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Showing posts from 2016

One Indian Girl

We all heard it: Chethan Bhagath's One Indian Girl, broke all records in Amazon's pre-order history thirty minutes after going live on the platform beating Harry Potter and Cursed Child's Day 1.  Chethan Bhagat is a best-selling Indian author. The banker -turned author's debut novel is 'Five Point Someone', and One Indian Girl is his eighth work; previously he has written  five fiction and two non-fiction. The book is set to hit stands on first of October. What makes the current work unique according to him is that it is about females about feminism. This is what he writes in his blog on this:"I wrote on feminism because it isn't an equal world for woman, and most don't realise it. As a writer, I want to highlight issues in society that affect a lot of people. Feminism affects us all." He adds that his desire to write about females has taken a long time because to write in a 'female first person' was a 'huge challenge'.   In

A Page From My Writing

From Long Island Express Highway, Kailas turned north to enter Spring Filed Boulevard.  His visit to his home, he wasn’t sure to call it home, would have impacted who were close to him, had the events happened recently taken another turn.  The Boulevard was chock-a-block with traffic; his laziness didn’t allow him to check the traffic level before entering the Boulevard.  The road ahead stretched in two lines.  A tall advertising vehicle in front prevented him seeing anything beyond its flat back. He switched on his car radio and tuned on to the SyriusXM channel.  The announcer went on and on about all routes busy, he got angry and turned off the channel. Twenty-three minutes than usual he took to reach the turning from Spring Field Boulevard to 53rd Avenue.  There he turned south and joined street no. 216. Street 216 too was busy, but traffic wasn’t stagnant, moving.  Parking spaces on both sides were taken up by all kinds of vehicles, some flashing names of media houses and some adve

My Uncle's Heirloom

It was a mistake happened in a split second.  The lamp shade, I just removed of a table lamp slipped off my hand; fell onto the floor and crashed in a jingling. How I watched sadly, the shade was turning into a white net of shards. The dust that had gathered on its surface had rendered the lamp a dead, fearsome look.  So I was prompted to give it a facelift.  I was also earnestly trying to help my aunt in secret.  But, if my aunt got a clue of what I was intending, I was sure, she wouldn't have allowed me. The lamp, my uncle told was his family heirloom, so had lots of sentimental values attached to it more than its material value.  His great uncle got it from Vas co Dagama's yacht; his story went like that. I never believed him. My point was, how could he discard a thing of much sentimental value in the corner of the passageway to gather dust? Only when visitors came, he got my aunt to dust it and display on his table.  The following week, some guests were coming, and my aunt

Freedom in Creative Expression

Kethan Bhagat, one of the India's bestseller authors, answered in an interview; he writes for changing people's perspective. He's right. Writers are mainly the people who deal with emotions, and only emotions or feelings can change people's perspectives or views. And how can this be possible for writers, if they aren't allowed creative freedom, and tethered at the end of limited expressions? The individuals and the society as a whole get to with only stale or outdated ideas. And many of us are comfortable with outdated ideas because they make life easy, frictionless, and having little challenges. And they don't call it stale, but traditional. The majority of us are conditioned to treat anything that comes under the label of tradition with outright awe and respect, if not we fear stigma for supporting immorality. But the fact of the matter is that what often comes as traditional has nothing to do with tradition but the selected ideologies of a minority that only

Work - Life Balance

Now that I'm not working, so, I can write only about how I experienced it while I worked. Throughout my career life, I lived in Africa, where I'm still living, where conditions of life varied from those at home. I came to Africa, after I got married. When I got married I had to drop my work in India. When I worked in India, my colleagues and myself, stayed together in one house. We cooked and completed cooking and other home chores together, in turn, and life was very balanced. Less responsibilities, more freedom, that was for the spinsters.. But for those among us who were married, didn't seem life as balancing as it was for us, for they were always saddened by missing of their family members-husband and children. After marriage, I came to Africa, and for some time, I stayed at home until my appointment was sorted out. During that time, I was able to manage my home chores and reading. Then I got the job and our child was born, oh things were hotting up. I began to get ofte

What's Your Favorite Season of the Year

No doubt, my favorite season of the year is spring.  That is the period in which the nature pauses graciously on its fashion ramp in the most eye-catching make-over. I fondly remember the Kerala spring, though we hadn't used that word in our common vocabulary, because we weren't that conscious about transitional seasons; we talked only about rainy season and summer. Instead the arrival of spring, we associated with the arrival of Onam, which is a harvest festival. It came as a relief from a three-month's horrendous, South-Western Monsoon. For the three months it poured non-stop, breaking the sky into a constant war zone.The dark cumulus clouds ran amok over our head like maddened elephants, clashing violently forming thunderclouds shrieking with thunders and lightening. It appeared the Monsoon relished a sort of cruel pleasure when it reeked insurmountable havoc in the lives of people, especially the poor and the deprived.  Those who received its worst firing rage were the

What am I thinking

Tree on winter meditation  What am I thinking about now? I'm thinking about a tree, I see daily, outside my window. It belongs to the Betula Pendula species, commonly known by the name Silver Birch It's reminding me of the beauty of a temporal transformation. When I was in Kerala, the facts of seasonal changes weren't something that affected my sense of reality much, because there I never got a chance to experience them in such sharp contrasts. But in South Africa we have all four seasons,from 1 June to 31 August it's winter. So right now it's winter here. After that from 1 September to 30 November it's spring and the summer starts on 1st December and ends by the end of February. Here, I am watching the tree's transformation, as it happens daily.  I have captured two momentous points in its transformation through two photographs. Already by the beginning of the winter it started losing leaves and would stay in that state until the beginning of September, whe

My Missing Child

The car screeched into the parking lot at a high speed and stopped haphazardly. Not straightening its position for fellow drivers' convenience, she stepped out of it and walked in the direction of the building close by. The building wasn't causing any interest in her. Not because of its dull quaint appearance, but because it was a police station. She had been lucky so far. Never had to step inside a police station, that brutal world, only  seen the outside of one or two standing far away.  That brought us to the point that her fears were not drawn out of any firsthand experiences. But the tell-tale stories were all over. Just read the newspapers and the Facebook posts. Men not officially charged with any offences were beaten up within its four walls, and women reporting offences were raped even using bayonets and guns. Her feet thumped hurriedly on the dirty path to the building and at its end, she climbed up a flight of  cement steps to reach a narrow open space. Two flower po

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