Cécile Rischmann's Blog, page 3
August 22, 2017
Be the best or be the worst but get noticed.
Be the best or be the worst but get noticed
The first time I heard those words, I was confused. Be the best? Sure! Everyone wants to be their best. Be the worst? I’d never heard of anything like that before. So, I asked for an explanation. No, I demanded an explanation.
My adviser smiled.“How many students are there in the Alliance Française, Madras?”he asked me.
At that time, I was doing the beginner’s level in French. If you remember, during the interview with Nikhil Raghavan from ‘The Hindu’, I’d mentioned how I used to bunk French classes in college as I was terrified of my professor. Well, after that, I felt challenged and wanted to learn the language…no, I wanted to master the language.
“I don’t know, maybe 5000?”
“How good are you in French?”
I dug into my bag and drew out my first dictée (dictation) where I’d scored a cool 9¾/10. My professor, Rinku Gupta, had commented ‘Excellent’.
My adviser wasn’t that impressed. “Would you be able to carry this score all through your course?”
“I can try.”
“And the courses to follow?”
“That would be tough…but I’ll give it my best shot.”
And that’s when Mr Anbu said, “Be the best or be the worst but get noticed.”
He explained that there were too many students out there wanting the same thing. They were probably better students than me. They didn’t have to work as hard as I did, they might be talented students. They had resources to get any materials they needed to facilitate their studies. He pointed out that I didn’t have that luxury. So how was I going to get noticed among 5000 students?
I looked at him with serious eyes. “I won’t be my worst, Mr Anbu. But you are right. I’ll find a way to get noticed.”
And I did.
I don’t know if my professors would remember me as a student, but I tortured their lives. I’d ask a thousand questions. I’d do more homework than was required. Before I’d even completed my beginner’s level, I was questioning my professors about mastering the language. Fortunately, they didn’t laugh at me. I remember Mme Srilatha taking me to the library and helping me choose books to read. She’d suggested ‘J’aime lire’.
The moment I’d see a French person entering the gates of Alliance Française, I’d run up to him/her and start a conversation in French, asking if I could assist them. And I’d listen to them speak. I wouldn’t understand half of what they said, but my enthusiasm would make up for the loss. If there was an interpreter needed, I’d make sure I was on that list even if I was terrified. If there was a competition I’d participate, never mind if I wasn’t the best choice, I’d be so excited that it would fuel me with enough adrenaline to carry it through.
I’ll admit that it was a long, challenging and frightening journey, but the satisfaction one gets when they reach their goal makes up for every hardship.
Be the best or be the worst but get noticed.
The French Encounter
The first time I heard those words, I was confused. Be the best? Sure! Everyone wants to be their best. Be the worst? I’d never heard of anything like that before. So, I asked for an explanation. No, I demanded an explanation.
My adviser smiled.“How many students are there in the Alliance Française, Madras?”he asked me.
At that time, I was doing the beginner’s level in French. If you remember, during the interview with Nikhil Raghavan from ‘The Hindu’, I’d mentioned how I used to bunk French classes in college as I was terrified of my professor. Well, after that, I felt challenged and wanted to learn the language…no, I wanted to master the language.
“I don’t know, maybe 5000?”
“How good are you in French?”
I dug into my bag and drew out my first dictée (dictation) where I’d scored a cool 9¾/10. My professor, Rinku Gupta, had commented ‘Excellent’.
My adviser wasn’t that impressed. “Would you be able to carry this score all through your course?”
“I can try.”
“And the courses to follow?”
“That would be tough…but I’ll give it my best shot.”
And that’s when Mr Anbu said, “Be the best or be the worst but get noticed.”
He explained that there were too many students out there wanting the same thing. They were probably better students than me. They didn’t have to work as hard as I did, they might be talented students. They had resources to get any materials they needed to facilitate their studies. He pointed out that I didn’t have that luxury. So how was I going to get noticed among 5000 students?
I looked at him with serious eyes. “I won’t be my worst, Mr Anbu. But you are right. I’ll find a way to get noticed.”
And I did.
I don’t know if my professors would remember me as a student, but I tortured their lives. I’d ask a thousand questions. I’d do more homework than was required. Before I’d even completed my beginner’s level, I was questioning my professors about mastering the language. Fortunately, they didn’t laugh at me. I remember Mme Srilatha taking me to the library and helping me choose books to read. She’d suggested ‘J’aime lire’.
The moment I’d see a French person entering the gates of Alliance Française, I’d run up to him/her and start a conversation in French, asking if I could assist them. And I’d listen to them speak. I wouldn’t understand half of what they said, but my enthusiasm would make up for the loss. If there was an interpreter needed, I’d make sure I was on that list even if I was terrified. If there was a competition I’d participate, never mind if I wasn’t the best choice, I’d be so excited that it would fuel me with enough adrenaline to carry it through.
I’ll admit that it was a long, challenging and frightening journey, but the satisfaction one gets when they reach their goal makes up for every hardship.
Be the best or be the worst but get noticed.
The French Encounter
April 7, 2017
The Inappropriate Proposal
The Inappropriate Proposal is a short on-the-spot comedy on a given situation during a Creative Writing Class.
Mr Pamplemoos counted the eggs in his stock room for the tenth time, taking note of every ingredient in size, shape and colour. Notebook in hand, he was staring at the bag of onions bought one week ago which to his eye had decreased considerably. He’d have to talk to his chefs to go slow on the taste buds. His clients were not in Hilton!
Django, the Maitre d’ hôtel, was hurrying towards him, flexing his only asset, the overly-developed biceps. Blessed with a pair of green eyes and a thatch of blond hair, young Django was a hit with his clientele, if not for his brains, at least for his brawn.
He sang his orders out as he moonwalked to the kitchen, picking the steel tray and lifting it above his head, balancing the steaming café-au-lait with one strong arm, making sure to flex his muscles in the process.
‘Your coffee, Madam,’ he said in his deep gravelly voice which never failed to bring instant attention. He might as well have saved his energy for all the notice she took of him. The dot of red powder on that narrow forehead, that black oily mane neatly braided, and that perfume of harsh Jasmine screamed tradition and stone-age, yet, Django found his heart flutter as the black almond eyes with its shapely eyebrows forced a glance in his direction.
‘Would you like to order,’ he paused, about to say ‘toast and eggs’, but exchanged it rapidly ‘idly or dosa?’
‘Do you have curd rice?’ Savithri asked as an afterthought, staring at her wrist for the fifth time.
‘Of course, Madam, would you like it with a green chilly?’
The blackhead lifted in slight irritation, and the Tina Turner lips stretched in displeasure.
Savithri was not interested in this muscled giant. He was not her type at all. She was there for something more permanent. She glanced at the entrance, and there stood her man, David, handsome and well dressed as he searched for her.
Savithri changed her mind about the meal. She was not going to mess up their first meeting with her mouth smelling of curd. David looked precisely as his photograph on Shaadi.com. Savithri waved excitedly, her bangles clanging like the church bell.
‘Are you looking for someone, Sir?’ Django interrupted, as the smartly dressed executive was about to make a swift retreat.
Pamplemoos was watching with eyes of a hawk from the cashier’s desk, and Django knew that if he lost a client, that wretched man would skin him alive, so Django looked at his customer and gave him one of his best smiles. It worked.
‘I wasn’t…but now I am,’ the client said in deep husky tones, the chocolate-brown eyes running over Django as if he was contemplating him for his next meal.
Django grimaced. He had his fill of men like these from the time of his inception. Pamplemoos would sell Django’s soul if he could get a few dollars more. However, Django was not going to spoil his chances with Amma for this hunky-dory kind. Talking of which, Amma was once again waving to the man.
‘Davidu, I’m only Savithri yaar.’
A hue of red invaded the thin cheekbones of the handsome Davidu as he strode quickly to Savithri’s table and sat down, silencing further speech. Django followed in great surprise, never having expected Amma and Davidu to have anything in common.
‘Can I take your order, Sir?’
The man looked up with relief and gave Django a slow smile. It might have worked, had Django swung the other way. ‘I’d like a big hard piece of bread, two fluffy yellows and a huge glass of orange liquid... .’
‘Sir, if you mean toast, tossed eggs and orange juice…’ he said brusquely.
‘Yes… I’m hungry.’
Django gave him a stare that warned him not to try too hard. If it weren’t for Pamplemoos, he’d have kicked Davidu in the groin and paralyzed that organ, but he did no such thing.
Savithri was playing host with exaggerated effort, almost knocking the cup in her haste to serve her man.
David turned an agonized glance in her direction, wondering how he could have agreed to meet her even under duress. True, his mother wanted a grandchild, but to this sacrifice?
No! He will never do it.
‘How do I look face-to-face, yaar?’ Savithri asked, fluttering the long curly lashes. She had smooth skin in a darker shade of dark, not that David had anything against that. But she could have stuck to the same tone foundation instead of one shade lighter. It made her look ‘Different!’ David said, muttering under his breath 'madwoman’.
‘I just came from the Temple,’ Savithri said, and dug into her brown leather bag, and picked up a silver kungumam box, offering him Vibudhi. ‘I prayed for our marriage yaar.’
‘Marriage?’ Django’s feet entangled in his moonwalk, sending his tray whizzing like a frisbee right into David’s lap, bathing him in shades of yellow and orange.
Django didn’t dare look at Pamplemoos, sure that his owner was calculating the losses from the broken china to the very fruit.
David however, was sweet about it, and while Django dabbed at David’s pants, David slipped his visiting card into Django’s pocket.
‘Meet me tomorrow same time...’
‘Sure Davidu,’ Savithri said, as was wiped David’s shirt with the end of her sari pallu, doing her bit for her to-be husband with tender care.
Django swallowed a giggle, trying to move a fraction closer to Amma and rub shoulders with her, however, it wasn’t working. She had a one-track mind, and it was focused on runaway bridegroom.
Pamplemoos’ sharp gaze took in the scene with interest. Django was trying to get out of octopus’ arms while village girl was trying to get in. Now, how could he use the situation to its fullest and earn a few dollars more?
Pamplemoos was an expert when it came to tapping opportunities.
‘Django, show our client to the Men’s room.’
Django was about to refuse, but one look at Pamplemoos’ set expression and he gave in reluctantly. His boss might think he won the round, but if this client laid one hand on him, Django decided to flatten the rascal. This poor girl was panting after her Davidu, and she wasn’t bad looking if you count out the over-made-up face and the starch sari.
Django waited politely for his client to precede him into the Men’s room. The door had barely closed when the client seized Django in a fierce embrace. Django was just about to lift those moonwalk feet when the door swung open.
Django jumped out of the man’s arms as Savithri ran inside to her Davidu, the thick silver anklets sounding like the Temple elephant on the loose.
Django grinned when she took over her man, sponging and cleaning him like she was attending a child.
Pamplemoos was smiling in contentment. A few more triangles like this and he could begin renovating his restaurant.
Mr Pamplemoos counted the eggs in his stock room for the tenth time, taking note of every ingredient in size, shape and colour. Notebook in hand, he was staring at the bag of onions bought one week ago which to his eye had decreased considerably. He’d have to talk to his chefs to go slow on the taste buds. His clients were not in Hilton!
Django, the Maitre d’ hôtel, was hurrying towards him, flexing his only asset, the overly-developed biceps. Blessed with a pair of green eyes and a thatch of blond hair, young Django was a hit with his clientele, if not for his brains, at least for his brawn.
He sang his orders out as he moonwalked to the kitchen, picking the steel tray and lifting it above his head, balancing the steaming café-au-lait with one strong arm, making sure to flex his muscles in the process.
‘Your coffee, Madam,’ he said in his deep gravelly voice which never failed to bring instant attention. He might as well have saved his energy for all the notice she took of him. The dot of red powder on that narrow forehead, that black oily mane neatly braided, and that perfume of harsh Jasmine screamed tradition and stone-age, yet, Django found his heart flutter as the black almond eyes with its shapely eyebrows forced a glance in his direction.
‘Would you like to order,’ he paused, about to say ‘toast and eggs’, but exchanged it rapidly ‘idly or dosa?’
‘Do you have curd rice?’ Savithri asked as an afterthought, staring at her wrist for the fifth time.
‘Of course, Madam, would you like it with a green chilly?’
The blackhead lifted in slight irritation, and the Tina Turner lips stretched in displeasure.
Savithri was not interested in this muscled giant. He was not her type at all. She was there for something more permanent. She glanced at the entrance, and there stood her man, David, handsome and well dressed as he searched for her.
Savithri changed her mind about the meal. She was not going to mess up their first meeting with her mouth smelling of curd. David looked precisely as his photograph on Shaadi.com. Savithri waved excitedly, her bangles clanging like the church bell.
‘Are you looking for someone, Sir?’ Django interrupted, as the smartly dressed executive was about to make a swift retreat.
Pamplemoos was watching with eyes of a hawk from the cashier’s desk, and Django knew that if he lost a client, that wretched man would skin him alive, so Django looked at his customer and gave him one of his best smiles. It worked.
‘I wasn’t…but now I am,’ the client said in deep husky tones, the chocolate-brown eyes running over Django as if he was contemplating him for his next meal.
Django grimaced. He had his fill of men like these from the time of his inception. Pamplemoos would sell Django’s soul if he could get a few dollars more. However, Django was not going to spoil his chances with Amma for this hunky-dory kind. Talking of which, Amma was once again waving to the man.
‘Davidu, I’m only Savithri yaar.’
A hue of red invaded the thin cheekbones of the handsome Davidu as he strode quickly to Savithri’s table and sat down, silencing further speech. Django followed in great surprise, never having expected Amma and Davidu to have anything in common.
‘Can I take your order, Sir?’
The man looked up with relief and gave Django a slow smile. It might have worked, had Django swung the other way. ‘I’d like a big hard piece of bread, two fluffy yellows and a huge glass of orange liquid... .’
‘Sir, if you mean toast, tossed eggs and orange juice…’ he said brusquely.
‘Yes… I’m hungry.’
Django gave him a stare that warned him not to try too hard. If it weren’t for Pamplemoos, he’d have kicked Davidu in the groin and paralyzed that organ, but he did no such thing.
Savithri was playing host with exaggerated effort, almost knocking the cup in her haste to serve her man.
David turned an agonized glance in her direction, wondering how he could have agreed to meet her even under duress. True, his mother wanted a grandchild, but to this sacrifice?
No! He will never do it.
‘How do I look face-to-face, yaar?’ Savithri asked, fluttering the long curly lashes. She had smooth skin in a darker shade of dark, not that David had anything against that. But she could have stuck to the same tone foundation instead of one shade lighter. It made her look ‘Different!’ David said, muttering under his breath 'madwoman’.
‘I just came from the Temple,’ Savithri said, and dug into her brown leather bag, and picked up a silver kungumam box, offering him Vibudhi. ‘I prayed for our marriage yaar.’
‘Marriage?’ Django’s feet entangled in his moonwalk, sending his tray whizzing like a frisbee right into David’s lap, bathing him in shades of yellow and orange.
Django didn’t dare look at Pamplemoos, sure that his owner was calculating the losses from the broken china to the very fruit.
David however, was sweet about it, and while Django dabbed at David’s pants, David slipped his visiting card into Django’s pocket.
‘Meet me tomorrow same time...’
‘Sure Davidu,’ Savithri said, as was wiped David’s shirt with the end of her sari pallu, doing her bit for her to-be husband with tender care.
Django swallowed a giggle, trying to move a fraction closer to Amma and rub shoulders with her, however, it wasn’t working. She had a one-track mind, and it was focused on runaway bridegroom.
Pamplemoos’ sharp gaze took in the scene with interest. Django was trying to get out of octopus’ arms while village girl was trying to get in. Now, how could he use the situation to its fullest and earn a few dollars more?
Pamplemoos was an expert when it came to tapping opportunities.
‘Django, show our client to the Men’s room.’
Django was about to refuse, but one look at Pamplemoos’ set expression and he gave in reluctantly. His boss might think he won the round, but if this client laid one hand on him, Django decided to flatten the rascal. This poor girl was panting after her Davidu, and she wasn’t bad looking if you count out the over-made-up face and the starch sari.
Django waited politely for his client to precede him into the Men’s room. The door had barely closed when the client seized Django in a fierce embrace. Django was just about to lift those moonwalk feet when the door swung open.
Django jumped out of the man’s arms as Savithri ran inside to her Davidu, the thick silver anklets sounding like the Temple elephant on the loose.
Django grinned when she took over her man, sponging and cleaning him like she was attending a child.
Pamplemoos was smiling in contentment. A few more triangles like this and he could begin renovating his restaurant.
February 20, 2017
The Power of Love
I got a message last night: 'Aks, I want to see you.'
I stared at the message as if I were dreaming. It was 9.52 P.M. The sender was at that moment in Thousand lights and I in Valasaravakkam. It would take a minimum of one hour to reach my place.
‘Err, can it wait until tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘It’s quite late now. You must be tired too. By the time you arrive and we talk, it would be midnight.’
There was a pause, ‘I’m flying out tomorrow morning, Aks. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I need to see you.’
I didn’t hesitate. ‘Okay, come over.’
I ran upstairs and informed my hubby that we’re gonna have visitors. He looked at me as if he was saying: ‘I’m not surprised. Anything is possible in this country’. I saw him watch me through the floor-to-ceiling mirrors as I got all pretty for the meet. I smiled. ‘In case they take pictures. I don’t want to scare anyone.’
As the minutes ticked by I found myself getting impatient. ‘Where are you?’ I sent a quick sms.
‘Ambika Empire, Aks. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
I forced those lids to stay awake trying to work on my next novel, but the hero was stubbornly doing as he liked and was not listening to me. I grit my teeth as I thought of all those changes I’ll have make to accommodate the whims and fancies of this hero.
My phone buzzed. ‘Yes?’
‘Aks, we’re outside.’
I stepped out in white, feeling like one of those wandering spirits that mom confirmed visited at night, and as if on cue, the street dogs began to howl. I brought the guests inside, told them that my hubby was on his first dream and asked them to sit down while I went to rustle up something.
‘Aks we had a late lunch so we’re not hungry. Just a drink will do.’
I’m ashamed to say I was relieved. I didn’t look forward to using my culinary skills at midnight. Moreover, my husband had just fumigated the house with sweet-smelling lavender perfume. I was imagining how disturbed he’d be if my ginger-garlic ensemble penetrated his slumber.
I came back with soft drinks, and we were warming up for a girl-to-girl chat. Her husband sat there looking at us with a pained expression as if wondering how long he’d have to wait to take his wife back home.
All of a sudden, my husband appeared seeming wide awake. I looked at him with open mouth as he took a chair beside the husband as if to say: ‘I’m with you. Don’t worry. I know about my wife to vouch that this is going to take a while.’
In the meantime, my visitor was digging into her kit and bringing out a plastic bag. My nostrils began to twitch as she drew out an orange color casserole.
‘Aks, remember you told me that you liked my biriyani?’
I nodded. I remembered she was an excellent cook.
‘Well, I made you chicken biriyani, Aks. I wanted to give it to you before I leave.’
I was stunned. She’d been juggling between Bangalore and Chennai giving training sessions in soft skills, conducting prayer meetings, visiting the sick in between, and then there was her sister’s wedding (all this during a four-week vacation) - and she spent her last evening preparing biriyani and bringing it for me?
I was speechless. For a moment there, I just looked at her as my throat worked furiously. I hugged her, and she knew what I was telling her. Something I’ve always told her. ‘You’ll go far in life. You’re a winner all the way.’
Meanwhile, my husband was looking at me, wondering probably if I was going to dive into that casserole and prove my love by eating it all, and then have guilt pangs and keep him awake with loud music while I rocked to Made in India.
I stared at the message as if I were dreaming. It was 9.52 P.M. The sender was at that moment in Thousand lights and I in Valasaravakkam. It would take a minimum of one hour to reach my place.
‘Err, can it wait until tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘It’s quite late now. You must be tired too. By the time you arrive and we talk, it would be midnight.’
There was a pause, ‘I’m flying out tomorrow morning, Aks. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I need to see you.’
I didn’t hesitate. ‘Okay, come over.’
I ran upstairs and informed my hubby that we’re gonna have visitors. He looked at me as if he was saying: ‘I’m not surprised. Anything is possible in this country’. I saw him watch me through the floor-to-ceiling mirrors as I got all pretty for the meet. I smiled. ‘In case they take pictures. I don’t want to scare anyone.’
As the minutes ticked by I found myself getting impatient. ‘Where are you?’ I sent a quick sms.
‘Ambika Empire, Aks. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
I forced those lids to stay awake trying to work on my next novel, but the hero was stubbornly doing as he liked and was not listening to me. I grit my teeth as I thought of all those changes I’ll have make to accommodate the whims and fancies of this hero.
My phone buzzed. ‘Yes?’
‘Aks, we’re outside.’
I stepped out in white, feeling like one of those wandering spirits that mom confirmed visited at night, and as if on cue, the street dogs began to howl. I brought the guests inside, told them that my hubby was on his first dream and asked them to sit down while I went to rustle up something.
‘Aks we had a late lunch so we’re not hungry. Just a drink will do.’
I’m ashamed to say I was relieved. I didn’t look forward to using my culinary skills at midnight. Moreover, my husband had just fumigated the house with sweet-smelling lavender perfume. I was imagining how disturbed he’d be if my ginger-garlic ensemble penetrated his slumber.
I came back with soft drinks, and we were warming up for a girl-to-girl chat. Her husband sat there looking at us with a pained expression as if wondering how long he’d have to wait to take his wife back home.
All of a sudden, my husband appeared seeming wide awake. I looked at him with open mouth as he took a chair beside the husband as if to say: ‘I’m with you. Don’t worry. I know about my wife to vouch that this is going to take a while.’
In the meantime, my visitor was digging into her kit and bringing out a plastic bag. My nostrils began to twitch as she drew out an orange color casserole.
‘Aks, remember you told me that you liked my biriyani?’
I nodded. I remembered she was an excellent cook.
‘Well, I made you chicken biriyani, Aks. I wanted to give it to you before I leave.’
I was stunned. She’d been juggling between Bangalore and Chennai giving training sessions in soft skills, conducting prayer meetings, visiting the sick in between, and then there was her sister’s wedding (all this during a four-week vacation) - and she spent her last evening preparing biriyani and bringing it for me?
I was speechless. For a moment there, I just looked at her as my throat worked furiously. I hugged her, and she knew what I was telling her. Something I’ve always told her. ‘You’ll go far in life. You’re a winner all the way.’
Meanwhile, my husband was looking at me, wondering probably if I was going to dive into that casserole and prove my love by eating it all, and then have guilt pangs and keep him awake with loud music while I rocked to Made in India.
October 12, 2016
The winner in you
The wind whistled sweetly as autumn shed its magic. Burnt leaves crushed underfoot as I trudged with thoughts on life with its many hopes unfulfilled.
Would we reach goals we set? Would life offer us dreams we work for, we live for, we crave for? Sometimes it felt like it was almost happening. Oh yes . . . Almost.
Can we imagine how it would be if all our dreams realize, if everything happened the way we want it to happen, if we reach goals as easily as breathing. Would we feel satisfied or would we soon hunger for another and another and another until our life is filled with “more” dreams to fulfill?
Life was meant to be lived to its fullest: breathe with contentment, love with passion, eat with moderation, create as if you were on your last breath and want to leave a legacy.
But don’t sit cursing the world around you. Asking the same questions everyone ask . . . why are good things not happening for me? Go out there and make them happen. It is okay to fail.
But it is not okay NOT TO TRY.
Would we reach goals we set? Would life offer us dreams we work for, we live for, we crave for? Sometimes it felt like it was almost happening. Oh yes . . . Almost.
Can we imagine how it would be if all our dreams realize, if everything happened the way we want it to happen, if we reach goals as easily as breathing. Would we feel satisfied or would we soon hunger for another and another and another until our life is filled with “more” dreams to fulfill?
Life was meant to be lived to its fullest: breathe with contentment, love with passion, eat with moderation, create as if you were on your last breath and want to leave a legacy.
But don’t sit cursing the world around you. Asking the same questions everyone ask . . . why are good things not happening for me? Go out there and make them happen. It is okay to fail.
But it is not okay NOT TO TRY.
September 30, 2016
Steamy scene from The French Encounter
‘Let me go!’ Katrina gave a startled shriek as strong arms grabbed her from behind, hoisted her in the air, and slammed her against a hard chest. She struggled, bucked, kicked as moist heat penetrated the flimsy barrier of her clothing—Jean’s heat. He held her clamped to him, against a thudding masculine wall.
A tangy mix of male heat and sexy cologne invaded her nostrils as she was turned roughly to face a glowering man who was walking her to the wall, while he held her high above the floor with his hips pressing against hers.
‘If you ever raise your hand on me again, Katrina, I’ll hit you back,’ Jean said with soft menace, almost crushing her with his strength. She landed another kick on his shins as if to defy him. Jean felt his lips twitch involuntarily. This girl feared no one. Not even a powerful man like him who could destroy her if he wanted.
Considering Jean’s worldwide experience in projects and women, he should have never found himself in this situation, he frowned. But then who’d guess Bengal tigers ran loose in India—and such beautiful ones? He glared at the ferocious cat, and she glared right back.
‘Don’t threaten me, JLC. I don’t react well to threats. Have the courtesy to apologize for what you did.’
Cute! He came to India to build his glass float, try to forget his painful on-going divorce, keep a promise to his (late) father, and here he was, on his very first party, attacked by this . . . this . . .
He cupped her cheeks gently in his hands and his mouth opened hers. Who cared what tomorrow brings? Right now he wanted this tigress in his bed, clawing him.
An intense love story that goes beyond national boundaries
A tangy mix of male heat and sexy cologne invaded her nostrils as she was turned roughly to face a glowering man who was walking her to the wall, while he held her high above the floor with his hips pressing against hers.
‘If you ever raise your hand on me again, Katrina, I’ll hit you back,’ Jean said with soft menace, almost crushing her with his strength. She landed another kick on his shins as if to defy him. Jean felt his lips twitch involuntarily. This girl feared no one. Not even a powerful man like him who could destroy her if he wanted.
Considering Jean’s worldwide experience in projects and women, he should have never found himself in this situation, he frowned. But then who’d guess Bengal tigers ran loose in India—and such beautiful ones? He glared at the ferocious cat, and she glared right back.
‘Don’t threaten me, JLC. I don’t react well to threats. Have the courtesy to apologize for what you did.’
Cute! He came to India to build his glass float, try to forget his painful on-going divorce, keep a promise to his (late) father, and here he was, on his very first party, attacked by this . . . this . . .
He cupped her cheeks gently in his hands and his mouth opened hers. Who cared what tomorrow brings? Right now he wanted this tigress in his bed, clawing him.
An intense love story that goes beyond national boundaries
August 2, 2016
The French Encounter by Cécile Rischmann
Received this message from my classmate, and I must say each time The French Encounter is discussed, I feel happy inside, happy that I wrote the book I've always wanted to write . . .
Here's her message.
"Ceci, started reading the French Encounter yesterday. Sorry for not being able to start earlier, as I was a bit busy with work. I started somewhere around 11pm and went on till 4:30am. Had to force myself to stop as I needed to get some sleep. Woke up this morning, got some work done at home and I'm back with the book again. Your characters sure do 'leap out of the pages' "
S
Here's her message.
"Ceci, started reading the French Encounter yesterday. Sorry for not being able to start earlier, as I was a bit busy with work. I started somewhere around 11pm and went on till 4:30am. Had to force myself to stop as I needed to get some sleep. Woke up this morning, got some work done at home and I'm back with the book again. Your characters sure do 'leap out of the pages' "
S
June 1, 2016
"Eroticism pushed to detail" Bernard Delattre, France Motion Pictures and Film
Review in French and in English.
Bernard Delattre
Associate Producer
Paris Area, France
Motion Pictures and Film
Chère Cécile,
Je viens de terminer de lire ton livre. Je te félicite. Il est bien écrit par une femme passionnée. L'érotisme poussé aux détails est autorisé dans un livre, les sentiments sont exprimés avec ferveur pour rendre le récit attachant et crédible. La narration est lente mais dominée par les débats amoureux que l'on accepte s'agissant d'une histoire romantique qu'on la croit vraie. On est très intéressé de connaître le dénouement de cette passion amoureuse, on dévore la 3éme partie finale heureux et soulagés que Katrina et Jean trouvent le bonheur. Happy end. Bravo pour ton travail magnifique. Tu as traité les personnages avec délicatesse qui les rend attachants.
L'adaptation d'un livre si bon soit il en scénario de film ou série TV est délicate car le scénariste doit bien comprendre l'esprit de l'auteur du livre pour ne pas le dénaturer, c'est pourquoi je souhaite que tu trouves un bon scénariste a qui tu expliqueras tes intentions pour le guider.
Bonne chance.
Bisous amicalement.
Dear Cécile,
I just finished reading your book. I congratulate you. It is well written by a passionate woman. Eroticism pushed to detail is authorized in a book, feelings are expressed with fervor to make the story engaging and credible. The narration is slow but dominated by debates on love that we accept in respect of a romantic story that we believe is true. We are very interested to know the outcome of this passionate love, we devour the 3rd final part happy and relieved that Katrina and Jean found happiness. Happy end. Congratulations for your wonderful work. You treated the characters with delicacy that makes them endearing.
The adaptation of a book so good in film script or TV series is delicate because the writer must understand the mind of the author of the book not to distort it, and it is for this reason that I hope you would find a good scriptwriter to whom you can explain your intentions to guide him.
Good luck.
Best wishes
Bernard
Bernard Delattre
Associate Producer
Paris Area, France
Motion Pictures and Film
Chère Cécile,
Je viens de terminer de lire ton livre. Je te félicite. Il est bien écrit par une femme passionnée. L'érotisme poussé aux détails est autorisé dans un livre, les sentiments sont exprimés avec ferveur pour rendre le récit attachant et crédible. La narration est lente mais dominée par les débats amoureux que l'on accepte s'agissant d'une histoire romantique qu'on la croit vraie. On est très intéressé de connaître le dénouement de cette passion amoureuse, on dévore la 3éme partie finale heureux et soulagés que Katrina et Jean trouvent le bonheur. Happy end. Bravo pour ton travail magnifique. Tu as traité les personnages avec délicatesse qui les rend attachants.
L'adaptation d'un livre si bon soit il en scénario de film ou série TV est délicate car le scénariste doit bien comprendre l'esprit de l'auteur du livre pour ne pas le dénaturer, c'est pourquoi je souhaite que tu trouves un bon scénariste a qui tu expliqueras tes intentions pour le guider.
Bonne chance.
Bisous amicalement.
Dear Cécile,
I just finished reading your book. I congratulate you. It is well written by a passionate woman. Eroticism pushed to detail is authorized in a book, feelings are expressed with fervor to make the story engaging and credible. The narration is slow but dominated by debates on love that we accept in respect of a romantic story that we believe is true. We are very interested to know the outcome of this passionate love, we devour the 3rd final part happy and relieved that Katrina and Jean found happiness. Happy end. Congratulations for your wonderful work. You treated the characters with delicacy that makes them endearing.
The adaptation of a book so good in film script or TV series is delicate because the writer must understand the mind of the author of the book not to distort it, and it is for this reason that I hope you would find a good scriptwriter to whom you can explain your intentions to guide him.
Good luck.
Best wishes
Bernard
May 17, 2016
Review, The French Encounter by
Cecile,
Where to even begin, I have so much to say. What began as a run-of-the-mill greek god vs feisty woman romance kept me thoroughly engrossed through sound wordplay and a seamless narrative. The book impressed me with its candour - yes, she wanted marriage desperately, she was mortified of her dark underarms (one of his favourite 'black things') and yes, she felt compelled to indulge in the moment and throw caution to the air. Sounds a lot like home!
Let me enumerate the could-have-been-betters first:
1. There were quite a few glaring typos and grammatical inconsistencies.
2. The first 200 pages of erotica read a bit like a typical M&B novel.
3. How did he change his mind in the end? Did I miss something?
4. There were a few subplots which weren't elaborated (like the conceiving of the baby, Rod the character etc). The second half just whizzed by - this is totally fine if it was consistent throughout. I thought there was a lot of attention to detail in the first half than the second.
And the best of the book:
1. The story took shape at an alarming pace towards the end and kept me turning the pages eagerly.
2. The beach side lovemaking at the end was deliciously original - nothing like I've ever read before.
3. There were moments in the book where I wept, there were moments were I felt a physical clamping in my chest. The book spoke to me at so many places.
4. I loved that there was a point where even the outrageously horny and flamboyant Jean decided that enough was enough and walked away. 'No woman, not even Kat, could dictate terms in his life again'. This made him look more reasonable as a person.
5. I enjoyed the flirtatious dialogues between Jean and Kat. So delectable! Jean was such a tease! Who wouldn't want a man who was this good with words!
I have lots more to say and I'd love to pick specific scenes and dialogues and tell you what I felt about each of them but I've already lent the book to a friend so I'm just dependent on my memory right now!
I wish you great success with The French Encounter, Cecile, and everything else that you're going to create!
Where to even begin, I have so much to say. What began as a run-of-the-mill greek god vs feisty woman romance kept me thoroughly engrossed through sound wordplay and a seamless narrative. The book impressed me with its candour - yes, she wanted marriage desperately, she was mortified of her dark underarms (one of his favourite 'black things') and yes, she felt compelled to indulge in the moment and throw caution to the air. Sounds a lot like home!
Let me enumerate the could-have-been-betters first:
1. There were quite a few glaring typos and grammatical inconsistencies.
2. The first 200 pages of erotica read a bit like a typical M&B novel.
3. How did he change his mind in the end? Did I miss something?
4. There were a few subplots which weren't elaborated (like the conceiving of the baby, Rod the character etc). The second half just whizzed by - this is totally fine if it was consistent throughout. I thought there was a lot of attention to detail in the first half than the second.
And the best of the book:
1. The story took shape at an alarming pace towards the end and kept me turning the pages eagerly.
2. The beach side lovemaking at the end was deliciously original - nothing like I've ever read before.
3. There were moments in the book where I wept, there were moments were I felt a physical clamping in my chest. The book spoke to me at so many places.
4. I loved that there was a point where even the outrageously horny and flamboyant Jean decided that enough was enough and walked away. 'No woman, not even Kat, could dictate terms in his life again'. This made him look more reasonable as a person.
5. I enjoyed the flirtatious dialogues between Jean and Kat. So delectable! Jean was such a tease! Who wouldn't want a man who was this good with words!
I have lots more to say and I'd love to pick specific scenes and dialogues and tell you what I felt about each of them but I've already lent the book to a friend so I'm just dependent on my memory right now!
I wish you great success with The French Encounter, Cecile, and everything else that you're going to create!
May 2, 2016
When book-signing turns into a nostalgic event
There I was all dressed waiting for the first arrival, slightly nervous on how it was going to be. The announcement was made one week ago about my book-signing being on 30th April 2016. I wanted it to be a meaningful event . . . but just how meaningful it was going to be I didn’t realize.
TNEB, who had been behaving themselves for the past few months, earning my respect since “The Flood Encounter”, suddenly decided that they must give me a scare on my big day. So while I was posing for photographs before the event began, wanting my husband’s interior décor showcased, I suddenly found myself groping in the dark, nearly running into the mirrors and glass furniture in my very high gold stilettos, designed to give women a backache.
“I think your audience arrives,” my husband said, leaving me on my own as he went to inspect the electric panel, no doubt wanting to use those magical fingers and fix the problem, knowing how much I was looking forward to my book signing.
My heart sank as the knock came again, and I pulled open the door, forcing a smile on my face, “Hello. Please come in. Sorry, the electricity just went off.”
The girl was petite, cute, and she smiled broadly murmuring "it doesn't matter". I was about to shut the door when another girl came behind her and the lady introduced her as her daughter.
“Please sit down,” I said, and cursed myself for not having installed the generator before I began this journey. And then, as if my prayer was answered, the lights flickered on and behold I saw the beautiful face of the woman sitting next to me. We made small talk, during which she told me she had two daughters, and she’s brought the eldest with her. “Do you have a special message you’d like me to write,” I asked, drawing out my pen and flashing my chalk-white teeth at her. “Suzanne, right?”
“Suzanne Reinhardt.” She adjusted the shawl over her head and it was tucked around her neck. She had such a lovely smile and each time she gave me one, little dimples would appear in her cheeks. “Are your brothers still in the music field?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, signing her book, wondering at the back of my mind how she could have known that. I looked at her daughter, who was dressed in denims and a black lace top, a pair of nude wedges gracing her feet. “What’s your name?”
“Liv.”
“Pronounced as “Leeve” her mother put in, “it’s a Norwegian name.”
“What do you do, Liv?”
“I’m studying in a catering college. I’m going to write a book of recipes soon.”
My eyes widened at the determination on her face. Wow! At that age I hadn’t been so sure of myself. “Good on you, Liv. From whom did you inherit your talent, your mom?”
“Dad.” She grinned. I turned back to her mother and found her with a teasing smile on her face.
“You don’t recognize me, do you, Cecilia?”
No one called me Cecilia, only those who know me pretty well. My eyes narrowed on her face once again, and this time, she removed her shawl and said. “I was formerly Suzanne Gabriel. We studied together until 6th grade.”
The way I looked at her made her howl in laughter. We threw our arms around each other, our eyes slightly moist at the turn of events. We couldn’t stop talking as there was so much catching up to do. My husband captured us on camera, patiently waiting as we posed in different endroits like giggly school-girls happy to be together again.
I was suddenly remembering our school life, and one particular incident stood out. It was the time when I’d lost my best friend to another aggressive girl, who I believed in my childish mind, stole her. I was sitting on a wooden bench in an old dilapidated classroom with my forehead resting on the desk, crying as if my heart was broken, when I felt a tiny arm crawl around my shoulder. I didn’t know who it was, but I was comforted that I wasn’t alone, that someone must like me to have taken the trouble to find out if I was okay.
My head lifted and I saw a petite girl with twin braids, smiling warmly at me, her cheeks deeply grooved. Her brown eyes held compassion, and I remember the look she gave me as she took my hand in hers and said stoutly “I’ll be your best friend.”
Suzanne had migrated to another school after that and we lost touch. But as they say, memories do linger. And here we are thirty three years later renewing our friendship.
Suzanne and Liv left me to my book-signing, the fragrance of friendship still in the air as I continued with the event, which now took on a different allure.
It was no more a book-signing . . . it was nostalgia all the way. And I was thinking to myself I had one more reason to love The French Encounter, for bringing wonderful people back into my life.
TNEB, who had been behaving themselves for the past few months, earning my respect since “The Flood Encounter”, suddenly decided that they must give me a scare on my big day. So while I was posing for photographs before the event began, wanting my husband’s interior décor showcased, I suddenly found myself groping in the dark, nearly running into the mirrors and glass furniture in my very high gold stilettos, designed to give women a backache.
“I think your audience arrives,” my husband said, leaving me on my own as he went to inspect the electric panel, no doubt wanting to use those magical fingers and fix the problem, knowing how much I was looking forward to my book signing.
My heart sank as the knock came again, and I pulled open the door, forcing a smile on my face, “Hello. Please come in. Sorry, the electricity just went off.”
The girl was petite, cute, and she smiled broadly murmuring "it doesn't matter". I was about to shut the door when another girl came behind her and the lady introduced her as her daughter.
“Please sit down,” I said, and cursed myself for not having installed the generator before I began this journey. And then, as if my prayer was answered, the lights flickered on and behold I saw the beautiful face of the woman sitting next to me. We made small talk, during which she told me she had two daughters, and she’s brought the eldest with her. “Do you have a special message you’d like me to write,” I asked, drawing out my pen and flashing my chalk-white teeth at her. “Suzanne, right?”
“Suzanne Reinhardt.” She adjusted the shawl over her head and it was tucked around her neck. She had such a lovely smile and each time she gave me one, little dimples would appear in her cheeks. “Are your brothers still in the music field?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, signing her book, wondering at the back of my mind how she could have known that. I looked at her daughter, who was dressed in denims and a black lace top, a pair of nude wedges gracing her feet. “What’s your name?”
“Liv.”
“Pronounced as “Leeve” her mother put in, “it’s a Norwegian name.”
“What do you do, Liv?”
“I’m studying in a catering college. I’m going to write a book of recipes soon.”
My eyes widened at the determination on her face. Wow! At that age I hadn’t been so sure of myself. “Good on you, Liv. From whom did you inherit your talent, your mom?”
“Dad.” She grinned. I turned back to her mother and found her with a teasing smile on her face.
“You don’t recognize me, do you, Cecilia?”
No one called me Cecilia, only those who know me pretty well. My eyes narrowed on her face once again, and this time, she removed her shawl and said. “I was formerly Suzanne Gabriel. We studied together until 6th grade.”
The way I looked at her made her howl in laughter. We threw our arms around each other, our eyes slightly moist at the turn of events. We couldn’t stop talking as there was so much catching up to do. My husband captured us on camera, patiently waiting as we posed in different endroits like giggly school-girls happy to be together again.
I was suddenly remembering our school life, and one particular incident stood out. It was the time when I’d lost my best friend to another aggressive girl, who I believed in my childish mind, stole her. I was sitting on a wooden bench in an old dilapidated classroom with my forehead resting on the desk, crying as if my heart was broken, when I felt a tiny arm crawl around my shoulder. I didn’t know who it was, but I was comforted that I wasn’t alone, that someone must like me to have taken the trouble to find out if I was okay.
My head lifted and I saw a petite girl with twin braids, smiling warmly at me, her cheeks deeply grooved. Her brown eyes held compassion, and I remember the look she gave me as she took my hand in hers and said stoutly “I’ll be your best friend.”
Suzanne had migrated to another school after that and we lost touch. But as they say, memories do linger. And here we are thirty three years later renewing our friendship.
Suzanne and Liv left me to my book-signing, the fragrance of friendship still in the air as I continued with the event, which now took on a different allure.
It was no more a book-signing . . . it was nostalgia all the way. And I was thinking to myself I had one more reason to love The French Encounter, for bringing wonderful people back into my life.
April 29, 2016
The French Encounter by Cécile Rischmann
Looking forward to the book-signing for The French Encounter, today, 30th April from 5-7 PM, at Valasaravakkam, near American Eye Care, Chennai. Planning on a one-on-one interaction to make it memorable for both the reader and the author. If you'd like to be there and share in this moment, please contact 74 48 52 19 37.
