I saw that family on a road divider close to where I live. The children wore tattered clothes and looked hungry. There was a makeshift tent erected on the road divider itself and that apparently was their home. But the children, like all other children, were oblivious to their surroundings and were innocently playing on the road.
Their games, of course, were nothing like the games that children from relatively well-off families played. One child was doing cartwheels across the road during stoppages in traffic at a red signal. One child was playing a homemade musical instrument. Yet another child was singing and dancing. They were doing that to earn little money, which some good Samaritan might throw their way.
It was a scene that I was used to on roads across all cities not only in our country but also in developed countries of Europe and England as well as many other nations. I realised that I had become immune to their presence around me. Earlier, I saw them but did not notice them.
This started me on a long journey – a journey of almost 75 years starting from sometime in 1955, and ending in 2029. The beginning of the journey was modest… No, modest is an overstatement. The beginning was even less than humble. But there was a burning desire to be better than what they had been. This passionate fire continued, till Roshni, a girl born in this family started her journey in 2011.
The Gymnast is the journey of Roshni, foundations of which were laid 75 years back. I count my blessings that this family chose to include me in their travels across decades and across two centuries.
There was a time during my professional life when I travelled extensively to Kashmir. The Hindi diction of the local people is a little different – it is almost sing-song. As I picked up the book by Prashant, I wondered why it was titled ‘Jehlum’ when we know the river as ‘Jhelum’. The author clarifies this right at the beginning – this is how Kashmiris pronounce the name.
Nishant and Mudassir are two childhood friends born and brought up in Kashmir. Fateful events of January 1990 force Nishant and his family to migrate to a refugee camp in Jammu. He does not give up on hope. He realises that the only way out for him to move out of this squalor is to study and work hard. He succeeds in moving to America.
Mudassir on the other hand is manipulated and ends up in a training camp in Pakistan, and then as a labourer in Karachi.
The plot till almost 80% of the story is relatable and storytelling is compelling. It narrates the events leading up to the exodus, life in the camps, Nishant’s hard work, and then his moving to USA. The unfortunate circumstances are not heavy with sentimentality, but are backdrops for the principled and ethical man that Nishant turns into.
It is in the last part of the book when Nishant practically becomes a single man army or more appropriately a superhero that the story felt as if I was watching a Bollywood movie. But I am not complaining. Having brought up on the Amitabh Bachchan movies of the 1970s and 1980s, it was enjoyable.
An enjoyable fast paced read if you have also loved the Bollywood movies of yesteryears.
When the rains come to Malwa, it is as if the slopes and valleys and the river begin decking themselves up for wedding festivities. These opening lines by Malathi, and I prepared myself for another lyrically written historical fiction.
I had visited Mandu a long time back and heard about the legendary romance of Baz Bahadur and beautiful Roopmati, a girl from farming family. The story held a certain mysterious charm, and I wanted to know more. I was not disappointed as the author has narrated an engrossing tale set in 16th century India around the legend.
This is a story of two unlikely young people, coming from different strata of society, bonding over a common love for classical music. This bonding leads to the two gradually falling in love with each other. But their love is doomed from the beginning as their lives are drawn into court intrigues. Eventually, sultan Baz goes out to fight a loosing battle against the might of the Mughal emperor, Akbar. Roopmati consumes poison to save herself from the lecherous eyes of Adham Khan, milk brother of Akbar. Yet again a love that was not meant to be.
A simple story, narrated beautifully, that keeps you engrossed till the end. Words are expertly woven – be it to describe the beauty of the region, or that of Roopmati, or even that of love itself. It would have been difficult to narrate a story that only exists as a legend – Malathi does not falter even a bit.
Yet, I could not but feel a little disappointed. Not by the storytelling – which is excellent – but by the fact that Baz Bahadur comes across as a weak sultan, immersed in songs and dances and his love. He fails to protect his principality, his people, and above all the woman he truly loved against the marauders. Maybe he indeed was a weak sultan, but for the positive influence of the woman who he fell in love with. It is the beauty of storytelling that makes us believe in events that are not recorded anywhere.
When Vasant ritu comes to Malwa, they say the river brings new life to her valley… But wait… hark! Is that a snatch of a distant song on the air? Or is it only the moaning of winds in the ravines of Malwa? Who knows … This is how the story ends.
I am sure to remember these closing lines and probably hear that song on the air from the distant past when I visit Mandu next.
As I had mentioned in my previous review also, the writing is almost lyrical. It is a beautifully woven tale of two people who loved and lost. The storytelling keeps you immersed in the story till the end.
Write a short story of 1500-3000 words (excluding the prompt) using the below prompt.
The road less travelled is often lonely……
1. The prompt can be used anywhere in your story, but it should not be split. 2. The story can be of any genre of your choice. 3. The storytelling is important, but please also take care of grammatical or spelling errors. 4. Your story should be submitted in word format by 30th June 2022 at email@example.com. Please caption the subject line as Write Contest. 5. Two winners will be declared in case found suitable by the judges. The decision of the judges will be final. No queries will be entertained on the results. 6. All future announcements and results can be seen on the Facebook group of Pioneer Book Lovers Club (https://www.facebook.com/groups/880032822610818/). 7. Winning entries have a chance to be published in a book of short stories. Put on your writing cap and send us your short stories using the above prompt.
They say the desert is ageless, timeless. That it was never born and will never die. They say it has no form either… its shifting sands take one shape today and another tomorrow. These were the opening lines of this historical novel set in Rajasthan. I was mesmerised.
I remained engrossed in the story till I reached the end. …for what is truer than love is true love… across the desert rides he who is yours… to meet, to hold, to never let go… for who can keep apart those whose lives are fused for eternity…
The novel is inspired by certain events from 200 years back. 80+ villages of Paliwal Brahmins in the Thar desert of Jaisalmer were abandoned overnight. This is a historical fact. What is not known is the reason why this sudden exodus happened on a single night. There are folklores around it.
One reason is attributed to the exorbitant taxes demanded by Saalim Ali, the Diwan of the kingdom ruled by Rawals. Another is that these villagers left to save their honour, as the debauched Diwan chanced upon the beautiful young daughter of the headman of Kuldhara, one of the villages, and demanded that the maiden be handed over to enter his harem.
Nobody knows the truth. The abandoned ruins of Kuldhara still exist, and the place is considered haunted. Malathi has woven a heart wrenching tale of what might have happened. The story is that of two strong women whose destinies are interlinked with that of the Diwan.
Pari from Kuldhara falls in love with Dharam, a young man from another village, during the flight. Unknown to the two, different villages have decided to split and move in separate directions to escape the pursuing soldiers. A single night of passion; and the next morning Dharam has already left the camp with his village folk. Nobody knows where. Pari realises that she is pregnant.
Parvati is an older women who had also been taken in Saalim Ali’s harem. She has borne him a son and still waits for her husband’s infrequent visits to the conjugal bed when it pleases him. She is unhappy with her life, but this is the only life that she has known. She still wants to remain that favourite wife of her husband.
Eventually the two women face each other. The young unwed mother is saved from the Diwan by Parvati. Pari returns back to an abandoned Kuldhara to wait for her daughter’s father, hopeful that one day they shall unite.
I had only heard about lyrical prose. This was the first time that I read one. It is an expertly woven haunting tale of love, despair, and hope. The storytelling keeps you immersed in the story – page after page, word after word.
Kartik is a self-made entrepreneur owning a chain of successful restaurants in America. He is visiting his relatives in Bareilly with his family in 2019 to attend a family wedding. On the morning of the wedding he goes to the nearby Pashupati Nath temple but does not return.
The family hires Ajay, a private detective, to investigate his disappearance and find him. There are many suspects, including some of the family members and his Indian business partner. These people may have also met the Indian overlord of Europe’s most dreaded crime syndicate in the recent past.
Kartik was in the habit of writing a diary about his life. Ajay starts reading the diary and realises that the key to the case may be in the lost city of Drumatulya, lying buried and lost, somewhere in Thar desert near Jaisalmer in Rajasthan. The city is mentioned in Ramayana and seemingly existed around 5135 BCE. The city had links to Raavan. The detective names this important clue as The Raavan Key.
The diary also reveals that Kartik’s father Shivam had gone on an archaeological expedition to Jaisalmer with his university mates in 1972 in search of the lost city. Shivam was an engineering student, but had accompanied the group to be with Vedika whom he loved and wanted to marry. Something terrible happened during the trip and he could not marry her.
Shivam has also died in an accident a few years earlier. Kartik now has no way of learning about the terrible events during the archaeological trip, which resulted in many on the trip perishing in a sand storm.
Ajay is told by Kartik’s wife Shreya about an old woman staring at her husband on the flight to India, and murmuring something about the danger to his life. This woman is Richa, a friend of Shivam, and who was also part of the archaeological group.
Hoping that she might be able to throw some light on the case, Ajay calls Richa. As he is talking to her, she is attacked in a Delhi market. The detective rushes to Delhi to meet her.
Book 1 of the Drumatulya trilogy ends in a cliff-hanger as Ajay enters Richa’s home.
This is a fast paced book. A few questions are answered, a few questions remain unanswered. I would have personally preferred to know the end in the first book itself – what is the link between the seemingly unconnected events of 2019 (when Kartik is kidnapped), 1972 (when Shivam goes on the college trip), the lost city of Drumatulya (that existed around 5135 BC), and the crime syndicate overlord?
But then that should be the beauty of stories spread across multiple books – they should leave you wanting to read the next volume, to know what happens next! Book 1 of Drumatulya trilogy succeeds in generating this interest.
The book could have been made tighter by removing passages which seemingly are not relevant to the story – though they help in establishing Kartik as a righteous individual. The book also needs stronger editing, which I hope will be taken care of in the subsequent two volumes.
Write a short story of 1500-3000 words (excluding the prompt) using the below prompt.
I wasn’t in love with him; but I could not unlove him.
1. The prompt can be used anywhere in your story, but it should not be split. 2. Writer can change the gender ‘him’ to ‘her’. 3. The story can be of any genre of your choice. 4. The storytelling is important, but please also take care of grammatical or spelling errors. 5. Your story should be submitted in both pdf and word formats by 31st May 2022 at firstname.lastname@example.org. Please caption the subject line as Write Contest. 6. Two winners will be declared in case found suitable by the judges. The decision of the judges will be final. No queries will be entertained on the results. 7. All future announcements and results can be seen on the Facebook group of Pioneer Book Lovers Club (https://www.facebook.com/groups/880032822610818/). 8. Winning entries have a chance to be published in a book of short stories. Put on your writing cap and send us your short stories using the above prompt.
Blessed are those who have a house which they can call their Abana (home in Sindhi). A house is only a physical structure, but it is our loved ones, and our memories with them, that truly make this structure a home – a place where we can return after a hard day’s work. Do we ever pause and even think about a scenario where our home is snatched from us overnight? All that we are left with is an ache, a longing, to reclaim our lost hearth. Would we go to any extent to take back what was rightfully ours?
Paari, the central character of this novel by Lata, is a Sindhi, who lost her home in Pakistan during partition. She lives in squalor in the refugee camp in Ulhasnagar, dreaming of the day when she would reclaim her home. She does not know how, only that she would.
She is lured into smuggling gold jewellery from Dubai to India, which might one day change her life for the better. From smuggling jewellery to smuggling guns to Afghanistan via Pakistan for an unknown boss is only a short step. Travelling to Pakistan rekindles her urge to reclaim her Abana. She is certain that she would take her house back.
A chance encounter with Virmal, her childhood sweetheart, makes her start dreaming of a life with her lover in her own home. She is willing to go to any extent, even running the guns herself through dangerous terrain, or shooting a man.
This is a story of love and betrayal, but in the end it is the story of a quest to get the home back, at any cost.
A beautifully written book, which has emotions aplenty, but never gets overboard with sentimentality. It makes you take a pause and reflect – what would we do if our home was snatched from us?
I always believed that we are products of our dreams, our pursuit of those dreams, and our experiences along the way. I may have been wrong. We probably identify more with our fear of the unknown, pre-conceived notions, and biases.
The last one year has been a traumatic, yet milestone period for me. I faced two major events. The first was last year when I was admitted in the covid ward – my first hospitalisation. Night had fallen. The attendant gracefully permitted my wife to accompany me up to the lift. The lift clanged shut as I looked at her, was it the last time that I would be seeing her! Such drama!
No visitors were permitted. I only had the company of the nurses, the attendants, and the other two patients in the room. I longed for physical visits by my loved ones, who tried to cheer me up through multiple video calls every day – but it was just not the same. I was almost paralysed by the terror of death. I did nothing to help myself.
It was also during this stay that I realised what it meant to be dependent on others, though dependence on others in daily life is a welcome, yet often unnoticed feature. For the first few days I could not even go to the toilet without oxygen support, which meant that I had to call the attendant, and hope that the limited supply of both the attendant and the cylinder was not in use by another patient.
The second event was more recent. I underwent surgery – again my first. The trauma came prior to surgery in the form of my apprehensions. What if the doctor started sawing me up before the anaesthesia had taken effect, or if I did not come out of anaesthesia, or worse if I did not survive the surgery.
I kept procrastinating and postponing on one pretext or the other as I passed through a myriad of such morbid sentiments. I was afraid to take the next step for fear of the unknown, till the morning I was on my way to the hospital. The rest of the morning was a blur, and soon I was walking to the operation theatre accompanied by my wife – often an unacknowledged support. Now that the moment was upon me, I walked in confidently, looking forward for the uncertainty to end.
The anaesthetist pricked my spine and I started losing sensation chest down. I was unable to raise my feet, however hard I tried, or even blow into the doctor’s cupped hands. I found that I could not even clear my throat as the act required me to cough from the pit of my stomach, which my abdominal muscles refused to support. I remained terrified of not coming out of this induced paralysis.
It was at this stage that the nurse tried to blindfold me. I have a phobia of blindfolds and I resisted, scared of not being in control of another sensory organ. It was also during the surgery that all those parts of my body which were not numb started itching. My hands were restrained, and I had no option except to ask the nurse to scratch me. I was dependent on others, and not liking it.
We take several things in our lives, and probably life itself, for granted, till we are reminded about our good fortune by events. People get paralysed, lose their eyesight, sometimes even their limbs. We do not take the next step fearing the unknown, afraid of failure. Yet, there are many instances of people overcoming their handicap through sheer courage. And are we not dependent on others even in our daily lives, without even acknowledging such support!
This past one year has been a defining period for me – to pause and reflect. Are we not scared of pursuing our dreams for fear of failure! Are we not fighting with each other over petty things – religion, politics, caste, community! They would mean nothing in the final reckoning as we eventually turn to ashes or dust. But till we face the eventual truth, should we be held back by our preconceived notions, biases, or even the fear of the unknown, or should we rather focus on our dreams!
Empty corridors in the night, nursing station away from the room, nurses and attendants dozing on their chairs – it did give me the idea of a plot, a crime thriller, as I lay on my hospital bed the first time. Maybe one day I will write another novel.