If only, she would abort her girl child to protect her from rape..

Unwanted as a baby, insulted as a girl, raped as a woman and silenced as a lady. When did our definition of a woman undergo such a sea of changes ?  Expected to give up her career to raise a family and complete all her chores on time, never asked for an opinion, not allowed to enter the temple in her periods as if it is something she does against God's wishes, dutifully provide the family with healthy sons that grow up to be as insensitive as the others, beaten, burnt and raped. When did we lose our humanity and fell so low that we stopped respecting and started raping the womb that gave us birth ? Many of you might be offended by the title of this post, but I stand by it with all my courage. I would be least surprised if a pregnant woman decides not to have a girl child for the fear of what happened to a 23-year old student in Delhi. Being her age, I can't imagine the trauma that she must be going through.

The media is hungry for that one sensational byte, one statement from the family, one more picture! They manage to ignite a protest, start support groups online, abuse the accused on social networks. But what good does it bring to the victim ? She has become the talk of the nation, but how is it helping her ? Not long ago, a girl from North East India was publicly molested and beaten. The case became viral on Youtube overnight. Banners were hanged, posters were painted. What good came out of it, still manages to stay a mystery. A german woman was raped and murdered in Goa last year and instead of justice, advice was served. Tourists were asked to dress and behave according to the Indian customs while they were in India.

"Protest infront of India Gate, 22nd Dec, show your support". I received this text a few days back, asking me to show my support for the gangrape victim. Many of my friends swore that they wouldn't miss it for the world. Although it did make me think, were they excited because they thought it was cool that they were protesting for a cause for the first time ? or were they angry because an innocent 23-year old was gangraped and thrown out of a moving bus ? 'All the female politicians must be raped', this filth also made it to every youngster's phone, as if the recent happenings weren't disgusting enough. Just this morning, I was informed that the punjabi rockstar Honey Singh has composed a song on the victim, depicting his rage and suppressed anger. All I felt upon hearing it, was humiliation and shame. An obnoxious Bollywood star saw this as an opportunity of promoting his latest movie. The opposition sees it as a means of initiating a political riot. 

What fears me the most is that have we started taking pleasure in the victim's misery or do we enjoy the blame-game ? Some blame the accused, others blame the city altogether.

The main accused, Ram Singh, the bus driver, said that he only did this because his friends thought he was not man enough to have sex with a woman. How does forcing yourself on a woman prove your manhood ? How does that third leg give them the advantage of being superior over women ? Of all the rape case accused that are arrested, almost 70% accept that they did this to show her "her real place". But then, how does forcefully inserting your penis into a vulnerable woman's vagina do that ?

The body, the scars, they all might heal, but will the soul ever heal ? I myself live in a conservative North Indian Punjabi family. I'm not allowed to leave my house alone after 6 in the evening. Even if I have to got to the nearby chemist, I take my brother along. It never makes sense to me, but I do the needful to ease out my parents' worry. But what if a gang of six decide they want to rape me, will my brother be able to protect me ? You see ? right there, something is wrong at the bottom of it all.  

The current maximum penalty in rape cases in India is life imprisonment. Officials say that death sentence has been put on the table and it might be served in extreme rape cases. What I want to know is that, what will be the criteria of deciding which case is an extreme and which isn't.

Is a woman raped by one man for ten minutes any less haunted than a woman gangraped by 6 men for an hour ?

This post is my not-so-poignant ode to the dying human spirit.

14 Hours - A Book Review.

Title : 14 Hours - An insider's account of the Taj Attack.

Author - Ankur Chawla

Publisher - Rupa Publications India

Genre - Personal Experience

ISBN - 9788129120656

Pages - 162

Rating - 4/5

About the Author [Source : Internet]

Ankur Chawla went to school in Delhi and then graduated from the Institute of Hotel Management, Shimla. He was selected as an operations management trainee with the Taj Group of Hotels. He has worked at different Taj properties, including the Taj Mahal Palace in Mumbai, for almost five years. Ankur has, over the years, also played musical instruments such as the tabla and drums, participated in theatre, acted in documentaries and undertaken several public-speaking and marketing engagements. He currently holds a managerial position in the food and beverage department at the Taj Mahal Hotel in Delhi.

Summary

A stark and compelling narrative , this is the story of a man who battled immense fear and peril to emerge a survivor.

Ankur Chawla says ' Working in a hotel prepares you for many things, but not this. I could hardly agree more with him. 26 November 2008. Mumbai was terrorized to its core and  Ankur Chawla has given us the insider's account of those dreadful 14 hours in there. I did not want to judge this book like any other books that I read, simply because of the sheer soul Ankur has tried to put in. If he is anything, its brave for me. If I would have been in his place, I wouldn't have had the courage to re-live the trauma even after several years. I applaud him for the genuine effort. 

This book is a tribute to those who died in the attack and a salutation to the spirit of those who survived.

At times, when I closed my eyes, I could see the shady figures dancing around with rifles and the grey bagpack.

The story has been heard numerous times, in snippets, on various news channels and read on laudable newspapers, but what they could not provide was the first-hand account and the racing heartbeats of the people fighting their fates against this unfortunate mishappening inside the Taj.

About being totally honest, I do think the book had some glitches and grammatical errors, but of course writing a book, specially the one with these kinds of feelings attached can be really hard. Perhaps, maybe Ankur could have hired somebody to do a better job at it. Still, this does not affect my rating of the book and neither does the sentiment lose any of its original value.

It was a tragedy that we may never even wish upon our foes. I hope Ankur regains his 'before-incident' chirpy self, although we all know that is easier said than done. Mumbai had been terrorized and so was the rest of the country.

I can only wish peace.

My rating for this brave narrative would be 4/5.

This review is a part of BlogAdda's Book Review Program.

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The Bankster - A Book Review.

Title: The Bankster

Author: Ravi Subramaniam

Publisher: Rupa Publications India

Genre: Fiction

ISBN: 9788129120489

Pages: 358

Rating: 4/5

About the Author (Source - Internet)

Ravi Subramanian an alumnus of IIM Bangalore, has spent two decades working his way up the ladder of power in the amazingly exciting and adrenaline-pumping world of global banks in India. It is but natural that his stories are set against the backdrop of the financial services industry. He lives in Mumbai with his wife Dharini and daughter Anusha. In 2008, he won the Golden Quill Readers Choice award for his debut novel, If God was a Banker. 

To know more about Ravi, visit www.ravisubramanian.in or email him at info@ ravisubramanian.in. To connect with him, log on to Facebook at www.facebook. com/authorravisubramanian or tweet to @subramanianravi.

Bankers build their careers on trust, or so everyone thinks, till a series of murders threaten to destroy the reputation that the Greater Boston Global Bank (GB2) has built over the years. Who is behind these killings, and what is their motive?

When Karan Panjabi, press reporter and ex-banker, digs deeper, he realizes that he has stumbled upon a global conspiracy with far reaching ramifications a secret that could not only destroy the bank but also cast a shadow on the entire nation. With only thirty-six hours at his disposal, he must fight the clock and trust no one if he is to stay alive and uncover the truth.

Bestselling author Ravi Subramanian, a master storyteller of financial crime and winner of the Golden Quill Readers Choice Award, returns with his most gripping thriller yet.

Summary

The book begins with three parallel stories and then in the mid-way is left with two stories. The parallel stories are that of Joseph Braganza in Angola, Greater Boston Global Bank (GB2) in Mumbai, and Krishna Memon in Devikulam, Kerala.

The author writes about the sad state of affairs of the rich trying to get richer through frauds. Like many other readers, what hit me the first time I saw the book, was its title. It isn’t the banker, it’s the bankster. The name itself has put in a lot of weight and suspense to the story.

GB2 is the main centre of the story, a reporter from TOI, the nuclear power plant story, many stories have been intertwined with each other and Ravi Subramaniam deserves a great round of applaud for it.

Infact, what isn’t clear until the end is what exactly is the crime and what has menon got to do with it ?

I won’t unfold the rest of the mystery here, In order to know more, buy the book from your nearest book stores, or online from Flipkart.com.

This review is a part of BlogAdda's Book Review Program.

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The Wedding.

Excitement. Happiness. Nervousness. Bride. Groom. Heart. Lights. Shine. Music. Booze. Dance. Laughter. Giggle. Dreams. Insomnia. Exhaustion. Love. Food. New. Beginning. Colors. Heightened Emotions.

This is the Grand Indian Wedding.

My sister got married to the man of her dreams yesterday. I wish her the best of all worlds. Shes gone and I can't seem to contain the emptiness of my home. I guess, I shall eventually fall back on my regular blogging schedule. 

PS - Have any of you ever gone through a phase where you fall from a good '10 posts a month' to a 'rare single post a month' ?, where you want to write and yet don't find anything convincing enough ? Share a tip, if you have.

Its one of those days for me and I shall kick its ass soon.

Love.

An Embrace.

An embrace is sometimes all that we need. Breathing and melting into it, drowning into its sadness. Maybe, or maybe not ? Else, how do you manage to get past the enormous loss of a loved one. It is a tad bit uncouth, although I don't know whether on God's part or destiny's. This month, 3 of my students at the school have lost their fathers. I won't say I know what kind of a storm is whirling inside them, because I don't. Their loss is humongous and I can't even begin to imagine what pain they must be going through. Living through a time like this at an age where football seems to be the most important thing in the world is unfair. I don't know whom to blame, but what I do know, is that nobody deserves to go through a time like this. Just the thought of losing anybody around me makes my eyes water. They say, its just a phase, I don't trust them. How can you get past a phase where somebody loved you more than their own lives ? How do you forget your first super hero ? How do you gather the strength to make it all seem better when clearly it won't ever be the same ? Nobody can.

I pray for them and wish them all the best in life.

Delicious Ambiguity.

The best thing in life is not knowing how its going to end. This way, hope and love always find a path to struggle back in. As the years pass by, we are often engulfed in a quagmire with ourselves, amidst that whiff of a smoke and those beautiful laugh lines. They make us look older, also wiser, but do we care ? Our sense of right and wrong develops a smarter perspective, only to unfold the real us. 

What a frivolous conundrum this life is.

It is strange, how our ideals shape themselves according to our comfort. Not everything right deed springs up an innocent smile, not every wrong deed weighs heavy on the conscience. I don't know why I am being a philosophical nerd here, but the irony of this fact is that there was a time when all that I'm writing right now would have put me to sleep in no time. Change. That, I suppose, is what I'm talking about, or atleast I'm trying to.

Change, has never really been my thing. I like routine, waking up to the sound of the same alarm tone everyday, running late for work. I let comfort settle a layer deep inside my skin. And when the situation demands to peel it off, I feel this infuriating pain that stings me at regular intervals.

Stories. Did you know, every man has a story to tell ? No matter how dark, no matter how twisty, there is always a story somewhere in that nondescript part of their brain, waiting to be told. Stories, that were woven with great precision, intertwined with an accurate dose of happiness and tears. They make them want to jog down the altar that leads to happy memories, memories that are stained with flaws, flaws that seem to be the closest possible entity to whats real.

Some, inherit the richness of time. 

Some, fly away with that broken wing.

But then again, The best thing in life is not knowing how its going to end. Or rather, how your story is going to end.

Innocence [55Fiction #10]

How fast they grow up, not a second to waste, not a second to breathe. Those tiny palms, now filled with henna, those tousled hair, now puffed up with accessories, those muddy toes, now modestly polished.

Life passes us by in a jiffy. Halt for a moment today, and caress the scent of their innocence.

Just Married, Please Excuse.

'Just Married, Please Excuse' is a very simple attempt to throw humor at the concept of marriage in India by a Gurgaon based housewife, Yashodhara Lal. Vijay(V) and Yashodhara(Y), two young individuals who happen to have fallen for each other, get hitched together after only a few months of dating. Even though Yashodhara, 23, feels she is too young to fall into the trap, she still gives in. Bangalore, Delhi and Mumbai, the greatest cities of India, are where the story sets its pace. I might even call it a love story, but then again, it was too cheesy to be one.

With all the little glitches and steep turns of marriage, they find solace into each other arms, right before the big twist sets foot into their lives. Yashodhara gets unexpectedly pregnant, she is shocked but Vijay is extremely happy. He makes sure she is showered with utmost love and care during her pregnancy. It is only after the baby comes into their lives that they start arguing about every little thing, from 'her name' to 'how to take care of her'. And to know the story behind why the baby gets named 'Peanut', you have to buy the book and read it for yourself.

This is where the erratically funny counselor steps in with the funniest way to deal with her patients. She constantly advises V and Y to go for her 12-step program. If nothing else, you have to pick this book up for her. 

I was apprehensive before applying for this book, not just because of the topic its based on, Marriage, also because it is an Indian author creation. And this has been said with no offense to any Indian authors who might be reading this. I mostly enjoy international suspense and thrillers but this sure was refreshing, plus it was a signed copy, which makes it a little precious for me to own.

The use of the very famous Hinglish language by Yashodhara in the story was a big turn off for me. I had to drag myself to the next page whenever a Hinglish dialogue passed by. If I wasn't obligated to write a review here, I probably would have stopped reading after all. But then again, to each, his own. Many Indian readers might find that amusing and I respect that fact. The book also had a couple of grammatical mistakes which were entirely unexpected giving in the number of times it must have been proof-read.

Title: Just Married, Please Excuse

Author: Yashodhara Lal

Publisher: Harper Collins

Price: INR 199

Number of Pages: 264

Genre: Fiction

ISBN: 978-93-5029-227-3

The Krishna Key - A Book Review.

Book Summary of The Krishna Key

Five thousand years ago, there came to earth a magical being called Krishna, who brought about innumerable miracles for the good of mankind. Humanity despaired of its fate if the Blue God were to die but was reassured that he would return in a fresh avatar when needed in the eventual Dark Age—the Kaliyug.

About The Author (Source : Internet)

Ashwin Sanghi is one of the well known writers in the Indian literary scene, and an author of thriller fiction. He shot to fame through his first release, The Rozabal Line. His books are characterized by extensive research, and they're fast paced political or historical thrillers.

Ashwin is an entrepreneur by profession but writing historical fiction in the thriller genre is his passion and hobby. Ashwin was educated at the Cathedral & John ConnonSchool, Mumbai, and St Xavier's College, Mumbai. He holds a masters degree from Yale and is working towards a Ph.D. in Creative Writing. Ashwin lives in Mumbai with his wife, Anushika, and his son, Raghuvir.

My Review

Given the literary history of the author and his title of ‘Dan Brown of India’, my expectations from this book were high since the minute I signed up for it. This is my second book that relates itself to the great Indian Mythology, and that is a surprise in itself, because of my interest issues. But nonetheless, you haven’t lived enough until and unless you’ve explored all the flavours on life’s platter, and my taste buds are very cooperative.

Krishna Key is no doubt an intriguing read. Ahswin’s writing style will hold your interest right uptil the last page of the book, not to mention Dan Brown will always occupy one little corner of your mind, no matter how hard you try to concentrate. The way the final loose edges of the plot have been brought together into a thrilling conclusion is commendable. The amount of research that has gotten into the making of this book is worth giving a mention here. Pictures have also been provided that help the reader get a better perspective as o what all is going on.

Glimpses of a poor proof-reading can be seen in a few places if you read the book carefully. The story struggles to keep in place because these mistakes can be a big spoiler for some. Names of characters have been mixed up in a couple of places. The errors were simple and should have caught the much deserved attention of the writer’s or the publisher’s pen.

I may not give a very glowing recommendation to this book for you if you’re not a Dan Brown-thriller fan. I may as well end up calling this one as a work of fan fiction.

My Rating 

3/5

This book was reviewed as a part of BlogAdda's Book Review Program.

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The Slum.

I see their clenched stomachs, impregnated with pangs of hunger,
But it also carries great strength, the one that urges them to earn every little morsel.

I see them dancing and bathing in the pools of mud,
But my contemptuous darting glares never seem to disrupt their innocent smiles.

I hear the pain and anguish of a molested daughter,
But the tenacity of togetherness heals her wound.

I feel their bare chapped feet, running on my skin,
But they leave the essence, of the touch of a pristine baby.

I smell the fear, of their hut collapsing on a rainy day,
But their palace stays intact, blessed by the power of their prayer.

I know that fortitude, the one that controls their darkest emotions,
But it also tells me, that they are broken inside.

I support the colossal bamboo that serves as their only toy
But their empty eyes fail to hide, that longing for something more.

I wonder, how would it feel,
If only for a day, I could Soak no more.

I see them cry, I hear them laugh, I soak it in,
For I am the Slum.

A Paralled World.

Comments have been disabled, discussion might disrupt the message I'm trying to convey here.

When the red light goes out, a parallel world gets in. The kind that is well guarded and well measured, except to the customers that pay. There exists a story of great mystery and intrigue, for this is the world that trades lust for money.

They come,

They go,

leaving behind some debris,

some pain,

some money.

Looking every bit like a desperate Indian bride, she battled her self-esteem and walked into the room. It smelt foul; like a chemical; like sex. The fear, the turmoil, the storm inside her heart that used to resurface whenever she climbed the staircase to this room had settled. The tasteless decor of red velvet was sprawled across the tainted bed. The walls were a nude yellow and the paint was fresh. She missed the old chapped landscape of the room. It recognized her and she didn't bore any shame in baring all in front of them. They seemed to absorb what was left of the excruciating pain she once felt. At first, the burns on her face seemed to repel him but still he unhooked her bra and got down to business. He knew his pocket allowed him only 200 an hour and this was the the only brothel in town that was eager to serve his needs at this price. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were vaguely visible. She wondered if he had any kids or if he was married at all. Apart from all those lustful glares, she thought she saw a glimpse of a clumsy kind man who pitied her condition, but very well knew that he couldn't do much about it. She liked the ones who pitied her, a tear or two made sure they were back within a week. He paid to spend an hour of desperation with her, and to her he would always remain a capable client who could afford her rate and whom she had to please in every possible manner so that he frequently comes back asking for more.

His hesitant polite manner told her that he was not one of those demanding customers who extracted worth out of every minute that they were paying for. As soon as he climaxed, he slid off her chest. It had only been twenty minutes but he started dressing himself. 'Naam kya hai tera ? Agle hafte fir aaunga' (What is your name ?, I'll come again next week). His voice caught her off guard and he was no more the shy stranger. She muttered her name under her breath. With an awkward demeanor he kept the two folded hundreds on the edge of the bed and turned to leave. 'Agar use pata chala ki maine tumse paisa liya hai to mujhe maar daalega' (He would tear me into pieces if word of my ever touching a cent of that money got to his ears). Now she knew, he was a novice.

He looked at her with an almost guilty expression and picked up the money. Apart from the faded moaning, this was the first of what she had ever spoken to a client, she never wanted to; she never had to. Their ignorance towards her feelings had made her strong and she intended on carrying on this strength within her forever. People had been calling her profession dirty and shameless, the irony was that the ones who paid for having sex with her had no dirt on their collar, all of it was served on her platter. She got off the bed, changed the bed sheet and prepared herself all over again looking like an Indian bride for another 200 an hour companion.

She felt sleepy and thought she would call it a night after this one. It had been six long months but still she was never able to entertain more than three men in one night. She knew this was her weakness and that it cost her a lot of money when compared to all the other ladies. Her employer called in after a couple minutes informing her that there weren't any more men asking for her that night.

She soaked the pain, fed her baby, ate her dinner and slept a dreamless quiet night.

Government of India has listed prostitution under its list of victimless crimes. Is it really a victimless crime ? If no, who is the real victim?

**

Words.

The world has been jeweled by the piercing sunlight and the shadows cast by it. It does not need Words. An uncatalogued stone speaks for itself and for the power of worship that resides inside it. The chastity of a lover discovers its path by wrapping its arms around its beloved, even calling it chastity is unfair until the knees flex and the throat dries. A kiss on the forehead is still completely cherished though no words are spoken. The emotional revelation of a tear is a confession of a sin. The poem that does not rhyme carries profound meaning. The wrinkle that has been masked by the make-up speaks the silent language of your real being. It uncovers a lie, night after night.

Words, as the world sees them, are over-rated.

Where Beauty is a Myth.

This post won the runner-up prize in the said contest.

The beaming astrologer had recommended green this time. Her mother, whom she lovingly called Ma, beseeched her to drape a green saree with a heavily embellished pallu. Its embroidery was more detailed than the last one. Ma could read through her glassy eyes, she always could, the pain, the humiliation of feeling like a rejected piece of clothing waiting to get lucky. She lifted up her chin and gave her a reassuring smile as though there was no evil left in this world for good to accomplish. She faked her faith in her smile.

Her heart was not pumping any more blood than it was supposed to today. The flutter refused to return and even after making every possible effort, she couldn't bring back the excitement she once felt. Her expectations had died a silent death several years ago. She was doing this for her parents, after all they had loved her, unconditionally. It was almost like a debt that was crushing her shoulders.

Didi put on some green eye-liner over her eyes that matched the color of the saree beyond belief, it was immaculate. A nail was tied to one end of the saree in an attempt to ensure prophetic significance. The lipstick was being applied with a lip brush this time as if this was the curse that went wrong all these years. Nonetheless, she very well knew this show had to be perfect and she was everybody's favorite puppet, she had to live up to their expectations unlike all the past failures. Mistakes weren't affordable anymore. Time was running swiftly and she had to catch up.

The delicacies were served in silver traditional thaalis, only if their beauty could overpower the truth. The sweets were prepared in pure desi ghee and their smell left no room for any other discussion. She entered with a tray and served her special cardamom tea to her audience. The saucers were left untouched. She saw their grin turn into a meek hint of a smile from the corner of her over-burdened eye, she could hardly lift it up. She wore a constant expression throughout the evening and spoke only when she was spoken to, the instructions were clear. The man who was supposed to decide whether she was beautiful enough to deserve the honor of marrying him kept nudging his mother with his elbow at regular intervals. He looked bored but his mother's stern expression kept him glued to the sofa.

An hour later, when everything from corruption to cocktail had got the privilege of becoming the center of discussion, the guests rose from their seats and began to leave. Her father joined his hands gesturing his debt to them for taking the trouble to grace them with their presence. He accompanied them to the entrance. She stood from her chair and waited in anticipation. A few minutes later, her father walked back in. Without uttering a word he left for his evening walk. She read the disappointment sprawled across his wrinkles.

It had happened. And it had happened again.

She was rejected by another family.

Not because she was illiterate,

Not because she didn't deserve it,

But because of the color that her skin reflected.

You might want to deny it but modern India is living on a land where beauty is a bubble waiting to be pricked by every other trespasser. Everybody holds an opinion but none so true. When Surf Excel Matic asked me to ponder over what occupies my mind when I hear the words 'Soak no More', I couldn't help but focus on how distorted our idea of beauty has become. This is not a preachy post asking you to reflect upon your concept of whos beautiful and whos not, its a silhouette, of a path that has led us to where we are and is constantly prompting us to overlook our conscience.

The market these days is flooded with fairness products that promise to make you more appealing to your partner. To be blunt, would you really want to be with a partner whose love is this shallow ? Crossing all lines, the latest addition to the list is a lotion that would make your private parts fairer and more attractive, as if the current happenings weren't enough to gather the level at which today's man has stooped. This massive obsession has grown beyond recognition, and all we do is soak, and then, soak some more of it.

I say, we 'Soak No More'.

Although the story depicted in this post talks about one particular stigma, the palette is filled with a riot of such stories.

It might take us a while to accept, but we're all a little fragile. A small dose of criticism can manage to do unimaginable harm to our self-esteem, and building a shield around us so that it wouldn't reach us is as hard as finding a needle in a haystack. Being considerate doesn't take much, the only requirement is purity of heart, and if you have that, you'll look at the world with a different, more subtle pair of eyes, ones that would cherish the goodness around them. I trust JK Rowling when she says, 

'It is important to remember that we all have magic inside us'.

Sometimes people are beautiful,

Not in looks,

Not in what they say,

Just in what they are.

This post is an official entry to the Surf Excel Matic 'Soak No More' Contest hosted by IndiBlogger.

My best wishes to all the participants.

Visit the Facebook Page to know more.

When The Red Light Goes Out.

When the red light goes out, a parallel world gets in. The kind that is well guarded and well measured, except to the customers that pay. There exists a story of great mystery and intrigue, for this is the world that trades lust for money.

They come,
They go,
leaving behind some debris,
some pain,
some money.

Looking every bit like a desperate Indian bride, she battled her self-esteem and walked into the room. It smelt foul; like a chemical; like sex. The fear, the turmoil, the storm inside her heart that used to resurface whenever she climbed the staircase to this room had settled. The tasteless decor of red velvet was sprawled across the tainted bed. The walls were a nude yellow and the paint was fresh. She missed the old chapped landscape of the room. It recognized her and she didn't bore any shame in baring all in front of them. They seemed to absorb what was left of the excruciating pain she once felt. At first, the burns on her face seemed to repel him but still he unhooked her bra and got down to business. He knew his pocket allowed him only 200 an hour and this was the the only brothel in town that was eager to serve his needs at this price. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were vaguely visible. She wondered if he had any kids or if he was married at all. Apart from all those lustful glares, she thought she saw a glimpse of a clumsy kind man who pitied her condition, but very well knew that he couldn't do much about it. She liked the ones who pitied her, a tear or two made sure they were back within a week. He paid to spend an hour of desperation with her, and to her he would always remain a capable client who could afford her rate and whom she had to please in every possible manner so that he frequently comes back asking for more.

His hesitant polite manner told her that he was not one of those demanding customers who extracted worth out of every minute that they were paying for. As soon as he climaxed, he slid off her chest. It had only been twenty minutes but he started dressing himself. 'Naam kya hai tera ? Agle hafte fir aaunga' (What is your name ?, I'll come again next week). His voice caught her off guard and he was no more the shy stranger. She muttered her name under her breath. With an awkward demeanor he kept the two folded hundreds on the edge of the bed and turned to leave. 'Agar use pata chala ki maine tumse paisa liya hai to mujhe maar daalega' (He would tear me into pieces if word of my ever touching a cent of that money got to his ears). Now she knew, he was a novice.

He looked at her with an almost guilty expression and picked up the money. Apart from the faded moaning, this was the first of what she had ever spoken to a client, she never wanted to; she never had to. Their ignorance towards her feelings had made her strong and she intended on carrying on this strength within her forever. People had been calling her profession dirty and shameless, the irony was that the ones who paid for having sex with her had no dirt on their collar, all of it was served on her platter. She got off the bed, changed the bed sheet and prepared herself all over again looking like an Indian bride for another 200 an hour companion.

She felt sleepy and thought she would call it a night after this one. It had been six long months but still she was never able to entertain more than three men in one night. She knew this was her weakness and that it cost her a lot of money when compared to all the other ladies. Her employer called in after a couple minutes informing her that there weren't any more men asking for her that night.

She fed her baby, ate her dinner and slept a dreamless quiet night.

Government of India has listed prostitution under its list of victimless crimes. Is it really a victimless crime ? If no, who is the real victim?

Tamarind City - Where Modern India Began : A Book Review.

Title: Tamarind City – Where Modern India Began

Author: Bishwanath Ghosh

Publisher: Tranquebar, Westland Publishers

ISBN: 978-93-81626-33-7

Genre: Non-Fiction

Pages: 315

Source: Publisher

Rating: 4/5

'While in other big cities tradition stays mothballed in trunks, taken out only during festivals and weddings, tradition here is worn around the year'

This is how Bishwanath Ghosh has described India's Tamarind City in this adventure of a book. I am not much into Non-Fiction travel genre but thanks to BlogAdda, it might soon become a favorite. It may seem as just another book describing a busy city at first but when you stat getting the gist of it, you'll know it is much beyond that. The author has lived through every word written on the pages of this travelogue. Bishwanath Ghosh has explored the many known and unknown facts about the city, its history, the wide variety in the nature of the people, from ghosts to pictures of yesteryear's filmstar Rekha with her step sister. In short, this book is all that you thought it would be and much more. You might notice that the explanation and research is not very exhausting, fine details are mentioned but they do not interrupt your virtual tour of the city.

The marriage of tradition and technology is what defines this city in the exact words of the author. I'd rather say it is the love child of this knot.

Ghosh successfully displays a vivid range of emotions that this city might carry deep in its heart. He sometimes talks about it as a muse and sometimes as a lover. The modern and traditional aspects of the city have been highlighted very well by Ghosh without favoring any purposely. He also says that there are many misconceptions that burden the shoulders of this city, and many of them fail to possess any solid grounds favoring their truth.He has not forgotten to mention the fact that Chennai is one such metropolitan that is taking its time to evolve and grow. This book is a live portrait of what Chennai is all about for those who have never been to this part of our country's diversified culture. To put Chennai in a summary form, I would say, it is a city that educates, entertains, survives and thrives. The flowershops, temples, beaches and women drawing kolams outside their houses give it a mass appeal.

Not spoiling the book's raw appeal any further for you, I would strongly like to recommend this book to those who would like to know more  about this Tamarind City.

And at the end, I'd still rather call it Madras.

About the Author [Source : Internet]

Bishwanath Ghosh was born on 26 December 1970 in Kanpur, Uttar Pradesh, where he began his career as a journalist before moving to New Delhi to work with Press Trust of India and The Asian Age. In 2001 he relocated to Chennai where he spent seven years at The New Sunday Express and three at The Times of India. He is currently a deputy editor with The Hindu. In 2009 he wrote the bestselling travel book, Chai, Chai: Travels in Places Where You Stop But Never Get Off, also published by Tranquebar.

This book was received as a part of Blogadda's Book Review Program. Sign up for the Book Review Program for Indian Bloggers.

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Getting Published (SpringTide.in)

This might not be as big a news to you as it is to me, but I believe in something different. Everything that happens to us for the first time always deserves a special mention. So, here it is.

SpringTide.in - An online youth magazine decided to publish I am She in their August issue under the column Politically (In)Correct. I'm elated. I got the mail last month but I wanted to break bread here only after it was all packed and done.

What do you think ?

Coloring it Happy.

In case you still check out this space, I have a confession to make. I would be lying if I'd say I haven't posted anything on my blog recently because I've been busy with work. The truth is that I haven't had any constructive ideas since quite some time now and I promised myself a few weeks ago, that I wouldn't post anything that does not satiate the creative worm residing inside of me. I did not want to slide down the bar that I had apparently set for myself through my work on this blog, or maybe its all inside my mind. Also, publishing a post just because I haven't written in a long time didn't make sense to me. But, what the heck, here's a quick update.

I've been teaching! for 4 months now. This news has proudly made its way into my blog because teaching was never even been the last thing on my to-do list. As a child, every girl when asked 'What would you like to become when you grow up ?' often answered, 'Teeeaaaacheerr'. But never me. I always said 'I don't know about that, what I do know is that I'd definitely be an MBA someday.' I liked how the degree sounded sophisticated without making much effort. Well, its an unfulfilled dream as of now but more on that later. Back when I joined the school, I literally loathed every minute of it. I was this miserable little kitten who always wore a smile because she was too pompous to let her colleagues gather any tid-bits about her sob story and that those nauseatingly happy students shouting at the top of their voices gave birth to a sharp throbbing in her head.

My first salary check arrived sooner that expected, but unlike what I thought, it did not make much difference. None of my fellow teachers are my age, they're all married and settled, but the glad part is the gossip. They gossip about everything under the sun, from sex to scum, all of it. You might think this story ends with me confessing my undying love for God's little angels, but it doesn't. They still have the power to make me want to strangulate myself at any minute of the day by shouting their lungs out. The only thing that has changed is that I no more think that doing something I don't entirely love doing is the worst thing that could have happened to me. I know, I always end up talking discreetly about my thought-process whenever I do a post like this, but I don't know, maybe its how life functions, or maybe its just how I function. I always have a rendezvous with optimism but only after pessimism has robbed all things happy off of me.

I've been buried neck deep in my pile of unread books and that is helping me a great deal in keeping my sanity safe and secure.
Ah! The things I do, to catch a good read at an odd time.

PS - I know I haven't been replying to your comments lately, my sincerest apologies. I promise I shall be back on track soon. Also, I have an awesome news to share with you all. I, am a happy bird and you, wait until next time. Love.

The Best Is Yet to be.

Laugh with me, on an evening distressed,

Hold my hand, for I feel blessed.

You've seen me bound, you've kissed me free,

Grow old with me, the best is yet to be.

I, Rama : Age of Seers : Book 1 - A Book review.

Title - I, Rama : Age of Seers : Book 1

Author - Ravi Venu
ISBN - 9780615582504
Language - English

Publisher - Cratus Media

Pages - 264

Price - Rs. 225

"There will be a time when men will fight among themselves in the name of God, when peace will fail; at that time a part of me will re-emerge."

“I, Rama, King of Ayodhya” – is a first person account of how the famed Hero monarch would narrate his tale, as viewed by him, his first hand view of the spectacular turn of events that would unfold themselves mysteriously, chronicling the path which immortalized his name, from a mere prince to the very epitome of manliness.

Ravi Venu has done an absolutely fabulous job with this opening volume of the trilogy "Age of Seers". I'd rather say it is a modern day take on the Ramayana - the epic. We've all grown up watching Ramayana and Mahabharata getting re-enacted on television, in case you enjoyed that part of your childhood, you will love Venu's efforts in this book. The prologue proudly rants about Rama in the late years of his life, narrating his extra-ordinary tale to his friends and his sons. It might seem like a futile effort at times, but when you finish reading this book, you'll get all your answers.

The two major highlights of the book are Vishwamitra and Kaikeyi. They have time and again proven that they had a big role to play in making this world a secure place for the human race. Unlike Ramayana, Kaikeyi has been shown as a warrior princess and her clarity and strength of mind is impeccable, whereas Vishwamitra's righteousness won him the title of 'Brahma-rishi' - The great Sage. One thing I can assure you of, is that this book is a well-researched combination of old day Ramayana and fiction but I must say, that it targets a limited audience.

As we move further in the book, the life of an adolescent Rama comes into being. Sita is also introduced here, their love and the kind of strength it held has been shown in a completely new light. It restores the reader's faith in undying love that can accomplish the world. Then the brother duo, Rama and Lakshamana are taught the skill of war, apart from the high morals that they have been imbibing since birth.

I would not spoil the fun for you by spilling any more beans. Go, pick up the book if you love contemporary mixed with a little fiction.

My rating - 3.5/5

About Ravi Venu - [Source : Internet]

Ravi Venugopal is a creative visionary and an entrepreneur. Ravi has been a part of several historical and science groups. After taken part in several Ramayana discussions and study for more than a decade on characters and looking at it from a holistic view has written this book keeping in view the acceptance factor of the new age audience of the Apple and Social Network Era.

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at Blogadda.com.

Participate now to get free books!

A Fallen Leaf.

There, she rested, quiet and cold;

Deranged, defeated, no more a rich color of gold.

She fought the wind, met her end with a heart so brave,

The strength that most men wish for, from cradle to grave.

PS - All of my work on this blog will hereby be signed as ‘Ayushi’. I have bid adieu to my alias - 'Serendipity'. Writing no more happens to me by accident, it comes from within, its a natural flow now.

If Only Our Strands Could Talk.

Hair, as Beatles wore it,

Sparked a change with an unappaled ease;

A rendezvous with Hepburn's pixie,

Made men go weak in the knees.

From demure to daring,

Monroe's curls have seen it all;

Men drooled and men sighed,

Only if, it weren't such a beautiful sprawl.

Hair, I believe, have a mind of their own,

They twirl, they dance;

Not always prim, not always proper,

It can make you drown, into its serene expanse.

'You are the most beautiful creature on earth' -
her hair whispered in her ear, in a language only hair can speak
and Dove can comprehend.

It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though the sorrow would be made less by baldness ~ Cicero.

 Even while pepping up for a party, a differently done hairstyle can always add that dash of extra drama to your outfit. They say, beware of a woman's long hair, if she wounds the magic of her long locks around her man's neck, he might fall in irrevocable, consuming love with her that might never set him free.

Apart from endless hours of amusement and happy smiles, all Disney has ever showered upon young girls, is unrealistic expectations about hair. Little angels even dreamt of those blonde flowy curls wondering about how could someone's hair always stay in place. They would spend hours at stretch infront of the mirror, combing and adoring their mane. A great deal of my childhood was also tangled in Rapunzel's hair, until one fine day when I grew up and acknowledged the fact that life's no fairy tale and if anything at all, Cinderella wore a wig at all times.

Your hair can make all the difference between being present and being noticed, between being a plane jane and a sizzling diva. It isn't anymore about how you look or how you walk, even a 30 year old woman can walk into a room and turn heads if her gorgeous hair plan on it. Have you ever wondered how easy life would be if our strands could talk and discuss their problems ? It would save them from a lot of torture and pain that we put them through. Imagine how everything would automatically fall into place just because your hair could tell you that the new dandruff shampoo that you've been using isn't working for them, or a casual request to let them stay loose this sunday. Alas! It remains a beautiful fantasy residing inside my heart. Like every other girl, I too have a beautiful hair story and it made me believe in bringing back what once was mine.

As a little girl, I believed only in play. A thick, shiny ponytail bobbing to the tunes of my jumpy feet rested at the crown of my head and it never demanded any extra attention. I almost took it for granted, when one fine day, it gave up on my carelessness. Being the clumsy teenager that I was, I have never used too many styling products or have never put my hair through too much iron, but still my hair grew rougher and thinner by the day, and the rain gods also seemed pretty upset considering all the humidity they bestowed that was robbing my hair off its moisture and smoothness. It might have been college, or stress over an incomplete assignment, or our auto rides to the movies while bunking lectures, it started falling out on me. I cribbed, worried and blamed the exam tension for it, but who knew, it had nothing to do with it.

It did take me a while to realize that my hair had gotten bored of our monotonous relationship. They revolted back in split-ends. Like every other normal couple, they needed extra time, special care and pampering from me, which they weren't getting. Expensive salons, eager spa sessions, nothing seemed to be working. It was almost like my life was over and all of my hair would just leave me.

As soon as I realized this, I took care of my locks like a baby and that was the end of my hair problems. Dove Damage Therapy Range has been a blessing in disguise for me in testing times like these. Perhaps, on second thoughts, maybe our strands do talk, but only to Dove. Proper oil massages, moisture filling with Dove Damage Therapy Conditioner after every wash, protecting my hair from getting attacked by direct sunlight, these little tid bits made my hair smile a healthy curve. Sprouts, nuts, carrots, eggs, milk and greens are a regular part of my diet since then. I know my hair better than ever now. I rained moisture upon my hair making up for all the nourishment I had stripped off it. In my experience, those four words that shower health over your hair are 'A good hair stylist'. He should understand the needs of your hair and give you sound advice whenever the situation demands. Invest in one and you'll never regret your decision. Mine is DOVE.

No matter how upset your hair are, Dove's  magic wand knows the trick.
Collage Credits -  http://littlemomentsofbliss.blogspot.in/

It is often said that good times are valued only because of the bad times that we have suffered through, but what matters the most is the simple answer to the question, are we game enough to deal with the bad times ? Every girl witnesses bad hair days in her life, but not letting them get to the mind and looking for a reason as to why they're upset would be the key to this lock.

My mom has always had curly hair, although they lost their volume over the years as a result of post-pregnancy nightmares, but the bounce never left her side. And on the contrary my dad has the darkest and the most straight hair in my entire paternal family. Earlier I used to take it as a blessing that my hair have inherited their texture and color from dad but with each passing day, there is this growing urge to have soft curls inside of me. This little wish of mine is being discussed here because I want to proudly present the fact that I've not been stubborn and I've not played against what nature has already bestowed upon me. I go in for temporary hair styles every now and then but a permanent damage is way off my radar.

Dove, helped me in recognizing the true value of my hair, and I can never thank the little birdie enough for it. I pray to God for strength to those who are battling cancer. Holding a head without hair, high over your shoulders requires great will and strength. I salute them.

Bald is the new Beautiful.
I have had this picture in my laptop since forever.
Using it today for this write-up is giving me immense happiness.
If you too are writing for this contest, I request you to add this picture and help in spreading awareness.

My best wishes to all the participants.

This is an official entry for IndiBlogger's Dove Contest. You may acknowledge it here.

Click on the logo to visit the new DoveHairCare app and know your hair in a shiny new light.

Paroxysm of Desire [55Fiction #9]

All the pleasure in the world seemed hers and she could hardly contain its enormity. She found a perch and placed the bag delicately as if it were a fragile piece of art. A paroxysm of desire burnt her as she slid inside the dress and muttered,

‘Ha! And you think you broke my heart!’

PS - Maybe not for all, but shopping is an instant remedy for many a wounds.