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Part growing-up story, part metaphysical exploration of the human-nature relationship, Amrita Mahale’s Real Life wows with its clarity, poetry and depth. An absolutely engrossing read, the book is unputdownable from start to finish. Lucid language, poetic metaphors and evocative storytelling elevates what is an extremely topical story.  Told from the perspectives of three millenials - Mansi, Bhaskar and Tara, the novel spans out in interconnected segments. You are first drawn into Mansi’s life as voiced from her perspective, then into Bhaskar’s and then Tara’s. Primarily though, this is the story of Tara, the feisty and brilliant scholar on a mission to study the dhole or wild dog habitating the upper mountains. A fierce animal lover, zealous researcher and a maverick of sorts, she's the one who takes up the path least trod.  Real Life centres around the themes of friendship, individuality, love and boundaries. Tara’s childhood friendship with Mansi is the basis of the story, ...

It's that time of the year again. When yearly round-ups are done diligently. Lists made, everyone sits down and assesses hits and misses. You tick off the "achieved goals" from your list. Make resolutions to fulfil the ones not yet surmounted. But I am doing something different. I am taking stock of my setbacks, my disappointments, the let-downs this year. I have absolutely zero expectations from the next year. Why? Because its useless to expect anything that I can't control. And since any chance of better days seems very unlikely, I am collecting the bits of my sanity to somehow trudge along the rest of my time on this planet. Why am I being such a kill-joy, you may ask? Well, not out of choice, certainly. What the world and my country, the air I breathe, the people I mix with, have become, all contribute to my rock-bottom expectations.  1. I am terrified, scared of what my country and its people have become. This wasn't the country I grew up in. It seems as if l...

Warning - This piece needs to be taken with a pinch of salt! Wedding season is here again in India! Large, lavish, in-your-face glossy weddings that wipe out a large chunk of a family's savings. Usually a four-day affair, weddings or "shaadis" in India have no less paraphernalia than shooting a small film or organizing a rock concert.  Mehendi, Sangeet, Bachelor parties, Haldi ceremony, pre-nuptials to post-nuptial events, Indian weddings these days follow the Punjabi template popularized by Bollywood. With a lot of song, dance, glitter and DJ music, and sulking and bitchy relatives to boot. There have been recent additions to the razzmatazz. Now a professionally shot pre-wedding session of the couple has become something of a must. One can't really expect an Insta-crazy generation to let go of this golden opportunity to pose in various outfits against stunning back-drops. Its a legit opportunity to flex, after all. This takes care of the social media views, and the o...

An Excerpt from the story "Half-Cup Moon" Pihu squirmed in her seat. Her “better-half” Akash was behaving obnoxiously, literally like a high-on-hormones teenager. Watching him flirt shamelessly with the resident hottie Chandni, Pihu was bubbling with indignation. How did things get this bad? There was a time Akash wouldn’t look at anyone except her. Nikki smiled sympathetically across the table. She was aware of the tension between Pihu and Akash, but she was wary of coming across as patronizing towards her friend. Pihu smiled wanly and looked the other way. The room felt stuffy, smoke-filled and claustrophobic. She needed a break. Nursing her drink, she made way to the balcony. It was quiet and secluded here. The party was in full swing, with groovy music, drinks flowing freely, and spicy starters being passed around. Couples were either dancing or cozying up in corners. From the bay windows she could observe Farhan and Diti sharing a smoke, and later a kiss. L...

Prolific writer-activist-thinker Arundhati Roy's memoir, an ode to her mother's formidable personality, is cleverly titled, Mother Mary Comes to Me. Below the title is a picture of young Roy nonchalantly smoking a bidi. Irreverence, thy name is Arundhati Roy! At 372 pages, it is a tome, a sweeping saga that recollects both her mother's remarkable life, as well as her own. Is it a Memoir? Yes and no. Though the book title refers to their mother-daughter relationship, the book - at several junctures treats each one of them as independent and exclusive from one another. In fact, for a good part, her mother finds no mention at all, and the reader is engrossed reading about Roy's exploits and struggles through Architecture College, early attempts to find her vocation and calling, her dabbling with cinema, acting, scriptwriting; her romantic liaisons with the luscious JC, Sanjay, Pradeep et al. A life as extraordinary and unapologetic as Arundhati's mesmerizes in itself. ...

Festivals are happy times, right? Time for merriment, revelry, celebration, enjoying yourself... Wrong! Studies show festivals call for a steady spike in stress levels. Cortisol shoots up, starting with preparation for festivals, and remains high throughout, in the quest to do everything perfectly, "at least during the festival". Guess who bears the brunt of this? Yes, its the one who takes emotional labour for everyone she cares for - the woman of the house. She wants everything to be perfect, so works her ass off tidying and cleaning things. Then she wants her family to be fed well, so spends hours toiling away making delicacies in the kitchen. Rangoli to be painted - there she is with the brush. Festoons to be hung up - she's balancing herself on a stool. Furniture rearranged, flowers put up, puja room decorated? Yes, only one person who signs up for all this. Then there's the stress of the whole family at home, stepping on each other's toes. She has to appease...