A Mixed Bag of a Year

This year’s been a bit of a mixed bag. For the most part, I sat around waiting for things to happen and ended up feeling really dejected when they didn’t. So I turned to writing as a way to make myself feel better. Writing works as therapy for people like me. 

 

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation ~ Graham Greene

The year started off with one of my novels, Mr Eashwar’s Daughter (a modern-day retelling of Jane Austen’s Persuasion) getting a mention in two articles on South Asian writers and their fondness for Jane Austen (Juggernaut & Globe and Mail, Canada). In fact, when the Canada-based journalist reached out to me for a quote, my joy knew no bounds. It isn’t easy to get noticed in India leave alone globally – if you don’t have a massive publicity budget or a team to help. It’s incredibly gratifying to have your writing reach foreign shares and I am really thrilled that it happened.

I published a short story that was initially commissioned by Juggernaut Books but somehow slipped under the radar due to the pandemic. The story, Chasing the Clouds, is about a young man who takes up a job in a remote village in the hills and ends up having a life-changing experience. You can read it here if you want.

 

Earlier this month, the third instalment of my Dragon Aunty series –
Mangar Mayhem was published. In this caper, Dolly Luthra and her sidekick Mini go to a spa in the Aravallis for some rest and rejuvenation and promptly get caught up in a murder investigation. It’s getting good reviews and the perfect short read for the holiday season.

That's it for this year. See you in 2024. Stay healthy, happy and read my books if you can!

  

About Names Not So Good, After All!

I've been told that from West Bengal have a chip on their shoulders. Well, why wouldn’t they? 

Imagine labouring through life, tough enough as it were, with a name gifted indulgently to you by a fond uncle or a loving grandma when you were little. Too little to protest.

Cut to the present. Imagine the horrors of having that name discovered, being ridiculed by the world at large. From anonymity to the centre of attention, except none of it is good. The name that you spent your whole lifetime trying to hide. How does it feel Potla? Or should I call you Habool or Pocha? Or are you a hulk of a man who goes by the name of Chhotu or a pleasantly plump, middle aged woman called Teensy?

Tsk tsk!

My pet name or, as Bengalis would have it, daak naam was recently revealed to the world thanks to a tip off by a friendly relative on a social media site. I don’t think she meant any harm but I have been struggling with the jibes ever since, silently seething. Why did my supposedly loving parents allow this to happen to their daughter? I haven't a clue. And no, it doesn’t help that it is a one-of-a-kind name and that you cannot claim mistaken identity.

Still, I guess it could have been worse. I could have been named after a cat. Or a dog. Pet lovers would go into raptures but there are some who might baulk at the idea. Like my dear departed grandma for instance.

During a visit to her sister-in-law’s place once, my grandmother discovered, much to her horror, that one of the many cats in the household had been named after her. Throughout her visit, she heard her sister-in-law (the matriarch of the family) screeching out at regular intervals: “Penky, stop jumping on the table!” “Penky get off the bed!” “Penky don’t you dare touch the milk!” 

You can imagine my grandmother’s state the whole time. She had been sitting in one corner of the room, drinking a cup of tea, rather quietly as this particular relative was not a favourite. I realise now that the feeling was probably mutual!

Each time, her name was yelled out, my grandma would jump out of her skin. She didn’t know why she was being admonished for the things she was NOT doing till her sister-in-law slyly introduced her to her namesake. A scruffy looking cat. Grandmother was humiliated to say the least! Secretly though, I thought it was hilarious and the perfect revenge!

Another time, my father was invited to a colleague’s son’s rice ceremony. On reaching the venue, he found the house teeming with guests, most of whom he obviously didn’t know. So he chose to park himself in a spot away from the crowds, next to the golden-brown dog tied to a charpoy with a chain. After a while, he heard the host, his colleague, shouting out loudly for a “Goldie? Goldie, where are you? Come here at once. Goldie?????”

My father helpfully offered: “Goldie is here, next to me, tied to the bed.”

The host came over to where my father was sitting, eyeing him rather coldly. “That’s not Goldie, that’s Jimmy. Goldie is my son, he’s crawled off somewhere and we can’t see him!”

Do you blame my father? I would have made the same mistake.

How was anyone to know that Goldie was not the dog?

Incidentally, Goldie is now a middle-aged, pot-bellied man, working as a manager in a bank. Good thing, he’s not on social media though.

Sigh.

Disclaimer: Any similarity to unfortunate pet names of persons living or dead is purely coincidental!