Mango Chutney, the book, tagged as an anthology of tasteful short fiction, was launched on the eve of Indian Independence Day of 2014 at Cha Bar, Oxford Bookstore, Connaught Place.
The book contains twenty six stories written by twenty six exceptional writers, bloggers, authors and social media celebrities on various topics. Incidentally, there happens to be a twenty seventh story in the book as well, just by chance, written by me. Continue reading →
What do you write about when you are not able to think?
I suffered from this nothinkingness in the entire January of 2014. Now, when I am able to think about it, I realize that Januarys have always been hard on me in some way or the other. Last year too, January sucked big time for me. This time around, it didn’t suck as bad as last year, but it still made mess of my already messed up mind. Continue reading →
I was all alone with myself while coming back from work last night. The new music I downloaded during the day was keeping me company. Kaaya had already ignored my call and I was doing what I do whenever I am alone, iThink.
I was thinking about the man who was sitting next to me and talking with his friend so loudly that his voice was piercing through my headphones, disturbing my moment with myself. I raised the volume to the maximum, closed my eyes and tried to divert my attention from his high pitched tone to the contents in my bag. It happens with me at times that I end up doing the most unexpected things. Most of the time I am spared because I do not share my thoughts. Who thinks about what is there in his bag and what is not? iDo. Continue reading →
I have always thought of storytelling as an art. An art of depicting emotions beautifully and hypnotically through one’s actions and words that the listener finds himself as a part of the story being told. It is an art of converting a rather boring story into a fairy tale, and sometimes even more. It is an art of picking a story lying in a stinking drain under the footpath and placing it in the center of the temple for readers to worship. It is an art which he boasted about possessing, until he realized the truth. Continue reading →