"Oh dear!"

What?

"You're an artist!"

If you insist :)

Picture Perfect - August 2014

I was contacted by a pleasant toned girl, named Sarbani, a while back, who had a couple of really broad based question to ask me - about myself, and the passions which have driven me thus far. Well, I answered those questions, and this frame happened. Its nice and yellow, and what makes me absolutely ecstatic is that this picture features in a campaign which as some very famous names of twenty-something persons doing stellar work in their respective fields. And these fields, of course, were those determined by their warm hearts and not cold conventions. 

Here is the description to this photo - 

Driven by her passion for writing, Saumya is the content strategist at Drizzlin. She loves the world of written words. But according to her, this field is not seen as professionally sustainable.

While she struggled to make it big in IAS exams, writing stayed with her like an undying passion and today, with close to 2 million hits on her blog, and being published in 3 separate genres of books - she can confidently claim joy and peace.

I wish more power to all those trying to heed the call of their heart. Dream Big, Begin Right away!

Thanks for the recognition, The Education Tree! 

Hurriedly Scribbled #2

This one is a little late, but since my blog crossed 8,00,000 views a few hours back, today's countdown post is very much in order.

So, if someone were to ask you, what was the one thing you discovered in the year of life which just went by, what would you say? Really - its a question to which you must write an answer in the comment box below. What I want to see is if you can actually stop at scribbling one thing down. In an entire year, one could discover so much about himself, about life, about people. Can there actually be that one, overpowering thing which towers above all the other experiences of life, establishing itself in a position of dominance, from where it stands a chance of influencing and shaping your life?

As is apparent, I asked this question to myself. I often do, but I wake up to different answers. As of today, my answer would be, that the 24th year of my life was significant because it was in this time period that I discovered feminism. I am not sure if my discovery was related to unearthing a mini-feminist sitting crouched somewhere inside me, but I have definitely become more sensitive to the misogynistic strains which permeate the air we unconsciously breathe. Honestly put, its troublesome, to see how stereotypes relating to gender and sexuality are just accepted without challenge, and to find yourself become sensitive and reactive to them. Its an honest admission. I reckon I was better off when I could laugh at those of my ilk when others chose to make a joke out of them. This day, I cannot. I don't get messed up with anger, but rightfully indignant I do become when I see biological limitations becoming a curse, and social conditioning getting more regressive by the day. Try as hard as I might, I cannot laugh at what Kapil Sharma puts up as humour. It was funny for the initial bit, but to make a trend of laughing at women, servant class, and obese people - no, it just doesn't work any more. I did hear someone call Kapil the Shekhar Suman of our times, and with whatever little I remember of Movers & Shakers, I tend to disagree. Lets leave the rants at that.

A magazine I edited while heading the Women Studies and Development Cell, back in JMC

I don't like cooking. I don't want to cook. I always knew it was a difficult position to assert, but the fact that I would have to negotiate with not just individuals, rather entire communities to have this fact understood was not known to me. Ask Neha, please, how I routinely burn my eggs even in the simplest of recipes, or how I almost always end up adding extra salt in my maggi, sometimes even twice the amount of that extra salt, and you would know what kind of a culinary cripple I am talking off here. A few years back, I had even heard of a phenomenon called 'Mageirocophobia', which is the fear of cooking, and had conveniently adopted the label, till it was shrugged off by the dust of sookha aata on the chappati I was learning to flatten with a rolling pin. I can finally get them nice and round, but its only as enjoyable as a once-a-fortnight craft activity for me. I would enjoy painting the kitchen walls with vegetable dyes in an equal proportion. Unfortunately for many around me, this was the year I discovered Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain, Simone de Beauvoir and Parveen Shakir. I discovered Virginia Woolf and via the might of her quill, I understood the possibilities which would have been snatched from the hands of a certain, fictional Judith Shakespeare. (Among many of my professors, Dr. Baran Farooqi I specifically need to thank here). I learnt how economics influences the social, and how soon the personal starts becoming political. Vague? Well, yet again, a coffee invite is open. By the way, do you have any theories about the origin of the concept of incest? Try researching, some awesome nonsense might raise its ugly head in front of your eyes then.

The above is only a minute fraction of what has been festering inside me since long. It was the most pleasant journey of my life which probably ended up turning me into a feminist. Probably. And no, it is not because of some harsh experiences related to my body or sexuality. Yes, those are avenues of study for anyone wanting to delve into the politics of gender, but this is not the trigger for me. My problems started surfacing with something much more basic, perhaps even trivial to the world - emotions. Caught teary-eyed in certain situations, I realized that my valid concerns were being overlooked, undermined, just because tears, or sentimentality have come to acquire gendered connotations. I was not always PMSing while I was trying to make the world understand what part of me was hurting and why. In case of conflicts, primarily with the other sex, it was always expected of me to see reason, logic, and abandon emotions as they stifle fruitful outcomes. I failed to find logic in situations which had feelings attached at the very core of them. If I cry, I am emotional. If they show temper, they are not. Its sort of baffling, and ridiculous. And this did not end till one day I decided I will not go down to the level of logic till they decided to rise to the level of emotions. The process of othering, which I always found ludicrous, is the only refuge my expressions in this case have come to adopt.

Aaqib Raza Khan and his magic lens, yet again

I have a paper on gender, two days from now. You can see I am decently prepared. Superficially yes, but I'll conquer my syllabus soon.

The 24th year of my life was also the one where I discovered poetry and mythology. And some fantastic relationships. I'll pen them down soon too. For now, 6 days to go!
(This post is an hour late, hence I quote the figure 6)

Beaten By Bhagath by S. V. Divvaakar - A Review

"In a sense, fiction authors are like vegetables. People have their preferences, without the need to rationalise or to justify why they like one vegetable more than the other, or even why they hate some vegetables." - S. V. Divvaakar, Beaten by Bhagath (Page 164)

I am getting back into the book review groove after a considerable hiatus. I am rusty, but I hope not to the

extent that writing my thoughts becomes difficult. The book which marks my return in to the world of book bloggers is an interesting read titled 'Beaten By Bhagath', the second novel of S. V. Divvaakar. Upon reading this book I realized that Mr. Divvaakar touched a raw connect with me somewhere. Last week, I got down with a friend to write a poem about the art of writing a poem. The author of the book being discussed here has done much the same - he wrote a book about the process of writing a book, and the uphill, back-breaking journey that lies beyond. Even before I begin commenting and describing my experiences with this book, I must admit, I have taken my lessons - locked them away in the warning box which I will open again when I have to wade through the world of publishers and readers.

This is the book with the easiest synopsis. As I said earlier, it is a book about writing a book. It, however, is not restricted to that premise. There are branches to this grand framework, all, in some way or the other relating to the psyche of an aspiring writer, and giving the readers a stark perspective into what harsh realities await him when gets out to put his baby, the product of his sleepless nights out in the world, in the hands of a reader. An executive in a big corporate entity, our protagonist, BB, could have easily led a demanding, yet snug existence, had his boss not praised his writing skills one day. This appreciation led him to the world of glittering dreams about becoming a famous, widely read and revered author, much like K-10 - who is the fictionalized monolith dominating the world of popular fiction in this book. Easy to note that Mr. Divvaakar here has played with nomenclatures to arrive at a pun closing in on one author I enjoy reading - Chetan Bhagath. The writer traces his journey back to the hostel days where K-10 and BB studied together, and then, for the major and more important part, the story discusses, in a light tone, of what happens after a book is written.

There are struggles associated with being an author. The writer, while writing a book, is in flux - much the case with BB - traversing through past inspirations, present aspirations and hopes for future acclaim all at the same time. By taking the example of a fictionalized hero, perhaps Divvaakar prints a quasi-autobiographical account and exposes the readers to the demands of the publishing industry. The process is hard - from having your manuscripts rejected to dealing with all kinds of eccentricities that the marketing of a book brings with itself. It, in fact, leads you precisely into the calculation of the humongous sums of money one needs to spend in order to earn a lot less from the direct sales of his book. The author also includes the social media aspect here, where 'likes' are bought and contests are run so as to get readers interested in the book. How much of that do we see going around these days? Well, check my Facebook home page someday and you would know. How frivolous concepts like celebrity launch are of utmost importance in this industry which is going more commercial and shallow each day is just one of the many eye opening things in the book. In this world, a book is definitely judged by the cover, and the hype that is created around it. One sufferer in the entire process, as comes out in this story, in a rather acute form is the family of the author.

Beaten by Bhagath is not didactic in its tone. It is more in the form of a personal account, a memoir. The language is simple, with no ornate dialogues, metaphors or symbols which are difficult to negotiate. It is a breezy read, which I took two days to complete - but you might take just one if you are dedicatedly with the book. Instances narrated are relatable, and analogies, like the one in the quote at the beginning of this post are innovative, funny and they help drive the point home, albeit via a circuitous route sometimes. The narrative lacks polish, and the book fails to be gripping - you stick with it not out of fascination but to know the chain of events. If you're not much into the world of publishing, this one definitely is not for you. On the back cover, this book calls itself a reality fiction - pretty much an oxymoron, but perhaps true for this one.

I will give it 2 stars on 5. Hope you have a good time reading this one!

Book Details 

Author - S. V. Divvaakar

Publisher - Frog Books (Leadstart Publishing)

Published - 2013

Book Source - Review Copy

Genre - Fiction

Price - Rs. 125

Pages - 193

I love when authors send a personalized message :) 

Words, and Me

They linger, haunt, inspire, cajole

They fight, embrace, depress, console

They flow and ebb and flow some more

They merge, emerge, and adorn the shore

Of mind and heart, of love left bare

Of nonsense picked up from here and there

They’re words, just words, 

But beyond what you see

They’re words, of course

,

But at core, they’re me.

Pach, Pach, PACH!

There was an author. There was a tv anchor. There was a graphic designer. There was an amateur cook. There was an aspiring civil servant (two, actually). There was a teacher, who likes to call himself a software person.

And then there was poetry.
Humorous, and serious poetry.
Polished and amateur poetry.
Hindi, English and even Urdu poetry.
Biographical and narrative poetry.
Original and quoted poetry.
Observant and reflective poetry.
Mesmerizing and impactful poetry.

Our first poster-invite

In CCD Lounge, Connaught Place, collected on Sunday a bunch of diverse people who were also poets in their private world, and they were brought together by a recently (hastily?) formed group called 'PACH'. PACH expands into 'Poetry and Cheap Humour', and while 'dirt cheap' poems were what a cosy group of poets were anticipating on their way to the event, what greeted them was a myriad of sentiments encapsulated in beautiful words. Beautiful, sure, but at times absolutely crass words too.

In fact, at crass it began. And then journeyed through various topographies. Amid a cacophony of laughter, issues of social relevance were raised, and experiences shared. Adjoining tables were initially perturbed, but ended up lending us their most dedicated ears - first laughing at us, later with us. The superboss was happy, I think, because his idea was to draw closet poets out from behind closed doors and award them few claps of encouragement. Worked like a charm for me! A nasty comment here, and serious dialogue there - no one in that group of nine (all set to expand to twelve at the next gathering) could have imagined the nascent concept could be so perfect an experience.

The group also made space for people who merely wanted to come and listen. All three members of this species are now furiously scribbling away words with rhymes, and no rhymes, and have made a glad promise to not just be at the receiving end of poetry next time. Effectively, I was not the only person encouraged - and that should make the superboss happier. A burst of fresh, and even surprising ideas is taking the shape of most priceless words with the aid of young pens in the world out of there. Part of such words were lavished on us at the first PACH gathering, and for the first time, I could understand what a gulf of difference exists between reading and listening to poetry.

With some old and some new faces, we are all set for our second meeting, details of which can be procured by leaving a comment here. Or sending across a mail to anupbishnoi@gmail.com or, to yours truly saumya.kulshreshtha@gmail.com

Cheap humour, yes, but poetry it is, primarily.

All of us, in service of poetry 

Pop The Champagne

Can I please sound repetitive and thank you all again for making my blog what it is? I may also leave for you some nice flowers towards to end of this post. A bouquet of flowers in fact. Please please!

Well, okay. I will tell you why am I suddenly being so full of gratitude, and that too with such glee. I do not know if it sounds small or big, but Indian Top Blogs, a webpage which reviews and displays a list of the best pan-Indian blogs, has recently added me to their directory of top Indian blogs! Yay! To me, that sounds a good enough news. Besides the moderators of Indian Top Blogs, the only other people I could think of thanking of for this are the readers of Nascent Emissions. Because you read, I am compelled to write. Er, to be honest, I would write anyway, but you all make my writing experience more dynamic and blissful.

To the team of Indian Top Blogs (ITB), I would like to convey my deepest gratitude. To all my fellow bloggers out there, I would like to tell, that the review which ITB sends across is both, detailed and comprehensive. It is also written with, if I might use the word, 'personal' care. They have evaluated the pros and cons of my blog in a manner I would appreciate a lot. Praising at places, advising at others and also adding the necessary caveats so as to make my blogging experience better than it already is - the ITB blog review catered fully to all these aspects. If not already there, do submit your blogs for review at this fantastic forum. A little more fantastic now that they have added me *wink*

More seriously, blogging is an activity I am passionate about. It is a means to communicate, connect and sometimes, even, unburden myself. When greeted with a happy news such as this, I feel encouraged, because in this world full of excellent writers, I am but a tyro. Its always blissful to know that people out there are noticing your work. I hope I manage not to disappoint anyone of you, ever!

As promised, here are the flowers for you all - the team at ITB and for all my followers.

PS- A lot of concerned readers have expressed their disapproval at the very frequent posting of book reviews on my blog. Many of them have written to be about how the book reviews often force them to keep away from my blog and they are looking forward to more 'original' content. I would like to tell all such readers that your feedback floors me! It hints at how involved a few of you are with my blog. However, reading books and reviewing them is an activity I enjoy. And, it is only my blog through which I am able to fulfil these two hobbies of mine. There is an isolated set of readers who connect with me only because of these book reviews. I do hope you all will understand and keep visiting my blog. Thanks!

Behatareen Jawaab

I read this somewhere, long ago - Comments are to bloggers what chocolates are to chocoholics. No one could have stated it better than in this one line what an effect a simple feedback on our posts means to us bloggers. Yes, there are the kinds who 'write for themselves', to whom 'comments do not matter', yet even these people cannot help exchanging an elated smile with their computer screens the moment they see a appreciative comment, and cannot avoid a wave of despondency from taking them over when a critical comment makes its way to their blog. The crux is, all of us bloggers simply love it when we see the comment meter ticking, and I am one of those bloggers who dares to admit it in the open. Needlessly said, I hold the followers of this blog very dear. I take their opinions seriously, and do not forget to appreciate and express my gratitude to them when an opportunity presents itself. Today's post is precisely about that.

Sumit Pandey is a recent reader of my blog. Unlike most of the people with whom I interact via Nascent Emissions, Sumit is one I also happen to know personally. However, that is not the reason why I have decided to dedicate a post to him. It is because, for the first time since this blog was born, that I have become  a fan of someone's writing because of the way he posted a feedback. In the form of an exquisite piece of poetry. And because I believe that the poetry should not remain constrained to the readers of the single post which it interacts with, I would like to post it here, for each one of you to read and enjoy. If shayari is what you like, then this impromptu shayar you will seriously grow fond of.

Here is perhaps the first ever Guest Post on my blog, written without seeking permission from the Guest Author - Sumit Pandey.

Ajnabi hi tha woh, ya tha shayad kuch jaana pehchana

Alfaaz nikle jab uske to laga kuch aisey,

"...kya itna aasaan hai mujhey padh kar bataana?"

Khud pe gurur tha kabhi , par ab ankhon mein nami hai...

Uski baaton se aisa laga kyun...ki jaise mujhme hi koi kami hai

Keh ke bata naa saki...

Bechaini bhi chupaa na saki...

Waqt guzraa aur aakhir khatm hua ye bhi silsila,

Par shuru hui fir kashm-kash khayalon ki...

Haan...iss baat ka mujhe hai gila

Aakhir kaise koi mujhe, mujhse behtar jaanta hai?

Ya fir bas ittefaq hi tha ,

Ki jo bhi kuch anjane mein wo keh gaya...

Bas mera dil usey haqeeqat maanta hai .

Nafrat nahi kar paayi usse kabhi...

Nazar aaye to bas uski khatir ulfat ke jazbaat...

Mujhe mere hi aks se wo milaa gayaa...

Kya khub thi woh mulakaat

It all began with two cups of coffee

P.S. - These simple and beautiful words touched my heart. Once again, thanks to Sumit. Two other things -
1. This shayari was written as a reply to a post I wrote long back, called At The Edge Of Sunshine. The curious ones can hop onto that post and put the above poem better into context.
2. I too, once attempted shayari. While I was extremely nervous, few people actually liked it. If you have not had a look at it, I request you to spare two minutes more, and check out a post called - A Little Fear Is Okay.

An Award and A Few Introductions

Yay! Here I get my fifth ever blog award, and its a Versatile Blogger Award which has come my way again! Blog awards always feel special, because through these gestures, people of your trade appreciate you, single you out to tell you what you are doing is good and worth celebrating. However, what makes this award a tad more special than the others is the person sending it my way- Dr. Roshan Radhakrishnan. He is an author who bowled me over with a simple, and touching story he wrote about the love which binds and sustains a home, called Father Of My Son, published in Bright Lights (Urban Shots). It is primarily because of this story that I have gifted and recommended the whole anthology to several (now) thankful people. And it is the same author who conferred on me this priceless, green colored honor. Thanks Roshan! You are responsible for this huge smile on my face!

Before I rant on seven random things about myself, as is mandated with this award, I would like to introduce to my readers three new blogs, which are totally worthy of all the blog awards out there. However, I find myself too small to be honoring them. Diverse in their own spheres, each of the following blogs is a gem to follow, a treat to read.

Tharoorians For Change
I have made a mention of this blog earlier too (Read about here), but once again, I would like to exhort all of you to please pass a glance at the amazing, informative and enriching content this blog has to offer to its readers. Written under an responsible name, each article of this blog is an opinion expressed by people who might be policy experts of our country, even the world, tomorrow. That I am associated with it in a small way is only a matter of luck and pride. This blog is updated regularly and on topics encompassing various issues of local, national and international relevance. Do read what the change agents of tomorrow have to say.


Musing About The Muse
Even before this blog was conceived in the head of its author, I knew this was going to be a piece of sheer, bejeweled brilliance. The overtly simple layout (the kind which perhaps the peppy, jazzy element in me does not quite endorse) you will see on this blog asserts in plain terms that content is what rules here. Sukaran Thakur is one writer (and also a gifted photographer) I take pride in knowing personally, for he has a talent which won't stop till it evolves into something really big and luminous. Read this blog for basking in the pleasure of some warm, engaging, light, descriptive and beautiful stories.

The Thaumatologist
You also did not know this word? Me neither. Heck, the dictionary which runs a vigil over spelling mistakes on my blog did not. But then that is what you can expect from Sandeep Vasudevan, the author of this blog. He is a person I am positively smitten with, which he only knows too well. The glare of this man's brilliant is blinding, and so, I will stop at simply recommending this blog to worshipers of good language and quality content.

The above are three blogs I tag along with this post.

Now for seven random facts about me, I will steal a few ideas from Roshan, and add a few of my own.

1. Of late, I have begun hating books as gifts. I mean, they make for brilliant gifts, I know, but with respect to me, people have stopped thinking beyond gifting me books. And lack of thoughtfulness behind gifts is a big turn off, isn't it?
2. One of my biggest fears in life is that I would die before reading each book I have included in my wishlist. Trust my words, that list is really long, and updated almost daily.
3. Of late, I have started feeling that I am growing up. I hate the feeling.
4. I expect too much from people who are close to me, so just in case you are feeling like having me as a good, close friend, uh, take a second opinion.
5. Dharmesh Sir, from Dance India Dance Season 2, is perhaps the only reality tv star I am crazy about.
6. I am a proud Delhi Daredevil's supporter, and my favorite moment in this IPL season came on 19th April, 2012, when , during a match between Delhi and Deccan, at 1614 hours, my tweet was displayed among the top three tweets of the day! (You can follow me - @saumyakul)
7. I really think the three blogs mentioned above deserve at least a glance from all of you who are reading this post.

To end, flowers for all the lovely people reading this post! A little gay, right? Aaj ke liye chalta hai boss!

A Guest Post For Tharoorians!

I remember hearing these lines by Bashir Badr long, long back-

"Hum toh dariya hain, humein apna hunar maloom hai,
Jis taraf bhi chal padenge, rasta ho jayega"

I do not know the thoughts of the poet behind these lines, but I could most easily interpret them by understanding 'dariya' as a metaphor for youth power. And once I did that, a beautiful and powerful meaning of these simple and subtle two lines unraveled itself.  With belief and perseverance, if the young minds of today get down to some task, there is no hurdle so big or rigid which may stop them from reaching their goal/destination. With power, we know how to break through that boulder. With strength, we know how to scale a mountain. With fluidity, we know how to find a way even through the smallest of cracks in the system.

I have been lucky to personally be in touch with a lot of young, enterprising, and ambitious people who have set unto themselves tasks which are meaningful, and which serve not just some parochial but larger, social interests. In the small life I have lived, I have also been associated with a number of initiatives during my school and college life, which aimed at heralding change, at breaking stereotypes and at evolving progressively from status quo. A few days back, I serendipitously came in touch with a dense group of likeminded people, who dream together of forming an advocacy group to raise a banner for progressive political practices in India. This group, interestingly, calls itself- Tharoorians. 

The Tharoorians, on their official blog, describe their group as "an initiative to get you to voice your opinions and deliver constructive criticism on Indian Politics and Democracy. A little ambitious - we hope to reach out to maximum people who believe India deserves Change." This group derives inspiration and is supported by the eponymous- Dr. Shashi Tharoor- to whom the blog is dedicated and whose values are upheld and propagated by the founders of Tharoorians. This is not to say that the group does not welcome constructive criticism which contradicts any one particular political ideology. As long as one has something to say, the Tharoorians are game to take it up and splash it on their blog as an important opinion sourced from a stimulated and concerned young mind.

I was ecstatic when a blog published my first ever guest post, in which I wrote about child psychology and the ingenuity required for moulding little minds into responsible, dignified and genuine individuals of tomorrow. Now, to be the first Guest Author for a blog which goes by the name of Tharoorians For Change was a feeling altogether different. Because my quill has never trodden on the path of political criticism, I assumed it never could. However, when I did write for them, the group's moderator, Katherine Abraham, was more than graceful to, perhaps, ignore the inconsistencies of content and give value to underlying enthusiasm of just another girl existing in this vast country- but one who at least aims to exist as a responsible and aware citizen of India.

My first thoughts have been poured out in an article called India Calling. Here is why I would appreciate if the followers of Nascent Emissions went ahead and read the article, and also left comments if possible-
1. The article is generalist, and builds upon one of the most relevant concepts of ancient India to highlight problems contemporary in character.
2. It dwells on the admiration- the how and why- I have for Dr. Tharoor and, what in my view, is his magnum opus work- The Great Indian Novel.
3. I share in the article one of my most favorite success stories of reformation, reconstruction and resuscitation of a collapsing unit in rural India. The story of Hivre Bazar.
4. The article is my first honest attempt to make public my views on the political landscape of India, though in a fleeting, almost naive way. For once I wrote beyond love, friends, romance and the routine gibberish I rant on about.

And, not just for India Calling, I would request the readers to hop onto Tharoorians For Change to read some more nascent, but informed and passionate articles from some very inspired youngsters from across India. If you feel there is something you need to voice your opinion about, Tharoorians would gladly welcome your participation.

As a last, I would like to thank Katherine for her guidance and Tarique for introducing me to the concept of Tharoorians.

Web Page
http://tharoorians4change.blogspot.in/Twitter Handle
@IndieTharoorian

You could also follow the following twitter handles for updates about Tharoorians
@katie_abraham (Katherine)
@Tarique_Anwer (Tarique)
@Saumyakul (Me)

Also, if you already are not among the 1 million odd followers of Dr. Tharoor, may be you would like to be one. Follow him at @shashitharoor. You can connect with him, and trust me, he puts in efforts to connect with you too. He is one of the only political leaders on twitterati who has understood the dynamics behind being on a social forum like twitter.

'The Purple Envelope' by Twishmay Shankar

“Two cups of cappuccino, please. Make it quick.”

"Would that be all, Sir?”, asked the waiter.

Keith nodded. He had been waiting for an hour now. His eyes were tired and dreamy. They drifted across the paintings on the restaurant wall and settled on a stream of starry light coming from a distant grand chandelier. It reminded him of her starry eyes. He had not seen Michelle in the past twelve months. After breaking up almost a year ago, they had never met, never even kept in touch. But that very morning, Michelle had texted him out of the blue. “Keith, I want to meet you today. Meet me at Blueberry Truffle at seven. Please be there on time. From: Michelle.”

He had dreamt about her the previous night but could not recall it now. “Merely a coincidence? Why does she want to meet me now?” - He had been thinking all day but no satisfactory explanation greeted him. He sat there waiting, wondering if he still fancied her.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a beautiful maiden in a fancy red dress. She looked worried and walked fast. He could not recognize her at first. But Michelle sat on his table and spoke.
“Sorry I’m late. But it will only take fifteen minutes. I have a letter to give you.” She started sifting through her handbag. Seconds later, a purple envelope flashed in her hand.
"Keith, here is the letter. I can't let you read it right now. I will give it to you when I leave.”

He wondered if her voice had changed but he could not remember how it had been. He tried to recall why they had fought but nothing came to his mind. Suddenly, he felt a rage building up inside him. Was it because he hated her so much, he thought, or was it because he still loved her? Was it the same feeling anyway? His mind quickly suppressed the disturbing thoughts which followed. He stared blankly at how a brown fringe partially covered her thin face. He noticed how her hand cleared it and then he spoke.
"Whats in the letter? And why are you in such a hurry?"
"Keith, it has been a year. I still can’t forget you. I keep thinking about you. I hated you when we broke up. People told me it is only a matter of time. Months have passed by but I still cannot ..."

The waiter approaching their table interrupted her. He laid out the two coffee cups in front of Keith.

"Sir, would you have anything else?”, asked the waiter.
"Michele, is that all you’ll have?”
She responded with a subtle nod.
“Yes, that would be all", Keith confirmed.

The waiter kept staring with an unspoken question in his eyes. He walked away with a perplexed look on his face. Keith wondered why, but another flurry of soft spoken words interrupted his thoughts.

"Please listen. I only have ten minutes. You never really listen to me, do you."
"I was listening, Michelle."
“So, I cannot forget you. Do you know why, Keith? There is an image of you in my head. An image I keep talking to. An image who talks back. An image I just cant live without. I talk to him all the time. I talk to him when I'm happy. I talk to him when I'm sad. Am I going crazy?”

Keith kept starting. Michelle did not wait for an answer.

“Keith, we never love people for what they are. We love their impressions in our minds. Sometimes, life makes us realize how those impressions are unrealistic. We should accept this and move on. But I can’t let go of your impression. I talk to him all the time now. The worst part of this is you were never like him. In a sense, he is perfect. He is all that I ever wanted you to be. I came here to check if you’re anything like him. I couldn’t resist. Have you ever felt the same? Tell me please. Have you ever talked to me in your mind?”

"I don't know Michelle. I really can't say the same. I did miss you at times over the past year. But all this sounds crazy. I never saw you in my head. I liked you for what you were and not the impression you created in my mind."

Keith looked at her. She looked gorgeous in that red dress. Her expressive eyes had spoken much more than her words. “Do I still see her in my mind?”, he wondered, when a scene from the dream last night flashed by. “Déjà vu”, he thought. Sitting across the table, there she was, the perfect Michelle he had always dreamt about. He realized he still missed her and wanted to tell her. But she interrupted him.

"I must leave now..."
“Wait, so soon?"

She did not listen. Keith followed her as she got up from her chair and started walking towards the door. A strange look covered the guards face when he opened the door for her. But she smiled and that was all Keith cared for. Once at the road, she signaled for a taxi. A yellow cab stopped by and she stepped inside it.

"Bye Keith."

The taxi had started moving when Keith thought about the letter, the purple envelope. She had forgotten to give it to him. She almost read his mind and shouted.

"The letter is in the restaurant at our table. Bye Keith. I am leaving, forever."

The implications of her last few words dawned upon Keith. He stopped waving and sprinted towards the restaurant. Slamming through the front door, he ran towards the table. The waiter had just finished cleaning their table.

"Waiter, was there an envelope on this table?"

The waiter stared blankly. Had he thrown away the envelope? Keith’s heart stopped beating as he clarified.

“The lady with me tonight left an envelope here. A purple envelope."

“Which lady?”, asked the waiter.

"The lady in the red dress. She was with me at this table tonight"

The waiter's face turned grim. He looked into Keith's dreamy eyes and spoke in a sympathetic tone:
“Sir, you were sitting on this table all alone."

(Written by Twishmay Shankar, for Nascent Emissions. You can read more posts by him at his blog, My Life, The Universe and Everything)

Guest Post 1 : Prelude

The day I got introduced to the concept of Guest Posts across blogs, and I did get introduced to the concept pretty late, I had resolved that the first person to write a Guest Post for me would be someone I respect and admire at a personal level. In not even a split second, two names flashed across my mind. In another fraction of a second, I had decided which one of the two I shall be approaching to do a guest post for me first. After playing around with a lot of skepticism and hesitance in my mind, given that the Guest Blogger I had planned on inviting is a superbusy and a supersocial person, I did finally ask him to write a post for Nascent Emissions in the midst of a casual Gmail chat, and, to my luck's delight, he agreed! Not instantly, but after toying around with the idea for a while. However, the good news was that he agreed! Now I had something really exciting to look forward to. After waiting for less than the length of time I had expected to wait willingly for him to write, today he sent in a revised and re-revised draft of a post which I shall be posting in just a little while here, on Nascent Emissions. But first up, let me just give a brief introduction to my first Guest Author.

Twishmay Shankar- I got introduced to him while he was still pursuing a Bachelor's Degree in Engineering from the haloed Indian Institute of Technology, Mumbai. Today, some years later, I can safely say, I have been lucky to have known him, met him, heard him and learnt from him so much that I might not have come across otherwise. That he is an amazing person goes without saying, for it is nothing short of amazing people that I go gaga over. His picture, this one in particular, paints perfectly his personality- a personality ridden with enviable perfection. And that perfection is perfectly complimented with enviable humility.

Besides, his blog, My Life, The Universe and Everything, is a keen and curious reader's delectation. It has been mine. He usually writes on topics which I do not possess an academic flair in, and so, quite obviously, his articles inform as well as fascinate me. Too humble to ever agree to the finesse of penmanship he possesses, I have observed in him a vigor to better himself with each post he writes. Innumerable 'likes' and 'shares' follow his articles which reflect that this person knows his stuff, and knows it well.

However, to write for my blog, he and I, we were both keen that he step out of his comfort zone. And so, unlike the offensively smart and intelligent, and complex-bestowing stuff he write, we thought it fit that he write something which flows around the theme of my blog. Err, not that I know what exactly the theme of my blog is, but I know for sure, his kind of blogposts would seem to be a gross misfit here. So, exclusively for my blog (and a little less exclusively for his own), he has, I reckon for the first time, written a short story. Fiction. Love tale. Sigh. My kinda stuff! And that short story, I am very, very happy to be posting on my blog, just in a few hours.

I hope you all like it as much as I do, and to end this prelude to the first ever Guest Post on my now 4 year old blog, I am copy pasting this quote Twishmay recently shared on his facebook timeline.

"Never follow your dreams. Follow your effort. It’s not about what you can dream of. That’s easy. It’s about whether or not it’s important enough to you to do the work to be ready to be successful in that business" - Mark Cuban

Ten Things About Me

Long, outrageously long back in time, a very fine blogger by the name of Sanchari, who seeks camouflage under the wings of a psychedelic Serious Butterfly, tagged me to answer 10 questions about myself. Today, since ideas which could have transformed into a fine post persistently elude me, I thought of taking up this interesting exercise. It reminds me of filling those numerous slam books in school, each more creatively than the previous.

So, for Sanchari's 10 questions, here I go.

#1 Describe yourself in 7 words

Fascinated, Searching, Draamebaaz, Colorful, Warm, Hungry, Difficult

#2 What keeps you up at night?

My blog.
My journal.
My friends.
Twitter.
Memories.
Coffee.
Love.
Persistent insomnia

#3 Whom would you like to be?

An upgraded version of myself.
On second thoughts, I would gladly step into any famous Booker winning author's shoes, since those are the kind of novels I may never be able to write myself.

#4 What are you wearing now?

An old, insanely comfortable pink colored suit, stolen from my mother's almirah.

#5 What scares you?

Friends walking out on me.
And,
Nature being wroth with me.

#6 What are the best and the worst things about blogging?

Best- Anyone can say anything
Worst- Anyone can say anything.

#7 What was the last website you looked at?

www.thehindu.com

#8 If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

My eating habits.

#9 Slankets- yes or no? 

Hell yes! Bas koi gift kar de!
It looks like comfort and coziness personified.

#10 Tell us something about the person who tagged you.

As said earlier, Sanchari, a smart blogger hidden behind the wings of this really creative butterfly, was my college mate. We worked together in a society which goes by the name of Women Studies and Development Centre. I remember her as the demure writer. Not very outspoken, but silently marking her presence. From what I know about her today, this gorgeous girl is very creative and has a charming way with words.

Thanks for tagging me!
One blog post behind which I had to spend no brains, no energies. I owe this one to you. And all this in very good spirit.

Oh, and I wanted to share this picture of mine on my blog. Since this post is much about me, I guess this is the perfect picture to go with the post. This is me, staring into a newly bought Nokia Lumia, at one of my favorite places in Delhi.

Three To Tango!

Three amazing accolades have been showered on my blog in the past few days. Today's post is dedicated to not people around me, but to Nascent Emissions itself- for being my one constant companion, my voice, my outlet, my part-identity, my memory bank, and much else! Here are three reasons for me and my blog to party!

#1 Blog Showcase at Indian Top Blogs

Indian Top Blogs, an Indian Blog Directory, recently reviewed and showcased Nascent Emissions among their chosen and recommended blogs. Needless to explain the reason behind my happiness!

#2 Second Versatile Blogger Award

D. Nambiar, a not-so-docile female, who claims her purrs change into roars the moment she is taken lightly, conferred on me the much prided upon Versatile Blogger Award. This is my second such award, and as special as the first one. Since I have done a similar tag earlier, I will not get into following the procedure, except for Rule #1, which mandates that I thank the blogger who sent this award my way. So, dear D. Nambiar, heartfelt gratitude to you for considering me worthy enough. You are a fine blogger yourself, and so I attach much value to the feedback you leave for me. Hope I live up to the expectations this tag brings with itself. Love!

#3 The Liebster Blog Award

And this, most recent one comes my way from a blogger who identifies himself as Destiny's Child. I am more of a writer, and I kind of suck when it comes to following other blogs religiously, but his' is one blog I try and catch up on whenever I get time. As is customary, I would first like to thank Mr. Destiny's Child for bestowing on me such an honor. If I have been able to find out correctly, 'Liebster' is a German word which translates as 'beloved' or 'sweetheart'. Given that meaning, I feel this tag is extremely special. For those who still have not, I will recommend you visit Destiny's Child for some very nice reads.

I am not going to nominate five blogs publicly, because the blogs I hold very dear are all published by veteran bloggers I draw inspiration from and look up to. These are few writers who review my writings regularly, again, not publicly, and help me evolve and improve as I move ahead. I am silently going to dedicate this tag to all of them. When they read it, they will know its them.

I'm very happy for being able to reach out to you all. A writer, I reiterate, is nothing sans his readers. I hope you all will keep dropping by to find something here which clicks, which touches you. Happy Reading!

With A Smile

When I entered the festooned gates of JMC on the morning of 23rd February, I found the atmosphere inside ridden with confusion, with some palpable heat and anxiety flowing around. Reason? The Women Studies and Development Center, my alter ego while I was still in college, was waiting to launch one of their most prideworthy initiatives of the year in the august presence of the Mayor of Delhi, Ms. Rajni Abbi. Quite obviously, my juniors, who now hold the reigns of WSDC, were facing essential bouts of pre-event jitters.It is not everyday that the Mayor of Delhi herself agrees to walk in through the gates of your college to give to your endeavours her blessings and encouragement. However, that is precisely what Ms. Abbi consented to do- to be with a bunch of enthusiastic young scribes wanting to make their quill their sword of revolution- and the kind of person she is, we were easily stunned and mesmerized by her.

"Still I Rise"- this is the name of  a recently launched monthly newsletter by WSDC, JMC, which seeks to address bold topics relating to gender issues- the concerns and the celebration. It is a unique and unprecedented initiative, at least as far as the history of JMC is concerned. If the first issue of this journal is anything to go by, I am more than sure that the forthcoming issues will only get better and more interesting, and will carry lots of informative and entertaining content which will definitely appeal to the sensibilities of the young, the concerned and the daring. You can know more about this newsletter by clicking here. This link directs you to the blog of this still nascent product of young imaginations, trying hard to mark its presence among people who take interest in issues relating to women empowerment, gender parity, inter alia. 

A simple half hour rendezvous with Rajni ma'am ensured us that their could not have been a better icon of female strength and achievement whom WSDC could have invited to launch the first issue of Still I Rise. The fact that they invited me, their ex-President alongside her is something that makes me swell with pride. Tantamount to pride also lingers the humbling feeling of gratitude. Rajni ma'am had a personality that makes one instantly like her. She is a teacher by profession, a teacher at heart, and somehow, I always believed that teachers make for excellent leaders. They already know how to shape futures, mold young minds into mature ideals, and be inspirations without having to try too hard. 

Professor Rajni Abbi heads one of the three municipal corporations of Delhi, namely the MCD. The designation of a Mayor has a lot of pomp associated with it. So while we were expecting a VIP to enter our college at 11:30, Prof. Abbi nonchalantly walked into our campus at 11:25, not as a VIP, but like a humble leader who belongs to the masses. Her punctuality and humility were immediately noticeable, but what was even better was her keen understanding of a student's life and an urge to cooperate with us. She was friendly, and gave us helpful sermons which we ought to remember for our own benefit. No moment spent with her lacked the dynamism she effortlessly exuded. It was the first time I met her, and though I have no idea of what her accomplishments are, I still felt like sharing the first impression she left on me. Political ideologies, I have none. But an addiction to recording the best of experiences in life I certainly do. This was one of them.

My best wishes to the WSDC team. Make sure each step you all now take only takes your forward. What you have began should not end with college. Your passions should accompany you everywhere you go. You all make me proud, for all the right reasons.

PS- Sometimes, its just a smile you need. A smile that you carry, a smile that you can lend. I think some of you reading this will understand what I am referring to :)

With Ms. Rajni Abbi and a copy of Still I Rise in my hand

Another Chance by Ahmed Faiyaz- A Review

"At the end of love there is unloving, when you can engage in the ceaseless hunt for all those things to be taken out, and somehow discarded, when you can fight against the new roads and try, futilely, to return to what you were before." -Page 180, Another Chance.

Much thought goes into deciding the title for a book. No matter what genre, what subject, what type a book, a title is supposed to provide just enough peek into a book's soul, without revealing too much about it. It is your first impression of the book, and in case of novels, fiction novels such as the one I am attempting to review, the title of the book is supposed to hold the story together, even guide the reader when he feels lost about the direction the book will take after the next turn in the story. Ahmed Faiyaz's Another Chance boasts of a title which is precise and perfect. It encapsulates the very essence of the book in a mere two words- Another Chance. To a romantic's heart (read:me) these two words are almost a philosophy. In Ahmed's novel, they are a simple expression of the desire which harries many a unlucky-but-still-in-love hearts. The Desire For Another Chance.

The plot of the book revolves around a single girl-Ruheen Oberoi, described by the author as a depressingly gorgeous woman in the prelude to the novel. She is a hep, free spirited girl, sought after girl, brought up by an indulging grandfather, who lost her parents when young. Aditya Sharma, Ruheen's enduring lover, a young corporate trying to make his mark, is the second protagonist in this novel. His commitment to Ruheen is almost dreamlike- but much comes in the way of consummation of their love. A string of men enter Ruheen's life at successive junctures- A politician's son and Ruheen's obsessive stalker-Vishal, Ruheen's childhood friend with feelings for her-Varun, and then Ruheen's good-for-nothing, abusive husband-Rohan. Luck, as is guessable, does not favor Ruheen's relationship with any. At a young age, battered by the chicaneries of life, Ruheen gives up hope for finding love and comfort in a man's arms, when Aditya re-enters her life. However, love, as we know it, is not a simple road to tread on. It comes with its own complications, its own compulsions, its own tests. Will Ruheen finally find happiness? Does love deserve a second chance? Is the human heart, with all its weaknesses, a sound guide to consult while making life altering decisions? All this, and more, you ponder as you flip through the pages of Another Chance.

After Love, Life & All That Jazz... it is the second book by Ahmed Faiyaz that I am reading. Like the earlier one, this too has done a decent job of providing me a good, entertaining, and moving story which is not too heavy and easy to relate with. Having read these two books, I can conveniently say, that Ahmed does fabulously when it comes to painting close-to-home, real life characters. While in the last book, what could have been three independent stories were intertwined in the narrative, here it helps to have just one rather simple story to follow and focus attention on. Simple, but replete with exciting twists and turns.

It took me about quarter to four hours to read the book, and I am by no means a fast reader. It is much like a bollywood romance, which engages, touches, entertains, and leaves you with happy tears in the end. Do not pick this book to satisfy the literary critic in you. Pick this book for catching some fresh air, a simple break from your otherwise ridden-with-anxieties life. As I said, not heavy duty stuff in this book. An easy, light read, whose climax builds up like that of a mushy, romantic flick. When during the course of the book you start sharing the agony of the character and get desperate for them to achieve happiness, you know that the writer has succeeded in casting his spell on you- in binding you together with the narrative. I have a proclivity towards falling for nicely narrated romances. This one gets 3 on 5 stars from me for primarily two reasons. First is its ending- they way it builds up, gives you hope, then perturbs you, then leaves you with fond tears. Second is for the author's handling of human emotions- their gullibility and resilience- and for his treatment of the dynamics of a new age, urban relationship. The narrative of the books shifts between many locations, Indian and foreign- and the screenplay like storytelling makes it conveniently possible to imagine vividly the characters and their setting. If you read with as much passion as I do, you'll lose yourself to the story. And in my view, that is how one should read to draw maximum satisfaction from a book.

I cannot end this review without mentioning the brilliant cover portrait of Bruna Abdullah which almost brings Ruheen's character alive in front of your eyes. Her expression on the cover was the first thing that made me want this book. For all of you wanting to a read a little mature and not an utterly cheesy romance with no load, do remember to pick this up on your next trip to a book shop.