Endless Skies

sketched in paper

the endless skies and the stars

her joyous scribbling

This Haiku is shared with Carpe Diem - Endless Skies.

Don't Think Of A Blue Ball - Review

Don't Think of a Blue Ball is as light or as deep as you want it to be, depending on how Plugged In you are while reading it. It aims to give you all you need to truly live the life you want and be joyful as you pursue your dreams and desires. Plug In and do the effective, tried-and-tested, exercises derived from Malti Bhojwani's extensive study and hours of coaching her clients. This book includes scientific explanations where needed, wisdom from timeless philosophers and authors, teachings from the scriptures together with the author's own personal poignant experiences to beautifully illustrate how you too can live a life you desire instead of one of default. For the first time, an easy to read book that entwines humor, simple analogies and a firm voice in twelve chapters to show you how to make lasting changes in all areas of your life by making empowering decisions that will instantly help you experience joyous living. You will not only learn how to take action towards your desired life by following steps like in many other self-help books, but also how to change the way you talk to yourself, enabling you to feel, walk and dream in a state that will magnetise everything you desire even while you sleep. Don't Think of o Blue Ball will help you become aware of who you are being twenty-four hours a day and how to create a successful life by being a manifesting body that radiates joy and gratitude.

As a life Coach she aims to serve, not to fix or to help. Malti Bhojwani is the founder of Multi Coaching International, a professional certified life Coach with the International Coach Federation (ICF), NIP practitioner (Neuro Linguistic Programming) and an author. She coaches using her empathetic enquiry that leads her clients to personal empowerment, fulfilled goals and consistent success. Being a life-long learner, she is also mastering Ontological Coaching with Newfield Network to hone her skills, as she still considers herself only a 'white-belter' in the field of personal transformation. Born in Singapore in May 1971, she lived in Jakarta for many years, though she spent most of her adult life in Sydney, Australia where her grown-up daughter Drishti lives. Her first published work, Thankfulness Appreciation Gratitude My Journal has gone into several reprints.

Life is a lesson that we all go through, and yet there are numerous occasions when we fail to understand the intricacies associated with it. We fail, and we get depressed. We blame poor fate and get absorbed in all the negativity that the dark energy has to offer. Some become too burdened with this weight that they forget the true essence of living.

Malti Bhojwani’s Don’t Think Of A Blue Ball addresses these very same issues. It is a self-help guide that flows lucidly with wise anecdotes and interesting snippets of stories based on real life events. The author describes several experiences of her own lives and explains how she dealt with those situations. The book traverses the journey of the author as she rises through her hardship to finally become a Life Coach and an inspirational writer.

It is this journey that makes the book special. The chapters are real, and you can relate to them. There will be times when you would sit up and exclaim, “Hey! This is written for me.” The author does a good job with collating bits and pieces of her life’s experiences and weaving them in words. She narrates the various phases of her life and the struggle accompanied with them, which in turn provides us the motivation to work harder towards eliminating our obstacles and setting our sights determinedly on our goals.

Malti Bhojwani illustrates the power of manifestations, and how positive thinking can take us to our target. We often ponder on ‘if onlys’, ‘should haves’ and ‘could haves’, thus bounding our thoughts to the unwanted events of the past. As a result, we fail to identify the brightness of the present, and fear to embrace the future. This book seeks to empower the minds of the readers, providing them with the confidence to look and plan ahead.

The twelve chapters in the book are neatly etched, each dealing with various topics that rule our emotions and lives. For example, the author talks about plugging into a higher source and energy to better realize the purpose and meaning of life. Often we get distracted by events that are not to our liking. The book plots the points that would help us in going back to the right track.

What I really liked were the practical exercises that the author has highlighted. There are several ‘do-it-yourself' activities which can be followed by the readers. As a result, the readers can connect better with the words in the book. The author doesn't elaborate the concepts in a preachy manner. Rather, she justifies the points in a scientific way, thus stressing upon the saying that we can live our life the way we want to.

The language used is easy which tends to light reading. However, at some places, there are repetitions that slows down the pace of the book. Perhaps, it would have been a more compelling read had these been avoided. But then again, several points mentioned in this book were inter-related, and thus repetitive mentions at some places were inevitable.

All in all, this book serves as a good self-help guide. It helps you to understand your life better, and motivates you to achieve your dreams. 

Title: Don't Think Of A Blue Ball

Author: Malti Bhojwani

Publisher: Om Books International

Publication Year: 2012

Binding: Paperback

Genre: Self Help, Personal Growth

No. Of Pages: 240

My Rating: 3/5

Buy this book here.

This book review is a part of The Readers Cosmos Book Review Program. To get free books visit thereaderscosmos.blogspot.com.

I Am Blessed

She is nothing short of an enigma, perhaps more angelic than human. You will get a whiff of her dreamy halo the moment you talk to her, the solitude within your heart evaporating, condensing in the form of a blissful rain that lazily penetrates the pores of your arid heart.

"Are you real?" I asked her once. She smiled in response.

Often I have been enamored by her beauty. The distinct radiance emanating from her silken smile does more harm than good. It makes me lose my memory, and deviates me from the chain of thoughts that I had weaved all this while, leaving me blank and clueless. Like an idiot, I just stare at her, and she, making a mockery of my distressed state, laughs, knocking me over further.

Irrational relationships are undefined. Our friendship do not boast of years of togetherness, neither scores high in compatibility parameters. We are different in many ways, yet bound by a unique, unseen commonality that helps us wade through sullen climate and rejoice the happy ones.

We had our shares of rough weathers too; often falling prey to misunderstandings that nullify our senses and vacate the emotions in our hearts. We have fought, cried, and avoided each other. Yet, this inexplicable bond brings us back to normalcy all the time. We acknowledge the faults, and we continue being in this camaraderie.

In ways more than one, she is special. Very special.

At times when I am low, I give her a call, and her soft whispering voice soothes my soul. I realize then that all problems can be overcome if she is there with me, holding my hands.

Trust me, she is nothing short of an enigma, perhaps more angelic than human. You will get a whiff of her dreamy halo the moment you talk to her, the solitude within your heart evaporating, condensing in the form of a blissful rain that lazily penetrates the pores of your arid heart.

And it is then that I know - "I am blessed."



This Micro-Fiction is shared with Three Word Wednesday.

A Lonesome Bat

a lonesome bat

hanging from the branches

he knows no friend

he knows no friend

as he flies through the caves

night after night

night after night

he watches the moon

designing the skies

designing the skies

the moon plays with him

hide and seek

hide and seek

one night, the moon was lost

in the maze of clouds

in the maze of clouds

the bat traveled here and there

but in vain

but in vain

hanging from the branches

a lonesome bat

This Haiku is shared with Haiku Heights - Bat.

Essence Of Madness

As the two hands of the clock conjoined, I found myself standing outside my house; the office cab that had dropped me here was now flying away in full gear, befriending the dust of clouds that followed it in this moonless night. I took out the key from my wallet and unlocked the door. Having pursued my school education in a hostel in the hilly areas of Darjeeling, and then my engineering in a residential university on the outskirts of West Bengal, I was accustomed to staying away from my family. However, my current job provided me the luxury of spending time with my parents, as I was posted in Kolkata, my hometown.

My parents were already deep asleep. I silently opened the door trying not to wake them up. I stepped into our drawing room and took a deep breath. It was dark except a faint light from the diya lighted in front of Ganesh-ji’s idol. A wonderful you-are-home aroma filled the room from the agarbatti sticks mom lighted for Ganesh-ji before she went to bed.

Another hectic day had passed and the project delivery went successfully. The client was satisfied, and thus was my manager. I seemed to be heading on the right track towards my promotion.

I looked around. I was surrounded with a lavish set of furniture, sophisticated home decorations, and expensive electronic gadgets. I was satisfied. It was a perfect life.

I sunk into the cosy couch, and lighted a cigarette. I inhaled the smoke, let it fill my lungs and do its regular slow damage, and then exhaled. Ah! It was relaxing. I went into the kitchen, and soon was back with a cup of hot tea. Tea went best with cigarettes (worst health wise). As I took my first sip, that strange unique aroma, a mixture of cigarette, tea, and agarbatti smokes, suddenly sent a weird thrill down my spine. The smell was so familiar. There was something so delightfully exhilarating about it, yet something was missing. I tried hard to figure out what, as I loosened the knot of my tie, and then it all came rushing back from past. I got up and sprayed the room with Ambi Pur room freshener -the missing link. In the next few minutes, in the dark, filled with a fragrance of cigarette, agarbatti, tea and room freshener, I walked eight years down the memory lane.

I was sitting on the bed of my stingy hostel room, smoking, with a textbook in my hand. Two single cots were joined together to make enough space for four guys.

Rahul entered with an aluminium kettle in one hand, and a pile of four empty glasses in the other. Manoj was still making rough notes while Satish nervously flipped through the previous years’ papers. We just had two more packs of cigarette and fourteen long hours left before it would be morning. I was starting to worry if we had enough supply of fag to last the whole night. It was the night before the exam-the night when no one slept.

As Rahul handed the glasses, Manoj screamed agitatedly, “Can’t any of you see that my cig’s over? Light me another!”

I immediately handed him my cigarette.

We treated Manoj like God. He was the only one among us with the willpower and brain to fathom those Hebrew lines of the undecipherable subjects of Electronics Engineering on the very last night before exam. We would light him cigarettes (like my mom lighted agarbattis to Lord Ganesha), bring him tea and worshipped him. He would jot down all the key points for us to remember easily, which, of course, we would be too sleepy to read ourselves, and then he would read them out loud to us.

But as it happened, we always used to score about a grade lesser than him, in every subject. Firstly, it was an enigma. But Rahul dug a little deeper and found out that he always elaborately omitted a couple of topics when he taught us. I was hurt.

We were soon chanting the prayer-like lines as narrated by Manoj, when suddenly our hearts simultaneously froze with the knock at the door. There was only one man who could be here at this hour- the Devil himself-our hostel warden. He had a bad reputation of giving late night rounds to check if any boys were indulged in  illegal stuffs inside the rooms, and we were-smoking!

If we got caught, it would lead to an hour long lecture, followed by the dreaded suspension.

We instinctively threw our cigarettes out but it still smelled distinctly of tobacco. After all, we were in the world’s smallest confined space where maximum number of cigarettes had been smoked in the minimum amount of time.

“Light the agarbattis, light the agarbattis!” hissed Rahul under his breath.

We always had agarbattis though all of us were atheists.

I lighted a bunch of agarbattis, as Satish went spraying the room freshener all around.

“We can’t light agarbattis without some God’s idol or photo or something!” Satish squeaked.

“We don’t have one!” I blabbered.

“What do you mean?” Manoj shouted at me, “You know your room is the study room and you don’t have hazard safety equipment! What do we do now?”

The knocks continued, as we heard the man shout, “I can hear you speak, open up!”

I mumbled awkwardly, “we need a God, we need a God.”

That’s when Manoj pulled out a loose sheet of paper and drew the world’s most hurriedly drawn Krishna-ji. We placed it on the wall behind the table on which the agarbattis now stood.

Satish opened the door.

“Yes, sir”, he smiled broadly, “Come in. You have come in the right time. We were just doing our night-before-the-exam puja.”

“What puja?” asked the warden.

We all relaxed tremendously. Instead of asking, “What smell?” he asked something else. Anything else was good.

“Like you know, we are very religious. We pray every night before the exam. See four agarbattis, each from one of us.”

“What is that thing? Where is the idol or picture of your God?”

“Look, sir,” I remarked, trying to sound convincing even though my voice was as shaky as the mobile phone’s vibration, “It is our belief that if we create the picture with our own hands, Krishna-ji will be happier. In case you do not have such beliefs, please do not join our puja.”

The warden frowned.

“Just light the agarbattis, no need to fake a puja. Some people may actually find that more offending than smoking,” he said.

We froze. Satish, the weakest, was going to burst into tears.

“Anyways,” he continued, “Next time I catch you smoking, you are coming to the principal’s office. Now study hard. Only God can save you, if you don’t.”

And he left.

It was then that I realized, he hated us so much that he wanted us to pass out of college even more desperately than we did.

After he left, Rahul shouted, “Ah Satish, your breath must have given it all away! Why didn’t you have some mouth freshener before opening that stupid door.”

The tea in my cup was over.

I was back in the dark room filled with cosy furniture.

Ever since then, I would wake up in the middle of the night, go to the living room where the agarbatti burned tirelessly, spray some Ambi Pur room freshener, sip a cup of tea and smoke a cigarette. Sitting at a living room filled with luxurious furniture and classy decorations, I would inhale the essence of madness and would be lost in the nostalgia of some other exam night in my congested stingy hostel room, my home during my four years of college life.

NOTE: Smoking is injurious to health. It causes cancer.

This is my official entry to "Smelly Air to Smiley Air" contest organized by Indiblogger in association withAmbi Pur.

Check out the official Facebook Page of Ambi Pur below:

https://www.facebook.com/AmbiPurIndia

Scent Of Motherland

“Home?”

“Yes, home.”

The smile was evident on my face as I looked out of the window, the bright Manhattan skyline gaping proudly at me, as if to make its presence felt amidst the vast Indian population that have been residing here since years.

I turned around. Adam was looking at me with surprise clearly reflected in his eyes, his blond hair shining brightly against the rays that peeped in through the window.

“You never talked of home before,” he said, curious to know my unexpected desire to return back to India.

I just smiled, again. There wasn’t any explanation for my sudden change of behaviour. The States have always lured me, and I, like a bee in search of honey, had flown here as soon as opportunity hugged me in its golden embrace. What followed next was a dream. Money, and luxuries arrived, and the pride in my heart soared high whenever I saw my Facebook profile stating my current location as Manhattan.

“Are you sure you want to do it?”

I nodded at Adam. I was pretty sure about the decision I had made. What seemed totally abrupt to Adam was, well, in reality, a well-planned idea that I had always nurtured in me. I wanted to return soon after completing my higher education, and I was exactly doing that.

As the sun crept behind the horizon, I retired to my bed room. The window was open; I had never closed it in the last three years that I have been staying here. I stood behind the window sill, breathing in the voices of people who were busy with their evening activities.

The clock struck 8, and the smell of familiarity calmly entered my nostrils. The Indian restaurant across the road had started preparing their dinner. Oh, how I loved this smell, which took me back to memories of my motherland; me, standing at the kitchen door, as my mother cooked delicious rotis and splendid chicken curry for dinner. I used to stand there for long, sometimes sneaking in when I thought she wasn’t looking. A bite of the warm cooked chicken grazed my tongue, and the blissful essence seeped into my soul. I always thought my mother didn’t know; but she knew, all along.

I decided to walk across the street and have my dinner at the restaurant today. I told my cook not to make anything for me.

I unlocked the wardrobe and took out a t-shirt and jeans. I smelt them, like I always used to do. It brought back memories of home, where every row of our cupboard smelt of naphthalene. As a child, I was always enamoured by these whitish balls. I loved playing with them, until one day when my mom scolded, “Leave them aside. They are poisonous.”

I stopped playing with naphthalene balls. I didn’t want to die so soon; but the smell lingered.

I unpacked the new shoe that I had bought from the nearby market. It was tough on the exterior but felt like cotton when I wore it. I love these new brands of shoes. Out of sheer habit, I picked up my left shoe, and before wearing, I smelt it. I know you might find it odd, but do try smelling a new shoe. It’s addictive, and different. Leather smells good when fresh, and even better when they have been polished, just like my school shoes. Often, I used to secretly smell the bottles of shoe polish while wiping my shoes during my school days. No, don’t count me as a drug addict though.

A man wearing a torn tweed jacket, and a jeans that seemed to have seen better years, was sweeping the streets. A few grains of dust entered my nostril and I sneezed loudly. Dust allergy, always my nemesis, since my childhood. I remembered how I used to cover my face with a handkerchief whenever our maid used to clean the rooms. I quickly darted across the road and entered the restaurant.

Tomorrow, I would be leaving for India, and it feels as if I had never left my land. I have stayed in US for the last few years, but I have always belonged to the place where I was born and brought up. After the sumptuous dinner, I got up from my seat and walked towards the waiter who d served me the meal.

“Are you from India?” I asked, but I knew the answer already.

He nodded. It’s never too difficult to recognise an Indian in a foreign land.

I hugged him, and walked out of the restaurant. Perhaps he was surprised by my gesture. I could never know, ‘cause I didn’t look back.

I slept well that night, the fragrance of my motherland lingering fresh in my mind. Even though I was miles away from my home, the smell of my land seemed to have always stayed rooted in my heart.

This is my official entry to "Smelly Air to Smiley Air" contest organized by Indiblogger in association with Ambi Pur.

Check out the official Facebook Page of Ambi Pur below:

https://www.facebook.com/AmbiPurIndia

The Guardian Angels - Live Love, And Life

Guardian Angels is the epic and tumultuous story of two star-crossed lovers who weren’t just soul-mates but were also each other’s protectors.

The fates of Adi Mehta and Radha Deodhar are deeply entwined when within days of their first rendezvous they save each other’s lives.

Despite their vast sociopolitical differences, they are drawn to an uncertain future fraught with contrasting ambitions, personas and ideologies.

. . . he is the son of a billionaire, she is the daughter of a socialist.

. . . he is quiet and unassuming, she is a firebrand and spirited.

However, the unexplained phenomena ties them forever – whenever they are in peril, they are each other’s only saviors.

Over the following two decades Adi and Radha live through hope and despair, joy and sadness, and try to decipher their relationship. As the truth of their bond is revealed, they must confront the true nature of love, and ultimately, their destinies.

About the Author 

Rohit Gore grew up in a number of towns in India. At various times in his childhood, he wanted to be a theatre actor, an architect and a bookshop owner.

After his engineering degree, he was based in Mumbai. An MBA from S P Jain Institute followed and since then he is in the IT industry.

He loves sports, specifically the discussing and watching part of it, since the playing days are long gone. He has travelled a lot – a consequence of living in Mumbai and London. His greatest passion is reading and it inspired him to write. He is a frequent contributor to many online writing forums and wishes there were more writing groups.

He has a keen interest in history, especially the history of music and arts. One of the things he would like to get better at is photography. 

He currently lives in Pune, a wonderfully vibrant city with his wife Pranita and son Sahil.

As a book reviewer I am supposed to pen down the thoughts that emerge in my mind while reading a novel, whether it is deep or shallow. It’s my responsibility to throw light on the canvas that the authors have created and provide my opinions. However, when your mind goes numb, and words desert you, what can you say?

The Guardian Angels by Rohit Gore is one such novel that doesn’t give me the luxury of constructing full grown sentences to voice my thoughts. It doesn’t allow me to vent out the emotions that have flown deep inside me while I turned the pages of this book. Rather, this book had me lost, lost in the magic of its plot, its story line, and tugged the heart that used to beat steadily before I picked up this book, but not anymore.

And yes, I find myself lost in the bond between the protagonists, Adi and Radha. Perhaps, lost in love, and lost in respect, to the brilliant chemistry that they portray in this novel. Mr. Gore, I should thank you for sketching love in a pure, blissful way.

When the market is flooded with love stories, this novel comes as a breath of fresh air. Now, this one is a love story too, but without the pretenses and any artificiality. Rather, this is simple, prosaic and flows deeply like a subtle poem.

The Guardian Angels describe the story of Adi Mehta and Radha Deodhar, who cross paths several times in different phases of their lives, sometimes holding promises of a sweet togetherness, while at other times dropping tears of loneliness and separation; but they are together, always; for who can question destiny when it has already plotted the points that need to be traversed. Adi and Radha are different, in the way they have been brought up, in their ideologies, and in their principles, but at the end of it, they are united by a special bond – the bond of trust and friendship.

And the bond of love.

Though they try not to acknowledge this fact, there is no escaping the truth. They grow with it, and live with it, shying away from acceptance, but still nurturing dreams of togetherness. They are near, but far, and far, yet near. Their undefined relationship often drives them to the pure joy that’s felt when dreams are achieved. However, at the very next moment, they are enveloped by the realization that the dreams they nurture are absolutely futile.

Rohit Gore uses his words well, and as such, this is a novel that should be read slowly, thoroughly. You need to do justice to the paintings that the words create, and like a faithful admirer, you are slowly, gradually drawn into this world of colors. The Guardian Angels manages to make you smile, and at times, you shed that single drop of tear, but then, The Guardian Angels wipes it as well.

How I wish things could have been a bit smoother for Adi and Radha, but then, that wouldn't have been life. We live in hardships, suffer difficulties, and emerge out of it, only to understand the meaning of our existence better. Rohit Gore showcases life and love, in an uncharacteristically true and honest way. This is a book that must be read, re-read, and lived. 

Title: The Guardian Angels
Author: Rohit Gore
Publisher: Grapevine India
Language: English
Binding: Paperback
Number of Pages: 328
My Rating: 4/5

Buy this book here.

The book was received as part of Reviewers Programme on The Tales Pensieve.

Magic Field

magic field

where peacocks dance

to nature's flute

magic field

brimming with dreams

of happy sunshine

magic field

where love is ploughed

in ember embrace

This Haiku is shared with Carpe Diem - Magic Fields.

Love

photo by Elena Kalis

look

how far

I fly, I sail

oh my reflec-

tion, as we merge

in depths of wavy love

you, and me, one

the glass breaks

binding us

forever

love

love

the solid

ice, will it melt

again, uncertainty creeps

na, it won't, am

sure, but 'm

not

love

I don't

want to fly

but stay grounded

with you, we

framing

love

This Poem is shared with 

• The Mag - Mag 182,
• Open Link Monday.

At The Stroke Of Midnight

At the stroke of midnight, just when the clock stuck twelve, Major Sharma was woken up by the whispers of silent footsteps. Yes, he was sure he heard them correct. His ears had never betrayed him all those years during his role in the army, and they were still as faithful as before.

Could it be the kittens that often entered his house on rainy nights? Nay, not possible, they walked differently, their gait muted. The only motion that could have revealed their presence was the sound of their tails brushing against the dusty floor.

But this sound was different. It was audible, yet muffled. Major Sharma opened his eyes. The room was dark, and he stared and blinked, trying to get his eyes accustomed to the darkness. He couldn't risk turning the lights on.

After what seemed like an eternity, he could make out the shadowy outline of his bed, cupboard and the door of his room. He stood up and trudged noiselessly towards the cupboard, taking out the loaded revolver from the vault.

As he slowly moved towards the main hall of his 4bhk plush apartment, he heard rapid footsteps coming from the kitchen. With the revolver tightly clutched in his sweaty palms, he ran towards the source. It was empty.

And then he saw it - a man walking briskly on the other side of the window. This is the thief.

"Stop," Major Sharma yelled.

For a split second, the world froze. Major Sharma held the gun sharply in his hands,his adept finger steady at the trigger. The thief, with his back towards the window, stood still, as if he was a statue made of wood.

In the very next instance, the freeze melted.

The thief ran across the lawn as fast as he could. Major Sharma's pressed the trigger, aiming at the legs of the running man. However, the thief's left foot betrayed him in the chase, and he fell victim to a rock carelessly lying around in the lawn. He staggered, and stooped low. Major Sharma's bullet failed to differentiate between the thief's legs and his naked head.

Major Sharma ran towards the spot, a sense of guilt emanating in his conscience. For the first time in his life, he had missed his target. Killing a person was what he hated the most; and yet, today, this was what he had done. He turned and started walking back towards the house to call an ambulance, not noticing the loaf of bread that was lying a few feet away from the dead man.

Across the street, in a small make shift shelter, a woman was trying her best to convince her five year old son who was crying from hunger, "Don't worry dear. Your father has gone to bring bread for you. He will be back anytime now."


This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Path

"I love the poems you write," she told me on a lazy monsoon night.

"But I haven't written one since a very long time," I replied, scratching the hair on my head in an attempt to recollect when I had last penned down a poem.

"Anyways, I love them whenever you write," she was too sweet.

I smiled. The longing was habitual; as I waited each day for the sun to finally set, the moon to arrive with its silken aura, and the two hands of the clock to conjoin and seal our fate at 12.

The rain drops rattled against my window, forcefully, as if trying to gather enough strength to barge across the shady contours of my dimly lit room. I stood up, and walked towards the glass panes, trying to decipher what lay outside. All I could see were shadows, making a mockery of my feeble heart.

"I love you," I wish I could write that. Instead, I replied, "I will write something for you tomorrow." If distraught was a God, I might well have been one of His avatar. Tears do not obey my commands. They just flow, rudely, crudely.

"Wow. I will be waiting for it," pat came the reply.

I try to regulate the motion of my fingers, as they too, like my tears, were eager to disobey my futile orders, and wanted to type down the story of my heart. I waited a long time, before I finally typed the message - "I lost my poem when I lost you, when our paths separated, when our minds dissected our clammy souls, rendering our wishes useless with the excuse of being too naive and impractical."

I erase what I wrote. I just reply, "Sure, I will let you know."


This Micro-Fiction is shared with

• Three Word Wednesday - Distraught, Habitual, Regulate.
• Sunday Scribblings - Path.

Not All Love Stories Are Perfect, But This Book Definitely Is

In the middle of the catastrophic 2008 recession, Aditya, a jobless, penniless man meets an attractive stranger in a bar. Little does he know that his life will change forever.

When Radhika, a young, rich widow, marries off her stepdaughter, little does she know that the freedom she has yearned for is not exactly how she had envisioned it.

They say homing pigeons always come back to their mate, no matter where you leave them on the face of this earth. The Homing Pigeons is the story of love between these two unsuspecting characters as it is of lust, greed, separations, prejudices and crumbling spines.

About the Author

A hotelier by education, an ex-banker and a senior executive in the outsourcing industry, Sid gave up a plush career in the outsourcing industry to follow his passions. Based out of Ranikhet, he is now a struggling entrepreneur and a happy writer. A self- proclaimed eccentric, he is an avid blogger who loves to read and cook. Cooking stories, however, is his passion. The Homing Pigeons is his debut novel. He can be reached at sidd.bahri@gmail.com

Some things in life you wish had never ended; like the first drop of rain finding solace in the petals of a blooming rose, snuggling against the dewy contours, eventually evaporates with the afternoon rays; like the first kiss you share with the person you love, innocent yet pure, eyes dreamy and heart melodious; like watching the first steps of your little child, stumbling against the blocks, yet standing strong and walking ahead towards your embrace. Read Sid Bahri’s ‘The Homing Pigeons’, and you will add the novel in this list too.

For this is not just a novel, no, neither a 300 odd pages of simple fiction; ‘The Homing Pigeons’ is a depiction of life, of love, of loss, and of the myriad of emotions we all, as humans, battle day in and day out. ‘The Homing Pigeons’ is a conflict, the war that constantly rages within our conscience, often tearing us apart, and yet we fail to learn. ‘The Homing Pigeons’ is a tale of mistakes, the follies of our hearts, as we fall prey to the devil sitting in our mind. ‘The Homing Pigeons’ is not just a novel, its LIFE, in bold.

The tagline goes – ‘Not all love stories are perfect, but then, neither are people.’ The story revolves around Aditya and Radhika, two young hearts who fall in love, only to be victimized by the cruel turns of fate. At one moment, they are together, happy with each other’s company, carving castles of a blissful future, and at the very next instance, they realize that the castles made of sand are too fragile, only to be swept away by the waves of destiny. They meet, and they part, circumstances playing a game of ping pong with these characters, and you can’t stop breathing in anticipation as to where exactly the points would meet.

And then you stop breathing, at the end of each chapter, and that’s where Sid Bahri scores brownie points galore. He keeps the suspense alive, word after word, every page promising something new, unique and different. What makes it all the more interesting is that he manages to create real characters out of a fictional story. Yes, Aditya and Radhika are real, as real as you and me.

It is this realism that’s weaved so beautifully which manages to keep you hooked to the story. There never is a dull moment, and you sail through suavely with the first person narration in offer, alternating between the two protagonists. The exciting bit is that you, as a reader, get to view the same circumstance in different viewpoints. As a result, you don’t judge the characters and their actions, you just live with them.

‘The Homing Pigeons’ is definitely one of the best stories I have come across. Set upon the backdrop of recession, the plot explores the subtlety of feelings and emotions perfectly. So many times while reading this story a thought came to my mind – “This author has the potential to be termed as the Indian Khaled Hosseini.” I do not compare writers, as each one has a unique style of his/her own, but when I came across a debut that can be termed as equally good as a writer I have been admiring from years, I couldn't stop myself.

And yes, all love stories may not be perfect, as the tagline goes, but this story can easily be termed as one.

Title: The Homing Pigeons...: Not All Love Stories are Perfect, but Then, Neither are People

Author: Sid Bahri

Publisher: Srishti Publishers & Distributors

Publication Year: 2013

Language: English

Binding: Paperback

No. of Pages: 328

My Rating: 5/5

"This book review is a part of The Readers Cosmos Book Review Program. To get free books visit thereaderscosmos.blogspot.com."

Survival

(Image Source: http://ermiliablog.wordpress.com)

When you are being hunted by demons that can fly, how far can you run?

I stopped, panting, short of breath, and felt a sudden painful sensation on my left arm, as if a thousand needles were determined to pierce through the pale contours of my skin. I was bleeding, and I realized it now, in more places than one.

Escape wasn't a choice, neither was victory. However, survival was a desire. Like a child eager to get his hands on the new toy, I picked up a stone and hurled towards the demons. Poor hope, my only companion now.


This 100 word micro-fiction is shared with Picture It And Write.

The Day Begins

(Image Source: http://commons.wikimedia.org)

vegetables and fruits

market brimming with rising sun

the day begins

the day begins

colors and fragrance fresh

rays of life

This Haiku is shared with Carpe Diem - The Day Begins.

Oh White Dove

oh white dove

will you let me fly with you

to the land of peace

to the land of peace

singing the song of blue waves

where angels kiss

This Haiku is shared with Recuerda Mi Corazon - Haiku My Heart.

Ancient Voices

ancient voices

resonates in silver halo

monk meditates

monk meditates

birds silently listen

ancient voices

This Haiku is shared with Carpe Diem - Ancient Voices.

Desi Amreekan Tale

Two boys, Akhil and Jassi, with diverse dreams in their eyes, fly off to the United States. While the former wants to study hard and pursue a great career, Jassi dreams of having the best time of his life in Amreeka, in the midst of pretty girls who would fall in love with him instantly and go to any extent to gain his attention. In their respective quests, they encounter troubles and hardships, but eventually manage to brave them strongly, in turn emerging as a better and more matured person. Their goals are redefined, and they understand their lives better. Also, they fall in love with compatible partners, thus ending in all’s-well-that-ends-well fashion.

Atulya Mahajan, the author, weaves the flavor of Amreeka and the aspirations of the Indian desis who move there to achieve bigger dreams. Atulya was born and raised in Delhi. He went to the United states to study his Masters. Five years later, he returned back to his motherland. During his stay in the US, he launched his blog amreekandesi.com where he used to chronicle the lives of Indians living abroad. The blog later gave shape to this book. Atulya also writes humor columns for the Times of India, Crest Edition.

Atulya’s experience of staying in the US is reflected perfectly in this book. The mannerisms and way of living of young Indians, who go there to pursue education, is defined in bold. While some stay on track, focused on their fixed goals, others stray away in lure of drugs and girls and fall petty victims to other distractions. This novel is an account of the journey of these Amreekandesis.

Often, the pleasure of reading a good story can be marred due to poor editing, with grammatical errors reflected here and there. This happens for a lot of new authors, and quite frequently these days. However, thankfully, you wouldn't find any such flaws in this book. Credit goes to the author, his editor and the entire Random House India team to have carefully evaluated the manuscript and produced a final result that’s devoid of such mistakes. Sometimes, small errors in printed words do rob your attention from the book.

However, what I was really looking for in this book were the funny moments that would make you laugh out loud. True, the author has packed punches at certain points in the plot, and has tried his earnest best to bring out the laughs, but somewhere, the book falls short of the fun quotient. It’s no doubt an interesting read, but then again, you will find that ‘something’ missing in the words, and that ‘something’ turns out to be hilarious comical moments.

Also, a few of the problems encountered by the protagonists seem to have got solved quite easily. For example, when Akhil tells his mother about being in love with a Bengali girl, she agrees instantly. Also, Nandita’s parents too do not seem to resist much in her daughter’s choice, even though they were against the idea of their daughter marrying a Punjabi. The author could have added a bit more twist in these segments, and that would have made the story a lot more interesting.

This book, nevertheless, manages to keep you engrossed, and you wish that the characters get their share of happiness. You want Akhil and Jassi to fall in love, and they do. This is a feel good story and does hold a lot of promise. I would surely recommend it to readers who like light hearted stories.

Title: Amreekandesi: Masters of America

Author: Atulya Mahajan

Publisher: Ebury Press

Publication Year: 2013

Language: English

Binding: Paperback

No. Of Pages: 318

My Rating: 3/5

Buy this book here.

This book review is a part of The Readers Cosmos Book Review Program. To get free books visit thereaderscosmos.blogspot.com.

Fly Like An Eagle

(Image Source: http://chevrefeuillescarpediem.blogspot.nl)

fly like an eagle

free as a bird in the sky

be a dreamcatcher

rollicking in waves sublime

hunting for that ray of hope

This Tan Renga is shared with Carpe Diem Tan Renga Challenge #9, free like a bird.

If Pages Could Scribble Stories

Drawing Hands, 1948 by M. C. Escher 

how easy it would be

if pages could scribble stories

on pristine parchments

without humane interference

but

can pages emulate tears

and smiles and sorrows

love and the art

that men so expertly devise

fictions we read

are nothing but the writer's tryst

with reality

adapted to suit the curvatures

of our word thirsty souls

This Poem is shared with The Mag.

Beach

burdened with thirst

water, now a luxury

beaches all around

beaches all around

no sea, nor river, oceans weep

acts of foolishness

This Haiku is shared with Haiku Heights - Beach.

Dervish Dream

(Image Source: http://chevrefeuillescarpediem.blogspot.nl/2013/08/carpe-diem-261-dervish-dream.html

rhythm of soul

soft hymns of devotion

enlightenment

This Haiku is shared with Carpe Diem - Dervish Dream.