Cécile Rischmann's Blog, page 4

Book Signing for The French Encounter

The French Encounter (available now at INR 350 on Amazon in and Starmark) INR 399 at Odyssey and Spencers Books & Journals) can be acquired at the directly from the author, who is presently in Chennai promoting her book.

She's also doing a book signing on Saturday 30th April 2016 between 5-7 pm. For further information contact ceciliarischmann@gmail.com

Passion, romance erupts in ‘The French Encounter’

East meets west in Cécile Rischmann’s new novel, sizzling love story based on real life events

CHENNAI, India – A romantic at heart, Cécile Rischmann has a penchant for seeing romance in the simplest of things, in a smile, a quirk of the eyebrow, or a look, and writing hot love stories. Fact and fiction would blend together when she met her future husband, a Frenchman who would change her life, as the resulting real-life romance became the basis of her a sizzling love story: “The French Encounter” (published by Partridge India).

It begins when Jean Leclerc, a young French billionaire, decides to construct a glass float in India. He is thinking of political and environmental hurdles when he has a surprise encounter with a ferocious Bengal Tiger. Enter Katrina Santiago, a young feisty Indian woman who is saving herself for the one she will eventually marry. She may work for the French administration, but she does not date Frenchmen.

When she sees JLC in all his splendor, values and traditions fly out the window. She wants him bad; she wants her one chance at love. East meets west, romance blooms… and hilarity ensues as readers are treated to a passionate and powerful recount of a Frenchman and Indian woman’s blossoming love for each other, as well as the struggles they had to go through in order to stay together. Their very different perspectives on life seem to drive them apart and sometimes, it seems that “The French Encounter” Katrina pines for is doomed to disaster.

Rischmann treats readers to a battle of love, lust and longing between a sophisticated tycoon whose cynical façade of disillusionment conceals the emotional vulnerabilities of his heart and a naïve virgin entranced by her unique lover while stubbornly holding on to her belief in a “happily ever after.” The author uses her know-how of Indian and French culture, and her own life experiences, to give readers a rollercoaster of a romantic comedy.

The codes of conduct and behavior of two cultures will be defied, modesty will be cast aside as two lovers act very naughty, spontaneously, brazenly, as they fight for what they want during “The French Encounter.”

“The French Encounter”
By Cécile Rischmann
Hardcover | 6 x 9 in | 294 pages | ISBN 9781482846263
Softcover | 6 x 9 in | 294 pages | ISBN 9781482846256
E-Book | 294 pages | ISBN 9781482846249
Available at Amazon, Flipkart and Barnes & Noble

Bookstores: Starmarks (Express Avenue and Phoenix Mall), Spencers books and journals, Odyssey (Adyar & Thiruvanmiyur), Odyssey Brookfiels mall, Coimbatore.

About the Author
Cécile Rischmann is Indian, a linguist by profession who is married to a French man for the last 10 years.

Joel Raffier's review, The French Encounter

Before I post Mr Joël Raffier's review, here's some information on who he is. Joël Raffier is an eminent Author of "Partition. Pakistan, le pays des déchirures", Ex-Director of Alliance Française, Chennai, and Expert en ingénierie culturelle et de l’éducation.

Cécile,

J'ai commencé la lecture de votre livre dans l'avion et je viens de l'achever. D'abord bravo pour votre parcours remarquable ! Je suis admiratif et très heureux pour vous. S'agissant de votre roman, il est remarquable en ce que, publié en Inde, il appartient cependant tout à fait au genre érotique, réussi, avec bien sûrs des personnages assez stéréotypés, un décor un peu factice et un vocabulaire parfois répétitif ( par exemple on se renfrogne) et on s'y mord beaucoup les lèvres ! Mais l'introduction du vocabulaire français est un plus !Dommage que vous l'ayez publié à compte d'auteur, je pense que traduit en français ( Traducteur google, plus relecture), il pourrait intéressé un éditeur comme Sonatine, spécialiste de ce genre.Encore une fois bravo !"


Cecilia,

I started reading your book on the plane and I just finished. First congratulations on your remarkable journey! I admire and am very happy for you. Regarding your novel, it is remarkable in that, published in India, however, it belongs entirely to the erotic genre, successful, with very sure enough stereotypical characters, a somewhat artificial decor and sometimes repetitive vocabulary (for example, scowls and one bites one's lips too much! But the introduction of the french vocabulary is a plus! Too bad you have it published with an independent publishing house, I think that translated into French (translator google plus replay), it might interest an editor like Sonatine, specialist of this genre. Again congratulations!

Dream

Dream a love life free from shackles of monotony

Dream romance, laughter and brotherhood unity

Dream comfort, splendor, luxury and wealth

Dream health.



Dream happiness, abundance, tenderness extreme

Health may wear and wealth may stream

But love and gentleness in heart will stay

Till breath of life gives way.



Dream thus for vision to understand

The path of life God has planned

Infinite knows what man needs

And judged we are by our deeds.

The French Encounter to be turned into a Hollywood movie.

William Camilleri, Executive Producer/ Romantic Neoclassical Composer, heading The Composer Global LTD Production, a worldwide film and theatre production company located in London, England, known for high quality films and high quality music, has shown interest in The French Encounter, my maiden novel. Please see the link below for further information.

http://www.williamcamilleri.com/movies/

The Wallet, by Cécile Rischmann

A dialogue between God and man


A wallet abound with gold of Midas

Can it buy love that lasts?



Untrue said man my wallet brings fame

buys talent, hard work and name,

buys family, friends, and enemies too,

buys houses and territories.



A wallet is only a medium of joy

That can fetch the beauty of Troy

But unwise o man and foolish thou art

To trust the visions that part



And health o man why thou not ask

So precious and tricky a task?

Because said man my wallet can buy

A Life that does not die.



Foolish and proud as ever could be

O man you’re meant to retire

And what have you gained by a wallet thus filled

When a family thou has not instilled?



My wallet said man can buy life span

O God can you contest?

Thy folly art great o man of estate

But death does not wait.



No wisdom I seek o God infinite

My wallet is my life

It travels me places and fetches me cheer

It soothes my unease and my fears.



On earth o’er in heaven, wherever I may be

A wallet is all that I seek.

A goal to achieve is a wallet for me,

For life to be happy as can be.

The Long awaited Review, The French Encounter

Michael DA Samuel native of Thirunelveli, Tamil Nadu born in 1951 and served in organizations and in the end discovered that teaching the next generation is the most enriching jobs in the world.

The French Encounter by Cecile Rischmann is a conversational masterpiece that captures the involvement of the reader and with the imagination of western sensibility paints the many colours of romantic love with an Indian mind. The dialogue is at many levels and strips the layers of hypocrisy surrounding human existence. Middle class morality confronts luxury and wealth. Cultural diversity is unified by the powerful narrative which glides smoothly in spite of the love and war of the characters who dismantle the barriers of social class which almost derail the ‘train’ of love, lust and desires. The dreams of Katrina symbolize a feminine craving for security and COMFORT. This book must be translated into Tamil, French, German and Italian to reach out to incurable romantics around the world! A multi-lingual movie can have a tremendous impact.

Cecile Rischmann dives into the ocean of passionate love while exposing corporate innuendoes and individual jealousies.
When can I read your next book? Who will do the translations? The script and screenplay adaptation for the movie version requires the engagement of eminent Producer, Director, and Cinematographer with global recognition.
When Nanne Coda a Telugu poet was re-discovered at the end of the 19th century he had written:

“An arrow shot by an archer
Or a poem made by a poet
Should cut through your heart
Jolting the head.
If it doesn’t, it’s no arrow
It’s no poem.”

Finally Dear Cecile when you translate your books remember the words of ‘The Absent Traveller’ by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra “Great translations… shoot to kill, and having obliterated the original, transmigrate its soul into another language.”
You did mention at Taj Coromendal on 18 January that you will participate in Hindu Literature Festival 2017. This time Ananth Padmanbhan CEO of Harper Collins India Photographer, dog lover and bibliophile attendee and spoke. I hope you can be on the list of Panellists for 2017. Good luck and hope to see you in the near future. Keep in touch and keep writing since you have the natural ability to tell several stories at the same time. It’s a rare quality!!

Gayathri

“She’s left.”

Kate flung open the door to an insistent knock on a late Saturday evening and stepped back somewhat startled to see her nephew standing outside. Ian was shivering and leaning heavily against the wall of her apartment. His clothes were crumpled and tail ends of his shirt were hanging out of the band of his trousers. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath smelt of liquor. His hair stood on edge like a frightened porcupine defending itself from its adversary.

“Gayathri? Kate asked, as she let Ian inside, wondering whether the love-birds had their first major tiff. Six years ago Ian and Gayathri had met on a chat site and became hooked on each other. Ian followed up with a visit and apparently became enthralled for he returned home with Gayathri . . . married. Kate circled to her desk and sank into a chair. “What do you mean she’s left?”

His head swung away from her penetrating glance and she watched that slim tall frame trudge slowly to the window and hunch over the sill. And then he turned and looked Kate in the eye. “To UK.”

Kate was glad that she was sitting or she might have tumbled to the floor. UK? Gayathri couldn’t speak a word of English, at least, when she arrived in Chennai. Kate remembered how she’d invited Gayathri and Ian for dinner and her nephew playing interpreter.

“Have you planned where you are going to stay?” Kate had asked, looking at the pair of them worriedly. She was well aware that Ian didn’t have an impressive bank balance and lived with his parents. Gayathri was the only daughter and was brought up like a princess. Ian ate meat. Gayathri ate vegetables. Ian was Christian. Gayathri was Hindu. The list was endless.

“We’ll stay with my parents.” Ian said, and threw Kate a dark glance.

For someone who spoke little English, Gayathri was following their conversation very closely. Kate saw dismay written on her face as she tugged at Ian’s shirt sleeve and said her first words in English. “I take job.”

Ian looked at his wife tenderly and leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose. “I didn’t marry you to make you a slave. I’ll provide for you, my love. I’ll take up extra modeling assignments. We’ll move out of my parent’s place as soon as we can . . . okay?”

Gayathri lifted her chin, a streak of defiance glittering in those black eyes. “I come Kerala,” she said, tapping her head meaningfully. “I strong.”

Ian scooped the indignant bundle in his arms and sat with her on his lap, oblivious to his wife’s embarrassment. “O Gaya, my sweet Gaya, it’s not as easy as you think. This is Chennai. You first need to practice your English before venturing in the job market. We stay very far away from the city. You’ll have to travel by bus and train to reach the centre . . . you might even need a bike to take you from home to the bus stand . . .”

Kate was impressed with Gayathri right from that moment. She smiled at her encouragingly and Gayathri smiled back. Their mutual respect for each other was sealed that evening.

Kate gestured that Ian should sit down before he fell. That Ian loved his wife was an understatement. He protected Gayathri like a strong tower and took her side in every battle – even against his parents.

“Was there any indication that she was going to leave you? Kate tried to recollect those long conversations she had with Gayathri. Apart from Gayathri wanting to become a millionaire by thirty five . . . she never disclosed any plans of taking off on her own.

“We had our share of disagreements like any normal couple,” He flexed his tense shoulders, one lean hand coming up to comb his hair as he exhaled, “but I made sure she was happy, Katy. You know, I stopped modeling because Gaya was possessive. I took the bank job because she wanted stability. We moved out of my parent’s house. I gave up my friends as Gaya felt they were a bad influence on me. Where did I go wrong, Katy?” His head lowered on his forearms and he burrowed inside as if by doing so he could avoid whatever was waiting for him. She saw his narrow shoulders shake, shudder, and she heard faint sounds of his weeping. “I love her, Katy.”

“How do you know she’s left for certain?”

He refused to raise his head so that Kate leaned forward to catch what he was saying. “Her jewels used to be in a bank safe. The manager said Gayathri’s father collected them last week.”

Kate felt a jolt in her chest. This was beginning to sound like a very careful plan, something which Gayathri wasn’t capable of. Could her parents have brainwashed her? They’d never thought much of Ian right from the start and hadn’t hesitated to send the police after them when they’d eloped.

“Why would she leave you, Ian? Did you hurt her in some way?” Kate asked bewildered. Gayathri had coped excellently during the last six-years that everyone in Ian’s family was proud of her. She secured employment in a jewellery store and later in a prestigious bank. Kate remembered how hard Gayathri worked on her language skills, but even then, going to UK was a large step. “How do you know she’s gone to UK?”

His head lifted and his eyes were damp and swollen. One hand shoved into his pocket where he dragged out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “The University called. Gaya had left her mobile to recharge and must have forgotten in all that hurry. She enrolled in a MBA program for two years. When I asked for more details they wanted to know who I was.” Ian’s voice began to wobble. “I-I t-told them I was her husband. They said Gayathri’s file doesn’t mention a husband. Her status in her passport says single . . .”

“But that could be an old passport —”

“I thought the same thing too, Katy, I asked them. They said Gaya’s passport is dated 12.5.10 and delivered from Trivandrum. We were married on 14.2.04. She knew what she was doing, Katy.”

“But she loved you like crazy.”

“There was a boy, Katy. He kept telephoning Gaya often. She said he was a friend. They spoke mostly in Malayalam. Once I commented that he was calling frequently. He never called after that . . . actually he did . . . Gaya just found excuses to send me to the shops. I happened to call one time to ask if she wanted white or brown bread, Gaya’s line was engaged. I began calling all those times Gaya sent me out . . . it was always engaged. She was talking to him, Katy. When I’d come home she’d pretend like she was cooking all that while . . .”

“Did you ask her about it?”

“Yes. She raised a knife on me. She had a bad temper, my Gaya.” Ian gave a slight smile, his eyes kindling with emotion. “I loved it though . . .”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Ian? You know Gayathri and I used to talk frequently?”

“I didn’t want to want to destroy your opinion of her, Katy. You thought the world of Gaya. Even last night after I made passionate love to Gaya, she told me: ‘Ian, I will always love you.’” He wiped his eyes roughly. “Where did I go wrong, Katy?”

Kate didn’t have an answer to that one. Had Gayathri used Ian as her ticket to freedom escaping an arranged marriage that her parents had been organizing for her? She remembered vaguely Gayathri confiding about a cousin from her mother’s side that she was forced to consider . . . “Did you call that guy who used to speak to her? Maybe we can meet him?”

To think that she’d taught Gayathri to believe in herself. To go after her goals with the attitude of a winner. She’d given Gayathri books of Dr. Peale. Kate had even presented her a layman version of The Bible.

But how could she have known that Gayathri’s goal was to leave her husband?

“He’s checked out of his apartment this morning. I had his number traced with the help of a friend who works in the crime branch. She’s gone with him, Katy.”

*

The British Deputy High Commissioner’s office was close to Kate’s residence. Benita, a friend of Kate, who had some experience dealing with similar cases, suggested that Ian file a complaint and meet the British Deputy High Commissioner. Kate was grateful to see her waiting for them at the entrance along with a police officer.

The Deputy High Commissioner read through each document carefully: The marriage registration certificate, photographs of the nuptials, rachin card, and the house lease. He replaced all the documents in the file.

“If I may speak, sir,” Benita interrupted in respectful tones, her voice sounding suddenly loud in the silence of that cabin. The Deputy High Commissioner looked at her and nodded. “Ms. Gayathri has taken education loans amounting to one crore from three banks.” She slid the proof of documents on his table surprising Ian and Kate. “She’s given her in-laws address for correspondence, which means, they will be knocking on their doors if Ms. Gayathri doesn’t make payments, which I sense she won’t. A woman, who claims she’s single in her passport and on social websites, who disappears like a thief leaving her husband with a credit of one crore . . . Does that sound fair to you, sir?”

The Deputy High Commissioner scowled at the sheath of papers on his table, and then the navy blue eyes slid to the young Adonis hunched miserably in his chair, who hadn’t spoken a word since his arrival. “I’ll need time to talk this over with the required authorities. You realize the police will be involved. The girl will be deported. The university will not reimburse her fees. She won’t be allowed to travel because she’ll be black-listed by all the Embassies. Do you have anything to say Mr. Rosario?

Benita squeezed Kate’s hand reassuringly as Kate found herself holding her breath. Her eyes shifted to Ian. He was struggling not to cry and was losing the battle by the look of it. Even the Deputy High Commissioner stretched his hand and touched his shoulder gently. “I’m sorry, but I need to have your answer now before I call in the authorities.”

“Don’t do it, sir.” Ian whispered. “Don’t do anything to my Gaya. Let her be. If she’s gone through such pains to get away from me, she must have had reason. I don’t want to pursue the matter any further.” Ian was dragging himself tiredly to his feet swaying slightly as he did. “I’m sorry for having taken your time, sir. Thank you.”

The Deputy High Commissioner had a strange expression on his face as he watched Ian’s slow defeated gait. Benita was trembling in rage. The Police officer was shaking his head labeling Ian a fool. But Kate was thinking privately that her nephew was a hero. It took a strong man to walk away from an opportunity of vengeance.

Would Gayathri miss her husband? Kate didn’t want to think so far ahead. But she was certain of one thing. Gayathri would get her due . . . in time. She only hoped Ian would move on and find love again and forget his Gaya.

It's review time again!

I received this short review from a seasoned reviewer, Michael, who bought The French Encounter at The Hindu Lit for Life Fest in Chennai.

March 7th 2016

"The first impression of your writing style absorbed my total attention in a way that for 2 Sundays I could not read the Hindu or Times of India. Believe me that the romance of East and West defies the theory of the two cultures being separate entities and can never meet. In 2 weeks time the review will be forwarded to you.

CHEERS!
Mike"

March 14th 2016

"Right now the suspense is killing me. I find that your book is preventing me from concentrating on my ICE classes. In any case few pages left and I am unable to predict the climax of Katrina’s French Encounter. Review will reach you same time tomorrow. Regards, MIKE"

The Last Journey

The mobile rang while Stefani was on her first dream. She ignored it. Ever since she asked her mason to get her a new connection and realized to her dismay that he’d given her instead one used by his daughter, Stefani was swamped with calls.

“Supriya,” they’d say, after waking her up at 4 AM. Stefani would grind her teeth and not answer, afraid if she did, a litany of unholy vocabulary might fly out.

“This is Banupriya,” she’d say angrily and disconnect. But they would persist until Stefani switched off her mobile and snuggled into her pillow cursing her mason.

“Steff!” her brother said somewhat impatiently when she picked up his call on its last ring. Stefani glanced at her timepiece. At least he waited until 5 AM. “I can’t believe you’re still sleeping!”

“What else should I be doing at this part of the morning, dancing?” she snapped, and then realized that there must be something on his mind to disturb her so early. “What’s wrong?” she asked, slightly worried now as she tried to focus on the conversation. The last she heard from him was when his relative from his wife’s side was ill.

“He’s gone. The body will be at home. Come when you can.” The final bit was added with resignation. Stefani’s family was well aware that her house was on eternal renovation. With an architect for a husband who thought in millimeters, working with people who calculated in inches wasn’t an easy task. Stefani was their unpaid translator.

“Eric, wait! I thought he was getting better?”
“That’s what the docs said. In reality, he was leaving us. Be there. I have to go.”

Stefani stared at the mobile unable to sleep, thoughts of that relative kept haunting her. The last she’d seen him was twelve years ago. She remembered going to his place along with a girl-friend for dinner. He had a handsome son whom he made sure didn’t get anywhere near Stefani.

Stefani smiled. How misunderstood she was. Just because she dressed hip and fought calories, it didn’t mean she was into poaching.

“It is not how much you earn.” He told her one day as he lowered his newspaper, his spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose. “It is how much you save.”

What good advice that was even if she didn’t take it.

Stefani felt somewhat melancholic as she turned her tear-wet gaze to her husband lying beside her. “Would you come with me?”

One sleepy golden eye examined her distress. “If you want me to . . .”

“But you don’t like funerals?”

“I’ll do it for you.”

Stefani shook her head. She’d feel guilty dragging him to the funeral, particularly, when he didn’t know the person.

No, she’ll have to go for it alone.

The atmosphere felt heavy like any funeral house. Stefani’s gaze shifted around the place searching for the immediate family. Times had changed. No more were there blocks of ice placed under the bench where the body was laid. She missed the smell of eau de cologne, so strong, that you’d feel like a corpse yourself after attending the funeral. She missed the overflow of candle wax that would spread on the chair and drop to the floor causing a hard pool by their feet. She missed those aunties who would crowd around the body beating their breast and listing innumerable good qualities of that dead soul, qualities that poor man would have never guessed he possessed. What a pity, we wait for the person to die before realizing how wonderful he is.

Stefani strolled towards the widow somewhere hidden in that crowd of mourners. A quiet dignified lady was wrapped in a sari sitting silently at the foot of the body. She’d never left her husband’s side while he was alive, and it seemed like she wasn’t going to leave his side even at his death.

Stefani’s arm crawled around her shoulders and held her securely. Her shoulders began to tremble and tear after tear chased down her cheeks and splashed onto her sari.
“What will I do? Where will I be?” She didn’t need to say the words; it was there in her eyes: the doubt, the fear, the panic.

“Your children are there for you. They will not abandon you.” Even as Stefani said the words she hoped she was right because in this day and age one could never say.

“Uncle used to always talk about you.”

Stefani couldn’t hide her astonishment. That was news to her. From the corner of her eyes she noticed that the lady’s daughter-in-law was making her way towards them.

“Where’s your husband?” She asked Stefani, running a critical eye on Stefani’s attire. She was a stylish-looking girl of Stefani’s age and her husband sat across the hall comforting his sisters.

He still had his looks, she thought, and smiled suddenly as she noticed the slight potbelly camouflaged under the loose tee.
“My husband does not attend funerals, marriages, christenings . . .” Stefani began apologetically, feeling some necessity to explain his absence.

“I didn’t ask why your husband didn’t come, I asked where he was.”

Ouch! What was that about? She looked around her hoping no one was listening. Unfortunately, every weeping eye was on them. “He’s at home.” She said quietly, excusing herself and leaving the tension-ridden atmosphere. Her brother smiled in approval.

“Do you know Aunt Bonita is admitted in hospital?” He whispered.

Stefani’s heart sank. Did that mean another journey was in preparation?