Hemanth Gorur's Blog, page 9
June 18, 2013
Free Review Copies On Smashwords
A free review copy is available for a limited period for all book lovers interested in reviewing Aymaran Shadow, a paranormal fiction novel that dishes out horror, violation, retribution and lust.
The Smashwords Edition (e-book) for review is up for grabs at a “100% OFF” offer running till Sunday, 23rd June. Interested reviewers may please write to: hemanthg1975@gmail.com, or use the form below, and receive a Smashwords Coupon with which to redeem their free copy.
Reviewers already in the process of reviewing the book can also write in if it is convenient for them to continue their review with a Smashwords Edition.
Hurry! The limited period coupon expires on Sunday, 23rd June. Just 5 days left!!
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June 16, 2013
Sneak Preview :: Chapter One (Snippet 5)
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Sneak Preview :: Chapter One (Snippet 5)
Cochabamba , Bolivia
Circa. 1782
The old woman was bent over with age and disease as she hobbled on the dirt roads leading to the village square, shielding her eyes from the noon sun. She carried a grotesque stick for support that creaked with every alternate step. The worn out cloth bag at her shoulder slung low with some rotten vegetables that were reeking of waste. As she ambled past the village square, two officers of the garrison watched her and chuckled.
“Don’t let anyone give you a tough time, you old hag!”
“Si, show them the daughters and granddaughters in your house!”
“Hasten home now. Get home before it is dark!”
The officers of the garrison guffawed and slapped each other on the back. Bolivian natives were the perfect savages – unbridled in the wild, subdued curs in captivity.
The old woman rounded a hut and quickened her pace as she approached a large ramshackle tent made of animal hide and used cloth. She flung the stick and cloth bag aside as the inmates of the tent made way for her. The minions were in attendance, as were some elders of the village. The white hair and the tattered clothes came off as the Aymaran woman strode to the center of the tent and faced the elders. She now looked macabre with her olive dark hair and youthful body contrasting with the dark brown patches painted on her face and arms to portray age and illness.
“Come, niño, there is grave news,” welcomed the first elder.
“Yes, I came to know,” murmured the Aymaran woman.
“You have suffered. Yet, there is more suffering Goddess Chasca wishes upon you,” intoned a second elder.
The Aymaran woman fell silent. Her love had ridden out in the morning to a neighboring village to repulse a siege by the outlanders and had not returned since.
“We hear of strange things, niño,” the first elder continued gravely. “You have consorted with one of the outlanders, no habéis?”
The Aymaran woman’s chin shot up sharply, her lips quivering with rage.
“Preposterous! I shall be cursed!”
“Our wisdom suggested falsehood. But people have seen you.”
“Who blabbers such lies? They shall join their ancestors for this treachery! Wise one, allow me to hunt them down,” thundered the furious Aymaran commander, her brown eyes flashing.
“May the great Goddess Chasca bring you peace. We have decided on a way to redeem yourself.”
The Aymaran woman looked on defiantly.
“There is a place in Quillacollo that you must go to at dusk today. The people of Cochabamba shall be there, as will the outlanders.”
“I do not understand,” the Aymaran woman offered, softly.
“It is a test. You must confront your despicable consort there. The outcome of that confrontation will decide your fate. Redeem yourself, niño,” the tribal elder spat with a finality that brooked no argument.
Coming soon: the next Sneak Preview.
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June 15, 2013
Elusive Excerpt #2
This Elusive Excerpt is part of the Facebook events pertaining to the launch of the book Aymaran Shadow. By reading this Elusive Excerpt, you are hereby agreeing to this blog’s Purpose and Policy.
Elusive Excerpt #2
Her sleek blue Nokia Lumia almost fell off the table, vibrating with an urgency that Sanya Rawat had seldom seen. The university cafeteria was sparsely populated, with the odd yuppie group milling about with no express purpose. The late afternoon sun made the vintage glass windows sparkle like vertical walls of shimmering water.
As she uncrossed her legs and bent over to read the incoming number, Sanya’s heart jumped a beat. The number was unknown, yet oddly familiar. She was sure she had known the number, but just could not put a face to it. Sliding the touch-screen interface, she pressed the phone to her ear as she reached for her mug of coffee on the triangular table in front of her.
“Sanya, Anuj.”
Sanya froze.
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June 13, 2013
Sneak Preview :: Chapter One (Snippet 4)
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Sneak Preview :: Chapter One (Snippet 4)
Ten minutes later, the tavern emptied as the mercenaries trooped out to their horses. A dull red glow in the distance signaled the onset of yet another Bolivian dawn. The dry breeze lifted gusts of dust into the tropical morning as, one by one, the horses broke into a canter and disappeared into the brush.
A lone figure remained on the porch of the tavern. At length, the hate-filled capitán started down the steps that led to the dirt road. The popularity of that Senorita had to be dismantled. Nothing could be done as long she had people to command – people who willingly surrendered their breath at her slightest gesture. Suddenly, he knew. Pausing to scratch his crotch, he took one last look at the tavern. He had much to accomplish.
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June 12, 2013
Is Sexual Assault A Write-able Theme?
Read the previous post in the Behind The Scenes series: The Story Behind The Story.
More often than not, sexual assault as a topic to write on is riddled with mines. You usually elicit strong opinions that teeter on either side of the zero reading, but rarely do you get a muted response. And most often, it is a subject where the discussion remains shackled to the here and the now, the physical and mental, the societal and the moral, and so on.
But, what if there were intangible implications of this act? What if the perpetrator were not from this physical world? What if the act didn’t constrain itself to the physical laws of cause and effect that we so damn always take for granted?
In effect, if you remove the logical, the physical and the understandable elements from this theme, you enter a world where the only thing that stands between victim and perpetrator is the fact that there are only two outcomes: either the perpetrator’s psychic lust is fulfilled and continues to get fulfilled, or the victim lives on to fight another day.
For the character that undergoes the sexual assault , it becomes a matter of surviving one more night and living in the hope of seeing the next. When she realizes that her assaulter is a ghoul from the past, it becomes a matter of preserving her sanity, and not just her dignity, before and after every assault.
Of course, my first question to myself when I was brooding over my book’s theme was not whether sexual assault was a good topic to write on.
Far from it, the topic of choice was a story where there is a conflict that defied the human ability to understand the magnitude of the conflict or the motive behind it. A conflict where time ceased to be the master it usually is in most events involving human mortals. A conflict that could pit paranormal force against human grit and hardiness.
This led me to the subject of past life, a topic that has as many misgivings about it as there are naysayers. This only meant that I had the perfect foil for my wild, sometimes over-the-top, imagination.
Add to this one eccentricity of a sexual assault that misses no one’s eyes: while any human mortal has to contend with physical harm and mental agony as major sources of peril, a third dimension of psychological trauma enters the picture if the human mortal happens to be a woman. A woman who has to face or has faced sexual assault.
Even this does not explain why the act of sexual assault, albeit a subordinate theme in the narrative, has found a place in my book. No, the motive for writing about this theme has derived from another long-cherished dream of mine: to write about a conflict with historical bearings. More about this in future posts.
So, what do you think? Is sexual assault a topic worthy of being written about in mainstream publication? Are you conversant with any historical events that have been equally mired in trauma and controversy?
Coming soon: the next post in the Behind The Scenes series.
June 11, 2013
Book Review – by Meenakshi Khosla
An ethereal experience for a reader as you are sucked into the world where the writer takes you. And it’s a world of tragedy, retribution and redemption. After a long time, I have come across a novelist whose sense of unification of time, place and action approaches Aristotelian proportions. The protagonist has to undergo the same destiny across time, and each time it’s a scar not only on the body but on the psyche as well. The protagonist’s catharsis induces both pity and fear – pity for the protagonist and fear that this fate could befall us too. It’s a reading spectacle where we will sigh, love, cry and be petrified! A spine-chilling experience which will hover on your mind for days to come… where we will start believing that there is a world beyond this world… a paranormal space where you will fear to tread!
Meenakshi Khosla
Writer, Times of India
June 9, 2013
Sneak Preview :: Chapter One (Snippet 3)
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Read the previous Sneak Preview.
Sneak Preview :: Chapter One (Snippet 3)
The tavern at Quillacollo was on the outskirts of Cochabamba, ten kilometers from the village square. It was a bustling center of decadence and vice. Ale and native liquor flowed till the wee hours. Drunk mercenaries and bored officers of colonial garrisons brought their whores to consort with and satiate their lust in unlit corners of the cavernous interiors. The place was also a transit point for raw opium and illegal coca. A setting that cradled conspiracy.
It was still dark dawn when the swarthy capitán dragged himself wearily in, his feet macerated by the tortuous walk over hilly terrain. As he stopped at the nearest table and inhaled deeply, he could feel the thirteen pairs of eyes boring into him. Eyes that were intoxicated by neither lust nor ale, but by unadulterated rage. Eyes that waited on his every move, for a single command that would galvanize them into action.
For, it was action that was needed now. Against one woman from Cochabamba who had dared to challenge the might of the Empire. The capitán had called for a meeting of his trusted lieutenants and fellow conquistadors to quell that challenge. That Anacondan serpent had to be crushed before it struck. Humiliated and crushed!
As the capitán looked around him, a smirk of satisfaction crossed his grey lips.
“Caballeros, the time has come. By evening, I want to see this snake writhing on this very same table,” his voice rose, sounding more ominous than commanding. But it had the desired effect.
“We stand by you. The woman shall curse the old hag who brought her into this world.” It was a huge mountain of a man whose balding scalp reflected the dull amber of the tavern’s wick lamps.
“She is popular. The elders will bring the numbers,” cautioned a wiry weasel-like man.
The capitán bristled. “There is such a thing as lure. And deceit. Use it. Serpents are not caught with open cages.”
“We should. And we will. But there is…” Wiry Weasel replied.
“We heard about the ambush,” broke in a thick voice. It was a quiet man at the back of the tavern whose eyes had not left the pitcher of bitter ale in front of him ever since the capitán had entered the tavern. The man’s thick hairy arms caressed a rust-colored musket as if it were a tool of sin. Two brothers at the next table, beefy and unshaven, smirked in unison at this open taunt.
The capitán glared but said nothing. Hairy Arms was a nuisance but was useful in battle. He would be needed in this game of strategy where a queen humiliated would set the foot soldiers and cavalry in disarray.
“There is one more thing,” continued Wiry Weasel.
“Speak your mind, comarada,” barked the capitán.
“It is difficult to catch this serpent.”
“And why is that so?”
“She changes her location every dawn and dusk.”
“Make one of the elders speak. Bribe them. Roast their genitals in chicha if they do not open their mouths.”
“The elders would rather die.”
“And they will get their wish. The Empire is paying you incompetent fools to conquer, not whine like pitiful whores.” The capitán’s eyes bored into each of the thirteen men sitting around him.
“There is a way.” It was Balding Scalp.
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The Story Behind The Story
Every author itches to talk about their experience of writing a book. The reasons are not difficult to find. The process of writing is anything but uneventful.
Quite often, you sit numbly, wondering if you have chosen the wrong story to tell, after having written 40,000 words. Or stare at your computer screen trying to decide if you should fling the frying pan at it for freezing just when you had nailed the next scene in your head.
And of course, there are those times when you grip that writing desk with only your nails and ask yourself the question that haunts all writers (well, almost all): “What crazed spirit in God’s sweet pasture possessed me to give up a paying job, sane working hours and a life to dive headlong into a writing free-fall?”
This, then, is the jovial rant of an author who wondered, stared, flung, gripped, and wondered some more, but never stopped writing. Because he had a story to tell. A chilling story. This blog, then, is the story behind the story.
Read on, to catch the next in the Behind The Scenes series: Is Sexual Assault A Write-able Theme?
June 8, 2013
Elusive Excerpt #1
This Elusive Excerpt is part of the Facebook events pertaining to the launch of the book Aymaran Shadow. By reading this Elusive Excerpt, you are hereby agreeing to this blog’s Purpose and Policy.
Elusive Excerpt #1
As she turned around again to face her rival, she let out an involuntary gasp and staggered back. The swarthy conquistador was eerily inches from her, breathing down her face and savoring every inch of her body with his lustful eyes.
The Aymaran commander was stockily built for a woman, but proportionately endowed. Her long flowing hair framed her radiant face, her full lips pursed into a defiant lock. As her eyes flashed in rage, her flared nostrils accentuated the heaving movement of her barely visible cleavage. Her shapely but strong thighs twitched as the tension in the air became palpable. Standing with her hands on her ample hips in the center of the tavern, she looked like a lioness surrounded by ravaging beasts.
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June 7, 2013
Sneak Preview :: Chapter One (Snippet 2)
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Read the previous Sneak Preview.
Sneak Preview :: Chapter One (Snippet 2)
The clutch of huts on the rolling highlands huddled together as if to ward off some great evil that lurked in the festering jungles below. All huts were dark and looked devoid of any human activity. The narrow muddy lanes were also bereft of people. This was Cochabamba. One did not invite trouble by venturing out or staying awake after dark unless one was a creature of the night. And the people of Cochabamba were wise enough not to violate this decree from Goddess Chasca, the protector of virgin girls.
There was one hut, however, that defied this collective wisdom of the ages. It was dimly lit by makeshift lamps that were casting macabre shadows through its lone window. Inside, a man and a woman hunched over a rickety wooden table that protested with each shift of the woman’s thick hands. They were joined by three other Aymarans – loyal minions – while one youngster stood guard at the door. He was being tested – he would be promoted as a scout in the jungles if his duties as a sentry satisfied Aymaran commanders such as the duo that now stood at the table.
The wooden table creaked. The Aymaran woman set down her hollowed gourd which was holding a drink made of chicha and coca leaf extract. The gourd teetered. Cursing, she called the young sentry at the door and barked an order. The aspiring scout gingerly held the wobbling gourd while the woman turned to face the man across her.
“Let things be. I have foreseen what is to befall the cursed outlanders,” her voice was even yet quivering with suppressed disgust.
“But this is not the way,” the man across her muttered under his breath.
“There is a time and a place for everything.”
“You do not know these outlanders, mi mujer.”
“What is to know?” the woman’s lush brows shot up.
“They are like bugs. They need to be squashed and offered to God Apu on first sight.”
“Como he dicho, there is a time and a place for everything. Además de, they are all after blood. They do not surprise us.”
“This one does. He comes from far. He hungers for your scalp. He thirsts,” the man hissed through gritted teeth, the rage evident.
“I have foreseen a special end for this one.”
Just then, the glow from the single candle on the table flickered as three Aymaran warriors trooped in excitedly. They had put the scare of God Supay into the cursed outlander who came from far and left him bewildered. Just as they had been instructed. The man at the table instantly flew into a rage befitting an Aymaran commander. He stood up. It was a signal. The minions and warriors shuffled out of the hut chanting their Aymaran war cry softly.
“We will not live to see the end of this. This is a bad omen, mujer,” the man warned his compatriot across the table, who too stood up.
“I’m sorry, mi amor. But this is the way I want it. I want the capitán to see my face when I behead him.”
The Aymaran woman joined her compatriot who had left the rickety table and stationed himself by the window. The two faced each other as the man took the woman’s hands into his own. Minutes passed in silence. A silence born of understanding and love. The man realized why he had given in to her decision. He would give anything to be able to look into those beautiful brown eyes and caress those long flowing tresses of thick black hair.
At long last, the man drew the woman closer and pressed her to his chest. The Aymaran woman came willingly, her eyes closed in temporal bliss. The man’s eyes turned to the window and gazed blankly at the dark nothingness beyond. Tomorrow would see the insane death of that cursed mongrel! It was a vow taken before God Apu. A vow that could not be broken, unless one wished the very plague upon oneself.
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