BOOK REVIEW - SUMMER HOLIDAYS

BOOK REVIEW

                         SUMMER HOLIDAYS

                                  By KORAL DASGUPTA

“Some sentiments are personal. They are deep and impassioned. They expose the raw, unfabricated feelings of the heart so ruthlessly that it feels naked.”  (Page 223)

To a writer, a review is not just about praise or criticism. The unimagined and never thought of perceptions that reviews bring out, which sometimes, even the creator of the story hasn’t touched upon are more valuable to a writer.

While reading ‘SUMMER HOLIDAYS’ I was wondering how challenging it was to write this story. For me, it would have been too difficult to write such a story. I was gobsmacked, mesmerised and in awe of the authoress. In an era when everyone writes either a Romance or a Thriller, someone chooses to write about families, siblings, and relations. And, it’s not just a naive attempt but a masterpiece. I reckon this book will soon be in the curriculum for the students pursuing literature. This is the story that I would call ‘Real Fiction’.

I have great respect for the people who respect relations. Our relations are our strength. They are the people God wanted to be in our lives. Our relatives are the people who love us in spite of knowing all our shortcomings. Their unconditional love brightens up our lives. We may not hear from them for months even then, we live with the assurance that we can bank upon them in the hour of need. The belief that some people are just a call away and will come to our aid no matter what the circumstances are makes us face all challenges life throws at us. A rift, small disagreements, trivial arguments, random quarrels should not cut off the divine bond that binds us. Our lives will always suffer and feel the lack of cheerfulness if we shove them out of the sphere, they are naturally an inseparable part of.

This story has touched me, stirred my emotions, wetted my eyes many times and for a change, made me a slow reader- I sipped it rather than gulping that I normally do. This book is a ‘Research Material.’

“When you don’t water your plants, they die.” This, Major Dhillon says about relations.

Narrated in an uncomplicated third person, the story begins with a rift between parentless siblings- a brother and a sister, that distances them for years but another pair of siblings-their kids, eventually bring them together again.

The protagonist, Rishi is a real artist. The way he treats Meera stirred the brother in me. He is protective but wants her to transform the small-town-introvert-maiden in her into a confident woman who flaunts her goodness. How great it is that a brother tells his sister that ‘She makes heads turn’. The teasing remarks he passes to his sister takes you back to your childhood.

    “Someone seems to have made peace with tattoos.”

The manner, in which Koral Dasgupta describes the artwork, shows her artisanal skills. I could see the picture that Viyaan buys and the sketch of the boy sitting under the banyan tree in front of the tea-stall.

I love the way he warns Viyaan Iyer, his employer against flirting with his sister. And, the way he snubs the taxi driver when he Meera reaches Mumbai. And, how he sweetly he treats Shabnam. Girls, do read this book and you will fall in love with Rishi.

Meera impresses as a motherless girl and a daughter of a disciplined Army officer. I love her no-prejudice-demeanour towards his father. Daughters are always so accommodating and understanding. I admire the efforts she put in to understand her brother, Rishi.

Major General Anil Dhillon is a stereotype army officer, disciplined, egoist and suppressor of emotions. He impresses towards the end when he accepts the imposter Rahul Pandey as his daughter’s suitor although he disliked his habits. That’s what a father is.

Viyaan Iyer appears rude. Despite his magnanimous personality, I worried about Meera whenever she meets him.

Deepti Bua is all right though, I felt that the author could have shown her thinking about her brother and niece a few times.

What a man Sharat Bahl is! A brilliantly drawn character blessed to have inherited the author’s great sense of humour. A perfect English literature professor. I had instant respect for him when he says, “In a few days he will see his dreams come to life. He will be able to touch it. Can anyone be richer than that?”

And when he says to Meera, “Usually it’s my wife who stands there staring at that photograph. I had just started to rejoice that she had suddenly grown young. Tough luck.”

And, the wife, Deepti Bua refuses to hold back.

“You can trust English Professors to be desperate.”

The ever-enigmatic and infamous Husband-Wife equation has been realistically expressed.

“Just check whether there are chilli flakes in the tea”

“You do all kinds of strange things and I have to hear about it for months after……… Why should I face the music for someone else’s strange habits?”     (Page 133 is fantastic)

We wonder how strange things manage to find only us. This is the kind of story that will bring solace to our distress of being cursed. When an author writes about the things you thought happened to you only, a sense of relief embarks upon you that you are not alone.

There is philosophy even in the humour. The comparison that the author draws between a Physics lecturer wife and an English-literature-professor husband is thought-provoking- She looked older than her age while he looked the same.

Shiraz, a mere gardener, the non-participant and yet very much part of the story is the author’s most favourite. Why, she tells in the acknowledgements. Shiraz never does anything wrong. He is the only one, Rishi has no complaints about. Shiraz is an unflawed human being. He grows beautiful marigolds. He talks to them. Rishi is so smitten by Shiraz that he finds his daughter the most perfect girl.

Shiraz would turn everything into an enchanting story.

He composes folk songs. Everything beautiful nature has, manifests in his songs. A lover of mankind is always a lover of nature though it may not be the other way around. Shiraz dies of snakebite.

“The ugliness is an illusion…You have to see through it to reach the real beauty…” Shiraz says.

The vain comparison between Virat Kohli and Sachin Tendulkar irks the cricket-fanatic in me.

“Work like you are having a blast with the bat (like Kohli), rather than worshipping the bat like Tendulkar.”

And, not forgetting Kunj Bihari ji, the mouthpiece of wisdom, I strongly feel, he exists somewhere if not at IIT Mumbai. He exists and the author has studied him closely for she has written this character with remarkable precision.

Page number 239 to 243, I read with tears in my eyes despite the author’s spirited efforts of balancing emotions with humour. Let me tell you Koral Dasgupta, your brilliance failed here.

SUMMER HOLIDAYS is the kind of book on which I can write a thesis. It’s a book I can read again and again.

But, I am weird. Ending this write-up without criticism will disturb my digestion. A question I asked the writer in me after I finished reading SUMMER HOLIDAYS, why do we writers bring in characters, use them to our advantage and then discard them. I felt sorry for Professor Shayan Banerjee. Why was he in the story? And, the little boy who sold incense sticks on the road, who meets Rishi, rides on his bike, imparts a piece of valuable advice and perishes. Just one appearance?

I maintain that the way someone writes shows the way he or she lives. Only a person who values his relations could have written such a fabulous story. SUMMER HOLIDAYS will always remain alive in my memory. Beautiful story it is!

Do read this if you love your siblings and value your relations.

BOOK REVIEW-Till We Meet Again

BOOK REVIEW

                      Till We Meet Again

                                           -Shiabji Bose 



 
‘Ordinary people have extraordinary stories'- the blurb says. So true it is! 
The story is about the mundaneness of a lower-middle-class household. Their financial woes. The worries of the lone earning member to make children capable of battling the challenges that life poses and his lifelong sufferings to realise only two dreams- to erect a roof over head and to solemnise his daughter's marriage. His shoulders happily and selflessly carry the burden of all other lives. And, when he perishes suddenly, somebody has to take up his role. The quantum of responsibility remains the same irrespective of his capabilities. The bereaved family survives on the saving of the deceased father.  Constraints and worries are an inseparable part of such ordinary lives.

I maintain that the rich only know what life is but the poor understand what life is. The story equipped with the author's deep understanding of life subtly corroborates my belief. The intrinsic and detailed narration of the struggles of a family makes ‘Till We Meet Again' a good read.
'Till We Meet Again' (though I have inhibitions about the validity of the title for the story) is a promising attempt by the debutant author Shibaji Bose. 

Another thing about this story that kept me hooked to it is the protagonist choosing to become a hairstylist. I could relate to it as I have gone through the same. I am a mathematics teacher and when my son conveyed his desire to become a Cinematographer, I was in a fix. After a few sleepless nights, I weighed that my son's dreams are more important than the bizarre opinion of society. 

The narration is a bit unfathomable in the first few pages where extravagantly compound and complex sentences and needless rosy adjectives make reading tedious. The inexperience of the debutante might be the reason for it and the editor should have guided him. 
The letter addressed to the protagonist from the diseased father is the only astounding feature of the story in the first few pages.  The letter to which every father and every son can relate to earned the first applause for the author from the emotional reader in me. The writing improves gradually as the sentences become shorter. Writing a book is a journey and it was appeasing to see an author metamorphosing through his maiden voyage. 

I also felt some loopholes in characterisation. Aryan, the protagonist is ordinary in everything but is like a hermit. He is a dutiful son, a doting brother and a decent male who doesn't 'salivate' (borrowed from the author's diction) seeing women. I would have cherished some more humanly vices in him other than being an ordinary guy. 
Kavya impresses me as a character (not as a woman). Shibaji Bose has portrayed her as a worldly woman with believable traits. Although the revelation of her connivance against the protagonist came as a rude shock, I felt for her. Committing adultery by a wife to teach a lesson to her husband for hiding some wrong practice is indigestible but I accept it as the changing values and modernised institution of marriage. Surprisingly, the marriage survives after the wife's revenge. I had to console the reader in me when the story announced that the couple had united again because I had envisaged that the story would end with Aryan and Kavya tying knot. Alas! It doesn't happen. Uncertainty is one beautiful aspect of storytelling. Readers may not approve of the unthinkable turn the story takes but they always appreciate the author's extent of imagination to outthink them.

Be it Aryan's mother, or his sister- Rhea, be it Kavya, Reema or Priya, all the female characters in 'Till We Meet Again' are self-centred and ambitious. I felt a repressed disharmony and denigration in the author's portrayal of women. I am curious to know the reason for it. The author's rich vocabulary also impresses me.

FOND MEMORIES OF MY SCHOOL TEACHERS

आओ बचपन सींचें - 6

चाहे कितने भी बड़े हो जाएँ, फिर भी हम सब हमेशा थोड़े-थोड़े बच्चे ही रहते हैं l नए कपड़े पहन कर बड़े भी इतराते हैं l जन्मदिन पर गिफ्ट पाकर बड़े भी खुश हो जाते हैं l 
जरूरी है बच्चा बने रहना और बच्चों से जुड़े रहना l  




FOND MEMORIES OF MY SCHOOL TEACHERS

A HUMBLE TRIBUTE


What could be a more appropriate subject for this week's post other than remembering the teachers who play an important but underrated role in our lives? 

My first thoughts were to write about the invaluable contribution of teachers in making us capable to face the challenges of life, however, I changed my mind for two reasons. 
First, all of us have written essays on 'My Favourite Teacher' or 'An Ideal Teacher' in schools that everything I would have written might sound cliched. Second, I am a teacher myself. My write-up to glorify teachers would sound like preaching or self-adoration. 
So, I chose to share memories of my teachers with you. 

My first school was St. John's Primary School at Barmer, Rajasthan. On the first day of school, my mother went to drop us (My Sister and I) to the school. Not ready to part with her, I went into hysterics and clasped her sari. When nobody could console me, Mr. Mathew came forward. He held my right hand as my mother's sari was in the tight grip of my left hand. There was a tug-of-war between Mr. Mathew and me. After putting up a spirited fight and creating quite a spectacle, I lost to Mr. Mathew. Overpowering me, the robust teacher with a bushy moustache and Rajesh Khanna like hairdo, signalled my mother to leave. His heart changed colours like a chameleon the moment my mother left. Giving me a tight slap, he sent me to my class. Another thing I remember about Mr. Mathew is his strange habit of pinching on the thighs of boys whenever they made a mistake. We wore knickers and his fingers bit our tender flesh like forceps. Though I have unpleasant memories of him but he made me sit in a classroom on the first day of my fifteen-year-long unforgettable and happening school life. 

Ms. Suman Kashyap was the headmistress at Happy Time Public School where I studied for grades one, two and three. Once seeing me crying, I don't remember why I was, Ms. Suman came to me and held me in her arms. When I didn't stop sobbing, she cuddled me like a mother. She was the same for every child. Soft-spoken, always smiling, cracking jokes and an ideal kindergarten teacher. Children loved to be in her company. She was everyone's favourite.
I was fond of her at that time but as I grew up, my fondness changed into reverence.

At National Victor Public School, Mr. Virender Singh taught me mathematics in grade four. My memories of him are significant to my making into a mathematics teacher.
After distributing the half-yearly exams answer-sheets to the whole class except me, he asked, "Who is Gaurav Sharma?"

Stunned by this undue summon, I timidly stood up. I knew I hadn't topped.
"You've got 17...passing marks. And, you can see I have given you undeserved marks here and there because I liked your name. (GAURAV used to be a rare name those days). In lieu of this favour, I want you to promise to do better next time."
I nodded like a robot but his words and gesture did motivate me. I managed to get fifty percent marks in mathematics which was a hurdle for me to be among the first three ranks in the class.
Virender Sir's words kept on haunting me and pushed me for improvement year after year. The progress, however, was gradual.

Pune was a new atmosphere. I was at Air Force School, Viman Nagar, Pune for classes six, seven and eight. I was like a rustic simpleton who had landed into a metropolis. The first day, class Six, when Mrs. Chawla, our English teacher, asked me to read from the textbook, I pronounced "Come on" as "Common". My classmates burst into laughter. Mrs. Chawla corrected me. Nervous, I still read it wrong. The class repeated their chortling. Mrs. Chawla reprimanded them and asked me to read it again. I think I got it right after six or seven attempts. That was quite an embarrassment. Mrs. Chawla didn't give up on me. She used to call me at her home and gave me grammar lessons. She would ask me to read the lessons aloud and corrected me when I mispronounced a word. That was going several miles farther to help a weak student. It was unfortunate I could not meet her when I visited Pune in July this year as she was in the US at that time. But I always remember her when somebody admires my writing skills.

The Goddess of Mathematics finally smiled at me.
The first day in class 7, as the bell for the second period rang, clad in a cotton sari and simple flat leather moccasins, with a single long braid and a small black 'bindi', a motherly figure walked in the class. She was Mrs. Seema Aglawe, the teacher to whom I owe my interest in mathematics. The way she taught, took away all my fear. For my newly found fascination, I started practicing math as and when I had nothing else to do.

 

I had and still have great respect for madam Aghlawe. I wrote a poem in Hindi for her and gave it to her.
I left the Air Force School and took admission in Kendriya Vidyalaya, Pune.
Years went by.
After my father took voluntary retirement from the Air Force, we settled in Delhi and shifted to Ghaziabad after some years. Going back to Pune to meet my teachers and friends never happened.
Finally, after 30 years, life took me back to Pune on the pretext of my son's admission. I yearned to meet my teachers and friends who were connected with me through social media. I thought it was an opportunity to get the cover of my book unveiled by my teachers and seeking their blessings.
When a friend told me that Mrs. Aghlawe had consented to come, my joy knew no bound. Meeting her after thirty years and being a mathematics teacher for more than twenty years all because of her would have been a pleasure akin to the fulfilment of the final wish.
But...but...but... teachers give you more than you expect.
When Mr. Rakesh Trigunait, my elder brother like a friend, asked me to share my memories of my teachers, I said that madam Aghlawe might not remember that I had once written a poem for her.

 "Do you have that poem with you? " Mrs. Aghlawe countered.

I shook my head. Madam fished into her handbag and took out a diary. A paper was carefully preserved between the pages. "I still have that poem, " she said proudly.

         "Read it for everyone, " she instructed me. I was in tears. Seeing me overwhelmed, she stood up to read it herself.

She had also replied to my poem but I somehow had forgotten about that. After my poem for her, she recited her reply to me which she had copied in her diary.

 

I got the best gift of my life. While writing this, I am still in tears. Great teachers have humble ways in which their greatness manifests. Their greatness is not subjected to a few acknowledgments. She gave me a valuable lesson that day. 

Madam Naseem, who taught us Chemistry is an exemplary teacher. She is still teaching at a Kendriya Vidyalaya in Pune.



I was jealous of my classmate Saddamma as he played better cricket than me though I was better in studies. One day, madam Naseem asked Saddamma what his future plans were after his dismal performance in a periodic test. He replied that he wanted to take admission to the best college in the city after class ten so that he can play cricket at a higher level. "No chance bro...maybe in next birth," I said smugly. Perturbed by my unwarranted intervention, Ms. Naseem, took a few deep breaths. She asked me to stand up. What followed was exactly what an ideal teacher ought to do in that situation.
She inquired about the reason for my jealousy. Then, she told me to help Saddamma with maths and science. In return, she asked Saddamma to help me improving my cricketing skills. Saddamma and I complied and became good friends. I humbly bow to Madam Naseem.







Madam Oak taught us Hindi in class 7.





I still remember a poem she taught us and made us learn it by heart.

"हम पंछी उन्मुक्त गगन के 

पिंजरबद्ध ना उड़ पाएँगे 

कनक तीलियों से टकराकर 

पुलकित पंख टुट जाएँगे "

She is so soft speech compliments her prowess in Hindi and instills calmness in her listeners.
With her efforts, our school had become a study centre of "राष्ट्र भाषा प्रचार समिति" that worked for promoting Hindi. I enrolled in the course and passed the exam with good marks. Madam Oak used to teach her after school hours. I proudly show the certificate I received to my kids. 


Mrs. Sita Lakshmi was the oldest teacher in the school. She used to be my class teacher in grade seven. We called her 'All-rounder" because she could teach any subject to any class. A short and frail figure, she must have been over fifty-five at that time but came to school on a moped. Riding at a good speed, she entered like 'Hermoine Granger'. We often rove around the school gate to witness her 'grand' entry.

Mr. Thakur was my History teacher in grade eight. He had hardly any hair and wore a buttoned driving cap. Coming to the class, he sat on the chair behind the teacher's desk and removed his cap. Then he would teach us the lesson as if he was narrating a story without consulting the textbook. I still remember his story about the battle of Plassey- how Mir Jafar betrayed Siraj ud-Dauhla and the conflict between Mir Jafar and Mir Kasim.

After class eight, I took admission at Kendriya Vidyalaya No. 3 at Chandan Nagar in Pune.





Mrs. Veena Kaul was my class teacher. She was strict but compassionate. A Science teacher who gives relatable examples from day-to-day life makes this subject even more interesting. 
In class ninth, I had stiff competition for the first rank with Khyali Dutt Sharma (I have given the same name to a character in my book 'LOVE @ AIR FORCE'). Madam Veena encouraged both of us. Seeing that competition was so tough that even half mark could make a difference, she declared, "I will not round off the marks. Whatever weightage comes out, I will consider it and will carry out the calculations in decimals."






That was sheer thoughtfulness of a dedicated and impartial teacher. Now, Khyali and I knew that even one-tenth of a mark can make a difference. We worked hard as if we were at war. On the day of the result, I had a clan of mice in my stomach.

I had stood first with a difference of 0.2 marks. I still have that report card. When I see it, I feel proud. The pride is not about beating Khyali but about having a devoted and thoughtful class-teacher.


Swati Dubey ma'am taught me Social Science in class 9. 
I remember I was making a list of rations and requirements for the class picnic when she was teaching. After a while, she said, "Agar tera hisaab kitaab ho gaya ho to pay attention here. " ( If you are done with your budget-making, then pay attention to the lesson ). I wondered how she knew what I was doing. But, now I realise she was a teacher and I was a naive boy of 14.





She often addressed me Vaibhav and I responded without an inkling because I knew it was the name of her son. "You are like my son, " she would say when she realised she had called me by the wrong name.





I remember the efforts she put into an inter-school exhibition. We had to put up an exhibition on the culture, literature, festivals, famous personalities in one of the Indian states and one country. West Bengal for the Indian state and Russia for the country were her prompt choices. I was on the team of five boys she had chosen. Her guidance and knowledge steered our creativity. We worked hard and brought laurels to our school.









The same year, Mr. Ved Prakash Mishra taught us Hindi. How knowledgeable!
What authority over language!
I waited for his period every day.
He was my first teacher who not only read my poems but assessed them. Then, he called me to his room and explained my shortcomings elaborately.
Often, on Sundays, he called me to his house and talked about literature. He remembered numerous couplets and poems which he quoted while conversing. I had to sit with a pen and paper because his quotes were too intriguing to be missed.

                                       "  जीवन तो इति न अथ  है 

                                 जीवन एक साधना पथ है "

                                           " भूले भटके कभी तो मेरा नाम लिया जाएगा 
                                        आँसू जब सम्मानित होंगे मुझे याद किया जाएगा "

Our school celebrated "हिन्दी सप्ताह ".
There were various competitions on all six days.
I had won the first prize in the essay writing, debate and Antakshri. The last competition was poem-recitation. Mishra sir was one of the judges. 
Khyali Dutt had won the competition because Mishra sir had given me one point less than Khyali. 
I was hurt. My immaturity was not ready to admit that a teacher who said I was his favourite student could do that to me.
When he learnt about my disappointment, he called me in his room.

                                     " निश्छल, निष्कपट, निष्पाप  हो जाना चाहिए शीश 
                                              जब बन जाते हो आप न्यायाधीश "

He told me that my choice of the poem was wrong. It was short and had less scope for you to show variation in expression. On the other hand, Khyali had recited "अर्जुन की प्रतिज्ञा" that had anger, emotions, and fear. 
I agreed with him.

After I left Pune I wrote him letters and got replies from him every time.



May God bless all my teachers with health and happiness. 
I feel indebted to them for their love and guidance. Thank you, dear teachers...Thank you so very much.

BOOK REVIEW

"WHO KILLED THE MURDERER?"

   __________________________________By MOITRAYEE BHADURI

I love the books wherein every line enunciates what an ardent observer the author is. 'Who Killed the Murderer?' is just that kind of book.

A dark and spine-chilling story, 'Who Killed the Murderer?' will force the readers to ruminate how vulnerable and fragile life is. An untoward night, an irresponsibly hatched out mischief, unchecked immaturity and a moment of rage can bring us lifelong suffering. A selfish lie by a young girl against three boys (one out of the three is her twin brother) instigates two of them for revenge. And, when they have their revenge, her life changes forever. For the rest of her life, she lives with two daggers- one, pierced in her heart and another in her hand to harm others. She despises every pre-teen boy, even her son. So heart-wrenching! She turns selfish, self-centered, and wicked. No, don’t hate her. She is just sick and not responsible for her trauma. Faulty parenting and unruly schoolmates are accountable for her criminal psyche. 

An act of ghastly and cruel revenge can kill a person or turn him or her into a fearless, ruthless and deadlier survivor. No sane person would choose either even for his worst enemy.

 Though a thrilling murder mystery, this book is enlightening for the parents. The story is a testimonial of how the parents' ignorance and a casual approach can ruin the life of a child and the people associate with him or her. The unreasonable unwillingness of Shagun's mother to engage a psychologist and her excessive obsession for only one of her children (Shagun) only aggravated the ordeal she suffered with.

On page 141, one of the characters talks about “Rage disorder”. Psychologists also call it “Intermittent Explosive Disorder or IED. The sufferers show hostility, impulsivity, and burst into anger despite a lack of adequate reason. In the cases when family members are aware that the person is ill and needs to visit a psychologist but the ‘patient’ doesn’t admit that he or she is sick. They too, keep on suffering along with the person ill of IED. It is a dilemma for the people who want to help the patient but are helpless. I wish the psychologists could suggest a way to make the suffering person understand that it is a curable disorder and treatment and counselling can make life so much pleasurable and enjoyable for him or her and the other family members.

‘Once his cigarette is over, he will feel guilty and come back with an apology.’ Page 41

This is so true!

The author seems to know about everything- smokers, TV actresses, the casting couch, the police, the detectives, the beauty parlours, child psychology et al- everything is so well researched that you never feel inadequacy. Except for two moments when the private detective, Milli Ray lights smokes at wrong places- once in the living room of her super-rich clients, the Seths, and another in a hospital never did my over-analysing brain object.

I loved the way Moitrayee has pen-sketched her characters. They all are blessed-lesser-mortals- talented but have humanly vices.

Milli Ray fails to impress me. I will hail her only as a hard-working detective and expected her to be sharper and smarter than she appears. I would suggest the author to polish her character and give her a little more guile as she is likely to repeat her in another thriller. Milli Ray, the ex-cop and detective, deserves it and I am already yearning to read another adventure by her.

The portrayal of Shagun's character is the immaculate and sheer brilliance of Moitrayee’s writing. She has really worked hard on presenting her protagonist as a ruthless but suffering psycho. At times, one can feel the author's empathy for her leading lady. She is parti pris to her protagonist in her narration. I justify it.

ACP Trehan, smitten by Milli’s dynamism appears, like a Sub-Inspector and lacks the flamboyance and authority his rank and occupation warrant. May we see him  act like an ACP in future adventures. I wish!

Rik Sharma alias Rishabh Gupta and Neel Khatan appear as good as their character-traits are. The rest of the characters are mere props.

The writing style and the mature handling of such a sensitive story need a special mention. When you are an author yourself, you tend to read a book more with a writer’s frame of mind and less as a reader. Moitrayee’s writing forced me to read it more as a reader. Not many writers have done that to me. 

Yes, Shelley said, “Sometimes, the devil is a gentleman. I say, all devils are gentlemen with some behavioural dysfunctions.

And, at last, I wish to ask Moitrayee if she aspired to be a detective at some point of time in her life.

Few Things worth mentioning…

1.      A few chapters end with a one-word-sentence. They build up curiosity.

2.      There is not even one steamy scene despite so many entangled and complicated relationships. I admire.

3.      The mention of Bradley Cooper. He doesn’t have a prominent upper lip like me… You know, what I mean.

4.      This is a must-read book for the parents like Mr. and Mrs. Chopra. And, if anyone feels he or she has the slightest of characteristics as Shagun, the protagonist has, they must seek the help of a psychologist immediately. Please don’t let one bad night or an unpleasant incident deprive you of the happiness and love you deserve.

Nobody is a villain. We just need to wring our hearts to squeeze out the poison. We deserve it. We deserve a life. We deserve happiness. We deserve love.

LET'S TWIST A STORY

आओ बचपन सींचें - 4

चाहे कितने भी बड़े हो जाएँ, फिर भी हम सब हमेशा थोड़े-थोड़े बच्चे ही रहते हैं l नए कपड़े पहन कर बड़े भी इतराते हैं l जन्मदिन पर गिफ्ट पाकर बड़े भी खुश हो जाते हैं l 
जरूरी है बच्चा बने रहना और बच्चों से जुड़े रहना l  


तो चलो आज कुछ अलग करते हैं 
 पहले एक बच्चे की कहानी सुनते हैं 
 और फिर उसे अपनी-अपनी 
कल्पना की उंगली थमा कर 
 एक अलग मोड़ पर ले जाते हैं 
 उस ही कहानी को आगे बढ़ाते हैं ... 

 कहानी English में है 
लेकिन आप चाहें तो 
आगे की कहानी 
 हिंदी में भी लिख सकते हैं 
 न Grammar की जकड़न
न language का बंधन 
 बस ये कहानी और 
 आपकी कल्पना की उड़ान ...
तो फिर हो जाओ शुरू 
 करवा दो रोशन से कुछ ऐसा 
 कि पढ़कर, सुनकर लगे
 हाँ, ऐसा भी तो हो सकता है ... 

 हम सब उत्सुक हैं ....  

LET'S TWIST A STORY

This week we have a story for you- Roshan's story. Read this story and add a hundred words to take it further. A jury will select the best addition and it will win a prize.
So, let the kites of your imagination fly high and bring some twists and turns to tell us what Roshan does next. We are anxiously waiting to read your versions. You can submit your entries by commenting here or by sending an e-mail at aaobachpanseenchein@gmail.com before the sun sets on Thursday, 29th of August.

Please do mention your name and age with your submissions.





Here's Roshan's story for you...


        ADVERTISEMENT ENACTING COMPETITION

Roshan is keenly watching all the advertisements today because he has to participate in an advertisement enactment competition tomorrow.

He has been outstanding in Quiz, Essay writing, and Poem-Recitation. His brain never lets him down. However, enacting an advertisement for selling a product is a different ballgame for him. Here, his appearance would matter. Synchronization, content, and performance would be the key. 

Unlike every other day, he isn't fighting with his sister for the TV remote. Neither does he urge her to switch to his favourite cartoon channel. And, even stranger is that he looks at the TV screen only when the ad break comes and scribbles in his notebook as he watches the advertisements. He reads the notes when the program resumes. 

He looks nervous.Tomorrow is Saturday. He has to put on the white uniform with white canvas shoes. His uniform should not be shabby. He runs out of the room and returns with his rundown canvas shoes and the bottle of liquid polish.

                    One thick coat and his carefulness change the look of the shoes.

The morning dawns. He is shaky as if it is the biggest test of his life. His competitors in the class always say, 'You can beat everyone in academics but we will settle the account in dramatics and sports.' He knows that they are better in these fields but he wants to give them stiff competition.  

The school auditorium is full of cheer and anticipation. The non-participants, sitting on the carpeted floor, are eagerly waiting for the participants to enact the same advertisements which they watch on TV with some innovation. They expect a great show from their talented peers. The stage is about four feet high. Eight participants, two from each house are sitting in the right corner. The sweat of nervousness has appeared on their red faces. The hall is beaming with life. Its lonely and hungry walls cherish the whispers, giggles and childish nimbleness. The announcer reaches the lectern. Her greeting words mingle with the elated utterances of the chaotically busy audience. She repeats louder. Silence and stillness follow.

 "Every participant will pick up two chits. Every chit has the names of the products. He or she can choose one product and will have to enact an advertisement for it," she reads out the rules. The four judges are ready with their pencils and heedful eyes. 

 Roshan is the first to go up. He draws out the chits from the bowl with trembling hands. He unfolds them one by one and mumbles, "Shoes and Ketchup." He thinks for a while and hands over the 'Shoes' chit to the announcer. Her lips read the word to the mic for the audience to hear. 

          He nods to the announcer's signal to start the act.

Roshan parades forward from the back of the stage saying, "Bata is the best quality," he jumps, "My sports-shoes, school-shoes, and party-shoes." He runs back and repeats.

 "There is a hole in your Bata shoe-sole," someone in the audience shouts and guffaws. More taunts and laughter follow. Rohan freezes in the middle of the wooden platform. His toe feels the cold polished surface as he walks away.................

                                                                                                     ( Story by Gaurav Sharma )



Now, it's your turn to add to this story. What does Roshan do next? How does he respond to this insult?

Come on, we are eager to know where you end this story.


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Let us introduce the honourable judges who will select the winner.

 Mr. Nuranis Ravi

A Delhite and alumni of the University of Delhi, Mr. N.S. Ravi has authored five books- ‘Those were the days’, 'Khan Vs Kahn Vs Kanh', ‘Marriage Made in Mumbai Local’, ‘Different Shades of Women’ and ‘The Leader’. Mr. Ravi has lived and worked in Europe, Africa, and India for a large number of his professional years.


     

 Mr. Ratnadip Acharya

 
 Mr. Acharya is an author and a columnist. His pen has produced two successful novels- 'Life is Always Aimless...Unless you love it' and 'Paradise Lost & Regained'. He lives in Mumbai and a columnist for 'The Speaking Tree' in The Times of India.

Mr. Om Tiwari

Mr. Tiwari is a journalist with a reputed news channel in Delhi. He chose journalism for a career because of his love for writing. He puts across his views on the issues related to politics, society, movies, books, and personalities through his blog.




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PHYSICAL LETTERS- FRAGRANCE OF WARMTH AND LOVE

 आओ बचपन सींचें - 3
चाहे कितने भी बड़े हो जाएँ, फिर भी हम सब हमेशा थोड़े-थोड़े बच्चे ही रहते हैं l नए कपड़े पहन कर बड़े भी इतराते हैं l जन्मदिन पर गिफ्ट पाकर बड़े भी खुश हो जाते हैं l 
जरूरी है बच्चा बने रहना और बच्चों से जुड़े रहना l  




PHYSICAL LETTERS- FRAGRANCE OF WARMTH AND LOVE

Friends, have you ever written a letter to someone in your handwriting? No, I am not talking about the formal, friendly and official letters in your school curriculum but the real informal letters that we write or rather used to write to our friends and relatives.

I know you haven't. Who writes a letter nowadays? 

The communication is restricted to rotating messages on Whatsapp and other various apps. Technology is such a menace.

It is okay to adapt to the changing times but these new ways are certainly depriving us of the great fun, rich experience, memorable pleasure and sound learning that letter-writing imparts.

Digital communication is undoubtedly cheaper, saves time and saves us from the hiccups of the long wait. However, they are ingenuine, unfelt, crudely formal and often, borrowed. People rotate them in their circle. Such forwards are a mere formality usually lacking genuine feelings and reverence. Sending such messages may keep your terms with the recipients intact but not the bond. These messages are impersonal and sloppy. They, at times, might convey your exact feelings but still, they are somebody else's words. If you type a one-sentence-message in your own words, people would count it more valuable. 

As a writer, I know how putting a pen to paper feels. No doubt, technology saves times but it cuts the bonds and takes away the warmth relations must have. The introduction of emoticons was like the final nail in the coffin. These emotion-expressing-images replaced the words and saved us the labour of typing. They do convey the intended message but with the hollowness of formality. The other person readily deciphers it and does the same since the world survives on reciprocation- reciprocation in equal measures and equal degree of genuineness.


I wrote my first letter to my grandpa when I was seven. My father wrote to him regularly on sky-blue-coloured-Inland-Letters. We always had a bunch of them at home. It cost just thirty-five paisa and needed no postage stamp.

It had three leaves to write on and space for the names and addresses of both the recipient and the sender.

An Inland letter can be sent anywhere in India- that's what inland means here.

Once, after writing on the two pages, my father asked my sister and me to divide the third leaf into two halves and write short letters to our grandpa. He guided us about the beginning and told us what we should write. We did that gleefully and waited anxiously for grandpa's response.

The reply, when finally came, was overwhelming. 

He had written, "Reading the first letter from my grandchildren gave me an unforgettable moment of joy and pride. I read their innocent words umpteen times and had tears in my eyes."

His reply encouraged us. Our writing to him on the third page of the inland-letter after our father filled the first two became a ritual. Gradually, our letters were becoming longer and innovative.

After a few months, I wrote to him my first independent letter on an 'unshared' Inland-letter. After some years, we started writing letters to pen-friends and exchanged books and souvenirs.

When my father got a transfer from Pune to Gwalior, I used to miss my friends and teachers. We exchanged letters. I was fond of my Hindi teacher Mr. Ved Prakash Mishra. Every time I wrote to him, I used to ask questions about life and poetry. He replied with elaborate explanation and zeal. We communicated through letters for many years. His letters were like a treasure for they were the testimonials of his knowledge and prowess in literature. I proudly concede that writing letters is a privilege and I largely owe my writing skills to this lost practice.

Physical letters have a charm of their own. Your heart starts beating faster as you receive a letter and doesn't retrieve until you open it and read. My experience says every person reads a letter he receives from his family or friends many times before keeping it in a safe.Along with the sizzling smell of paper and ink, a physical letter contains the unadulterated fragrance of emotions and bondage. Through the hand-written words, you can peep into the heart of that person and might see him speaking those words to you.

The only thing where the modern messaging apps score over the physical letters is the instantaneity. But, we tend to be short and barren as regards to emotions. There is nothing to savour, unlike physical letters that we preserved for years and read them time and again, feeling the same fragrance every time.

Interaction is a destination and communication is the path to reach it. The promptness of digital communication is certainly a boon but isn't it making us emotionless, dry and less likable. Please ponder.

Today, I urge you all to write a postal letter to someone- a letter long enough with words coming from your heart. For a change, let your handwritten words speak for you. I swear you will not regret. 

Please give yourself the pleasure of the privilege of writing a letter. A letter comes up when the heart dictates what it feels, hand writes, and eyes wear the expression that those emotions translate into. You will smell the real warmth and love.

And, please do convey how you felt and how the other person responded to your 'unusual' gesture.