Cécile Rischmann's Blog, page 5
February 17, 2016
HarperCollins CFO, Review, The French Encounter
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"Just finished reading The French Encounter. A thoroughly enjoyable and engaging read, and at the same time, (perfectly) racy! Both the central characters seem almost lifelike!! Take a bow, Cecile..."
Amit Abrol,
CFO & Operations Head
HarperCollins Publishers
"Just finished reading The French Encounter. A thoroughly enjoyable and engaging read, and at the same time, (perfectly) racy! Both the central characters seem almost lifelike!! Take a bow, Cecile..."
Amit Abrol,
CFO & Operations Head
HarperCollins Publishers
February 7, 2016
A ride down memory lane
I must have been 17 the first time I stepped into Eswari library. Mr Palani was sitting with his famous logbook, head bent in deep concentration as he scribbled away. I was in my green pinafore, white blouse, broad green belt, white keds, and the famous bag wrapped around the shoulders to enable us to bear that heavy load of books.
Eswari library was then a little hole-in-the-wall, but the collection it had was worth that twenty minutes walk from school. I’d hurry past St Georges Cathedral’s cemetery gate, afraid an extra minute there might attract a visit from a dead soul. I’d think of my favorite author, Carole Mortimer, and my stride would turn longer and swifter. Don’t ask me the reason why but I got hooked after reading Forbidden Surrender.
“How much?” I’d ask Mr Palani digging into the pocket of my pinafore, clutching at the precious remains of my birthday savings.
“Five rupees. But you must return the books on time.” He’d say in a stern voice.
“But I want to buy them.”
He’d frown at me. “Buy?”
I’d nod and try to appear important so that Mr Palani would take me seriously. “She’s my favorite author. I want to own her books. How much would it cost me?”
Mr Palani would look slightly doubtful however he’d still oblige and calculate the cost price. I think he used to give me great discounts because I’d always managed to buy the books. After settling the bill, I’d remove my textbooks and notebooks from my school bag and tuck in all my Carole Mortimer’s novels. Then I’d rush back home, my mind immediately preoccupied on which book to start.
Twenty nine years later, I was travelling that road again with my own title tucked in my bag. The streets of Gopalapuram seemed familiar as we drove down Damordan Street. My eyes began to smart as I saw the house where I met my first boyfriend, a rather good-looking guy with light brown eyes. He’d come to that house and wait for me. A messenger would arrive home as if he was asking for a bottle of chilled water and it would be me who opened the door to give it to him. I’d dress quickly and pretend as if I was going to Eswari library and instead meet this boy. Nothing extensive, he’d look at me and smile and I’d look at him and smile. What a thrill.
As I continued down the street, I could see the terrace of the house where I lived for more than ten years. That used to be the place where I’d go when I wanted to be alone, a place where I’d weave those impossible dreams. Not really impossible come to think of it because those dreams were realized. My eyes filled as I thought of mom and the conversations we used to have. She might not have been highly educated but she never mocked my dreams. She’d caution me however, that we didn’t have that kind of money and I’ll have to work to reach the place where I wanted to be.
It was 3 PM. The school traffic on Lloyd’s road ran in all directions. An autorickshaw driver wore the cap of a policeman trying desperately to bring order to that maddening disorder. I watched in growing dismay as we got stuck in the middle of a traffic jam. The chauffeur reassured me that he had a way out and took a sudden left into the area where a petrol bunk stood. He circled the vehicles that were getting their tanks filled, and coolly zoomed out the other way into a nearly empty road.
My heart began to race as we neared Eswari Library. I could see Mr Palani stacking books outside just like he used to do those years ago. But instead of a hole-in-the-wall, his library was now spread over 1000 sqft. It had a wide entrance, camera surveillance, an official desk and a high-back chair.
Mr Palani’s head lifted as he saw me. “Mr Satish, will be here in a few minutes. Please come inside, Madam.” A girl was sitting at the reception. She picked the receiver and began dialing as I gave her my card.
“Is it okay if I look around?” I asked, as I strolled towards the shelves neatly arranged according to genre. I began sifting through the books, going down memory lane, remembering a former rival, Lizzy, who’d sometimes buy the title of my favorite author just to annoy me. She was an Emma Darcy fan.
“Is there a particular author you are looking for?” Mr Palani was watching me aimlessly shuffling his books, some of which were so worn that they were taped and re-taped several times over.
“Do you remember me, Mr Palani? I used to stay around the corner. I came here often.”
He smiled and shook his head regretfully. “Was that a long time ago?”
“Yes, long time ago.” I continued to go through the books feeling some kind of urge to jolt his memory. I felt like I was being denied a treat. “I used to buy Carole Mortimer’s books.”
I’d swear there was a flicker of recognition in those eyes but by then his son had arrived. Satish ordered tea and introduced me to his father. “Cécile Rischmann used to stay in our area. She’s an author now.”
“What book have you written?” Mr Palani seemed very thrilled and rather proud of me. I dug out my novel, pretty excited myself, and gave it to him. He ran a quality control check and nodded. “We’ll send your books for binding first so that they’ll last longer.” Mr Satish said, and gave instructions to the librarian, Priya.
“Where would you keep them?”
Mr Palani looked around him and pointed to the entrance. “Over there.”
Mr Satish shook his head. “At new arrivals, behind Priya’s desk, we’ll keep a copy in each of our branches. Do you have any posters?”
“I’ll mail them. Do you have Carole Mortimer?” This time Mr Satish and his father strode inside and a few minutes later I was holding ancient titles I didn’t have. I placed them carefully in my handbag feeling that prick of tears again.
I clicked pictures of Mr Palani and Mr Satish and The French Encounter, knowing that my novel was in safe hands. It sat in a treasured cove established over 55 years ago by a man whose love for books steered him into creating 11 branches around Chennai, a man who remained humble despite his success.
Cheers to Mr Palani. Cheers to Eswari Library. Cheers to Mr Satish and Mr Saravanan.
Eswari library was then a little hole-in-the-wall, but the collection it had was worth that twenty minutes walk from school. I’d hurry past St Georges Cathedral’s cemetery gate, afraid an extra minute there might attract a visit from a dead soul. I’d think of my favorite author, Carole Mortimer, and my stride would turn longer and swifter. Don’t ask me the reason why but I got hooked after reading Forbidden Surrender.
“How much?” I’d ask Mr Palani digging into the pocket of my pinafore, clutching at the precious remains of my birthday savings.
“Five rupees. But you must return the books on time.” He’d say in a stern voice.
“But I want to buy them.”
He’d frown at me. “Buy?”
I’d nod and try to appear important so that Mr Palani would take me seriously. “She’s my favorite author. I want to own her books. How much would it cost me?”
Mr Palani would look slightly doubtful however he’d still oblige and calculate the cost price. I think he used to give me great discounts because I’d always managed to buy the books. After settling the bill, I’d remove my textbooks and notebooks from my school bag and tuck in all my Carole Mortimer’s novels. Then I’d rush back home, my mind immediately preoccupied on which book to start.
Twenty nine years later, I was travelling that road again with my own title tucked in my bag. The streets of Gopalapuram seemed familiar as we drove down Damordan Street. My eyes began to smart as I saw the house where I met my first boyfriend, a rather good-looking guy with light brown eyes. He’d come to that house and wait for me. A messenger would arrive home as if he was asking for a bottle of chilled water and it would be me who opened the door to give it to him. I’d dress quickly and pretend as if I was going to Eswari library and instead meet this boy. Nothing extensive, he’d look at me and smile and I’d look at him and smile. What a thrill.
As I continued down the street, I could see the terrace of the house where I lived for more than ten years. That used to be the place where I’d go when I wanted to be alone, a place where I’d weave those impossible dreams. Not really impossible come to think of it because those dreams were realized. My eyes filled as I thought of mom and the conversations we used to have. She might not have been highly educated but she never mocked my dreams. She’d caution me however, that we didn’t have that kind of money and I’ll have to work to reach the place where I wanted to be.
It was 3 PM. The school traffic on Lloyd’s road ran in all directions. An autorickshaw driver wore the cap of a policeman trying desperately to bring order to that maddening disorder. I watched in growing dismay as we got stuck in the middle of a traffic jam. The chauffeur reassured me that he had a way out and took a sudden left into the area where a petrol bunk stood. He circled the vehicles that were getting their tanks filled, and coolly zoomed out the other way into a nearly empty road.
My heart began to race as we neared Eswari Library. I could see Mr Palani stacking books outside just like he used to do those years ago. But instead of a hole-in-the-wall, his library was now spread over 1000 sqft. It had a wide entrance, camera surveillance, an official desk and a high-back chair.
Mr Palani’s head lifted as he saw me. “Mr Satish, will be here in a few minutes. Please come inside, Madam.” A girl was sitting at the reception. She picked the receiver and began dialing as I gave her my card.
“Is it okay if I look around?” I asked, as I strolled towards the shelves neatly arranged according to genre. I began sifting through the books, going down memory lane, remembering a former rival, Lizzy, who’d sometimes buy the title of my favorite author just to annoy me. She was an Emma Darcy fan.
“Is there a particular author you are looking for?” Mr Palani was watching me aimlessly shuffling his books, some of which were so worn that they were taped and re-taped several times over.
“Do you remember me, Mr Palani? I used to stay around the corner. I came here often.”
He smiled and shook his head regretfully. “Was that a long time ago?”
“Yes, long time ago.” I continued to go through the books feeling some kind of urge to jolt his memory. I felt like I was being denied a treat. “I used to buy Carole Mortimer’s books.”
I’d swear there was a flicker of recognition in those eyes but by then his son had arrived. Satish ordered tea and introduced me to his father. “Cécile Rischmann used to stay in our area. She’s an author now.”
“What book have you written?” Mr Palani seemed very thrilled and rather proud of me. I dug out my novel, pretty excited myself, and gave it to him. He ran a quality control check and nodded. “We’ll send your books for binding first so that they’ll last longer.” Mr Satish said, and gave instructions to the librarian, Priya.
“Where would you keep them?”
Mr Palani looked around him and pointed to the entrance. “Over there.”
Mr Satish shook his head. “At new arrivals, behind Priya’s desk, we’ll keep a copy in each of our branches. Do you have any posters?”
“I’ll mail them. Do you have Carole Mortimer?” This time Mr Satish and his father strode inside and a few minutes later I was holding ancient titles I didn’t have. I placed them carefully in my handbag feeling that prick of tears again.
I clicked pictures of Mr Palani and Mr Satish and The French Encounter, knowing that my novel was in safe hands. It sat in a treasured cove established over 55 years ago by a man whose love for books steered him into creating 11 branches around Chennai, a man who remained humble despite his success.
Cheers to Mr Palani. Cheers to Eswari Library. Cheers to Mr Satish and Mr Saravanan.
January 19, 2016
An Encounter to remember
I got a call around 8.30 AM on Monday. “Cecile Rischmann?” a very cultured voice asked. My yawn halted midway, the reason being whenever I hear my professional name I feel like a soldier on duty.
“Yes.” I said, trying to stall another yawn.
“I bought your book The French Encounter at the Hindu Lit for Life Fest, and I’d like to know why you signed it without meeting the reader.”
Good question, as if I had a choice, I was grumbling under my breath. “There were paneled authors out there Mr X, so I signed my copies in advance. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. Why weren’t you there on the third day?”
At the back of my mind I was thinking whose face I could have possibly seen the previous night that resulted in being tortured at 8.30 am? “It was a Sunday Mr X. I went to church." And aired out my sins . . . a very long list.
“You know, I’ve come all the way from Tindivanum for this literary fest. I meet authors and make it a point to get the books signed by them. Sometimes, they write me a nice message.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do —”
“— I bought your book and read it and I want to meet the author.”
“Of course. That can be arranged. Maybe sometime —”
“—Today at the Taj Coromandel at 1.00. Not at 1.05. Ask for Shobita at the desk. She will show you where I am.”
Did I hear right? Did Mr X just say that he bought my book and read it and wanted me to come to The Taj Coromandel? OMG! Is he planning to remake that scene in the lounge? Or in the restaurant? I was wide awake now, wondering how to get out of this invitation which sounded more like an order. Who could have given him my number?
My husband opened one eye sleepily. “What is it now?” He grumbled in french. “Don’t tell me you have to go to another literary festival? There was slight indignation in his tone. The poor guy was stranded for last few days with me vanishing from dawn to dusk like as if my schedule was busier than E.L James. He gave a long sigh as he saw that pleading look I was throwing his way, and succumbed to silent pressure.
We landed at the Taj Coromandel fifteen minutes before the schedule time. I called Mr X.
“I’ve arrived.”
“So have I.”
“Where are you?”
“Just look for The French Encounter. I’ll be holding your book.”
I glanced at my husband whose lips were twitching into a smile. I seriously began to search for that provocative book cover which Mr X would be using as his banner. I found him and sighed in relief. He was not standing and waving my book in the air. He was sitting with The French Encounter proudly displayed on the centre table.
“So you are the author of this book?” He said, gesturing to JLC and Kat’s semi-clad frames while I sat stiffly on the canapé. I was beginning to feel as if I was back in school in front of my head-master, V. Abraham. “Are you Indian?”
My head began to nod in all directions. I wasn’t sure whether I should say yes, no, or sit on the fence. Then I remembered how Nikhil Raghavan presented me in his interview and said. “I’m a France-based Indian author.”
“I see. You know, that cover is a very provocative one. It reminded me of my days in this very same hotel. I used to work here, you know.” A melancholic smile touched his lips. “I fell in love with a beautiful woman and we used to hug just like in your cover.” His eyes flickered on the cover with longing.
My mouth was hanging open as I listened. “I was never lucky in love. All the women I loved fell for other men . . . well-off men. I don’t know why these women that I loved were already taken. I’m a bachelor by the way. I have no one, just me and The French Encounter.”
I glanced at my husband to see how he was doing. I saw the teasing glow in his eyes as if he knew what I was thinking. “Maybe you should take some pictures together, chérie.” He drew out his sleek camera and began clicking pictures of Mr X and I and The French Encounter.
“Let’s go the coffee shop.” Mr X said.
We went with him and shared a cappuccino together and clicked more pictures. Then we left him with a promise to see him for the next Hindu Lit for Life Fest.
“Yes.” I said, trying to stall another yawn.
“I bought your book The French Encounter at the Hindu Lit for Life Fest, and I’d like to know why you signed it without meeting the reader.”
Good question, as if I had a choice, I was grumbling under my breath. “There were paneled authors out there Mr X, so I signed my copies in advance. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. Why weren’t you there on the third day?”
At the back of my mind I was thinking whose face I could have possibly seen the previous night that resulted in being tortured at 8.30 am? “It was a Sunday Mr X. I went to church." And aired out my sins . . . a very long list.
“You know, I’ve come all the way from Tindivanum for this literary fest. I meet authors and make it a point to get the books signed by them. Sometimes, they write me a nice message.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do —”
“— I bought your book and read it and I want to meet the author.”
“Of course. That can be arranged. Maybe sometime —”
“—Today at the Taj Coromandel at 1.00. Not at 1.05. Ask for Shobita at the desk. She will show you where I am.”
Did I hear right? Did Mr X just say that he bought my book and read it and wanted me to come to The Taj Coromandel? OMG! Is he planning to remake that scene in the lounge? Or in the restaurant? I was wide awake now, wondering how to get out of this invitation which sounded more like an order. Who could have given him my number?
My husband opened one eye sleepily. “What is it now?” He grumbled in french. “Don’t tell me you have to go to another literary festival? There was slight indignation in his tone. The poor guy was stranded for last few days with me vanishing from dawn to dusk like as if my schedule was busier than E.L James. He gave a long sigh as he saw that pleading look I was throwing his way, and succumbed to silent pressure.
We landed at the Taj Coromandel fifteen minutes before the schedule time. I called Mr X.
“I’ve arrived.”
“So have I.”
“Where are you?”
“Just look for The French Encounter. I’ll be holding your book.”
I glanced at my husband whose lips were twitching into a smile. I seriously began to search for that provocative book cover which Mr X would be using as his banner. I found him and sighed in relief. He was not standing and waving my book in the air. He was sitting with The French Encounter proudly displayed on the centre table.
“So you are the author of this book?” He said, gesturing to JLC and Kat’s semi-clad frames while I sat stiffly on the canapé. I was beginning to feel as if I was back in school in front of my head-master, V. Abraham. “Are you Indian?”
My head began to nod in all directions. I wasn’t sure whether I should say yes, no, or sit on the fence. Then I remembered how Nikhil Raghavan presented me in his interview and said. “I’m a France-based Indian author.”
“I see. You know, that cover is a very provocative one. It reminded me of my days in this very same hotel. I used to work here, you know.” A melancholic smile touched his lips. “I fell in love with a beautiful woman and we used to hug just like in your cover.” His eyes flickered on the cover with longing.
My mouth was hanging open as I listened. “I was never lucky in love. All the women I loved fell for other men . . . well-off men. I don’t know why these women that I loved were already taken. I’m a bachelor by the way. I have no one, just me and The French Encounter.”
I glanced at my husband to see how he was doing. I saw the teasing glow in his eyes as if he knew what I was thinking. “Maybe you should take some pictures together, chérie.” He drew out his sleek camera and began clicking pictures of Mr X and I and The French Encounter.
“Let’s go the coffee shop.” Mr X said.
We went with him and shared a cappuccino together and clicked more pictures. Then we left him with a promise to see him for the next Hindu Lit for Life Fest.
January 2, 2016
The French Encounter to be judged by the readers
When I was writing ‘The French Encounter’, my only desire was that my characters should leap out of the pages and take you along with them. Make you remember them.
Now whether I succeeded or not only you can tell me. And in order for you to tell me, my book needed to be priced reasonably and made available at physical bookstores apart from online bookstores. Praise God, this has happened.
Starmark (Express Avenue and Phoenix Mall), and Odyssey (Adyar and Thiruvanmiyur) Chennai and Odyssey-Brookfields Mall, Coimbatore, are now selling my novel.
Having struggled to get this far, I’m grateful to be given the opportunity to be judged by the readers and I look forward to hearing from you.
Thanks and cheers to 2016!
Cécile Rischmann
Now whether I succeeded or not only you can tell me. And in order for you to tell me, my book needed to be priced reasonably and made available at physical bookstores apart from online bookstores. Praise God, this has happened.
Starmark (Express Avenue and Phoenix Mall), and Odyssey (Adyar and Thiruvanmiyur) Chennai and Odyssey-Brookfields Mall, Coimbatore, are now selling my novel.
Having struggled to get this far, I’m grateful to be given the opportunity to be judged by the readers and I look forward to hearing from you.
Thanks and cheers to 2016!
Cécile Rischmann
The French Encounter sells in Starmarks and Odyssey at fabulous price
And they say miracles don't exist. Here's one. The French Encounter now sells in Odyssey, Adyar and Thiruvanmiyur (Chennai). And in Odyssey-Brookefiels Mall, (Coimbatore).
Who'd have thought this is possible?Definitely not me. Praise God. The French Encounter displayed at Odyssey, Adyar, under new arrivals.
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fb...
Who'd have thought this is possible?Definitely not me. Praise God. The French Encounter displayed at Odyssey, Adyar, under new arrivals.
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fb...
December 20, 2015
The Flood Encounter
Chennai, 1st December 2015
It was a normal Tuesday afternoon. The sky was overcast. The ETA bird seemed upset. The air-hostess promised showers in Chennai. But nothing could beat my inner happiness, the feeling of returning home. I was reading a romance, and no, it was not ‘The French Encounter’ by Cécile Rischmann. My last copy got sold out on the way to France, remember?
The excitement of coming home wouldn’t leave me. I could barely wait at the immigration counter so impatient was I to step into my hometown. The officer gave my husband a glance while going through his documents and I told her with a big smile, “My husband.” She smiled back and waved us away.
I spotted a row of counters promising all kinds of luxurious transport. Before I could open my mouth, the man pointed me in the direction of the next counter. I thought to myself that he’s probably seen our luggage and decided we needed a bigger car and he didn’t have one. By then, I was beginning to realize that something was not right. There wasn’t a soul in any of those counters. I looked at my husband and he looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
For the first time I didn’t organize an airport pick-up from our usual agency, the reason being that my mobile number was deactivated (courtesy Airtel), and I didn’t want to risk wasting time looking for the driver.
“Why isn’t there anyone at the counters?” I asked the only man who was at his counter and didn’t have a car. He looked at me and scratched his head.
“Lunch, Madam.”
“At 4.00?” I asked in astonishment, and glanced at my husband. “And I thought only the French had long lunch breaks.” He didn’t smile. I turned back to the man at the counter, who by now felt he’d done more than enough for this irritating lady, and disappeared.
“So what do we do now?” My husband asked, seeming rather worried. Being an organized person, he hates confusion.
“I’m sure there’s a way out.” I soothed.
The rain beat in fury. The sound of crashing thunder told us it wasn’t a shower, it was a downpour. We trudged out slightly defeated. All of a sudden, a group of taxi drivers descended on us — correction — on my husband. They didn’t give me a thought.
Negotiation was in full blast. Discussions were at its peak. Between them they decided the price, and woe to the driver who quoted a reasonable one. My husband was convinced. The deal was struck and about to be sealed. I chirped in.
“Now look here,” I said in Tamil, and prayed no Tamil pundit was nearby; he’d have died of depression. “I’m from Chennai, and don’t you think I don’t know the tariff. Now be reasonable.” I quoted 2000. They looked at me with such dismay. But I stood my ground knowing that it costs 1100 for an airport drop to my residence in an Innova. And these guys had tiny vehicles, and whether we were going to arrive at our destination was another preoccupation.
“Are you sure our luggage will go in?” I asked as if the matter was settled. The driver became indignant and proposed to show me. One case was placed vertical and the other horizontal. “And where do we sit?”
Another quick adjustment was made. My husband looked very troubled as he got in. ‘I think we should have waited and taken a bigger car, chérie.”
“Don’t underestimate a small car, Jean. This driver looks like he’ll zoom through the Tsunami.” I joked. But my heart was thundering. What if the car stops midway in these floods? What if we are forced to stand in the middle of the road with our luggage at hand? I began the litany. My lips were moving silently as I didn’t want to transmit my fear to my husband who was looking out of the window, frowning fiercely.
“Keep to the right.” He told the driver who was trying to outmaneuver a heavy vehicle and got our car drenched in the process. I repeated the instruction in Tamil. The driver nodded and went about doing the same thing again.
“Tell him the next time he does it he will not get paid.”
The driver didn’t need a translation. The stubborn action was nipped. Waves kissed the vehicle, caressed the bumper, and guaranteed a hug if permitted. The driver smiled and crawled through the waves successfully. We were just about to congratulate him when he did a sudden turn and entered a small narrow lane.
From street to street, blockade to blockade, round and round, with no way of coming out.
“Why did he get into the streets?” My husband asked. I looked at the driver and posed the same question as I was curious too. Why would anyone want to get into the streets in a downpour? The roads are by itself a challenge, not knowing whether we are about to travel into ditches, drains, potholes, manholes, meet an electric cable, get electrocuted . . .
“Madam, if we go on road, big problem.” He swung his head around to tell me and descended into a ditch, pulled himself out, and continued to talk as if nothing had happened. “Because I know the streets I got you so far. Better remember it when you pay me.”
If we’re alive to pay you. I was thinking to myself.
My husband, by this time, had figured out where we were and rapped out instructions to the driver. The driver, unable to hide his disbelief, turned around to ask me if he could take Sir on his word. I told him that if he continued to turn around and talk to me, we might not live to find out.
There was no further discussion after that. The driver, God bless him, brought us safely home. My husband flipped out his wallet and sent him off with a happy smile.
As we turned to enter, we sank into a pool in front of our gate. Everything seemed suddenly dark and eerie. I looked at my husband. He looked at me.
“I’ll call for help.” I said, and fetched my mobile from my handbag. And then I paled, remembering my mobile number was deactivated.
Hello Chennai!
It was a normal Tuesday afternoon. The sky was overcast. The ETA bird seemed upset. The air-hostess promised showers in Chennai. But nothing could beat my inner happiness, the feeling of returning home. I was reading a romance, and no, it was not ‘The French Encounter’ by Cécile Rischmann. My last copy got sold out on the way to France, remember?
The excitement of coming home wouldn’t leave me. I could barely wait at the immigration counter so impatient was I to step into my hometown. The officer gave my husband a glance while going through his documents and I told her with a big smile, “My husband.” She smiled back and waved us away.
I spotted a row of counters promising all kinds of luxurious transport. Before I could open my mouth, the man pointed me in the direction of the next counter. I thought to myself that he’s probably seen our luggage and decided we needed a bigger car and he didn’t have one. By then, I was beginning to realize that something was not right. There wasn’t a soul in any of those counters. I looked at my husband and he looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
For the first time I didn’t organize an airport pick-up from our usual agency, the reason being that my mobile number was deactivated (courtesy Airtel), and I didn’t want to risk wasting time looking for the driver.
“Why isn’t there anyone at the counters?” I asked the only man who was at his counter and didn’t have a car. He looked at me and scratched his head.
“Lunch, Madam.”
“At 4.00?” I asked in astonishment, and glanced at my husband. “And I thought only the French had long lunch breaks.” He didn’t smile. I turned back to the man at the counter, who by now felt he’d done more than enough for this irritating lady, and disappeared.
“So what do we do now?” My husband asked, seeming rather worried. Being an organized person, he hates confusion.
“I’m sure there’s a way out.” I soothed.
The rain beat in fury. The sound of crashing thunder told us it wasn’t a shower, it was a downpour. We trudged out slightly defeated. All of a sudden, a group of taxi drivers descended on us — correction — on my husband. They didn’t give me a thought.
Negotiation was in full blast. Discussions were at its peak. Between them they decided the price, and woe to the driver who quoted a reasonable one. My husband was convinced. The deal was struck and about to be sealed. I chirped in.
“Now look here,” I said in Tamil, and prayed no Tamil pundit was nearby; he’d have died of depression. “I’m from Chennai, and don’t you think I don’t know the tariff. Now be reasonable.” I quoted 2000. They looked at me with such dismay. But I stood my ground knowing that it costs 1100 for an airport drop to my residence in an Innova. And these guys had tiny vehicles, and whether we were going to arrive at our destination was another preoccupation.
“Are you sure our luggage will go in?” I asked as if the matter was settled. The driver became indignant and proposed to show me. One case was placed vertical and the other horizontal. “And where do we sit?”
Another quick adjustment was made. My husband looked very troubled as he got in. ‘I think we should have waited and taken a bigger car, chérie.”
“Don’t underestimate a small car, Jean. This driver looks like he’ll zoom through the Tsunami.” I joked. But my heart was thundering. What if the car stops midway in these floods? What if we are forced to stand in the middle of the road with our luggage at hand? I began the litany. My lips were moving silently as I didn’t want to transmit my fear to my husband who was looking out of the window, frowning fiercely.
“Keep to the right.” He told the driver who was trying to outmaneuver a heavy vehicle and got our car drenched in the process. I repeated the instruction in Tamil. The driver nodded and went about doing the same thing again.
“Tell him the next time he does it he will not get paid.”
The driver didn’t need a translation. The stubborn action was nipped. Waves kissed the vehicle, caressed the bumper, and guaranteed a hug if permitted. The driver smiled and crawled through the waves successfully. We were just about to congratulate him when he did a sudden turn and entered a small narrow lane.
From street to street, blockade to blockade, round and round, with no way of coming out.
“Why did he get into the streets?” My husband asked. I looked at the driver and posed the same question as I was curious too. Why would anyone want to get into the streets in a downpour? The roads are by itself a challenge, not knowing whether we are about to travel into ditches, drains, potholes, manholes, meet an electric cable, get electrocuted . . .
“Madam, if we go on road, big problem.” He swung his head around to tell me and descended into a ditch, pulled himself out, and continued to talk as if nothing had happened. “Because I know the streets I got you so far. Better remember it when you pay me.”
If we’re alive to pay you. I was thinking to myself.
My husband, by this time, had figured out where we were and rapped out instructions to the driver. The driver, unable to hide his disbelief, turned around to ask me if he could take Sir on his word. I told him that if he continued to turn around and talk to me, we might not live to find out.
There was no further discussion after that. The driver, God bless him, brought us safely home. My husband flipped out his wallet and sent him off with a happy smile.
As we turned to enter, we sank into a pool in front of our gate. Everything seemed suddenly dark and eerie. I looked at my husband. He looked at me.
“I’ll call for help.” I said, and fetched my mobile from my handbag. And then I paled, remembering my mobile number was deactivated.
Hello Chennai!
November 25, 2015
Reviews, The French Encounter by Cécile Rischmann
http://www.amazon.com/French-Encounte...
A book for Passionate and Problem solvers.
By wendy Shroff on April 7, 2015
Format: Paperback
French Encounter is beautifully explained, especially the details regarding Jean n Katrina’s feelings towards each other...the intensity of their burning passion, reminded me of Danielle Steele books.
The area that got my attention to the extent of wanting to know more, was on reading about the hero... “Considering Jean's world wide experience......” It got me wondering to what extent the hero has already been thru rough n tough times in his past, but in spite of this, he is willing to face the battle that Katrina is putting him thru.... due to his love for her ???, if so why?
It’s a good mixture of feelings and (mis) happenings catering to both types of readers: passionate and problem solvers.
I like the name of the book, ‘The French Encounter’ as it gives an idea of difference in culture between the hero and heroine, and in spite of the difference of both worlds, and all the obstacle and challenges thrown to them, love finally conquers them.
Enjoy your book.
*
The author cecile makes the reader realize that love conquers, despite the odds
By Bettina Ceciia D'souza on August 18, 2015
Format: Paperback
The French Encounter got me engrossed right from the very start.
The characters Katrina so vibrant and conservative to an extent, and JLC so intriguing with style and confidence.
Reading the story makes you want to know more about the passion and life of both characters.
To me personally I think the men out there need to get a copy and get into it.
As the saying goes behind every successful man is a woman, reading cecile's book will give the guys out there an insight about what a woman really wants, to please her and keep the relationship passionate and exciting.
The author cecile makes the reader realize that love conquers, despite the odds.
Beautiful writing style with a touch of humour.
Definitely a book to own and go back to for a read once more to spice up those dull moments in one's relationship.
Good on you Cecile, proud of you.
Bettina.
*
The French Encounter is the "Holy grail" for romance lovers ...
By SHARON INGEMARSSON on April 9, 2015
Format: Paperback Verified Purchase
The French Encounter is the "Holy
grail" for romance lovers. The author has given one
more treat for her readers after her maiden
venture “Jilted” . After reading her first
work I became so impressed with it, that I became her
ardent fan and moreover after reading this book, "The French
Encounter" that is, I think I would go one step above and
become her loyal fan”. She has a skill for writing
and she has used all her skills in this romance novel which I
must say has captured the reader's attention from the
beginning to the end that one could not stop reading
once having started . Three cheers to the author Cécile Rischmann!!!
*
fabulous read...stays with you...
By SUBHASH SEHGAL on April 7, 2015
Format: Paperback
Romantically fiery...Full of pace. Engrossing...well worded...Spicy dialogues...Very bold...Readable in one go...Super sexy situations are some of the strong points of Cécile Rischmann's maiden published novel The French Encounter...Go grab a copy n read it. You won't regret it...
*
love between two different world persons
By kalyan on October 4, 2015
Format: Paperback
The French encounter is a nice book deals about the passion about two different cultured people Jean & Katrina the way how the writer has shown us a different world of love in this book is really nice one has to go through it...I appreciate the thinking of the Cecile Rischmann
A book for Passionate and Problem solvers.
By wendy Shroff on April 7, 2015
Format: Paperback
French Encounter is beautifully explained, especially the details regarding Jean n Katrina’s feelings towards each other...the intensity of their burning passion, reminded me of Danielle Steele books.
The area that got my attention to the extent of wanting to know more, was on reading about the hero... “Considering Jean's world wide experience......” It got me wondering to what extent the hero has already been thru rough n tough times in his past, but in spite of this, he is willing to face the battle that Katrina is putting him thru.... due to his love for her ???, if so why?
It’s a good mixture of feelings and (mis) happenings catering to both types of readers: passionate and problem solvers.
I like the name of the book, ‘The French Encounter’ as it gives an idea of difference in culture between the hero and heroine, and in spite of the difference of both worlds, and all the obstacle and challenges thrown to them, love finally conquers them.
Enjoy your book.
*
The author cecile makes the reader realize that love conquers, despite the odds
By Bettina Ceciia D'souza on August 18, 2015
Format: Paperback
The French Encounter got me engrossed right from the very start.
The characters Katrina so vibrant and conservative to an extent, and JLC so intriguing with style and confidence.
Reading the story makes you want to know more about the passion and life of both characters.
To me personally I think the men out there need to get a copy and get into it.
As the saying goes behind every successful man is a woman, reading cecile's book will give the guys out there an insight about what a woman really wants, to please her and keep the relationship passionate and exciting.
The author cecile makes the reader realize that love conquers, despite the odds.
Beautiful writing style with a touch of humour.
Definitely a book to own and go back to for a read once more to spice up those dull moments in one's relationship.
Good on you Cecile, proud of you.
Bettina.
*
The French Encounter is the "Holy grail" for romance lovers ...
By SHARON INGEMARSSON on April 9, 2015
Format: Paperback Verified Purchase
The French Encounter is the "Holy
grail" for romance lovers. The author has given one
more treat for her readers after her maiden
venture “Jilted” . After reading her first
work I became so impressed with it, that I became her
ardent fan and moreover after reading this book, "The French
Encounter" that is, I think I would go one step above and
become her loyal fan”. She has a skill for writing
and she has used all her skills in this romance novel which I
must say has captured the reader's attention from the
beginning to the end that one could not stop reading
once having started . Three cheers to the author Cécile Rischmann!!!
*
fabulous read...stays with you...
By SUBHASH SEHGAL on April 7, 2015
Format: Paperback
Romantically fiery...Full of pace. Engrossing...well worded...Spicy dialogues...Very bold...Readable in one go...Super sexy situations are some of the strong points of Cécile Rischmann's maiden published novel The French Encounter...Go grab a copy n read it. You won't regret it...
*
love between two different world persons
By kalyan on October 4, 2015
Format: Paperback
The French encounter is a nice book deals about the passion about two different cultured people Jean & Katrina the way how the writer has shown us a different world of love in this book is really nice one has to go through it...I appreciate the thinking of the Cecile Rischmann
November 23, 2015
News on The French Encounter by Cécile Rischmann
A quick bonjour to tell you all that I’m thinking of you. Haven’t been very active lately as I’ve picked up the pen again and weaving the next tale. In the meantime, The French Encounter has reached 81 online stores and is available across the globe. Here are the links for your information.
Looking forward to meeting up with you all.
http://www.flipkart.com/french-encoun...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-French-En...
http://www.amazon.fr/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.it/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.it/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.it/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.es/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.co.jp/The-French-En...
http://www.amazon.co.jp/French-Encoun...
http://amazon.linguify.com/The-French...
http://www.amazon.de/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.de/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.es/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-French-En...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-French-En...
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-f...
https://wordery.com/the-french-encoun...
http://www.nationalbookstore.com.ph/t...
http://bublos.com/isbn/148284625X-100...
http://ww.w.superbookshop.net/?page=b...
http://shoppingcomparison.in/product/...
http://www.mediander.com/books/978148...
http://www.abebooks.com/9781482846256...
http://www.abebooks.co.uk/French-Enco...
http://www.fishpond.co.uk/c/Books/q/P...
http://www.fishpond.com.sg/c/Books/q/...
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http://www.ebay.fr/itm/The-French-Enc... (x)
http://www.ebay.fr/itm/The-French-Enc...
http://www.ebay.ie/itm/French-Encount...
http://www.ebay.fr/itm/French-Encount...
http://www.ebay.ie/itm/French-Encount...
http://www.ebay.com.au/sch/sis.html?_...
http://www.ebay.de/itm/The-French-Enc...
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http://www.ebay.com.sg/itm/The-French...
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http://www.ebay.com.hk/itm/NEW-The-Fr...
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http://www.ebay.com.au/itm/The-French...
http://www.ebay.de/itm/The-French-Enc...
http://www.ebay.com.au/itm/The-French...
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http://www.libreriauniversitaria.it/f...
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https://www.tanum.no/tanum/search/sea...
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https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/...
http://www.ceneo.pl/37091471
http://www.ceneo.pl/37091472
http://www.booktopia.com.au/the-frenc...
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http://www.nejlevnejsi-knihy.cz/kniha...
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http://www.imusic.dk/page/artist/Ceci...
http://www.lehmanns.de/shop/literatur...
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http://www.fishpond.co.nz/Books/Frenc...
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https://pensum.dk/search/details?isbn...
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http://www.boomerangbooks.com.au/Fren...
http://www.bol.com/nl/p/the-french-en...
http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/Searc...
http://books.rediff.com/book/the-french encounter/9781482846256?search_id=search_The+French+Encounter+by+Cecile+Rischmann&sc_cid=OMGShoppingAffiliate
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http://www.athenaeum.nl/shop/details/...
http://www.bookfinder.com/search/?st=...
http://www.partridgepublishing.com/In...
Show less
Looking forward to meeting up with you all.
http://www.flipkart.com/french-encoun...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-French-En...
http://www.amazon.fr/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.it/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.it/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.it/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.es/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.co.jp/The-French-En...
http://www.amazon.co.jp/French-Encoun...
http://amazon.linguify.com/The-French...
http://www.amazon.de/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.de/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.es/The-French-Encou...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-French-En...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-French-En...
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-f...
https://wordery.com/the-french-encoun...
http://www.nationalbookstore.com.ph/t...
http://bublos.com/isbn/148284625X-100...
http://ww.w.superbookshop.net/?page=b...
http://shoppingcomparison.in/product/...
http://www.mediander.com/books/978148...
http://www.abebooks.com/9781482846256...
http://www.abebooks.co.uk/French-Enco...
http://www.fishpond.co.uk/c/Books/q/P...
http://www.fishpond.com.sg/c/Books/q/...
http://www.fishpond.com/c/Books/q/cec...
http://www.fishpond.com/q/Cecile+Risc...
http://www.fishpond.com.au/Books/Fren...
http://www.fishpond.com.hk/Books/Fren...
http://www.holisticpage.com.au/allpro...
http://www.ebay.fr/itm/The-French-Enc... (x)
http://www.ebay.fr/itm/The-French-Enc...
http://www.ebay.ie/itm/French-Encount...
http://www.ebay.fr/itm/French-Encount...
http://www.ebay.ie/itm/French-Encount...
http://www.ebay.com.au/sch/sis.html?_...
http://www.ebay.de/itm/The-French-Enc...
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http://www.ebay.com.au/itm/The-French...
http://www.ebay.de/itm/The-French-Enc...
http://www.ebay.com.au/itm/The-French...
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http://www.tower.com/french-encounter...
http://www.alibris.com/search/books/a...
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http://www.adlibris.com/se/bok/the-fr...
http://www.libristo.pl/ksiazka/french...
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https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/...
http://www.ceneo.pl/37091471
http://www.ceneo.pl/37091472
http://www.booktopia.com.au/the-frenc...
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http://www.ebay.com.au/itm/NEW-The-Fr...
http://www.nejlevnejsi-knihy.cz/kniha...
http://www.nejlevnejsi-knihy.cz/kniha...
http://www.imusic.dk/page/artist/Ceci...
http://www.lehmanns.de/shop/literatur...
http://www.lehmanns.ch/shop/literatur...
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http://www.bookdepository.com/French-...
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http://www.word-power.co.uk/searchBoo...
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https://pensum.dk/search/details?isbn...
http://www.boomerangbooks.com.au/Fren...
http://www.bol.com/nl/p/the-french-en...
http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/Searc...
http://books.rediff.com/book/the-french encounter/9781482846256?search_id=search_The+French+Encounter+by+Cecile+Rischmann&sc_cid=OMGShoppingAffiliate
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November 8, 2015
Synopsis 2, The French Encounter by Cécile Rischmann
For the first time, a love story goes beyond national boundaries.
When Jean Leclerc (the jilted, handsome French tycoon) arrives on Indian soil to construct his glass float, the last thing he expects is to be slapped, scratched, bitten, and kissed—all in one evening. Imagine his shock when he comes face-to-face with a beautiful, ferocious Bengal cat.
Angry and aroused, Jean forgets all the reasons why he should not get involved with another woman, especially one on the point of marriage.
Katrina Santiago, the fiery twenty-nine-year-old Indian virgin has no time for affairs—at least that’s what she thinks until she faces God’s gift to women, Jean, the drop-dead gorgeous hunk who stirs her up with a glance. Bold and outrageous, he brings out a personality in her she never thought exists: she wants to do things—wicked things—with him.
But JLC is looking for a diversion while Katrina is looking for . . . well, she isn’t sure anymore.
The French Encounter takes you on a fun-loving ride through the trials and tribulations of an Indo-French relationship. It shows how two societies can blend and live harmoniously if the individuals are willing to sacrifice their inner convictions. But it also tells of the stubbornness of two strong personalities, refusing to compromise despite their intense feelings for each other.
When Jean Leclerc (the jilted, handsome French tycoon) arrives on Indian soil to construct his glass float, the last thing he expects is to be slapped, scratched, bitten, and kissed—all in one evening. Imagine his shock when he comes face-to-face with a beautiful, ferocious Bengal cat.
Angry and aroused, Jean forgets all the reasons why he should not get involved with another woman, especially one on the point of marriage.
Katrina Santiago, the fiery twenty-nine-year-old Indian virgin has no time for affairs—at least that’s what she thinks until she faces God’s gift to women, Jean, the drop-dead gorgeous hunk who stirs her up with a glance. Bold and outrageous, he brings out a personality in her she never thought exists: she wants to do things—wicked things—with him.
But JLC is looking for a diversion while Katrina is looking for . . . well, she isn’t sure anymore.
The French Encounter takes you on a fun-loving ride through the trials and tribulations of an Indo-French relationship. It shows how two societies can blend and live harmoniously if the individuals are willing to sacrifice their inner convictions. But it also tells of the stubbornness of two strong personalities, refusing to compromise despite their intense feelings for each other.
November 3, 2015
Book Reading for The French Encounter
Nikhil Raghavan says:
“Almost a month after reading the digital version of The French Encounter, albeit impatiently, the hardbound copy reached me through the good offices of the author, Cecile Rischmann. Had to take a quick selfie with the book before I passed it on to the Madras Book Club for a possible reading session and author interaction when Cecile is back in Madras from France, later this month. Looking forward to meeting the author, for sure!”
“Almost a month after reading the digital version of The French Encounter, albeit impatiently, the hardbound copy reached me through the good offices of the author, Cecile Rischmann. Had to take a quick selfie with the book before I passed it on to the Madras Book Club for a possible reading session and author interaction when Cecile is back in Madras from France, later this month. Looking forward to meeting the author, for sure!”
