Preethi Venugopala's Blog, page 28

A Dream Vacation

Some days I just sit and daydream. This post is about one such dream. Though it is just a dream now, we wish to make it into a reality very soon.
Since the longest time, to be exact, since 2008, I have been wishing to go back to Dubai. This time, for a vacation.While I worked there for the Dubai metro project, the days were hectic and during the weekends, we chose to rest rather than roam. Now we ( me, my husband and our seven-year-old son) wish to take in all the pleasures Dubai has to offer via a vacation. I have planned it all.


We will take the Emirates Airlines flight from here in Bangalore.  Bangalore to Dubai Flights are often filled with happy holiday makers and are hence fun. I have my cousin who lives there and so many other relatives and friends who are ready to host us during our vacation. We plan to go during the Christmas holidays. The climate in Dubai is the most pleasant around Christmas and it looks prettiest as well during the Christmas season.

The first thing that I want to do is visit Burj Khalifa. The dancing fountains, the aquarium at the Dubai Mall and lots of shopping are what I wish to do on Day one of the vacation. To reach there, we would take the metro so that we can experience the world class travel of whose construction we both (me and my husband) had been a part of. I would wish to see the Rashidiya Station Area especially once more. My section office used to be located near the Bin Sougat Mall. If possible, I would want to visit there as well. A full day dedicated to just taking in old memories and making new ones.

The next day I want to visit the Miracle garden and the butterfly garden, which my friends tell me gives a wondrous experience. I hope to take tons of pictures. I am sure my son will love watching the butterflies and would want to pose with butterflies the way his cousin Lianne did.

The next day we will visit the Dolphinarium where we will have fun with dolphins. The aquatic tricks performed by the dolphins are amazing to watch. We can even pose with the dolphins. They come to the poolside to pose with the visitors.
We would plan other random outings visiting friends and family. A visit to the flea markets to collect some good books roaming with my blogger and author friend Aathira is one among such dream outings. A dhow cruise, a visit to Jumeirah and a visit to The Atlantic at the Palm are also in the itinerary.Dubai hosts the shopping festival during the year-end season and we would want to get a peek into the various stalls put up by the various participating countries.
A desert safari would also be fine though I am not very keen on it. I don’t want to go on a roller coaster ride on the dunes.So now, I have made my itinerary, made the plans and sent my wishes to the universe as well. Hope, I get to visit my favorite place on earth during this December vacation.

Written in the Stars

Image Source'Are you sure, Rhea?' asks my mother.'Of course I'm. Survival of the fittest, mother. I'm not going against Darwin. Also, I don't want unnecessary scars on my body.'
It's a known fact that we are all born to die. And frankly, I don't understand why it has to be made into such a big deal. If it were not for my mother I would have said that to the bunch of people outside my house, some of them with young kids, shouting slogans, waving placards, literally wanting me to cut one of my beating hearts out. "Save A Life. Donate!" they shout.
For someone who is one in billions, 7.125 billion to be exact, I expect to be treated better. Scientists are still befuddled regarding my condition that gave me two hearts in my mother's womb. But years of research and sticking needles into me have led them nowhere, and they have labeled me as a freak mutation. It's so rare - literally one in all humankind - that they didn't even name the anomaly (as they call it, I will call it awesomeness). I wanted to name the condition myself, something on the lines of Rhea's Heartsawesome but the doctors aren't thrilled with the suggestion. Instead, they want to cut one of them out and save a life. Huh?
An IQ of 180, increased concentration, exceptional athleticism and a phenomenal metabolism rate - are just the few boring benefits of an increased blood circulation. Why would I ever give that up?
We— father, mother and me— sneak out through our back door and end up in my uncle’s SUV. We head towards the serene hills of Doon. Five hours pass and we reach Doon, away from my crazy city and people screaming for my blood.
I stretch and smile after getting down at the ancestral house of my mother. What a relief. We have never visited this place though I have heard happy tales about it from my mother. The location gives me a bird’s eye view of the deep valley, the distant Himalayas, the sparkling rivers and the cottony clouds.
Next morning, the chirping birds and the peeking sunbeams wake me up. I walk out of the house wrapping myself in a shawl to dip into the mystical air of Doon. The mist envelops me. I can’t see anything clearly.
“Are you out to kill yourself?” A voice booms out from the mist. That is when I see him, a vision in white. Dressed in a sleeveless white vest and loose white pants that is not at all suited to stand the morning chill.
As though he is an apparition straight out of my imagination, the mist around vanishes and he walks towards me. I shiver, not from fear but from something akin to wonder. He comes and stops at a hand length away from me. Up close, he is all the more breathtaking. His clear blue eyes shine. He towers over me even though I am 5’ 8’’. A passing breeze plays with his shoulder length hair that is a light shade of brown. Who is he?“The hills are filled with death traps for strangers. There are hidden crevices and sudden drops. Wild animals loiter around. You should not be out alone,” he says with a smile. His smile makes me think ludicrous thoughts. Are his lips as soft as they seem? Is his broad chest as hard as it appears to be? How will it feel to be embraced by him? Rhea, you are going mad. Control your wayward thoughts.
“Will you be my guide?” I hear myself asking. What is wrong with me? I am asking a complete stranger to be my guide.
“Oh, you think I am a stranger. Don’t you know anything about us?” His words puzzle me. What the heck is he talking about? It was like he was reading my thoughts. And there had never been an ‘us’. I am seeing him for the first time.
“Okay. I will be your guide, Rhea.” He walks after gesturing me to follow. I obey him. I don’t understand why I don’t think about running for my life. I can’t explain the strange kind of pull I feel towards this man. I can’t explain my blind faith. He even knows my name. It seems spooky but do I want to miss the serenity of his presence?We stroll amidst the trees and he talks about the hills as if he knows it like the lines on his palm. The breeze is laden with the fragrance of the mango blossoms. A myna hops onto his shoulders and studies me. I am amazed by its trust. He caress the myna and then whispers something to it. It flies away leaving me wondering.“I thought you came here because of the truth. Apparently, they haven’t told you anything.”“Truth? What truth? And who do you mean by ‘they’?”“Perhaps this is not the right time. I will accompany you to your door,” he says. He leaves me at my gate without uttering another word. I stare at him with my mouth wide open.
I plod to my room and slump onto the bed. I pinch myself and it hurts.  In all the eighteen years of my life, even with my two hearts, I haven’t been puzzled this much. I crave for answers. None came even after the sun rode high in the sky and then hid behind the faraway mountains.
“What is worrying you? You have been acting like a squirrel since morning. Sit. Stop pacing,” says my father.
I slid near him on the couch and lean on him.
“I don’t know, Papa. I need answers. And I don’t know who has answers to my questions.”
“What is it, Rhea? Tell me.” The concern I find in his eyes troubles me. In halting words, I tell him about the incident in the morning. He snickers at the end of my narration and teases me.
“I would love to see the blue-eyed prince who had come to rescue my princess. As far as I know, you were fast asleep all through the morning. That must have been a dream.”
I protest and he laughs. Looking up, I find my mother standing near the French windows gazing out at the distant hills. How much of my narration did she hear? Unlike father, I am not very close to my mother. While Papa always pampers, Mom is very distant with me. She doesn’t even like when I read romance novels. I keep them hidden between textbooks.
 At night, I hear raised voices coming from my parent’s bedroom. Intrigued, I tiptoe there and eavesdrop.
“Rajeev, we have to leave. Why don’t you understand? If Rhea is telling the truth, he belongs to the tribe. Do you want history to repeat itself?”
“Suma, we can’t go back. Don’t you realize? People out there are out to get her. We have no way to fight them. Only these mountains and anonymity will help her now.”“He will be back with more of them. We will lose her. Why don’t you understand? Or should I forget that she is my daughter?”
“You are becoming paranoid. Nothing of the sort is going to happen.”
“I thought they must have left this area. They never stay in a place for long. Didn’t you hear what she said? He sounded as though he expected her to know everything about them. We must leave,” says my mother. I hear her sobbing and father whispering to calm her down. I wait to hear more. But they have fallen silent.
My thoughts keep me awake all night. I sleep sometime near dawn.  Once awake, I seek out my parents. Mother is ill. She has a high temperature and has fallen asleep under the influence of the medicines. My father sits at the foot of her bed. He is pale and haggard. She moans and whimpers in sleep.
In the evening, I set out to look for answers. He is waiting for me at the same spot. I remember my mother’s words, her sobs, and my mind gets clouded by suspicion. I turn to walk back when I hear him say my name. And it begins. The same irresistible pull that I had felt yesterday. He saunters towards me. This time, he lifts my hands and kisses my knuckles tenderly. I melt. I don’t protest when he pulls me into his arms. I don’t resist when his lips descend on me.
The moment his lips touch mine, a scene flashes before my eyes. I see a toddler laughing; an older boy carries her. He tickles her ears with a flower making her giggle. I shudder when I recognize the blue eyes of the boy and the curly haired little girl. “Don’t you see? They separated us. You belong right here in my arms. No one can come between us. It is written in the stars.”
I push him off and run. No one has ever outrun me. I run like lightning, one of the many benefits of possessing more than one heart. He is near me within seconds and he stops me.“Rhea, you have to hear me. Try to understand. I have waited years to meet you. They all are waiting for you. You have to come with me.”
“Understand this. I am not going to come with you or fall into your spell. There is more to you than meets the eye. Leave me alone.” I snap.
I dart towards my house. He doesn’t follow. I look back once I reach our gate.  I see him walk away, his head hung, kicking pebbles. Somehow, the scene makes me chuckle.
“Keep away from him. Nothing good comes to anyone who mingles with those of the Dropa tribe.” The voice of the vegetable vendor startles me. He is an old man with wrinkled skin, tanned dark by the Himalayan sun. I take a tomato from his cart and stare at it.
“Dropa Tribe? Who are they?” I ask.
“They are evil. People who seek their company disappear forever. They never return to these mountains again. I heard one girl from these hills once fell in love with a Dropa boy. She gave birth to a girl with some birth defect. Then she vanished. No one knows what happened to her or her child.”
 “Why do you think the Dropa people are evil?”
“I have heard they have many evil powers. Some even say that some of them have two hearts which makes them extremely active and intelligent. Keep away from them, child. I must be on my way.” I stand rooted to the place as he takes the tomato from my hands and walks away pushing the cart.
“Some even say that some of them have two hearts which makes them extremely active and intelligent.”
The echo of his words makes me gasp. I glance towards the house. I remember the faces of my father and mother. I take a deep breath and run towards the spot where I had seen my mystery man disappear.
I seem to know where to go. With steady steps, I walk down the valley and then towards a rocky terrain. He is meditating on one of the bigger rocks, sitting in the lotus pose.
He opens his eyes and gaze at me. I discern he knows all the questions in my mind. Was he guiding me here as well? I wonder.
“I am Rudra. It is the time that you knew the truth. I belong to the Dropa tribe. Your mother fell in love with our chief twenty years ago. We only marry within our tribe. He went against all rules and married her. But when you were born, our medicine men rejoiced. You were what we were waiting for. You were born with two hearts. All the men in our tribe have two hearts. But none of the women are born that way. Your mother panicked when she knew what will happen eventually and ran off from these hills. My tribe and your real father await you, Rhea.”
I stare at him like a kid listening to a fairy tale. It is enchanting, but makes no sense. What made my mother leave the man she loved? Was my father really not my father? I blink back the tears that are starting to form.
“Listen carefully. We do not belong to the earth. We come from a distant planet revolving around the North Star. We are humanoid aliens. Legends has it that our spaceship crashed in the Himalayas thousands of years ago. We lived in the caves for years trying to repair the spacecraft in vain. The chief inscribed the instructions from our parent planet in codes onto stones so that only the intellectuals in our tribe understood it. Over the years, the codes have been forgotten by the tribe while striving to adapt to the life on earth. Legends say that when a female with two hearts is born in our tribe, she will be able to decode the set of instructions to send messages to our mother planet. They will arrive to take us back.”
I swallow. Cryptography is my hobby.
“Yes, that is what the legends say. You will be able to read the instructions recorded in the Dropa stones handed down from chief to chief.”
He is reading my mind. His eyes sparkle with delight. Why then did they not come to seek me?
“We cannot leave the hills. We die because our bodies have not adapted to the high atmospheric pressure of the plains, the reason why your mother ran away to Delhi. We feared you had died, but being half human, you can survive on the plains. But, we used our methods to lure you back. We can project our thoughts onto earthlings. The agitations against you were masterminded by us.”
I am angry. I shouldn’t trust him.
“Don’t be angry, Rhea. That is just half the story. I was picked to be your mate by the elders according to our tradition. All these years, I waited for you. Why don't you understand my pain? I carried you in these arms as a child and all these years in my heart.”
“I cannot even think of leaving my father or mother,” I say.
“Who asks you to leave? Help my tribe escape this dreary life.”
Will that mean that he will leave too?
“No, I will not leave. I will be yours and you will be mine. It is written in the stars.” He smiles and it makes me forget everything. I like how he reads my mind every time.I think I have all the answers now. I sink into the warmth of his embrace while he points to a distant star twinkling in the sky. The North Star.

P.S: This story was written based on the prompt ( the part highlighted in blue) given by Durjoy Dutta for the Times of India Write India Campaign. This story didn't make it into the shortlist. So I am publishing it here.
Footnote: The Dropa stones exist and are said to be of alien origin.

Cover Reveal : A Road not traveled by J Alchem

I am happy to host the  cover reveal of the much-awaited book from J Alchem published by Story Mirror.

Are you ready?
Here we go!




Blurb:


Niorgast Stinvins, a motivational speaker by profesAccompanying him on this journey are his personal demons, some ghosts of the past and a few random memories of the near future with his loved ones. One day he reaches a stage where he doesn’t know if he will be able to live or not.
Can the world be a single country? Will they be able to take this mission from a closed room to a goal post? What circumstances are they going to face? How will their journey be?
About the Author:
J. Alchem is a voracious reader and a critically acclaimed author. He is the winner of Story Mirror- 2015 (a nationwide writing competition), NaNoWriMo-2015, and superhero storyteller (2014). He has written in several magazines and newspapers and received the appreciation for the same. His stories have been published in numerous Anthologies such as Blank Space, Love Bytes and Mighty Thoughts and on various online channels.
He is actively involved in writing quotes and short write-ups which are often seen being circulated among the youth in Facebook, Whatsapp and other Social networking sites, which is a reward to him by his readers. 
www.authoralchem.wordpress.comwww.fac...

You can read his interview on my blog here. Newbie Corner: J Alchem

Why I don't read reviews of my book anymore

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This post was brewing in my mind since long. But I was not ready to publish this before. This is my story. The story of my shame. Of my insecurities. Of my friends. Of my hours of darkness.But I guess every debut writer goes through such a phase. This is a post which had to be written. I hope some of you might find it helpful in your moment of confusion.
It requires immense courage for a writer to put his/her work out there for the world to read. We never know how the readers who are going to pay money and buy our book are going to react.

 In July 2013, I started working on my book. I completed writing it in mid-2014. I had spent hours writing, re-writing and editing my manuscript. I had done so by setting apart dedicated hours to writing every day. Then, I sent it to a professional beta reader, did the corrections suggested, sent it again to trusted group of school friends to beta read. The response from everywhere was positive. So I decided to go ahead and approach publishers. I got rejected by a few, some wanted me to wait. Eventually, my book was published by Write India publishers.
On the day of the release, like any other writer I was tense. But luckily for me, my book clicked. It debuted on Amazon at #19 position. Thanks to the many wonderful friends I had on the social media and the small group of dedicated readers that I had on my blog. I got rave reviews. Especially from my blogger friends. Most of them bought the book and did not ask me for free copies to review. Wasn’t I one lucky writer? I was.
My book was released on June 3, 2015. It is going to be a year almost now. The majority of the til now have been positive, especially the blog reviews. I thought maybe the bloggers were kind to me because I was a fellow blogger. Many assured me that it wasn’t the case. It was because I had written a good book and I deserved all the praise that was showered upon me. I was happy beyond my dreams. Pumped up with enthusiasm, I promised myself to continue on the path as a writer. My book also continued to climb the chart.
 I started writing my second novel in July 2015. I was writing the last chapter of my second book in Feb 2016 when it happened. I received my first detailed critical review. It was from a blogger with whom I had interacted a few times on Facebook. She had won my book as part of a giveaway. It should not have surprised me the way it did as she had already rated my book on Goodreads before writing the detailed review. 

 I went to check the faults that she had found in my book. It appeared like a detailed review. But it was clearly one which was meant to project the mistakes than talk about the story or writing in general. What hurt me more was that many bloggers whom I had met at a blogger meet had commented on it ridiculing the book’s concept and storyline. I was devastated.
I cried a whole night. My husband was confused as to why I was crying.  I told him I was not going to write anything anymore. He told me it is part of the game. It happens to the best. My writer and blogger friends who had seen the review also told me the same. Wherever I turned on social media, I was seeing the review being shared. “This is the end of my book and my writing career,” I told myself. The days that followed just made me more miserable. The last chapter of my book remained unfinished. I couldn’t write. I was full of shame. I was facing writer’s block for the first time.
It was not the review which affected me, but the lack of support from my blogger friends that hurt me more. Most of them were ‘friends’ on social media with me. Most of them had not even read my book and were commenting how pathetic it was.
But the worst was yet to come. At the end of February, another review came. This was written by another blogger whom I considered as a good friend. We used to chat on Whatsapp and she was also part of the anthology which I co-edited and co-created. She had even come to my book release function and bought my book there. Her review was harsh. It felt to me more like a personal attack than a book review. Most of the comments on this one were from the same set of bloggers whom I had met.  Some of these bloggers I admired. Some, I considered as friends. Some were contemplating a bonfire where they would burn books like mine. Mostly the discussion was about pathetic ‘Indian Writers’ of whom I was now a part. I was completely broken. I was blocked. I couldn’t pen a word.
 I decided to quit social media. All through this a few friends stood by me. One chatted with me all through night consoling me. Some others emailed me.They told me they could clearly understand it as they had faced the same at one or the other point in their career. One of them shared the following video by famous author Ravi Subramanian where he describes a similar experience.






 So, public shaming of an author in the form of a book review was not new. It seemed to be a practice especially when it was an Indian writer. Unfortunately, it came like an out of the blue punch to my stomach for me.
What was different in my case was that it came from someone whom I considered as a friend. If I was in her place, I would not have trashed her book publicly. I would tell her in private what I didn’t like in the book or what was wrong. I would never publicly shame her with something like what she wrote. A blog is, after all, a public platform. We can ignore such reviews easily if it came from a stranger. But it is hard when a friend stabs at your back. It is also hard when fellow bloggers join the shame-game.
 Many advised me to chuck these people out of my social media list. I hesitated initially but I did that. I unfriended and even blocked all of them for a while. 
I was still on the verge of depression. I stopped checking my emails and social media accounts.I was obsessing over the reviews and also about the comments. Writing was as dear to me as life and suddenly I was not able to write anymore. It was suffocating.
 March is also the month of loss for me. I had lost my father during March years ago. They say our loved ones become our guardian angels once they leave. One day when I was forcing myself to complete my household chores, one memory of my father came to me and it saved me entirely. I felt the love he surrounded me with. I drew courage from the lessons he had shared with me while alive. I began to share those lessons with my Facebook friends through daily posts. My writer’s block vanished and words started to flow easily again. I got back to my manuscript and finished the first draft of it by the first week of April.
Now I don’t read reviews of my book anymore, good or bad. Reviews are always opinions of the reader, never fact. And every reader reads a different book as they visualize it differently. I am not obliged to read such reviews which are written with the intention to hurt. I promised myself not to go digging for criticism. For constructive criticism, I have friends and editors whose wisdom and kindness I trust.
I hope writers/ aspiring writers will find this rant to be of use. I chanced upon one good piece of writing about dealing with critics written by Elizabeth Gilbert. Go ahead and read it if you need further assurance as to why writers should stay away from negative criticism.

8 Toxic People to Avoid

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It was a perfect day until she arrived. Within no time, my world became clouded with misery. I searched and yearned for a glimpse of happiness. She left after a while. By then, my emotional energy was at an all-time low. It felt as though I had faced a Dementor attack. All the joy had been sucked out.
Note for non-Potterheads: (Dementors are mythical creatures created by JK Rowling in Harry Potter’s world who suck out all joy from its victims)

Does this situation sound familiar? The ‘she’ I mentioned belongs to a category of people who are toxic to our emotional well-being.
Many of us don’t recognize them as we have been around them for long. They live among us. A friend, a colleague, a spouse, a sibling, a cousin— they can be anyone. We accept their hurtful behavior and suffer in silence.
They come in many hues. Let me list eight such toxic people whom I have encountered.
1.     The Toxic temperamental
Do you know that one person who has a short fuse and hot temper? They are addicted to anger. Anything and everything might provoke them. The weather, a sneeze, a pet, a social media update… the list can be endless. They always have a justification for their anger. Their anger manifests as emotional, verbal or even physical abuse. We need to bend backward to please such a person. It seems like walking on egg shells when this person is around.Do you think they will change if you stoop and twist yourself into knots? No, never.
Solution: Distance yourself as far from them as you can.
2.     The Toxic Victims
They are the perfect drama kings and queens. Always the victims of one or another sinister plot. The whole world is out to get them! The cruel mother, the Hitler boss, the bossy husband, the sick mother-in-law…You are pleased initially that they are confiding their life problems to you. You spend hours on the phone, offering solutions. Do they listen? No. They will call the next day with a more serious and deadly problem. Sigh!Will they change? Sadly, never.Don’t invest a lot of time and energy on them. Every speed breaker in their path often appears like an insurmountable mountain for them.
The best dialogue to employ :”Oh, dear, I hope everything turns out well. I will keep you in my prayers. I think I hear another call coming. Speak to you later. Bye.”
3.     The Toxic Manipulators These are professional guilt-trippers. They won’t take no for an answer. They employ a variety of methods to manipulate people to get what they want. Emotional blackmailing, threats, rosy prospects, they have all the tools to trap you. When you feel you are being pushed to act due to a feeling of guilt or implied obligation, beware, you are walking into the web of a manipulator.
The word they need to hear: ‘No.’ In fact, NO is a complete sentence. There isn’t any need to explain further.



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4.     The Toxic One-ups
You have this one ‘friend’ who always has done everything better than you. The moment you finish telling them of your latest achievement, they take a moment to jog their memory and vomit out a grandiose version of the same event. But this time, they are the stars in it. Your experience is nothing, you see! You feel disappointed that this person doesn’t congratulate you or share your excitement. Sadly, these people have no idea that they are annoying you. These lonely people crave attention and want to impress you with their accomplishments.
Solution: Tell them in kind but clear words to let you enjoy your time in the spotlight. If they don’t get it, remember to never share your happy moments with them the next time.
5.     The Toxic Unreliable
This person makes promises one after the other and never keep even one. They will miss get-togethers, appointments and never honor their commitments. They will promise to call on you and never turn up. They will make plans with you, promise they will be there for you and will slip away leaving you stuck.Often such relationships leave you feeling unloved and worthless. Sometimes, seething with anger.
Solution: Set boundaries with the person ahead of time clearly stating that you value your time. Any delay means the deal is off.
6.     The Toxic Critic
The critics are experts at finding faults with you. They will correct your grammar, pronunciation, snigger at your dressing sense and ridicule you openly in front of others. When you protest, they will blame you for being sensitive. If you live with such a person, you are bound to develop a low self-esteem.
Solution: Tell them exactly how they make you feel. If you are lucky enough, it is an unconscious habit which they will try and change.
7.     The Toxic Controllers:          These people need to be in charge at every point of time. They will make rules, others shall obey. If anyone steps out of the line, they are doomed. They turn on their unpleasant bossy behavior on everyone. They often turn abusive; verbally or physically.Solution: Controllers are usually insecure persons and have deep-seated fears of abandonment. They think of everyone as a problem. It is a no-win situation with such people. Stay away from them and seek professional help if the situation goes out of control.
8.     The Toxic Gossip: We all like to indulge in gossiping every now and then, don’t we? But do you know that one person who is always up-to-date with all the latest juicy gossips? Be aware of them. If they tell you tales about other people they are equally capable of talking about you to others. Never trust them. And gossiping spreads negativity. The whole aura of a chronic gossipmonger is always negative. Check how you are emotionally after a particular gossiper leaves you.
Solution: Stop encouraging them. It is the only possible way out.
Now friends, check this list. How many such people do you know? Are they always around you? Are they lurking around disguised as friends? If yes, cut them out of your life. Such people make us miserable. Recognize them and weed them out of your life.
Tell me about the other kinds of toxic people you have encountered.
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Lesson 5: Health is wealth

Series: Lessons from my father ( A tribute to my late father, Dr. K. KunhiKannan)

Lesson 5: Health is wealth

My father with my son

Every evening, my father would do Yoga after he came from the clinic. It would include exercises and meditation. It was his routine from the time I remember. On Sundays, he worked half day and hence would sometimes join us for a game of badminton or go for a walk.

His theory was that we should take good care of the body which is home to our soul. We don’t know whether there is an afterlife. But this life, which is a gift, we should live to the fullest. We should feed ourselves healthy food and do exercise so that our body functions properly.

My favorite time to study was always after everyone slept; when the world grew quiet. I could never make myself get up early in the morning to study. Sometimes I would study through the night during exams. He would come to check on me at intervals and would urge me to go and sleep. My eating habits were often very erratic. He would scold me whenever I skipped breakfast or any meal.

He once told us the story of how he never came to like alcohol.
When he was small, maybe ten or eleven, he was fascinated by what his father drank at night before going to bed. His father would retire to the store room and take a sip of liquor from a bottle well hidden. He was not addicted to it but this was a nightly routine. My father one day found the bottle in the darkness and took a sip. Immediately, he spat it out. Instead of the bottle of liquor, he had drunk from a bottle of kerosene. That ended his foray into the world of alcoholic beverages.

“Later on in life, whenever someone offered me a drink, the bitter taste of kerosene would creep into my mind and I would promptly refuse. It was a blessing. There is no bigger killer of humanity and health like alcohol. I have seen many lives reduced to ashes prematurely because of this monster,” he would often say.

Luckily, none of my family are addicted to alcohol or smoking. He walked the talk and led by example. Nor are there many in the extended family. Many feared my father’s wrath and never ventured towards such addictions.

He taught me Surya Namaskara and some basic yoga exercises which I still do. Whenever I sleep late, I remember him. I feel as though he is about to come and urge me to go back to sleep. Whenever I skip a meal, I feel I can hear his scolding.

Lesson 4: It is never too late to learn a new skill

Lessons from my father (A tribute to my late father)

Lesson 4: It is never too late to learn a new skill



My father believed in the power of knowledge. He never wasted an opportunity to learn a new skill or a new science. He encouraged us to do the same. Whenever I created anything new using some new craft I learned, I would show it to him first. Because he would appreciate it for what it was and won’t look for mistakes. Then if I asked for suggestions to improve it, he would say use your imagination, don’t ask others for help.

Once I had to go out during my summer vacation while I was in Class XI. I wanted to leave him a message about where I was going and at what time I would come home. I began my message in Malayalam. I addressed him as ‘Acha’ (Malayalam for father) and began the note. I studied in a Kendriya Vidyalaya from class IV where Malayalam was not taught as a second language. So my writing skills in Malayalam were very poor. Whatever way I wrote ‘Acha’, didn’t seem quite right. The words in Malayalam can be quite tricky. After three failed attempts, I turned the paper over and wrote the message in English and left it on the study table for him to find.

When he found the note, he understood exactly what had happened and asked me to write the word ‘Acha’ again. I failed to do it. He laughed but told me to start at the beginning. To write the vowels and consonants of Malayalam. To my horror, I found I did not remember many of the Malayalam vowels or Consonants. I promptly blamed it on the many years I had not touched a Malayalam textbook.

Next day, he brought a two line copy book and asked me to borrow the Malayalam textbook from my neighborhood kid who studied in class 1.
I protested. I was ashamed. I told him I was too old to begin learning it again.
“There is no age for learning,” he said.

So began my classes. I was made to write the vowels and consonants over and over again till I mastered it. After that, a Malayalam newspaper was subscribed to, which I had to read every day. Before that, we read just ‘Indian Express’.
Thankfully because of his efforts, I can still read and write Malayalam properly. It is because of that lesson he taught me that I joined for MA English literature during my sabbatical from my Civil Engineering job after my son was born. Ten years after I had left college!
Today I am proud to say that I hold an MA in English Literature. There indeed exists no age limit for learning.

Lesson 3: Nourish your creativity

Series: Lessons from my father (A tribute to my late father)


Lesson 3: Nourish your creativity




My father valued creativity in all its forms. He encouraged us kids to nourish our creative side from early on in life. I, being me, never completed any course that I was enrolled in; be it music, art or dancing. After attending six or seven classes I would become bored (or declare myself an expert in it) and go in search of new hobbies.

My father, on the other hand, was creative right from the time he was in school and often won prizes in poetry, story writing and also in elocution competitions. Despite his busy schedule, he would take time out to write articles on medicine for local newspapers, in their association magazine and also sometimes poems.

I remember he wrote a poem called ‘Agni’ when APJ Kalam sir fainted after project ‘Agni’ was canceled. A drama he wrote for their Annual association function about the rampant atrocities in the medical field was greatly appreciated. He also acted as an old man in the drama. There would be poems scribbled in his diaries. He would cut out and keep articles he liked from newspapers. Wherever he went, he would return with a book. He maintained a journal regularly.

They say kids become readers in the lap of their parents. I became a reader that way. I still remember the illustrated storybook of ‘the hunter and four friends’ which he must have read to me umpteen times. Whenever he was relaxing, he did so with a book. Mostly it will be medical books or politics. He introduced me to the world of books by taking me to the village library and would also buy me my favorite comics.

Yes, I firmly believe whatever little creativity I have inherited I got it from him. My mother swears she doesn’t have any such bad habit. When my first story was published in our college magazine, he was excited and proud.

Now that I have been part of many anthologies and have also published my debut novel, I often wish my father had seen them. Whenever I receive the author copy of any book that I am a part of, I thank him silently. For introducing me to the magical world of books and letters.

And I try to follow the way he nourished his creative side.

Dangling with Sutapa Basu

    Today on 'On Writing', we have the brilliant author and editor Sutapa Basu who will share with us anecdotes from her career as a writer and editor.
An author, poet and publishing consultant, Sutapa Basu also dabbles in art and trains trainers and is a compulsive bookworm. During a thirty-year-old professional career as a teacher, editor, and publisher, she traveled the Indian subcontinent, Nepal and Bhutan. She has visited UK, USA, Dubai and Singapore while working with Oxford University Press, India and Encyclopædia Britannica, South Asia until 2013 when she decided to start writing seriously.
Sutapa is an Honours scholar from Tagore’s Visva-Bharti University, Santiniketan and holds a teaching as well as a masters degree in English Literature.
As a publisher, Sutapa has developed and published around 400 books. Recently, her short story was awarded the First Prize in the Times of India’s nationwide WriteIndia Contest, under Author, Amish Tripathi. 
Welcome to 'On Writing' Sutapa Basu.
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WEBSITE: www.storyfuntastika.com


How did writing begin for you? Was becoming an author always your dream or was it a particular event or incident that gave birth to the author in you?
A: Writing began for me at the age of eight years when I used write play scripts for my brother and me to act out. It was just a game then. I was already a bookworm by that age and always wondered what it would be like if my name appeared on a book as an author. Books, reading and writing have been my constant companions through the growing up years. So it was natural for me to incline both my higher education in English Literature and my career in publishing towards books. I knew then and still know that I must keep writing.
How important are the names of the characters in your books to you? Do you spend agonizing hours deciding on their names? A:The names of my characters are very important to me as the names conjure up their images for me. They become real people and live their stories and I usually write what I see them doing or hear them saying. I do not really spend agonizing hours but sometimes a certain living person may inspire a specific character. Then I may use that person’s name or a resemblance to that name so that image in my mind of that character becomes clearly defined.
What is your least favorite part of the publishing/ writing process? The beginning and the end. Basically when a story starts forming in my mind, it builds up gradually over days. But when I have to map it out on a word document, it tries my patience because my fingers don’t move as fast as my thoughts. Besides, the mapped out story may not be the final story. When I start writing, I may change the twists and turns of the plot or add characters. So after a time, the mapping exercise becomes a redundant. The other part which I don’t like is the last proofreading of the book. Usually, I am very tense then because I don’t want to leave any errors in the proof.
What is ‘Dangle’ all about? How long did it take to complete writing it?
A: Dangle is about many things. I don’t like to compartmentalize books into specific genres but you may call it a psychological thriller. The main plot is about a young, beautiful, independent girl who is haunted by a fear, her journey to self discovery and being empowered by the knowledge. Travel is a metaphor because as the protagonist goes from Chicago to Manipur to Indonesia, she uncovers layers of her own consciousness. Dangle also exposes the reader to life lived among the horrors of militancy, of the tribulations of the armed forces policing the troubled regions of India, varied reactions to domestic violence as well as the way Bengalis living outside Bengal sustain their cultural identity. Tagore’s lyrics and poetry become a recurring motif in the book. So there are many issues that I touch upon in Dangle without making any judgments or statements. I like to leave the reader with something to chew on and make their own interpretations.
Who is your favorite character in the book and why?
A: My favourite character is the protagonist, Ipshita because the entire story is from her viewpoint. She has been based on numerous young people that I have interacted with. How she thinks, what she does, what she wants to do, her responses to many situations are how I imagine most of the young people today would behave. I have two children, a few nieces and nephews who belong to that generation and I have been constantly observing them. Ipshita echoes many of their sentiments.
Do share a snippet/ Quote from your book.
A: Excerpt from DangleShe looked into the dark depths of her own eyes, thinking. What the hell! Why does this fear lurk in my mind; pouncing the instant I lower my guard? It holds the strings and pulls me whichever way it wants. I am like a puppet! Why does this fear stifle me; stalk me? Why does it hang me upside down, and laugh? In the blink of an eye, the ground beneath my feet crumbles, and I dangle, clawing at the empty air! Too long it has been the master…too long this has been going on.
Anger flashed in the eyes looking back at her in the mirror.
No more! No more…living on the edge. Now I will control Me. If I take a dive, I must pull the cord of my parachute. No more panic attacks. I will be in charge…nobody else.

Is there a certain type of scene that is harder for you to write than others? Did you face such an issue while writing ‘Dangle’?
A: Well, since you asked me I find it difficult to write mushy, lovey-dovey romantic scenes. I didn’t face this issue in Dangle because the romance in it is more covert. The passion is deep but mature and does not need to be expressed through pink clouds, flowers and chocolate dialogues.

You work as the resident editor at Readomania. How different or difficult is it when it comes to editing your own work?
A: Very difficult because I tend to end up doing exactly what I warn authors whose books I edit NOT to do. Improving the writing! Copyediting is a stage in the publishing process where the development of the story has been completed so one must not give in to second thoughts then and start changing the story.I also find it challenging to edit because I have to consciously remove all emotional attachment to my work. As an editor, the role is to snip and polish and edit so that the story becomes a better read. I prefer another editor to edit my work and Dangle has been edited by a very competent editor, Vaijyanti Ghosh from Readomania.
You are the winner of the Write India contest by Times of India under Amish. How was the experience of writing a tale based in a bygone era?
A: Wonderful experience! I enjoyed the research I had to do. I learned so much. In fact, being set in an interesting historical era, the story came so naturally to me.
What are the three tips you have for readers who are aspiring writers?
1) Please read works of other writers to observe how they deal with the techniques of writing. Never copy a style but find out about different styles of writing and then develop your own.
2) Always remember that a good story or plot is not enough to hook your reader. It is the presentation of that story, which includes character building, language, pace and voice that makes the impact.
3) Write something every day. The more you write, the better you will get at the skill because much of it is skill dabbed with some talent.
Thank you Sutapa for that interesting chat! I wish the very best for ‘Dangle’ and all your future endeavors.
'Dangle':
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Go ahead and buy 'Dangle'. It is an amazing read, folks.


That is all for now.
Have a great day!
Much Love,

Lessons from my father: Lesson two

Father and Mother (2008, Thiruvonam day)

Five years ago, a cruel March took away my father from me. Even after all these years, the wound is still raw.

This year I am honoring his life by sharing life lessons that I have learned from him.

Lesson 2: Love endures

Theirs is a unique love story. Even though romance is often called as clichéd, each story has its own special nuance, a different zing.

Born in a quaint little village in the lap of Ezhimala, they knew each other almost all their lives. Maybe it was the courage of the fourteen-year-old boy who was forced to quit school and become the bread winner of his family, after the sudden death of his father that won her heart.

Maybe it was the respect he had for the frail, dusky girl who went against the norms of the society to pursue education and career with a passion that made him fall in love with her.

I don’t know. They never told me. But I could see the depth of their love in the way they supported each other through the highs and lows of their lives. They were as different as chalk and cheese. Or apple and orange. Yet they were one strong team.

My mother was a working woman from the age of 21 till she retired at the age of 58. I remember my father helping her with the daily chores. She left early for work. He would become a mother to all of us till the time we left home together. He dropped me at school on the way to the hospital. I was his pet as I was the youngest of his brood of three.

Occasionally they would quarrel. But unlike in other houses, there would be no raised voices. A stony silence that would create an impenetrable wall between them would signal that it had happened.

In my teens, this ominous silence made me panic. Will they go separate ways? What if such a terrible thing happened? I would go to each of them on peace keeping missions. Sometimes, I would succeed. Sometimes, the timely arrival of one of their mutual friends would make them forget all about their quarrel. But sometimes the silence would continue for weeks.

Throughout this, he would continue with his daily duties. He would drop her to the bus station on time and he would pack her lunch box while she was getting ready. She would make sure that he ate on time entrusting one of us with the duty of serving him food.

Once, during such a period of silence, I asked him why he did not talk it out with her. Why he did not speak what he had in mind. What he told me then remains in my memory till now.

“I am angry with her now. If I speak now I might say words that might hurt her more than if I had stabbed her with a knife. You cannot take back words that you speak and the wounds they inflict run deep. I will wait till I cool down and my mind is calmer. Then I will talk.”

It was perhaps this love, which didn’t allow him to hurt her even with a thoughtless word, that made her survive a fatal stroke later on in life. It was certainly this love that made him come out of the ICU and back into life after an attack of meningitis. It was, without a doubt, this love which made him leave this world while she held him in her arms.