Storizen Magazine - May Issue

Come in, Earth! This is your Editor of Storizen Magazine calling. To all
you lovers of the Word, or those who are keen on starting a Literary Affair:
Greetings! Our monthly publication on print-worthy fiction goes into cy-
ber-orbit with this, our first issue. The mission: your ambition – appreci-
ating literature and perhaps, applying your own fingertips to the word pad.
Thus, we encourage your words to “rub shoulders” with our words,
as well as those printed words from celebrated authors. So, in this
space - we pick the brains of established writers in exclusive inter-
views; get the bookish views of big names in entertainment and sports;
and even put out your writings in reviews, poems and short stories.
We’ll even have Word-fun in humorous captions, slangs and limericks.
Plus, just as American writers started doing over a century ago, we Indi-
ans wordsmiths, are coming into
our own. Thus, has begun recre-
ating the Indian Universe with
our pens, a Universe that you
are a part of! And the novel is
only one format, to capture the
great human experience: pho-
to-essays, narrative-articles and
short-stories are other literary
appliances that we put out. So,
plug-in and spread the Word!
“Welcome, Wordsworths!” Says Your Editor
editor@storizen.com
storizen.com | May 2013 | 3

A Passion Beyond
Extremes is Rajnish
Gambhir’s first novel.
Rajnish is a
Commerce graduate
from St.Xaviers
College, Kolkata
and presently he is
a Director in a few
private companies
in Kolkata. Besides writing,
he enjoys reading, playing golf,
watching films, following
cricket matches, music and
travelling.He lives in Kolkata
with his wife, while his three
children are working / studying
in U.S.A. Interesting event was
the contest winner get chance to
meet Saurav Ganguly & get click
with Saurav.
Winner name is Arjun Ghosh

Duckbill had three authors at
the prestigious Kala Ghoda Lit
Fest this year! All
the author
sessions
were held
at the lovely
Kitab Khana
bookstore.
Anushka Rav-
ishankar’s
monstrous ses-
sion was attend-
ed by over hun-
dred enthusiastic
kids, as she read
and sang from
Moin and the
Monster and Moin
the Monster Song-
ster. Revathi Suresh addressed a
small and intimate gathering
of young adults as she read
from her book Jobless
Clueless Reckless,
Himanjali Sankar, author
of The Stupendous Time
telling Superdog, had the
crowd captivated as she
read from her book, played
videos and had the kids
come up with superpow-
ers for their superdogs.

Because TTWT is a fun book
with a lot happening between a group
of old friends when they reunite - we
wanted to design the launch event in
a way that made it an experiential eve
ning. We wanted people not just to sit
and listen to us speak about ‘Tick-tock
we’re 30’ but get an actual taste of the over-
all whacky, closely bonded mood of the book

The idea was to try and open up
the fourth wall and let the au-
dience into the discussion right
through the evening. For this
reason we even kept the seating
proscenium style and made it
really interactive; constantly
throwing the ball back into the
audience, narrating something from
the book, then letting the people in the room join in with their
own anecdotes.
The event, much in the same vein as ‘Tick-tock we’re 30’ turned out to be a roll-
er-coaster-like fun ride with unrestrained laughter and poignant moments. At one
point Milan Vohra and all of the women panelists turned around to ask Karthik
Kumar the male panelist, why men couldn’t see through the likes of the Kalyani’s
of the world, a character in my book who all women seem to hate. On the button,
another guy from the audience jumped right in to answer on behalf of all men!”

Rajiv Menon – Thundergod, the Ascendance of Indra
A night launch with celebrities attending. It was a
cocktail evening. About 70 – 80 people in attendance.
From left to right: Gaurav Kapur, Rajiv
Menon, Cyrus Sahukar and Vineet
Wadhwa
.
.
Shubhra Krishan
– Top Secret!
An evening launch at the Lodhi Garden
Restaurant with Chef Saby releasing the first copy
of the book
We had in Mauritius dancers to liven up the evening. About 100-120 people
were in attendance
From left to right: Chef Saby and Shubhra Krishan
.
.
.

Facebook Phantom
The hottest new read for
teens this summer, Face-
book Phantom, was re-
leased on 28 April in Ban-
galore. ‘The book is well
written and impressive
for such a young author.’
Suzanne Sangi, the
Yung teenage author of
the book is 17 years
old, and is doing her
pre-university
course in Mount
Carmel College,
Bangalore. She lves
music, sings and
plays the guitar.
She started
writing
Facebook
Phatom in
the summer after
her Class X board exams,
when she was
fifteen, and
finished it the
following summer.

The Urban Solace Book Club in
Bangalore opened with a discus-
sion of Yasmeen Premji’s debut
novel “Days of Gold & Sepia”. The
author, Yasmeen Premji joined the
group for an interactive discussion
with the audience.

It’s strange that we know so little
about ourselves, about who we really
are and what we are capable of. Of all
the careers in the world, I would not
have imagined myself to be a poet and
a writer. I was 26-years-old when I just
started doing poetry one evening.
Up till then, I believed myself to be a
decent person but rather shallow, not
really capable of any deep thought. Yet,
almost a quarter of my life later, there I
was writing poetry, as if a flood gate of
poem had suddenly been opened. To
tell the truth, no one was more in awe
of myself than I.
Today, my second mystery novel, ‘Ja-
cob Hill’s is all set for a May release and
I couldn’t be happier. But the journey
into the publishing world wasn’t easy. It
was the kindness of acquaintances and
strangers and one and a half years of
perseverance on my part that made me
an author from a writer.
I started scouting for a publisher/lit-
erary agent (home and overseas) for
my debut work ‘Love on the Rocks’, a
romantic thriller in July 2008. There
were at least a dozen rejections in the
mailbox every month, sometimes more.
It was also an opportunity to learn as
some were kind enough to come back
with feedback that in time proved to be
invaluable.
In Feb 2009, ‘Love on the Rocks’ was
picked up by a literary agency and they
offered to take the book to Frankfurt
Book Fair, Oct 2009. After waiting for
four months for the edits on my book
to begin, the agency just dropped me
saying that they didn’t want to invest
their time and effort in a manuscript
that was rejected by Penguin and Harp-
er. To quote them, “Am I fool or are you
that I should invest my time and money
in a manuscript that has been rejected
by two of the biggest publishing houses
in the country?”

I had apprised them at the outset that
the standard sample chapters of the
manuscript had been submitted to
these publishing houses in 2008 and
had been declined. I remember sob-
bing like a child, threatening them on
the phone that someday they’ll regret
dropping me off their list. In retrospect,
it all seems childish, but back then all
my hopes were pinned on it. It felt like
someone had snatched the winning lot-
tery ticket from my hand.
I was told repeatedly by family and
friends that writing and poetry is a
good hobby but that I needed to do
something more, start another novel.
But I wasn’t ready to give up on my de-
but novel, just yet.
Half a dozen drafts and a year later
the book was picked by up Penguin in
March 2010 in a dramatic fashion. A
friend’s friend working for Pearson (the
company that owns Penguin) happened
to read the manuscript. She totally
loved it and was quick to recommend
it to the Senior Commissioning Editor,
Vaishali Mathur, a very fine and en-
couraging lady. Three days later, Vaish-
ali made an offer. ‘Love on the Rocks’
was published in 2011.
A year-and-a-half is a long time; a time
that helped me fine-tune my manu-
script and learn much more about the
ways of the publishing world. Since
then, I have encountered many wonder-
ful editors, agents, poets and authors.
Not only has technology opened doors
for easy interaction among authors and
publishers in India, it has shortened the
time span that a writer spends chew-
ing his/her nails while waiting for their
response.
Lastly, I only have one thing to say
that it doesn’t matter if anyone believe
in you, the real question is do you be-
lieve in yourself enough to pursue your
dream till it runs out and fades thin?
I had apprised them at the outset that the standard
sample chapters of the manuscript had been sub-
mitted to these publishing houses in 2008 and had
been declined.
“IsmitaTandon Dhankher is ‘A Lesser Known Poet’. Her poem, ‘The Beasts Run
Wild’, is currently up on MSN, as part of an ongoing exclusive feature “Her
Courage” in tribute to Indian women. Her second mystery novel Jacob Hills is
just released by HarperCollins India.”

No two character names should start with the same alphabet. For exam-
ple if you have lead characters like Sonia and Sapna or Tanya and Tina or
Arvind and Anurag, readers are bound to get confuse one for the other.
In the fantastic novel , The Taj Conspiracy, the author named the charac-
ters as (SSP) Raghav and RP Singh. As a reader, I at times confuse one for the
other.
No two (primary) characters names should end with the same syllable. In
other words, avoid two names that rhyme with each other. Example: Ajay
and Vijay, Amit and Sumit, Madhumita and Susmita. Since the human
brain does not raed the whole spelling but can mkae out the words from
the first and the last alphabets, it’s better to avoid names that share common first
alphabets or the last ones. Example: The legendary characters– Laila and Majnu,
Jai and Veeru, Raj and Simran–are fantastic examples.
Keep in mind the region, setting and the year of birth. For example, par-
ents these days don’t keep common names like Mukesh, Amit, Ravi or
Vijay. Also, I hardly come across people with these names in theNorth
Eastern part of India. For one of my stories, I was planning to name my
protagonist who hailed from the North East and was around 25 years of age. I
considered the names of my North Eastern colleagues in my company and even
asked strangers their names. Finally, I got an authentic one – Jintu.
1
2
3

Think about the nickname for your character in advance. This is because
our parents and friends hardly call us with our actual names.For exam-
ple, my dad calls me Nattu (long story), my mother calls me Muku and
my childhood friends called me by the name Charlie (another long sto-
ry). I am sure Bongs will get this point sooner.
Reshmi or Mehrunisa – which name would you keep for your protago-
nist who is investigating a murder? Good you got it. It all depends on
the character they are playing in your story. If the character is a ro-
mantic hero, names like Varun, Rishi or Mohit are acceptable. In case the
character is an investigator (strong character), names like Ranvijay Pratap Singh
or Himangshu Krishnan or Pratee Mathur or for that matter Pradhan will reso-
nate more. What will you name theprotagonist’s mentor in your Sci-fi novel?
Easier to pronounce. In India, names like Ananyobroto, Parambratha,
Naman Jasarapuria or Divya Kodithala could be quite difficult to pro-
nounce. It’s easier to identify what we can pronounce easily. However, if
you’re writing a script like AVATAR, you are forcedto think of names that
people have neither heard of nor can identify. These include names likeTsu’tey,
Neytiri andNa’vi.
Avoid using celebrity names as it triggers a lot of bias in the reader’s
mind. Example: Aamir, Amitabh, Katrina, Sridevi, Abdul Kalam, Pra-
nab Mukherjee, Sehwag, etc. Also, avoid using names of legendary
characters like Gabbar, Raj, Simran, Vidya Bagchi, etc.
Think of the characters’full story, not just of their childhood. For exam-
ple, Milli could be an excellent name of a sweet child, but as she grows
up and becomes a strong advocate, it loses its resonance.
Some of the regional names could be gender neutral like Chandan, Har-
preet, Lakshmi, Anindya, etc. Just ignore them to avoid confusion. Or,
use them if you would really like to create one.
Last but not the least; do not name your characters after you or your
spouse (or your ex). Consider you’ve written a love making scene and
the character is named after you. Hope you got the point.
5
6
7
8
9
10
4

Which author do you feel has influenced your style
the most?
It’s difficult to say because I grew up reading both classics as well
as potboilers. My spiritual sense is influenced by Paramahansa Yo-
gananda, my love for fast pace and racy plots is influenced by Dan
Brown and Frederick Forsythe, my fascination with historical retell-
ing is inspired by Dominique Lapierre while my passion for research
is fuelled by Arthur Hailey.

What has prompted you to write your book or books?
I have never gone out looking for stories. In fact, I do not consider myself as a
writer. I am much more of a storyteller than a writer. I really care very little about
my choice of words or the crafting of my sentences as long as they convey an in-
credibly interesting tale. My first book happened because I was inspired by a tomb
in Srinagar and the curious story that lay behind it.
What is the best feedback or comment you have received from an ordinary
reader on your book?
Someone told me that she took a day off work in order to complete reading
Chanakya’s Chant. She said that she had to call in sick given that it was near the
company’s financial year ending and there was too much work pending.
What criticism has helped you grow as a writer?
When I wrote my first book, The Rozabal Line, some readers complained to me
that I had allowed my research to overwhelm the story. Thereafter, I consciously
chose to ensure that the story was given pride of place. I receive around a hun-
dred comments each day from readers via various channels. I always mark im-
portant views because they help me evolve as a writer. I am and will always be
work in progress.
“ I would have loved to have writ-
ten Midnight’s Children by Sal-
man Rushdie. It has always been
one of my favourite books. What
would I have done differently? “

What would you like to do as a writ-
er that you have never done before.
Find a new story and then find an en-
tirely new way of narrating it.
What is the book that someone else
has written, that you would have
liked to write? How would you have
done it differently?
I would have loved to have written Mid-
night’s Children by Salman Rushdie.
It has always been one of my favourite
books. What would I have done differ-
ently? Probably nothing. It’s difficult to
improve a masterpiece.
What is your advice to aspiring writ-
er?
Speak in your own voice. Don’t attempt
to be someone that you’re not. Research
your story exhaustively. Get yourself
a good editor. Read and re-read your
work a hundred times, there are always
improvements that can be made. Most
importantly, believe in yourself and be
thick-skinned. Rejection is part of the
game, so don’t allow rejections or set-
backs to deter you.
Ashwin is an enterpreneur by profession but writing historical fiction in the
thriller genre is his passion and hobby. He’s author of three best sellers - The
Rozabal Lane, Chankya’s Chant and The Krishna Key. He holds a master de-
gree in business management from Yale University and is currently pursuing
a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from the University of Bangor at Wales.”

“Ithought I was in hell already, what
can be worst than this? Is it the right
question to ask while being chased by
a bunch of angry tribal warriors?” he
asked himself as he pushed through the
dense trees, “Stress on ‘angry’ and super
stress on ‘tribal’. Their spears are laced
with poison that can kill a fat rhino in
a shot,” he reminded himself, “The fat
rhino for lunch was tasty by the way.”
He was called ‘The runner’ by anyone
who was unfortunate to know him. Not
because the runner was running from
almost every police department in the
world. Also not because he had spend
most of his life running from the situa-
tion. He was called the runner because
he was actual runner. He was a messen-
ger, very expensive and very exclusive.
His clientele included people who had
‘few’ disagreement with the general law.
He delivered goods, messages and items
to any location possible with one quali-
ty that the normal courier service never
offered, no paper work.
It was also one of the quality that made
most of the police services come look-
ing for him.
Todays job was different, there was no
money involved. No really, no money
involved. How much money do you
ask Death from? Exactly, you heard it
right, Death. Picture whatever you like,
full on cloaked man with a grim or a
teenage goth girl or even a flying spa-
ghetti monster. He met death, it was on
a thursday lunch hour. Lunch hour on
thursday was a crazy business. It was
crazy because it was not a Monday or
a Tuesday or a Friday, it was that awk-
ward Thursday.
He was eating kheema pav at the local
Irani cafe. The chicken kheema was
having a disagreement with his diges-
tive system. He looked around and
burped quietly under his breath.
“You are excused,” a small boy was
watching him intently from across the
table. “Excuse me?” “Yes. You are ex-
cused,” the boy said, “I have a work for
you.” “Excuse me, who are you?”
“Who do you see me as?” the boy asked.
“A fourth standard kid who should be
in school at this moment,” he replied.

“Interesting, that is something you
should work with your psychiatrist. But
again as I said, I have a work for you.”
“Who are you?” asked the runner, look-
ing around, did the cops started using
school going kids for sting operation.
“Right.” the boy said, “That,” at that ex-
act moment the scene changed, he was
no longer at the cafe and the boy was a
dark grim figure dressed in long over-
all black cloak. The face was covered in
a dark overalls and the boys voice had
turned hoarse.
“Is this biblical enough for you?” he
asked, “Do I need to tell you who I am
now?” The look of horror on The run-
ners face indicated that he did not need
to know. “So,” the cafe and the boy was
back, “I have a work for you.”
“Work?” The runner realized that he
had to finally stop running death had
caught up with him, “What kind of
work can you have for me?”
“Bournvita,” said the boy to the waiter
who had come to wipe the table.
The waiter eyed both of them and left.
“Work,” the boy said, “Yes. Work. Noth-
ing that is difficult for you. Need a per-
son of your skill set.”
“My skill set but you are d...” he avoided
the word. “Yes, yes I know, I know,” the
boy said, “Sure I am the most powerful
of all that is and sure its my job but you
know performance is a problem in this
modern world.”
It was exceedingly difficult to be afraid
of a ten year old boy.
“What is the job exactly...”
“Running...” the boy said.
Running, that was what death said.
Running, easy as a slicing a knife
through butter. Run, Run, Run. What
death had failed to told him was run-
ning was not going to be easy as the
tribe chasing him was the most ancient
hunting tribe called ‘Sons of Ka’.
The tribe was the direct line descendant
of an ancient witch-doctor ‘Ka’. The
witch doctor was known to be an expert
on black arts and also rumored to be
the first black magic performer in the
world.
Using his power of black magic, he man
aged to defeat death in the game of
rock, paper and scissors.
“Wait, that can’t be right,” he said to the
boy, “Seriously?”
“Rock kills scissors, scissors kill pa-
per and paper kills rock,” the boy said
drinking his bournvita, “Its a giant
spread of my favorite thing. Death.”
“So he defeated you in the game of...
err...”
“Rock, paper and scissors, yes.” the boy
continued. Defeated in the game, death
asked him for what he seek.
Ka was the most knowledgeable and
wisest of black magician in the world,
he smiled and said, “I seek the heart
of death.” The heart of death, Runner
thought, that was the thing that was
pounding near the chest. All he had to
do was sneak in the village and snatch
the heart and then run. Legend says,
death hates his heart so much that he
does not seek it. The sons of Ka lived for
more than a thousand years from

the aura of that heart.
The account was overdue, Death was
impatient. He wanted someone to pick
up the heart and run, leaving the village
exposed to him.
Runner dashed as fast as he could. Just
over the cliff, just over the cliff, he said
to himself. It will be all over soon. One
of the sprinters from the tribe was very
closed to him. This made the runner
very nervous. What if they catch him?
what if they inject him with one of
those poison arrows?
His thoughts were cut by a loud wail by
the sprinter. A thorn had pricked his leg
and was now bleeding. Runner smiled
at his luck and dashed on. He wondered
if Death was protecting him from what-
ever misery was going to fall on him.
He knew death was...his leg slipped and
he fell.
He rolled over from the sides of the
mountain and crashed full speed into
the chasm below.
Seventy feet into the chasm he crashed
hard on the granite rock. He never
stood a chance against death did he?
Slowly he closed his eyes.
“Ahem,” the boy disturbed him.
“What?” the runner said opening his
eyes, “Happy now, I being dead and
all?”
“You are not dead,” the boy said.
“I am not?” the runner looked at the
cliff above, “Are you telling I survived a
fall of seventy feet on the granite rock?”
“Yep,” the boy said, “You still have my
heart don’t you?”
And then it dawned on him. Death
cannot touch him till he has the heart,
“Well that was handy.”
“Yes, it was, now put that heart inside
this box.”
“What will happened to them, The sons
of ka?” he looked up.
“Thorn prick,” the boy said, “The run-
ner behind you? A good runner, he was
awarded four times last year for the
fastest runner in Kalympics. He will
soon find out he has a thorn pricked in
his legs while he was chasing you.”
Runner looked at the box in the boys
hand, “And you won’t chase me once I
place this heart in the box?”
“I can’t run faster than you runner,” the
boy said, “But we will meet... soon.”
“Soon?” the runner screamed, “What
do you mean by soon? I hope you mean
soon like sixty, seventy years later? Is
that soon enough for you? Hello?”
He was standing in a chasm alone.
Siddhesh is creative enterpreneur, witty blogger and pas-
sionate story teller. He’s got an awesome website. Go visit.

I am a rogue program.
My job is to offend.
There might be better ways
To make people think,
But this is the easiest way
My programmer discovered.
Each time you slam,
It becomes my plugin,
That I manifest in my next version.
I don’t die.
My flaws keep me alive.
My flaws keep you alive too.
I create flatteries,
One of them is choice.
That is an illusion.
Because you are unaware.
You choose to save yourself from
hurt.
But you just save a hurt for yourself.
You choose a weapon to kill.
Or did u just un-choose the many
weapons
That will kill you?
Then each time you die,
You slam,
And that becomes a plugin.
Remember,
I hurt you only
Till I need to hurt,
And not till you do.
Remember,
That I will remember the slam.
That’s a compliment.
Because my job is to offend.
I know the choice is a flattery.
I fight between hurt and hurt.
I don’t die.
“Debdatta is a gifted poet. She also works as a copywriter and sings, paints,
dances and plays the guitar at times. When asked, what other field would
she have chosen if not arts, she says, “Perhaps, I wouldn’t have been
born!”

I miss you in the vaccuum that was once you.
In the stillness of a cemetry afternoon.
In the dinner table, with an empty seat.
In family photographs, now incomplete.
In my husband-to-be,
In the grandchildren you did not see.
In the deficits of love, half-filled.
In success, made hollow in your absence.
In mammas who aren’t papas.
In fathers and daughters strolling hand-in-hand.
Daddy dearest, my dirty old man,
Always with me,and yet still not here...
“Christina Daniels is the author of the bestselling filmography I’ll Do It My Way:
The Incredible Journey of Aamir Khan. Before this, she also authored Ginger
Soda Lemon Pop, a novella that looks at growing up through the perspective of
a five-year-old child.

College Street, name derived from
the presence of many colleges) is a
~1.5 km long street in central Kol-
katta in the Indian state of West
Bengal. It stretches (approximate-
ly) from Ganesh Chandra Ave-
nue Crossing in Bowbazar area to
Mahatma Gandhi Road crossing.
It houses many centres of intellec-
tual activity specially Indian Coffee
House, a cafe that has attracted the
city’s intelligentsia for decades.

College street has been the place for young kolkatans to unleash their intellectual
desire and dreams. The very basic vibe of the youth can be well understood in the
air of Boi-Para, the college street. The very famous coffee house of college street is
been the heart of kolkatan intelligentsia for ages. Many great novelists, poets have
spent hours there discussing in creative atmosphere to write many time breaking
classics of bengali literature.

A doctor by profession, Satyaki Basu picked up cam-
era in 2008, since then it is has become his hobby and
passion. His photographs has been published in many
magazines like Better Photography India, Spiceroute
Magazine, Lonely Planet - BBC, Asian Geographic
Passport, National Geographic Traveler India, Discover
India.

Which author do you feel has influenced your style the most?
No author has influenced my style. I love reading romance novels,
thrillers and non fiction. But I have my own style of expressing my
ideas. So all my romance books will have a bit of philosophy that
readers can take back with them. I try to step away from the conven-
tional romance and regular sensuous scenes. That’s why I will have a
scene on a beach, in a hot air balloon or a museum! And I will have
men who are real and women who you can truly identify with.

What has prompted you to write
your book or books?
I’ve been writing since I was 9 years old.
I wrote a diary since then. A book at
12 years old. An anthology of poems at
15 and screenplays for the fun of it. My
husband Sunaman Sood always encour-
aged me to write a book and when I had
my daughter, I finally took the plunge
and wrote a manuscript called Losing
My Virginity And Other Dumb Ideas.
What is the best feedback or com-
ment you have received from an or-
dinary reader on your book?
On my facebook page Losing My Vir-
ginity And Other Dumb Ideas, many
people send messages to me about the
first book and Mistakes Like Love And
Sex. A few people on Twitter have also
commented as given below:
Jan 15 Shweta@Localheroin
@Madhuribanerjee - just finished read-
ing losing my virginity. what a fab book.
Was so hooked on to it that I was in it
even while I was sleeping
Dec 21 Riti Mohanta@RitiMohanta
@Madhuribanerjee ..u truly r the “Car-
rie Bradshaw” mam...im enjoying this
one even more....almost to the ending...
and unputdownable...
@Zyda16 - Madhuri I have read both
your books and i simply luv them...
Kaveri is so similar to me..i see myself
in her..
Dec 9 sana hussain@sana2127
@Madhuribanerjee read both ur
books.n felt like a flow of ones own life.
loved evry part of it..u shud write more
n get to inspire more ppl!
Apr 11, 2011 sushmita sen@thesushmi-
tasen
@Madhuribanerjee yes my darling!!!
Received ur book!!! Super proud of
u..thanku for making it special:) love u!
Jan 7, 2011 sushmita sen@thesushmi-
tasen
The book by Madhuri Banerjee is
called’ Losing my virginity and other
dumb ideas’ :))
Jan 7, 2011 sushmita sen@thesushmi-
tasen
Hey Madhuri!! Wish u all the best for
ur book!! It is a pleasure to have my
Quote be a part of it:) mmuuuaah n god
bless!
What criticism has helped you grow
as a writer?
The best critique I got was from one of
my favourite authors, David Davidar.
He wrote “I have now finished read-
ing Mistakes Like Love and Sex and
the book held my interest all the way
through. Kaveri is an excellent charac-
ter, and of the other characters I liked
Siddharth as well. I would urge you to
challenge yourself and your ability as a
writer by writing a much bigger book in
which you explore a woman’s sexuality
in-depth (especially as the sex scenes in
this book are really well done).”
er that you have never done before?

I would like to stand on stage and ac-
cept a Nobel Prize in Literature for my
writing!
written.?
How would you have done it different-
ly? I would have changed Amish’s Shiva
around quite a bit. But then he’s got his
pulse on what makes a bestseller, so
probably no one would have bought my
version!
er?
It pays very little money. Find an alter-
native job or change your lifestyle!
Madhuri Banerjee’s debut book Losing My Virginity And Other Dumb Ideas
sold over 40,000 copies in the first year of its release and was on the best sell-
er list for over 10 weeks. Her second novel Mistakes Like Love And Sex was
released in November 2012 and went straight to the bestseller list. She has
written a commercial film screenplay called Hate Story 2 with Vikram Bhatt
that is scheduled for release in 2013. She has also completed a non fiction
book for Karisma Kapoor called Yummy Mummy and her third romance
novel tentatively titled Love Zero that should be in the market by January
2014. She is currently working on her fifth book and another screenplay.

We know our celebrities by their faces. And one of the
most celebrated such is that of Raveena Tandon! In fact,
it’s a face that has turned to display many facets onscreen
– the damsel in distress in Khiladiyo ka Khiladi; a battered
wife in Daman; and even a schizophrenic in Dobara (in
which, she is indeed, multi-faceted!). Now the filmi veneer,
has uncovered sponge of fiction’s printed word. Yes, Ravee-
na is an avid reader, enthusiastically drawing from a pool
of literary creativity. And here’s what she said about this
thirst?

Who are some of your favourite au-
thors - Indian or International?
My favourite authors include Ken
Follet, Stephen Hawking, Michelle
Moran, Slyvia Browne, Dan Brown
and Amish Tripathi
Which book or books have influenced
you the most? What are you current-
ly reading or last read?
The Autobiography of a Yogi by
Paramhansa Yoganand and Sly-
via Browne’s books. I last read The
Oath of Vayuputras by Amish Trip-
athi.
Which of your movies do feel is the
most literary – had the best story
and diologue?
My upcoming film Shobhana’s 7
Nights coz it does also deal with
the author and her book.
Do you have plans to write your au-
tobiography? Or if you had to pick
one author to be your biographer,
who would that be?
I would love to have a biography
written. The author I choose as my
biographer would be Michelle Mo-
ran.
Apart from Chetan Bhagat, which
Indian writer’s works would make
good Bollywood?
Amish Tripathi
Which Indian book would you like to
see adapted into a Bollywood film?
And which character would you like
to play?
Immortals of Mehula by Amish
Tripathi. I would love to play
Anandmayi, (the likely enemy of
Shiva who informs him that her
people had also been awaiting the
Neelkanth).

The how to get published question to-
day is very much like the how to colour
water question of yesteryears. Many
solutions to one situation; but which
one happens to be the optimal one?
I would say all. Getting your name out
there on a book these days though isn’t
yet a cakewalk but still, compared to,
say half a decade back, the ways are
many. It is no more a one-way highway.
All of us aspiring, wannable word-
smiths can take any way, like I took
MyWay. I will just quickly bore you
with that story. That is what I have been
asked to talk about here.
So beginning at the beginning, my way
to being published began with a T and
a bird. Twitter (oh yes social media can
be this too). I have always loved being
on Twitter for it’s me-not-your-fraand
yet approachable modus operandi. It
has been a pleasure to interact with
authors, publishers, fellow bloggers and
readers there. My thumb has been glued
to my phone ever since I downloaded
that app with a certain blue bird and
guilt had also raked me many a times
for the same reason. But today I say it
is all justified, for it got me to my first
published story. A tweet did that. Actu-
ally a retweet!
Fablery, a literary online magazine
based out of Bangalore was conducting
a very unique creative writing contest in
2012. They were calling for short fiction
in unconventional genres (a different
one each month) and the winning story
from each genre was to be published in
an anthology in paperback. It was only
in the contest’s seventh month, through
a retweet by one of my favourite Indi-
an writer’s – Ashwin Sanghi that I got
to know of this contest. The genre was
my favourite and Ashwin’s niche – His-
torical fiction. The best thing about the
contest was I did not have to dig into

the romantic reserves to write on an
emotion that plagues our campuses
and now our books too and the word
limit was a mammoth 5000 to 7500.
The word limit gave enough space to
the writer to build characters, thrills
and conflicts. I
wanted to try
this one. It was
to be a self-ad-
ministered test
of all the tales
floating around
in the head. I sat down to pen my first
short fiction and kept wondering how
will I ever cross that 5000 mark. With
the impending deadline I wrote the
story all over – at 3.30 a.m. at night,
6.00 a.m. in the morning, even edited
it on the word app on my BB (on the
day of submission I was availing the
services of Indian railways, travelling to
Kerala). The submit button was clicked
at 11.58 p.m. while on the train (and I
was hoping Fablery’s clock matches my
phone’s). Forget 5000, the words had
flowed out up to a flooding 8237!!
Less than a month later, silent tears
flowed down my cheeks. They call them
tears of joy! Now how else do you re-
act if the first ever story you wrote gets
picked up for a paperback publication,
especially after reading all those sto-
ries of struggles to get published? I
kept mumbling thank you Mahadeva,
thank you M…. Yes ‘The Secret of Ahi-
raah’ – my story of secrets and legends
of Rajputana of
the16th centu-
ry had won the
contest and it
was on its way
into the world.
For love and
criticism, whatever comes along. If fear
and liberation can engulf you together,
it was that moment. I am still thinking
of coining a word for it, taking some
creative liberties.
So if you ask me how do you get pub-
lished, I would say YourWay. That is
the reality of the age we live in. The
opportunities are immense but so is the
competition. It is suddenly cool to be a
writer and everyone wants to be cool.
As a parting comment I would say just
like the story that you will write and
no body can write it better, your way is
yours to take; nobody can take it better.
Every life story and so will be every
way. Pave our own highway, YourWay.
Reshmy is one of the author of multi genre anthology featuring 10 different
genres, 10 different stories by 10 writers called 'Ten Shades of Life'. She's pas-
sionate book reviews and write them by dozen on her blog.
“So beginning at the beginning,
mywaytobeingpublishedbegan
with a T and a bird.

ACT I: So Long to the Long, We now
Court Short
The English Literature Professor from New
Jersey, USA, glanced over his classroom full
of Indian college students. The location of
this gathering was at a city in India. But the
territory was that of an American college.
Unfolding now was the course Literature
& Mass Communication, and Rick Zim-
merman was an army photo-journalist who
had been assigned to teach it. In military
precision, the greying man, clicked open
his brief-case, pulled out a local newspaper,
unfolded it on his desk, and commenced
reading aloud:
“Cops nab Large Cache of Arms, Arrest
Four”: State government officials, on Tues-
day, descended on a group that is suspected
of pilfering and transporting arms belonging
to the army, arresting the suspects at a ware-
house in the outer-city limits, in an

incident that has unfolded only days
after…
“I need air! I need air!”, the professor
croaked, mid-sentence, as he enacted
extreme suffocation. Then, dramatically,
he recovered to a poker face, “If you’re
going to run out of breath reading it,
your sentence is probably too long!” he
summed up. A round of chuckles en-
sued before a sole hand went up from
the back of the classroom. “But sir,
Shakespeare was not known to be con-
cise”, emerged the student’s voice. “The
words in his plays extend for miles. And
they are pregnant with so much verbose
profundity. You say a sentence is too
long if it makes us run out of breath?
Then would that explain why Shake-
speare’s long sentences “take our breath
away”?”
Suddenly, the classroom door swung
open and a most unexpected visitor
stepped in. It was a balding gentleman,
whose lower-person was compressed in
leotards, while his torso and arms were
encased in a gold-braided jacket. Ap-
parently, someone out of 16th Century
Europe had just popped into the room.
His stoic face displayed a well-groomed
goatee and moustache. Slowly, a name
formed in the classroom’s collective
mind - William Shakespeare! Unfazed
by this collection of bemused faces, the
anachronistic intruder began speaking
in a pristine British accent:
What majesty should be, what duty is,
What day is day, night night, and time
is time,
Were nothing but to waste night, day,
and time;
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of
wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward
flourishes,
I will be brief.
“See!” exclaimed, Prof. Zimmerman,
matter-of-factly, extending his arm to-
ward the visitor, “I have the backing

of the Bard. Brevity, is indeed the soul
of wit, as the saying goes, from Hamlet.”
But the studious voice from the far end
of the classroom, further argued in a
now thin voice,, “What about the “limbs
and outer-flourishes”, sir?” Shake-
speare’s
average
play was
3,000 lines
long. And
it extended
to above
three hours
in perfor-
mance-time. Would you say that he was
being unnecessarily lengthy?
But the Professor answered readily,
“Don’t forget, that Shakespeare’s plays
included a gamut of characters and
cameos, plots and sub-plots, protracted
situations, dilemmas, conflicts, crises
and denouements, etc. He needed those
many lines to encapsulate a composite
story.”
Suddenly, from somewhere in the mid-
dle of the classroom, a male specimen
of the Victorian era, rose from his seat.
A subtle air of conceit blew through
his twirled moustache, as he held up
a parchment, visibly inscribed with -
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.
Then in one vocal flourish, and in an
English accent slightly more evolved to
Shakespeare’s, he read the following:
I found out within a few hours, and
may mention at once, that Mrs. Pocket
was the only daughter of a certain quite
accidental deceased Knight, who had
invented for himself a conviction that
his deceased father would have been
made a Baronet but for somebody’s de-
termined opposition arising out of en-
tirely personal motives - I forget whose,
if I ever knew - the Sovereign’s, the
Prime Minister’s, the Lord Chancellor’s,
the Archbishop
of Canterbury’s,
anybody’s - and
had tacked him-
self on to the no-
bles of the earth
in right of this
quite suppositi-
tious fact.
Prof. Zimmerman gestured to Mr.
Dickens to retake his seat, and acknowl-
edged, “Yes, imagine, one of the world’s
most celebrated writers coming up with
the most awkwardly long sentences!”,
the professor continued with his obser-
vation, “But that was in 1860. Written
English underwent a paradigm shift
since then. Over-burdened sentences
are no more the norm. Yes, you can
castigate us Americans for making this
change, but we’ve got a century-worth
What majesty should be, what duty is,
What day is day, night night, and time is
time, Were nothing but to waste night,
day, and time; Therefore, since brevity is
the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs
and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
~William Shakespeare, Hamlet

of celebrated Yankee literature that es-
tablished the standard.”
Suddenly, the room’s projector screen
came alive as the class was witness to a
Podcast of the path-breaking American
writer and Nobel Laureate in English
Literature, Earnest Hemmingway.”
The live image of a bearded gentleman
appeared on the screen. Looking out-
wards, he spoke in a curiously neutral
accent. “Prose is architecture, not inte-
rior decoration.” And immediately, the
transmission cut out.
“Yes,” the Professor, espoused. “Ameri-
ca’s Ernest Hemmingway, was the writ-
er of the early 20th century. Though he
was based in Europe, Hemingway car-
ried on the legacy of Mark Twain. The
American Twain was in fact, Charles-
Dickens’ contemporary. But unlike his
English friend,
Twain used
clear, non-flow-
ery, journalistic
language and
gave American
dialects a voice and humour. Follow-
ing his lead, Hemingway, would author
his books in a minimalistic and direct
style. Plus, his landmark novels were
set against historical backdrops. For
Whom the Bell Tolls brings alive the
Spanish Civil War, while a Farewell to
Arms is fiction placed in World War
One.
Just then, a modern-day, Indian gen-
tleman stood up from his seat. He was
clad in a cap, spectacles, t-shirt, jeans
and sneakers. There was a gasp of awe
among some of the students in the
class. “Chetan Bhagat!” followed, in a
chorused whisper.
“Yes, indeed”, proclaimed Bhagat. “Peo-
ple say I don’t write well. But I am only
the biggest-selling author in Indian
history, to quote the New York Times.
My books have inspired movies - just as
Shakespeare, Dickens and Hemming-
way, have. I must be doing something
right.”
Just then, the projector screen re-cali-
brated to display Hemmingway again,
“It’s none of their
business that you
have to learn to write.
Let them think you
were born that way,”
the long deceased
author said, reassuringly. The statement
triggered voluble applause around the
classroom.
“I think I speak for the majority of my
classmates here,” piped up the student
from the rear of the room, “when I say,
Chetan, you have nailed the essence of
telling a good story. I mean, your late
st work of fiction Three Mistakes of
My Life, highlights the importance of
Sports in nurturing team-work and the
absurdity of religious-based politics.
“It’snoneoftheirbusinessthatyou
have to learn to write. Let them
think you were born that way,”
~ Ernest Hemmingway, on writing

And the human story, just like Hem-
mingway’s own, is based during histori-
cal events - such as the2001 earthquake
in Gujarat and the Godhra train fire.
There’s literature and social commen-
tary in a pop-corn epic flick. Yes, you
write for the masses, just as Shakespeare
did.”
In a sweeping movement, tense eyes
shifted from one
side of the class
to the other. The
spotlight was
upon the Bard to
pull out one of
his own quota-
tions, and he did:
“And as imagina-
tion bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the po-
et’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy
nothing
A local habitation and a name.”
“Ah, from A Midsummer Night’s
Dream” interjected Prof. Zimmerman.
“But we can’t all be poets now, can we?
Poetry and writing in long verse was
what you Elizabethan and pre-Elizabe-
than Englishman were accustomed to.
Your literature was overburdened with
analogy and symbolism. But then John
Bunyan broke the mould, with The
Pilgrims Progress - the first ever book
in prose, which was published in 1678.
That was a little after your time, Billy
boy.”
“You gave too much rein to your imag-
ination,” sounded an agreeing English
woman’s voice from the corridor out-
side the classroom. “Imagination is a
good servant, and a bad master. The
simplest explanation is always the most
likely,” the words trailed out of a smil-
ing face that had by now, poked into the
room.
“Thanks for that, dear Ms. Agatha
Christie!” exclaimed, Prof. Zimmer-
man. “From your first published novel
The Mysterious
Affair at Styles”,
added the pro-
fessor, glowingly
and carried on
the introduction,
“Boys and girls,
Ms. Christie is
the world’s largest
best-selling authoress. Indeed, this is
20th Century icon and mistress of the
Mystery genre, is second in sales only
to the man she is criticizing – yes, you,
Billy! I suppose, such close rivalry war-
rants her taking Mr. Shakespeare apart!
Then another face popped into the
classroom. This one was under a dou-
ble-shaded hat, and extending a deep-
ly-curved smoking pipe. The loosely
pleated and checkered English tweed
coat completed the recognizable
“You gave too much rein to your
imagination. Imagination is a good
servant, and a bad master. The sim-
plest explanation is always the most
likely,”
~Hercule Poirot, Mysterious Affair
at Styles by Agatha Christie

semblance. “When you have eliminated
all which is impossible, then whatever
remains, however improbable, must be
the truth,” said Sherlock Homes. Then,
Agatha Christie and Detective Holmes
both withdrew from the classroom,
hand in hand. They left in their wake,
a homogenous assortment of shaken
faces and ballooned eyebrows.
ACT II: Sex and Truth: Complex
and Uncouth?

“Yes, class,” the Professor continued,
nonchalantly, “Seeing that Agatha
Christie came after Sherlock’s creator
Arthur Conan Doyle, you can see just
whose love-child
Hercule Poirot
is. Anyway”, the
professor said,
straightening his
tone, “to pick up
on Sherlock’s state-
ment, let’s explore
truth a little more.” He pulled out a
laptop from his briefcase and began set-
ting it up on his desk. “I would say that
when one shrugs off the limbs and out-
er-flourishes, one is left with the truth.
Hemingway would describe things with
expedient honesty. Now, I am Skyping
a writer who wrote about a bleak, dys-
topian future, set ironically, in 1984.”
The professor turned the monitor to-
ward the class and the image of Cau-
casian gentleman in a 1940s’-style col-
lared shirt and lapelled coat appeared
on the screen. “Mr. Orwell. Mr. George
Orwell, will you expound on how lan-
guage in prose should be used.”
Mr. Orwell responded immediately
and in immaculate King’s English, “The
great enemy of clear language is insin-
cerity. When there is a gap between
one’s real and one’s declared aims, one
turns as it were, instinctively to long
words and exhausted idioms, like a cut-
tlefish spurting out ink.”
“So, you see class!”
summarised Prof.
Zimmerman. “Be
sincere in your
writing. Stay true
to your time, speak
of eternal truths.
Illustrate them ac-
curately. Reflect on life in a measured,
balanced manner. But the student at the
back of the class couldn’t be silenced,
“Professor Zimmerman, would you say
then that Shakespeare was not allowed
to be honest, because he in some way,
he lived in a dystopia. London of the 15
Hundreds was under the thumb of the
monarch, Queen Elizabeth. The elite
were all-powerful and the poor were
truly downtrodden. Conservatism and
political correctness held sway. So to get
around these strictures, did
“When you have eliminated all
which is impossible, then what-
ever remains, however im-
probable, must be the truth,”
~Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Hound
of the Baskervilles

Shakespeare have to employ a veiled
language?”
“Yes, I suppose so” conceded the profes-
sor, a little reluctantly. “There were ta-
boos about what and how people could
talk publicly. Therefore, you had to be
careful how you opined on institutions
like – Royalty, Marriage and Religion.
Incidentally, “Prof. Zimmerman, said,
changing his tone slightly, “It’s on this
topic of Religion,
that I believe you
said something
in your best-sell-
ing novel. Wasn’t
it, Aravind?”
At that point,
Chetan Bhagat’s desk-mate, Aravind
Adiga stood up from his seat, held up
his magnum opus White Tiger, which
is about a young Indian boy writing
letters to former Chinese Premier Web
Jiabao, and read from it: “It is an an-
cient and venerated custom of people in
my country to start a story by praying
to a Higher Power. I guess, Your Excel-
lency, that I too should start off by kiss-
ing some god’s arse. Which god’s arse,
though? There are so many choices. See,
the Muslims have one god. The Chris-
tians have three gods. And we Hindus
have 36,000,004 divine arses to choose
from.”
“Well, done, Aravind!” praised, Prof.
Zimmerman. “It must have taken some
balls to talk about the posteriors of
gods in India. And that too, as some-
thing arrogant that you pucker-up to!
Another major taboo has been Sex.
Would anyone care to comment on Sex
in Literature?” The Bard, who had been
feeling neglected after his initial flour-
ish, returned with a vengeance, to recite
his own words:
“Hamlet: It is a fair thought, to lie be-
tween a maid’s legs. Middle Summer
Night’s Dream: But I might see Cu-
pid’s fiery shaft quenched in the chaste
beams of a watery moon. Romeo and
Juliet: O that she were an open-arse and
you were a popp
rin pair.”
“Hey, there Bil-
ly!”, replied, the
Professor, stim-
ulated. “That’s
good going. I
mean, what else could we expect from
a old-world guy who knocked up an
older woman, before marrying her.
Indeed, you and Mrs. Anne Hathaway
Shakespeare were ahead of your time.
“Hah!” grunted, an irate D H Law-
rence, emerging from the shadows of
the classroom’s far corner. “Mr. Shake-
speare! You could get away with such
infantile innuendos, in some godforsak-
en era, but my sexually liberating book
- Lady Chatterley’s Lover, published in
1928 - was banned for over 30 years!
Let me regale all of you with the reason
this masterpiece, was taken off the
“Women have served all these centuries
as looking glasses possessing the mag-
ic and delicious power of reflecting the
figure of man at twice its natural size,”
~Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

shelves:
“He drew down the thin silk sheath,
slowly, carefully, right down and over
her feet. Then with a quiver of exquisite
pleasure he touched the warm soft
body, and touched her navel for a mo-
ment in a kiss. And he had to come in
to her at once, to enter the peace on
earth of her soft, quiescent body. It was
the moment of pure peace for him, the
entry into the body of the woman.”
Professor Zimmerman and the class
remained silent, where D H Lawrence
was hoping for audible praises. “Yes,”
he continued, frustrated, “Don’t give
me any kudos. But my American fel-
low-writer Harold Robbins’ equally
explicit debut novel - Never Love a
Stranger in 1948 -
set him on the path
to becoming the
U.S.’s highest-selling
writer. 75 million
book-sales! The
world’s third-high-
est selling author.
Bloody hell!”
Suddenly, from
behind the latest edition of the raunchy
magazine Under 18, a head emerged.
It was that of Vladimir Narbakov - the
Russian writer who had achieved fame
and notoriety for his 1959 book Loli-
ta. “You have my sympathy, Mr. Law-
rence,” he said, in gruff, but soft, Cyrillic
discharge. “My own book was about de-
viant sexuality – a pedophile trying to
get with a nymphet. But critics say that
I was able to turn something perverse
into something
beautiful, through the sheer power of
my writing.
“I was able to do that too, I think,” an
Indian woman’s voice, emanated from
a front-row desk. “In my only novel,
which happened to make it big, thanks
largely to… the God… of small things.”
Her fingers twirled the curls in her hair
as she continued, “People were turned
on by my
graphic
depiction
of an in-
cestuous
encounter.
But it was
a sequence
that aimed
to illustrate
dehuminisation. And it was not from
personal experience, although some
twisted minds may have been tempted
to conjecture thus.”
ACT III: Mirror, Mirror on the
Wall; Do Men or Women have
more Gaul?
Suddenly, a regal-looking woman en-
tered the room, pulling a wheeled-
“What really knocks me out (about a
book)isthat,whenyou’realldonereading
it, you wish the author that wrote it was a
terrific friend of yours and you could call
him up on the phone whenever you felt
like it. That doesn’t happen much, tough.
~ D Salinger, Catcher in the Rye

tray with what appeared to be a hot
beverage-decanter. Alongside the can,
stood a pyramid of inverted tea-cups.
She began tapping tea and handing
filled cups to individuals in the class.
On passing on the last cup, she whis-
pered audibly. “The truth,” Dumbledore
sighed. “It is a beautiful and terrible
thing, and should therefore be treated
with great
caution.”
The she
left, wheel-
ing out the
much-light-
ened convey-
or.
Singular ap-
plause erupt-
ed at another
corner of the
classroom. A
dour looking woman in a plain English
house-gown was now the latest to join
the discussion. “Women have served all
these centuries as looking glasses pos-
sessing the magic and delicious power
of reflecting the figure of man at twice
its natural size,” came her self-quote
from Virginia Woolf’s Feminist master-
piece A Room of One’s Own.
Another woman, this one in an aristo-
cratic get-up, arose abruptly from an
adjacent seat. Then, she yelled aloud
from her own magnum opus Sense and
Sensibility. “The more I know of the
world, the more I am convinced that I
shall never see a man whom I can really
love. I require so much!”
Sensing the situation slipping out of his
hand, Professor Zimmerman interrupt-
ed firmly, “Now, now ladies. We don’t
want a cat fight. Ms. Jane Austen, we
understand your point of view. But you
lived in the early 1800s when women in
most of the Western world, didn’t have
opportunity or desire to make some-
thing of themselves. And so, by default,
they were overly-dependent on men of
power and in-
fluence”.
Turning his
head towards,
the First Fem-
inist Writer,
the professor
continued,
“Ms. Woolf was
spearheading
a movement in
the early 1900s
where women
attempted to strike out on their own.
He, turned once more, in a new direc-
tion, and said, “And Ms. Danielle Steele
here, one of America’s widely-embraced
writers, is a culmination of the Feminist
movement.”
“No responsibilities, no attachments, no
encumbrances,” enunciated Ms. Steel,
having pushed back a concealing cape
“He drew down the thin silk sheath, slow-
ly, carefully, right down and over her feet.
Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he
touched the warm soft body, and touched
her navel for a moment in a kiss. And he
had to come in to her at once, to enter the
peace on earth of her soft, quiescent body.
It was the moment of pure peace for him,
the entry into the body of the woman.”
~D H Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover

and citing a line from one of her many
bestsellers Second Chance. “I don’t
want to own anything, love anyone, or
get too attached to people, places or
things. It’s a rule that seems to work
well for me.”
“And you speak for all modern women,
no doubt,” stated, Prof. Zimmerman,
with a sarcastic smirk. While looking
at truthful extremes, we must not let
an extremist way of thinking, make us
twist the truth. Direct, coherent, honest
language constitutes Orwell’s mantra of
sincerity.”
Then the pro-
fessor, looked at
his cell phone
and said, “Ok, it
looks like we’re
close to the bell.
So, I’m going to
wrap up here,
by calling to
my desk, a man who has been waiting
in the wings this whole session - J D
Salinger, the author of the controver-
sial but acclaimed, Catcher in the Rye.
Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer is narrated
by the author about a youth, and so are
J K Rowling’s Harry Potter and Richmal
Cromptom’s William. But Salinger has
been ground-breaking by making his
narrator itself that of a disaffected teen
named Holden Caulfied. How much
more truthful can prose get?
The invited American gentleman,
dressed in 1950s’ slacks and in a col-
lared, button-down shirt, read from
the middle of his book: “What really
knocks me out (about a book) is that,
when you’re all done reading it, you
wish the author that wrote it was a ter-
rific friend of yours and you could call
him up on the phone whenever you
felt like it. That doesn’t happen much,
tough.
“So!” summer-
ised Prof. Zim-
merman. Stay
on the phone
and keep trying
to tell me some-
thing personal
I’d like to hear. If
you can engage,
and tickle, and move, and nudge, and
open the mind of the reader into see-
ing things that he or she never did, but
wanted to - while articulating a univer-
sal sentiment, in a personal tone - then
you have captured the bandwidth of a
writer.” The professor smiled and then
continued, “English is well on its jour-
ney. Enjoy the new things that come
its way. English is a mongrel language,
ever-changing. It’s even more inclusive
than the shores of the erstwhile Brit-
ish Empire. Indeed, English is just the
paint. The brushstrokes are your own.
“Pardon me,” cut in, a pubescent,
draped in black with a graduate’s cap
aloft his head. Now, apparently,
“The great enemy of clear language
is insincerity. When there is a gap be-
tween one’s real and one’s declared
aims, one turns as it were, instinctive-
ly to long words and exhausted idi-
oms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink.”
~George Orwell, Politics and Literature

Harry Potter was entering the room.
“Ladies and Gentleman, I have a con-
fession to make. I have induced you
all into believing that you are various
world-famous writers. I had spiked the
canteen coffee with a magic portion, to
do the trick. The tea that my Maker –
Mrs. Rowling – fed you with, will slow-
ly draw you out of the trance,” The class
was aghast at Master Potter’s admission.
But he slowly continued, “I needed your
ideas to help Mrs. Rowling figure out
something. She wanted to know where
she’s supposed to go, after having fin-
ished with… me.”

Which author do you feel has influenced your
style the most?
There are so many. I don’t think I can choose just one. I of-
ten find British writing to be the most intense. I recently read
Juliane Barnes, The Sense of an Ending and was mesmerized
by his style. Rosamund Lupton’s Afterwards absolutely shook
me. I love the witty humor of Marianne Keyes who writes
about very serious subjects. I have fallen in love with dog lit.
My favorite is Garth Stein’s The Art of Racing in the Rain.

What has
prompted you to write your book or
books?
I was bored and unhappy in my corpo-
rate career. I was living in Los Angeles
and saw first hand a number of the
themes of professional and emotional
angst within my age group. These were
the seeds that grew into my books Delhi
Stopover and soon to release, Crash-
ing B-Town. Additionally, I felt
like no one had written on what was
happening in modern
India. The image of In-
dia from literature and
films was dated or one
dimensional. I felt it was
time to really pull back
the curtain and show
what is happening in the
cosmopolitan cities that
are leading the cultural
change in the country.
What is the best feed-
back or comment you
have received from an
ordinary reader on
your book?
The editor of a major
magazine said that she
would like her teenage
daughter to read my
book. I can’t think of a
bigger compliment than
a parent giving my book
to their child. My hope
was to not only show
the reality of the fashion
industry but to also gently comment
on issues of body image, racism, drug
abuse, and relationships. There’s noth-
ing more exquisite than knowing that
my words resonated with the most dis-
criminating readers: parents!
What criticism has helped you grow
as a writer?
The best criticism that I ever received
was from my agent in New York who

told me to stop “flirting with the story
and just get totally naked.” He was tell-
ing me to write with more honesty in-
stead of skirting the major uncomfort-
able issues. I realized I had to go deeper
if I wanted to write anything worth
reading. Otherwise, there really isn’t
any point for the writer or the reader if
the author isn’t taking any risks.
er that you have never done before?
I’m eager to explore historical fiction in
my writing. I’d also love to see the first
two books make the transition to the
big screen.
write.?How would you have done it
differently?
I would LIKE TO have written The
Alchemist but there is no way I could
have at this point in my life. The writing
is exquisite and beautifully nuanced.
If I had tried to write it, I’m certain it
would have turned out to be bad come-
dy.
er?
READ!!! Read everything in sight. I
love fiction. I read copious amounts of
fiction. When you read, you learn the
art of story telling. There is a joy in the
escape of reading that unconsciously
teaches you how to be a better writer as
well.
a) What would you like to do as a writer
that you have never done before? (the
question was in literary context. like
exploring different genres or editing or
opening a publishing house, etc.,)
A: I’m eager to explore historical fiction
in my writing. I’d also love to see the
first two books make the transition to
the big screen.
b) What advice would you give to peo-
ple who are planning to take up model-
ling as a career?
A: Modeling is an industry that requires
a certain unique body type or image.
The physical demands to achieve this
very slim or muscular physique are not
for everyone and usually not sustain-
able in the long term. I think anyone in-
terested in modeling should remember
that the industry judges solely on looks
and while it may appear glamorous on
the outside, it’s a very serious business
with intense competition. Any candi-
date must have very thick skin when it
comes to criticism on their appearance.
Tulika Mehrotra is a Chicago-based author and journalist. Her debut novel,
Delhi Stopover was published by Penguin in 2012. She follows up with her sec-
ond, Crashing B-Town, releasing fall 2013. She is also a regular contributor to
Elle, Vogue, Men’s Health, India Today and other magazines.

Life is what happens while
you’re busy updating
Facebook statuses.
Milan Vohra, India’s first M&B author
of ‘The Love Asana’ and author of ‘Tick-
tock we’re 30’ - a hilarious, reflective
rom-com about 12 friends reuniting
shares her publishing story with stori-
zen.com
My fiction writing journey started in a
totally unplanned way. I used to write
the occasional short story, put it away
to re-read and re-examine if I managed
to find what I wrote. Getting published
was never part of the plan. I’d been
writing advertising for years; been at
a senior level at some of the country’s
top agencies, taken career breaks after
having each of my kids and shifting
cities a few times because of my hus-
band’s work. About 3 years ago I was
at a pretty low point in my life. I’d lost
my father who I was very close to, while
my parents were travelling in Europe.
I was struggling without any support
systems in Bangalore, working an 18
hours a day job at an ad agency that
came with a fancy designation but was
hugely stressful. I was so keen to prove
the naysayers wrong - who told me too
much had changed while I’d been rais-
ing my kids. Yes I found the technology
was all new, but soon it didn’t matter.
The ideas did. I was winning lots of new
businesses for the agency in creative
pitches, but it came at a ludicrous cost.
I had been surviving on some four-five
hours of sleep, popping anti-biotics,
barely seeing my kids. I quit one day
when I realised this was ridiculous. I
started writing travel and food reviews
because it combined three things that
I enjoy – travel, food and writing. Yet I
was still missing something!

In a Milan-boon state of mind
Writing fiction happened as a happy
accident around then – a kind of tip-
ping moment. I’d just read a book by
Randy Pausch called ‘The Last Lecture’
in which he spoke of going out and
doing the simple, fun things you want-
ed to do as a child. In his case it was to
be an ‘Imagineer’ at Disney. Around
that time, some friends had mailed me
about a short story writing contest by
Harlequin Mills & Boon. I remember
thinking how much fun it would be to
do it; I even changed my status on Face-
book to ‘In a Milan Boon state of mind’.
Somehow the idea caught my fancy,
in an uncomplicated way. M&B’s were
far from my staple read; but if you’ve
studied at an all-girls convent, and had
board exams looming in your life –an
M&B had to be slipped into your big
Chem textbook and read. It was a giv-
en! I still had no plan of actually getting
down to writing that story. Then one
night before the contest due date, which
also happened to be my wedding anni-
versary, we had some demanding house
guests over. We’d taken them out to
dinner; it turned out to be a singularly
bad evening. The fish was thought sus-
pect, the lemon butter sauce too sour,
the ice-cream too sweet. As I dished out
instant noodles back home (eaten in
silence thank god) I thought there had
to be more romance to an anniversary!
And wrote off a nice long handwritten
story I called ‘The Love Asana.’
Destiny comes calling with a late
night call from Dee
So I’m staring at these pages when my
friend Dee (she’s actually known as
that) calls late night and gives me an
update on her day and her rabbit. I give
her my update. Dee insists I read out
the story while she keys it in. We gig-
gle, dissect the TDH hero details and
I send it off on a lark. Next thing I’m
being told my story is in the top 5, I’m
headed off to Mumbai figuring I’ll just
go enjoy the view of Marine Drive. The
story goes on to win nationally, makes
me India’s first Mills & Boon author and
brings me a huge lot of media attention.
Predominant thoughts running through
my head that evening: 1. Now I know
what it must be like for those reali-
ty show contestants 2. Good heavens.
Surely that can’t be a BBC mike in my
face and 3. Damn, I should’ve sprung
for a new flattering outfit instead of
these borrowed feathers!
While winning the contest came with
some cool prizes, an exciting one being
a year’s supply of M&B’s ( which meant
I didn’t need to think about the next
5 birthday gifts for my girlfriends) it
didn’t come with a book contract in the
bag. It just meant the door was open.
Then the discipline and persistence and
conviction kicked in. I developed ‘The
Love Asana’ into a book and it wasn’t
exactly easy-peasy! Writing a genre
book is quite a learning experience and
trying to keep your individuality and
make it ring true to Indian sensibilities
another challenge. What made it totally
worth it was the very warm response to
my book. It was overwhelming.

‘Tick-tock we’re 30’: The whacky
side of me
I took the time to think through things,
figure out what I’d really like to write
next. I wrote some more short stories
which were published with Penguin and
Unisun and loved by readers! My latest
book ‘Tick-tock we’re 30’ with West-
land is in a voice that’s totally me. It has
allowed me the freedom to write with a
large cast of characters, all of whom are
quirky, unique and very real. I’ve been
able to explore relationships that I feel
are believable. I’m having fun again!
Talk of one impulsive decision getting
you the buzz back in your life!
Milan Vohra, India’s first M&B author of ‘The Love Asana’ and author of
‘Tick-tock we’re 30’ - a hilarious, reflective rom-com about 12 friends reunit-
ing.

Shreya looked around and all she
could see was emptiness in a room full
of clothes, jewellery and decorations.
The bed which sat at the centre of the
room was full of expensive sarees that
her parents had lovingly picked up for
her. The dresser on the side was full of
red and blue boxes of jewels. The wind
chimes hanging from the windows
made cooing sounds while the mini
lights twinkled around. Everything
around her spoke of hope and of new
beginnings; everything around her
spoke of joy but all she felt was unbear-
able pain.
She would be married off in a day but
she looked nothing like a bride-to-be.
There was no glimmer of hope in her
eyes except for grief. Those beautiful
eyes seemed to be searching for some-
one. She walked towards the wardrobe
and took out a wooden box which was
tucked away in a corner. Caressing it
she moved towards the chair in her bal-
cony and sat there; all the while staring
towards the horizon in the distance.
The sun seemed to be setting, its job
over for the day, to rise again at dawn
but the sight seemed to bring out a flur-
ry of emotions from within her. Tears
rolled down her khol lined eyes carving
dark lines on her cheeks. Carefully she
opened the tiny latch on the box while
rubbing away tears in between. There it
was infront of her everything that was
precious to her. There it was in her lap
everything that she held so dear. There
it was the picture of Ashish, the man
she so loved. She picked it up so soft-
ly and held it in her hands as though
her entire life was in it. Longingly she
looked at his picture; heart full of ques-
tions and eyes full of tears. Ashish! To-
morrow is the day I had been dreading
all along. I will be dressed up in the fin-
est of clothes and married off to another
man. No he is not a bad man at all! But
then he is not the man I hoped to take
the vows with, holding hands around
the holy fire. Remember that afternoon
in the rain? We were so happy, weren’t
we? You were wearing the blue shirt
that I had given you with my first salary
and I the green cotton saree that you
so loved. Remember the ring that you
had given me that day saying that you
would replace it with a bigger solitaire
on the day we got married?

I still have it you know, I still wear it
and I am hoping against hopes for you
to replace it. But where are you? I look
for you even today in the bus stand
where we spent nonchalant hours to-
gether; in the cafe where we spent our
evenings faking work at office; in the
movies that we watched just to spend
some time together and in my life
where everything reminds me of you.
It has been over six years that you are
gone but it seems just like yesterday.
Why, why did you leave me alone?
It was as if there was caught in a tem-
pest of emotions. She tucked away the
photo in the box and took out the paper
that looked like a newspaper cutting
from beneath it. It was old with a hint
of foxing towards the edges and a faint
smell. On it was the picture of a man
next to the article headlined ‘Young
techie found dead: A case of mugging
gone wrong’. She looked at the paper,
running her hands pensively over the
picture; sobbing loudly as though her
entire world had come crashing down.
But who was the man? Ashish, it had to
be him, the man she had lost her heart
to. He had been the victim of an un-
fortunate mishap; a bolt from the blue
which changed Shreya’s life forever.
Exhausted and stressed she slowly drift-
ed away to sleep with just one thought
reigning her heart and soul ‘I’ll marry
because my parents want me to. But I’ll
never stop loving you Ashish and one
day I’ll be with you again smiling in the
rain; living again!’
The night passed away in silent melan-
choly. Shreya, still in deep slumber,
looked like an apparition of her old self.
Her eyes sunken with the burden that
her heart carried while her forehead
bore lines, all of which were reminis-
cent of the paths she trod in search of
Ashish. As the nascent sun rays entered
her room, creeping through the white
curtains that flirted with the morning
breeze, her face lit up with a golden hue.
Yes, the morning had finally arrived.
Shreya opened her eyes slowly and for a
moment seemed lost. The pain seemed
to evaporate for a second but that was
just momentary for everything came
rushing back to her in the blink of an
eye. She got up and walked bare feet
towards her balcony, closed her eyes
trying to soak in the warmth of the
rising sun. As she stood lost in the maze
of her thoughts, there was a soft knock
at her door. She turned back looking
at that door as though her whole life
would change the moment it would
from mummy, daddy and you. I’ll not
grieve over our relationship too! Till it
is the right time for me to find you, to
see you, I’ll smile and keep waiting yet
keep living! I’ll do right by the people
who gave me life Ashish and hence I
shall marry too. But I’ll be eternally
yours till we meet again on the other
side. Yes, Ashish for eternity I’ll be in
love with you without crying over you!
I’ll not give up on this beautiful gift of
life; infact I’ll live for the both of us. I’ll
be positive with the strength that I

derive open. It was as if she wished for
it to forever remain closed. She walked
towards the door, turned the knob and
opened the latch.
Her parents stood at the door, anxious
for they knew what had been clouding
their daughter’s mind. However they
still hoped for a better life, a happy life
for her. They entered without saying a
word held her hand walked towards her
bed. They made her sit first and sat on
either side of her, not saying a word all
through.
They had with them their family al-
bum. They had with them Shreya’s life
in the form of pictures and they laid
it open infront of her. With hopeful
eyes, full of love, they turned one pho-
to after the other and in each Shreya
had them standing by her. In triumphs
and losses; in happiness and sickness;
at every step of her life they were there
standing by her. They would have giv-
en her a life with Ashish too if not for
cruel fate. As she went through these
pictures she realised how important her
crossing the threshold of marriage was
for her parents. They looked frail and
fatigued with worry too. She had been
so engrossed in her woes that she hadn’t
noticed how much they had aged and
how weak they were now. Their lives
were spent in keeping Shreya happy.
When it was her turn to do something
for them she had become too selfish
to even try. But this was her chance to
right the wrong. She looked away from
the photographs towards her parents
and hugged them tight; it was as if she
had an epiphany. With eyes closed she
seemed to smile from the bottom of her
heart for the first time in a long time.
I’ll try to be happy mummy and daddy!
I’ll try.. I promise I’ll try. I’ll make an
attempt to lead a happy life. Ashish I’ll
not mourn you any longer for I know
you’ll always be with me, helping me
all the way. Ofcourse, I’ll miss you.
Ofcourse, nobody will ever take your
place but I’ll live a life, stay contented
and happy too. And once I complete
this voyage, I’ll be again with you. I’ll
live loving you and loving life too. I’ll
live for my parents and for myself too.
“Nabanita in her own words
‘I love to write. It is a passion; a compulsion; something that
gives me an avenue to express myself. I write when I am hap-
py; when I am sad or when an issue touches my heart. I find
inspiration to write in every aspect of life.

The Present…
After what felt like an eternity, Adi-
ti asked Sneha in a tone that betrayed
nothing but the pain that she felt in-
side her – “What did you get after
doing this???” Of course, Sneha knew
how Aditi was feeling exactly but sud-
denly Sneha was not happy anymore.
The sense of satisfaction, elation that
Sneha thought she would find was not
there. She felt betrayed – by her own
self, her own emotions, and her own
deeds. Because deep down somewhere,
where the sense of right & wrong still
existed, a voice screamed out at Sneha
saying what she had done was wrong.
Sneha asked herself the same question
– “What did I get after doing this??”
Sneha had destroyed two relations that
day – a marriage & the other between
herself & her soul. She knew she would
never be able to look at herself in the
mirror with her eyes. The guilt was too
much, much more than the pain that
had existed all these years. It was un-
bearable & Sneha just hoped that she
would find some way to redeem it…..
9 Years Back…
Sneha first met Rohan in junior college,
back when she still used to believe in
fairy tales & Prince Charming. He was
the quintessential hero of the college
– football team captain, class topper &
blessed with good looks but an infa-
mous philanderer. A chance encounter
at the library & excellent flirting had left
Sneha besotted & charmed with Rohan.
But everyone had warned Sneha against
him – He is a devil in disguise. He will
break your Heart!! But love is a strange
emotion & despite all the warnings &
forebodings from her own heart, Sne-
ha went ahead & played with fire. They
had a whirlwind affair for a year. But
just when hope had blossomed in Sne-
ha, he broke her heart!! He cheated on
her. He had been doing that for past six
months!! And the worst part was that
the “other woman” knew about Sneha
& yet had carried along with Rohan. No
wonder Sneha’s heart broke into million
pieces & with it broke her trust in men
& relationships.

Last Night…
Sneha bumped into Rohan at the col-
lege reunion. He was now married &
happily settled. What surprised Sneha
was the fact that Rohan had went ahead
& married the same girl with whom he
had cheated on her. The moment she
saw them, something dark & sinister
raised its head in her heart. The feeling
was so powerful that she felt the breath
knocked out of her. They looked so
happy together & here she was alone in
her world. She was never able to trust
any guy after Rohan. Self-doubt & envy
started crawling its way into Sneha’s
mind. Three margaritas later, Sneha
found the courage to venture towards
Rohan. His wife had left by then & Ro-
han had stayed back with his football
team for drinks. The moment their eyes
met, Sneha knew she was walking into a
death trap but nonetheless she decided
to take her chances. Rohan & Sneha had
great chemistry so no one was surprised
when both stayed back and kept flirting
with each other over drinks even when
most of them had left. Suddenly Sneha
moved closer to Rohan & whispered
in his ear – “Gosh! I have missed you”
and bit his lobe. She saw fire in Rohan’s
eyes & hoped it was all worth it. Next
moment they both were falling from
the bar stool, into each other’s arms,
their lips locked. The last thing Sneha
remembered was telling Rohan this –
“You were a bastard then & you are a
bastard even now”.
Next morning Sneha woke up with a
throbbing headache but that was not
the worst part of her morning. Rohan
was lying next to her & she suddenly
felt scared of her plan. Rohan’s trou-
sers were lying on the floor & his wallet
had fallen out of it. It was open & in it
there was a small photo of Rohan & his
wife, probably taken on a holiday. Both
were smiling at the photographer like it
was their happiest moment. Sneha felt
like an intruder & suddenly the dark
feeling returned. Why couldn’t she be
happy like them?? What had she done
wrong?? She had just fallen in love albe-
it with the wrong guy but it had scarred
her for life. She had found no closure
& she decided that revenge would be
her closure. A vibrating sound jerked
her out of her reverie, Rohan’s phone
was ringing. Sneha looked at the call-
er ID – “Aditi Calling”. Sneha pressed
the green answer button & carefully
kept the phone beside Rohan. She then
proceeded to wake up Rohan & kept
talking to him giving away their hotel
name & room number. Sooner than she
had anticipated, there was a knock on
the door & Sneha gleefully rushed to
open it. All the sense of victory that she
thought she would find was gone when
Sneha encountered Aditi’s tear streaked
face. Aditi was in a mess, bloodshot
eyes & dark circles gave away the fact
that she had been awake for the entire
night. Even through the tears, there was
a look of desperate hope on Aditi’s face
– a hope that what she had heard was

wrong, that Rohan had played a joke
on her. But all the hope had vanished
when Aditi saw Sneha. Rohan came
from behind with a bewildered look,
wondering how Aditi had dropped
there. By the time Sneha had finished
explaining what she had done & why,
Rohan was livid. He cursed her with the
choicest of words & stormed out of the
place. Aditi stayed behind – she seemed
stunned. Sneha wanted her to shout at
her too, spew out the venom.
But Aditi kept quiet & after what felt
like an eternity, Aditi asked Sneha in a
tone that betrayed nothing but the pain
that she felt inside her – “What did you
get after doing this???”
Pooja is a specialized blogger. She reviews books in the
genre – chick literature. She also designs some heavy duty
stuff. Do drop by her blog.

We all are story tellers. Some of us
realize this and some of us take it to the
next level and become writers. Story is
the core ingredient of any novel, play as
well as a movie. But the question re-
mains, “What is a story?”
According to Google,
A story is an account of imaginary or
real people and events told for enter-
tainment: “an adventure story”.
According to Ursula K. Le Guin, “The
story is one of the basic tools invented
by the mind of man, for the purpose of
gaining understanding.”
Fair definitions, but in more concrete
terms a story can be described in one
word, “Conflict”. Yes, if you don’t have a
conflict, there’s no story. In the absence
of a conflict, what you have is just an
emotion or a narration of events. It was
first described by Aristotle. He said that
“in order to hold the interest, the hero
must have a single conflict.”
So, let’s see what are the different types
of Conflicts?
1) Person vs. Person – Classic style
of Hero vs. Villain or the Hero con-
vincing the Heroine. Example: Sholay
– Thakur vs. Gabbar. DDLJ – In the first
half, Raj vs. Simran and in the second
half, Raj vs. Thakur Baldev Singh. The
conflict in the first half was whether Raj
will get Simran or not? The conflict in
the second half was whether he’ll be
able to convince Baldev Singh or not.
2) Person vs. System (or Society) –
Example: Rang de Basanti and 3 Idiots.
The number of persons here could be
one or many.
3) Person vs. Self – Example:
Swadesh. Here the character Mohan
Bhargava is in conflict with his in-
ner-self as to whether he should contin-
ue working for NASA or should come,
stay and struggle in India.
4) Person vs. Machine – Example:
Matrix and Terminator I, II and III
5) Person vs. Nature – Example: Av-
atar and Jurassic Park
6) Person vs. Alien – Example: Men
in black
7) Person vs. Supernatural – Exam-
ple: Twilight series; TV show – Exam-
ple: Vampire Diaries.
These are just a few types of conflicts. In
reality, however, there are many more.
Essentially, a well written story has an
encompassing conflict and various oth-
er smaller conflicts. Once you identify
the conflict in your story, you’ll start
sailing in no time. So, go ahead create a
conflict and if it happens to be a short
story, send it to us, we’ll feature it in our
next issue.

You were at the main entrance of the university,
Standing in front of me into the crowd,
Chemistry books in your hand!
You tweet a well-known look at me,
I asked “Are you new?”
With a smile, you answered ‘yes!’
Surprisingly we met again!
Waiting at the same row,
She was your friend or sister?
You talk very little in an outlandish tone!
Wearing pasty shirt and stretched blue jeans,
Calm, fair, beautiful, white at noon!
I wanted to talk to you more, suddenly
A clerk came and announced, “students of science separate into different row!”
Giving no chance to ask your name!
Vikram Roy is graduated in English literature from the
University of Calcutta in 2008 and he is a free thinker.

Ilustration by: Vikram Roy

While rushing to the office I
squawked at Nikku to finish her break-
fast quickly as she was getting late to
her kindergarten and I, for my office.
Nurturing a child is not easy. Especially
for a single mother who is struggling to
establish in the capital.
Five years back, I relinquished my
family, my married life, my parents –
everything and moved to Delhi. I still
feel the twinge when I think about it.
Many times, I used to regret my deci-
sion. Betimes I felt guilty to make Niki-
ta’s life suffer.
She is just four, unable to understand
the social tantrums but sometimes,
she does ask about her father and I say
that he is in heaven with white fairies,
watching her while she is asleep and
sends her gifts, every birthday.
Honestly, I don’t know where Nakul was
for past five years. Although I stalked
him on Facebook, added him from a
fake profile and spoke to him sarcas-
tically on chat but for past one year, I
stopped doing it, it hurts; yet, I never
called him or went back to my previous
life. Nobody knew my whereabouts,
till date. Yes, they tried. My parents
did. My family, friends, near and dear
ones. I know they were trying to find
me, but I never wanted to go back for
obvious reasons. I would have never left
my family at first place if I knew, I con-
ceived Nikki.
I was married to Nakul for seven years.
Love marriage it was, against family
decisions. We belong to different castes
and financial categories. No matter how
open minded we portray the mind-
sets and ideologies that we hide in our
pockets, still blind our decisions. We
all are hypocrites of different levels and
these mindsets are not into the charac-
ters but into the DNA- hard to change,
thankfully not impossible.
We fought for our love, won and got
married. It took us almost an year to
establish harmony between the families.
Nakul had always been supportive in all
dimensions. Nakul and I met on Face-
book. The immortal statement “love is
in the air” has changed by the time to
“love is on the Facebook”- From the
likes to comments to Inbox messages
to relationship status, how rapidly we
moved, even the Road Runner would
wonder. I was a student of Masters,
University of Punjab and he was an IT
professional - Earning, Well educated,
Himadri

well mannered and handsome. Nakul is
a tall man with beautiful pink lips and
a fair complexion. I am comparatively
shorter, dusk in complexion and long
hair crossing my hips. My big doe-eyes
and fleshy curves were compliments to
my personality. He was an eye candy
among his female colleagues, but we fell
for each other and made a hot couple.
As he was well established, I was un-
troubled about our future. The only
problem we were concerned during our
love courtship was the matter of caste
but we were firm to face it.
Nakul had a dominating personality.
He used to take charge and always ful-
filled his responsibilities. He had earned
the authority by being the Alpha of his
family. This trait of his made me care-
less and I took a full swing of insouci-
ant lifestyle. I was pampered, cared and
adored to the core by Nakul.
We were loyal to each other; therefore,
never thought of stepping out of the
relationship. I had a hobby of blogging,
sometimes. I used to update my blog on
social and historical issues every now
and then but hardly read by anyone. I
had plans for my life, Masters-M. Phil-
PhD in History. I wanted to take civil
service examinations and proud my
parents. My brother Tapas, completed
his Chartered Accountancy and had a
bright future too. Everything seemed to
be perfectly beautiful and satisfying.
After an year we decided to get
married because of our extreme passion
for each other. We made promises to
each other. Built castle of dreams and
future planning of having babies, a
big home, he promised me a beautiful
life and I promised him to stand by his
side, always and forever.
I was sure Nakul would support me in
continuing the studies and fulfil my
dreams so I gave priority to a beautiful
life ahead in the arms of Nakul and de-
cided to give a break to my studies and
dropped my masters at first year. After
marriage I was sure to obtain my degree
and pursue higher studies and to take
examinations of civil services.
Somehow after gathering much courage
he visited us. But all was in vain...
Our parents got to know about our re-
lationship and it was a mess. Although
our parents had no big issues yet the el-
ders were against this inter-caste amal-
gamation.
We decided not to marry. So damn
in love, took another passionate de-
cision and gave words to each other
that we will not marry anyone else and
wait. Life is life, unpredictable and un-
planned. Parents got tired of the daily
disturbance in family and melancholic
lifestyle. So, to get rid of the love birds,
eventually they married us.
Occasional dispute and cold celebration
of festivals had been a part of our lives
for an year. Nakul and I were marinated
in our sexual lives. We had our world in
our bedroom. At times I could feel his
frustration owing to disagreements and
taunts in fashion.
I kept myself a bit disassociated with
my family and friends and tried

concentrating upon Nakul’s family and
their happiness. Eventually I felt our
acceptance of grandparents and fruits
of my constant dedication.
But meanwhile many things have
changed between Nakul and me in an
year. We were not the same deuce. I ig-
nored the changes at the primary stages
considering the struggle of the estab-
lishment of our newlywed lives. And I
was sure of his manage-it-all trait.
I was aware of his commanding and to-
talitarian nature but, it was not him. He
has become rabid. Started yelling at ev-
ery small thing and eventually the feud
moved from bedroom to dining room
to hall and one day, at family lunch, he
yelled upon me in the marriage anni-
versary of his Parents. I was surround-
ed by all the relatives and members of
the family. I was mortified by his raised
voice and continuous charges of wrong-
doings and carelessness, in public. I felt
insulted. Everyone in the hall looked at
me. I could read each of the flummoxed
labyrinths of the widened pupil, ques-
tioning and blasphemous.
Mother in law broke the muteness and
controlled the situation. I didn’t say
anything and walked out of the festivity.
I did not cry. I couldn’t. I was blanched.
I felt the emptiness inside me. It was a
deep silence. I took an auto rickshaw
and rushed to my home. I was panting,
heart was beating at its best speed and
my mind was busy in calculating the
liquidity I had. After reaching home
I went to our bedroom. I loathed the
place. Every single thing was laughing
at me. The bed ogled at me and those
precious moments of love and together-
ness turned into hatred. I felt nauseated
to his touches, how we made love. It
was a queasy feeling as if I was sexually
and emotionally abused.
I picked up the framed moment of our
lives- our wedding photograph and I
dashed the frame on the floor. It anni-
hilated as my feelings. I could find my
trust, my self-respect and my dignity
into those pieces of a brittle marriage
picture frame.
I remorse how many times tried asking
him during our private moments if he
liked someone else, if he had mutilated
this beautiful relation, if I was at fault
or he didn’t like my behaviour. I tried
digging out my mistake by self auditing
my deeds.
I did best possible things to make him
happy. I tried giving him a break. I vis-
ited my parents for a few weeks. It was
not like he was with me for the sake
of social responsibilities but because I
could feel him and his soul while mak-
ing love. I tried on daily basis but he
never shared the thing troubling him.
He started disliking the things he used
to love before marriage. Things, those
were said to be the most adorable part
of my nature.
I was emotionally an insecure female
like most of our species, because I was
completely dependent upon him. Emo-
tionally, physically, socially, financially
as well as mentally. For a long time his
rude and cold behaviour bothered me
He had completely changed. I stopped
feeling like I was married to the same
person and the reason was still

clandestine. After throwing our photo
frame I recollected myself and decided
to leave everyone. I chose my love over
my family and had no face to go back
to them. Brother was a grown up work-
ing man and it was all a matter of social
responsibility. I was deeply hurt not
only it was the matter of one day and
this open insult but also the layers over
layers of the long rudeness made me
shallow.
I took all my major documents and
certificates; some saved cash and jew-
ellery; some clothes and things of basic
needs. Meanwhile I received no calls. It
hurt me more that my absence was not
felt there and nobody bothered to ask
my whereabouts as I left the celebration
in-between. I made my mind to leave
the home, I made with all my efforts
and love. I designed it with my dreams.
Leaving the place was painful. Every
wall of that house was looking at me
helplessly.
And I had to go...
Anything and everything but nothing
at the cost of my dignity. My female
ego covered my decision and I took the
major step of my life. All my logic and
conscience supported my decision and
for the moment I felt like some femi-
nist leader protesting for my freedom
and rights. But freedom from whom? I
had no time to think about it as I con-
centrated on collecting all the things I
could need, and I found everything im-
portant. Deodorants, Soap, Bangles, Sa-
rees- everything seemed to be the basic
necessity of daily life. Somehow I man-
aged to decide the things and packed
them. At every noise on the door I ex-
pected Nakul or any other member of
my family came after me but it was all
the wind or kids playing outside.
I stepped out of the threshold and my
heart sunk. Just for the sake of second
thought I looked back and after a pause
stuck to my decision of starting a new
life.
I left my home.
What happened next wait for the
next issue.....
“Born and nurtured in at a scholastic family in Delhi,
Himadri studied English Literature from Lady Shri Ram
College, University of Delhi. Under her penname “Him-
milicious” she has published several EBooks on Contem-
porary Erotic Romance and currently working on her
debut erotic romance in print version”

The door had opened as I had turned
to move away from the doorway. I
stood there, still unconvinced of my
decision to visit the house again. The
question was repeated, and I looked
around to see who spoke to me, but I
could not see anyone. Then I saw a little
boy staring at me, his eyes scrutinizing
me from top to bottom. I did not know
what to tell him and his brows curved
into suspicion as his cheeks grew
crimson and he ran inside the house
screaming, “Ma! Ma! Maa …”
The scent of incense stung my nose as
I peered into the room. Nothing of the
house he once knew, remained. The
dinner table had been shifted to the ex-
treme right and in its place now stood a
cupboard gallery stuffed with memen-
tos, souvenirs, crystal pieces and photo
frames. I entered the door without ask-
ing permission, as if I owned the house.
Perhaps, at that moment, the house
owned me and tugged at my insides to
make it feel like I was home. The couch-
es remained the only unchanged piece
of furniture in the house I once called
mine, like the foundation brick of a
ruined temple that remained unshaken,
an artifact of the past.
The mind is a funny part of our system,
and once we let it control us, it plays
tricks on us. I heard Ma’s humming
from the kitchen area. Her voice res-
onated, the kind that pierces within,
igniting an energy that compels you to
listen to her and obey. I knew all this
was a figment of my imagination. But
the reverberation of her voice- I could
feel it in the air, in the soft movement of
the curtains against the bickering sun-
light… As I recalled her calling me as I
was about to leave … “Khuku,

take your Tiffin. I have packed some
rotis and alu bhaja for you, nothing
exquisite but I know you’ll love eating
it.”I was getting late and irritated both
at the same time, Ma had been advised
to take rest but she was always up to
something or the other. “Ma, stop both-
ering about such things. I would have
managed. Anyways, aami jaachchi . (I’m
going.)” I said hurrying out. “Jeyo na
Shona, esho!” (Don’t say I’m going Sho-
na, Say I’ll come soon.)That was my last
conversation with Ma, she developed a
cardiac arrest during her afternoon nap
and passed away peacefully. I had taken
no time to leave the house after her, her
memories almost haunting me at every
corner. But I was wrong in thinking that
escaping the house, would help me deal
with her absence. The walls screamed at
my betrayal; I had left -alone and emp
ty. I stood with tears, asking for forgive-
ness silently when a lady came out ask-
ing, “Ke Tumi?”
I replied, “I am the owner of this house
Aunty, and I need my home back at any
cost. It is my Ma’s.”
Priyanka Dey is passionate singer, story teller
and book reviewer.

Which author do you feel has influenced your style
the most?
There are many authors who I admire and respect. However, I have
tried to maintain my own style in writing. For perspective and dif-
ferent thinking, I admire the ancient Sanskrit Dramatist, Bhasa who
first wrote about Duryodhana and Karna. For writing style, I love
R K Narayanan and Ruskin bond for their simplicity, Rushdie for
his language and the ease and confidence with which he writes, to
name a few

Storizen Magazine - May Issue

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