tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77438606143469198192024-02-07T21:05:45.838-08:00My writing lifeSusmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-70365679160389866722020-04-27T05:40:00.001-07:002020-04-27T05:41:01.678-07:00Stay at Home Lit Festival Fringe 27 April 2020<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Thanks for joining me this morning at the #stayathomefringe Morning Workout.<br />
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Here are the prompts I used today.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Ideas are a tricky kettle of fish. Some writers like to lay traps for them and surprise them at dawn. Others go hunting at night with sharpened pencils and alcohol. But ideas are not always on the run: sometimes, they chase you, and ambush you at surprising moments: they hide in atmospheric pieces of music, in beautiful pictures, and childhood memories. They can be particularly troublesome at night when they have been known to disturb the sleep of unwary writers. To protect yourself from such nocturnal encounters always keep a pen and notebook by your bed: this almost certainly guarantees that no ideas will ever come to you at night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">-Helen Newell</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">(The road to somewhere: A creative writing companion)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Prompt 1:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">List 10 items/Objects that come to your mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Now choose a few of these items that could be inside your character’s handbag/backpack. </span><span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book"; text-indent: -0.33in;">What</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book"; text-indent: -0.33in;">observations can you make of this character?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Write 250 words, describing this character, including some of the items listed above, in a situation</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">where he/she is preparing to go out to meet somebody.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Prompt 2</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">‘</span><span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">In fiction, however, dialogue is one of the main characterisation tools at the writer’s disposal. I would say it is the main function. So I see dialogue as an adjunct of characterisation, not plot. It does of course have a lesser function, that of </span><span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">dramatisation</span><span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">, moving the plot forward. Invariable, if a writer uses dialogue purely as a conveyor of information, it sounds clunky, and inorganic.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book"; font-style: italic;">- Character, characterisation, Dialogue and Language, Tobias Hill from Short Circuit – A guide to the Art of the Short Story ed. Vanessa </span><span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book"; font-style: italic;">Gebbie</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Write a scene of about 200 words, where the character's feelings change from the first to the second expression given in the following:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">ANGRY –ASHAMED </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">EXHAUSTED- EXCITED </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">UNINTERESTED – ENTHUSIASTIC </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">BASHFUL – CONFIDENT</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Prompt 3</span></div>
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<a href="about:invalid#zClosurez" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";"><b>Your Childhood Bed</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Think about your childhood bed. Make a few notes describing the bed. Use your senses to describe what it looked like. What it smelled like. What it felt like </span><span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">etc</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book"; text-indent: 0px;">(Note: It doesn’t have to be your own childhood bed. But it needs to be a bed from the past. Perhaps a bed you slept in at your grandparents, or at boarding school, or at the summer Guide camp, hospital </span><span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book"; text-indent: 0px;">etc</span><span style="text-indent: 0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Then move your focus to the room. Write short notes about the room. It needs to correspond to the bed you have chosen in the earlier exercise. Make quick notes about the room. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book"; font-style: italic;">Think about the quality of the light, the details of your setting, the colours, smells, sounds of the place you describe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Take this scene and compose it following the pattern: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Long Shot – Middle Shot – Close Up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Now take the same scene, but compose it inverting the order of the presentation: </span><span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Close Up</span><span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";"> – Middle Shot – Long Shot. (You can use different images.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">How does the order of the presentation change or affect the mood. Which order was more effective for what you tried to achieve, which was easier to use? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "franklin gothic book";">Hope you found these prompts helpful... Enjoy the rest of the festival and keep in touch :)</span></div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-67118597983677868132020-04-07T01:48:00.002-07:002020-04-07T02:45:00.339-07:00Stay at Home Festival - Writing Flash Fiction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Flash Fiction Workshop<o:p></o:p></div>
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What is flash fiction… <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The guidelines for the Smokelong Quarterly advise:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->language that surprises<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->narratives that strive toward something other than a final punch line or twist<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->pieces that add up to something, oftentimes (but not necessarily always) meaning or emotional resonance<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->honest work that feels as if it has far more purpose than a writer wanting to write a story<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="tp://www.smokelong.com/submissions/guidelines/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">http://www.smokelong.com/submissions/guidelines/</span></a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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What makes great flash fiction:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->How to write flash fiction:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Start in the middle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Don’t use too many characters.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Make sure the ending isn’t at the end.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Sweat your title.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Make your last line ring like a bell.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">•<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Write long, then go short.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>- David Gaffney, <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2012/may/14/how-to-write-flash-fiction" style="color: #954f72; text-decoration: underline;">Stories in your pocket: how to write flash fiction</a>, The Guardian</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Different approaches: Hermit crab style<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">These stories, which make use of ready-made templates such as recipes, board-meeting minutes and shopping lists, are a great way for experimenting with form in short fiction</span>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://www.hippocampusmagazine.com/2017/04/craft-4-new-ways-to-tell-your-stories-by-nicole-breit/">https://www.hippocampusmagazine.com/2017/04/craft-4-new-ways-to-tell-your-stories-by-nicole-breit/</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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Examples: <a href="https://jellyfishreview.wordpress.com/2017/10/13/collective-nouns-for-humans-in-the-wild-by-kathy-fish/">https://jellyfishreview.wordpress.com/2017/10/13/collective-nouns-for-humans-in-the-wild-by-kathy-fish/</a><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Instructions:10 minutes<o:p></o:p></div>
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How to build a home<o:p></o:p></div>
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How to leave the country<o:p></o:p></div>
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How to tame a lion<o:p></o:p></div>
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How to become a writer<o:p></o:p></div>
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How to throw a party<o:p></o:p></div>
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How to spend your money<o:p></o:p></div>
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How to cook in a lockdown<o:p></o:p></div>
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How to live in self-isolation<o:p></o:p></div>
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How to talk to your father/ mother<o:p></o:p></div>
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Choose one and start free writing. Take note – while the instruction is given in future tense, the story will emerge as past tense…instruction is given in second person – produces a unique tone that becomes the focus of the story. <o:p></o:p><br />
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- Adapted from Barrie Llewlyn's prompt in Teaching Creative Writing - ed Elaine Walker</div>
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HW Write a playlist for a character. What is the relationship of the playlist creator with this character? <o:p></o:p><br />
An example:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznIK49-gopqiuN2i2m7bRkwF_YR-4_7jiRW1N4-pzZ-fD2wvVvZ70WcehZXUc_MNXi0iG-z5mCz2DZiiJFhpmXjQ6UQZCRKKw80622Irw2m5z_PH0eHzEUjhaWdh_6f-CJ6ERmgFQgsRr/s1600/playlist.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1145" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznIK49-gopqiuN2i2m7bRkwF_YR-4_7jiRW1N4-pzZ-fD2wvVvZ70WcehZXUc_MNXi0iG-z5mCz2DZiiJFhpmXjQ6UQZCRKKw80622Irw2m5z_PH0eHzEUjhaWdh_6f-CJ6ERmgFQgsRr/s640/playlist.JPG" width="457" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from Flash Fiction Festival Three (Ad Hoc Fiction, 2019)</td></tr>
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Write the same incident from 3 different perspectives<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">A character arrives late to a party, not knowing that an old significant other is attending too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The relationship didn’t end well. The host introduces them to each other, unaware of <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">their history. In 300 words or less, write the scene from three POVs: The late arriver, the ex <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">and the host.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">•The late arrive – 1</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 8pt;">st</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> person POV<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">•The ex – 2</span><sup><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 8pt;">nd</span></sup><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> Person POV<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">• The host – 3</span><sup><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 8pt;">rd</span></sup><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> Person POV.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr style="height: 29.2pt;"><td style="border-color: white; border-style: solid; border-width: 1pt 1pt 3pt; height: 29.2pt; padding: 3.6pt 7.2pt; width: 320pt;" valign="top" width="427"><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Smokelong Quarterly</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">EllipsisZine</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Flashback Fiction</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Reflex Fiction</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Flash – The International Short Short Story Magazine</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Cabinet of Heed</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Lunate </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Fictive Dream</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Lost Balloon</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Okay Donkey</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Spelk</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Storgy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">TSS Publishing</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">VirtualZine</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Zero Flash</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Train</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">The Fiction Pool</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Ad Hoc Fiction</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Bare Fiction</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Pank</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Litro</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Flash Fiction Online</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">F( r)iction</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Jellyfish Review</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">You can follow me on Twitter: @susmitatweets</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Short Story in a Weekend course: <a href="https://www.profwritingacademy.com/">https://www.profwritingacademy.com</a></span><br />
<br />
My favourite flash fiction (my own, I mean): <a href="https://www.ellipsiszine.com/a-lesson-in-shadow-puppetry-learnt-the-difficult-way-by-susmita-bhattacharya/">https://www.ellipsiszine.com/a-lesson-in-shadow-puppetry-learnt-the-difficult-way-by-susmita-bhattacharya/</a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Hope you enjoyed the session! Have a lovely day :) </span></div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-49969676639609963762020-04-03T23:44:00.000-07:002020-04-04T02:12:33.317-07:00Stay At Home Fest Readings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHCtIt0HHcONX1GeP3XCcgJ-QtB2GOwfBgTLnU2ypJ5-_jhnxmbntjONBr-1x9_ZM26WDiXKzISsGrcjE8Yqvt-k-HfxcCe7CfH8WrF6wtO0Ee7TkSNYrRqbKFxDJqBZ2GUHkx49uDSMK/s1600/783998B6-7417-4030-A41E-6AB41B46CFD3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHCtIt0HHcONX1GeP3XCcgJ-QtB2GOwfBgTLnU2ypJ5-_jhnxmbntjONBr-1x9_ZM26WDiXKzISsGrcjE8Yqvt-k-HfxcCe7CfH8WrF6wtO0Ee7TkSNYrRqbKFxDJqBZ2GUHkx49uDSMK/s320/783998B6-7417-4030-A41E-6AB41B46CFD3.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Hi everyone,<br />
<br />
Here are a a couple of links to short story writing and a selection of short story openings. You can follow me on Twitter @Susmitatweets and I will share more short story links there throughout the day. Do share your story openings with me on Twitter.<br />
<br />
Happy Writing!<br />
Susmita<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.profwritingacademy.com/">https://www.profwritingacademy.com</a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2013/07/why-stephen-king-spends-months-and-even-years-writing-opening-sentences/278043/" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="color: windowtext;">https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2013/07/why-stephen-king-spends-months-and-even-years-writing-opening-sentences/278043/</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blog.reedsy.com/how-to-write-a-short-story/" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">https://blog.reedsy.com/how-to-write-a-short-story/</span></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #954f72; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://lithub.com/25-alice-munro-stories-you-can-read-online-right-now/" style="color: #954f72;">https://lithub.com/25-alice-munro-stories-you-can-read-online-right-now/</a></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">My friend Herb McGinnis, a cardiologist, was talking. The four of us were sitting around his kitchen table drinking gin. It was Saturday afternoon. Sunlight filled the kitchen from the big window behind the sink. There were Herb and I and his second wife, Teresa—Terri, we called her—and my wife, Laura. We lived in Albuquerque, but we were all from somewhere else. There was an ice bucket on the table. The gin and the tonic water kept going around, and we somehow got on the subject of love. Herb thought real love was nothing less than spiritual love. When he was young he’d spent five years in a seminary before quitting to go to medical school. He’d left the Church at the same time, but he said he still looked back to those years in the seminary as the most important in his life.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> <i>Beginners- Raymond Carver, New Yorker<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I once met a man with a 40-litre monkey. He measured all his animals by volume. His Dalmatian was small, only 18 litres, but his cat, a Prussian blue, was huge – five litres, when most cats are three. He owned a pet shop just off Portobello Road. I needed a new pet for my girlfriend because our last two had just killed each other.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">‘The ideal pet,’ the owner told me, ‘is twelve litres. That makes them easy enough to pick up, but substantial enough for romping without risk of injury. What did you have?’</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">‘A gecko,’ I replied. ‘I guess he was about half a pint.’</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">‘You use imperial?’ The man smirked and gestured towards a large vivarium in the corner. ‘Iguana,’ he said. ‘Six litres, and still growing.’</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">‘Oh right,’ I said. ‘I also had a cat. She must have been four litres, maybe more.’</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">‘Are you sure?’ He asked. ‘Was she a longhair, because they look big, but when you dunk them they’re small, like skinny rats.’</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">- The 40-Litre Monkey, Adam Marek</span></i><i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Two of us have been watching telly and as of last minute I’m the one heading to the shop. A game of rock paper scissors is usually what it takes for me and my housemate Hannah to decide who’s doing what between us, and now I’ve lost the best of three rounds I’ve to peel myself from our duvet nest and get going. You enjoy it, I say. Hannah says she will, her head dunking back into the covers, her phone a periscope that’s snapping a picture of my defeat. Post that and you’re dead, I tell her. I’m in my comfiest clothes, greasy hair balled into a bread roll shape on top of my head, and no one needs to see that. I slide into our other housemate Smurf’s bubble jacket that I know he won’t mind me borrowing, then I take the angora scarf from the peg in Hannah’s room. I won’t, Hannah calls out. She’s such a liar.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Some Rivers Meet- James Clarke, Granta<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Pranab Chakraborty wasn’t technically my father’s younger brother. He was a fellow-Bengali from Calcutta who had washed up on the barren shores of my parents’ social life in the early seventies, when they lived in a rented apartment in Central Square and could number their acquaintances on one hand. But I had no real uncles in America, and so I was taught to call him Pranab Kaku. Accordingly, he called my father Shyamal Da, always addressing him in the polite form, and he called my mother Boudi, which is how Bengalis are supposed to address an older brother’s wife, instead of using her first name, Aparna. After Pranab Kaku was befriended by my parents, he confessed that on the day we first met him he had followed my mother and me for the better part of an afternoon around the streets of Cambridge, where she and I tended to roam after I got out of school. He had trailed behind us along Massachusetts Avenue, and in and out of the Harvard Coop, where my mother liked to look at discounted housewares. He wandered with us into Harvard Yard, where my mother often sat on the grass on pleasant days and watched the stream of students and professors filing busily along the paths, until, finally, as we were climbing the steps to Widener Library so that I could use the bathroom, he tapped my mother on the shoulder and inquired, in English, if she might be a Bengali. The answer to his question was clear, given that my mother was wearing the red and white bangles unique to Bengali married women, and a common Tangail sari, and had a thick stem of vermillion powder in the center parting of her hair, and the full round face and large dark eyes that are so typical of Bengali women. He noticed the two or three safety pins she wore fastened to the thin gold bangles that were behind the red and white ones, which she would use to replace a missing hook on a blouse or to draw a string through a petticoat at a moment’s notice, a practice he associated strictly with his mother and sisters and aunts in Calcutta. Moreover, Pranab Kaku had overheard my mother speaking to me in Bengali, telling me that I couldn’t buy an issue of </span><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Archie</span></i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> at the Coop. But back then, he also confessed, he was so new to America that he took nothing for granted, and doubted even the obvious.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Hell Heaven- Jhumpa Lahiri, New Yorker<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">At first, people kept phoning, to make sure that Nita was not too depressed, not too lonely, not eating too little or drinking too much. (She had been such a diligent wine drinker that many forgot that she was now forbidden to drink at all.) She held them off, without sounding nobly grief-stricken or unnaturally cheerful or absent-minded or confused. She said that she didn’t need groceries; she was working through what she had on hand. She had enough of her prescription pills and enough stamps for her thank-you notes.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Free Radicals – Alice Munro, New Yorker<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Daniel stands in the funnel, a narrow path between two high brick walls that join the playground to the estate proper. On windy days, the air is forced through here then spun upwards in a vortex above the square of so-called grass between the four blocks of flats. Anything that isn’t nailed down becomes airborne. Washing, litter, dust. Grown men have been knocked off their feet. A while back there was a story going round about a flying cat.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">- The Gun, Mark Haddon</span></i><i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I cut my boyfriend in half; it was what we both wanted. I said once we could double our time together. He said he could be twice as productive. I don’t think it would have worked with just anyone at any time. It had to be now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Daniel got a spade off his mother that belonged to his father, and to his father – both men who were never really all there. He lay on the bench in the concrete back garden, knees bent to squeeze in. The yard was carpeted with silver slug trails. I suppose we could have used the kitchen floor, but I didn’t want to scratch the tiles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">- Don’t Try This at Home, Angela Readman<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>The Prompts:</b></span></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Life story as prompts:</span></strong><span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 29, 29); font-size: 10.5pt;">For this exercise, create a character whose life story you'd like to follow through. It is important that you find one important/surprising event or </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 29, 29); font-size: 14px;">experience</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 29, 29); font-size: 10.5pt;"> during that decade to write about. It doesn't have to be life-changing, and can be something small that is important only for the character...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">i) Write down one surprising feature of your characters birth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">ii) Write down one surprising thing that happens to your character from birth to age ten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">iii) Write down one surprising thing that happens to your character from the ages of ten to twenty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">iv) Write down one surprising thing that happens to your character between the ages of twenty and thirty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">v) Write down one surprising thing that happens to your character between the ages of thirty and forty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">vi) Write down one surprising thing that happens to your character between the ages of forty and fifty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">vii) Write down one thing that happens to your character between the ages of fifty and sixty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">viii) Write down one thing that happens to your character between the ages of sixty and seventy.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">ix) Write one surprising thing about your character’s death. Perhaps they died at an earlier age, or perhaps they have lived in to their seventies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 29, 29); font-size: 10.5pt;">Now you have 9 different story openings, or one entire story eg Claire Polder's Woman of the </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 29, 29); font-size: 14px;">Century</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 29, 29); font-size: 10.5pt;">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.matchbooklitmag.com/polders2">https://www.matchbooklitmag.com/polders2</a></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif;">You can use these prompts to write different short stories, either with the same character, or with different characters. You could write a novella-in-flash. You could write flash fiction. </span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif;">Good luck with your writing, and do post your story openings in the comments. I'd love to read them :)</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif;">Sty safe everyone, and take care</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif;">Susmita </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Adapted from </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Tom Holloway's building characters for scriptwriting at the Bush Theatre.</span></div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-63080258968542991422016-10-28T00:33:00.002-07:002017-06-20T02:25:22.423-07:00500 Words<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Aleppo Dreams</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She rushes out of her nightmare, into the silence of night. She gasps, as though fingers are closing around her throat. Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel the peace. Push away the images. She tries, like she tries every other night. But the dreams of her first husband trample her sleep. The bombs falling through the air. The rubble. The smell of gunpowder. The blood. Her mind always ricocheting between what was and what is. Breathe in. Breathe out. She wants to reach out for his hand. But she lets him sleep. He should not be drawn into the unbearable layers of her past.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He feels her breaking out of her dream. She is gasping. Moaning. Gagging. He knows that she had stood there, bathed in her husband’s blood, screaming like an animal. That was years ago, before he married her. And he wonders if he should have married her at all. He cannot take this anymore. They have escaped, but cannot escape the haunting of her husband. He feels her reach out for him and then her hesitation. He moves away. He cannot comfort her. His life too has been riddled with loss.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They resort to sleeping separately. First, he on the floor and she on the bed. Then to different rooms. He claims her dreams keep him awake and he cannot concentrate on the present. She agrees, and is relieved. It is time to move on, but she is fettered. She has nothing to offer him. Together they have memories of trying to forget their individual pains. Together they left their country and struggled to gain a new identity. But they have no identity. Only a past. Only a story. Only a dream.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then one day, years later, he will dream. He will dream of paradise. The streets of Aleppo alive with celebration. The <i>arghul</i> filling his heart with the music of his childhood. Men dancing the <i>dabka</i>, swirling, kicking and clapping. Their energy thrusting into the air. The smells of sheesh kebabs and shawerma spilling out of cafes and driving him closer to ecstasy. Bakalava, like only his mother could have made, dropping bit by bit onto his hungry, greedy tongue. And he will see her in this dream. Gliding in swathes of cloth, her laughter tinkling and merging with the sweet giggles of his daughters, the husky guffaws of his mother, the laughter of his first wife. Her voice long forgotten. Their warm breath will caress his face and he will reach for her. But find emptiness. She is long gone. And he? His body will not be strong or young. It’ll be just like a pressed leaf. The memory of youth. Only the skeleton and veins will remain.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(First published in The Lampeter Review and then in Flash Flood Journal)</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>Mind Games</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There she was at the window, steam creating a misty blur on the glass. Her head bent, she was probably doing the washing up. Laura peered over the hydrangea bushes, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look. She had not acknowledged Laura ever since that fateful day. Laura had been concerned, but she had ignored the hesitant knocks on the door, the note scrawled untidily, offering to bring over some soup. Laura tried to be a good neighbour, but she hadn’t allowed it. Slowly Laura tapered off, leaving her to herself. She had now started to leave the empty milk bottle outside the door again, and would collect the fresh one in the morning. Laura had hated to see the milk curdle on the doorstep, incriminating her with that small move. She had resumed listening to Woman’s Hour on the patio, stirring her tea with a metallic clink.</span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
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So why was she crying now? Laura looked again. She had been getting over it, Laura had presumed. But today she stood at the sink, enveloped in steam, gently wiping her eyes. Perhaps she ought to call on her, Laura thought. Try to win her over again. But would she respond?</div>
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***</div>
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Pam was aware of her hovering about in the garden and refused to make eye contact. She was behind the hydrangea bushes, surely on tiptoes, trying to get a look in. Every time Pam saw her, she remembered how that woman had been responsible for Pasha’s death. The shameless woman had tried to make up for it with promises of soup. What a cold-hearted murderer. Pam leaned over the sink, letting the steam soften the sting in her eyes. She had purposely left the milk to curdle on the doorstep for weeks, hoping to drive the thorn of guilt straight into Laura’s heart. Poor old Pasha, crushed under that woman’s car. The thought of it sent shivers through her body. She had been sorry, of course. But that was not enough. Laura had to suffer. Pam would make sure she suffered.</div>
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Pam stood at the sink, enveloped in steam and gently wiped her eyes. If Laura came over to make amends she wouldn’t respond, yet. She dabbed her face with a tea towel and turned away from the window. Picking up the knife, she continued to chop the onions.</div>
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(Published in Spelk Fiction)</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Steady on (250 words)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">They
reach the corner and stop. The filth is bobbing around their waist. A rat swims
past. A sanitary pad floats up to her. She turns and retches. “Look what you’ve
done,” he shouts. And now around them, bubbling like stew, her breakfast. They move
on, slowly, dragging their feet. They mustn’t fall into an open manhole. She’s
sobbing. The rain washes her salty tears away. Her eyes sting and she cannot
see very far. She wants to throw these clothes away. She wants to peel her skin
off. She holds on to his shoulder as he tests each footfall. There are others, like them, balancing in the
water. Lurching. Slipping. Clutching to one another for support. The sharp pain
hits the side of her belly. She screams. He holds her up and comforts her. They
can do it. They must do it. There are helping hands along the way. She stays
focussed. Ignore the pain and keep moving, is his mantra. Today of all days,
she curses under her breath. Try to hold back, he urges her. But no, there is
no way out. She shuts her eyes and immediately a picture of her Gods and
Goddesses with garlands round their necks springs to mind. She wades, comforted
by their image. The filthy floodwater swishes around like a whirlpool,
threatening to swallow her whole. But she perseveres. They reach the
fluorescent lobby of the hospital. A starched white nurse reaches out for her.
Her waters break.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> (Published in Flash - The International Short-Short Story magazine)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>It’s
Pizza night, Mum.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
scream and race around the room, throwing our schoolbags on the floor. But there’s
no smell of pizza. No plates or forks or knives on the table. No Mum. Where <i>is</i> mum? Muuuuum! Robbie attacks us with a
candlestick, his light sabre. Miah recoils,
giggles and runs. Where <i>is</i> she? She had promised pepperoni and cheese.
I’m desperate for the toilet. I rush in and Mum’s on the floor, her eyes all
funny. I watch a line of red run down her mouth. It’s pizza night, Mum, I say, shaking her body
hard. She remains still. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">(100 words)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-80372975444374775432016-09-21T03:03:00.006-07:002016-09-21T03:08:15.383-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-28585077610892442022016-09-21T03:03:00.005-07:002016-09-21T03:06:55.027-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-34710457994462303272016-09-09T05:07:00.000-07:002016-09-19T11:09:02.183-07:00Workshop on Life Writing at Badger Farm Community Centre<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello all,<br />
<br />
I'll be hosting a creative writing workshop focussing on Memoir and Life Writing on Saturday 24th September from 10.30 -12.30 at the Badger Farm Community Centre, Winchester.<br />
It's £10.00 to book, and please email me at<br />
<br />
susmita.writer@gmail.com<br />
<br />
to register.<br />
<br />
Is there a memory or experience you would like to preserve through writing?<br />
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There will be writing exercises, exploration of ideas, discussions and resources shared in this 2 hour workshop.<br />
<br />
Here's a life writing piece I wrote for Commonwealth Writers:<br />
<br />
http://www.commonwealthwriters.org/at-home-at-sea/<br />
<br />
I look forward to seeing you then!<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxPs9e3Utrz-4LodlncF9pPVKxA3z23dkkEYQ1RJH91OsBl2XfO9ghktAN3CiEWl3YunF0Q-Z2ixg-Ls4vNtR-gHvuXw70_uY3C3b4wpgGz1kIA60BUFXUunefuYRwmmKIvdyjTQquOiC/s1600/Life+Writing+workshop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxPs9e3Utrz-4LodlncF9pPVKxA3z23dkkEYQ1RJH91OsBl2XfO9ghktAN3CiEWl3YunF0Q-Z2ixg-Ls4vNtR-gHvuXw70_uY3C3b4wpgGz1kIA60BUFXUunefuYRwmmKIvdyjTQquOiC/s640/Life+Writing+workshop.jpg" width="516" /></a></div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-7500868810428373292016-04-21T03:36:00.000-07:002016-04-21T07:52:49.072-07:00Celebrating the Curry Leaf Comeback!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTeVLcAXHlEy9bSniR347rg4GXi7W4yAhm1FMk0Yp3uK6dkGAy5MS2MbWAtQxqqauesMrvbu0HABwcuJlrGdgM8o0GowSUQXlBMKvHHW87znBY3d3ydeSxSnyhOhz6_vM9e87t3fpjz1Y/s1600/gluten+free+dosas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTeVLcAXHlEy9bSniR347rg4GXi7W4yAhm1FMk0Yp3uK6dkGAy5MS2MbWAtQxqqauesMrvbu0HABwcuJlrGdgM8o0GowSUQXlBMKvHHW87znBY3d3ydeSxSnyhOhz6_vM9e87t3fpjz1Y/s320/gluten+free+dosas.jpg" width="254" /></a></div>
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South Indian food is a firm favourite in our house. Though we are Bengalis, our roots being in West Bengal where fish curry and rice are staple foods, we tend to think of South Indian food as our 'specials'. There is great excitement in the house when I announce there will be dosas or idlis for dinner! Though the preparation of dosas is a long process, the fermentation of the batter taking up to a couple of days, here's a version I've adapted from my French friend, Stephanie, who had made some awesome buckwheat pancakes on Pancake Day!</div>
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Buckwheat Dosa:</div>
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For the batter, I've added water and some salt to about a cup of gluten-free buckwheat flour to make a runny batter. If you want to be more adventurous, you could add a teaspoon of finely grated ginger and chopped chillies. I haven't for this one, but might try it the next time round.</div>
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Now cook the dosas exactly how you would make pancakes. I added little drops of oil onto the hot pan before pouring the batter in, and then dotted the sides with oil so it's easier to flip.</div>
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Potato or Sukhi Aloo Bhaji</div>
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This is a sure accompaniment of the dosa. Either on the side or as a filling for the dosa. Boil the potatoes, then chop. Chop onions and coriander leaves. In a pan, add a tsp of mustard seeds and curry leaves and chopped chillies to 2 -3 tsp of hot oil. When the seeds start to splutter, add the onions and fry a bit. Then add a teaspoon of turmeric and stir it around. Quickly add the chopped potatoes and coat it with the onion mixture. Add seasoning, and garnish with coriander leaves and some lemon juice if you like. Remove from pan. </div>
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Curry leaves are/were banned in the UK recently, so when I found some in the local Indian store last week, I danced a jig. South Indian food without curry leaves is like fish and chips without vinegar. You can eat it, but it's not the same. </div>
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So this meal was all to celebrate the return of the curry leaves!</div>
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Sambhar Daal</div>
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You will get all the ingredients in the Indian store. Boil a cup of red lentils with a tsp of turmeric, salt with 2 cups of water. Add vegetables of your choice in the daal, usually aubergine, okra, carrots, courgettes, pumpkin work well. But you can get creative. Add sambhar masala to the daal.When the daal is soft and cooked, take it aside. In a frying pan, heat some oil. Add mustard seeds and curry leaves, chillies and some grated ginger, when they splutter, tip the pan of hot oil into the sambhar daal. be careful because the hot oil will sizzle and leap out, usually in your direction! Check seasoning.</div>
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That's it then! A variation on dosa and a big success! And binge on the curry leaves while you can! Enjoy!</div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-63065762927659721522015-11-04T13:36:00.000-08:002015-11-04T13:36:25.201-08:00Recipes from The Normal State of Mind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Maacher Jhaal (Fish Curry)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwj0A0ZrFLugX6OegOOfPmYBblLVBM9xDcXImvqyyMAey84XrhTw42KWnra5uSWdr7EHoe6zXFrkOGX7qXAX9mko7pNP9KxcP1uFdLG3dbDks4JVgUuew1BixhIcE-bNJd-LOTG_jr4WTX/s1600/fish+curry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwj0A0ZrFLugX6OegOOfPmYBblLVBM9xDcXImvqyyMAey84XrhTw42KWnra5uSWdr7EHoe6zXFrkOGX7qXAX9mko7pNP9KxcP1uFdLG3dbDks4JVgUuew1BixhIcE-bNJd-LOTG_jr4WTX/s400/fish+curry.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ingredients<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1 Seabass cut into 3-4 pieces or cod fillets</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1 tsp Nigella Seeds <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">2 tsp<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coleman’s Mustard powder <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">2 tsp milk<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">2 tsp Lemon Juice<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1 small tomato, chopped<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Salt<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Coriander leaves, handful, chopped<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1 tsp Turmeric powder<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1 -2 Green Chilli<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">3 tbspMustard oil (preferable) otherwise sunflower oil<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Method:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Marinate the sardines in a tsp of turmeric, salt and some lemon juice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Make a mustard paste with a bit of water and a pinch of salt and ¼ tsp turmeric. Keep aside.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: margin; mso-element-anchor-vertical: page; mso-element-frame-hspace: 9.0pt; mso-element-top: 280.55pt; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: frame; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In a heavy bottomed pan, pour 3 tbsp of mustard oil. When hot, add the nigella seeds and green chilli. Cover as it will splutter.</span></span></div>
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: margin; mso-element-anchor-vertical: page; mso-element-frame-hspace: 9.0pt; mso-element-top: 280.55pt; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: frame; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
<table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" vspace="0">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left" style="background-color: transparent; border: rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0cm 9pt;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: margin; mso-element-anchor-vertical: page; mso-element-frame-hspace: 9.0pt; mso-element-top: 280.55pt; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: frame; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When
it starts spluttering, reduce heat and add the fish. Cover. After a minute,
turn on other side. Remove and keep aside. Add the chopped tomato, fry a
little, then add the mustard paste, fry it a bit, add a little water. When it
starts to boil, add the fish again and let it cook for a few minutes until
done. Check seasoning. Add the milk to finish. Add chopped coriander leaves.
Serve with rice and a wedge of lemon.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Batata Vada (Potato Cakes)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYx7rSGufICR5EPfS9TVhwEYsiveEZzeyolN-rYpuM4oQdq8JDffZGuwqGqMtpWJ4QIF50Vs8zf4XXmRYs2jdh3XLxeufHED9tzUwZQnNxm3lcwBK3r6oxODLUnnAs0_vqAX2324ZRJby/s1600/dsc_0494.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYx7rSGufICR5EPfS9TVhwEYsiveEZzeyolN-rYpuM4oQdq8JDffZGuwqGqMtpWJ4QIF50Vs8zf4XXmRYs2jdh3XLxeufHED9tzUwZQnNxm3lcwBK3r6oxODLUnnAs0_vqAX2324ZRJby/s400/dsc_0494.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Batata Vada pic courtesy:Spiceinthecity.co </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ingredients: 2 big Maris Piper potatoes, boiled, peeled and
mashed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">2 cm ginger and a chilli, ground to a paste, salt to taste<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">2 tsp Cumin powder, ½ tsp turmeric powder, coriander leaves
chopped, one small red onion chopped fine, a small green chilli, chopped fine<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">In a bowl, add all the ingredients, mix well, and make into
golf size balls. Flatten into shape. Cool in the fridge while you make the
batter. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -15.35pt 10pt 0cm;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">To Be Mixed Together Into A Thin
Batter (similar to pancake batter consistency):<br />
1 cup </span></span><a href="http://www.tarladalal.com/glossary-besan-952i"><span style="color: windowtext; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">besan (bengal gram flour)</span></span></a><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">, water<br />
1/4 tsp </span></span><a href="http://www.tarladalal.com/glossary-chilli-powder-339i"><span style="color: windowtext; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">chilli powder</span></span></a><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">
1 tbsp </span></span><a href="http://www.tarladalal.com/glossary-oil-671i"><span style="color: windowtext; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">oil</span></span></a><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">
a pinch </span></span><a href="http://www.tarladalal.com/glossary-baking-soda-615i"><span style="color: windowtext; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">soda bi-carb</span></span></a><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">. </span></span><a href="http://www.tarladalal.com/glossary-salt-418i"><span style="color: windowtext; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">salt</span></span></a><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> to taste<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -15.35pt 10pt 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Heat enough oil for deep frying in a deep pan. Dip
the potato rounds in the prepared batter and deep fry a few at a time on a
medium flame, till they turn golden brown in colour on all the sides. Drain on
absorbent paper and serve hot with chutney/ketchup of your choice or in a bap
with ketchup.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -15.35pt 10pt 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">Easy Egg Roll</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUCKH15YxpzJCk8IkMqaxT1ybCeG9eHMehLezKswI4wCY4Nk9iik4c6bKtTGL8zzB3L48MCpXeFz7WyLXpIvIS8tRNxQEjKeBGz2liT55DYwJNbI5Dmj0-KRWycjItThHWejFMRnrtB1O/s1600/eggroll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUCKH15YxpzJCk8IkMqaxT1ybCeG9eHMehLezKswI4wCY4Nk9iik4c6bKtTGL8zzB3L48MCpXeFz7WyLXpIvIS8tRNxQEjKeBGz2liT55DYwJNbI5Dmj0-KRWycjItThHWejFMRnrtB1O/s400/eggroll.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Egg Roll pic courtesy: Nizam's</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span>Ingredients: 2 ready to eat chapatis<br />
2 eggs<br />
One red onion finely sliced<br />
1/2 cucumber finely sliced<br />
handful of coriander leaves, finely chopped<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">1-2 chillies finely chopped</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">ready cooked chicken pieces (optional)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">pinch of turmeric and cumin</span> powder (optional)<br />
<br />
Method:<br />
Break one egg, beat it, add salt to taste, turmeric and cumin, chopped chillies and some coriander leaves. Mix well. In a pan, add some oil, when hot, pour the egg mix, place the chapatti on top, and keep on low heat until the egg cooks. Remove from pan. Place on a plate, egg side up. Add chopped onions, cucumber, chicken, and chopped coriander. Can add a squeeze of lemon if you wish. Roll it up tight, serve hot with tomato ketchup. <br />
My kids love this for tea, minus the chillies!<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span> </div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-3005150669356283832015-09-02T02:48:00.000-07:002015-09-02T02:48:38.668-07:00Extract from 'The Normal State of Mind' (Parthian)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KZT1wucRgdqgYvFIuhdnZSi0R_AGQBhmqTkv6HScLgQdVaZ22eXNCpCA7EsEu7S4J4mn-NPheo-1PCIrnIZQhw6A3_3eN0yvD2xvhDNAdN3RHZ1_kwjDkcC3uIX9GMp5jUxj4llawjyt/s1600/morn06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Two
women from Diamond Harbour district of twenty-four Parganas have committed
suicide after their ‘marriage’ is shunned by families.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQrtT9DBQ-s9xyDGAehRaH4xblDrndnsQaSNxKCu1NNbZ4LT6ENZrEFQp16BOnAJYOG7eyD-UApiEWLYfBHqyRxeyyLBC34_rxmzKfn1ocWEtKqRNMO7iWSjeg6l4rHQ8DDBb_jFH8nCZ/s1600/TNSOMfinal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQrtT9DBQ-s9xyDGAehRaH4xblDrndnsQaSNxKCu1NNbZ4LT6ENZrEFQp16BOnAJYOG7eyD-UApiEWLYfBHqyRxeyyLBC34_rxmzKfn1ocWEtKqRNMO7iWSjeg6l4rHQ8DDBb_jFH8nCZ/s320/TNSOMfinal.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Moushumi stared
at the television news reporter. He was standing among a crowd of villagers,
shouting out the report over their chanting. The camera then zoomed on the
faces of the two women’s mothers. They were wailing and beating their breasts,
claiming their daughters were innocent. They had been victims of black magic.
There was an inset, a rather dated photograph of the deceased, then probably in
their teens, with ribbons in their hair and toothy grins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The lovers, both
from farming communities, had grown up together in their tiny village near
Falta. They had secretly married each other, when their parents started looking
for prospective bridegrooms, by exchanging garlands and promises in a Shiva
temple. When one of the women’s fathers went ahead with wedding preparations,
the two came out and confronted their parents. They were then beaten by the
families. A tantric was summoned to drive away the spirits that had possessed
them to take such action. An ojha was performed and one of the women was
forcefully married off to an old man. Her lover immolated herself at the time
of the wedding. Hearing this tragedy, the other woman escaped from her
husband’s home and drowned herself in the river. She left a note for her family
saying that if the two had been allowed to live together, they’d all be happy
and alive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The reporter
looked straight at the camera as he finished his report. Moushumi looked away.
She realised she had been so caught up with listening to the news, she hadn’t
noticed her father had been watching as well. ‘Sensationalism,’ he exclaimed
from behind her. ‘They will report anything in the media nowadays to get attention.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Moushumi looked
up. ‘But Baba, surely must be something genuine to report this, or why would
they? They were very brave to face the world.’ She watched him for his
reaction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He sniffed and
reached for his cup of tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Ma, did you
hear about this?’ Her mother was juggling a spatula and a spoon while stirring
the dal and frying the fish. She wiped the sweat that ran down her neck and
strained to hear above the splutter of the fish sizzling in the pan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Utter rot,’ her
father mumbled and opened the newspaper again. ‘What is the world coming to?
Chee chee. Desperate village bumpkins. How can the TV news report such filth, I
fail to recognise.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Moushumi
flinched, ashamed. She was indulging in something her father found filthy.
‘It’s quite normal in the Western society. It is becoming accepted there.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Her father
glared at her but said nothing. He turned to the sports page and cursed about Mohun
Bagan losing again. He was clearly not interested in continuing on the topic.
‘What were you saying, Mou?’ her mother asked, joining them in the sitting
room. The air was smoky with all the deep frying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The smell of the
fish had seeped stubbornly into the mattress on the divan and the cushions and
the curtains. But it was a comforting smell, not the artificial rose and lily
room freshener that Moushumi had to adjust to on Saturdays in Jasmine’s flat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Her father left
the room and Moushumi decided that she could still try out her mother. ‘Two
women committed suicide because their marriage was not accepted in society.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Oh,’ her mother
said. ‘Hindu women?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Perhaps.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Did they marry
Muslims or what?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘No, Ma. They
married each other. The two women married each other.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Her mother
stopped tidying the cushions and stared at her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Two women? Why
on earth?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘They said they
loved each other.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘But how will
they have children? Who will look after them?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Moushumi felt
better. At least she was curious and asking questions. At least her first reaction
was not that they were filthy. ‘Does that matter? They loved each other.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘What fools,’
her mother replied. ‘They’ve ruined their families’ reputations. I hope they
haven’t left behind any unmarried sisters, or that will be the end of the road
for them.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘You think so?’
Her mother busied herself with putting right the newspaper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Stupid naive
girls, did something under the influence of filmy romance, I suppose.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Moushumi felt
betrayed. Her mother was not on her side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">How could she
ever tell them if the time came? Wiping her hands on the end of her sari, her
mother said,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Anyway, I don’t
have time for all this nonsense. I still have to finish cooking lunch. How
would you like your fish? Mustard sauce or tomato?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings-Regular;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings-Regular;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings-Regular;">‘Silly girls,’ said Jasmine, grimacing at the
newspaper-cutting Moushumi thrust into her hand. ‘No brains, these villager types.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings-Regular;">The news of the two women had found a little space in the local
newspaper. Moushumi had cut it out and kept it in her handbag. She wasn’t sure
whether this was to remind her that this sort of thing was not accepted, or to
reassure her that this was not her fate, yet. She had hoped that Jasmine would take
up their case, get angry, and promise her that such things didn’t happen in big
cities. Instead, Jasmine had just laughed about the whole situation. ‘You too,
Jazz? Don’t you believe in their love? Wouldn’t you have backed them up?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘For what, Mou?
Be sensible. You are living in a fantasy world.’ Jasmine switched on the
television. The theme song of <i>The Bold and the Beautiful </i>filled the
room. She tucked the sheet under her chin and watched idly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘But it is
accepted in the West,’ argued Moushumi.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Then go and
live in the West. Find yourself a lover there and make a home for yourselves.
Don’t keep harping on about it and spoil my mood.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘But we are
lovers, Jasmine.’ Moushumi shot back. ‘Like those two girls. We do the same
thing, and yet you reject their bravery in wanting to live together?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Jasmine
increased the volume of the television. The air-conditioning started to whir
noisily, adding to Moushumi’s distress. She wanted to shut everything off and
shake Jasmine hard. Make her listen to her. Answer her questions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘We can’t live
together, surely you know that? Or go public,’ Jasmine said finally, during a
commercial break.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Moushumi nodded.
She was not stupid to have such hopes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Then why the
entire headache?’ Jasmine asked her. ‘You will eventually have to get a man to
marry you and then we could continue meeting.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘But, I don’t
want it like that,’ Moushumi said. ‘I want to have a truthful relationship.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘A truthful
relationship? Which world are you in, madam? Just enjoy yourself and stop
complaining. You’re lucky with what you’re getting.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There was truth
in every word of what Jasmine had said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">How could they
have an open relationship? What name would they give it? Moushumi thought of
those two village girls. Did this kind of love mean being confined in a
bedroom, once a week, having sex? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She realised she
was lucky that Jasmine had another flat for them to hide in, to indulge
themselves in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What about the
rest of them? Where did they go? What did they do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘It’s useless,
Jasmine. This whole thing is a waste of time.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Moushumi slid
under the sheets and held Jasmine’s hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Why do I bother
to come?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Jasmine turned
around and stared at Moushumi for a long time. Her gaze softened, and when the
commercial break ended, she didn’t turn back to the television. ‘I’m so glad
you do come, darling. So don’t spoil things with miserable realities. Okay,
let’s get out of this place. You’ll have to tell your parents a very big lie,
mind.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Moushumi nodded.
At that moment, she didn’t care very much. She would do anything for Jasmine.
She clung to her, trembling, waiting for Jasmine to touch her. Soothe her nerves.
They kissed quietly, and Jasmine stroked her hair, murmuring into her ear.
Moushumi calmed down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">At last they were
going to venture out of this flat. They were going to do something fun.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You can buy a copy of the book here: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://amzn.to/1KGX3ge">http://amzn.to/1KGX3ge</a> (USA), <a href="http://amzn.to/1LKyDRH">http://amzn.to/1LKyDRH</a> (UK) or directly from the publishers here: <a href="http://bit.ly/1KGXoQd">http://bit.ly/1KGXoQd</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
</div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-56917036335038580652014-06-22T07:22:00.002-07:002014-06-22T07:22:59.372-07:00Readings and Festivals in the June sunshine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhZZsl5173ZUk3uu7yNfSn2geOJGWLz8REUA5gMkUY0UYF2ay_flQBDvweRzjNY1XSUUlIdgo5XwRLb-DN9EWhq1zFRR72aI0-tpZkvYogdabxRw-4Ox-w0sVmasJqhLUmchUHdZc1tXu/s1600/reading01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhZZsl5173ZUk3uu7yNfSn2geOJGWLz8REUA5gMkUY0UYF2ay_flQBDvweRzjNY1XSUUlIdgo5XwRLb-DN9EWhq1zFRR72aI0-tpZkvYogdabxRw-4Ox-w0sVmasJqhLUmchUHdZc1tXu/s1600/reading01.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture courtesy: Kalpana Bhattacharya, my mum-in-law :-)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Glorious June! Sunshine, and more of it. When I was invited to read at the Tagore Festival, under the trees, I stayed glued to the weather reports every chance I could. Would it? Wouldn't it? It was like hoping to win the lottery.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Which I did!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The sun came and smiled, and baked us nice and brown. And so my two readings went off well, not an umbrella in sight. Only sunshine and smiles!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimy3F0YzRQ4jtBLfEm2iOmUqkL024r96BkJJdMV9CHY-xMGCFTAKe-Vvif_6m4ZQ-B5bBiaGtkgfmTLI3yiPfa0ImMDe6xgg_SO19zLaoUyAbK8CXF4WfbaAnod1FiFgFRYjNAbPcuDiSS/s1600/riptide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimy3F0YzRQ4jtBLfEm2iOmUqkL024r96BkJJdMV9CHY-xMGCFTAKe-Vvif_6m4ZQ-B5bBiaGtkgfmTLI3yiPfa0ImMDe6xgg_SO19zLaoUyAbK8CXF4WfbaAnod1FiFgFRYjNAbPcuDiSS/s1600/riptide.jpg" height="320" width="271" /></a></div>
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But first, on Friday afternoon, I made my way to Exeter, for the launch of Riptide's latest issue. When the editors, Sally and Ginny, accepted my first life writing piece, I just had to attend! My piece, called T<i>he 6.13 Ladies Special</i>, is an essay about the local trains of Mumbai. This special edition of Riptide was linked in with the <span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">work of the Leverhulme Trust-funded Cultures of the Suburbs International Research Network and </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">coincided with the Network’s 2014 conference, also on the theme of </span><i style="background-color: white; border-width: 0px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline-color: rgb(36, 64, 141); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Imagining the Suburbs</i><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">, held at the University of Exeter, UK, in June. More examples of the virtual exhibitions of this project can be found here: </span><span style="line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://suburbs.exeter.ac.uk/virtual-exhibitions/" target="_blank">Cultures of the Suburbs</a>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">The forward written by Michael Rosen describes the issue as <i>"</i></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><i>Riptide Volume 10 – The Suburbs – is a collection of stories, life-writing and poetry exploring suburbia in all its manifestations. In his foreword Michael Rosen, who confesses to having suffered from ‘suburbophobia’ in his teenage years, says that ‘these fascinating stories and poems show a diversity that resists’ the picture of the suburbs as “one culture, one class, one type of house’.</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Copies can be purchased directly from the website: </span><span style="line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://www.riptidejournal.co.uk/">http://www.riptidejournal.co.uk/</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We had a lovely time at the launch. There was live music, wine and nibbles, and of course meeting Ginny and Sally, and other contributors to the issue was the highlight of the evening. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvaYXzv8gv9Ss-hrSmDS8B0boi4VL8MMYvReFlLMysh2LakDAXHa28kMQ4xyuNmaLhRDM4tczS3ZuW0XgdiK0P7mUsapC9111qz9alDJYgsFLtW_feO6jy0kLCQT7C_ycsYILObRE1Hlhh/s1600/photo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvaYXzv8gv9Ss-hrSmDS8B0boi4VL8MMYvReFlLMysh2LakDAXHa28kMQ4xyuNmaLhRDM4tczS3ZuW0XgdiK0P7mUsapC9111qz9alDJYgsFLtW_feO6jy0kLCQT7C_ycsYILObRE1Hlhh/s1600/photo+1.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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A review from Joanne Harris (from the website):</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;">"Some of the authors are new, some will be familiar names. The stories themselves are by turns witty; subversive; thought-provoking; disturbing – but always well-written, and always sincere. I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I did. And I hope that you will revisit them, as I often do with short stories, whenever you need a change of perspective, a glimpse into another world, or just a quick fix of something new. The next ten minutes could change your world. Indulge yourself – jump in!"—</span><i style="background-color: white; border-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline-color: rgb(36, 64, 141); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Joanne Harris</i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; border-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline-color: rgb(36, 64, 141); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLCjf5yMmvH6t60G0-MwsPNPlM8KFI0-BqZAjAZuok8o9UJ23KshKrU1YqPuZ-55tCyBLZ3h9JRTJwNDwjRAqx0rKeC2DSZR0C8_lBHM-jQgTSW7PQ_NbgVYfP9qb_VEmvz1-oQgi5oVF/s1600/photo+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLCjf5yMmvH6t60G0-MwsPNPlM8KFI0-BqZAjAZuok8o9UJ23KshKrU1YqPuZ-55tCyBLZ3h9JRTJwNDwjRAqx0rKeC2DSZR0C8_lBHM-jQgTSW7PQ_NbgVYfP9qb_VEmvz1-oQgi5oVF/s1600/photo+5.jpg" height="320" width="226" /></a><span style="background-color: white; border-width: 0px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline-color: rgb(36, 64, 141); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The next day I was off to the <a href="http://www.dartington.org/tagore-festival/" target="_blank">Tagore Festival</a>. This was a truly special event, because I was here representing my culture, my history and the feeling of connecting with Gurudeb Rabindranath Tagore through this festival </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">was indescribable. As we walked through the arched gateway into the estate, I saw the sarod maestro Amjad Ali Khan sitting in a bower, chatting to a young admirer I'm sure. I've heard him play many times in India, but to see him casually sipping tea in an English garden wasn't something I had imagined I'd see! There was a great line-up of events, ranging from music, dance workshops, arts and crafts for children, stalls and food, of course, the Great Indian Curry Fest! Needless to say, we indulged ourselves to the maximum. Pakoras, cutlets, pani puris, channa curry, chicken curry...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; border-width: 0px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline-color: rgb(36, 64, 141); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="border-width: 0px; margin: 0px; outline-color: rgb(36, 64, 141); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 18px;">Oh, coming back to my readings (I always get carried away where food is concerned), I read 2 short stories dealing with home, displacement, identity and perspectives. One was Letters Home, published in <a href="http://www.walesartsreview.org/rarebit-new-welsh-fiction/" target="_blank">Rarebit: New Welsh Fiction</a>. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> It is a story about a young Bangladeshi man who comes to Cardiff to find a better future for his pregnant wife and himself. It is written in form of letters to his wife, describing his experiences in a new country. I was rather nervous reading this to the audience, as who should be standing right opposite me than the Bangladesh High Commissioner, Mohamed Mijarul Quayes. But he was very appreciative and kind, and a very interesting man to speak to.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">The second story was Growing Tomatoes. You can hear a podcast of this story at </span><a href="http://www.literatureworks.org.uk/Book-Features/Special-Features/Podcast-Susmita-Bhattacharya-Reads-Growing-Tomatoes" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;" target="_blank">LiteratureWorks</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">. This is a story about a young Somali bride, second wife to her husband, brought to his home solely to produce a male heir. This is also set in Cardiff, and it follows Hoda's life and her attempts at trying to understand her purpose of life and how to love and respect herself first.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PQJne-fmN_5oCorLHnkSvUbpWS-kKJ3oZWlW9bsaie6slnKNxJjeX9FILLnhSgPx4yvYWER4YQCn1BiOQU1vmaG1m7tCX1Grz3I3mBMdL2PYfkFqJC054P5sxh-buuF2xKlxG-kE22k7/s1600/10430404_10152309647087713_3502452467381100829_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PQJne-fmN_5oCorLHnkSvUbpWS-kKJ3oZWlW9bsaie6slnKNxJjeX9FILLnhSgPx4yvYWER4YQCn1BiOQU1vmaG1m7tCX1Grz3I3mBMdL2PYfkFqJC054P5sxh-buuF2xKlxG-kE22k7/s1600/10430404_10152309647087713_3502452467381100829_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture courtesy: John White</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; border-width: 0px; margin: 0px; outline-color: rgb(36, 64, 141); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">The team from a Totnes local radio station, <a href="http://www.soundartradio.org.uk/" target="_blank">Soundart Radio 102.5 FM</a> recorded excerpts of my stories to go live on radio!</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; border-width: 0px; margin: 0px; outline-color: rgb(36, 64, 141); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">It was all very exciting: meeting other artistes and sharing stories, two large helpings of Langage Farm's lemon drizzle ice-cream to keep the heat at bay and making new friends.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; border-width: 0px; margin: 0px; outline-color: rgb(36, 64, 141); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; border-width: 0px; margin: 0px; outline-color: rgb(36, 64, 141); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">A big hug to my dear friend, Stephanie, who suggested the idea of reading at the festival and arranged for things to happen. Thanks to Jude and Sophie, organisers of the festival for having me. And a huge special thanks to my family and friends who came along to support me. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">My three year old couldn't understand why I was reading a story to an elephant under a tree. Is there any good reason why I shouldn't have? The elephant was most attentive, she stayed riveted to the spot.</span></span></span></div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-22458901935599300262014-04-27T06:44:00.000-07:002014-05-18T06:25:22.776-07:00The Writing Process Blog Tour<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I was introduced to the Writing Process Blog Tour by
my editor, Susie Wild, who has shared her process on her blog:</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://susiewild.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/writing-process-blog-tour.html">http://susiewild.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/writing-process-blog-tour.html</a>
. This is a great way to connect with writers and read about their writing
process and other stuff, and then you can sigh and think, "Great, I’m not the
only one who’s weird, or pressed for time", or even, "Hey, I’m just as fantastic
as everyone else!"</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Thank you Susie, for inviting me on the tour. Here are my 4
questions:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">What
am I working on?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">It took me seven years to complete my first novel,
The Normal State of Mind. I hated this question for seven years, but now it is
my favourite one! I am working on the edits and finer points of the novel, for
it will be published sometime later this year!
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTHPexguzXiiw8_8B2fPTxPq8bbGbL3E4_VbZLZS688EIgJvozDW3fAEO7rKxS4awkRFX67W5OjENxPVx2rsLI_Auqe670nI6pKa1N5vbGNwNirSa4GoRLDRgspUwQ5hvGb8aZSYesOAS/s1600/1924900_10152330596051948_803415858_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTHPexguzXiiw8_8B2fPTxPq8bbGbL3E4_VbZLZS688EIgJvozDW3fAEO7rKxS4awkRFX67W5OjENxPVx2rsLI_Auqe670nI6pKa1N5vbGNwNirSa4GoRLDRgspUwQ5hvGb8aZSYesOAS/s1600/1924900_10152330596051948_803415858_n.jpg" height="148" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polishing my reading skills in India</td></tr>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I was in India recently, did a book reading</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> in Mumbai, where I read my short story from the anthology, Rarebit – New Welsh
Writing. In a way, I was preparing myself for the book launch of my novel, The
Normal State of Mind. It’s good to work on reading aloud, facing the audience,
calming the nerves and having witty and clever answers ready to go. It all
takes a lot of practise and I am working on that!</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I have just had an essay, my first foray in writing
non-fiction, accepted by Riptide Journal. I’m looking forward to the edits and preparing
the piece for final publication.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">At the same time, I write short stories obsessively.
I’m just polishing off a couple to be sent off to competitions. Once all of this is done, I’ll work on trying
to impress an agent. Who knows, it may take another seven years!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">How
does my work differ from others of its genre?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">What is my genre? I’m not really sure. A lot of my
writing is inspired by my own experiences: travelling, immigration, the whole
Diaspora thing. I like writing about women’s issues and society. Instead of
focussing on the negatives women face, I like my female characters to have some
fun. I like them to be spunky, outspoken and not downtrodden, sacrificial souls.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Why
do I write what I do?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">There’s no answer to this one. It’s like asking, why
do you eat fish curry and rice with your fingers? Is there any other way to eat
it? I’ve been writing ever since I could hold a pencil in my hand. I wrote ‘poetry’
in serious green ink when I was six or seven. I wrote journals and diaries
detailing every moment</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2UlIWNz9vh5nL8j1hDQUbUdWbkI6caQ46kLOuWqMfGSnJ6GjFmsj0fj5GC-mHTeeliTA-Z6_WbVgMA4yMAs6P2cYgwHk0RsweM9DUBxyB3_sMoLozGRFGqEt6QMQdAHt6Zm_H8Tk-kaDS/s1600/1379647_10152068759586948_1238574946_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2UlIWNz9vh5nL8j1hDQUbUdWbkI6caQ46kLOuWqMfGSnJ6GjFmsj0fj5GC-mHTeeliTA-Z6_WbVgMA4yMAs6P2cYgwHk0RsweM9DUBxyB3_sMoLozGRFGqEt6QMQdAHt6Zm_H8Tk-kaDS/s1600/1379647_10152068759586948_1238574946_n.jpg" height="165" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbie Girl doodles</td></tr>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">of my angst-ridden- forever- heartbroken teens. I wrote
reams of letters to my boyfriend at sea. And then I wrote reams of letters to
everyone in my address book when I married and set sail with him. I am an
obsessive writer and an obsessive doodler of Barbie doll type girls. They adorn
my journals and pages, these women with unrealistic eyelashes and legs. I write
about women. I write about life. I write about food and sex. I write about
love, and country. And separation. And reunions. I write about me, disguised in
the forms of my characters. Their dreams. My dreams. Their beliefs. My beliefs.
They all merge into one idea. I just write to express myself. Is there any
other way to do it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">How did I choose the theme for my novel, The Normal State
of Mind? I had an image in my mind. Two women wading through the Mumbai floods,
trying to make it to safety. I knew I had to write about them. But who were
they? I knew one of them was a widow, because she was crying as she passed by her
husband’s workplace. And the other? I wanted to write about someone I didn’t
know much about. Someone I wanted to know well. I got friendly with a lovely
girl, who’s a lesbian, when I lived in Cardiff. She was struggling with the
title of ‘lesbian’. She said she was a normal person. And that stuck in my
head. I wanted to write about her. And the struggles she had to face. Then I
thought about homosexuality in India. How did people go through life dealing
with their identities in such a conservative society? I wanted to find out
more, discover more about life. The diversity of life. And the definition of
normal. Who defines normal? And who is normal? Certainly not me. I want to be
special, and write about special things. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">How
does my writing process work?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">My writing process has had two distinct periods:
Pre-parenthood and post. The pre period was very unproductive, and basically I
was a lazy writer. Great ideas, lofty ambitions, and an abundance of time.
Result: Nothing. Post-parenthood: Sleepless nights. Baby blues. Feeding.
Working part time. No time to spare. Therefore an urgency to write whenever I
could spare some time for it. Result: Something. Writing was ‘me time’ as I
couldn’t go out and do other stuff. And I was desperate for the ‘me time’. It
kept me sane. And so I wrote. And wrote and wrote. Also, the times spent nursing,
rocking baby to sleep, washing bottles, changing nappies, all helped with
physical labour, freeing up my mind to think up all sorts! Don’t get me wrong.
I didn’t neglect my kids! But motherhood really helped me focus and be constructive
and good with time management, all that I was rubbish with before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I now have two young girls, and finding the time to
write gets trickier by the day. I write sporadically, as and when I get free
time. That’s usually at night when the girls are in bed. But I’ve worked out a
way that I can start on an idea of a story in my mind, and work on it mentally
for days before I get the opportunity to actually write it down. I have to say
though, Cbeebies is a good babysitter for an hour or so and sometimes, I can
write in the mornings. When I have to work on edits etc I wait for when both
girls are in school/pre-school and I ignore the housework and get down to it. It
is a constant battle with finding time to write and do the housework etc. My
house is not the tidiest. If you do wish to call on me, please do give
advance notice, I’ll push the toys behind the settee and stuff the un-ironed clothes
into the wardrobe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">But jokes apart, I read a lot, listen to the radio,
the news especially and the World Service. Ideas evolve from the day-to-day
happenings. I don’t drive and use to my advantage, eavesdropping on buses. Supermarkets, airports, markets, schools:
there’s a story everywhere. I listen and watch and day-dream and imagine, and
roll them all up and give them a spin in my brain, let them stew/fester/boil/steam
for a while, and out comes a result. A story.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiExMLq1NGjrimdcmcm-mVRPnmfe4NEZ_u8da7-Wsv5LPS8jqThCIaGUM6aCcL9odzl2h363Fa4dFMKYgOEsVWdYLpeAss74Zszs9IDXmllogVDIBirWY2GAAUFrPacrGbUfnqZ-WY4rqgp/s1600/romybw_200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiExMLq1NGjrimdcmcm-mVRPnmfe4NEZ_u8da7-Wsv5LPS8jqThCIaGUM6aCcL9odzl2h363Fa4dFMKYgOEsVWdYLpeAss74Zszs9IDXmllogVDIBirWY2GAAUFrPacrGbUfnqZ-WY4rqgp/s1600/romybw_200.jpg" height="200" width="197" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 200%;"><b>Romy Wood: </b></span><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Romy is a recovering secondary school teacher. She has an MA in The Teaching and Practice of Creative Writing from Cardiff University and lectures in Creative Writing for the Open University. She writes novels because they are easier to write than short stories and poems. She drinks too much Coca-cola, likes to win at Scrabble and walks the tightrope that is Bipolar Disorder.</span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.5em;">Word on the Street is her second novel. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1286512166"> </a></span><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 26.400001525878906px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444;"><a href="http://romywood.co.uk/">http://romywood.co.uk<span style="font-size: small;">/</span></a></span></span></div>
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Previous stops: Carole Burns, <a href="http://offthepagebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/writing-process-blog-tour.html" target="_blank"> http://offthepagebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/writing-process-blog-tour.html</a> and Ivy Alvarez:<a href="http://dumbfoundry.blogspot.co.nz/2014/04/my-stop-on-writing-process-blog-tour.html" target="_blank"> http://dumbfoundry.blogspot.co.nz/2014/04/my-stop-on-writing-process-blog-tour.html </a></div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-57069358832915233212013-12-31T07:00:00.001-08:002013-12-31T13:03:46.514-08:00The year that was 2013<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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2013 was a tumultuous year for me. Lots of ups and downs and
hopefully, I have managed to swim against the current to reach the shores of
2014, my body and soul intact. (Please note, I can't swim in reality, and that is a resolution to rectify in the new year!)</div>
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I’d like to concentrate on my writing year, which has been
very fruitful and given me reason to believe in myself as a writer. I had the brilliant news
in March that finally my novel, Crossing Borders, was accepted by Parthian
books for publication next year. After struggling for years to find an agent or
publisher, it was funny how the book was noticed by an editor through Facebook!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvN8rkclVMGUz7sRIAVNaRTvGX08WYySctiJGzwbvyu0YuolDr9WVf5h5NVrZlqErDqUIYe9oBBe_-h50vvVmt3fzedxohsx5U7y3Dmpo-SZG3VIjHYDzE73lB-bBbWrqV2K0FU1Lp5kvA/s1600/planet+magazine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvN8rkclVMGUz7sRIAVNaRTvGX08WYySctiJGzwbvyu0YuolDr9WVf5h5NVrZlqErDqUIYe9oBBe_-h50vvVmt3fzedxohsx5U7y3Dmpo-SZG3VIjHYDzE73lB-bBbWrqV2K0FU1Lp5kvA/s200/planet+magazine.jpg" /></a>I had had a short story, Growing Tomatoes, published in
<a href="http://www.planetmagazine.org.uk/" target="_blank">Planet-The Welsh Internationalist</a> in 2012. Someone read it and commented on Facebook. It was brought to the attention of the editor of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Parthian-Books/168031543230068?fref=ts" target="_blank">Parthian Books</a>, Susie Wild, who approached me. It was like winning the
lottery! But it goes to show that editors do look around, and word does get around,
and the more you write, the more you will be read. So thank you, Susie, for envisioning
a future for my book.</div>
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I had short stories published in <a href="http://www.litro.co.uk/2013/02/god-at-your-doorstep/" target="_blank">Litro</a>, <a href="http://thickjam.com/no-282" target="_blank">Thick Jam</a>, <a href="http://www.runningoutofink.com/gold_dusted_fingertips.html" target="_blank">Running Out of Ink</a>,
<a href="http://tearsinthefence.com/2013/08/09/tears-in-the-fence-57-is-out/" target="_blank">Tears in the Fence</a>, <a href="http://lijla.weebly.com/" target="_blank">The Lakeview International Journal</a> and <a href="http://penguinunplugged.wordpress.com/2013/10/16/story-3-marked-by-susmita-bhattacharya/" target="_blank">Penguin Unplugged</a>. Thank you all. I was
duly rejected by Mslexia, once again. Sixth year running. Thank you Mslexia, I shall not give up!</div>
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I had a very interesting experience of recording my own
story, '<a href="http://www.literatureworks.org.uk/Book-Features/Special-Features/Podcast-Susmita-Bhattacharya-Reads-Growing-Tomatoes" target="_blank">Growing Tomatoes</a>’, for SouthWest’s Literature Development Organisation,
LiteratureWorks. The voice in the recording does not sound like me at all! Another very different project was the wonderful Stories with Pictures, where Cassandra Parkin wrote a story, <a href="http://www.storieswithpictures.org/the-wrong-kind-of-boy/" target="_blank">The Wrong Kind of Boy</a>, for my image, and then I wrote a story, <a href="http://www.storieswithpictures.org/a-study-of-a-boy-with-an-aeroplane/" target="_blank">A study of a boy with an aeroplane</a>, for a painting by Andy Winter.</div>
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But the highlights of the year have got to be the absolute
highs I got for contributing to three anthologies, all launched in December. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNer_fFVXnCCcHFXQxwUPM1VjZH2ZV4JfDWsy25nBRSCri740uAKlV4zAV1grSKKoPj4gZsipA_IMgEu1iPW-GWX3rhtw9FLg83UaQBuKs2KbFyiFXio-U6UeE11-g9CrdbZN507tTved/s1600/ffa-2013.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNer_fFVXnCCcHFXQxwUPM1VjZH2ZV4JfDWsy25nBRSCri740uAKlV4zAV1grSKKoPj4gZsipA_IMgEu1iPW-GWX3rhtw9FLg83UaQBuKs2KbFyiFXio-U6UeE11-g9CrdbZN507tTved/s200/ffa-2013.png" width="133" /></a>The first anthology, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/FOREIGN-AND-AWAY-Writers-Abroad/dp/1492762008/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388500554&sr=8-1&keywords=foreign+and+far+away" target="_blank">Foreign and Far Away</a>, an anthology by
<a href="http://www.writersabroad.com/" target="_blank">Writers’ Abroad</a>, a community of expat writers, dedicated all proceeds towards
Book Aid International , which supports education, literacy and development in
Sub-Saharan Africa. Total money raised so far: £525.00.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjmEfzecIM4gCc0ghM5kqryWA9QvqvMysNfdbWwFNKMHfvrpPJl6ldkbjXiNTQmY5ZwsQuW6Djze8Kt_t-7_JfbcIjXkLnH-wcIOhqlurxuEXy4sEasgCkJTdOmjHO8b63hkjg1pR6lzMc/s1600/stories-for-homes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjmEfzecIM4gCc0ghM5kqryWA9QvqvMysNfdbWwFNKMHfvrpPJl6ldkbjXiNTQmY5ZwsQuW6Djze8Kt_t-7_JfbcIjXkLnH-wcIOhqlurxuEXy4sEasgCkJTdOmjHO8b63hkjg1pR6lzMc/s200/stories-for-homes.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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Stories for Homes was another great anthology I am proud to
be a part of. All proceeds from this goes to Shelter, a charity for the
homeless. The editors Debi Alper and Sally Swingewood did an incredible job
producing the book and marketing it. I wasn’t able to attend the launch, but I
could see from the blog and the pictures, it was a huge success. The contributors
to the anthology also helped out with the promotions and sales with radio
interviews, news stories, blog blasts, and the sales went up to an incredible £1,500 at the launch.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNh77WQSGvkEzFNisI2clldpa2WkTZLY3UWALB6o60D0xbHMFaA7YG6mfpf32Frl4p20E4-bqVKfSFJDP7rZsH_likK3Pvo25WnQMcnLO23Xl4nUnawn0JGLxWXOpZJLVN_leUdyJb-ZsG/s1600/stories_for_homes-launch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNh77WQSGvkEzFNisI2clldpa2WkTZLY3UWALB6o60D0xbHMFaA7YG6mfpf32Frl4p20E4-bqVKfSFJDP7rZsH_likK3Pvo25WnQMcnLO23Xl4nUnawn0JGLxWXOpZJLVN_leUdyJb-ZsG/s400/stories_for_homes-launch.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy: <a href="http://owainpaciuszko.com/2013/12/18/stories-for-homes-paperback-launched/">http://owainpaciuszko.com/2013/12/18/stories-for-homes-paperback-launched/</a></td></tr>
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And lastly, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Rarebit-Susmita-Bhattacharya/dp/1909844403/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1388501433&sr=1-1&keywords=rarebit" target="_blank">Rarebit-New Welsh Writing</a> was launched on 21<sup>st</sup>
December, National Short Story Day. I went along to Cardiff to be a part of the
literary tour. It was an incredible experience, joining fellow writers on a
literary walk around my favourite city, warming up against the chill with
mulled wind and Christmas cheer. Rarebit is Waterstones’ book of the month
for January 2014.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUEiOa_jSNJrBLziDsMXiWV6pgwZRUoCCHKfqzOr485D4n9aeinxnAys3T3TqBd5qTrPFg3ctM-i-5k2JENgNDJykQ9QDhLcPEeMn9bWJefTiDiwVgkXuhBLAy44l1zSMsQZcOtLwiqM2F/s1600/rarebit+02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUEiOa_jSNJrBLziDsMXiWV6pgwZRUoCCHKfqzOr485D4n9aeinxnAys3T3TqBd5qTrPFg3ctM-i-5k2JENgNDJykQ9QDhLcPEeMn9bWJefTiDiwVgkXuhBLAy44l1zSMsQZcOtLwiqM2F/s320/rarebit+02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpPvq-KLWEoQs9-aOJxd5-t2pjbbNQtOLlkTmseLOb9-xyGRQKvAzNq4cpgPgls43u371sZw5zaqQwiuOymDa4S6oXX1_6z8ivjzlKhCG7fD12xTEPiJbMUE82LcOxXF4GpdAmX-tqzzo/s1600/sumita+reading+rarebit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpPvq-KLWEoQs9-aOJxd5-t2pjbbNQtOLlkTmseLOb9-xyGRQKvAzNq4cpgPgls43u371sZw5zaqQwiuOymDa4S6oXX1_6z8ivjzlKhCG7fD12xTEPiJbMUE82LcOxXF4GpdAmX-tqzzo/s320/sumita+reading+rarebit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Photo Courtesy: Daniel Tyte <a href="http://dantyte.com/category/happenings/">http://dantyte.com/category/happenings/</a></td></tr>
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With a few more short stories in the pipeline for next year and the
excitement of working towards the birth of Crossing Borders, 2014 already seems
ripe with promise and a lot of fun along the way.</div>
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Happy New Year!</div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-88867667445227601832013-12-11T03:22:00.001-08:002013-12-11T03:49:55.075-08:00Book Blast: Stories for Homes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzzneEjfjB36VkX0Ak6OpWKx2zTgi7uhmtKptX4fgyEzEaSpMqwNvLmLek8X3ATAUFkohXpNS4PHH7VZ_UvAoBrp5FC6t3YRttJCDtEUApXwkRjSI8iVmwUWNbMwAP_ufNq0s3fLobvCp/s1600/p5_SAD_KID_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzzneEjfjB36VkX0Ak6OpWKx2zTgi7uhmtKptX4fgyEzEaSpMqwNvLmLek8X3ATAUFkohXpNS4PHH7VZ_UvAoBrp5FC6t3YRttJCDtEUApXwkRjSI8iVmwUWNbMwAP_ufNq0s3fLobvCp/s320/p5_SAD_KID_4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">pic courtesy: Third Force News</td></tr>
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I've been reading books on Homelessness of late, and am proud to be a contributer to the anthology: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Stories-Homes-Rob-Walton/dp/1493534246/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1386760613&sr=1-1&keywords=stories+for+homes" target="_blank">Stories for Homes</a> for raising awareness and donations for the Shelter Charity.<br />
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Where I come from, in India, homelessness is apparent everywhere one casts an eye. On the street where I lived, generations grew up under a railway bridge. They ate, slept, lived and reproduced in that very space for years and years.<br />
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When I moved to the UK, I was shocked to see homeless people in this land of plenty. Wasn't this the country where the government helped out with benefits, so that no one ever went hungry? But obviously I was a naive newcomer and I am now a bit more knowledgeable!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZ-6mCKJCeraWhqm5f9iD2OSVD1ax2n2KbXVPhZadOZVh-y_zRsqIyNAd8T8rh2g3FIPNK9zoa9DN6Qfy_kXcTJAMth3FuYwXEUOINF9oO57wDFuVmAnzGnLQ8rQahcnO1tOWdzsiCByb/s1600/sfh-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZ-6mCKJCeraWhqm5f9iD2OSVD1ax2n2KbXVPhZadOZVh-y_zRsqIyNAd8T8rh2g3FIPNK9zoa9DN6Qfy_kXcTJAMth3FuYwXEUOINF9oO57wDFuVmAnzGnLQ8rQahcnO1tOWdzsiCByb/s320/sfh-cover.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Available on Amazon.co.uk</td></tr>
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Yes, 80,000 children will be homeless in the UK this Christmas. And that is just the tip of the ice-berg. Homelessness is not just about not having a roof over one's head. There are related issues that come out of this tragedy: abuse, neglect, violence, hunger, vulnerability and death.<br />
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The charity, <a href="http://england.shelter.org.uk/home" target="_blank">Shelter</a>, works with the homeless and the community to rescue, spread awareness and educate people about this sad truth in society.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Stories-Homes-Rob-Walton/dp/1493534246/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1386760613&sr=1-1&keywords=stories+for+homes" target="_blank">Stories for Homes</a>, an anthology of short stories and poems by 63 writers and poets, was put together by Debi Alper and Sally Swingewood as a small contribution towards helping out the situation with homelessness.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfAJ43A9NYZ1MsxlIkTfHuwwsySzIWrR1fxrxNCSQQZoYBFrQoBWgsVTBSpQC70G5p7MBJObqhfNOqv2ecEXRwhFaMGuSWyr2qanOj3V3ZxdXb0-3reLE0F97xsrDFeEYDQIhLHR914r1/s1600/1475805_10152169820477932_490007645_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfAJ43A9NYZ1MsxlIkTfHuwwsySzIWrR1fxrxNCSQQZoYBFrQoBWgsVTBSpQC70G5p7MBJObqhfNOqv2ecEXRwhFaMGuSWyr2qanOj3V3ZxdXb0-3reLE0F97xsrDFeEYDQIhLHR914r1/s200/1475805_10152169820477932_490007645_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artwork by David Vallade</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To buy a copy would mean all the royalties would go straight to the Shelter charity.<br />
<br />
The book launch will be at the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/booksellercrow" target="_blank">Bookseller- Crow on the Hill</a> on the 13th of December. Do buy the book, spread the word on social media, and remember, this is not just for Christmas. it would make a world of difference to somebody at a very low point in their life.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-22438547680485312292013-12-09T05:45:00.001-08:002013-12-09T05:51:11.167-08:00Review of Word on the Street: a novel by Romy Wood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
WORD ON THE STREET, a darkly comic reflection on
homelessness, life writing and dermatology.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEgrR6wig-0S3g74mALLwY4Br5AN3WLxQLhc4VH3TcDmLKj_3EuZhrqI5UuIzXvCWt-eJgschOK6Qnv_up7wMY6bVoDf3Gtt2_j85XpV9sWRbN53BkBKmuVAbvEIrvGvyuiViUwstXvt8Y/s1600/WOTS_120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEgrR6wig-0S3g74mALLwY4Br5AN3WLxQLhc4VH3TcDmLKj_3EuZhrqI5UuIzXvCWt-eJgschOK6Qnv_up7wMY6bVoDf3Gtt2_j85XpV9sWRbN53BkBKmuVAbvEIrvGvyuiViUwstXvt8Y/s1600/WOTS_120.jpg" /></a>I love a good, darkly comic book, so when I got Word on the
Street by Romy Wood, I knew I was in good hands. It is a difficult subject to
read, the premise is grim. It makes one feel guilty for ignoring the homeless</div>
man shuffling on the street, pulling his mangy dog behind him. But the way Wood
handles the theme; it makes the reader warm up to the strange mix of
characters, their madness and their scheming ways. It makes the reader want to
take Shona, the main character, by her shoulders and shake her hard. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Shona Davies works for a homeless shelter. She is, in her
own words, stocky, chunky, porky and definitely not girly. A disease has broken
out in the homeless shelters in Cardiff, and she is quarantined, unable to get
out. She’s stuck in the shelter with a few of the homeless and her boss,
Gloria, who is definitely not happy to be imprisoned with the vagrants she is
supposed to be protecting. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
There are a few memorable characters, such as Colin, who’s
dog is dead but still lying in his doggy bed days after rigor mortis has set
in. There’s utterly hairless Paul, with not a hair to his name, who does a
runner from the quarantined shelter and is let loose into the city. Ffleur,
beautiful sophisticated Ffleur, who is perhaps pretending to be homeless. What
is her secret? And why is she latching on to Shona? Nain, Shona’s hypochondriac
grandmother, who lives on tinned food and has a year’s supply of bleach in her
cupboard. Shona’s mother, who did a runner herself and has a
now-I-hate-you-now-I-don’t relationship with her family. And above all, Dan,
Shona’s love, the journalist who wants to save the world from this pestilence
that’s about to destroy everybody.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The story moves back and forth from the days of the
quarantine and its aftermath to Shona’s time in a prison hospital. The spread of the disease and
the race to find its cure is swept up into a frenzy by the media and
politicians use it as a ploy to gain votes. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
We follow Shona as she struggles to face the true nature of
the world. When faced with a calamity, true colours of people are usually
revealed. We learn about her mental state and its destined path to
self-destruction. We support her love for Dan and for her blind faith in him.
But is it enough to make the world alright again?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEL4HKrlavSLHSK2MXclC1tzTOFrWgdVfqk9icXhztWgjMjZeruXuV4H4jkmWtkRnNAbaL58Nypo-HmO32yYWVSpkeanvOg9eIK9lJzqopKHVu9bsSgZU1eKl0j15mKLFKDMkX7NuCQ0DX/s1600/romybw_200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEL4HKrlavSLHSK2MXclC1tzTOFrWgdVfqk9icXhztWgjMjZeruXuV4H4jkmWtkRnNAbaL58Nypo-HmO32yYWVSpkeanvOg9eIK9lJzqopKHVu9bsSgZU1eKl0j15mKLFKDMkX7NuCQ0DX/s1600/romybw_200.jpg" /></a>Romy’s experience as a recovering bipolar person brings
authenticity into the world of Shona and her actions and reactions. Her
language is precise and self-deprecating, bringing to life the comic moments of
politicians putting their foot in the mouth and the power of money talking.
Cardiff, as the suffering city, is bleak and unsure. Bad things happen in the
dark, afraid to show up the dirty facts in broad daylight. This is a social commentary of the way things
are, the society we live in. After reading it, will you ever look at a homeless
person as part of the brickwork of the wall he shelters against? </div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It is a story of homelessness and disease. Of suspicion and
vice. Of greed and selfishness. Politics. Medicine. Mental illness. And above
all, love.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.romywood.co.uk/" style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #0088cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23.09375px; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Author Romy Wood">www.romywood.co.uk</a><br />
<br />
Word on the Street is available from most online retailers and selected bookstores. </div>
</div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-12326294139459453022013-11-21T23:02:00.005-08:002013-11-21T23:04:17.501-08:00Mrs Jhaveri Investigates Part 5 <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN">She walked as fast as she possibly could. She’d
have to get to the bottom of this. She changed quickly into a white sari and
dashed to the Morgan’s home. People had already started dropping in. She saw
Mrs Jones by the buffet table, helping herself to canapes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Hello, Mrs Jones,” she said quietly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Quite a gathering,” said Mrs Jones, biting into a
smoked salmon blini. She wiped away an absent tear. “Who would have said we had
gathered for a celebration a couple of nights ago?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“True.” Mrs
Jhaveri wrung her hands together. Where would she get any clues?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Did you try the canapes, Mrs…er… Mrs J?” Mrs
Jones smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Oh no, thank you.” Mrs Jhaveri was shocked to see
this gathering was more like a party. No mourning and wailing. No one in white
clothes. She stood out in her Vanish Oxy Action white. People were giving her
funny stares. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">Well, who cares. In my country, one should wear
white, she thought defiantly and went to find Mr Morgan. He was talking to the
cleaning woman/cousin in the kitchen. Rather softly and urgently. Certainly not
asking her to hoover the crumbs off the carpet, she thought. She watched them.
They seemed to be arguing about something. The woman had her arms crossed and
she leaned against the back door. Like a flash of lightening, an image streaked
through Mrs Jhaveri’s head. The nurse… in the hospital… she used to stand like that
by Mr Morgan’s bed every time they visited. Yes, yes…. Confused, shaken by her
discovery, Mrs Jhaveri backed out into the hallway. She made her way to the
shoe closet, and opened it. It was as if she knew it would be there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">A pair of cream coloured satin shoes, wedged in a
corner, behind a pair of boots. </span>They had not been there yesterday. They
had been stuffed there today, after she had mentioned the shoes to Mrs Jones at
the burial service. And who had been eavesdropping then? The cleaning woman.
The nurse. Certainly not a cousin. Mr Morgan’s lover. The killer.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
stepped back, trembling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Are you
alright?” A man touched her shoulder, supporting her. “Are you alright, madam?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes, I am.” Mrs
Jhaveri whispered. “I just found out who murdered Sian Morgan. I need to call
the police.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The man stared
at her, then back at his salmon canapé. He turned pale and nodded. He led her
towards the telephone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Mum,” Monica
shouted over the blaring television. “You’re on telly.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Rani squealed
and positioned herself in front of the television. “Nani, Nani, you’re famous,”
she chanted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri sat
dumb-struck on the sofa. She looked at herself on the screen through narrowed
eyes. She was talking to the news reporter in a high-pitched voice. It wasn’t
her voice at all. It was all a bit much for her. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Super sleuth
from India,” shouted Monica, gleefully. “Mum, you’re a star.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“So,” the reporter
was saying. “How did you know who the killer was?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Well,” Mrs
Jhaveri heard herself say. “I knew something was wrong when I heard Mrs Morgan
had worn black shoes with her purple dress and pearls. That didn’t seem right.
And then, the shoes were by her head, not on her feet.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The journalist
nodded. Rani clapped her hands and whooped for joy. The cameras focused on Mrs
Jhaveri again. She stood stiffly and stared into the camera. She had that
horrible fleece on. Mrs Jhaveri winced. She desperately needed a shopping trip
if she was going to be famous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The camera
panned back to the journalist. He continued. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Mr Morgan has confessed
to the murder. He has been arrested. He and Miss Alison Smith, a nurse, connived
together to kill Sian Morgan. They met two years ago when Mr Morgan had been
admitted to the hospital after a heart attack. He was there for nearly a month
and that’s where he met Nurse Alison Smith…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“The bastard,”
whispered Monica. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
shifted uneasily in her chair. She shot a glance at Rani, but the child was
staring gleefully at the television screen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“They had an
affair, you know,” she said quietly. “They fell in love when he was in hospital,
and she would wait outside, hating us, hating Sian for being his wife.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Would you
believe that?” Monica shouted. “Shameless old man.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Well, he did
say he felt betrayed by Sian. She never wanted children And he did. And then
when he met the nurse, there was a future there. She wanted to have his baby.
It was a big temptation for him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“That woman is
his daughter’s age, if he had one,” Monica said. “But why kill Sian? Couldn’t
he just divorce her?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes. But greed
came in the way. When Sian inherited her father’s money, the nurse thought that
money would come into use in bringing up the child. Mr Morgan didn’t have
money. Sian was the rich one. Probably that’s why he had to cook.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Oh-oh. It
always boils down to money, doesn’t it?” Money chewed on her lip. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes. So on the
day of the anniversary party, Mr Morgan made that special mushroom soup for his
wife. The nurse planned it all. And then they had the champagne for the party
at night.” Mrs Jhaveri wiped her eyes. She couldn’t bear to think of her
friend’s dreadful end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“She literally
toasted to her death.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes, that was
awful.” Monica continued. “Just awful. The poison reacted when she went to the
bathroom.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes, she was
dying when the nurse … that spiteful woman, came up to her and whispered that
she’d be in her shoes soon. And literally, took off Sian’s shoes and wore them.
What a horrible thing to do. Sian died knowing the ghastly truth.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Didn’t Mrs
Jones hear all this? I mean, she was in the loo as well.” Monica looked
puzzled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes, she was.
But she was too drunk to register much. Why, she even joked with Sian while she
was dying. Silly woman.” Mrs Jhaveri shook her head. “Well, that’s that. The
two of them thought they had managed to go scot free. Not knowing that Alison’s
one stupid gesture cost them their freedom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes,” Monica
smiled and hugged her mother. “They didn’t know that Sian Morgan had such a
clever neighbour, a certain Mrs Jhaveri, who did not believe a woman could wear
the wrong shoes to a party.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
They laughed and
Mrs Jhaveri hugged her back. “I am glad I found out the truth. For my friend,
Sian. Alison Smith will never get into her shoes ever.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Amen to that,”
smiled Monica. “So, who wants to go out for dinner tonight? Who wants to go out
with a celebrity?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Me, me, me,”
shouted Rani, jumping on the sofa. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Well,” laughed
Mrs Jhaveri. “Let’s go to that restaurant in Cardiff Bay then. Sian would have
liked us to celebrate with her there.”<br />
<br />
The End</div>
</div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-65597557727764201502013-11-21T01:42:00.001-08:002013-11-21T01:46:10.964-08:00Mrs Jhaveri Investigates:Part 4<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
In the hallway,
she paused by the shoe closet. She heard Mr Morgan talking on the telephone.
She opened the closet. The rows and rows of beautiful shoes glinted back at her.
They were of every colour and shape and material possible. She drew her breath
sharply. Imagine owning all that. She had just two pairs of shoes in Cardiff.
Bedroom slippers, and the thickest pair of trainers to keep the chilblains at
bay. Her eyes scanned the rows, trying to understand why Sian couldn’t have
worn the right pair of shoes. There was a cream coloured pair, but with diamond
studs on them. No, not those. Another pair of off-white pumps. No. She would
wear heels for a dinner party, for sure. Violet satin heels. Not too bad. But
they had to be the exact shade of her dress then. She checked the soles of the
shoes. Not a mark on them. The price sticker was still on. Brand new.
Untouched. She shut the closet and left the house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The burial took
place in the church cemetry next to Rani’s school. Mrs Jhaveri got there just
as the pastor concluded his prayers and sprinkled earth on the coffin. She
watched with interest as Mr Morgan threw a few clumps of earth and wiped a
tear. She saw Mrs Jones sniffing loudly into her lace handkerchief and she
inched slowly towards her. The cleaning woman was there as well. Looking rather
white and tired. The Morgans did not have any children, and the only other
family member present was Sian’s ailing sister. She was wheeled towards the
coffin and her shoulders shook violently as she threw earth on the coffin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Poor dear,”
whispered Mrs Jones. “She doesn’t have much time left either.” She looked at
Mrs Jhaveri and nodded. “Sian’s sister there, Sue, she never got married.
Looked after their father, you know. He died only last year, at the ripe old
age of ninety. And would you believe it? Sue fell down the stairs a week later
and ended up being an invalid herself.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Very sad,” Mrs
Jhaveri whispered back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Indeed,
especially after inheriting the house and not being able to enjoy it. Right
shame it is.” Mrs Jones sniffed her disapproval. “Sian herself inherited a tidy
sum herself. They went to Thailand couple of months ago.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I know. Sian
showed me the elephant statues she bought from there…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The cleaning woman, or rather, Mr Morgan's distant cousin, turned around and glared at them. Mrs Jones went red and sniffed loudly into
her handkerchief. Mrs Jhaveri glared back at her. How dare she eavesdrop on
their conversation and then have the cheek to show her disapproval. She had no right to butt in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Mrs Jones,” she
whispered back deliberately. “I think Sian didn’t die of a heart attack. She
was murdered.” There, that should knock the socks off curdle-face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jones gasped
and dropped her handbag. The cousin squared her shoulders but did not
turn around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
What are you
saying, Mrs… Mrs…? Mrs Jones coughed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Mrs Jhaveri.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Oh yes, Mrs
Javier?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Jha-ve-ri.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I’m so sorry,
Mrs Jhavieri. But why do you think that?” Mrs Jones clutched her handbag to her
chest. “I didn’t see anyone there in the toilet that night.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Simple. The shoes.
Remember you mentioned her black suede shoes, lying by her head?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jones nodded
vigorously. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Well, the
killer killed her, then ran away with her shoes. Think about it. Why would Sian
wear black shoes with her purple dress?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jones’ eyes
bulged. Her mouth opened, but shut again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Anyway, you may
not believe it. I think so.” Mrs Jhaveri stated firmly. An westerly wind was
beginning to blow and the tips of her fingers were beginning to go numb. She’d
have to go back indoors soon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jones
laughed politely. “Oh, Mrs Ja-va-rey. You’ve been watching too many detective
dramas on telly. She definitely wasn’t murdered. She died in front of me… of a
heart attack.” She patted Mrs Jhaveri gently on her shoulders. Mrs Jhaveri
nodded politely but her lips were set in a thin line. She would prove it. She
excused herself and walked out of the churchyard. It was a quarter to eleven and the children
were on their break. She slowed down by the school to see if she could spot
Rani. Yes, there she was, running around in the playground, laughing with her
friends. She hadn’t got her mittens on. Mrs Jhaveri grimaced and flexed her own
frozen fingers. This cold would be the death of her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
As she walked
past the surgery, an idea flashed through her mind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Hang on a
minute,” she muttered, imitating Rani. “I have an idea.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
She entered the
surgery and asked to see her doctor. A long wait was imminent, so she sat in a
corner and decided to think things out carefully.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Dr Davies saw
her forty minutes later. She was the last appointment for the morning. She
liked this quiet, young doctor with his large hands and ginger hair. She saw
him regularly thanks to Rani’s sniffles and tickles. That’s what he called it.
Sniffles and tickles and Rani would collapse into giggles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Good afternoon,
Dr Davies.” Mrs Jhaveri smiled sweetly at him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Afternoon, Mrs
Jhaveri,” he replied, rubbing his hands together. “Where’s the little princess?
Or is it you this time?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
laughed nervously. “Actually, doctor, I don’t have a problem… medical problem,
I mean. But if you could help me, I’d be very grateful.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Oh.” Dr Davies
looked confused. “How can I help?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Doctor, please
don’t think I am crazy. I really need to ask you this.” She was sure he’d send
her packing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Oh no, you go
on. What’s the problem?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Well, you know,
doctor… I am a bit confused over some facts. Can a person die of heart attack,
but which is actually not heart attack?” Mrs Jhaveri bit her lip. This was not
going the right way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I’m sorry, but
I don’t understand.” Dr Davies looked at her and frowned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Okay, I’ll try
again.” Mrs Jhaveri cleared her throat and closed her eyes. “My friend died
recently of a heart attack. But, I think it was not heart attack. She was
killed. Something strange about the situation makes me believe she was killed.
Am I making sense?” She waved her hands
about helplessly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Wait a minute,”
Dr Davies said. “Are you trying to tell me that someone was murdered but it was
made to look like this person died of a heart attack?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes,” Mrs
Jhaveri clapped her hands. “You understood? Good.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Well, if that’s
what you are implying.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Doctor, how can
one achieve this? How?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“But why does
that interest you?” Asked Dr Davies, narrowing his eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I’m – I’m
writing a novel,” Mrs Jhaveri said, looking into his eyes. “In Hindi. You can’t
read it. Sorry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I didn’t know
you write,” Dr Davies smiled. “Crime fiction, huh? Have you been published?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I will be, if
you help me out with the verdict, doctor,” Mrs Jhaveri muttered, and then
smiled sweetly at him. “I’ll give you a signed copy. In Hindi. I don’t write in
English.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Dr Davies
laughed and looked excited. Poor man, he needed to go out a bit more. Maybe
Monica and he – Mrs Jhavery forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Well, certain
chemicals, substances, if ingested… eaten can trigger a heart attack,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Oh, like what
chemicals?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Certain
painkillers, if taken irresponsibly. Wait a minute… who are you talking about?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Dr Davies looked
at her and frowned. He tapped his fingers on his desk and waited.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Sian Morgan,”
she said quietly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Hmmm. Why do
you suspect murder, Mrs Jhaveri.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“If you can give
me an answer, doctor, I would be able to give you mine.” She was playing mind
games with the doctor now and quite enjoying it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Well, so I’ve
said some chemicals. But they’re hard to get by easily.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“What about
natural stuff?” she prodded. “I saw on telly the other night, someone was
poisoned by mushrooms.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Dr Davies smiled
at her. “You watch too many detective dramas. Ma’am. But you are right. <i><span lang="EN">Coprinopsis
atramentaria</span></i><span lang="EN">. The Inky
Cap mushroom.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“A-ha. That’s a start. How does one use it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Well, in itself, it can’t do anything. But if any
alcohol is consumed later, it could be fatal. The Tippler’s Bane, another name
for it.” Dr Davies typed it up on Google. “Let’s see what else we can find.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“But who would want to kill her?” asked Mrs
Jhaveri. “She didn’t have any enemies. I don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Her husband – suspect number one, of course.” Dr
Davies smiled at her, teasing her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">Mrs Jhaveri shook her head absently. “They were
married for forty years. Far too long for a man to wait. It was a woman, for
sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Why do you say that?” Dr Davie frowned. Mrs
Jhaveri seemed very serious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Because, the killer ran away with Sian Morgan’s
shoes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Oh, here it is,” Dr Davies looked at the computer
screen and read aloud to her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“<i>Consumed
with alcohol, Coprinopsis atramentaria
is toxic. Symptoms include facial reddening, nausea, vomiting, malaise
agitation and palpitations and arise 20 minutes to 2 hours after consumption.
The fungus contains <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">coprine</span>, which blocks the action of <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">acetaldehyde dehydrogenase</span>, allowing the
buildup of acetaldehyde in the body…”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">Okay, so in English it means…?” Asked Mrs Jhaveri
impatiently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Just that. It’s dangerous to drink alcohol after
eating the Inky cap. But, I would suggest, you shouldn’t worry about it. The
coroner must have done a thorough job. She’d have died of a heart attack, no
doubt.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">“Yes, yes. Of course,” Mrs Jhaveri said quickly.
She didn’t want to upset the doctor. Besides she had to know what Sian had for
lunch on the afternoon of that fateful day. “I must go now. Sorry to have taken
up your time. I have to be present for the wake at the Morgans’ place.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN">She rushed out of the surgery. Sian had inherited
some money, didn’t Mrs Jones say that? What if Mr Morgan killed her for that?
She clicked her tongue in irritation. Of course, he wouldn’t. He didn’t seem to
hate her. Though she had just found out, that he always did the cooking at
home. What if he had killed her by mistake? But that wouldn’t explain the
shoes. That had to be a woman’s work. Or was it Mr Morgan, trying to take the
attention off himself, just in case?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN"><i>To be continued ...</i></span></div>
</div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-84326961060750082832013-11-20T01:45:00.001-08:002013-11-20T01:50:19.849-08:00Mrs Jhaveri Investigates Part 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri got
home and put the kettle on. She was proud of herself, talking to an actual
policeman and sharing confidences with him. Of course, Sian Morgan didn’t die
of a heart attack! Or maybe she did, realising she had the wrong shoes on her
feet. She suffocated a chortle in her throat. That was <i>not</i> funny. The poor woman was dead. But why had Mr Morgan ignored
her, looked through her as if he didn’t even know her? Poor man, he must be
really distraught. She decided to visit him again later that evening. She could
make her famous lamb stew for him. Back home, whenever there was death in a
family, there could be no cooking in that household until the funeral.
Neighbours or relatives usually brought food in for the bereaved family. Yes, she would be
the good neighbour and help Mr Morgan once again. He would definitely
appreciate that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Feeling happy to
be of some use to him, Mr Jhaveri set about making lamb stew. As she stirred the pot,
her brain dredged up memories from her last visit, when she had interacted with
the Morgans more often. She remembered those trips to the hospital. Sian seemed
to need her support a lot. She didn't have much help by way of family. They didn't have children. The two of them would visit Mr Morgan everyday at five
o’clock. It had seemed odd, sitting there with the couple, listening to their
daily patter about nothing in particular. But then she realised that Sian was afraid
of hospitals, terrified even. It had taken her a great amount of courage to set
foot in one. And she really had needed Mrs Jhaveri to hold her hand and walk
through those double doors every day for a whole month.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
When Mr Morgan
finally returned home, he had been quite weak and irritable. He stopped talking
to his wife for a long time. And if he did, he only shouted, accused her of being selfish and mean. He was diagnosed with depression. So once again.
Mrs Jhaveri became the shoulder on which Sian Morgan could cry on. And play
Bezique with. And win. She always fixed lovely teas for Mrs Jhaveri whenever
she visited. Those dainty sandwiches, salmon and cucumber. Egg and Cress.
Light, fluffy cakes and Earl Grey tea. Mrs Jhaveri didn’t like the tea, it
smelled odd, but that didn’t matter. She was happy to be of ‘emotional’ support
to Sian.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
added seasoning to her stew and stirred. The vegetables were done and the meat
was falling off the bone. Ah, the warm rich aroma of lamb stew filled the
kitchen. Rani was in for a treat that evening, she thought and smiled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<i>But what was wrong with the shoes? </i>Her
thoughts kept going back to the shoes. She hadn’t even seen them. She had seen
those pearls, though. Sian wore them often. They were almost buttery in colour.
Three lovely strands of perfect roundness and glow. Surely, a similar coloured
pair of shoes would set them off. Satin shoes, that had a pearly sheen as well. Not black
suede. And why were they by her head? Why would Sian take off her shoes before
collapsing? That did not fit any theory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
She peered out
of the window and saw the police car drive away. Good, she wiped her hands on
the edge of her apron and turned off the cooker. Here was her chance. She
dashed out and made her way to the Morgan’s front door. The lights were on
inside. She peeped innocuously through the window and saw Mr Morgan hunched in
front of the television. Good, he’s home – alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
She knocked and
waited. It was a while before Mr Morgan opened the door. He smiled in a tired
sort of way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Ah, Mrs
Jhaveri,” he said. “You managed to dodge the police this time.” He winked and
showed her in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Oh, Mr Morgan.
I am so sorry about this tragedy.” Tears sprung to her eyes and she wiped it
with the corner of her <i>pallu</i>. “I
truly am very sorry.” She burst into tears and Mr Morgan clasped and unclasped
his hands. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Please,
please,” he cried anxiously. “Sit down, Mrs Jhaveri. It’s alright.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Sian was such a
beautiful lady. Such a beautiful heart… and soul.” She shook her head and dried her tears. “But
why did the police come here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Huh?” Mr Morgan
started and sat down heavily beside her. “To check on her medical history etc
etc… to be sure…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Sure if what?”
asked Mrs Jhaveri.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I don’t know.
Routine work, he said. Since she died in a public place.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“And are you
okay? How are you eating? Who’s cooking for you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mr Morgan looked
surprised. “I’m fine, thank you for asking. I can cook. I’ve been cooking all
these years.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Really? You
cooked instead of Sian?” asked Mrs Jhaveri, shocked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Her husband had never
entered the kitchen. Rather, she’d never let him. It just wasn’t right for men
to be in a kitchen. It was okay for them to cook and all, but who did the
clearing up after, she had always argued. So best to draw the territorial lines
early on in the marriage. TV remote, his. The cooker, hers. So Monica had been
right, after all. Men were different in this country.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes,” Mr Morgan
laughed. “Sian never entered the kitchen.
She couldn’t tell a peach from a plum!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“But… but she always made such lovely sandwiches and cakes for me…” She felt she had to defend Sian
somehow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mr Morgan threw
back his head and laughed. “Marks and Spencer, my dear. You never realised
that? No? No wonder she loved you!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
stared at him. He stopped laughing and his eyes glinted angrily. “Sian, bless her soul, was not as perfect as
you thought her to be.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
She shifted in
her seat. One did not speak ill of the dead, especially one’s own wife. <span style="line-height: 200%;">His eyes filled
and he looked away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Don’t listen to
me. I’m too upset.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes, yes, of
course. I’ve made some lamb stew for you. Do you remember?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mr Morgan smiled
kindly at her. “I do,” he whispered. “The hospital. Some things do happen for
the better.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
stood up. “I must go now. Have to pick up Rani from school. We will come to the
funeral tomorrow. The cleaning woman told me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mr Morgan looked
up, frowning. “Cleaning woman? Oh. Aah, you met her?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes, I came by
yesterday. So did Mrs Jones.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Oh, I didn’t
know. She's actually a distant cousin. Helping me out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
"I see," said Mrs Jhaveri. No wonder she behaved like she owned the place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The telephone
rang just then. “I’ll see myself out,” said Mrs Jhaveri and walked away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<i>To be continued...</i></div>
</div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-1131460511503520422013-11-19T01:35:00.000-08:002013-11-19T01:35:34.983-08:00Mrs Jhaveri Investigates Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“It was a heart
attack,” she told Monica that evening. “Poor thing died of a heart attack.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Oh no,” said
Monica, pouring herself some coffee. “She would be in her sixties, <i>na</i>? Her husband must be devastated. Did
you see him in the morning?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“No. He wasn’t
in …” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Forty years
together. Amazing.” Monica rolled her eyes and muttered something Mrs Jhaveri
couldn’t quite catch, but she could be sure it was about Akhil, her ex-husband.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Poor Mr
Morgan,” she said hurriedly, in an attempt to get Monica’s mind off that taboo
subject. “He had a stroke a couple of years back. I was here then.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes,” Monica
stirred her coffee absently. “He was in the hospital for a long time. You
visited him, right? With his wife?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“That’s right. I
went every other day with Sian. I used to make lamb stew for him, and we’d
smuggle it to his bed.” She smiled at the memory. She remembered having to
dodge a particular nurse who always seemed to station herself by Mr Morgan’s bed
during visiting hours. It felt like such an achievement to get the food past
her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Well, who’s
going to look after him now?” she wondered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Ma,” Monica
said, sharply. “This is not India. He doesn’t need anyone to look after him.
Men are much more independent here. Not molly-coddled by their wives. He’ll
probably get married again. You watch and see.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Monica,”
exclaimed Mrs Jhaveri. “What nonsense. He’s an old man. Show him some respect.
Don’t let your bitterness get in the way of everything, <i>beti</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Monica jumped up
and threw the coffee into the sink. Her eyes flashed in the fluorescent light
and she stomped out of the room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
sighed. Her daughter needed time to sort
herself out. Akhil had left her for an older woman. A white woman with two
children and who wore war-paint for make-up. Monica’s self-esteem had been
shattered. The beauty with the brains had not been good enough for him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<i>How can I help her? </i>This was Mrs
Jhaveri’s mantra. Her daily chant. <i>How
can I help my daughter?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
She went up to Rani’s
room. She was sleeping. A smaller version of Monica, with her black, shining
hair and ivory skin. She slept blissfully on, unaware of all the tumbles of
life. Or, maybe not. At five years of age, what explanation could convince a
child of her father’s absence? Of her mother’s progression towards a breakdown?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Fortieth
wedding anniversary,” whispered Mrs Jhaveri. “Mine ended at thirty-five.
Monica’s ended at six.” She brushed aside her tears and closed the door. She
lay down on her side of the bed and stroked Rani’s hair. She thought about Sian
and whispered a prayer for her. Finally she settled down to sleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
At two o’clock
Mrs Jhaveri woke up with a start. The moonlight seeped in through a gap in the
curtains. Like pearl shine. She shot up in bed, and immediately groaned. Her
back rebelled against any sudden actions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
She knew what
had been niggling at her brain. She had dreamt of Mrs Jones and her
conversation with her. She dreamt of Sian, on the floor, her pearls scattered
across the bathroom, her violet dress bleeding onto the floor. But the shoes
were not right. Sian could never have worn black shoes with her violet dress
and off-white pearls. She was a very fashionable woman. She was always well
turned out, even at her home, whenever Mrs Jhaveri visited her for elevenses.
She had once opened her shoe closet in the hall by mistake, thinking it to be a
toilet. And she had been amazed to see rows and rows of beautiful shoes in
there. Mrs Morgan had laughed self-consciously and said she could open a shoe shop
with her collection. It was her only indulgence. Mrs Jhaveri had smiled
politely and tucked her sandals under her sari. They had been quite
tired-looking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Sian Morgan
could never have worn black suede shoes with her dress. She had to have
matching shoes to off-set her pearls. Didn’t Mrs Jones say they were not on her
feet?” Mrs Jhaveri muttered to herself. “Something is very strange going on here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
She stumbled
across to Monica’s room, brimming with excitement. But Monica was snoring ever
so softly under the duvet. Her heart reached out to her poor, troubled
daughter. No, let her sleep, she thought. It’s probably one of the few nights
that she’s restfully sleeping.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">She went back to bed, and
planned to visit Mr Morgan the next day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The next morning,
after struggling with Rani’s breakfast and getting her into two mismatched
shoes, she managed to reach the school gates by ten to nine. She also tracked down the child wearing two right-footed shoes and got her to exchange
one with Rani’s. Then she plodded back to see if Mr Morgan was at home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
He was. But so
was a tall, scrawny policeman who kept shifting from one foot to another.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Sorry, m’am,”
he said. “But, I’m afraid you’ll have to visit some other time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Why?” gasped
Mrs Jhaveri. “Is something happening? Mr Morgan, are you ok?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mr Morgan looked
at her blankly and turned away. The policeman led her towards the gate. “Now,
m’am, we don’t want any rumours spreading. This is just routine work.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
nodded. “Of course, of course. I just wanted to see if Mr Morgan was alright,
that’s all.” She started to walk away, then suddenly she turned around and
looked up into the policeman’s eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Do you really
think she died of a heart attack?” she asked. “I think not. It’s very strange
business.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The policeman
stopped. “What do you mean?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
She smiled at
him and mumbled. “Well, one doesn’t wear black suede shoes with a lilac dress.
Certainly not Sian.” She walked away as fast as she could. There, she had said
it. Sown the seeds of doubt in the policeman’s mind. Now it was up to him to
uncover the truth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<i>To be continued...</i></div>
</div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-87501041919181302822013-11-18T03:17:00.001-08:002013-11-20T01:45:43.619-08:00Mrs Jhaveri Investigates Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Mrs Morgan died
last night,” Monica announced, dropping the shopping bags on the floor. She ripped
open her jacket and sank into the chair. “At her 40<sup>th</sup> wedding
anniversary party.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“What are you
saying?” her mother gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “How? What happened?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Dunno. I
overheard in Sainsbury’s. Woman in front of me was there at the party. At one of
the posh restaunrants down in Cardiff Bay, you know. And it seems she just
collapsed in the loo.” Monica jumped up and switched on the television. “It’ll
be on the news,” she said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri sat
down and wrung her hands. “Sian Morgan? From next door? My God. She’d invited
me, of course. But I couldn’t go. Have to look after Rani in the evenings until
you get back. But I cannot believe this...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
But Monica
wasn’t listening to her mother. She had developed a way to filter her mother’s
voice through her ears and only retain key words that had to do anything with
Rani, her five year old daughter. Her mother was visiting from India. And
Monica was tired of her constant criticism about everything here in Cardiff. <i>It’s never sunny. It’s much too cold for her
aching bones. Not many ‘known’ faces in the neighbourhood. Too lonely.</i> But
Monica needed her here. The divorce had made things financially difficult, and
someone had to look after Rani while she worked double shift.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
moaned under her breath. “She was a nice lady. So nice to me. She invited me
for a cup of tea in the afternoons. So beautiful, she was. And such a lovely
house...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Is Rani in
bed?” Monica asked, shoving the ready meals into the freezer. Her mother eyed
the boxes and frowned. Chicken Tikka Masala. Taste the Difference Spaghetti
Carbonara. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I’m really exhausted and I don’t want any <i>tamasha</i> today.” Monica glared at her
before she could comment on the contents of the freezer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
walked into the conservatory and peered out. The Morgans’ house was submerged
in darkness. Where was poor Mr Morgan? She wondered. She decided to go and pay
her respects in the morning and plodded back into the kitchen. The January cold
had seeped into her bones and refused to thaw out. She sighed and switched on
the kettle to ready the hot-water bag for the night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
***<span style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The next
morning, after dropping Rani to school, Mrs Jhaveri went over to the
Morgans’. She rang the doorbell and pulled her enormous fleece jacket over her
sari. There was an itch in her knee but she couldn’t bend to scratch because of
the many layers she had on. She clicked her tongue in irritation. She had
dressed carefully. It had been a struggle to decide whether to wear black, or
white, which was traditionally worn to funerals in India. In the end, she
compromised on a pale grey sari with black flowers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The door opened
a crack and a pair of eyes peered out. Mrs Jhaveri screwed her eyes to look
into the darkness inside. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes?” cried a
nasal voice from within.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I’m the
neighbour, from house next door. Tarla Jhaveri. Mr Morgan at home, please?” Her
voice came out in a shiver. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“No one’s ‘ere,”
the voice cried. “Come back later.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Then who are
you?” Mrs Jhaveri asked sharply. She stuck her toe in the crack of the door and
jutted her chin out. She was going in, and that was that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The door opened.
A woman stood there, duster in her hand, a lop-sided apron across her chest.
She had a sour face. Like curdled milk, thought Mrs Jhaveri, bitterly. “Can I
come in?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The woman
nodded, resignedly. “I’m cleaning up. Mr Morgan hired me to clean the place.
He’s not in. Still at the hospital, I think. His Missus died, you know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes, I know,” said
Mrs Jhaveri and strode in, shaking her gloves at the woman. “You know what
happened?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“No, I don’t. I
only came this mornin’. Mr Morgan told me to get the house ready for his Missus
funeral. With people like yourself visiting, the house needs to be all proper
and all, innit?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The doorbell
rang again, and the cleaning lady sighed. “Won’t be an end to this. Now how
will I get this place ready?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
There were a few
words exchanged at the door and then a large woman came bustling into the
sitting room and nearly tripped over Mrs Jhaveri.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Oh, I’m sorry I
didn’t see you,” she wheezed and sat down and clutched her chest. She sat down
heavily on the sofa and sank into the depths of it. “I’m Mrs Jones, Sian’s
friend.” She stopped and her eyes filled. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Such a
terrible accident.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Accident?” repeated
Mrs Jhaveri. “What happened really?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jones
flapped her hands about and gasped. “I was at the party. We were having such a
great time. There was champagne and caviar. The works. I said to Daffyd that he
had gone all out to please her.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
nodded and leaned in towards the other woman. “And…?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Well, I was on
my third glass … oh, I’m afraid I did indulge myself a bit… One doesn’t drink
Dom Perignon everyday, and I did get carried away…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Mrs Jones,”
said Mrs Jhaveri, touching the woman’s knee every so slightly. “What happened
to Sian Morgan?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Huh?” Mrs Jones
visibly deflated. “Oh yes, I was coming to that.” She pushed some imaginary
strands of hair away from her face and gulped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I needed to go
to the toilet, after all those… glasses of champagne. So I went, and I was
inside when I heard a gasp and a thud. I didn’t think much of it, perhaps
someone’s handbag had fallen or something. But when I came out, I saw Sian on
the floor.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jones
stopped for breath and fanned herself with her hat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“I didn’t
realise it was serious. I joked with Sian that she had had one too many herself
and couldn’t keep her balance. Then I saw she was out like a light. Her dress
was all stained and her shoes were lying by her head. She looked dreadful. I remember
thinking there goes that two-hundred quid dress. What a beautiful outfit she
had on. A violet satin dress it was... from Howell’s she told me... and her
mother’s pearls. Old, gorgeous pearls. They went so well with her dress. And
black suede shoes…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Mrs Jhaveri
shook her head in disbelief. “Mrs Jones,” she said. “Your friend is dead. Perhaps
you can tell me how, and not what she is wearing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Of course, of
course,” Mrs Jones said, her lips trembling. “It’s all too much for me to bear.
Imagine, I discovered her there. She’d had a heart attack. Poor girl.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Did the
doctor’s say that?” Mrs Jhaveri asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Yes, Daffyd
rang me and told me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“So when is the
funeral?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Day after
tomorrow. They’re waiting for Sian’s sister to come down from Norwich. She’s
quite poorly herself, you know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“Oh, I don’t
know her,” said Mrs Jhaveri and got to her feet slowly. She rearranged the
folds of her sari and looked around. The cleaning lady was rattling about in
the kitchen. “I’ll come back to see Mr Morgan. I’m from next door. Well, my
daughter, Monica, is actually, I’m only visiting…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
But Mrs Jones
wasn’t listening; she was blowing her nose into her handkerchief. It didn’t
matter. Mrs Jhaveri was used to this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<i>To be continued...</i></div>
</div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-74599618092728957162013-10-24T01:44:00.002-07:002013-10-24T01:50:43.096-07:00The Child Goddess<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5Uswg2DGd3ykAkfy-P1bsiDBYOa7lfRDuvzCYFJ0aTKQJkNqKOpH38cVEzjxFPA7RC30JT9-6hu1VMdIZ9Lz_6ZdxxbXrGWzXzBc3Jt5hdP27qNjCBWLW17XmUglYnhfoA-w9N0-q8b0/s1600/child-goddess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5Uswg2DGd3ykAkfy-P1bsiDBYOa7lfRDuvzCYFJ0aTKQJkNqKOpH38cVEzjxFPA7RC30JT9-6hu1VMdIZ9Lz_6ZdxxbXrGWzXzBc3Jt5hdP27qNjCBWLW17XmUglYnhfoA-w9N0-q8b0/s320/child-goddess.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Published in Wasafiri 25th Anniversary Issue, 2009</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
During the hot and sultry month of October, the city
of <st1:place w:st="on">Calcutta</st1:place> builds
up to a frenzy of celebration. It is the season for <i>Durga Puja</i>, the
worship of the Mother Goddess. People throng the streets in their fine clothes
and jewellery. Their songs of devotion and carefree laughter melt into the
incense-laden air. Each and every neighbourhood boasts of deities of <i>Ma
Durga</i> who strides over the vanquished demon, her ten arms brandishing
weapons, her body bedecked with jewels. For five days, it is a celebration of
good over evil.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 30pt;">As Ria woke, her body
tingled with excitement. The sun had not risen above the horizon, yet the house
was buzzing with activity. Her mother, already bathed and dressed in the
traditional cream and red-bordered sari, was arranging the ingredients for
Ria’s holy bath. She looked down at her daughter’s glowing face and smiled to
herself. This was a special day for Ria, a special day for the Bose family.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Always, on the second to last day of the festival, a
girl child, between the ages of one to sixteen, was selected to be worshipped
as the earthly representative of the Mother Goddess. All the devotees would lie
at her feet and worship the human incarnation of the Goddess. Today, Ria was
the chosen one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Every year, the Boses commissioned the old master
sculptor to create an idol of <i>Ma Durga </i>in their courtyard. They watched
from dawn to dusk, as he expertly moulded clay and straw into the majestic form
of the Mother Goddess. The eyes of the Goddess were the last to be painted. The
family waited in breathless anticipation as finally the sculptor gave the
finishing touches and completed the sparkle in <i>Ma Durga’s </i>eyes: it was as if he breathed life into the statue, and
<i>Ma Durga</i> emblazoned the courtyard with her power and spirit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Her mother sang softly as she bathed her special
child. At ten years of age, she radiated innocence and beauty. The priest had
found all the qualities befitting the<i> Kumari Puja</i>, the Worship of the
Child Goddess,<i> </i>in her little Ria.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
As she was being dressed, Ria looked in amazement at
her reflection. She watched her transformation from a tiny waif into a
miniature reflection of the magnificent deity in the courtyard. Wrapped in a
red silk sari, the golden sequins shimmering in the light, she looked every
inch like the Goddess. To her delight, her mother applied lipstick and
consecrated her forehead with the sacred vermilion powder. An intricately woven
garland of jasmine and roses was placed around her neck. She delighted in its
heady fragrance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“You are a Child Goddess, Ria,” her mother explained,
taking Ria’s hands in hers. “You must treat this auspicious day with great
respect. Today all the powers of<i> Ma Durga </i>will be inside of you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria beamed as everybody said she was going to be the
living Ma Durga. But she was not sure of how to behave. She was in awe of the
Mother Goddess, with her ten arms and gleaming weapons, riding a furious lion
with a bleeding monster at her feet. She peered into the mirror again and stuck
out her lower lip. She did not look as impressive as the idol after all. She
had only two arms, and was the shortest girl in class. She bared her teeth in a
grotesque smile and shuddered at the way her braces glinted back. She made a
mental note not to smile when she was on the dais, as that would remind people
she was Ria, a mortal. She squared her shoulders and gulped. “Can I kill the
Demon with my bare hands?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“You can,” her mother laughed. “In between our prayers
and offerings and after accepting all the gifts, you can battle it out with the
Demon.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Will <i>Ma Durga</i> mind that her Child Goddess
wears braces? She has such a lovely smile.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Silly girl, what a thing to worry about. Of course
not. You are the most beautiful little Child Goddess I have seen. She will be
delighted to have you by her side.” Her mother laughed and patted Ria’s cheek.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Okay, but I will try to keep my mouth shut.” Ria’s
eyes opened wide in wonder. “Mother, is it really true that I am the Child
Goddess today? Will<i> Ma Durga </i>really come and live inside me today? And
everyone will worship me today like they worship Her?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Her mother’s eyes filled with tears as she touched
Ria’s forehead. “You are <i>Kumari</i> today, the Child Goddess. You are the
all-seeing, all encompassing Mother Goddess. We will bow down at your feet and
ask for your blessing. It is such an honour for our family that you are the
chosen one. Remember that, child. We are so blessed to have the Child Goddess
in our home. The entire neighbourhood will come to worship you.” Ria felt better after listening to her
mother. She needn’t be brave and ferocious. She only needed to bless everyone
with her holy powers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
The moment arrived. The entire family gathered around
the Child Goddess. Grandmother rang the prayer bell and chanted under her
breath. Aunt held the holy lamp by Ria’s face and everybody showered petals on
her. Ria’s father eyes sparkled when he bent down and bowed his head in
reverence to the Holy Child. The drummers in the courtyard began their jubilant
drum roll. The air vibrated with the electricity of their music. The neighbours, devotees and family members
filed into the courtyard to worship the Child Goddess.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria sat on a special dais beneath the deity of the
Mother. The floor in front of them was intricately decorated with rice paste
and flowers. Offerings of milk, sweets, dried fruits and nuts, clothes and
jewellery were spread out before her. The air was heavy with the scent of
incense and jasmine. The priest chanted prayers and the devotees sang out to
the Child Goddess.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria swayed to the rhythm, entranced by the surreal
experience. She felt as though <i>Ma Durga</i> had stepped into her body, and
taken command. Her eyes rested on them one by one, and she blessed them: Mother.
Father. Grandmother. She saw Aunt, her father’s sister, crouching in front of
the dais, head bent in great reverence. She did not like this aunt who always
pinched her cheek a bit too hard, and said things that made her mother weep
quietly in her room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<i>Should I bless Aunt as well?</i> she
wondered. <i>Well, since I am the Child
Goddess, I do not have a choice but to bless her… Oh look, what is Aunt doing?</i>
Through the incense smoke, Ria saw Aunt lift a gold necklace from the offertory
tray in front of the Goddess. She stuffed it into the depths of her bosom. Then
she looked around and slunk back into the swaying crowd.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
She had seen too much, but was incapable of action. The priest stepped forward
and sprinkled holy water on her head. The flames leapt about wildly in the oil
lamps, and the drummers reached a climax in their music. Ria was lost in the
devotional frenzy of her worshippers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
The <i>Kumari </i>worship came to an end with much
cheer and veneration. But the Child Goddess slumped on her seat, suddenly
drained of life. Her mother lifted her up and guided her towards the doorway.
Behind them, Father and Grandmother began to collect all the offerings and
gifts to be brought inside for safekeeping. Some of these gifts of gold
jewellery, new clothes, fruits and sweets would be kept for the Child Goddess,
while the rest would be distributed amongst the poor and needy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Suddenly there was a sharp cry. Grandmother
scrutinised the offertory tray in her hand. “The gold necklace… is gone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“What do you mean, Mother?” Ria’s father ran to her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“The gold necklace I had offered to the Child Goddess
… here on this tray … it is not there anymore.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
The onlookers gasped and looked around questioningly.
Who would dare steal the holy offerings to the Goddess?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“The family heirloom?” cried Ria’s father.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Yes, yes. I had saved it for Ria.” Her grandmother’s
eyes brimmed with tears. She looked around frantically. “Call the police. What
a thing to happen.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“It must be the maidservant,” Aunt cried out
confidently. “I saw her lurking around. She is new here, isn’t she?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
All eyes fell on the maidservant. The poor girl let
out a wail and fell at her master’s feet. She grabbed his ankles and wept, “I
beg of you, <i>dada</i>, I am innocent. I did not steal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“You wicked girl,” the Aunt yelled. “Lying is your
second nature. You servants are all alike. Did not steal, indeed. Out with it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
The girl wailed and beat her breasts, swearing at her
innocence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“But she did not do it,” Ria spoke out. “I am the all-seeing
Child Goddess. I know she did not do it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Everybody turned to look at her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Ria,” her mother whispered. “What are you saying?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“I saw who did it. Aunt stole the necklace.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Ria,” her father’s voice sliced the air. “Be careful
of what you say.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
She stood, looking fearlessly into her father’s eyes.
“Aunt took it in front of me, the Child Goddess. Ask her.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
The onlookers shuffled around in embarrassment. Aunt’s
shrieks rent the air. “How dare she? Pointing her finger at me… no respect for
her elders… shameful…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Please,” her mother tried to placate Aunt. “She’s
only a child. She’s misunderstood things.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
“This is a police case,
Ria,” her father explained to her. “They will catch the real thief. But you
will not point a finger at anyone so irresponsibly. Aunt is part of our family,
not a thief.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“No, I saw Aunt,” Ria persisted. “I have the power to
see the truth. I am the Child Goddess…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Enough.” Her father shoved her into the house, away
from the curious onlookers. “You have gone too far, child. How can a
respectable person like your Aunt steal family jewellery? There were hundreds
of others who came up to you in that hour.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria caught Aunt sneering at her, though pretending to
wipe away tears. “Have you no respect for the Child Goddess? The police will
know I spoke the truth, the servant is innocent,” she answered back to her
father. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Her father raised his hand to strike her: the very
girl he had bowed to in great reverence an hour ago. “Impudent girl, where are
your manners?” he yelled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Her mother pulled her away. “Ria, you have had enough
for today. Now wash up and come down for lunch. You haven’t eaten all day. Do
not interfere in this matter any more.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“But Ma,” cried Ria. “She didn’t do it. She is
innocent.” She looked at the wailing maid servant and started to sob herself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Her mother led her to the kitchen. Ria played with her
food, drawing circles in her rice and dal. Her tears dripped into the plate. No
one believed in her, even though she was the Child Goddess. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Her mother left her, and she sat there, head hung low,
listening to the elders arguing in the other room. She heard Aunt shouting and
Mother crying about the shame of police coming to the house and ruining this
special day; and then father’s voice on the phone. She heard him say
‘Inspector’. Everybody had forgotten her in the kitchen. Shaking her head, she
pushed her plate away. Almost immediately, the maidservant sprang forward to
clear the table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria looked up at her. “I know you are innocent,” she
whispered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
The maidservant’s lips trembled. “Thank you, Ria. It
is very important for me that the Child Goddess knows that I am innocent. I
will be protected.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria looked away, knowing she was helpless to do
anything else for the maidservant. She ran to her bedroom and slipped under the
covers. She could hear the drums beating and sounds of merriment from the
street outside. Her heart beat loudly, as if in competition to the drums
outside. The police would be coming. They would surely arrest the maid. Nobody
had paid any attention to the Child Goddess. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit
her lips to stop them from trembling. She pressed her hands to her ears till
finally out of sheer exhaustion she fell asleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria awoke for the second time that day to her mother’s
caresses. She jumped up, confused. She was still wearing the beautiful red
sari, though it was now crumpled and stained with perspiration. Mother was
smiling, her eyes victorious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Ria,” she said. “The necklace is found.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Where?” Ria stuttered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“In the courtyard. I found it hanging on the demon’s
sword. The thief must have put it there.” Her mother said, simply.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“So… so the maid has not been arrested?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Mother shook her head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria’s face lit up. She shot out of the room, calling
out for the maid. She bumped into her father in the courtyard. He was talking grandmother,
who looked very relieved to have the necklace back in her hands. As soon as she
saw Ria, she called out to her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Come, Ria,” she smiled. “At last I can place the
necklace in its rightful place.” She adjusted the necklace around Ria’s neck
and stepped back to admire it. “My grandmother had given it to me when I was a
Kumari. Many, many years ago, when I was a little girl like you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria smiled, feeling very special. She fingered the
heavy necklace and cast a glance towards Aunt. Aunt’s eyes were cold. “Thank
goodness the maid had the sense to return the necklace. But my dear brother,
you will regret keeping her on. She will not stop at this theft.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“Enough, Lata. Not another word on this.” Her father
looked sternly at his sister. “The necklace has been returned and I don’t want
any more accusations that can’t be proved. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Aunt looked like she had been slapped on the face. Her
cheeks turned red.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“You insulted me all for the sake of a stupid
necklace…” she started. But father stopped her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
“No, Lata. No one is insulting you. But no one is
blaming the maid, either. Please let us not spoil this special day by such
petty fighting.” With that he turned away, leaving Aunt gaping behind him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Ria giggled and skipped away. Her mother stretched out
an arm to catch her. “Ria, Ria, get out of that sari. Wear a fresh dress now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
But Ria dodged her, laughing. “No, Ma. The Child
Goddess doesn’t want to change her sari.” She ran into the garden. Suddenly a
movement from behind the bushes caught her eye. As Ria approached, the
maidservant sprang forward and pressed a hibiscus flower in her hand and then
ran into the house. Ria pressed it to her face. It was soft and velvety. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 24.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 30.0pt;">
Maybe her outburst had helped father to eventually
believe in her. Or maybe Aunt had been frightened enough to give up the
necklace. Whatever it was, the maid had not been falsely accused of the theft.
The necklace was safe around her shoulders. Ria tucked the flower behind her
ear and raced towards her room. It was time to get out of the red sari and into
her favourite new dress. It was time to become Ria once again, and she looked
forward to the rest of the evening.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdk2YM8U3jkcdr79LAe0sjUie8y8-Mbo_C7kWMZVkpDpJKPQ1m7-6nz7GABei5-FvqLGg3FTuoUr8XJTaRSKFkQexHTWmQXznhTXsY4cR8rOYiBeEzgtc4-XSryh7ppBtirJHyHZZITQmH/s1600/wasafiri01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdk2YM8U3jkcdr79LAe0sjUie8y8-Mbo_C7kWMZVkpDpJKPQ1m7-6nz7GABei5-FvqLGg3FTuoUr8XJTaRSKFkQexHTWmQXznhTXsY4cR8rOYiBeEzgtc4-XSryh7ppBtirJHyHZZITQmH/s1600/wasafiri01.jpg" /></a> Published in Wasafiri, The 25th Anniversary issue, 2009</div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-62554069713778325092013-10-14T10:51:00.002-07:002013-10-14T10:51:50.128-07:00Crossing Over<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuK-lNbjw6hPj3YLGEvo7WfUmVzvQqXDa9dGbUEydSheZG5EUSO6EDRu02MdT2OhEQzuXJS4XuwTnN5ArGXpRWy1ZMMUc0dZCt8V8jzxu_fJJd6Y48FNb2BhxsibYXeRZO2Q_buk_kFKO/s1600/Rajabai-Clock-tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuK-lNbjw6hPj3YLGEvo7WfUmVzvQqXDa9dGbUEydSheZG5EUSO6EDRu02MdT2OhEQzuXJS4XuwTnN5ArGXpRWy1ZMMUc0dZCt8V8jzxu_fJJd6Y48FNb2BhxsibYXeRZO2Q_buk_kFKO/s320/Rajabai-Clock-tower.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy: Mid-Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Anita stepped
off the train at Churchgate station, clutching her handbag tight against her
body. I don’t believe I took the train into town, she thought, seeing the
throngs of people spill out onto the platform. I’ve got my passport and cash …
must be careful now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">She pushed along with the crowd, and
then lunged out into the busy street. She looked around for a taxi, as it was
quite a walk to the bank. The traffic stood still, honking and exhaling grey
fumes, while the pedestrians trickled between the cars to the other side of the
road.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
If she got into a cab now, she
wouldn’t reach the bank on time. She looked around, thinking of a solution. She
had to get there before three o’clock to exchange her foreign currency. She
couldn’t buy her lunch with pounds. From the corner of her eye, she saw the
Oval Maidan. It was lush green, and the whites of the cricketers sparkled in
the sun. She elbowed her way out of the
crowd and walked towards the cricket ground. It was a fifteen minute walk from
there to the bank, Anita knew that very well. She used that route so often
years ago, when Ashish and she would go to the art gallery every Wednesday,
after class. And they would hold hands and sigh over the paintings. It was
those moments she treasured: his warm body close to hers in the icy gallery, in
the middle of the afternoon. His moist hand in hers. His breath in her ears as
he explained the abstractness of Husain’s paintings to her. Then they’d have coffee at Samovar in
silence, their fingers touching on the vinyl table, the fans whirring noisily
above.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The lane bisecting the cricket
ground was muddy from the sudden shower that morning. There was a match going
on, the cricketers dotted the field, their foreheads creased with
concentration. She slowed down to watch the batsman strike. He hooked the ball and
it flew high above the fielders. She admired his confidence as he watched the
ball fly over the boundary line. Anita jumped and shouted involuntarily, “Six!”
The batsman smiled and acknowledged her with his bat. She blushed and hurried
on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Ashish used to play for the college
team. He was their ace batsman, and hit sixes, just like this one. So many
times she would be in the stands here, cheering the team on, praying for Ashish
to get the winning runs. She glanced at her watch. It was on <st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city> time. As if in reply, the university
clock chimed two. She stopped to reset her watch, and then hurried further on.
Maybe, she could pop into the gallery to check it out, for old time’s sake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
But they always went in the
afternoons. What if Ashish still did that? It was Wednesday, after all. Anita
felt her heart beat faster, as she manoeuvred past the puddles in her way. He
could be there, couldn’t he? Maybe, she could just peep in and have a quick
look before going to the bank? Five minutes, no more. He wouldn’t be there,
after <i>ten</i> years, would he? And what
if he was there? Then what? What would she say to him? What was there left to
say, after all these years, of not seeing each other, of sleepless nights, but
not wanting to pick up the phone and speak, of wanting to forget. What would
she say to him?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
She had left him that evening, as
they stood watching the net practice right here. She had been accepted at <st1:city w:st="on">Oxford</st1:city>, and so had he.
But he had decided to stay back in <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region> and study. To be close to his
ailing father. She wanted him to come with her. He could always visit home
every year. Was he going to sacrifice his life’s greatest opportunity for his
father? He had listened quietly, not interrupting. She had talked and argued
and justified, then realised she was justifying the move to herself, really.
She had been so enraged that he was letting go of her so easily, without a
fight, and then she had seen the tears in his eyes. It had rained suddenly, and
the cricketers had hurriedly abandoned their practice. Ashish had shaken his
head in disappointment. “The practice is ruined for tomorrow’s game,” he had
said. And she had walked away, disappointed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Anita stumbled to the end of the
lane, where it joined the main road on the other side. The traffic was moving
easily here. She stopped to take a breath by the trees. The cricketers were
running and shouting. The cars zoomed past. The crows roused up a din on the
branches above. But she stood still, breathing deeply. The sun was in her eyes
and it was difficult to look ahead in the distance anymore. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75"
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-66062852028358136272013-09-16T06:32:00.004-07:002013-09-16T06:32:48.741-07:00The Keys to a Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSmbBU0_7EI0kjN8yOlH_ALo5UC-9vC5YNrizAXDiatgHWU7B7UJzg_C1CCVry1JMMyFnkocLqr6eeaFd1bZ0Ic713VQzNynIXxBYetZTx0obcXCbpfDZgsnBvCAZijco9pvXHuSpPF_V/s1600/WOTS_120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSmbBU0_7EI0kjN8yOlH_ALo5UC-9vC5YNrizAXDiatgHWU7B7UJzg_C1CCVry1JMMyFnkocLqr6eeaFd1bZ0Ic713VQzNynIXxBYetZTx0obcXCbpfDZgsnBvCAZijco9pvXHuSpPF_V/s1600/WOTS_120.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm proud to present Romy Wood as my guest blogger. Her second novel, Word on the Street, will be out in October. <span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; line-height: 23.09375px;">It is a darkly comic reflection on homelessness,life writing and dermatology. Take it away, Romy:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #555555; line-height: 23.09375px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #555555; line-height: 23.09375px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #555555; line-height: 23.09375px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Have you any experience of being locked up? In prison, in
a psychiatric ward, in quarantine? Or experience of being locked out? Of your
house, your work place, your car?</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Both these work metaphorically, too: you could be locked
inside yourself, unable to communicate for physical or psychological reasons.
You could be locked out of a social group or a way of life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Being locked – in or out – can be very frustrating. There
can be feelings of anger, panic, hatred; there could be relief, too, or insight
or inspiration.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Try writing about times when you have been locked in and
locked out. Let yourself scribble freely about the place, and the feelings and
behaviours that emerged. Write about the people you were locked in with or
locked out by. Examine the interactions and dynamics. Write about what you felt
like saying or doing but didn’t. This is rich preparation for Creative Writing
– fiction, non-fiction or somewhere-in-the-middle. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now consider a character, perhaps choosing one you have
already done some work with. Lock this character up somewhere s/he would really
struggle with. Maybe a private, reserved, quietly-spoken character is on a
prison wing with some loud confrontational characters. Or a manic character is
trapped in a gloomy, snail-paced psychiatric ward. These scenarios are
smouldering touch papers, putting together people with conflicting needs and
unpredictable behaviour, which could lead to a domino-effect of
mini-explosions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And play with status too: a highly educated prisoner or
psychiatric patient is under the direction of a guard or nursing assistant with
no qualifications. The education, in this context, is suddenly irrelevant. The
characters will have to find other ways to establish status. You could try a
status swap with being locked out, too. Maybe the owner of the house or the
business has to persuade a child or an employee to let them in. (I worked as a
housekeeper for a well-known family years ago, and I didn’t hear my eminent
employer banging on the front door – this was a very large house – I turned
suddenly in the kitchen to find him doing an inelegant forward roll in through
the window. And he had no trousers on.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My second novel, ‘Word on the Street’ (Cillian Press
October 1<sup>st</sup>) began with the question: <i>what would happen if a disease meant people had to be quarantined &
locked in together</i>? I asked myself what type of characters would find this
especially challenging, and make it interesting for the reader: a man who
struggles with social interaction and proximity, a woman with a dependent
grandmother waiting for her elsewhere. A posh lady and a young man who revels
in being as revolting and offensive as he can. And then, to balance the
situation, a young woman for whom being locked in is a welcome relief from
being locked out. From that first question came the whole story.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Turning the keys in the lock can bring out the complexities
of your characters – the best, the worst, the past, the weird and the
wonderful. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do let me know how you get on with this exercise and
where it leads.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Romy Wood<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">@RomyWoodThomas <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Bamboo Grove’ Alcemi October 2010<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Word on the Street’ Cillian Press <a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>October
2013 <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQIXsyeozrvwssILFAdOBBv5N1SzxhatUNIBSI5VOvPdhHLdjp4C3y20nzOfxL69fgjFBvRzCniHDC9wF_zKleC7EE-iTCnx4_jSS5c9Piwrjea3vpmfqWIYVlgBXipSye63136waURQ_1/s1600/romybw_200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQIXsyeozrvwssILFAdOBBv5N1SzxhatUNIBSI5VOvPdhHLdjp4C3y20nzOfxL69fgjFBvRzCniHDC9wF_zKleC7EE-iTCnx4_jSS5c9Piwrjea3vpmfqWIYVlgBXipSye63136waURQ_1/s1600/romybw_200.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #555555; line-height: 23.09375px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Romy is a recovering secondary school teacher. She has an MA in The Teaching and Practice of Creative Writing from Cardiff University and lectures in Creative Writing for the Open University. She writes novels because they are easier to write than short stories and poems. She drinks too much Coca-cola, likes to win at Scrabble and walks the tightrope that is Bipolar Disorder.</span></span></div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-48304895882735998362013-07-21T06:58:00.004-07:002013-07-21T07:14:21.704-07:00In the Laboratory of Flash by Calum Kerr<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-vwZuunqDQOHCqSoM2gnCmSjA7H7_PEgH7CTb7ptDV507iuRSjW4qip7jrmoNG4OG4QhVxENw-gyEqSGK816dFfp2xkQswKP9BatWS-RXS5XhtI8hu9v_M6zCUmwM1hG0qKFT6yoHQAj/s1600/lostpropertyfronts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span id="goog_1015628336"></span><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-vwZuunqDQOHCqSoM2gnCmSjA7H7_PEgH7CTb7ptDV507iuRSjW4qip7jrmoNG4OG4QhVxENw-gyEqSGK816dFfp2xkQswKP9BatWS-RXS5XhtI8hu9v_M6zCUmwM1hG0qKFT6yoHQAj/s1600/lostpropertyfronts.jpg" /><span id="goog_1015628337"></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">As a big fan of flash fiction, I'd like to share Calum's thoughts on it. He's a writer, editor and director of National Flash Fiction Day in the UK. He's recently brought out a new collection of flash fiction, <i>Lost Property</i>, so without further delay, over to Calum:</span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"> When coming to write this post, Susmita asked me to talk
about flash-fiction as a site for experimenting with fantastical fiction. She
cited my work along with Adam Marek’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Instruction
Manual for Swallowing</i> and some of Tania Hershman’s stories in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Mother Was An Upright Piano</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">I have already attempted to unpick the possibilities for
writing genre fiction in flash in earlier posts (<a href="http://nettiethomson.com/guest-writers/hello-darkness-my-old-friend-a-guest-post-from-calum-kerr">http://nettiethomson.com/guest-writers/hello-darkness-my-old-friend-a-guest-post-from-calum-kerr</a>
and <a href="http://sjihollidayblog.wordpress.com/2013/07/03/imagination-overload/">http://sjihollidayblog.wordpress.com/2013/07/03/imagination-overload/</a>)
but what struck me in Susmita’s question was the word ‘experiment’ as I think
that is a crucial word when it comes to flash-fiction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Now, I don’t wish to dodge the ‘fantastical’ part of the
question, but I do think there is a broader point. Flash-fiction is short. This
is something we already know. But the crucial thing with writing to the length
of a flash-fiction as opposed to a novel, or even the few thousand words of a
short story, is that you can try something new – be it a genre, a style, a
perspective, whatever – and if it doesn’t work, then you can try again or you
can abandon the attempt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">The result of this, I find, is that flash-fiction is rapidly
becoming the site of the some of the most interesting experimentation going on
in prose writing today. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">I recently edited, with Holly Howitt, entries for the latest
National Flash-Fiction Day anthology, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scraps</i>
(<a href="http://nationalflashfictionday.co.uk/anthology.html">http://nationalflashfictionday.co.uk/anthology.html</a>)
and was very pleased with the stories we picked, feeling they were diverse and
representative of the best writing in flash-fiction at the moment. However, I
was surprised and intrigued when a lot of the responses to the collection were
comments on how experimental the work in the book was. This sent me back to
look at the stories again. Sure enough, we have a one word story, a fake entry
from a fake medical dictionary, a stream of consciousness description of the
thoughts in a football-fan’s mind during match, pieces with no capitals or
punctuation, an interview consisting of answers with no questions, the
beginning of a fake screenplay, pieces entirely in dialogue, horror stories,
crime stories, science-fiction and fantasy stories, surrealism and what can
only be described as ‘just’ stories. It is a complete riot of different
approaches.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">But what struck me, once I looked back at this collection,
was that I had not noticed the level of experimentation that was occurring.
These just seemed to me to be the things that are happening in flash-fiction at
the moment, and reflect techniques which I myself have used, wish I had used,
or now plan to use. It seems, increasingly, to be what the form is for.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Because it is a form of fiction which makes great use of implication,
relying on the reader to unpick what they are presented with and extrapolate
the rest of the story, this means that the story itself can be presented in a
huge variety of forms, borrowing from all existing forms of writing and
inventing a few new ones too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">At times, of course, this experimentation will expand out
into the realms of the fantastical, but it is just as likely to tackle a love
story, or coping with loss, or action and adventure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Flash-fiction is a relatively new form, at least under its
currently growing list of definitions, and people are still testing the
boundaries of what can be done with it. They haven’t found the edges yet, and I
wonder if they ever will.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">To give you an example of the kind of thing I mean, here is
one of my stories, which seems perfectly normal to me, but might well be
described as ‘experimental’.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Footnote*<br />
</span>By Calum Kerr</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">*Taken from Steven Briers’
monograph, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The World in the Twenty First
Century</i> (Bitterne University Press, 1978). Though, to be honest, it’s all a
bit like that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tomorrow’s World</i>, isn’t
it? I mean, they were predicting protein pills and jetpacks, weren’t they? Not
once did they say we’d all have smart phones and tiny skinny tellys and no
money. It’s a hilarious book, you really ought to read it. If you can find it,
that is. I couldn’t find it in the library, and inter-library loans were no
use. I mean, who do you have to sleep with to get one of those? I’m serious.
You tell me who exactly it is who needs that particular blowjob and I’ll be on my
knees with my mouth gaped in a heartbeat. I tried getting it from Amazon. No
joy. Ebay: similar. In the end I tracked it down in a book warehouse which
smelt worse than the Vice Chancellor’s armpit juice. But, no, it’s really
funny. He makes all these predictions about the economy, and they’re all based
on unions and the three day week. To him, Thatcher was just a funny woman who
liked ice cream. He knew nothing. But he had one useful quote, and I stuck it
in here because my supervisor told me I should consult the book, and she
probably hasn’t read it since it was published. She looks back, through
gin-tinted glasses, to a time when she was thrusting and energetic and studying
everything she could find, then going out on the beers and having a knee-trembler
round the back of the union. It’s all tied up in her mind: dirty, panting,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>back-alley orgasms and Steven Briers’
masterpiece. Still, if it gets me through this bloody thesis, that’s good
enough for me. So, yeah, this was taken from a 40 year old book by a man
writing about his future – our present – who managed to get almost everything
exactly wrong. And yet, here it is. Welcome to bloody academia. Where’s my
jetpack?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCI3hCy33lZigIeXCDMuefH7jaiS_aVTC8I0HUzE0aVe-DNEp0tu8w4RrDM3bxJ2ldFnds87TwDEEtH-ZUfhQp3y5uDVqmzrrZJnUKLpwETqAvcF3ml0JpB0xXyPHM57S_sIf4_la_s1ye/s1600/calum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCI3hCy33lZigIeXCDMuefH7jaiS_aVTC8I0HUzE0aVe-DNEp0tu8w4RrDM3bxJ2ldFnds87TwDEEtH-ZUfhQp3y5uDVqmzrrZJnUKLpwETqAvcF3ml0JpB0xXyPHM57S_sIf4_la_s1ye/s1600/calum.jpg" /></a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"> <a href="http://www.calumkerr.co.uk/" target="_blank"><span style="background: white; border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #1982d1; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0cm; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; padding: 0cm;">Calum Kerr</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #1982d1; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0cm; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; padding: 0cm; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">is a writer,
editor, lecturer and director of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://nationalflashfictionday.co.uk/"><span style="background: white; border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #1982d1; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0cm; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; padding: 0cm;">National Flash-Fiction Day</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">in the UK. He lives in Southampton with his wife – the
writer,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://mrsflash365.blogspot.co.uk/"><span style="background: white; border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #1982d1; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0cm; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; padding: 0cm;">Kath Kerr</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">– their
son and a menagerie of animals. His new collection of flash-fictions,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Lost Property</i>, is now available
from<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="background: white; border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #1982d1; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0cm; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; padding: 0cm;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Lost-Property-Calum-Kerr/dp/095769850X/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372940684&sr=1-4" target="_blank">Amazon</a>,</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">or direct from the publisher,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://cinderhouse.com/product/lost-property-by-calum-kerr/" target="_blank"><span style="background: white; border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #1982d1; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0cm; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; padding: 0cm;">Cinder House</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">.</span></span></div>
</div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743860614346919819.post-41413303643940886192013-07-19T08:22:00.003-07:002013-07-19T08:26:02.835-07:00Raging River<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It's the sound that wakes her. Not the drumming on
her tin roof. Not the wind crashing through the broken window. Not the rush of
the water overflowing down the hill. It is the sound of her children being
swept away, in front of her eyes. Disappearing in an angry froth of mud and
slime and rubble. There is no sound. They don’t cry or weep or shout. They were
asleep, huddled together to keep warm. They went in their sleep, she thinks.
They’ve gone down the slope, hurtling down the landslide. She looks around her, breathless. Her house, her shack of tin and
tarpaulin is stripped and she stands in the open, water running down her neck and
hair, stinging her eyes, choking her voice. They are gone. She can hear wails
and screams. She is not alone. Her eyes scan this raging river. More rubble,
tarpaulin, a broken chair, a television set, pots, pans, an iron bed. They
follow her children, down the slope of the hill, into nothingness. In the
morning, she will see where she stands. A lonely figure, still breathing, hands
bleeding from digging. Voice lost from screaming. At the bottom of the hill is
a heap. In it there are children, houses, their lives. The mothers dig. The
fathers dig. They always knew the hill isn’t safe. Every year it is the same
story. Only this year, it is of this scale. They fish out pots and pans and
throw them aside in disgust. She finds an arm. A frail arm with a black bangle
on it. She cannot pull out the rest. She doesn’t want to see. She doesn’t want
to know.</span></div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08150442767357021761noreply@blogger.com0