The Book Club

 

When Bansuri `Bee’ Kohli’s dead body is discovered in the middle of a high society book club meet, everyone assumes that her death is due to natural causes. Bee had just turned forty and heart attacks were increasingly common in women of that age. But, as the investigation progresses, it becomes obvious that there is something sinister afoot. All the guests present at the meet that night - from the hotshot novelist to the cut-throat socialite - had a reason for wanting Bee dead. And one of them is prepared to go to any lengths to keep a terrible secret hidden.

A twisty thriller about friends, deception and murder from the author of Gurgaon Diaries.

Click here to buy The Book Club.

Game of Smog

Is fog-hardened a word? Like battle-hardened ….

If it is, I am claiming the descriptor for myself. I might even put it on my LinkedIn bio. After all, having survived the Gurgaon fog for well over two decades is experience worth flaunting.

Before you call me a brag, let me tell you that the Gurgaon fog is unlike any other kind of fog. It most definitely does not come on little cat feet. More like heavy buffalo feet, to be honest. I’m sorry, Mr Sandburg. You haven’t lived in Haryana.

Perhaps I should call it The Smog. Because there’s an extra layer of filth from all the different kinds of pollutants in the air. Don’t even ask me what these are. I’ve simply lost count. There’s construction dust and vehicle fumes and The Thing we aren’t supposed to be talking about. It involves farmers and crops but that is all I can tell you.

For a few months every year, The Smog in Gurgaon turns one’s life into a science fiction movie. Remember The Mist? There is a thick blanket obliterating everything on the ground except instead of monsters, you have to battle invisible predators in the air that make it difficult to breathe. There’s no soundtrack to this movie just the ominous drone of nebulizers.

Driving in The Smog is adventure sport. A bit like one of those arcade driving games except you can’t tell a cow from a lamppost and if you hit either, you are dead. Game over. Of late though, we have been grappling with something called the GRAP III or a Graded Response Action Plan — the III should tell you how serious it is. The GRAP III bans non-essential construction and certain models of cars from plying on the roads. Not that any of this helps. The filthy air continues to swirl around us, GRAP or not.

My marriage has survived many smogs. Literally and metaphorically. The first run-in with The Smog made me want to go crying back to my mom in sunny Kolkata. The scenery outside our poky flat in Gurgaon stayed the same no matter what time of day it was. Our car didn’t have fog lights and it was dangerous to go out and risk ending up in a ditch somewhere, battered and bruised. I threatened to divorce my husband so he taped yellow cellophane paper on the headlights of his car and agreed to take me on a drive every once in a while. Thankfully, no cows were hurt and before we knew it, we had turned into experienced smog navigators.

Gurgaon’s smog is not for the faint-hearted. All it takes is one winter in this part of the world to find out what I’m talking about. Are you up for the challenge?

Game on.

First published in Medium.

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!

  

A Birthday `Massage'

My daughter recently turned 21. A milestone birthday so it was extra special. But she was away at university so I decided to send her a cake. After much deliberation a decadent chocolatey cake with the works was selected. It had to feed some 40-50 of her friends. And the warden, guards and helpers. I selected the delivery date, filled out the address, paid for it with my card and it was done. I shut the laptop with a satisfied smile. 

A few seconds later, an unfamiliar number flashed on my phone. Normally I don’t pick up calls from strange numbers. There are all manner of scams floating around but something told me it might be the cake shop. So I swiped it and said hello hesitantly.
 
“Madam, do you want a massage?” the voice on the other end of the line said.
 
“How dare you!” I bristled with rage. I get my fair share of dating and massage service adverts but a phone call seemed downright audacious. 
 
I couldn’t bang the phone down (it’s a new phone and I can’t risk damaging it) so I disconnected and flung the phone down angrily on my bed.
 
A few seconds later, the same number flashed again. I picked it up intending to scream blue murder.
 
“Madam, the line got disconnected. Do you want a massage on your cake or not?”
 
How on earth did the man know I had ordered a cake? They say someone is always listening but this was taking the conspiracy theory too far.
 
“What do you mean?” I croaked in fear.
 
“You just ordered a cake from our shop Madamji,” the voice offered cheerfully. “Do you want a massage on that?”
 
This wasn’t a dodgy dark web operation at all. Just the man from the cake shop who wanted to know if I wanted a special “message” on the cake. In my hurry to get things done, I had forgotten to write a message for the birthday girl.
 
“I don’t want a massage on the cake, thank you very much, but you can write Happy Birthday Precious,” I said, trying to blot out images of a cake fuelled massage orgy from my head.
 
My daughter got her cake and her message. 
 
And I put my imagination to rest.

Bats in the Belfry!

I have bats in the belfry.

Okay, maybe not my belfry exactly but in the shaft outside my flat. Five little bats hanging upside down for the last year of so. Suspended from a concrete beam. Like ornaments in a Christmas tree.

 

I’ve realized now what the term batshit crazy means. There is a LOT of batshit and that is driving me crazy. We’ve barely recovered from Covid and I’m worried there might be another virus in the air. We’ve tried everything. Bright lights, fogging and frenzied clapping. But the bats refuse to vacate the space.

 

The other day, my neighbour rang the doorbell and politely asked if we could turn down the Qawwali music. “Oh that," my husband grinned. "That’s not Qawwali, it’s the sound of my wife clapping to drive the bats away.”

 

She wasn’t amused. But then neither am I.

 

I know what you are going to say. Why this kolaveri? Bats are good for the environment blah blah blah. In fact in certain cultures bats are supposed to be a symbol of prosperity and good luck. They eat insects, pollinate plants and maintain the balance in our ecosystem. But what about my mental balance?

 

The Covid virus came from a bat, didn’t it? So, as far as I’m concerned, they are bad news. I don’t want them anywhere near my apartment.

 

Of course the Chinese wouldn’t agree. The Chinese look at bats as a symbol of good luck. The Chinese word for bat also means good luck. Folks in China wear bat-shaped amulets and send out cards with bats on them. It’s not just them. Closer home, there are villages in Assam, Bihar and South India where bats are worshipped and considered to be guardian angels.

 

Christianity, however, views bats as malevolent and unclean, associated with demons and evil spirits. Even Shakespeare didn’t seem to be too fond of them. Remember Macbeth and the incantation of the three witches: “Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog.” Then there is Caliban’s curse on Prospero in The Tempest: “All the charms of Sycorax, toads, beetles and bats, light on you.”

 

The other day, I saw one of them hanging near my front door. Perhaps it had a tiff with the other bats and needed some space. But I nearly popped a nerve at the sight of the creature. And nothing has been the same since. It’s almost as thought someone has put a curse on me.

 

I’m going batty. Do you have any ideas on how they could be rehomed? Preferably far away from me?

A Sobering Thought

Pic courtesy: Herge

I have a drinking problem. And no, it’s not the sort of problem you are thinking of. 

The other day at a party, the host preened in front of his well-stocked bar and asked what I’d like to drink. When I told him that I’d like a Coca Cola (regular not diet), his eyebrows all but disappeared to the back of his head. To give company to his hairline I suppose. To make it worse, the hostess came charging at me like an angry bull who had been red flagged. “What do you mean, you will have a soft drink? We have plenty of alcohol,” she emphasized on the word soft and threw a pointed glance at the array of bottles lining the bar shelf.
 
At which point I mumbled that I didn’t drink. And prepared myself for the tedious exchange that would inevitably follow. The host with the disappearing eyebrows proceeded to mansplain that it was a good idea to have a drink so that I could enjoy myself. Besides, he made the best cocktails in town. He wagged a drink umbrella threateningly at me to demonstrate his point. The hostess glowered silently making me slightly nervous. You see it was her smoky eye makeup. It made her look less like Kristen Stewart and more like Valak the Nun. 
 
Obviously I stood my ground and weakly demanded my Coca Cola which I received with a generous serving of resentment on the side. The proceedings went rapidly south after that and I had to invent an excuse and leave in a hurry.
 
Over the years, I’ve found myself in pretty awkward situations having to explain why I don’t drink and how my social life is not amiss because I don’t consume alcohol. It’s not that I’ve never touched alcohol. I’ve had drinks now and then from the time I was a teenager but I’ve been sober for years. I find that liquor adds no value to my life. I don’t like the way I feel after I consumed a few drinks. Liquor slows me down. I prefer to be sharp and clear-headed when I am out with friends and I don’t need the fuzziness that intoxicants bring. I’m happy with good food, music and company. But It’s an entirely personal decision and I don’t ever find myself craving a drink ever. 
 
But stuck in a city where everyone and his uncle consumes liquor by the gallon, where there are more liquor stores than schools, I find myself having to defend my decision to stay sober with annoying regularity. All my friends drink and every party I go to, I find myself in a situation where the reactions range from shock to plain and simple disbelief. I feel like an outcast, a deviant. It is downright tiresome. 
 
I’m not asking why you drink, why do you need to know why I don’t? Both are perfectly valid choices aren’t they?
 
Unfortunately these days, being sober is regarded as an oddity. Especially in Gurgaon where the liquor industry is booming, sales are increasing by the minute and if that wasn’t bad enough -- the government now wants companies to allow their employees to drink during office hours. So there’s an off chance that I might be offered a drink at the workspace as well!
 
The situation is so bad that I’m seriously contemplating changing my circle of friends. The best bet for me would be to join an alcoholics anonymous group. That way I will have a group of friends who don’t drink or hold forth on the benefits of consuming liquor. A sobering influence if there was. Can you think of a more perfect arrangement for me?
 
 
 

Mackenna's Booger

Photo courtesy: MAD magazine

I have a problem with the term picking one’s nose. Some people don’t pick, they prospect. Like the man standing beside me in the grocery aisle contemplating cereal boxes. He’s not digging. He’s prospecting – as though MacKenna’s gold is buried deep within his nostrils. First one finger tentatively exploring the terrain and then two fingers aggressively going in for the kill. He’s focused on the job, eyes trained on a spot somewhere between the Fruit Loops and the Quaker Oats, not paying attention to the hustle and bustle around him, the clatter of trolleys, the piped music. Not even a glance at me who, at this point, is staring rather rudely.

Which brings me to the next booger .. sorry … bone of contention. Is there really a well-mannered way to pick one’s nose? Can one deftly insert a finger inside one’s nostril and remove the offending piece of snot before anyone around you has a clue? Or pretend to cough, cover nose and do the job before anyone bats an eyelid.

 

I guess there isn’t. Because the very act of picking one’s nose is not a polite thing to do. A book at the British Library, written more than 500 years ago teaches little children not to pick their nose or ears.

Pyke notte thyne errys nothyr thy nostrellys’

Don’t pick your ears or nose, the ‘Little Children’s Little Book’ says.

This is not fiction. According to science, it is not a good idea to pick your nose either because you might transmit germs into your brain unwittingly and end up with a severe infection or even Alzheimer’s. There is research to support this theory. Not a pleasant thing at all.

There’s even a gadget to discourage nose picking that looks like something Caractacus Potts invented. 

The man next to me hasn’t a clue about any of this though. He’s happily digging and by the look of it, he has enough to set up a souk near the house.