She Writes , livre ebook

Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd. - MSN

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

76 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Every woman has a story to tell. Random House India, in collaboration with MSN, presents an extraordinary collection of stories from twelve talented women writers across the country-a woman trapped in a stifling marriage makes a shocking discovery, a repressed memory is suddenly brought back by a dead tree, a self-styled nun finds unlikely love in a Tibetan monastery. Rich and deeply evocative, She Writes is a celebration of some of the most exciting writing talent in our country. Winner names: Anisha Bhaduri Geeta Sundar Sheela Jaywant Prarthana Rao Aprameya Manthena Chitralekha Belinder Dhanoa Yishey Doma Santana Pathak Amrita Saikia Jyotsna Jha Shreya Manjunath

Sujets

Short story

Informations

Publié par	Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
Date de parution	25 septembre 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9788184003338
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0480€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

She Writes
A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES
She Writes
A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES

RANDOM HOUSE INDIA
Published by Random House India in 2012
Other People s Lives Copyright Anisha Bhaduri 2012
The Tourist Copyright Jyotsna Jha 2012
Revelation Copyright Aprameya Manthena 2012
A Tale of Destiny Copyright Amrita Saikia 2012
Yokemates Copyright Sheela Jaywant 2012
Winds of Indifference Copyright Shreya Manjunath 2012
Mantras of Love Copyright Yishey Doma 2012
Spaces Copyright Prarthana Rao 2012
White Chilly Copyright Geeta Sundar 2012
Mirage Copyright Santana Pathak 2012
Conundrum Copyright Chitralekha 2012
A Boston Brahmin Copyright Belinder Dhanoa 2012
Random House Publishers India Private Limited
Windsor IT Park, 7th Floor, Tower-B,
A-1, Sector-125, Noida-201301, U.P.
Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
United Kingdom
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author s and publisher s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
EPUB ISBN 9788184003338
Contents
Introduction
Other People s Lives
Anisha Bhaduri
The Tourist
Jyotsna Jha
Revelation
Aprameya Manthena
A Tale of Destiny
Amrita Saikia
Yokemates
Sheela Jaywant
Winds of Indifference
Shreya Manjunath
Mantras of Love
Yishey Doma
Spaces
Prarthana Rao
White Chilly
Dr Geeta Sundar
Mirage
Santana Pathak
Conundrum
Chitralekha
A Boston Brahmin
Belinder Dhanoa
INTRODUCTION
I t is hard to describe how deeply a well written short story affects you. It invokes in you those emotions which you cannot really describe, only feel. You go with the protagonist, like a silent ghost, experiencing vicariously all that they do, wringing your hands in despair sometimes, calling out to them to stop at other times, but deeply involved nevertheless in all that they do. For those brief moments, you are a part of their lives-feeling the emotions they feel through your mind. It is a surreal feeling, truly like entering another body and coming back to your own when the story is over.
In May 2012, Random House India, in association with MSN, had conducted a short story contest to hunt for twelve of India s finest women writers. The participants could choose from one of the following themes:
a.
Woman in the City

Frankly my dear, I don t give a damn - Gone With the Wind
b.
Growing up in India

Experience is the name every one gives to their mistakes -Oscar Wilde
c.
The Man in my Life

Being with him made her feel as though her soul had escaped from the narrow confines of her island country into the vast, extravagant spaces of his - The God of Small Things
One of the conditions laid down was that the quotes given with each topic had to be incorporated somewhere into the story. Hundreds of entries poured in and the judges had a difficult time picking the final ones that appear in this book.
Each of these twelve stories here are remarkable in their own way. They are stories from women like you and me, based in different places like Chennai, Kolkata, Hyderabad, New Delhi, Bangalore and Gangtok, who have drawn on their experiences from the places they have visited perhaps (or lived in) and woven them deftly into the stories they tell. They take us on a journey all around the world, really. They make us familiar with a place where we have not been to before, making it come alive with all the sight and sounds and a myriad other things that it almost feels like one has visited it many a time.
Whether it is the newly-wed Bengali bride feeling out of place on her honeymoon in the story Other people s lives by Anisha Bhaduri or an unusual obsession a working woman has, in the story Revelation by Aprameya Manthena, one finds that the writing is so powerful that we get under the skin of the protagonist deeply. I visited Boston and walked by the Charles River with Belinder Dhanoa, without leaving my room, through her story A Boston Brahmin, and I travelled to Madgaon and Canacona with Sheela Jayawant, much the same way in her story Yokemates.
Some of the stories are deeply moving, some disturbing, and some make you want to just dive into the book and be a part of it. All of them are superbly written and they make you think.
Unlike a novel which takes you on a long journey and demands a certain effort on your part to complete it-reading a short story is almost effortless. It is like floating idly in a coracle on a warm sunny day, with the gentle breeze blowing through your hair, as the world goes around, although I must admit, in reality I read it curled up in my blankets with the rains tap-tapping on my window panes, and it was just as enjoyable.
That is what good stories do. They make you forget everything momentarily.
It made me think that a collection of short stories is a treat, like a box of assorted chocolates for if you do not like one, there is always another one you can help yourself to.
As for me, I loved them all and hopefully you will too. So relax, sit back, let go, allow your heart to beat that much faster, lose yourself for a little while, and indulge in these tales.
Happy reading!
Preeti Shenoy
July 2012
OTHER PEOPLE S LIVES
K onica first noticed the woman with the Handycam from her hotel room window. The sun had risen a while back and the Kanchenjangha was still as freshly bloody as the vermillion on her parting. She had woken up at the crack of dawn and as the reluctant orb had dragged itself up to paint the tip of the mountain, Konica felt the thrill of a child who breaks a cherished vase but receives a forgiving kiss from the mother anyway.
Since she entered this hotel room with her five-day-old husband Amit the evening before, Konica was intermittently gripped by the indulgent guilt of a little girl who had broken her mother s favourite vase. The room was expensive, the toiletries on the bathroom racks so alien that Konica was sure they could never belong to her. Even the pristine sheets on their double bed smelt of many things that money could and could not buy. As she took in the room, even before setting down her imitation batik handbag on a side table or slipping the new wedding sandals off her feet, Konica thought it would not be fair to crumple that perfectly-made, princely bed with their unfamiliar lovemaking.

Before taking a shower, Konica had consulted Amit about operating the hair dryer mounted on the wall next to the shower stall. Amit tried to help her, manipulating buttons to hit on the right one to get the gadget buzzing. But, he could not tell her what kind of pressure on which button would make the dryer blow as hot as she desired.
What s the point anyway, Koni? You are not going to use one back home. Dry your hair as you do every day, he had suggested.
Catching their images on the nearly wall-sized mirror on the other end of the bathroom-Amit with a towel draped around his slightly distended waist and herself unsure in her new nightie-Konica had felt that stirring of guilt again. Only guilt, no pleasure. The guilt of people who were out of place but suffered the discomfort anyway, because doing otherwise would irreversibly tag them as outsiders.
Even ordering dinner had been a long process involving comparing prices on the menu and settling for the least-expensive combination served in the room. The three-day, two-night package at Darjeeling was a wedding gift from Amit s married elder sister living in the US. The gift covered only breakfast and a government school-teacher like Amit had to watch his money.
Konica had noticed the lovely wood-panelled restaurant as she climbed the stairs behind the bellboy after checking-in. A woman had laughed out loud and in that quiet, chilly evening, when the air had been as brittle as a glass painting, the sound had stopped Konica in her tracks. She had gripped the teak banister and leaned against it to look for its source. The heavy maroon curtains complementing the dark panelling had saddened her. It seemed then that the world behind the curtains, occupied by women who laughed like temple bells, would forever remain out of her reach.
The dawn was more forgiving. Konica kept her eyes on the woman below from her window because she could see her lips moving. The short, fat woman-whose Bengaliness sat on her as comfortably as the Western clothes she was wearing did not-seemed like she was talking to herself as she held the Handycam. Konica moved a little to the right, shifted her weight on her left foot and stood on her toe to check if the woman had company. Satisfied that she did not, Konica smiled to herself. The woman was indeed talking to herself.
Her chain of guilt broken by the benevolence of the December sun, Konica pulled a sweater left unfolded on a leather sofa, put it on, draped a shawl to protect her Kolkata-calloused ears from the onslaught of the mountain air and gently shut the door on her sleeping husband. The wooden staircase seemed different in the dawn. The east-facing long windows on the landing had not yet caught the morning light and the dark staircase seemed bathed in diffused luminosity. Full of mystery. Offered only by old hotels such as these, and unpretentious watercolours.

As she stepped onto the paved path across the lawn that led straight to the rim beyond which the world dropped away and the mountains rose majestically, Konica was gripped by a pleasure so acute, so intense, so overwhelming, that it was almost like absolute freedom. She did not feel the biting cold anymore, the searing air tugging at her new shawl, impending