It was an evening quite like today. The scent of the wet earth still lingered in the air. Yesterday, rain was the devil. It had in it's power to destroy what was going to be the most memorable day in the life of this bride But today, the rain humbly withdrew from the limelight. Today's star was going to be this girl, sitting pretty with her hand in his', still counting her heartbeats. In those heart beats she was counting time till when she would finally becomes his', when she can  would finally drop carelessly into his arms.

That night, was her night. I was lost somewhere in the grand crowd of eager faces, each of whom smiled for her happiness and comfort. I did too. It was an evening like today. The musty breeze seemed to be my only companion. I had come wishing for her happiness, but in that crowd, I had found myself to be terribly lonely. It was only the bride's face which was familiar. Rest were unpleasantly strange. My imaginations were running amok. Someday, in near, yet distant future, I shall also adorn a pedestal much like her's. To a sprawling acreage of lush greens, I shall also be the shimmering queen.

But for that day, I was lonely. In the unending multitude of heartbreakingly unfamiliar faces, I only had the naughty breeze for company, which also devoted attention to tickling the ribs of small bright lanterns suspended from each tree in the magically illuminated garden. That naughty, musty breeze might have remained my only companion had fate not been in a playful and yielding mood.

Tired searching for a soul warming cup of coffee from the mad array of exotic delicacies competing for attention, I could finally locate a near empty table which seemed friendly enough to accommodate me. I did notice a lone male figure occupying the seat across my own, but that his features would be breathtakingly gorgeous, I had not expected. Had I even meekly expected, I would have stayed away. A dreamy romantic and a hapless single are a lethal combination for a girl who suddenly finds herself in such a titillating zone. Boredom also plays its role in necessitating a leap of heart in thinking "now begin the bright times".

Was I crazy when I shared the first smile? I promise, I did not do it knowingly. His beaming, spotless face evoked a smile in my heart, which promptly ran to my lips. He smiled back. Effortlessly. No, eagerly. This, because, as I later realized, he was my male counterpart at feeling lonely in the deluge of people. Like me, he knew no one else. Like me, he had no company. Like me, may be he too needed someone like me. Yes!

The conversation began with pleasantries. It moved onto polite inquiries.  Name. Occupation. Weather. Food. Ambiance. The bride. The groom. The match. Back to occupation. And then, inevitably, life. Why I said inevitably? Because a part of me told me it would. He had small eyes, hidden behind rimless glasses, which became smaller when he smiled. He never stopped smiling. Consequently, my once sombre face too, did not stop smiling. Worries about reaching home early dissipated into the cold air as I concentrated on how dapper his black suit over a black shirt looked. Did I say dapper? Casually graceful would be more like it.

I am not a shy talker. I must've been talking a lot. I might have said something which made him remark- "You know, sometimes, its just fair that we count our blessings. Those lines of worry which crease your face will disappear in a nano second then." I did not know why he said this, but that is when I kind of came back to senses. What seemed titillating till now was seeming genuinely nice and warm. There was something about his happy countenance; he made me want to smile. It sounds mad, but it also made me want to show my sadness, for he seemed like someone who could still make me smile. There was an enormous amount of positivity radiating from him. What most soothed a nervous girl's heart most was that he was not being kind to me. He prized my chance company as much as I did his'. And this I know, because he was not interested to even look up when bride and groom readied themselves to command attention from each pair of eyes as they exchange the garlands of sacred flowers. He would have much rather continued the conversation, but I did not want to miss one of my favorite rituals from a traditional Hindu wedding.

I stood there, watching them lovingly garland each other. I loved the clandestine glances stolen. I loved the delirious applause filling my ears. I loved seeing her turn red as he claimed her hand back into his. I loved all this, and yet, I wanted to get back to that one conversation which I knew would ease me through the dreariness awaiting with open arms at home. Somewhere, in the middle of that celebratory commotion, I was commanded to head to the gate. My car awaited me. It was late. And I am a girl. A nervous tingle on my spine saw me running to the gate after saying a quick and polite bye. Nervous. I did not think of it earlier, but how many people had seen me laugh and joke and talk with this virtually strange guy in this crowded, yet lonesome place?

On my way back home, I felt silly for feeling all that I did. Sweet silly. I felt grossly silly for not knowing why I did not exchange numbers with him. We had clicked decently well, it would not even have been awkward. No regrets, facebook is the great savior of today. All I need to know about anyone to permanently invite him into my life is his name. I knew his'.

At night, a night like today, with chill pricking at my bare arms, as I sat with facebook friend finder open in front of me, I decided against 'finding' him. He was the perfect stranger. Straight out of books and poems I had read and fantasized about. He will only remain the perfect stranger if I abandon my pursuit. Meeting new people, good people, people who survive only as fond memory, is a dreamy concept in retrospect. I like the dreaminess of it  I closed that chapter there. Now I only revisit the pages when the blur in my memory turns inviting.

PS-Few days back, he 'added' me. I cursed facebook for interfering with my dreams from the past. Did I add him too? Well, I still am a nervous romantic and a hapless single. Should I?

Now this is quality stuff. Genuinely. I do not know how many times did I find myself touched and connected and affected by the short stories compiled in this yet another brilliant anthology under the Urban Shots series. I do know, however, that this is one book I will strongly recommend to all book lovers out there, for the 30 stories told by 26 odd authors in this book are fresh, and textured interestingly. And as I stated earlier, this book is a quality affair. A pleasant, yet intense journey.

A glimpse through the foreword written by Rohini Kejriwal reveals to you what this book potentially would be about. As professed in the prologue, this book turns out to be a collection of tales on some very interesting and diverse characters, and mostly pivoted around a centrally important or watershed incident in their life. The simply yet elegantly told stories go beyond just that one incident and often make you stop and think. Each story here is a world of its own. Each character revels in a distinctness of his own.

What is truly commendable here is the selection of stories, due credit for which goes to the Editor Ahmed Faiyaz. This is perhaps the fifth book associated with him which I am reading, and I can now safely proclaim- he is one author who simply does not know how to disappoint his readers. Through this compendium, interestingly titled "Crossroads", Ahmed strings together some intense stories, each uniquely drawing you into the lull of its narrative. These are stories which find their roots in the urbane locales of India; each inspired by a different facet, human or physical, of the carelessly burgeoning and increasingly complicated urban existence of new age Indians. Some characters here pace too far ahead, much too quickly; yet others tell their tales about coming to terms with the world whizzing past them. There are stories here of complicated love, compromised relationships, pulverized identities, pressurized psyches, crushed innocence, thankless altruism, and unrewarded commitments. So many thoughts and emotions have been depicted in these 30 urban stories with such finesse that a constant eagerness to move onto and investigate the contents of the next story keeps you gripped throughout. An added beauty to all these tales is the fact that most, if not all of them are not easily predictable stories even though they build on situations one hears of or faces in real life.

Having been thoroughly satisfied by this outstanding collection, I was reflecting happily on a lot of them to pick my quintet. I have to admit, that selecting only five from a potential 30, each one of which stood as a strong contender to be included in my favorite five, was a task ridden with fond anxiety. After much thought, here are the five stories I found best..

1. Mindgames by Manisha Dhingra
A tale about psychological setbacks, one which turns ripe only at the very end. This was my absolute favorite from the lot.
2. Gautam Gargoyle by Shailaditya Chakraborty
Brilliantly written, beautiful wordplay and extremely intriguing plot. A complex take on what you might be tempted to dismiss as a rather mundane phenomenon. Understandably, this one was the Editor's pick.
3. Songs Of The Summer Bird by Anita Satyajit
I loved this story for its simplicity and  poignant portrayal of a misunderstood but well meaning library watchman. Simple sometimes is richly beautiful.
4. Jump, Didi by Sharath Komarraju
Dark, complex, intense. This story reveals itself to you in layers;. each new layer a whole new dimension. This story is about the innocent baby sitter next door and her forbidden sercrets.
5. Footsteps In The Dark by Mini Menon
A girl, penury, needs and exploitation. A sensitively told story of an aspect of our corporate society we need to feel ashamed off.

Also, Crossroads by Ahmed Faiyaz, the story which lends its title to the book is easily one of the best you will come across. Depicting love, lust, desires and commitments in a seamless manner, this story essentially themes around the concept of infidelity in urban relationships.

As a last thought, this book is one of those which makes me believe that contemporary Indian fiction has come of age. That said, there still are a lot more avenues to explore and experiment with. Crossroads is one book which has something to connect with everyone of you. 3.5 stars on 5 is what I will award it with.

And yes, the cover is totally gorgeous too. Quite prophetic of the gorgeous content waiting to be unveiled.

Love is sacred, yet to many lost and caught in this web of society, it remains forbidden. Love is universal, yet to most who devote all their senses to its pursuit, it remains elusive. Love is ethereal, yet it is defeated more often than not by considerations real and pragmatic. Love is love, yet in this one word lies a myriad of emotions ranging from happiness to anger to jealousy to possessiveness to sorrow to calmness. Love, as we see and feel it around ourselves today is simple and complex at the same time. The variegated hues of this simple-and-complex phenomenon and its diverse manifestations- some lovely, others ugly- is what is explored in another brilliant anthology published as a continuation of the Urban Shots series. This offering of short stories is aptly named- The Love Collection.

The above paragraph surmises with flair the moods, thoughts and emotions I underwent while reading the stories picked up by editor Sneh Thakur to be published in this compendium. Compiling 31 stories by as much as 27 different authors must have been a daunting task for Thakur (who quite adorably refers to herself as 'pint size Rapunzel'- a description I cannot quite get over), given that 'love' is an emotion all of us like to talk/write about. It serves perhaps as the first motivation for nascent writers to put pen to paper. Not guided by a uniformity of writing style, guided solely by a common emotion running through the 30 odd stories- the book could have faltered on many aspects- the most important being monotony or stereotyping. Love is not always dreamy. It is not always like a bollywood movie. And much as we would like to argue, in real life, it is not always depressive and unyielding. This book does well to explore the many shades, including the greys, of love and compile them in neatly. Each story stands out on its own. I could not compare or hold any two similar in the essence they portrayed. For this, the editor and the various authors deserve a proud pat on the their back.

Having stated in clear terms that I loved this book, two or three stories left me sorely disappointed. May be because they did not appeal to the dreamy lover in me, may be because I hate to associate depressiveness (almost clinical) with love. Very rarely does it happen that I leave a whole book unfinished; much too rare is the case with short stories. In this book, while there were stories which I devoted time to rereading, there were some I did not feel like finishing. That said, I would still strongly recommend this book to readers of contemporary Indian fiction. The stories contained in this book are stories about characters whom we meet in real life, characters we identify with, characters we hope we would meet someday and characters we thought existed only in stories. Exploring diverse backgrounds, wading through different emotional topographies, these stories are perfect to discover and understand and even amuse oneself with varying facets of love. While in some stories this emotion dominates, in others its subtle; in yet others it chooses to lurk around the periphery.

Importantly, reading for quite sometime titles under the Urban Shots series, I have come to realize that short stories are the perfect, breezy metro reads that can fit into demanding schedules of the day. You can leave anywhere, pick up anywhere, and still not feel lost. If the book lover inside you feels suppressed unwantonly because of compulsions of material world, The Love Collection might be a good place to start at. 3 stars on 5 it is for me. My quintet from this collection-

1. Making Out by Hina Siddiqui
The Editor's pick, and appropriately so. The title explains much, and hides much for what this story might be about.
2.Strangers by Ahmed Faiyaz
Begins normally, ends eerily. One of Ahmed's best short stories I have read.
3. Twisted by Lipi Mehta
You thought it was simple, but actually it was not. Exploring a different side of love.
4. The Jhalmuri Seller by Bhabhani Shankar Kar
The simplicity touched me. Simple, but beautiful and a little more than just a tale of nascent love.
5. Reality Bytes by Anitha Murthy
Will touch you, I guarantee. This was one of those I reread.

and I would also mention one which does not leave my mind, for it was one of the only which pandered beautifully to the romantic within me- A Girl Can Dream by Ayesha Khanna.

Once again, a very satisfying read. 

(Reviewed on request from Grey Oak-Westland)

Part I- The Ending

Part II- The Premonition

Part III- The Celebration

Part IV
The Last Song

Love is not what you arrive at. Love is what you travel through. 

The two hours are about to end. I will have to wake him up. Should I just let him sleep? If he misses his flight, it'll buy me some more time with him.Should I be fooling him? He has trusted me in one of his weakest moments. I have this feeling that he will love me for fooling him today. The question is, should I? What I can't figure out is- will it prolong the celebration, or will it prolong the pain?

I am still looking at him. He is sleeping with the serenity of an angel. Each trait of his, including this serenity, has complimented me perfectly. Each time he intertwined his fingers with mine, he fit the gap perfectly. The hopeless romantic in me always concluded that the Creator had crafted him only to fit into my life. It made sense. It seemed perfect. He was never just the lover. He was the 'love' in my life itself.

His brow now appears slightly creased. Is that a bead of sweat trickling down the shadowed part of his face? As if in a fit, his whole body just jerked. I quickly crept closer to him, and held him in a reassuring embrace. A fierce embrace in fact. I know it was fierce because when I withdrew, his eyes were open. With a dizzy confusion. He looked at me, at first as if figuring out if I was real. He then managed a goofy smile on that ruthlessly handsome face of his, the smile I knew the contours of which by heart. He closed his eyes, preserved that smile, dug into my bosom, and slept.

This moment is real. As real as it can get. Tell me, should I be sad or angry? In his love, in his embrace, have I not already gotten more than my share of bliss in life? There is this sweet pain lurking somewhere in the rear corner of my heart. I cannot for sure know if its normal, but some part of me feels happy in this moment which is heralding the close of an era of love. His infinite worth has become apparent to me. I've seldom valued him more than I value him this moment. He is grand. Priceless. This is how I will forever remember him.

"I love you. I always will", I whisper softly while pressing my lips to his ear. The crease on his forehead has now disappeared. The serenity returns.

In a few moments I will wake him up.

After a few more moments, he will be gone.

And after some more moments, I will cry.

Part I- The Ending

Part II- The Premonition

Part III
The Celebration

 If this was the last hour I was allowed to spend with you, I would spend it like it was the last hour I was allowed to live. When you walk out, love walks out, life walks out. 

I was only adjusting the smile on my face when my heart gently leapt out of its place. The bell rang. He is here. My cheeks flushed red, perfectly complementing my dress.

I clicked the lock open, and peeked out, hiding my body behind the door. Clad in a black shirt and denims, there he stood, ready to massacre the hearts of a dozen females. Aah. A sigh still escapes my lips when I see him stand with that casual grace in front of my eyes. He is not any Greek God personified. He is but love and passion epitomized.

He was gazing at me. Unnervingly so.

"Hey." I said. I smiled. I calmed my racing heart down. Really? Has it really been five years of our togetherness? "You are not carrying your luggage sweetie? Left it at your apartment already?"

He pulled me out from behind the door, lightly revealing my demure frame to his eager eyes. He appraised me from  head to toe. I think I saw a hint of a smile on his face. A tired smile but.

"You look gorgeous. Much lovelier than I ever remember having seen you."

"Stop flattering me. I mean, I like it. But there, you again did not answer me directly. Where is your luggage?"

"You know you could ask me to come in first."

"Oh! Sorry! Its only excitement. Come in. Make yourself comfortable."

He walked in straight towards my bedroom, only pausing near the table in the living room for a brief second to place on it a pretty red rose. My Valentine's gift. The one I had always liked. It was the only luggage he carried, hitherto hidden behind his back. I see his body disappear into my room. I stand frozen for a second, a little perplexed. Closing the main door, I pick up the elegant rose, the hues of which match precisely the tone of my dress, and proceed towards him. By now, my heart has stopped racing. It has begun to sink.

I halt at the door of my room, and lean against it. Seated at the edge of my bed, facing away from me, I can tell he has worry writ large over his face. He is staring at the floor with a burning fierceness. He looks up. Its only confusion, painful confusion he sees in my eyes.

"I am going back by the evening flight. In about two hours, I leave."

He takes a deep breath, averts his gaze, and continues. "This is it. My father wants me back there. He has wielded contacts to find me a job, and expects me to marry a girl of his choice next year. He wants me to settle down and be with him and ma."

An even greater sigh. "Angel, I won't be coming back."

He returns his gaze to meet mine. His deep, expressive eyes are moist. I feel pain. I feel an even greater urge to lessen his pain.

I walk up to him and tousle his hair while he sits still, looking down in an emotion I reckon as guilt. He curls his arms around my waist and presses his face against my belly. I can feel his tears permeating my dress, touching not my skin, but defying gravity and racing up to hide away in my heart.

I don't cry. I smile. I know I am his strength. I have been, for long. I keep still for a while.

I then withdraw, sit down on my knees with my hands in his lap. I look up at him. Again, I smile.

"We knew this had to happen. We did. We loved each other, but we promised not to hurt our parents."

He keeps mum. He keeps looking at me, but remains mum.

I look deeper into his eyes.

"For the next two hours, you are mine."

Our eyes are now locked in an intense gaze. Not breaking it even for a moment, he supports my shoulders as we both stand up facing each other. An inaudible "Love you" escapes his dry but luscious lips. I draw closer to him, burying myself in his chest. His labored breathing becomes all the more palpable in the rhythm of his heart. He lifts my face up, perfectly accommodating my slightly plump cheeks in both of his palms. I cannot stand the heat of his gaze. I close my eyes. The next moment, I can feel his soft lips on mine. One of his hands reaches the zip of my gown, the ease of unfastening which, I always suspected, was what made him buy it in the first place. In a swift motion, my gown slips off and collects in a heap near my feet. He knows I turn shy. He draws me closer in his embrace and enters the coziness of the blanket to escape the prickly Delhi cold. He also does this to hide me away from the prying eyes of the fan, the wall and the mischievous mirror.

What began as an eagerly anticipated Valentine's was fast culminating into a final celebration of love. 

 

(Part IV-The Last Song- last of the four parts, coming up soon)

Part I-The Ending

Part II
The Premonition

Its only a single heartbeat of yours I need to hear in order to understand truth of life as we know it. You say so much, even when you say nothing.

"Uh..Hello?"

"Hey. You're asleep?"

"Brilliant question to ask honey." *Yawn* "What else do you suppose I would do when my darling refuses to spend time with me on the Valentine's Eve? Gosh! Its three in the morning! Is all good baby?"

"Yes Yes. Nothing much."

"Wait. Am I imagining things, or your voice is actually heavy?"

"Chuck that. Can you take off from work tomorrow?"

"You always do this. A question in reply to my question."

"Hey...don't be upset. Tell me, can you?"

"Wait, let me see. Why would I take off from work tomorrow unless that darling mother of yours lets her only son come back to Delhi where apparently he has a job and a girlfriend waiting?"

"I am coming back tomorrow. Should be there by the afternoon."

"What?! Really? Yayyiee! But really? You're fooling me? Tell me you're not! Oh honey! You always give me the best of surprises. I should have known you would not let my Valentine's go dull. You know I love these little celebrations of life, these little celebrations of love. I should have known. I'll be waiting. Or should I come to receive you at the airport?"

"No. Stay at home. Will you do me a favour?"

"Anything for you baby. Just command."

"Will you wear that red silk gown you wore to the quiet dinner date we had on your last birthday? The one I had bought for you?"

"Ahaan. Someone's getting romantic already. I would, of course. When I open the door for you tomorrow, you will see me as the girl you could fall in love with all over again."

"I know you will look gorgeous. See you tomorrow."

"I'll be waiting."

"Love you, and a Happy Valentine's angel."

"Love you too. My Valentine's will begin when I look deep into your eyes tomorrow."

(Click)

I try drifting back to sleep. Yes, I felt happy that he, after a really long time, will be back in my arms. But some part of my heart challenged that elation. Something was not right. Am I thinking too much? I must be. When he'll be here tomorrow, everything will be fine. My edgy heartbeats will settle down into a peaceful rhythm. He will make that happen. He will.

 

(Part III-The Celebration, coming up soon)

Part I
The Ending

Loving you is irrevocably drugging myself to a form of living I know I can spend my life in. Loving you is living.  

Few not so bright rays of sun manage to percolate through the thick oriental curtains on the window to rest on the left side of his face. Penetrating the aquatic blueness of the window tresses, they fall on his face like luminous ripples of water. I gaze at him. I sigh.

He lies on his back, covered upto his chest in the soft, velvety blanket I share with him. The blanket protects what we seek to share only with each other from the curious eyes of the fan, the walls, and the mischievous mirror. I plant a careful kiss on his glistening shoulder. I then draw out from the blanket.

I do not intend to get away from him. Having savoured him in every other possible way, I now wish to savour him through my eyes. I lift myself up, leaning on my elbow, and cast the most loving gaze at him. My lips instantly register that same smile he described as the sexiest curve of my body. I smile imagining things, both pleasant and forbidden.

Oblivious to my shenanigans, he sleeps. Peaceful, calm, radiant. I am sure he is dreaming. Dreaming about us. I can feel him sigh behind his closed eyes.He is definitely dreaming about us. It is easy to read him. It was easier to have fallen in love with him. Almost instantly. Like a sudden revelation.

Half of his face is playing host to the mild rays of the distant sun. The serenely illuminated countenance of his is reminding me of his admirably illuminated inner self. The other half of his face bears a shadow of his own features, reminiscent of the protective shade he has been nurturing me in for so long. His perfectly chiseled, smooth shoulders give but a peek into the majesty that he is. His right arm, so far a pillow for me, is now lying with a casual grace on the softness of the blanket. He is perfect. His aura is perfect. But soon, it'll all be gone.

 

(Part II- The Premonition, coming up soon)

My short sabbatical to an internet free zone was spent with my nose poking deep into the pages of Down The Road- A collection of short stories by various authors about life on campus, edited by Ahmed Faiyaz and Rohini Kejriwal. What I felt about the book shall come later, but I must share with the readers that I was often found by concerned family members sometimes sharing a ridiculously personal smile, at others a worried pensive stare with the pages of the book. It was not merely because the book was handsomely engrossing. It was certainly because the book shared stories which seemed personal. 


Life on campus is a rigmarole for most of us. It, invariably, occupies a very special place in the chest where we preserve our precious memories. Growing up, finding ourselves, making friends, understanding love, learning, unlearning, failing, trying, enjoying, crying- you look back at college and you find yourself enveloped by a dozen emotions you once lived through, the ones which have played an important part in shaping you as you know yourself today. Quite obviously, I had my hoped pinned high on Down The Road, especially because I am fresh out of DU, and still not quite over the feel of campus life.

The book lived up to its name. Quite effortlessly, it took me down the memory lane. It is a fresh and pleasant collection of short stories by young authors from diverse background and with diverse writing styles. It tells simple tales of incidents we've lived through in school or college. Most of the stories which appealed to me dealt with love and friendship- the discovery, the innocence, the misunderstandings, the whole experience in fact. The book is divided into five sections with 28 stories by 16 authors. The individual authors have explored many different facets of campus life including elections, politics, ragging, teachers, passions, lessons, crushes, placements inter alia.A thumbs up to the editors for selection of stories included in this anthology. Some of the stories will make you smile as you remember the hazy face of that first crush, some others might touch you where you are most sensitive and feel some pain or regret. Narrated with an almost personal tenderness, many of these stories make you reflect on those trivialities which seem to acquire meaning only in retrospect.

What I did not enjoy was the last section of the book, with two essays about campus fiction and campus based movies. I was riding high on the nostalgic atmosphere which the stories created around me, and quite honestly, I did not feel like forcing myself through those passages which seemed a little dry after the wonderful and touching stories. I would give the book 3 on 5 stars. It is worth a read, in fact a few stories are worth reading many times over. Some warmth and some nostalgia you are sure to feel while you involuntarily find yourself living your college days.

My favorite five from the stories published in this anthology-

1. Smells Like Home by Aashish Mehotra
About the reluctant return to his homeland of an NRI student, who experiences comfort in the company of a girl whose presence he takes for granted.
2. Bellow Yellow by Chinmayi Bali
A commendable, mature and intense story about the darker tendencies which inhabit a student's being. Well narrated, delicately handled.
3. The Music Room by Ira Trivedi
The forbidden love story of a bright young student and a docile, out of place music teacher.
4. The Cafe With No Name by Sneh Thakur
A gently narrated tale of the brewing relationship between a student of limited means and a concerned and doting Parsi owner of the roadside cafe. Heartwarming.
5. Remember Me? by Ahmed Faiyaz
This one because it made me revisit Ruheen and Aditya's love story, one I had gotten quite attached to while reading Another Chance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is there a genre of fiction that can be called a masala thriller? Or a bollywood thriller? Well, if there were one, then Oswald Pereira's debut novel would effortlessly claim the golden throne among the list of books belonging to this category. What a read!

The Newsroom Mafia is a journalist's take on the crime syndicate that thrives in the dingy alleyways of Mumbai. Veteran journalist Oswald Pereira has woven a sensational story around the politics-underworld-media nexus which is routinely camouflaged, but which we all already know too well about. The excitement I felt while turning the last pages of this book is wanting to pour out in what will end up being an all out positive review of the book, but a synopsis is more than necessary if I am to express with lucidity why the reader inside me is so thoroughly satiated with Pereira's ingenuous screenplay-like-novel.

Narayan Swamy is the typical image of a Mumbai underworld Don, who self indulgently likes to be addressed as the "Godfather"- incidentally also his favorite movie. He is his own hero- a self proclaimed Robinhood who is the savior of destitutes languishing without any concern or empathy from the authorities. Our Don is a wannabe social worker, with, ironically, a criminal acumen so strong that is successful in transforming him from a deprived nobody to an A-listed celebrity in the power circles.This crime messiah prospers under expedient partnerships with influential politicians, legal and financial advisers, and media honchos doubling up as his investigative sources. Thus completes the perfect character of our Don- the mighty, invincible supervillain.

Enter our hero- Supercop Donald Fernandez, Commissioner of the Mumbai Police Force, 'second only to the Scotland Yard'. He is a genuine, but publicity hungry cop, stories of whose bravery are routinely splashed across the front pages of India's most widely read English language news paper- The Newsroom. This titular newspaper's star crime reporter, Oscar Pinto is Donald's favored media partner- who gets all the exclusive crime scoops right from the supercop's lips. The story begins with a false front page report in The Newsroom written by Oscar about Don's arrest by Supercop Donald Fernandez. But all hell breaks lose when the news spreads that Don has escaped before the Mumbai police could even sniff his scent. What follows is an all out war declared by the Supercop on the Don- a chase ridden with deception, seduction, betrayal, power games, conspiracies, cold blooded murders and most importantly, paid and planted media reports where the pen does more damage than swords could possible wreck.

Though the book promises a lot of drama, the author has done a fine job of excluding any unnecessary theatrics and sticking to the story which progresses at a thrill inducing speed. The crafty storyline keeps you guessing and each  page you turn brings with itself a new twist which makes it almost impossible to not turn the page again and be caught under the charms of a similar twist. The characters are straight out of some bollywood-rather tollywood screenplay described to such perfection that you end up making mental pictures of them which runs like an animated display as the plot unfolds. What works most for me is the earthy, crude narrative- an almost no nonsense exposé of the mechanics of crime syndicate as it operates in our country. The precision and the details provided keep the story real, but the spice element is not in the least compromised upon. When the cover predicts for you a foray into the sleazy and murky Mumbai Underworld much like a movie poster, your hopes already dart through the sky. Pereira does not disappoint at all with the expectations he keeps building up throughout the book.

As the plot thickens, the battle between the Don and Supercop becomes 'nerve-tinglingly' entertaining with dirty power politics and sleazy tactics being played in from both ends. How the fourth-estate, the media lusts after dollops of exclusive reports has been articulated with an insiders expertise. Also, the extent to which news is manipulated to serve not the interests of its own industry or of its readers but to pander to the insidious motives of the money backed, power hungry politicians and criminals puts your faith in the real life newspapers in uncertain waters. The novel is set in 1980s when the underworld had begun pullulating with concomitant maledictions like bootlegging, prostitution, money laundering, smuggling, power politics finding roots in the fecund Bombay climate. The anachronistic setting is too perfect to make each line of the novel seem close to inspired from reality.

I could go on, for there are so many elements still left in the book which excite me as I remember them. However, I will restrain myself to only mentioning my favorite among a bevy of more than a dozen characters as I end my post. Stella Kutty- a journalist draped in crisp cotton sarees, whose modesty is betrayed by the lurking sensuality behind all the covers is the perfect doze of seduction in story. She is the mysterious woman with an irresistible appeal who is the most potent weapon in Don's arsenal when needed.

I am hoping for a sequel. Or at least some more books in this relatively unexplored genre. Its 4 stars on 5 for me. Very strongly recommended!

(Reviewed on request from Grey Oak-Westland)

I was asked a few days back by someone to recommend romantic novels which make for a heart warming read. I don't know what all names I blurted out under the assumed pressure of answering quick, but the question stuck by in my head for a decently long time there after. When I answered it for myself, I spotted five romantic books distinctly embedded in my memory which by far have been the best I have stumbled upon. Since romance as a literary genre encompasses a lot, I will specify that what I am about to share with my readers today are 5 of the best 'Love Stories' I have read, which I strongly recommend to you all as well. An important caveat, before I share my favorites, is that my reading habits are not the best around. I mean, I read a lot, but according to some literature aficionados, I read crap. Anyway, I often fall in love with even what is otherwise condemned as crap. So, not sticking to any stereotypes, from a wide variety of sub-genres- here are 5 love stories which conversed straight with my heart and whose essence flowed out through tears in my eyes.

#1 Olivia and Jai by Rebecca Ryman 

Historical Fiction, I guess.

I found this book in a dusty, dingy corner of my college library. Picking it up on instinct, I could never even have imagined what an emotional rigmarole this book had planned to offer me. Set up during the earlier years of British Raj in India, this story, if I remember correctly, is the tale of two lovers haunted by a long history of family rivalries. Olivia, an American tourist in India and Jai Raventhorne, a local born of an Anglo-Indian union have nothing in common save an inherited animosity. However, they find themselves irresistibly drawn to each other and soon their attraction metamorphoses into passion. This passion is not only evident in their love, but also in their actions of vengeance on each other. To see the plot unravel, fluctuating between love, passion, animosity and revenge is a thrilling experience. Someone from you please remind me to read this book again :)


#2 The Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer
Fantasy fiction- Romantic fiction
Enough had been said and heard about this book. You can look down upon me for all I care, but I am in love with Edward Cullen, as much as I am in love with Bella Swan's character. Stephenie Meyer has constructed a scintillating plot, playing marvelously on an average girl's insecurities and an her dreams of a perfect lover. I have read the whole series twice over, and I will not shy away from burying myself in those familiar pages again when the depression of our 'practical' existence (the practicality even extending to matters of heart) becomes too much to handle.


#3 Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

Literary Classic
Need I say anything about this epic love tale which females of all age, around the world have read, and reread and romanticized over and over again? The story of unconsummated passion between Cathy and Heathcliff is a saga in its own self. The narrative of this book is not all flowery, but very dark, almost progressing like a mystery. Perhaps that is why this book was met with censure at first, but over the years has acquired ascendancy among romantic classics. Heathcliff is a character  immortalized in our memory, as that dark and intense hero- capable of passion, and capable of destruction too. Sigh. The wonderful Yorkshire moors. The intense yet unresolved passion. I feel the book is calling me again.


#4 I Too Had A Love Story by Ravinder Singh
Romance

Now, do not judge me for this. I read a lot of new age, commercial Indian literature (if we can call it that), and this book is by far the best I've come across in this genre. Ravin and Khushi, the protagonists of this novel, are the couple next door. The way their love progresses, their sweet murmuring, their first encounters, their brewing passion- everything in this book is painfully relatable. And when you (especially if you are like me) start identifying so much with the incidents and characters in the book, the climax has the potential for leaving you depressed for hours after. I, in fact, found myself wailing. The fact that it is believed to be the author's own story makes the read all the more emotional. Now, the sequel of this story has hit the market. Can Love Happen Twice? I got my copy today. Hell yes I am excited!

#5 Abhijnanashakuntalam by Kalidasa

Sanskrit Classic
Yes, it is an odd inclusion in this list, but for my UPSC preparations, I have gone through most of Sanskrit dramas, prose and poems. 'Erotic' (Shringaar) is the main element of most of the great Sanskrit works, and though I fell in love with a lot of love stories narrated by the likes of Magha, Bana, Bharavi and others, Abhijnanashakuntalam clearly stood out as the most amazing. It is a simple tale of love between King Dushyant and an ashramkanya, Shakuntala. On a hunting expedition, Dushyanta stumbles upon Shakuntala, falls in love, and their love in consummated in a simple Gandharva wedding. Crisis strikes when Dushyanta returns to his Capital City and forgets Shakuntala and their love under the influence of a curse from Rishi Durvasa. Kalidasa weaves a string of some exquisite verses detailing how the two lovers overcome the hurdles created  by Providence's chicanery. Trivia- India, Bharat, is said to have derived its name from Shakuntala and Dushyanta's son- Bharata.

I am all pepped up and reading a lot many books these days. Though I am in a mood for experimenting with different genres at present, I shall return to the trusted romances soon. Just as an concluding thought, I never find a story complete till it does not have an adequate doze of romance in it. A love story, may be as a secondary narrative always does its bit in keeping me hooked onto a novel, no matter which genre it belongs to. Hopefully, I will come up with another list of my favorites, really soon. Till then, keep reading!

Coincidences in life are can sometimes be amusing, and sometimes a little spooky. It is due to a coincidence that the book 'The Canyon Of Souls' hit off with me instantly. And this coincidence was a spooky one. I had undertaken a literary quest sometime back for understanding the deeper meanings of words like 'Nature', 'Providence', 'Divinity' and 'Man'. Specifically, 'Nature of Man'. More specifically 'Insidious Nature of Man'. In Ronald Malfi's The Canyon of Souls does not lie an understanding of the above mentioned terms-but in it lies a story while builds upon these concepts to skillfully weave together a light thriller, with thrill emanating from both- natural and preternatural sources.

The Canyon Of Souls is what the Tibetan lore accords the status of a beyul. Beyuls are places of mythical significance, the lands between our world and the next, or, between the world of mortals and the world of immortals. Beyuls are believed to be hidden in the womb of Nature, which has a way of preventing man from discovering them. The book narrates an extreme adventure story of a group of seven explorers, who set out in the search of Canyon of Souls, nestled somewhere deep in the belly of the arduous Mountains of the North.

The protagonist of The Canyon of Souls, doubling up as the narrator is Tim Overleigh, a one time famous and dexterous sculptor who abandoned his art after the death of his beloved wife, Hannah, in a fatal car accident. Being chased continuously by her ghost, Tim takes recourse to a number of adrenaline pumping adventure activities. He nearly escapes death while on a spelunking expedition, after which most of his time is spent inside his morbidly dull home. A chance meeting with his long lost acquaintance, Andrew Trumbauer -an enigmatic, adventure junkie- opens in from of Tim an invitation for joining 6 other men on a peregrination through the icy Godesh Ridge in the Himalayas to seek the still unscaled Canyon of Souls. Convinced that this is his one chance to escape the dullness of his surroundings and put his life back on track, Tim and Andrew, and some more explorers set on a journey through not just the unforgiving weather and impossible terrain of Himalayas, but also a journey through Tibetan mysticism, deceit, death and life altering realizations.

The Canyon of Souls, before saying anything else, has one of the most promising plots I have come across in a long time. To add to the glee of a reader uninitiated in the adventure fiction genre, the author Ronald Malfi does a fine job of scripting a tale which becomes towards the middle a compulsive page turner. Quick paced, and laced with vivid imagery, what I like about the book is that it is not an idle read. As much as it makes you gape and tremble with unforeseen twists in the plot, it makes you think too. What begins as an inquiry into the legendary conflict of Man versus Nature metamorphoses into an even darker and enduring conflict of Man versus Man. A little scratching on the fabric of the story reveals the underside of a bevy of thoughts on human psyche- its glory and its darkness, and although this aspect has not been investigated enough in Malfi's narrative, it still feels that these yet incomplete investigations are running like a stream under the very plot of the story.

As it progresses, the storyline transforms from being another of those explorers' diaries to a gory macabre tale which kept me glued to itself. Even though I continued turning pages at a more than decent speed with due intrigue, I still could not help being put off by Malfi's verbosity, unwelcome in places. The author, however, deserves accolades for his brilliant descriptions of Himalayan topography, of the action in the story, and even of the subtle details of Tim's haunting visions. His metaphors and similes are striking and aid the reader's imagination to flow with that of the writer's.

As far as the story line is concerned, it was riveting. I did have an issue with half sketched details of the other characters in the story. The five other explorers with Tim and Andrew included Petras, Curtis, Chad Nando, Hollinger, and Shotsky- and these are people you can picture in your mind only skeletally; knowing not their background, but may be only one defining trait of their personality. In some parts, the book disappoints as it does not reveal few motives for vengeful actions either clearly or convincingly. For curious readers who revel in details, this can be a key low point of a narrative.

As for a definite verdict- the book is nice. For a one time rapid read, it is totally worth its salt. Three stars on five for me it is, for giving me some eye widening moments, and also making me believe in guardian spirits- a dakini- as the author has put it.

(This was reviewed on request from Grey Oak-Westland)

I never cleared the dust off that window. I always knew what lay behind it. I mean, I could guess. It was not a big window. It was small. Not tiny, just small. Often I would see sun's rays filter through its dust rich glass and cluster in a small square of light on the grey floor. This square of light would stealthily broom across the cracking grey floor, leaving behind not footsteps of light, but a trail of darkness. Rather, greyness. I often liked to play with that little square of light- skip in and out of it. My darkened, weather beaten, less than ordinary looking feet would momentarily be purified by sun's white light as they skipped into that square. When they skipped out, they would enter again the ordinariness which has for long been their home..

This game with light was a passing distraction. My larger fascination was with that small window on the opposite wall. The window accumulating dust, giving only a hazy glimpse of the picturesque scenery that lay beyond. A chirping bird perched onto the overhanging branch. Glistening dew precariously hanging from the tip of a luscious green leaf. Orchids-white and purple and carnations-white and purple lining the fence in a mad array of grandeur. Just a hint of redness of an occasional rose, breaking the sacred monotony of my favorite white and purple flowers. A pair of rabbits, white balls of fur with their beady red eyes, dashing playfully through the greenery at the edge of the pond. The pond divided in two zones, each rich in fishes of differing hues. Its left side green under the overhanging canopy of huge summer trees. The right side bare, allowing sun's rays to prance around it's watery surface. Through the dust, I could figure out all the silhouettes-the flowers, the trees, the fence, the branch, the pond.

All this lay beyond that window. Yes it was a small window, but it was my only window. As the four ugly walls of that dingy confine of a room seemed to close in on me at times, the presence of that window would provide me respite. I feared the world beyond my door, with known foes and known miseries- I seldom ventured out. I was enchanted by the world beyond my window- I always kept an eye on it. I painted happy pictures and waited for the day I could be one with the wilderness the scene beyond had to offer.

I had never gone near the window. I always kept basking in the balmy light it sent in my cold room. I always kept imagining the scenery that lay beyond it, the beauty I remembered from more than two years ago when I had last ventured out. I had romanticized its translucent potential. I even spoke to it sometimes, beckoned to the heart of nature which I had believed to be sacrosanct. The window was my companion, I was its. I trusted it to open itself to me when it thought it should. May be when the heart of nature ripens to glory.

Today, its tiny panes flew open. I smiled at the invitation, but then I feared. There was some stench of ill-begotten pandemonium. I took a few steps towards it. The silhouettes I saw through dusty haze were there, but they were just that- empty silhouettes.  The scenery that lay beyond the window was as per my thoughts, with only one marked difference- there was no life in any element which I had painted in my imaginations. The outlines were there, the colors conspicuously absent. The leaves, the flowers, the water- was shivering under a windy pandemonium. They seemed lifeless, but attempting to exist somehow.

I felt a surge of sorrow. Then a surge of empathy. I thought I could get closer to the window, peep out, and see how I could help restore the beauty. I took but one step more and a strong gush of wind forced the rattling panes to shut with a bang.

I looked back at the door- a world I had consciously shut out.
I looked at the shut window panes- a world no longer the calming beauty I had thought it to be.
I looked at the walls. For the first time I felt faithless. For the first time, trapped.

"Just that....Love won't wait. You have to immediately grab hold of it, hang on to it, when it suddenly appears in all its glory. Yes, you really do, because it certainly has a way of disappearing on you. In fact, you could say it's ephemeral. It evaporates...just like that!"

"You and I certainly grabbed it, didn't we?"

The above is a conversation between Elizabeth Turner and Robert Dunley, the romantic couple who star as the protagonist in another of Barbara Taylor Bradford's family sagas, this time about the Deravenel Dynasty. At the outset itself it must be remarked, that Bradford, OBE, the best selling author of A Woman Of Substance, does not quite live upto her reputation in this book. The author claims at the end of the book that her story is inspired from the life of Elizabeth Tudor, one of England's most dynamic monarchs. However, it is a classic case of how sometimes too much inspiration is bad inspiration. A plot summary might be apt before I sum up my views on the book.

Being Elizabeth is the story the eponymous Elizabeth Deravenel Turner, the last in the line of what has been fictionalized as the oldest conglomerate in the world, the Deravenal Dynasty. In a story that spans a decade, from the mid 1990s transitioning into a new millennium, culminating in the year 2006, Being Elizabeth essays the journey of Elizabeth as the Managing Director of the Deravenel's which she inherits at a tender age and in a devastated condition owing the reckless handling of business operations by Elizabeth's now dead half sister, Mary Turner. Together with her trusted comrades, Cecil Williams and Roberth Dunley, and with the aid of her impeccable business acumen, Elizabeth succeeds in putting back Deravenel's on the path to glory. With the latter gent, Elizabeth has a scandalous romantic involvement since he is an already married man. Having had an abusive childhood, yearning for a single hint of love from her father who married six women, Elizabeth develops a phobia of marriage which becomes the most significant obstacle in the stability of her relation with Robert Dunley. Problems in Elizabeth's life are compounded by constant threats to her sovereign business empire and her claim to the Deravenel inheritance as well.

Being Elizabeth is a story told in a monotone, granting no serious jolts or gasps to the reader. Having read Ms. Bradford extensively, I have figured that one of her peculiar characteristics is that she weaves the crisis into the very fabric of the story. So it lurks around always. As a reader, you keep waiting for that one serious eruption which will set the protagonists life haywire, and then the story will pick up pace. Alas, with Being Elizabeth, nothing like that actually happens.

Bradford spends a lot of time giving vivid description of Edwardian art and architecture, which, unless you are an aficionado, can make things a little draggy. Still, you will but marvel at her for creating that theatrical ambiance in your mind, in which you can easily place the characters and imagine their story. She does her research well, and in this case, since her characters come inspired from real life figures, their development in the story is rather admirable. They are steady and lucid and distinctly identifiable.

Although it would help readers if they have read the previous two installments of the Ravenscar Dynasty, this book would still not rev up the intrigue which makes one want to turn pages. It is predictable. Highly so. The descriptions about imminent family coups, takeover bids, business strategies, and much else, are intelligent and informed, but also lethargically long and repetitive.

For me, the high points of the book, besides Bradford's amazing prowess at writing impeccably beautiful and poetic English, are two. First, she, like always, has for the subject of her book a smart, empowered and a woman in control. You would never find her heroines shedding tears or feeling oppressed. Her heroines always rise above their predicaments, and shine bright. Secondly, I love the love angle in the story. As stated earlier, the love story between the protagonists in this book is inspired by the rumoured affair between Queen Elizabeth Tudor and Robert Dudley, her closest aide, and the first Earl Of Leicester. Bradford does a fine job of carving out an intense, passionate and touching love story, though I find the erotic element a little over emphasized in the book, unnecessarily so.

I would give it a little less than 2 stars on 5, and that for a Barbara Taylor Bradford family saga is a little disappointing.

The Author- From her, you instinctively expect more.

"How I wish you could see the potential, the potential of you and me. It's like a book elegantly bound, but in a language you can't read just yet." Lyrics from 'I will possess your heart', Death Cab for Cutie.

For the above quote, and many more, I am thankful to Ahmed Faiyaz, the writer of the book I am attempting to review presently. A book I was contemplating leaving unread after completing some fifteen pages made it's way quite unassumingly to my heart. So much, that my heart felt heavy when it ended. I wished it lasted longer, just to grant me some more of those amazingly real and relatable moments. But even as it ended, it made me believe in the concept of a silver lining, for a moment motivating me to find my own.

Love, Life & All That Jazz (LL&ATJ) is a contemporary tale of love, of dreams, of coming of age. It rotates around six central characters, aided finely by a few more who help shape and pace the story as it moves ahead.

• Though some readers might differ, but for me, the main story in the narrative of LL&ATZ was that of Sameer and Tania- the couple with whom the story begins and ends. They are in love, but want different things from life- a fact that complicates their co-existence. While Sameer to make it big in life by pursuing and MBA and career in the UK, Tania is a focused interior designer with her own ambitions and plans to put to reality. Their story is about their long distance relationship, the yearning and the frustrations, and about growing up.

•  Vicky and Naina, a rich and affluent charmer and his sultry, ambitious model girlfriend are the second couple in this book. They make for that killer couple on the page 3 circuit, a culture towards which Naina gravitates because of the demands of her career and Vicky avoids because of the fatigue emanating from constant attention of nosy shutterbugs. The possessiveness and ambitions, the love and temper- all accessorize their exclusive story woven into that of their other four friends.

•  Tanveer and Tanaz, the third couple, are adorable and my favorite. Tanveer is the typical small town lad lost in a big city, with pressures and demands of his financially unstable family always looming large on his mindscape. He is bright, diligent, but insecure- and what comes as the proverbial ray of hope in his life is a vivacious Tanaz, the daughter of his Parsi landlady. But religious differences and responsibilities on Tanveer as the sole bread winner of his family bring in more than just complications in the beautiful life they both look forward to sharing.

This is broadly the set up of the story. Author Ahmed Faiyaz has done a wonderful job of finely interweaving each individual story into the over all narrative, with a pace that does not allow you to lose focus or interest. I'll be honest. I did not so much like the book after reading the initial twenty pages. It seemed one of those many books written by amateur, wannabe writers, which litter the book stalls with their jazzy covers and cheesy titles. (Oh! And this is not disdain. I am guilty of having read and thoroughly enjoyed many such books. But I kind of had had enough) So while I was contemplating leaving it and moving onto a historical treatise which lay unread beside my pillow, something in the narrative struck a nerve and I carried on. I am so glad I did.

The story begins with about five characters, and to confess, it is initially a little difficult to shift focus between all of them as they develop their distinct identities in the narrative simultaneously. However, as the story progresses, the author does a brilliant job of giving definition,background and a distinct flavor to each character, so much so that recalling any single name to mind after you're done with the book will make you picture clearly his/her character in  your head. What also helps is that all the characters and situations in the book are extremely relatable. With simplicity in his language, the author has managed to churn out some priceless dialogues and heart warming scenes. This is not one of the grandest of books you will read, but with literary opulence staring down and intimidating modest readers like me from all angles, the humble, breezy and comforting narrative of this book is what you might fall in love with.

Even though  I have labelled it a review, I don't think it is one. I will not rate this book. I cannot critique it. The hopeless romantic that I tag myself as forced me to find way too many familiarities (actual and imagined) with this book, and the consequent predilection just asks me to recommend this book to readers like myself. Heartaches, dreams, pressing family situations, uncertain careers- we are actually coming of age. Want to see a mirror, the kind which promises a silver lining at the end? Do grab this book.

Ahmed Faiyaz has decorated his book with exquisite quotations, one at the beginning of each chapter to give you an abstract peek into what lies ahead in the story. I end this post borrowing one from Chapter 10 of Love, Life & All That Jazz...

"The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them." -  Thoman Merton

Leonid Afremov again. Can I ever thank him enough for adding all these colors to my life?

(It happened in Delhi, roughly a year ago. Part fiction, part reality)

PART I


She waited anxiously for the clock to strike twelve. "Today, I will reserve him for myself"- she thought to herself. She ran her fingers over the smooth, lustrous surface of the silver band, and conjured up happy images of the day to follow.

Now.

She clandestinely tip toed up the stairs. There he stood, his frame slightly blurred by the thin layer of fog which wafted through the distance between them. She moved closer, beguiled by the casual, easy manner in which he was reclining against the terrace railing. She gave him a gentle smile, which almost immediately conveyed a soft "happy birthday". He smiled back, acknowledging her wishes. It was then that her heart skipped a beat. His smile. Ethereal. His eyes. Dazzling. His sharp features. Irresistible. And his fair face. Resplendent in the soft glow of the moon.

She motioned closer, firmly locking her eyes on him. He slipped his arm in one swift moment around her waist, and pulled her closer. She let out a sigh. She was bare-feet. He pulled her up, made her climb on his shoes; he promised to protect her from everything that hurt her- cold definitely was one of them.  With one hand pressed on his chest, she slipped her other hand in his warm clasp. He could feel the ice-cold metal band pressed between their palms. Before he could inquire, she strengthened her grip on his hand, and pressed her cheek on his.

It was time now for him to let out a sigh. His grip on her waist tightened. The inquisitiveness evaporated in the fog, protecting them from any prying eyes. She withdrew, replacing the softness of her cheeks, with that of her lips. It was only a moment that she pressed her lips on his cheeks that she heard a faint sound coming from somewhere near. She broke free from his arms as a reflex. The chill felt unbearable as she once again touched the cold floor with her bare feet. She ran back downstairs, not looking back a moment. The craving in his eyes would have weakened her.

She closed the door of her room behind her. She was safely back; but the pace at which her heart was beating, it was definitely running back to him. She left the silver band with him. She had conveyed what she intended to. Had he understood?

PART II


She woke up rubbing her eyes. The smile on her face was instinctive. In that state of semi-consciousness, she knew something big was in store today, something was going to change; but what, she did not quite know. She let the pleasant disorder persist. She closed her eyes. She lived those memories again.

She had known him since she was sixteen- at the threshold of womanhood. A tryst on an enchanting evening, and that one defining moment when she, without a care in the world held his hand and danced, changed a lot for her. She had been bold and protected; she now wanted to expose her weaknesses to him. She had always led in life; she now simply wished to follow. She had been afraid of all these feelings, she now wanted to risk the lethal.

And all this when she did not even know the spelling of his name!
A month and ten days later, she risked the question. At that time, she could not recall his physical image to brain. Today, three and half years later, she can recognize him by his smell.

Today, she will take care of the remaining fears she had in her heart. "We can't be together for long", she mulled, "But our own commitment, we'll make firmer". She wanted to cement their bond till a point of no return. She believed in rituals; and so she selected the simplest, and more meaningful to assert- "I'm here to stay. I'm your's for life".

They met in the heart of the city, and this time could exchange hugs and wishes more openly. He had a curious smile on his lips, and she knew what he meant when he said-"It's my birthday, and I want to buy you a gift". He dragged her into a shop selling silver, and after trying several, bought that one ring, which made her humble fingers look royal. She could not contain her smile. She wondered what the passers-by must be thinking; but she knew her smile made her look pretty. So, hand-in-hand, away they went.

It was now time for rituals.
Rings: Selected, bought.
Dress Code: Winter Casuals.
Witnesses: Not required.
Venue: Big Problem! Where? No idea. What to do? They walked, and mulled, and walked, and mulled, and eventually got tired. They were treading on the grandest road in the capital, connecting the India Gate with the magnificent President's House. Lutyen's architecture is a beholder's delight! Finally, when they could walk no more, they sat down on a foot path, right in front of India Gate. Cars were whizzing past at brilliant speeds. "This is it!" -she exclaimed. "What can be a better place to engrave in our memories forever?" True. They were against the most majestic backdrop that this city could provide- Grandiose architectural wonders; almost invisible sun, its balmy rays cascading down the layers of mist, right in their direction; and the two of them, lost amid a crowd of pedestrians and vehicles, yet secure in their place beneath the sun.

Now was the time to solemnize. They prepared to slip the rings. Wait. Ring finger, but which hand? They shared a moment of humor when they both took out their handsets, and tried to understand tradition from the point of view of technology. With 'engagement+rituals' as the key words, they went through numerous search results, all in contradiction to each other. They looked at each other, shared a hearty laugh, and then, decided to trust their instincts.

First she, then him.

Holding hands had never been more special.

They headed home in an auto, a luxurious ride, given their humble backgrounds. She chatted incessantly. He, like always, was the patient listener. Their clasp did not break for a second. Yes, they did spend a moment or two just looking at those intertwined hands, wondering how long will this dream last. Then, they averted their gaze. In their hearts was a brief fear. This fear, they refused to share with each other.

May be nothing had changed. May be, a lot had.

It's after long that I have gotten down to blogging. The reason for that, simply, have been the rains. I have already published blogs about rains, and still, the most prominent source of inspiration as far as writing is concerned , has only been 'rains'. Today as well, it is no different. Rains definitely form the back drop of my narrative, but, the perspective has altered. The joy associated with raindrops touching my skin has long disappeared. Now, there is a shadow of gloom forever marking my face.

The rains have continued for far too long. Or may be, it is the first time I am perceiving them that way. Hindrances to already delayed constructions works, traffic snarls, puddles, difficulty in commutation- if you(the reader) think these are the sources of the absent enthusiasm in my heart, then you are highly mistaken. These are the things that I laugh at. Then what is it that is letting this tangible, yet incomprehensible melancholy fill my being?

A single peek of sun from behind the clouds makes my eyes shine with alacrity; but this revelry is rare to visit my door. I was sitting today for really long in CP, by a huge window, which gave me the most spectacular view of mud hills lining the roadsides, cars of every color and brand stuck in an unending ennui, white colored Victorian buildings damp and their paints chipping, and a grey, almost-black canvas of a huge cupola of clouds, which seems to have sworn sun-protection to all citizens of Delhi for quite some time now. I was sitting and sketching the scene in front of me. Not that i am good at drawing, but i was just trying my hand at being a bit destructive (of the beauty of the scene), a bit disappointing (of my famous sketching abilities) and a bit disgusting ( to my companion who himself is acclaimed at wielding magic as he draws).

Anyway, point was, i was doing it, and in a very sudden, or rather, unnoticeable manner, an unmistakable feeling of grief started springing inside me. I tried to fight it, but i sensed my mind submitting to it. As a natural reflex, the first thing i did was to figure out reasons. My jejune brain first held Ghalib culpable for my condition. Yes, you are right, the same, old, Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. Why, i will tell later. I was almost about to take punitive measures against his long deceased soul, when i was held back by an expeditious onset of slumber. It was in that sleep i found answers to my heart's unease. It was a dream...a dream which made things lucid to me...dream-

"I was sitting on a hillside. My favorite hillside. The air was damp. Sun nowhere in sight. The valley was green; it's depth not calculable. Cottony fluffs of clouds were rising from deep down. My side of the hills were iridescent with flowers of variegated hues smiling from both corners of my eyes. I was sitting quietly looking blankly at everything around. Only my eyes were peculiar. Water was running down my cheeks. I am not sure if it were tears, because my heart was devoid of emotions. I felt no stabs of sadness. I only cried. Suddenly, a divine person came into the picture. Filled with clemency, benevolence, and sure 'answers' to my discomfort, he came and sat by my side quietly. I said nothing, just stole a sideways glance at him. He was dressed in casuals- green T-shirt and denims. He had a white, perfectly chiseled face. His hair and eyes were unnaturally black. His lips were pink, with a cleft which could be missed sans close scrutiny. He started gazing straight ahead, where the view of the opposite hills was being blocked by the nascent clouds. He sat observing the clouds. With no warning, he raised his fingers as if a seasoned pianist is preparing his agile fingers for a concert. His fingers started moving in incongruous patterns in the air. I was about to ask him, but he shushed me even before i could utter a word. Gave me a glance which conveyed- "patience". After about fifteen minutes of this queer activity, he gave himself a satisfactory smile. Then, he kept one hand over my head. He said, in his soft, echoing, almost a chime-like voice- "Clouds are my most formless creations, but when I make these clouds my canvas, and my fingers the paintbrushes, my mind can picture them in a thousand different shapes and forms and meanings. I gave these clouds nothing. I gave them a transient existence. But then never complain. They utilize their short life giving shade and hope to the others. When they die, they weep- the only, and the final expression of their grief. But, even as they weep, they lend smiles to many. People are glad for the water, relief, rain, respite but no one cares for the very clouds who carry these droplets safely till they are delivered at their destination. But, they carry on, continue, persevere." His gaze pierced through me as he said the last word."

I did not even see this divine creature walk away. I was woken up as we were getting late. I saw the unfinished sketch lying in front of me. I raised my head for a final gaze, intending to finish my sketch, but the only detailing i added to it were the grey, almost black clouds in the background.

Mr. Ghalib, aptly, can find his mention here. He writes the most beautiful lines, and has this uncanny, unmistakable ability to stimulate that corner of my heart which hitherto was latent. This time, the lines were as follows-
"Dil hi toh hai, na sang-o-khisht, dard se bhar na aaye kyun?
Royenge hum, hazaar baar, koi humein sataaye kyun?"
(It is only a heart, not stone or mortar, why should it not fill with grief?
We will wail a thousand times, why should anyone torment us?)

For me, a better translation of the above lines is- The heart is heart, it will weep. Why should anyone be critical of my grief?

I walked down the footpaths of CP, trying to fathom my dream. May be I did. May be the Almighty was fed up of the incessant tussles i have with him, and wanted to talk about the many basics that i ignore while censuring him for my mundane problems. May be he was genuinely concerned with my listlessness about where to head as i found myself without support, care, concern, love and understanding from anyone i hold dear. And then, he sent me this quote in my Gmail inbox-"You desire to know the art of living, my friend? It is contained in one phrase: make use of suffering"

Whatever it meant. Whatever it was. One thing I will surely laud Him for is the medium he chose to communicate with me. This one voice, i can never ignore. Never.