IMG_1085

A Review: Let the Reason be Love.

image

Book: Let the Reason be Love

Author: Tuhin A Sinha

Publisher: Rupa Publications

Genre: Love and Relationships

image

This remains a conundrum – One that neither technological breakthroughs, nor the most passionate of lovers has managed to unravel. What some may attribute attraction to shared sensibilities or even a karmic connection, the fact remains that love comes without simple answers; it’s damn complicated.”

The blurb on the back cover of soon to be released latest fiction ‘Let the Reason be Love’ by best-selling Author Tuhin A Sinha seizes immediate attention and spawns requisite interest in me.

‘Let the Reason be Love’ is a topical tale of unrequited love and it’s forlornness; a stark version of modern day relationship and the not-so-easy interplay of emotional determinants in different layer and stages of it.
Somewhere the story even pitches to engage into a deeper introspection or dilemma of ‘what actually or truly love is?’ Throughout the saga, the strong emotional undercurrent which effortlessly flows and interweaves an entangled web of carnal passion to soul connection, contentment to heartache, trust to mistrust and even self-realisation to an extent, between the three main characters, weaves an enticing plot to dive into.

The Story:
The protagonist Rishaan and his love interests Kiara and Diya at different point of time and situation make relatable characters with their separate identities and inherent quirks and expectations. But they indeed share a commonality; an ever searching toil of filling the void in each one’s heart.
Rishaan is this dreamy, idealist, middle-classy boy-next-door. He is spontaneous, talented and great fun to be with but could also be extremely disorganised like most other husbands-in-making young men. Kiara as described by author himself is a spunky, liberated, free spirited Bengali bombshell. Someone who lived life with her own terms and brutally honest. Yet amidst the temperamental differences, the two begin their journey of relationship with intense infatuation.
Diya, to the contrary, seemed to be a strong, calm woman who is firmly in control of her life despite the chaos around. There is something very attractive about her femininity too.
Rishaan is drawn to her inwardly. Rather than carnal desires, shared empathy, companionship and long conversations is the basis of their bond. Since Kiara and Diya are bosom friends, how the interpersonal dynamics between the three creates stirring situation and the innermost feelings and universality of human reactions to love, betrayal and hurt is resplendently exhibited through the tale.
The end line of the story quips as :
Rishaan knew that life and Bollywood were indeed capable of throwing up some crazy surprises.”
I would like to disrupt my share of earful on the story here without further divulging any more details, trying not to spoil the reader’s appetite and allowing them to savour the original narration or compelling expression by the writer himself by reading the book itself.

Narrative, Style and My views:
This book was not a conventional pick for me as from past few years I have not indulged myself with fictions much. Yet it provided me an interesting read and sort of treaded me to nostalgia lane.
The simple plot, lucid free-flowing words and the identifiable characters with swift, zesty narrative style makes a light, engaging and easy read for us.
Characters strike a chord with the modern urban metropolitan readers especially Mumbaikars with everyday minute nuances(be it the quirky auto drivers or a smooth-talking boss in loveless marriage) and relationship dynamics being skilfully portrayed.
The beginning of the book will not disappoint the aficionados of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ likes, with expressions of some earthy, impassioned rendezvous between the lead characters.
Though it picks up a better tempo after first few pages but the twist after makes it engrossing quite instantaneously.
The author has added some vernacular lingo and famed movie songs to add his personal style. The book is an absolute page turner but somehow I wanted it to end differently. So there I was, a bit gloomy. But what the heck that’s not my novel or my story and the creative freedom belongs to Tuhin.
Finally, what strike me or made an impression on me is the way the story tried to explore the fragility and vulnerability of human relationship. That we are flawed being and with that comes perfectly imperfect relationships, which we agree or not but somewhere have to acknowledge the fact. No relationship is ‘happily ever after’. But then it’s our individual choice to persevere or not.
If all you want is a light, breezy and effortless but wistful read that takes you through that vulnerable, unpredictable, fallible love lane and expose you to the myriads of warm kindled sensibilities, soak into it. You never know after reading this, you might feel lucky enough for what you have or maybe what you don’t have!

About the Author: Tuhin A. Sinha is a best-selling author, columnist and a scriptwriter. Tuhin is widely acknowledged among the most prolific Indian writers with each of his four previous books, The Edge of Desire, That Thing Called Love, The Captain (formerly 22 Yards) and Of Love and Politics breaking new ground in terms of subject and treatment.
He is also a scriptwriter of several popular TV shows. Apart from his fiction novels and scripts, Tuhin is a keen political observer. His columns on Indian politics appear regularly in India’s leading dailies.

[This is not a paid review. The opinions expressed in the review are my own, and remains unbiased and uninfluenced.]

IMG_1085

The Heart of the Rose

image

Our love affair with flowers is well known. From offering saffron hues of Marigold for worshiping God to the decorative malas(garlands) made out with choicest of fragrant Mogras and Rajnigandhas for wedding ceremonies, filling the ambience with sweet calmness and craving belongingness and a grand affair to spill over, seems surreal. Even making a beauty statement further, a dainty jasmine flower chain is worn in the hair in form of Gajras(small garland chains) by the bride and some of the dames virtuously, during the ceremony and even on day to day life; Flowers, the epitome of nature’s beauty are surely for real even though ephemeral.

The flowers with its pure exquisite beauty sometimes professes a pristine hope and at times teases the heart with new desire. The queen of flowers is not behind though. Something mystical about it. Rose is a rose is a rose. It’s like an alluring beauty having a profound deepness in it’s belly to be expressed. As if whispering a tale to tell:
“But he who dares not grasp the thorn,
Should never crave for the rose.”
– Anne Bronte…

The story doesn’t end but rather begins here. It’s the tale of a flower-seller and the story of a regular urban girl like you and me, two people from totally different realms of world.
Every morning Ganga, who is almost sixty, will walk down nine kilometres with her chapped, barren feet at a stretch to the nearby highway road to sell Rose bouquets. Those bouquets couldn’t match with the ones which we find in city boutiques. They were not as refined and never did had the touch of artistry unlike them.
Her’s were the bunch of roses knitted together as naturally as they are meant to be; untouched and unspoiled by any. City people and passers-by will pick up those for the bargain they get, as it is half the cost of freshness being offered. At days, she will reap One-fifty Rupees and if lucky may be Three Hundred, which was pretty rare. But then some days will mock her hardships further and she will return home almost empty handed to feed two ever-urging stomach, burden of non-refilled medicines, reconciling with the bare minimum necessities.

It’s been almost seven years that she started this meagre income source after her husband Hari was diagnosed with Cirrhosis coz of excessive liquor consumption and was left partially paralysed. Ganga was married when she was hardly seventeen. At that tender age, only purpose for which she got married was to get three times of meal which her father couldn’t provide belonging to a poor landless tribal belt. Her entire life she was devoted to Hari as she laboured, toiled hard to support him over the years.
It was not like this before as Hari was a skillful young man and kept Ganga well nourished and cherished. Things started crumbling as he fell prey to intoxicant and the days of misery just added bit by bit to the extent that today he lay there motionless, half decayed forgoing Ganga to God’s mercy. Even if childless, the marriage was fruitful as Hari always was a faithful husband and Ganga a true consort.

The month of July this year was falling short of rain. Scattered drizzles could not uplift the brazen spirit longing for rain. That morning when Ganga reached her usual spot besides the highway road, a few minutes to nine, a car halted just across the crossing and a figure walked towards her.
A girl in her late twenties, pleasent and cherubic, yet something frazzled and somber about her demeanour approached. She picked up a bouquet and without any hesitation paid the price leaving no room for negotiation. Ganga felt relieved as the day began with a happy note.

Quite attentively and heedfully, Maya placed the bouquet on the front seat of her car, as if a mother settling her baby gently. As she started driving, her tenacity could not uphold the leftover anguish and her red, tear rimmed eyes dripped with the showers of intense bereavement.
Roses are so special. Especially special are these red ones as those were dearest to Mom, she gasped. Mother herself planted, watered, pruned and nurtured them….these beautiful babies, she used to call them playfully. Roses are God’s best gift to nature, according to mom it was.
“These satin silk petals in those fragile layers spreading along with it a tender, warm aroma is like a magic, which can uplift any wearied heart,” Mother used to confess. And every time she will handpick a few and knit them together and decorate them besides the bed.

And that fine day, when she was just twelve and she saved some money to buy a bouquet for mom’s birthday, and with the gleeful expressions on mom’s eyes, tears of gladness rolled down her cheek, she accepted and kissed those roses and murmured,
“How blessed a mother can be having a girl like you! “
Perhaps that was the best surprise she ever received in her life. Through out the years, Maya knew that her Mother was a tender, sensitive soul just like the Roses. So much so that even life’s natural toils and trials were harsher to her. She was too good, too fragile to be in this jagged world. And just like that one day abruptly, she gave up the ultimate fight; the fight for life and with that collapsed Maya’s affectionate existence too.

It’s been ten years, she lost her and on every birthday of Mother, she would pick up a bouquet filled with brightest of bright red roses and will place it besides her bed, the way Mom used to. Over the years even the pain and agony to bear the loss became a routine.
As if nothing is in our hand. And this ceaseless toil to win, to capture, to gain, to impress, to fight it out anyhow, continues and never ends.
“If nothing is in our hand and we are mere puppets then why this perennial toil! What an irony!” Perhaps that’s what is Life; you eat, you sleep, you love, you work, you cry, you smile, you scream but you live knowing the unknown. Life is hope and to have hope is life.”, she reflected.

But today was an unusual day. There was something about the day. Something hopeful, may be. When she woke up and drifted her bedroom curtains aside, the morning sky looked a little more azure and the birds chirping felt like a sweet Mozart Piano Sonata to soothe a crying newborn.
She was well aware that it was Mother’s birthday today but she didn’t feel forlorn, rather a strange smile flickered on her face and she brushed her fingers across the belly quietly and softly. She knew if alive, Mom would have jumped to glory out of sheer happiness after getting the blissful news.
But truth like roses have thorns and she is not there in this transient mortal world, where she can hug her tight and Mom would kiss her belly and bless the new lease of life to flourish and prosper, which is breathing within her. For where, she can cry her heart out with tears of sorrow as well as happiness clutching mom tight, for one last time.

While driving through the mist and drizzle, Maya made up her mind. She reached where she left from. She went to the usual spot and rendered the bouquet to Ganga. Quite astonished, Ganga was dismayed as she hardly made any earning today. Little hesitatingly, she took out money and offered Maya back her amount.
Maya expressed,
“Do not as these are for you; from me to you. If only anything in this world, these beauties will aptly match the beauty of your soul….a soul which has seen and faced it all valiantly all through and still smiles…a soul liberated.”

All these years she was just a flower seller. But today, Ganga was more than that. She felt like a woman, like a human after all, a sensation which was lost in these many years, within the intricacies of survival and to top that being wretched and poor was nothing less than a sin. Though already wilted after a full day exposure, the Rose still appeared luminous as if for the first time it’s heart swelled and overflowed  with joy for being with a beautiful soul like her. Ganga caressed those delicate petals for once gently, but with her coarse, withered fingers as if it was the most invaluable thing in this world to her. For the first time in life, she held those bunches of Roses on her hand like a proud owner, rather than a caretaker or to say a seller. She smiled at Maya with heartfelt thankfulness.

But then while she was still in that sudden unexpected state of indulgence, Maya scouted her purse and took out a Five Hundred Rupee note and placed it on Ganga’s palm and clasped them intact with her own hands and looking straight deep down to Ganga’s eyes, kind of gaze which pierces through one’s soul, she whispered calmly to Ganga,
” Today is my Mother’s Birthday. She is not with us anymore. I want you to get some sweets for your family to celebrate this auspicious day with me. Would you mind doing that?”
Ganga couldn’t stop the inner battle and sobbed with gratitude and accepted the grant. She smiled and mulled over that finally tonight Hari’s medicines could be replenished.
And saying so, Maya left the place. While walking back towards the car, as the gentle supple drizzles slid down her face and then neck and a sense of repose and feeling at peace sank in, she was reminded of what mother used to say,
“The Rose always speaks of love silently in a language known only to the heart, my dear.”

 

Image Courtsey: The Rose Seller by Uday Narayanan @http://udaynarayanan.com/

image

Note: The story is incomplete without this note. Few days back I happened to visit Uday Narayanan’s photography blog ‘Slice of Life’. It’s an work of art with exquisite, impressive shots. To say less, Uday for me is an amazing photographer. Quite playfully, I mentioned on the vivid capture I used in this story ‘The Rose Seller’ to him, that it’s an intriguing photograph and I would love to write a piece on this. Uday gave me the consent for the visual and I hope I gave right words to it with my humble effort. Thank you Uday for having faith.

 

IMG_1085

Humanity Strips

“War is what happens when language fails.”   –    Margaret Atwood

Humanity Strips

image

Children of nine and ten
Tender and scared
Frozen in fear
Blood smear.
Weeping anxiously
Terror stricken tear.
The gory witnesses,
With blank stare.
The illusive line between
Life and death,
Promises and despair
Swings unaware.
Is that fair!

They say
everything is fair
In love and war.
We are fallen messiahs
In a mission
To salvage and devour.

Women of twenty and thirty
That look in their eyes
Infused with dread and horror.
Grieving mother
Mourning wife
Distraught sister
No words of assurance
can fill their
loss or impair.
Broken heart
Amidst those wasted prayer.
Is that fair!

Men of thirty and forty
Lost limbs
Numb consciousness
Damaged spirit
Feeding on abjectness.
Hopes shattered
Too hapless to dare
Wounded morale
Beyond repair.
Is that fair!

They say
everything is fair
In love and war.
We are fallen messiahs
In a mission
To salvage and devour.

Death falls from the sky
With bombs, missiles and rocket.
And sometimes comes
Gushing from the street
As a cold blooded docket.
Smells of explosives all around
With drones buzzing
Rupturing the shrill sound.

Trees fall,
Wall collapses,
Homes in debris,
Safest harbour relapses.
Roads desolate
With clothes spilled.
a fractured plastic toy
In middle of a lane
Apathy revealed
Innocence killed.
Multiple wars
With disillusioned mission,
Pleading for life,
Empathy and vision.

They say
everything is fair
In love and war.
We are fallen messiah
In a mission
To salvage and devour.

Conflict becomes omnipresent
Discord and disagreement.
Death penetrates
Hatred resplendent.
Charred conscience
Mayhem creeps
Humanity Strips
In Gaza Strip.
And they say
everything is fair
In love and war
Truth is
Unfair is unfair
You call it
Love or War.

http://www.indiblogger.in/badges/235x96_top-indivine-post.png