The Cradle of Death

Kankana Basu of The New Indian Express had some awesome things about Yama's Lieutenant. Sample this: "Yama’s Lieutenant from the immensely readable writer Anuja Chandramouli, will enthrall readers of every age group. Blending mythology and fantasy with a rich sweep of imagination, Chandramouli creates a terrifying world of demons and necromancers, which chillingly echoes with resonances of contemporary times." Or this, "The author’s writing is crisp and riveting. At no point does she falter in her conviction even as she creates mind-boggling scenarios for her fantasy creatures to inhabit. The multitude of creatures could have been confusing to the uninitiated, but she introduces them with intelligent spacing. A very adult slant is visible in tackling the matter of sex, which among other deviations includes hints of incest, all of which seem slightly out of sync with the fantasy world." And finally, "A vibrant and rambunctious read, Yama’s Lieutenant is as unputdownable as it gets."

You can check out the full review here.

Beating the Censors with the Moral Yardstick

We Indians have become thin – skinned to an alarming degree and so given to taking offense at the drop of a cuss word that it has become the norm for citizens to go to war on social networking platforms every time somebody cracks a joke or gives compelling evidence to the fact that every one of us is as opinionated and judgemental as everyone else. When comedians embrace controversy with provocative material on the sacred cows of sport and playback singing to ensure that their underwhelming video goes viral and gets the attention it does not deserve, we are flooded by an outpouring of outrage that far more serious issues seldom get.

            Worse, since it has become common for runaway emotions and misguided passion to rule the roost in place of cool logic and common sense, the censors and moral police have taken the upper hand. As a result, decrees have been passed that trample on freedom of speech, artistic expression, and the right to tweet our peevish dissatisfaction while making tasteless jokes. Shockingly, despite the fact that India is a democracy, books are burnt, films are banned and Sunny Leone gets the free publicity she built her career on thanks to incendiary posters and press conferences.

While so much energy is expended on so much triviality, pressing problems persist and plague this proud nation which has still not managed to tackle the problem of providing the basic necessities for a vast majority of its populace. There are so many without food, clothing shelter, education or even a decent loo and yet we are far more preoccupied with nonsense, ours and others both. Surely this is not what our freedom fighters fought and died for?

Perhaps it is time to put an end to the endless chin – wagging, finger pointing and a collective tendency to froth at the mouth every time something mildly provocative starts trending on twitter. In short, unproductive and ultimately self – destructive habits including intolerance and strident censorship need to be put to rest in order to facilitate a conducive climate that fosters development, nation building and better understanding between the diverse factions that make up India. Nobody likes it when big brother gets carried away with his voyeuristic, tyrannical tendencies and starts rapping on knuckles to force political correctness down unwilling throats.

In order to stop dictatorial directives in its tracks, it behoves us to take up the role of moral watchdog and limit it entirely to our own selves. Nobody likes to be told their shit stinks but conversely everybody labours under the delusion that their shit don’t stink. Now more than ever, it is necessary to clean up our own act in order to mature into responsible citizens who can exercise every one of their rights while being sensitive and sensible enough to do so without stomping on toes and encroaching on somebody else’s rights. 

This column was published in The New Indian Express.

HEADY PRAISE AND A CONTEST!

Its confession time! There are few things in the world I love better than a rave review. It makes me feel all warm and tingly from the top of my head all the way to the soles of my feet. In fact, I cannot get enough of those. Blogger Namrata who has read every one of my books had this to say about YAMA'S LIEUTENANT.
"In the first 4 pages she has nailed your attention in a fashion that you don't want to let anything come in the way of you knowing what happens next. She thrills you, fascinates you, leaves you with mystery and in the end takes you on a high only she can with her words. The characters are so heart warming and close to real life you cannot help but feel their chaos. You are almost chasing the mystery with them to know who is behind it all. She has grabbed the biggest fear of human kind and merged it with myth to derive a perfect serving of a book called Yama's lieutenant which leaves you heady.
A strongly recommended read for people who love reading her works, this one will make you love her more. And people who have never read her, start with this one you will understand why people love her."
Be sure to read the rest of her review here. I particularly liked the bit where she compared me, sorry the book to a sweet called Kalakand which is supposedly a balanced that is nevertheless close to the hearts of those who have sampled it on account of its simple yet divine taste. Awww... I have never tried this sweet, but I just know that I love it!!

In more news, five author - signed copies of Yama's Lieutenant are up for grabs. In order to get your hands on them, please ENTER this contest organized by IndiaBookStore. Goodreads users will be happy to know that there are five more copies of Yama's Lieutenant available in a free giveaway.
For those of you who would like a fantastic read and to help a struggling author make some money please visit Amazon India, Flipkart or Kindle. Be sure to post your reviews as well!

Real Meets Surreal

The book opens in a decrepit Railway station in a “City – State” that has seceded from the “Back – County” which we may surmise is somewhere in the Congolese region abounding with mines. Requiem, a no – gooder who clearly has his sticky fingers in every shady dealing of the criminal persuasion to be made in the city – state is there to meet his writer frenemy, Lucien who conversely is so noble and idealistic, it is ridiculous.

The duo frequent Tram – 83 a popular bar that caters to the runaway appetites of all kinds of humanity such as tourists (for profit or non – profit), miners, officials, students, globalizers, hungry hookers, spies, soldiers, gangsters, journalists, poets, petty thieves and killers. Together, the duo are sucked into the seamy underbelly of a chaotic world run by a corrupt warlord where “the mightier crush the mighty, the mighty defecate in the mouths of the weak, the weak sequestrate the weaker, the weaker do each other in and then split for elsewhere.” 

Tram 83 is dominated by wild, jarring rhythms, smooth sounds and pulsing beats that plunge those in for the ride into a bleak and truly terrifying place whose violence afflicted past has paved the way for a dark reality that is riddled with vice gone on a rampage. It is a dog eat dog world where everybody eats dog kebabs. Of course, this can be discomfiting to say the least. There are too many baby – chicks (underage prostitutes) and notorious child soldiers to be comfortably borne and the degree of exploitation doing the rounds is enough to make even those hardened to the foibles of human nature feel queasy.

Conversations are not straightforward and rudely interrupted by the musings of those in the bar who have little patience for conventional niceties, forcing one to keep up using all the senses if need be. Nearly every page is peppered with the sexual innuendo of those who eat by the sweat of their breasts to paraphrase the author, which definitely cannot be repeated in polite company. Regular homilies on the reigning preoccupation with steatopygia are thrust into every other page. Everything seems to be permeated not only with the rank odor of the regulars but the fouler stench of dull cynicism and lost hope. This is not to say the proceedings are fully dark and dreary interspersed as the narrative is with bright bursts of humor.

   At the center of this maelstrom are the former friends. Requiem takes it all in his stride, throwing himself into the demands of living in such inhospitable terrain with savage determination and ill grace. Lucien on the other hand is practically a caricature who clings to his principles for dear life even when faced with the prospect of rotting in a prison cell. Mujila invites readers to closely examine the viewpoints of both men and take sides, inviting the occasional laugh or shocked gasp while keeping alive the curiosity to see which one will triumph over the course of events that clearly indicate that there are likely to be no winners.

Mujila’s debut has been long listed for the Man Booker Prize and is one of those books which have already won in addition to being in the process of winning, a slew of prestigious awards. Whether this translates into a winning read for the average reader depends on his or her openness towards an unconventional style that takes more than a little getting used to. Some of the stylistic devices and conceits on display such as mind – numbing descriptive lists or constant refrains run the gamut from exasperating to engaging. And yet the author has captured the morass of decay redolent of this land and the teeming undercurrent of vibrancy that is the essence of this unnamed place.

Nothing is sacred here and there is mounting evidence that the horrific past will bury the present and obliterate the future. But even so, Tram 83 may just be worth the visit if you are not unwilling to plunge into the depths of hell for a brief glimpse before getting the heck out of there. 

This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

My Beef with JK Rowling

Book lovers owe JK Rowling a lot. She gave us Harry Potter. For many of us who grew up with the boy who survived, life became more magical for having expanded to include the meticulously detailed world she had created and brought to such glorious life. Thanks to her efforts, millions of readers were birthed throughout the world who would have otherwise spent the developmental phase having their brains turned to bread pudding from overexposure to their Television sets. Instead we all learned to expand our minds and hearts, were taught valuable lessons on the evils of discrimination, intolerance and cruelty to other species in a fun way without ever having to endure being preached at in addition to acquiring a keen appreciation for the Queen’s English. You have to love JK Rowling for this and more.

            In recent times, though I have come to admire Harry Potter’s creator even more, because she doggedly worked on the series and gave us the seven books that were promised without leaving us high and dry like the recalcitrant author of a certain epic fantasy series featuring a delicious plot, violence, nudity and dragons. Having acknowledged her overall awesomeness, let us move on.

 Some of the Potter maniacs (like myself) were less than ecstatic when Rowling sold the movie rights thereby forcing Daniel Radcliffe and the exquisite Emma Watson into our consciousness every time we re – read the books. The casting choice for the latter was particularly galling, since the book clearly describes Hermione Granger as bushy – haired and ‘long – molared’ whereas Emma Watson was the cutie who grew up to be a hottie. And then there was the endless stream of merchandise which was foisted on us by vested commercial interests. How are we supposed to believe in Harry Potter’s innocence and the purity of his soul when he has become a hack coercing us to buy crap we don’t really need? But this was a minor offense compared to what came later.

            When the seventh book came out, Potter fans were delighted that Rowling had seen fit to spare Harry and his two best friends especially after their creator had seemed inclined to go on arbitrary killing sprees which saw her bumping off beloved characters like Dumbledore (I went into hysterics when the great man passed), Sirius Black, Hedwig, Fred, Lupin and Tonks with indecent haste. We bid adieu to the beloved characters who seemed peaceably settled into the humdrum rhythm of a monotonous life. But the author seems to have trouble letting go.

            In the decade since the release of Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows, the last book of the series, Rowling has taken to releasing endless titbits of information related to the Potter World in interviews or via social media. Some revelations were momentous like the bombshell which exploded to reveal Dumbledore was gay and or that Harry and Hermione should have ended up together (Gasps!) while others were trifling, for instance, Teddy Lupin is in Hufflepuff. This compulsive need she seems to have to return to the wizarding world for regular nip and tuck procedures with the occasional augmentation, enhancement or implant while not outright grotesque does seem indicative of a process addiction that does not bode well for the writer and reader both.

            Those who devoured her books word for word tend to feel cheated when all these fresh additions are sneaked into a constantly burgeoning database that is destined to remain unwritten and therefore not technically a part of the story proper. Which is why it is annoying to be told that Dumbledore was gay even if it makes sense because it would made even more sense had it been properly woven into the narrative. Harry and Hermione shared a beautiful friendship without a whiff of romantic love or sexual tension which is why it stank when Rowling shot that all to hell. As for the rest of the tweaking, why not give it a rest already?

It is the sort of thing that makes one suspect her intentions and wonder if it is a marketing ploy to keep interest levels high since there has been official confirmation that there is a Harry Potter sequel play and three prequel films in the works all of which will also be released as books. Hopefully Rowling knows better than to damage the world she has so painstakingly created by reducing sweet Harry to a soul – sucking sell out, fouler than a dementor!

The edited version of this column appeared in The New Indian Express.

            

Drowning in Dumbness

You know that times are bad when headlines are obsessed with the Duchess of Cambridge’s bum. Apparently she had a wardrobe malfunction during her tour of India that may or not have revealed her bare bottom in all its glory and it was all people wished to talk about. Those who could not care less for Princess patootie may have skipped these articles only to be told that Kangana Ranaut and Hrithik Roshan are currently engaged in a mud – slinging match with gobs of the stuff landing on the pope when the odds of a pretty boy landing a date with him was raised. If you were to persist in trying to find something else to read, you may be suckered into a long drawn discussion on the odds of Virat Kohli and Anushka Sharma getting back together because the latter has unlocked the secret to preventing dandruff as well as hair fall in addition to losing another two kilos on her derriere.

            Could it be true that deep down at the core, we are all just shallow, superficial twits? Is there no way to help our inner wannabe intellectual who has long been drowning in the dumbness we imbibe on a regular basis? What about the Zen Philosopher seeking enlightenment or the curious scientist who seeks to solve the world’s pressing problems? Needless to say both are doomed to die as well if we keep feeding them pointless information shovelled out by celeb watchers involving boob jobs gone wrong, leaked videos that chronicle a starlet’s sex life or torrid affairs that bit the dust.

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It is now more important than ever to embrace the inner geek and nerd we are capable of being rather than limit ourselves to being hopelessly enamoured of those who play geeks and nerds with such effusive charm on the Big Bang Theory. After all it is the clever ones among us who figure out ways to solve the problems that plague our planet and invent remarkable gadgets that make our lives so much easier.

Surely we would rather be the genius who figured out a simple, inexpensive, non – violent way to end poverty, racism, illiteracy and disease rather than the vacuous thing who devoted his/her life towards achieving a gym – ripped body that is the envy of pudgy neighbours, bathing in fairness creams so that someone says ‘Wow! You are too fair to be an Indian!’, buffing the body to a fine sheen without gross cellulite or stretchmarks, all so that a prefect Facebook profile pic which comes with a guarantee of 1000 likes might be clicked?

            If yes, it is time to make the effort to become a smart person who knows enough to discuss world politics, science, mathematics, philosophy and current events (excluding the shape of Kate Middleton’s abs post the baby) without aid from a smartphone. To do that it is time to read more sensible shit, eschew buying stuff that promises to get rid of the dusky skin you were born with, try and learn something that will make you a better person and less of a greedy, grasping moron and finally encourage cleverness in yourself as well as in others so that it may grow wings and fly us all away from the morass of stupidity in which we have gone and trapped ourselves.  

An edited version of this piece was carried by The New Indian Express.

PRAISE for SHAKTI!

I got these really sweet emails from my readers and am sharing them with their permissions. They really made my day J

This one is from Rajinder Singh (Dr), Jalandhar: 

Dear Madam,
I have read Shakti and congratulate you  for writing such a wonderful book.   Those of religious bent of mind have only some vague ideas of what our gods and goddesses have been doing without any scruples. Shiva-Brahma-Vishnu, Shiva -Shakti,, Indra-apsras-gandharva, sages and savants find a mention in our religious books. The way you have written in such a forthright manner clears the mist around them. In our Granth Sahib (The Holy Book of the Sikhs) countless references have been to Pauranic characters. Similarly Guru Gobind Singh has written quite a lot about Chandi and Durga and her fight with Mahishasur.  I place this book at a higher pedestal than the most gripping novels, or world classics. Congratulations again. I would like to read your novels also in course of time.  I am also a writer, though a very ordinary. I have written 15 novels in Punjabi and English and Hindi too. I have translated 95 books into English from Punjabi-Hindi-Urdu. Insofar as wirting is concerned I am beholden to you. I have learnt quite a lot from your beautiful style and the great treasure of words/your command over the foreign language (English).

The second one is from Madhu Shikhare, Hyderabad:

Interested in shakti per se and in mythology, i am loving the book.

The context is different many time than my knowledge but its a different view. 

The lanuguage is so rich that being a lover of english language its acting like a healer to my soul where I see the langauge murdered every day. 

Also I cant miss the psychological angle when all is analysed. 

Over all i just loved it thank you so much for this piece of work.

With gods grace someday maybe I can meet you.

JJJ

Converting a Critic while Fighting the Green - Eyed Monster

There are few things that suck as much as a bad review.  And if the bad review is from a good critic it sucks even worse. A couple of years ago, Urmi Chanda - Vaz, who describes herself  as a psychologist by training, a journalist by profession and a mythologist by passion, had this to say about Arjuna: Saga of a Pandava Warrior - Prince in her article Indian Mythological Fiction: What to Read, What to Ditch for Scroll, "Another disappointment in the realm of Indian mythological fiction comes in the form of Anuja Chandramouli’s Arjuna. In yet another retelling of the Mahabharata, the author writes the story from the prime Pandava’s perspective. With so many character-specific retellings in the market and subpar language, there’s nothing new this book has to offer. Her latest book, Kamadeva – The God of Desire chooses an unusual character and one hopes there are more takeaways." (You can check it out here.)

Needless to say, I was crushed but consoled myself with the fact that Ashwin Sanghi and Anand Neelakantan,  were keeping me company on the 'Ditch' list and Urmi had some scathing things to say about their work as well. The thought offered a little solace till harsh reality struck - both are more successful and famous though I am younger and thinner, which last fact notwithstanding, Amazon still went with Ashwin for what I am sure was a super - lucrative advertising deal and the Gods of television chose Anand to script a mega serial. Damn it, no wonder they seem to handle criticism with such grace and poise, two traits I struggle to find in the aftermath of negative reviews! How on Earth does one recover from such trauma without wallowing in petty envy and resentment? Simple, one gets over oneself and keeps going. 

Cut to a couple of years later. I had been pestering Urmi on Facebook, with the occassional cringe - worthy message that went something like this: "Hi!

I just read your article, "Indian Mythological Fiction: What to Read, What to Ditch" and what can I say but ouch! That being said, I hope you do read Kama. Arjuna may not have been the right guy for you but Kama is irresistible and hopefully this time around, you'll be blown away! Regards, Anuja Chandramouli" 

Sometimes I am the world's greatest source of embarrassment to myself and still find it hard to come to terms with the lameness and desperate need to be liked part of me which clashes awfully with the don't - give - a - hot - damn persona, that I worked so hard to cultivate for myself. The critic in question meanwhile was sweet and showed a great deal of restraint while dealing with this pain in the posterior/ irritatingly insecure author. 

When Shakti was out, she promised me a review and was as good as her word. In her assessment of my third, which appeared in Swarajya she had a few observations, " This book had me both delighted and confused. Delighted, because in the realm of mythological fiction Anuja Chandramouli displays great skill...Confused, because its agenda doesn’t seem very clear.I cannot help but call this work ‘moody’ given that it swings so often from the sublime to the violent, from the lofty to the crass. 

When she assumes her beauteous stance, the author’s words sound mellifluous and poetic. But when she gets into her blood-and-gore mode, her language gets crass and the graphic details could put an Eli Roth movie to shame." (You can read the rest here.)

With Ashwin Sanghi, Anand Neelakantan and Arshia Sattar at OLF 2013

This is not exactly a rave review even though she commended me for tackling such a complex subject with "guts and gumption", but I am still over the moon, because it is awesome when readers get you. It was my intention to bring together the sacred and profane; profound and putrid in Shakti, because the way I see it, every single contrasting element in the world may be traced back to the same divine source and hence nobody and nothing is ever exempt from divine grace. That is a happy thought isn't it? Especially for one who admires and respects Ashwin Sanghi and Anand Neelakantan for being lovely human beings and wonderful authors, despite an awful tendency to be jealous of them and as a direct consequence, stooping to the level of making fun of their girth and advanced years. 

The Need for A Balanced Diet Literally Speaking

A lot of folks ask me to recommend books for their children and look somewhat askance when I suggest letting the kids choose for themselves. “But I don’t want my underage child reading trash like 50 Shades of Smut!” they protest vociferously, “Are you saying that they should be allowed to get their hands on that sort of thing?”

            Not exactly. What I mean is that youngsters should be allowed to wander about in the aisles, inhale the delicious aroma of books, soak in the ambience of unlimited stories so that they may hone in on the tomes that speak to them. In the early stages, they may just go with a book because the cover is a virulent shade of their favourite colour with glitter to boot. But gradually they will learn to hearken to the call of the voracious reader within, attuned to the lure of the alluring opus that best meets their needs.

Parents in their enthusiasm to cultivate the burgeoning reading habit of their children tend to nudge them towards books that have educational or moral value which makes the experience feel like the literary equivalent of being force fed broccoli and spinach, thereby inculcating in kids a disdain for books and sending them back into the toxic embrace of television and ipads.

Any bibliophile will tell you that for sheer entertainment value, books are hard to beat. And as with any form of divertissement, tastes are wide – ranging and there is no accounting for it. Calvin and Hobbes is as likely to stimulate the intellect as Socrates or Plato and kids may be morally enriched by a perusal not only of Aesop’s Fables but Archie comics as well.

In the course of their literary wanderings, youngsters may want to wet their whistles in erotica and dip their beaks in novels written in blood with so much graphic gore, they make your standard Quentin Tarantino and Takashi Miike fare seem on par with Disney at its most cuddly. And I say let them. Why do we always assume the worst of our children? Today’s whippersnappers are smart and perfectly capable of making wise choices for themselves.

My father batted an eyelid but just barely when I opted for yet another instalment of Francine Pascal’s Sweet Valley series during our bookstore visits and much later, he might have winced when I informed him that Sade had taken up residence on my reading table. It is to his credit that he trusted me enough to believe that weird though my tastes were shaping up to be, the odds of my becoming a deranged serial killer were remote. Needless to say, his wisdom and forbearance paid off because to the best of my knowledge, I have not gone berserk, embarked on a mass – murdering spree or even done anything remotely illegal. Yet. 

An edited version of this was carried by The New Indian Express in my fortnightly column, For Crying Out Loud. 

The Case against Game of Thrones the TV Show

Disclaimer: This writer is no prude and therefore not liable for direct, indirect, incidental, consequential or other losses and damages incurred from acts of censorship including but not limited to viciously hacking off graphic sex scenes and bleeped out cuss words in a beloved television show resulting from a perusal of this column.

It must be unequivocally admitted that George RR Martin, author of the wildly popular series A Song of Fire and Ice, commonly known as Game of Thrones is all kinds of awesome. However that has not stopped his more rabid fans from frothing at the mouth, when the sexagenarian failed to make good on a promise to finish the hugely anticipated sixth instalment of the series, ‘The Winds of Winter’ before HBO’s ‘Game of Thrones’ Season 6 premieres later this month.

For some, this is hardly the equivalent of the sun failing to rise in the morning or a similar catastrophe of devastating proportions but for the rest of us, who devoured his five offerings in the series, each thousand – page epic tomes of fantasy at its finest only to come to the calamitous realization that he is nowhere close to finished and tends to take a minimum of six years before books it is truly the end of the world and have been known to bawl uncontrollably into our pillows.

After venting their outrage on social media, the great man’s legion of fans have taken to praying fervently to every God out there to preserve the life of the old timer who looked alarmingly feeble and too overweight for the good of his heart when he held up his middle – finger on camera in response to all those who were selfishly worried that he would kick the bucket before writing the last line of his addictive saga set in Westeros.

Others like myself have chosen to take a principled stand against the television show which kidnapped the notoriously slow author, seducing and holding him captive with fat paycheques and impossibly skinny hotties who were very obliging when it came to leaving out the no nudity clause in their contracts with the unhappy result that GRRM has allowed the deadlines to whizz past while simultaneously pissing on every fanboy’s ardent desire to hold the next book in their hands and devour it whole to find out if a certain beloved character is truly dead and a notoriously wishy washy Queen has stopped shitting long enough to save herself and bring her winged monster to heel.

If that were not bad enough, the damn show is not a patch on the book. Initially, I refused to watch it, sticking to my decision to boycott the show for daring to distract GRRM from his noble labours, though others had given in to their desperate need for a Game of Thrones fix, in whatever format, with an embarrassing lack of resistance which made me go tsk and urge myself not to despise them for being weak.

It pains me to relate that my addiction got the better of me as well and forced me to throw myself at the feet of primetime television. And it was all for naught. The show is the book’s poor, plague – afflicted cousin. There are lots of ridiculously pretty people who jump each other’s bones at every miserably contrived opportunity acting on the instigation of their makers who compound their unforgiveable errors by daring to take liberties and diverging from the original script.

In the book, the characters are real and the writing is brilliant. Even the good looking ones get hurt, pass wind and suffer from hair loss, chopped noses and stretchmarks like normal folks. There is sex aplenty but it has the master’s touch which makes it engaging and arousing not groan – worthy like in the TV show, where nearly everybody is groomed to within an inch of their lives, boasting buff and hairless bodies as they moan and groan en route to the earth – shattering orgasms that form the climax of all that simulated sex. Who cares about the realistic dialogue when the sex scenes are amped up to the point where it is hilarious?

The entire thing is a blatant crime against good fiction and should not go unpunished. On behalf of fans everywhere, I beseech GRRM to save us before we once again fling every semblance of dignity aside to glue our eyes to the television screen in order to get high on Game of Thrones, even if it is a cheap fix.

An edited version of this was featured in The New Indian Express for my awesome fortnightly column, For Crying out Loud!  

A TALE OF ENTWINED ECSTASY

Book Review: Rosalyn D'Mello's A Handbook for my Lover

Rosalyn D’Mello’s A Handbook for my Lover, which she asserts isn’t entirely fictional, is so exquisitely crafted and erotically charged it took my breath away. A young writer strips her relationship with her much older photographer lover of every scrap of clothing, leaving it nakedly exposed and bathed in the intense glow cast by the sheer poetry of her elegant prose, inviting bystanders to revel in the haze of sensuous introspection and be a voyeuristic onlooker, included within a love affair in progress.

            This is one striptease that is remarkably free of all things obscene even at its most brazen when the stripper dwells at length on the taboo thrill of “…manusturprare, to defile with the hand”, intercourse during “monthly spillage”, the perils and pleasures of traversing “the universe of love and the paradise of sex”, discovering the ecstasy of feasting on the delights down under or the hazards posed by an unbearably long dry spell in the boudoir in the course of a relationship that occasionally flounders because it has no destination. No subject pertaining to matters of the heart is shied away from and D’Mello flashes a light on every hidden nook, cranny and unwashed crevice in the landscape of love, scrutinizing it till she and her passenger have both had their fill of gazing.

            A skilfully constructed memorabilia, this handbook celebrates the joy of living life voraciously, hedonistically and with wild abandon, greedily gorging on every particle of pleasure that the human existence affords, be it a Chilean Red with wood – fired pizza, truly epic sex or the slow honing of one’s craft against the flesh and blood of an all – consuming passion. Interestingly enough for a work of erotica, A Handbook offers equal if not more insight into the fine art of conceiving and creating art be it writing or photography as it does love and lovemaking.

Bolstered by pithy inputs from fellow romantic conquistadors skilled in gathering together gems of wisdom and pinning it down on paper like Roland Barthes, Alain de Botton, Sylvia Plath, Jane Austen, Jacques Derrida and Kamala Das, D’Mello lovingly assembles the pieces of her grand love story while flipping the bird at absurd convention. With endearing candour she reveals her insecurity about her dark complexion which pre-empted her need to be desired and deep – seated wish for “earthly delights with all the seven deadly sins for company.” Her lusty revelations of sexual escapades, tampons made of toilet paper, and inability to walk away from the man who was the fount of her agony and ecstasy makes for a book that is to be slowly savoured and thoroughly enjoyed. 

Too many books, TV shows and movies have been devoted to the tired subject of romantic love with its attendant mundane, low octane drama rendered at a feverish pitch, inclusive of every form of physical and emotional chouchou that is usually irritating and occasionally uplifting or arousing. What makes A Handbook stand out is the raw honesty and sheer ballsiness of the author, who is also possessed of an impressive ability to string together a sentence with stylish craftsmanship as well as profound intensity.

Even more importantly, it is a formidable effort in an increasingly intolerant climate where women are encourage to cower behind their dupattas and pretend to be coy, inexperienced virgins till they kick the bucket. How then can it be possible to resist the unstoppable D’Mello who says of herself, “I am all cunt, all receptacle, all slush.”? More power to her and the other women out there who refuse to be afraid.

This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express

Like Dogs and Diamonds, Make Books Best Friends

The naysayers and prophets of doom would have you believe that printed books are an endangered species, e-books are a fad that won’t last, newspapers and magazines will be merged with toilet paper manufacturers in hostile takeovers and reading itself is a dying pastime. Fortunately for lovers of the written word, I can confidently assert that this is a load of alarmist crock and there is no need for wordsmiths to kill themselves just yet.

Studies conducted by myself, with scant regard for methodology, statistics, analysis etcetera, thereby being entirely bereft of scientific merit have revealed that there are readers out there who wade through pages and pages while munching on crunchy apples or crunchier chips (depending on their waistline) and have every intention of doing so till the end of their days. That is the good news. Now for the bad.

            Contrary to what a certain gung ho commercial for an online shopping website would have you believe about the great multitudes out there who read from dawn to dusk, there are not quite as many readers out there as authors would like, to ensure the fulfilment of their wildest get rich fantasies. The sad truth is that people would rather shell out beaucoup bucks for fairness creams, pet Jacuzzis, fancy sports cars and boob jobs rather than a reasonably priced book or even one that is being sold at an indecently discounted rate.

            This can be amended using a few simple but insanely effective measures recommended by the brains behind the aforementioned unscientific research:

 Forbidden Fruit

Instead of begging their kids to pick up a book in the hope that they will actually learn something, parents would do well to expressly forbid reading under their roofs. And that goes double for textbooks. And as quickly as that, books will acquire the lustre of uninterrupted time with the TV/Ipad or Sapphic erotica and inspire similar passion with the end result that the youngster will never have enough of books for the rest of his or her natural life. Mission accomplished, thank you very much!

Embrace Cutting – Edge Technology

 It is time the print vs e – book factions put their differences behind them to make common cause against the enemy. By pooling resources they can hire the geniuses who come up with sexy gadgets to knock themselves out trying to invent XBooks that give the reader facials, botox treatments, help them burn fat and plug the hole in the ozone layer even as they immerse themselves in the plot. With a product like this Smartphones can suck it!  

Have Faith

Like dogs and diamonds, books are our best friends and are forever. Believe in the magic of stories and they will never die.

From my fortnightly column for The New Indian Express, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! which originally appeared here.  

FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!

So here it is! My brand new fortnightly column for The New Indian Express. :)

CONGRATULATIONS PINTO FOR EM AND A BIG BOO TO US!

Renowned author, Jerry Pinto has bagged himself a biggie – Yale University’s $150,000 Windham – Campbell Prize for his ground-breaking debut novel, Em and the Big Hoom. An impressive feat which has the desi literary community applauding him on every social networking platform there is and rightfully so. It is always heartening to see home-grown talent celebrated on a global scale.

            Having nobly fought off waves of bitter envy that saw me angrily remonstrating with the powers that govern the universe, “Why God, why? This is so unfair… How come bloody Yale noticed Jerry Pinto and not me?” and so on, I moved on gracefully to read what the Windham – Campbell Prize winner had to say for himself.

            Pinto was magnanimous and humble in victory making it a point to stress that the prize was not the result of individual genius but “…many forces and factors that conspired in the most wonderful way to bring me here.” It has to be admitted that the man is really sweet in addition to being prodigiously talented and deserved the win.

            He goes on to say that the prize left him gobsmacked because, “When one writes literary fiction one knows it is not going to sell a tremendous amount…” Now that is a munch - worthy point and entirely heart-breaking, simply because it is the hard truth that paints a dismal picture of our country and its readers. Why is it that we have trouble celebrating or even identifying the best and brightest minds here?

            It is not as if this is the first time Pinto has received recognition for his work. Previously, he won the Hindu Literary Prize as well as the Crossword Book Award, but even so, it is highly unlikely that these translated into massive book sales and got him anything more than hearty backslapping in a limited circle whereas Salman Rushdie, Arundhati Roy, Aravind Adiga, Kiran Desai and the rest of the Booker Prize winning brigade command so much more respect here. Now my grouse is not with the aforementioned literary heavy weights who deserve all the plaudits they have won but the fact that we refuse to take anyone in any field barring cricket seriously unless they have been endorsed and feted by the West. It is scary that we are so accustomed to mediocrity that we no longer have what it takes to nurture brilliance.

            On the one hand we have critics dipping their quills in acid every time a certain universally reviled and envied bestselling author comes out with a novel because a sesquipedalian he is not and on the other, most authors with a penchant for polysyllabic propensity are told to dumb it down because the average ADHD afflicted Indian reader can’t be bothered with grandiloquent prose. Naturally this explains why Indian writing has been unable to find the sweet spot between readable swill and unreadable brilliance.

            It is to be hoped that Jerry Pinto’s big win will inspire reader and author alike to take it up a notch and be pursuers of literary excellence. On that note, here’s hoping the Pulitzer Prize Committee is smitten with my brilliant column otherwise the only people who are going to be enriched by its scintillating points are my editor and Dad! 

An edited version of this piece was published in TNIE and you can read it here.

                                 

A Review to Make the Heart Hum and A Tip for Making Mahashivaratri Special!

This is what Lyn, one of the #22 best reviewers on Goodreads, had to say about my SHAKTI: The Divine Feminine :)

As a man reading this, and a Western man at that, I had to open my mind to ideas I had only a prior flirting awareness. Chandamouli has crafted this as a theological, spiritual narrative and I was reminded of Norman Mailer’s evocativeAncient Evenings, his historical fictional treatise on Egyptian mythology. Chandamouli explores Indian and Hindu myth with a fresh eye for detail and a storyteller’s talent. 

The author has researched her subject well and this novel is a wealth of information. But more than just an encyclopedia of Hindu knowledge, Chandamouli is a talented writer and makes this story come alive. Like Mailer’s Egyptian story, Chandamouli creates a historic depth for the pantheon and the reader is guided on a tour of the religion. The author tells of legends within legends and adds specificity to her design.

You can read the rest here.

Also, this MahaShivaratri (March 7th), draw closer to SHIVA with SHAKTI! Be sure to pick up a copy at one of the links below! 

Amazon India
Flipkart
Kindle

POETIC PROMISE OF A LOST TALE

Book Review: Paul M.M Cooper’s River of Ink

Paul M.M Cooper’s River of Ink, is the tale of reluctant revolutionary – a poet who believes that poetry makes nothing happen. Asanka is the court poet of King Parakrama and was enjoying the high life when the ruthless Kalinga Magha, usurps the throne of Lanka, and sends his existence plummeting into a world of endless turmoil. Forced to accept the tyrant’s order to translate a Sanskrit text on Shishupal, into Tamil (a dubious decision, given the bloody history between the Tamils and Sinhalese which is scarcely touched upon) he discovers that words do have power and may just triumph where the sword has failed. 

It is a potent premise. Yet, it falls well shy of delivering the goods. Perhaps, it is because while Cooper is clearly earnest and sincere in his attempt to chronicle a slice of Sri Lankan history, his alien sensibility constantly jars in the otherwise colourful narrative he has almost brought to life.

For instance, it is hard to buy the typically thankless character of the wife, Madhusha who just refuses to be understanding while her husband is carrying on with a comely maid. She walks out on Asanka, helping herself to his money and leaving a curt note. I did not believe it for a second.

 Women of that era, used to the perks of a cushy life, did not usually go traipsing off into the surrounding war – torn country in a huff, like the feisty belles so admired in contemporary times with their husband’s money unless they had an especial desire to be gang – raped and murdered. Besides, Madhusha was a country mouse with no taste for life in the capital city of Polonnaruwa. It seems highly unlikely that she would know how to write.

Kalinga Magha is equally problematic since the author seems keen to portray him as a savage with a poet’s soul. A Genghis Khan meets Oscar Wilde if you will. When he is not lopping off heads, gouging out eyes, and supressing rebels with an iron fist, the tyrant is keen on promoting his brand of art and indulging his appetite for pretty young things. Which is why it hardly makes sense that he would want to marry the lowly maid sans the maidenhood, the very same one, Asanka is so passionately in love with, instead of ordering her into his bed. This sort of thing makes it all seem hopelessly contrived.

Cooper has clearly done some research but in the chapter on Yudhisthira, there is an error. It is written that the grand horse sacrifice was conducted after twelve years spent in exile, the unhappy result of a lost game of dice to the trickster, Shakuni. In Vyasa’s epic though, the Pandavas went into hiding after Duryodhana’s attempt to burn them alive at Varanavata. The horse sacrifice is performed only after the Pandavas are spotted at Draupadi’s swayamvara and given five small villages to start afresh. The infamous game of dice and exile came after.

In this fashion, The River of Ink, meanders on along its improbable course while clumsily setting up a twist that the discerning reader can follow through to its conclusion, almost at the moment of its introduction. A valiant if disappointing effort from Cooper. 

This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express which you can read here.

Laugh till you are too Pooped to Pop!

Book Review: Krishna Shastri Devulapalli’s How to be a Literation Sensation: A Quick Guide to Exploiting Friends, Family and Facebook for Financial Artistic Gain

The title of Krishna Shastri Devulapalli’s new book, How to be a Literary Sensation: A Quick Guide to Exploiting Friends, Family and Facebook for Financial Artistic Gain is a tad misleading since it is hardly the opiate so desperately sought by the countless wannabe authors out there, seeking a surcease from their writing related woes and finding a way to overtake the likes of Chetan Bhagat and Amish Tripathi, leaving them to choke on the dust. However it is just the thing for those who are pleasantly contemplating murdering their shrinks for having prescribed laughter therapy over stronger prescription drugs. India’s self – proclaimed number 1 non – bestselling humour writer does not so much tickle the funny bone as have kinky sex with it and ought to come with a warning since he is likely to leave you paralyzed with gaiety. 

Unlike the macho types who proudly display bulging biceps and buns of steel to camouflage the cowering lily – livered coward in them who says and does nothing that is not blandly inoffensive and lawyer – vetted, KSC displays king – sized cojones by being as politically incorrect as it is humanly possible to be. He takes on the sacred cows of art, literature, home and hearth in addition to priceless nuggets drawn from everyday life for that strange breed known to civilized society as ‘writers’ to milk it for all the ribaldry and irreverence that can be squeezed out.

The result is a feast guaranteed to induce fits of mirth, an endless stream of chuckles and chortles not to mention giggles by the gallon that will be so infectious that even as the hapless reader is being carted off to a psychiatric facility, the bulky warders are likely to laugh themselves silly as they usher said individual into a padded cell and fasten the restraints. It is that hilarious!

Mrs. Sarvamangalam, the lady who KSD reveals taught him English may sniff a little at the haphazard way in which his various articles have been squeezed together to have some semblance of a How To book that ladles out advice on clearing obstacles to a flourishing literary career with effortless ease and choke on his talk of “rural testicles unfettered by underwear flapping in the wind”, bouncing bosoms, male hardness, personal orifices and the like. If she were the nit-picking sort she would have groused over his excessive reference to FabIndia kurtas, veg bondas, and his gun – toting mother – in - law but she would have still given him points for ingenuity and the sheer lengths he goes to in order to induce bouts of unwholesome hilarity.

It is truly unfortunate that even the best of humourists don’t get their due and are given a bum steer by award committees the world over. Making people laugh is a hard job to say the least and KSD does a fantastic job for which alone he deserves laurels enough to bury him under. His book is not without its flaws but the gales of laughter it relentlessly provokes makes it a must read. Though the reader may not be able to remember the precise something or nothing that was so gosh darn funny, it will surprisingly be possible to take away from between the pages, a portrait of the desperate artiste willing to sell body, soul and mother if it means being drawn into the bosom of the Goddess of Success in order to suckle contentedly on her teats of fame and fortune, till engorged with excess.
This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

In Honour of SHAKTI!

My mum did this lovely Rangoli in honour of Shakti: The Divine Feminine!

Mash's Kolams

My dear friend, Shruthi Rao created this darling customized Shroodle!

Shroodles

And you can grab your copy of Shakti: The Divine Feminine at Amazon India Paperback, Amazon India Kindle Version, Flipkart, Amazon Kindle. 

Book Review: Orhan Pamuk's "A Strangeness in my Mind"

It must be confessed that following a laboured perusal of Pamuk’s The Black Book and The Museum of Innocence, this reviewer was forced to conclude that the Noble Laureate’s prose was self – indulgent, lugubrious and tedious in the extreme, which leaves one bored to tears and balked at the prospect of wading through nearly 600 pages of his latest novel. Happily, though, Orhan Pamuk is one of the few authors who evolve and churn out their best stuff, after getting over themselves and the fact that they were heavily feted relatively early in their careers. His writing is more beautiful than ever and no longer sterile but infused with warmth, wit and gentle pathos.

A Strangeness in my Mind is a marvel of storytelling that traverses through forty years of history as it chronicles the life of a lowly street vendor, Mevlut Karatas of the boyish good looks and sweet disposition. Born in a tiny village in rural Anatolia, he migrates with his father to Istanbul at the age of 12 and finds himself grappling with a succession of failures as he struggles with schooling, political activism, a stint in the army, and petty business ventures that include peddling yoghurt, boza, ice cream, cooked rice and chicken, managing a small café and a turn as the Junior inspector for an electric company. The highlight of Mevlut’s early days included stalking an attractive stranger and endless stolen moments devoted solely to masturbation.

At his cousin Korkut’wedding, Mevlut falls madly in love with the bride’s exquisite 13 – year old sister. For the next three years, he pours his passion into painstakingly compiled letters addressed to her “languid eyes” which are like “ensorcelled arrows” and “bandits cutting across his path” plus similarly hilarious fare. His cousin Suleymen, volunteers to bring the lovers together and tricks Mevlut into eloping with Rayiha, the less attractive older sister of the object of his desire, to whom the letters had been delivered. A bemused Mevlut deals with this turn of affairs with the doggedness and acceptance that is so characteristic of him.

Every one of his relatives and friends go on to amass riches spurred on by the burgeoning prosperity of Istanbul forced into being by the political corruption as well as private greed of its citizens. Obstinately honest, success continues to elude him and yet he is the only one who seems to have unlocked the doorway to true happiness for it is his life which is graced with convivial bliss, cherished familial ties, fulfilment and inner tranquillity even as he remains mired in poverty.

Throughout the major upheavals in the capital and the myriad changes in his personal life, Mevlut sells boza, “a traditional Asian beverage made of fermented wheat, with a thick consistency, a pleasant aroma, a dark, yellowish colour, and low alcohol content” by night. It has been supplanted by raki in traditional Turkish homes, but people still buy a glass induced by nostalgia and the emotion in Mevlut’s voice as he meanders through the streets of the city which he realizes has become an extension of the light and darkness in his own mind.

This is by far Orhan Pamuk’s most joyous novel though conflict and tragedy there is aplenty from political coups, violence between the Turks and Kurds, murder of a dear friend and a primitive abortion attempt that claims a life. Through it all Mevlut taps into his indomitable optimism and “his knack for finding the easiest and least distressing way through any situation.” His saga unfolds in the third person though a host of characters intervene to make sure their voices are heard as well, imbuing the reader with the profound love, wonder and pride they feel for their Turkish identity and the city of Istanbul that threw open its arms and drew them into its bosom.

An edited version of this review appeared in the New Indian Express which you can read here.

A Lovely Review to Start the Year with!

Sakshi Nanda, winner of BlogAdda's Notable Newbie award and Indiblogger's Pan India Blogging contest had some very interesting to say about Shakti: The Divine Feminine. In her words, it is a "A formidable book that first exposes and then inspires thought about our reality, albeit through the Heavens above." Do read the rest of it here.

Love this photo of Shakti!