The Writer

I am a writer. I write commercial fiction. Till a month ago, I led a very normal, mostly anonymous life. I used to spend hours in a parallel universe where I played the role of the creator. But nothing remains the same now. 

 When I landed in Bangalore last month, my husband was waiting for me along with a jeep full of policemen, who he said, was there for my protection.

A single tweet had turned my whole world upside down. One of my readers had posted the snapshot of a page from my latest book, where my heroine, a journalist, talked about the skeletons in the closet of a film star.

“I think I know who this is. Isn’t this about actor S?” the reader had tweeted and then tagged actor S. The tweet had gone viral. Unluckily for me, there had been a scandal concerning the star similar to what I had described in the passage. In my defence, I was not even aware of the scandal when I wrote the book. I had thought that I had made it up.  

To compound the worries, Mr S had just entered politics and was projected by his party as the next chief ministerial candidate.  His political enemies used it to defame him. His fans and party people began a hate campaign on my twitter timeline. I wasn’t very active on Twitter or on any social media. Once in a month is my habit. When the fans of Mr S were demanding my blood, I was busy finishing my new novel at my ancestral home in the hills completely isolated from the digital world.

 “Surely Mr S would be busy with movies and politics. Would he care about such trivia?” I had asked my husband.

“Care? That idiot tweeted that this is a vitriolic attack by his enemies. And that you are a part of it. Our phone hasn’t stopped ringing since and mostly they are threats.”

When we reached our house, there was a huge crowd waiting. Journalists shouted questions and microphones were shoved at me when I got out of the car. The police created a human wall around me and I scampered towards the safety of my house. Just as I was about to enter the house, something hit me hard on my right shoulder. A rotten egg.

Later, to understand what was happening, I opened my laptop. My inbox was filled with hate mail. I opened one and found the picture of an acid attack victim. The text on it read, ‘This is your fate if you dare to pick your pen again.’

My twitter feed was equally vile and obnoxious. Threats amounting to rape, acid attack, and death floated towards me from cyberspace. Fear paralyzed me.

I decided to seek refuge in my writing and sat down at my table. I took my pen and opened a new page. A strange fear overwhelmed me and my mind went blank. I felt nauseated and closed the book. After taking a few deep breaths and drinking a glass of water, I tried again. My hands trembled. 

 I called my agent, who is also a very good friend, to talk about it. She was nonchalant.

“Hey, don’t worry. It is working in your favour. All is well. Negative publicity is also publicity. Your books are selling like hot cakes. And guess what, I got an offer for your new book. The signing amount is going to be in six digits. So chill,” she said. She then went on describing how she and her team were going to use it for my benefit.

“Just stay at home and finish your book. The commissioner of police has assured that you will be given round the clock protection.”I had put the phone down then with relief. 

A month has passed, my fear still remains strong. I have not written a single word. What is this fear? Does it have a name? How can I cure myself?  Can you help me?

P.S: This story was written for Anita's Attic Graduation ceremony. You can see me read it HERE

NOTE: This article is written as part of the #SuperBloggerChallenge2018 by #Instacuppa conducted by HealthWealthBridge.com, FashionableFoodz.com and AllAboutTheWoman.comand should not be repurposed, republished or use otherwise. The content herein is owned by the blogger. SuperBloggerChallenge2018 is not responsible for any infringement caused.

A Royal Affair: Excerpt

A ROYAL AFFAIR

Get the book here: Amazon

Chapter 1

London, March 30, 2009

For Jane, the route to sanity began and ended with Indian food. The subtle flavours of its ingredients had a remarkable way of erasing bad memories and bringing back the good ones. Like a psychedelic, it took her into a world she had left reluctantly. It kept her connected to the person who had introduced the delectable cuisine to her.

She had tried to forget. But Vijay—Prince Vijay Dev Varman of the erstwhile Royal family of Sravanapura, to be precise—had proved to be one unforgettable person. All these years, she had relegated him to the farthest corner of her heart with great difficulty. Even there, he had created nothing but ruckus.

She transferred the rice and butter chicken curry she had ordered from the nearby Indian restaurant onto a plate. She ate a spoonful and immediately waded into dangerous territory. Glimpses of deep brown eyes, demanding lips and sounds of laughter surfaced and swam in her mind’s eye, assaulting her senses. This was the reason she'd refrained from eating Indian food all these months. Not to mention the intolerable yearning that followed.

Yet, today it had become necessary. Memories had been prodded out. Unexpectedly.

As she was wiping down her sink after dinner, her doorbell sounded. Her Mum stood on the doorstep wearing a veritable scowl. Jane let her in, wondering what had prompted her to drive from Surrey to London on a Monday evening.

“Why is your phone switched off?” Margaret Worthington demanded the moment she entered the flat. Sniffing the air, she glowered at Jane. “Indian takeaway! Again?”

Jane looked away to avoid her glare. Why had she come today of all days?

“Would you like some tea? I was about to make some,” Jane asked, attempting a change in topic. But Margaret was, after all, the indisputable warrior. No one could thwart her moves.

“Yes. But before that tell me this. When are you planning to stop torturing yourself over that Indian boy?”

“Mum! You are imagining things. It is just food. I have moved on.” Jane crossed her fingers behind her back. She won’t lie again, she promised herself. Just this time.

“You are not fooling me anymore, love. Susan told me you refused to go on a date with Harry, again. Is that how you plan to move on?”

Jane would have happily wrung the neck of her traitorous friend. But she couldn’t blame her entirely. Her mother was an expert in making people talk. Seriously, the Scotland Yard should avail her services.

“I don’t like Harry. And he is my senior, the executive editor. It won’t work. But I swear, it has nothing to do with Vijay,” she mumbled, taking quick steps towards her kitchen in a bid to escape more enquiries.

“You are a bad liar, love. Right now, I feel I'm inside an Indian house than in my British daughter’s flat.”

Jane grimaced. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t help picking stuff that reminded her of Vijay. The little brass lamp that she used as a decor piece would have fitted well into the prayer room of an Indian house. She had seen a similar one in Vijay’s room. The throw pillows were designer ones from the Indian store with a motif she remembered seeing on one of Vijay’s sweaters. The CDs she collected were of old Hindi movie songs and ghazals, Vijay’s favourite ones. They used to enjoy the soothing melodies cuddled on the sofa in his room. During the interlude, he would explain the lyrics to her. Some other trinkets were gifts from Vijay, items she should have thrown away if she really wished to forget him. But instead, they constituted her remembrance chest. Love emerged from them and often took her on trips down the memory lane.

Like her two Chinese fisherman tea bag holders. She perched them on two cups and wound the thread of the tea bags on their hooks. While she waited for the water in the kettle to boil, the two tiny figures opened up the vista of how they had come into her possession. 

Jane had met Vijay at a party organised by the Oxford University Hindu Society. Being an Indophile, she had grabbed the chance to eat authentic Indian food and enjoy some Bollywood dancing. After a sumptuous dinner, she had stood in the dessert section with an empty plate, confused by the many choices. She had turned to the person next to her for guidance; it had been Vijay. 

“Let me recommend these Jalebis. Only the one with the strongest of wills can resist these.” He had said while loading a ridiculous number of Jalebis into his own plate.

She had loved the sweet Jalebis. The lively chat that followed had made them aware that they shared more in common.

Out of the many colleges which were part of Oxford University, they belonged to the same college. Vijay was an undergraduate student in Economics and Management while her chosen course was Oriental Studies. By the time they parted, they had exchanged numbers and a promise to keep in touch.

Next day, she had turned to him for help again to clear her doubts for an assignment in Sanskrit, her subject of specialization. She had been surprised to realize that not many Indians understood Sanskrit. Luckily, Vijay was one of the few in the campus who did, making her approach him often for help. They had become best friends before long.

Two months later, Vijay had dragged her along to help another Indian girl, his classmate, to shop for a party she was hosting. At the Indian store, Jane had become fascinated by the pair of cute, ceramic teabag holders shaped like Chinese fishermen but had kept them back, since they were too expensive for her. Vijay, who had noticed her interest, had gifted them to her, ignoring her many protests.

His classmate hadn't liked it.

"Sod off. He is my boyfriend, you bitch," she had snapped at her when Vijay had stepped out to attend a call. Jane always hated confrontation and had kept aloof the rest of the day.

Vijay soon suspected something was amiss and questioned her when she refused to attend the party that night.

 "Leave me alone, Vijay, I am not interested."

"Will you care to explain why?" he had asked, his voice reflecting his confusion.

"I don't want to become the third wheel, you know! You can enjoy your time with your girlfriend."

“Girlfriend? Who?”

“The host of today’s party.”

"What? She is just a friend. But you are more than that, don't you understand?" he had asked with an intense look in his eyes.

“But—”

“If I have ever thought of anyone as my girlfriend, it is you, Janet. I have fallen in love with you. Hopelessly.”

And Jane had lost herself in the promises conveyed by his words and his liquid brown eyes. Somewhere during the hours they had spent together, she realized, she too had fallen in love with him. Then he had touched her cheeks, a featherlight caress. With wonder, she had watched him bend down and claim her lips. The flood of feelings rendered by that tender first kiss had blown away all her doubts. She had responded, clutching at his coat lapels and crushing his lips. It had been magical. The memory made her cheeks grow warm.

The kettle whistled, ending her reverie. She poured the boiling water into the two cups and watched the tea steep. Dropping sugar cubes into them, she walked to the tiny hall where her mother was still scrutinising Jane’s belongings and handed one cup to her.

“I can’t understand you. Even after all his lies and deceit, you still love him? You broke up with him, didn’t you? Hadn’t he come home determined to talk to you and make you understand? Instead of facing him, you had run off to Aunt Molly’s place. You need to learn to face your fears and clean up your act, love.” Margaret regarded her from under narrowed eyes while sipping the tea Jane handed over to her.

Jane’s romance with Vijay had acquired green signals from her mother and other members of her family easily. He was a regular at her home during weekends. They had been a couple since the first year of college. Even during her year abroad, he had visited her home regularly. The time away had just deepened their relationship. She had understood the extent to which she loved him. Yet, never even once during the three long years had she suspected that blue blood flowed through his veins or that he was capable of lying.

Until that wretched day three days after their graduation.

Jane shook her head to ward off painful memories. She made Margaret sit on the couch and prepared herself to break the news that she had received today. How would her mother take it?

“Mum, I guess you will have to hear more about India now. I have been selected to head a team doing a documentary on the ancient monuments constructed by the Hoysala kings in South India. I have to leave for India in two weeks.”

Margaret blanched. Then she snapped.

“Refuse the offer. Or else, resign. I don’t want you to go to that godforsaken country.”

“It is a promotional transfer, Mum. Also, I will be the anchor of the documentary.”

“Whatever! I don’t want you to go. India has never been kind to the Worthingtons. Tell me you refused the offer already.”

“Mum, stop being a drama queen. I haven’t accepted it yet. But I can’t let go of such a great opportunity.”

“You can. And you will after I tell you what transpired at home today.”

Ah! So, there was some drama. In her boisterous and noisy family, everyone meddled in the other’s business if you qualified as their loved one.

What had happened now?

The House

Nobody understood why he had built a typical Kerala-style house next to his huge palatial mansion in the south of France.

He had specially ordered and hand painted several of the furniture. Curtains and cushions had been imported from Kerala.

 He stayed there on weekends, listening to old Malayalam songs, immersing himself in memories. Expecting to hear the sounds and laughter of his parents.

Fate had rendered him an orphan years ago. Greedy relatives had usurped their house. 

A French couple had adopted him.

Now, he often received calls from them, requesting their long-lost billionaire cousin to help survive poverty.

Word Count: 100

This post is part of Friday Foto Fiction being hosted by Tina and Mayuri 

The Dream

Someone was chasing me. If I could reach that distant valley, I would be safe. But, a rough pair of hands grabbed me and I screamed for help.

“Piya, wake up. What happened?” The voice of my host was a relief to hear as it convinced me I had been dreaming.  

Later on, inside his old Spanish bungalow where I was staying, I came across a small round window with a view that was eerily familiar.

At that moment, a pair of rough hands grabbed me. My spooky host. I pushed him and ran hoping my dream wouldn’t come true.

Word Count: 100

The Palace

Years ago, a little girl used to wait here, leaning on the arch.

She hoped her father, the caretaker, would open that little gate above those stairs and invite her into the palace that lay beyond. 

Instead, every time he would come down and take her back to their dingy cottage in the valley.

“No, my dear. The queen doesn’t want any kids wandering in the corridors of the palace. She detests kids.”

Now the queen is long dead. Royalty is not revered anymore. 

But I am the new owner of the still beautiful palace. I married my beloved prince.

Word Count: 100

This post is a part of #FridayFotoFiction 

A Bookish Love Story

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He had met her on the metro. They smiled at each other because they were reading the same book. 

Phone numbers were exchanged between the bibliophiles when similar meetings began to be repeated in the company of more books.

Their dates were always book outings. They loved the same kind of books, croissants, and coffee. 

They went to book launches together to meet their favorite authors.

Soon they realized they were irrevocably in love.

Wedding bells and two years later, the stork arrived with a delivery. 

These days they are reading fairy tales with their little girl who loves books. 

This post is a part of 

The Legacy

David ran his fingers on the keys of his Grandmother’s old typewriter.

It was a unique piece. He had found it discarded in an old trunk in the attic.

This machine had created dreams, the many books that she had written. 
People still loved them.

He scrubbed the rust on it and his fingers pushed open a secret compartment in the bottom. 

Out fell a velvet bag containing a beautiful diamond necklace, one that had gone missing during World War II. 

Perhaps, she had hidden it there in a hurry when the Germans attacked and had forgotten all about it. 

This post is part of 100 word fiction prompt as part of #FridayFotoFiction hosted by Tina and Mayuri 

Keys

The prompt for this week’s Indispire is this:

Pick up the book you are reading and from the 12th page, choose a word and use it as a prompt to write your next post. Try to relate it in some way to the twelve months of the New Year. Don't forget to tell the name of the book to your readers. #TwelveMonths

The book I am currently reading is The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman.  The book seeks to teach the right principles, the right language to understanding each other in a relationship. Gary Chapman says there are five specific languages of love: Quality time, Words of affirmation, Acts of service and physical touch.

Sharing these quote from the book.

“Forgiveness is not a feeling; it is a commitment. It is a choice to show mercy, not to hold the offense up against the offender. Forgiveness is an expression of love.”

“We are trained to analyze problems and create solutions. We forget that marriage is a relationship, not a project to be completed or a problem to solve.” 

In a relationship, couples usually forgive each other’s mistakes frequently. But what happens when the threshold of tolerance is reached? The following story, which I am writing for #FridayFotoFiction tells what happens then.  The word I had selected from page 12 is marriage. This story talks about domestic abuse.

Keys:

Her mother-in-law had accidently given her the keys to her freedom when she had told details about her son’s food habits. A key, which she had been seeking desperately since the first day she had woken with swollen eyes and welts all over her body.

That day, she ordered his favorite chicken biriyani. While he pounced on the food, she stealthily threw away the bottle of unrefined peanut oil she had added into it out of the window.

Later, she wailed loudly when the doctor at the hospital pronounced him dead due to anaphylaxis, an extreme case of peanut allergy.

Word Count:100

I am combining two prompts for this post.

This  week’s Indispire and Friday Foto Fiction prompt being hosted by Tina Basu and Mayuri.

On their Wedding Day

The trees were green, the water sang as it rushed by and the birds chirped. Just like it had been years ago.

A little girl visiting her grandma’s house in the countryside had wandered towards this stream with its long wooden bridge where the villagers sat and fished. The little boy who had accompanied his father to the spot had looked up and smiled. And she had smiled back. They hadn’t known at that moment that they were laying the foundation for an eternity of love and friendship.

The newlyweds fondly reminisced how their friendship had blossomed steadily into love.

Word Count: 100

This post is a part of #FridayFotoFiction being hosted by Tina and Mayuri

Clarissa

Image Credit – Timur Saglambilek

They weren’t meant to be. Fate had tried to drill that into their heads multiple times. Their hearts never listened. They had attempted many times to be together. But, destiny had always played with them.

Now at 55, he doubted whether it was too late. She was 50, single like him. Her presence and smile still evoked the same contentment inside him.

It was time. He walked over to her, went down on one knee and held her arms while the other diners watched.

“Marry me, Clarissa. I can’t live without you anymore .”

She nodded as her eyes had misted.

Word Count: 100

This post is a part of #FridayFotoFiction being hosted by Tina and Mayuri

Tamanna: Friday Foto Fiction

Image Credit – Fotolia 

The path ahead blurs as my eyes well with tears. I press down the accelerator and will the car to move faster.

I grab my phone as it vibrates with another message. It is from Tamanna’s father.  He has reached her apartment together with the paramedics. She is now stable. I send up a token of gratitude to the heavens and breathe.

I don’t want her to go through another such hypoglycemic attack alone. I am terrified of losing her. I don’t care what my parents think; I am going to move in with her. I love her, damn it!

Word Count: 100

This post is written for #FridayFotoFiction being hosted by Tina Basu and Sirimiri.

Victory: 100 Word Fiction

Writing stories is my passion. It gives me a high just diving into a parallel world where I can create new characters and make them sing and dance to my tunes. I have tried all forms of fiction writing till now. Short stories, flash fictions, five-sentence-fiction, novella, novel. But I think I haven’t challenged myself to write a story in 100 words. That is what I am attempting to do today.

Did you know that the most famous and shortest story ever written was supposedly created by Ernest Hemingway? He had bet that he could tell an entire story in just six words. He had written it on a napkin and won the wager (ten dollars) he’d made with other writer friends. Check it out here:

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Quoting from the authors of the book ‘Elements of Style’ which is a must have for any writer.

“Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer makes all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subject only in outline, but that every word tell.”

---William Strunk and EB White

Another one of my favorite quote about writing is the creator of the masterpiece ‘The Prince’:

“Perfection is not when there is no more to add, but no more to take away.”

--- Antoine de Saint Exupéry

Now let me take you to my submission for this week’s #FridayFotoFiction being hosted by Tina Basu and Sirimiri.

Victory

Image Source: Tinabasu.com

My jogging- app says I have completed my monthly challenge. I am elated for another reason as I walk towards the familiar dilapidated building.

A dead woman, a sobbing toddler trying to wake her up and a man shouting expletives. Scenes from a nightmare that haunts me every single day.

The soul of my birth mother wanders here, adrift in grief. A breeze caresses my cheeks.

“I have made him pay. Rest in peace, ma,” I whisper.

 I throw the newspaper which carries news of my victory into the house.

“Man found guilty of wife’s murder twenty years ago.”

Word count: 99

A Lunch and a Storm in the Teacup

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Sona: Rearranging the tables was the best thing they did. Writers who write together should eat together.

Me: It is so crowded already. The poor minions look a harassed lot.

Tiya: Yes, people can be quite a nuisance when the pang of hunger strikes.

Me: I just wish they bring the food fast. My stomach has started complaining.

Tiya: You know about this tradition called Karvachauth? Women have to fast without drinking even a drop of water all day. When I got married, my husband did not want me to undergo the torture. Haven’t done it even once.

Sona: That is amazing. People can be quite intolerant when it comes to religion and rituals. I remember my aunt used to take these monthly fasts. When I was a kid I was also asked to fast. I nearly passed out the one time I tried. I cannot forego food. There is a limit to my tolerance.

Me: That reminds me of my brother. He fasted once to give company to my mother. He actually fainted before the sun set. We all tease him like hell whenever someone mentions fasting. Mother says that a rabbit should not attempt to do what an elephant is an expert at.

Sona: Oh my God, see that. A rabbit indeed is attempting something like that here. How can that waiter carry three trays at once? And see that boy talking on the phone is walking straight at him. Ugh!

Tiya: What a mess! I hope they don’t fire him. It was the mistake of the boy.

Me: He was carrying too many plates. They should employ more staff.

Sona: The manager seems to be a kind fellow. See how he is apologizing on behalf of his staff to the boy. And see how arrogant that boy is. Shamelessly shouting at the poor waiter.

Tiya: I am going to tell him exactly what I think. I cannot tolerate this.

Sona: Sit down, let us not make it messier. The manager is sorting it out.

Me: Let us eat. See our food has come. Karma is a bitch. I am sure the minions will mix a drop of washing liquid in his food the next time he comes here.

Sona: Yes, they have marked him. That boy can never feel safe here anymore. Never underestimate the power of a common minion.

 Author's note: This was an attempt at narrating a story only through dialogue,  without any dialogue tags or scene descriptions, a style popularized by Roddy Doyle. 

Finding the Zest Again

For an outsider, Aditya Chauhan lived a privileged life, flawless from any angle. He was, after all, the CEO of a multi-billion dollar business empire, a proud father to two teenagers, a loving husband and traveled across the globe frequently. A bright smile always lit up his face. Yet, life felt strange at times.  The more money he earned, the more forlorn he was beginning to feel. The zest was missing because Aditya longed for his old life terribly. If he could barter all his riches in exchange for his carefree college days, he would have done that happily.

During those days, he and his team of five nature lovers spent all their time exploring nature. They had been avid trekkers. They had made it a mission to go on at least four trekking trips every year. They saved all year along, to book group trips that would take them to different parts of the country.

 He wished those days were back. He wanted to spend some time away from the grinding schedule of his work. Away from all responsibilities and sleep under the night sky, conquer more peaks and watch the splendor of nature perched high on magnificent cliff tops.

All five of them were now neck deep in business and jobs. Yet every year, they met at some five-star resort with family and bonded over food and news.

Then an idea struck. Why hadn’t this idea occurred to any of them before? Their next meet was scheduled for the end of next month. He messaged his idea to all five of his friends and the response was immediate. A resounding ‘Yes, go ahead’ from all five of them. His wife and two teenagers were thrilled when they heard about the plan.

 He searched online the various trekking operators and found a link to  mojhi.com and checked the trekking trips available for beginners. It was time to make their entire families crazy about trekking. He logged in his contact details at the Everest base camp trek page.  Within a few hours, quotes from verified trekking operators arrived in his inbox. The five friends exchanged emails deciding on the details. The entire planning went on without any hassles.

 At the end of next month, the five friends , as they sat around a raging campfire, breathing in the clean mountain air, singing songs from their youth under a starlit sky, made a covenant that they would do this as often as possible. After all, you lived only once.

The Lady Who Loved Silkworms

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The weight of its wetness stretched across the skin of her face. She bit her inner cheeks to suppress a scream as she moved it to her chin. The moment it started crawling, goosebumps sprouted in millions across her skin. She silently addressed fervent prayers to the creator.

She cursed the moment she had agreed to this insane act. She cursed her poverty. She cursed the fate which made her leave the sanctum of her father’s house in the village after being married to the dullard that was her husband. She could not say no to the money, could she? A thousand rupees would buy her enough groceries to last a month. All she had to do was to sit still and smile. It didn’t matter that she was scared of any creature which had more than two legs. It didn’t matter that tears were stinging at the back of her eyes. All that mattered was the smile on the face of her kid when she would feed him a few square meals. That thought was her solace, her energy.

The white silkworm traversed the dark brown landscape of her face and lingered on her cheeks as though contemplating about the onward journey. A lone tear drop rolled out from her lashes as she hastily closed her eyes to shut out the view and the sense of disgust.

She had been made to wear a ridiculous headdress created with mulberry leaves. They had provided her a saree which she had draped in the best way she knew. The girl in the group had protested and made her wear it the ‘proper way’ by pinning it in many places with shiny safety pins.

She heard their murmur of satisfaction as the shoot ended. The girl came and lifted the hat from her head.

“This is going to be a viral video, I tell you,” said the dorky kid wielding the camera. The silkworm was now perched on the top-most mulberry leaf and was eating away at leisure.

“'The lady who loved Silkworms’. How is that for the title?” The nerdy looking kid in glasses asked. The rest of the seven-member gang cheered.

As they handed her the money, she flashed her best smile. She hailed what they called the social-media which had made these kids her constant source of income. What would be her role next time?

 P.S: This was a written assignment as part of the selection criteria at Anita's Attic. We had to write a story beginning with 'The weight of its wetness stretched across the skin of her face' not exceeding 400 words.