tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737888939634878792024-03-14T08:03:04.152+05:30Eloquence RedefinedThis is the place where my unbridled mind is put to workKarthikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711684817675364335noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-673788893963487879.post-79271152151330799312020-03-30T19:44:00.003+05:302020-03-30T20:04:13.517+05:30The Fisherman by John Langan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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An insidious story about bargaining with grief, <i>The Fisherman</i> by John Langan is one of the best horror novels I've ever read. It’s a beautifully written tale of loss and grief, and the pain associated with them. Abe is the narrator of the story. He has lost his wife to cancer, people’s compassion has faded away, and he’s living alone with his pain. He takes up fishing to keep himself distracted from his sadness. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> A few years down the line, Abe makes friends with one of his colleagues, Dan. Like Abe, Dan has lost his family, too, and is going through tough times. Together they go fishing and try to find solace in their shared new hobby. <br /><br /> “It would be a lie to say the time passes quickly. It never does, when you want it to.” <br /><br /> Grief is complicated. Contrary to popular opinion, time does not really heal grief. One can only learn to cope with it and move on. One day, Abe and Dan decide to follow up on some legendary tale about a place called Dutchman’s Creek. As the tales of the creek go, something fantastical, something miraculous lurks in the waters. Curious, Abe and Dan embark on a journey to Dutchman’s Creek and soon learn that the miracle they thought they were seeking is no miracle at all, but something darker and far more sinister than one can imagine. Dutchman’s Creek has a secret linked to an eerie tale about a mysterious entity called Der Fischer: The Fisherman. <br /><br /> The tale of Dutchman’s Creek has been passed from generation to generation. The dark folk legend of Der Fischer is filled with black magic, exorcisms, incomprehensible forces, and nightmarish visions. <br /><br /> The Fisherman is a story within a story narrated expertly. After the first few chapters about Abe and Dan, their miseries and their fishing trips, we stop to hear the story of Dutchman’s Creek, which comprises about fifty percent of the book. Some of the events in the backstory are truly terrifying. Dutchman’s Creek promises to bring back deceased loved ones. Cut to the present story about Abe and Dan, one of them is tempted to go after it. <br /><br /> The story may be jarring at times, especially when we go back over a hundred years and learn about Der Fischer. Going through multiple timelines can seem like a hassle. But stay put and you will be rewarded. Langan handles a complicated structure with such ease it’s a delight to read. <br /><br /> Through all this, what really gripped me more than the surreal visions, the uneasy atmosphere, and the complicated tale of Der Fischer is Abe’s voice. I was in thrall right from the first paragraph. <br /><br /> “Don’t call me Abraham: call me Abe. Though it’s what my ma named me, I’ve never liked Abraham. It’s a name that sounds so full of itself, so Biblical, so … I believe patriarchal is the word I’m after. One thing I am not, nor do I want to be, is a patriarch. There was a time when I’d like at least one child, but these days, the sight of them makes me skin crawl.” <br /><br /> Langan employs such beautiful language it’s like caramel for the soul. It is impossible not to be enchanted with his brilliant descriptions and sensual imagery, it’s impossible not to fall in love with the English language once again. It’s no wonder the book won the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a Novel. <br /><br /> Although <i>The Fisherman</i> is a Lovecraftian horror novel, at the heart of it, it’s mostly a melancholy tale of two widowers trying to cope. There are plenty of dark things at play, but what’s scarier is the grief of the characters. Letting go can be hard. But refusing to let go can be devastating. The idea is terrifying as much in fiction as it is in reality. <br /><br /> John Langan’s <i>Fisherman</i> is a delectably told creepy tale. A literary horror novel of the highest standard. If slow burn horror novels are your thing, you should pick it up. </span><br />
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Karthikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711684817675364335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-673788893963487879.post-46366945053659522822020-02-18T17:39:00.000+05:302020-03-30T20:05:53.819+05:30Relevance of Horror in Literature<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My first tryst with horror was <i>The Zee Horror Show.</i> One would argue that <i>Duck Tales</i> and <i>TaleSpin</i> were more suitable for an eight-year-old. But the intriguing charm of the new horror show, the first of its kind on Indian television, was hard to ignore. Most episodes were rooted in superstition and dark magic. The actors who played the roles of ghosts were almost always in low-budget prosthetic makeup – a desperate attempt by the makers to scare the audience. That didn’t scare me at all. What really scared me, however, was the <i>reaction </i>of the characters to the situations they were often thrown in.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Stand behind a door and say ‘Boo!’ and you may startle a few. But if you were to tell them a backstory about a young man who never left his room and went mad before strangling himself to death. If you were to then guide them into the room, slowly, they will imagine the rest and scare themselves silly. Horror, as I’ve come to believe, is all about the power of suggestion. It makes us uncomfortable at times and compels us to delve into our own darkness. </span><br />
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Why do people want to indulge in horror films or horror literature? Why do <i>I</i> like the genre so much? I’ve often thought about this. The eight-year-old me was just fond of jump scares. But as I grew up and started reading more, and more important, as I started writing, I realized it was not just about enjoying the jump scares as much as it was about exploring our deepest, darkest questions. We bury our guilt, the anxieties, the sins, and the fears deep inside us, down in the dark somewhere, and try to look tough. Horror is the opportunity to discuss them through metaphors and bring them out into the light. It lets us look those fears in the face, quite literally, and helps us overcome them. Well, most of the time, if not always. <br />
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Horror is different for different people. The supernatural may not scare everyone. My father didn’t flinch even once while watching a popular Hindi horror film. But he got scared when my little brother, who was four years old then, fell off a gate and hurt his head. The sight of blood on the floor made it even worse. My brother was all right an hour later. It was nothing that a tubful of ice cream couldn’t cure. Until then, however, I had refused to believe that anything could scare my father, the defender of my universe, the brave, the know-all. What I saw on his face that day was pure horror. <br />
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In Ray Bradbury’s short story, <i>The Night</i>, a mother waits for her oldest son to return home. The boy is out playing with his friends. It’s nearly midnight and he should have returned home, but he hasn’t. The mother is anxious, worried, her thoughts are running wild. She decides to go to the ravine and search for him. Her youngest son tags along. When the son finally returns at half-past twelve, she is relieved. She scolds him for coming back so late and the three of them walk back home. There were no wraiths walking along the edge of the ravine, no apparitions emerging from the dark. Even if there were, they wouldn’t have scared her as much as the thought of her son never returning. <br />
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A similar idea is explored at length in Paul Tremblay’s <i>Disappearance at Devil’s Rock</i>. A delectable blend of crime and supernatural horror, it’s a story of a missing child. Tommy and his friends regularly hang out at a nearby state park until one day, Tommy doesn’t return home – every parent’s worst nightmare. A desperate search for the missing boy ensues. We follow Tommy’s mother, Elizabeth, as she goes through her grief. No one in the little town is prepared for the strange events that follow: shadowy figures lurk outside the houses in the night, journal pages mysteriously appear at Elizabeth’s house, and more. But what’s scarier than the shadowy figures and such is the unrelenting grief that Elizabeth goes through. Not knowing what happened to one’s child is more horrible than death itself. She begins to imagine the worst and along with her, we imagine the worst, too. Is it really her grief or is there really some supernatural element at play? The lines between the supernatural and reality are blurred. Tremblay is at his best here. <br />
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Stephen King’s <i>Pet Sematary</i> wouldn’t have been scary if not for the emotional struggles of parents over losing their child. Again, it’s the reaction of the father – just like Elizabeth’s reaction to her missing child in <i>Disappearance at Devil’s Rock</i> – to the loss of his child that scares us, more than the floating heads in the cemetery and the dead cat coming back to life. His actions, although wrong and dangerous, are justified. We understand his reasons. <br />
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John Langan’s <i>Fisherman </i>is a wonderfully written melancholy story about loss and grief. Abe and Dan are widowers who find solace in a shared hobby of fishing. And when Dutchman’s Creek offers something more than just fine fishing, something too fantastical to be true, one of them is tempted to take it up. Regardless of the dangerous choice he makes in the end, it is understandable.<br />
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The easiest thing in the world is pitying someone who’s in trouble and saying we are ‘sorry to know’ and moving on. Empathising with them is hard, almost impossible without experiencing the pain ourselves. All good literature makes us more human. All good horror literature helps us understand the tribulations of the withering soul, the mechanics of evil, and mainly, the repercussions of <i>not </i>reacting when it’s necessary. Being empathetic is still hard, but we are almost there.<br />
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Jack Ketchum’s <i>Girl Next Door</i> explores this in excruciating detail. The novel asks more questions than it answers. What starts off as a pre-teen puppy love soon dives into an unimaginable tale of humiliation and innocence lost. 14-year-old Meg Laughlin and her younger sister are sent to live with their aunt and her three sons after the death of their parents. Meg makes friends with the boy next door, David Moran. It doesn’t take much time before Ruth Chandler, the aunt, to begin resenting the sisters and subjecting them to acts that no human should endure, let alone kids. Meg is held captive in the basement and Ruth, along with her sons and the neighbourhood kids who are the same age as Meg, tortures her. By the time David finally decides to help her, it’s already too late. <br />
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“There are things you know you'll die before telling, things you know you should have died before ever having seen. I watched and saw.”<br />
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It’s not hard to understand why Ketchum decided to tell the story in first-person. As we read, we become accomplices in the atrocities inflicted on the girl. We are right there, in the basement, looking on helplessly as things take an ugly turn. We see what evil is capable of. We see how far humans can go to hurt another person. Just when we think it’s over and nothing can get worse, it will. It’s as if Ketchum is pointing a finger at us and asking: ‘Do you have the guts to know what she went through? What would you do if you were in David Moran’s place? Would you just stand there and think you are good as long as you are not putting your hand on the girl? What’s the breaking point for you to stand up and decide to help?’ <br />
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Sometimes, there is no other horror than the nature of the bystander effect. <br />
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Ketchum’s writing is arsenic, to the point, without any unnecessary frills. He never lets style take over the matter. It takes incredible talent to strip your writing of all things purple and stick to the main story, to say what you have to say in plain and simple language. The beauty of his writing shines in the background whereas the unfolding of monstrosity takes place on the main stage. It succeeds in making the readers feel guilty. ‘You think you know about pain?’ reads the first line of the novel. One may never truly understand the pain of unfortunate souls like Meg in the novel or Nirbhaya, the Delhi gang-rape victim, but books, mainly horror literature, help us get close to understanding their pain. <br />
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In Ania Ahlborn’s <i>Brother</i>, Michael Morrow is an unwilling participant in his family’s twisted hobby. He is adopted by the Morrows and is subjected to emotional and physical abuse since his childhood. He feels he owes his family for giving him food and shelter and helps them whenever they need him to clean up their mess. He has accepted his place in the family and functions on auto-pilot mode. He carries the weight of his family’s sins, especially of his brother, Rebel, who takes perverse pleasure in hurting people. He tries to protect his sister from the same abuse he has endured all his life but to no avail. He is at the mercy of his momma the ring-leader and his brother, and can’t get away from their grip. In the end, when his brother plays a despicable trick on him, Michael has only one option: to fight back. <br />
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The reader is put in Michael Morrow’s shoes and the questions rise again: How much is too much? What will it take to shatter that bystander effect you’ve been nurturing your whole life and stand up for what is right? <br />
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Horror doesn’t always go bump in the night. Sometimes it just sits around and waits, and when we are most vulnerable, it sneaks up on us and envelops us. Sometimes, ignoring the horror around us is the most perverse type of horror there is.<br />
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The world we live in has always been filled with terrors, and horror literature helps us confront them. If we don’t, we will forever be encapsulated by everything dark. The pleasure of enjoying horror is all about reacting to this truth from a safe distance. In the end, we all face the same monsters: anxieties, social stigma, the unknown, the future, rejections, uncertainty, failures. When these monsters get more powerful, we lose the most important feeling that every human should have in abundance: empathy.<br />
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“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown,” said H P Lovecraft. And when we do not know what our fate has in store for us in the future, our mind naturally meanders into unknown territory and scares itself by imagining the worst possible scenario. <br />
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Horror genre extols one important virtue, one quality that’s the most important of all for us to lead a fulfilling life: bravery. We need an ample amount of it for whatever right we may want to do in our lives. <br />
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Then again, what’s life without a few scares?<br />
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Karthikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711684817675364335noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-673788893963487879.post-1256968394227426632017-10-26T17:05:00.001+05:302017-10-29T16:50:54.410+05:30The Parking Lot - now available on Amazon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hey, guys, my novel, The Parking Lot is now available on Amazon. Check it out. You will be entertained (and spooked), I promise. :)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">The book is free till Sunday, i.e. 29 Oct 2017.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You don't need a Kindle reader. You can install the free Kindle app on your phone or Kindle cloud reader on your desktop and buy the book through it. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif;">Check out the video trailer here:</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times, times new roman, serif;"><a href="https://youtu.be/H_Gj0aIyheQ">https://youtu.be/H_Gj0aIyheQ</a></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> Here are the Amazon links:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="https://www.amazon.in/dp/B076PL6TS9">https://www.amazon.in/dp/B076PL6TS9</a> (India)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076PL6TS9">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076PL6TS9</a> (USA)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B076PL6TS9">https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B076PL6TS9</a> (United Kingdom)</span></span><br />
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Karthikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711684817675364335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-673788893963487879.post-4204304014137186082017-10-21T03:49:00.000+05:302017-10-21T03:49:40.484+05:30The Parking Lot - Prologue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">If Vidyut Shastri were a superstitious man, he wouldn’t have gone to the mall that day. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He woke up at around seven, over two hours later than usual. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Malavika Shastri walked into the bedroom and saw her husband lying awake in bed. ‘I tried to wake you, but you seemed like you were in a coma.’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Vidyut pushed off his blanket, rubbed his eyes. ‘Just a bad dream.’ </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘That’s new,’ Malavika walked over to the windows and drew the curtains. Warm sunlight streamed in and gave the room a yellowish-white glow. ‘You hardly have dreams, let alone bad ones.’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Never mind. Do you need any help in the kitchen?’ </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘But get washed up first. Let’s have some coffee.’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Vidyut couldn’t stop thinking about his dream. Malavika and Abhishek were dead. They were on their way to Shivamogga, Malavika’s parents’ place. The bus driver had tried to avoid a dog, hit the barrier of the bridge, and tumbled over into the river, killing all the passengers.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘What’s taking you so long?’ Malavika called from the kitchen.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Malavika and Abhishek were leaving for Shivamogga today. Vidyut thought of asking them to skip it, but then thought otherwise. It would have been silly of him to consider nightmares seriously. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Coming!’ He got off the bed and scurried towards the bathroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘I wish I could have come too,’ Vidyut said.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Malavika said. ‘You will get bored there. I know how much you hate weddings. We’ll be back by tomorrow morning, anyway.’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Wonder how you managed to convince him to go with you though.’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘I had to bribe him, of course. If he accompanies me today, he can go on that trip with his friends next week.’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Abhishek came into the living room and joined them. ‘What’s funny?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Although the dream still lingered somewhere in the back of his head, Vidyut forgot all about it when he saw his son. The boy was growing up fast. The moustache was quite prominent on his face now and his new hairstyle looked abysmal.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘What are you looking at, appa?’ Abhishek said. ‘Don’t tell me that my hairstyle is bad again. You’ve said it a million times already.’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘It’s the worst hairstyle I’ve ever seen in my life,’ Vidyut said and Malavika laughed delightfully. ‘But anyway, tell me about this trip you are going …’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It wasn’t until his coffee break in the evening that Vidyut thought about going to the mall. His colleagues were talking about the new Telugu movie, which was a massive hit. It was playing in IMAX, too. He remembered his son talking about it over dinner. ‘The screen size is four times bigger than the normal screen size, appa. It’s amazing to watch a movie there.’ He had conveniently changed the subject when Vidyut asked him what the ticket price was. ‘So appa, I was thinking of taking engineering after my plus two –’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Smiling to yourself, Shastri,’ a colleague of his broke his stream of thoughts. ‘What is it?’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Nothing,’ Vidyut said. ‘What is this new movie about?’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He wasn’t a fan of Telugu films. Or for that matter, any language films. His sources of entertainment were plays and classical music concerts. But he was curious about watching a movie on a big screen that his son had babbled on. His wife and son wouldn’t be back until tomorrow morning, so why not go to the mall? Dinner and movie. The idea of having some alone-time didn’t seem bad.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He left office at seven and rode to Horizon Mall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">His son was right about the screen size. It was enormous. His colleagues, however, were not so right about the film. It was entertaining in bits and pieces, but nothing to brag about. Either way, the overall experience wasn’t a disaster. If there was anything that he regretted, it was the food. Never ever eat anything in the mall, he vowed.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Had he not eaten anything in the mall, it would have turned out be all right. He would have gone home and slept nicely. But butter roti and matar paneer had messed up his stomach. While other people went out the mall, Vidyut Shastri went to the loo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He came out after straining his stomach for over twenty minutes.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It was nearly two and the mall seemed empty. For a man who had made it a habit to hit the bed at ten-thirty every night, being awake till two was not a comfortable feeling. He hurried across the floor towards the lift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">When he came into the basement parking lot it was exactly 2 a.m. Except for his scooter, a black Honda Activa, there wasn’t any other vehicle nearby. He surmised he was the last one to leave the mall. Even the guards were nowhere to be seen. He rushed towards his scooter.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The parking lot was hot and dusty. The white tube lights burned brightly against the columns and the floor. The smell of smoke and dust stung his nostrils and he sneezed. The faint buzz of tube lights made him aware how silent it was in the basement. He quickened his pace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Seconds later he stopped in his tracks when he felt a shadow move somewhere behind him. He turned around. It wasn’t a shadow. The light had gone out at the farther side of the parking lot. He turned and walked back.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He reached his scooter and all the lights in the parking lot went out at once. He jumped a little. He waited a few seconds for the generator to kick in. It seemed quite unusual to him. Malls like these were equipped with high-functioning power generators. Doesn’t matter, he thought. He didn’t need the lights in the parking lot to start his scooter. He would be out of the mall in ten seconds.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He reached into his pocket to fish out the keys when the lights came back on again.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He looked up and around at the vast spread of light in the empty parking lot. It somehow seemed smaller now. It was as though the darkness had squeezed the parking lot in. He turned to his scooter – or perhaps to where his scooter had been before the lights went out.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It took him a few moments to get his head straight. He was standing right in front of his Honda Activa before the lights went out. No question about it. Did the parking lot gobble up his vehicle in the dark? Surely, his mind was playing tricks. His stomach was messed up, sure. Not his head. Or maybe a messed up stomach shakes something in the brain? He almost laughed at his thoughts and shook his head. There must be some explanation to this.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The explanation, although not a perfect one, was staring at him from another corner of the parking lot. He stared back at his vehicle. A bug fluttered and buzzed around the tube light above him. He looked up. The bug buzzed for another second around the light and then, as though being shot, it dropped to the floor near his feet. The tube light above him went out.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Vidyut stared ahead at his vehicle. He couldn’t be sure of what he was seeing. He took out his glasses, wore them, and saw again. Air seemed to go out of his lungs at that instant. The humidity in the parking lot rose and he started sweating profusely. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. His scooter was still where it was before, but now, its kickstand had come off and held itself steady, its handle straight.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Vidyut took a step forward and the scooter responded with kindness. It moved a bit towards him. Before he could comprehend what was happening, hot wind blew into the parking lot with a terrific force and the dust boiled up to his face. He felt as though someone had gathered all the dust and cobwebs in the parking lot and doused on him. He sneezed, coughed, spat.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He wiped his face with his handkerchief, spat on the ground again, and looked up. The wind stopped blowing, the dust settled down. His scooter was moving towards him with a comfortable ease of an old friend coming to shake hands. At first, Vidyut stayed put, not knowing what to do. All his life he had been an atheist; neither did he believe in supernatural elements. He believed that there were answers to everything in life. The only reality he was being offered was a challenge to fight for his beliefs. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The scooter was still moving towards him quietly. Vidyut took a few steps back as the scooter’s headlights came on. He took a few more steps back – or tried to. No matter how many steps he took backwards, he was still where he was. It was like turning around on a treadmill and walking backwards. He dropped his eyes a little and … the tires! Oh, dear god.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The scooter wasn’t moving. Its tires weren’t rolling. When he had tried to walk back, he hadn’t been able to. Earlier when he had felt the parking lot had squeezed in – it wasn’t just a feeling. It <i>had</i> squeezed in. Now it was happening again. The parking lot was closing in, squeezing itself. And whatever was stuck in it was being crushed, like a pair of gigantic hands holding the two corners of the parking lot and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The black Honda Activa was closing in on him. He slid on the floor towards the vehicle, his arms swaying sideways in a futile attempt to gain balance. He felt as though he was on a skateboard. An amateur skater who had never tried skateboarding before, but somehow managed not to fall off.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">When Vidyut and the scooter were about twenty feet away, they stopped. They <i>were </i>stopped. Maybe for some pre-fight instructions? No clean fight, no protecting yourself at all costs, low blows, blows to your kidneys, blows to your head and face, blows to all parts of your body, understood? Good. Now back to your corner and get ready for a losing battle.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Vidyut looked around one last time, for a saving grace, for an answer, for an explanation, for anything, something. The parking lot had become smaller, had squeezed in a lot more than he thought.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He turned back to the vehicle, his face dripping with sweat, his heart beating hard against his chest. There was no escaping from this, the thought hit him before anything else. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The scooter held itself steady. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Its headlight went out and the parking lot embraced the darkness once again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Moments later Vidyut Shastri screamed with all his might. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt;">************</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Copyright © Karthik Kotresh 2017<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Karthikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711684817675364335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-673788893963487879.post-76656249100371505242012-03-15T20:29:00.012+05:302012-03-16T08:51:11.681+05:30My Words In Print<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nL9IPb2exDU/T2IGXjrK6CI/AAAAAAAAA3Y/kdmRuqfB5Zw/s1600/375357_2953552607964_1535897972_2868676_291016648_n.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nL9IPb2exDU/T2IGXjrK6CI/AAAAAAAAA3Y/kdmRuqfB5Zw/s320/375357_2953552607964_1535897972_2868676_291016648_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720141478497019938" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VqdX3zI2oRk/T2IF_sSSK-I/AAAAAAAAA3A/XKA2sLMv6YI/s1600/404831_3192999393984_1010710257_n.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VqdX3zI2oRk/T2IF_sSSK-I/AAAAAAAAA3A/XKA2sLMv6YI/s320/404831_3192999393984_1010710257_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720141068491697122" border="0" /></a><br />One of my short stories got published recently; as a part of anthology, <span style="font-style: italic;">Urban Shots: Crossroads</span>, published by GreyOak, in association with Westland Publishers.<br /><p>In the hope that this is the beginning of a beautiful journey towards realizing my dream, I'm posting (or perhaps boasting) two pictures. The picture below was taken in Crossword Bookstore, Garuda Mall, Bangalore. </p><p>And <a href="http://prats.co.in/urban-shots-crossroads/">here</a> is a review of the book, with my story receiving a special mention.<br /></p>Karthikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711684817675364335noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-673788893963487879.post-83259711569793581102012-01-11T10:50:00.004+05:302012-01-11T10:53:21.332+05:30Haunted - Review<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p2lWA7yVI_c/Tw0ciE05IiI/AAAAAAAAA0A/TEXk_EmAFBk/s1600/haunted_bookcover.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p2lWA7yVI_c/Tw0ciE05IiI/AAAAAAAAA0A/TEXk_EmAFBk/s320/haunted_bookcover.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696240475430265378" /></a><br /><br /> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">I enjoy reading all genres (except Romance), but action/thriller/mystery rules the roost. Ludlum, Forsyth. Sheldon, and the lot continue to keep me busy. I’m not complaining. I wonder how an author’s brain works. Imagining him sitting alone in a dingy room and working his way through the novel is itself fascinating, let alone reading the final draft. And when it’s an action/thriller, it’s much more exciting. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">No doubt there are plenty of authors that write action/thrillers, but unfortunately, such genre authors are scarce in India. This was before <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Haunted </i>happened; a rare gem by Douglas Misquita. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">If I was a tad paranoid about picking up the novel, the blurb got my attention:</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">FBI Special Agent Kirk Ingram’s life is torn apart when his family is brutally murdered before his eyes. Devastated physically and psychologically, he vows to destroy organized crime in all forms.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Across the globe, an international trade houses brings terrorist activities and organized crime together in a deadly nexus that threatens to bring the world-order to the point of anarchy.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">And only one man stands in the way of global terror and paranoia – one man seeking redemption, and waging a personal battle against the demons of his past …</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">The novel kicks off with a brilliant action scene, and before you know it twenty-five pages have flipped by. Pace is something I expect in a novel, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Haunted </i>doesn’t disappoint. The story moves with a rattling speed. Mind you, it’s not easy to write a pacy story. Douglas Misquita scores in this department, and how! </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">The beginning reminded me of the movie, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">The Punisher</i>: An FBI Agent’s family is massacred; he comes back and has his vengeance. But I was proved wrong as I read on. I was happy it changed its course. The following chapters are filled with car chases, terrorist activities, excellently choreographed action scenes, a few good twists and turns; my personal favourite: the underwater action scene. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">The plot is a bit complex and demands your complete attention. With so many characters and parallel constructs, it tends to get a bit confusing. But wait till the end and everything is properly accounted for. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">Although Haunted is one helluva fun ride, there are a few weak points; at least in my opinion. The first one being characterization. Kirk Ingram, no doubt, is a typical hero, but I couldn’t sympathize with his loss. Action scenes are vivid, but it would have been much better if equal importance was given to develop characters. One more grouse is the protagonist himself. After creating so much gravity for him in the first chapter, he doesn’t have much to do until half the book is over. I can understand the plot was being developed until then, but in a revenge saga (although not in a conventional way) like this, the protagonist should have been given more importance. Then, some of the action scenes, although well narrated, are clichéd; seemed straight out of Hollywood blockbusters. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">That being said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Haunted</i> is a welcome change. Douglas Misquita has certainly broken a barrier in Indian fiction writing. To my knowledge a novel of this kind is new in India. I’ve always enjoyed novels with multiple hues: too many things going on at the same time in different parts of the world and all the things linking with each other as the story moves forward, giving that nail-biting finish. To that extent it doesn’t disappoint.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">Pick it up. You might be amused. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center;text-indent:.5in">*********</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Haunted</i>, by Douglas Misquita</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">My rating: 3/5</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">Publisher: Leadstart Publishing Pvt Ltd</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">Number of pages: 372</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">Price: Rs. 350/-</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p>Karthikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711684817675364335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-673788893963487879.post-20400112513735175382011-11-13T22:55:00.003+05:302011-11-13T23:09:26.377+05:30Let me breathe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bjNoNGxTsCM/TsAAu0eKb3I/AAAAAAAAAzg/ZzojGQ-dJOE/s1600/depression.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bjNoNGxTsCM/TsAAu0eKb3I/AAAAAAAAAzg/ZzojGQ-dJOE/s320/depression.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674536334845964146" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Life. It’s one of those lousy words you keep hearing all the time that will practically make your life hell, if you know what I mean. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Existing has taken precedence over living, ‘follow your heart’ has become an overstatement, you talk about your passion and all you get back is a lecture on reality; you find ways to motivate yourself, you somehow deal with your frustration in your own way – by listening to music or with an intense workout session or by drinking that hot cup of coffee, whilst enjoying the nip of cool breeze or maybe by doing something utterly crazy; and just when you have started to think that you are in good shape, it all begins – ‘Look at him, look at her, why can’t you think and be like everyone, why don’t you just swim with the current, why don’t you go to temple, why don’t you believe in god, why do you take so many chances, why can’t you be pragmatic, what’s wrong with you, what’s your problem, what have you thought about your future, what are you thinking now, what are you going to do, why do you have to run so much, your legs are going to give away someday, be in your limits, when are you going to settle down …?’</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Well, why can’t you just let me breathe, for heavens’ sake? I’m not trying to be different from the rest of the folk. I simply don’t care about what others do. Now just leave me alone, goddammit!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">As if this is not enough, the world is rotting. Hell, yes, it is rotting in hell. People don’t have courtesy anymore, they don’t have manners, they’ve confused assholitude with attitude; those presumptuous bastards! Yet they have the audacity to point a finger at me and say that I ain’t good. But you know what the crazy thing is? They are right in their own way. That’s the way to live. Be a dissolute asshole and you are a <i style="">cool guy</i>. So listen to me you freaking pieces of shit, here I come. The ‘cool’ guy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Some loser once said, ‘Manners maketh man.’ Bring him to me and I shall break his neck, for I committed the sin of believing in his words and paid for it. It ain’t true, what he said. Bad, uncouth guys are the cool ones these days. Even the super-duper hit <i style="">Ra. One</i> says that. No, seriously, trust me on this. You are not supposed to reply when someone sends you a text message, you are not supposed to call them back when they are trying to reach you; courtesy, anyone? Come again. What’s that word? Nope. It’s obsolete. You are absolutely right when you say you are busy. Some pathetic losers visit your blog and read your literary masterpiece and leave behind a comment. What next? You are not supposed to reply. It’s as simple as that. I mean, why should you? Those morons don’t have anything to do, right? They are worthless, they are miserable. You don’t have to acknowledge them. Really. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">You should learn some profane words and brazenly use them. Why? Because it’s the in-thing, man. You shouldn’t hesitate even when there are elders or children or women around. You should learn to use the word ‘fuck’ in different ways; as a noun, adjective, adverb, etc. If you don’t learn this art, your English is no good, believe me. I have thus learnt it and learnt it well, you fucking freaks. Oh, wait a second. It feels good to use <i style="">the</i> word. It feels fucking good. There you go. A gerund. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">You don’t have to know the meanings of words like <i style="">joie de vivre</i>, ebullience, blithe or entrance, but you should know how to use ‘fuck’ in each and every fucking sentence you use. It doesn’t matter if your grammar is bad, but you’d better know how to use ‘fuck’. Or else your ‘additude’ gets fucked up. Big time. Also, you should incorporate phrases like, “I was like, ‘oh, what the hell!”, “yes bro, no bro”, “howz you?”, etc. Mainly, the preposition ‘like’ is the new rule. Even facebook believes in it. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Talking of language, there is one more thing: never use your mother tongue when you want to get across with someone at, say, a kick-ass mall. If Kannada is your mother tongue, you’d better hide it and speak English. People may not respect you if you go about speaking Kannada. You then have a petit bourgeois mentality. You don’t believe me? I dare you. Go to some Café in Bengalooru and try. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Did you understand everything I said, you fucking assholes? And hey, get a tattoo. Tattoos have a history of their own. Tattoos, like perfumes, should reflect your personality. I don’t know which freak said it. But don’t you worry about it. Just get a tattoo, all right? Any design will do. Many film stars and rock stars have them, you know. That’s why you should also get them. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Do you understand, you freaking phoneys? Do it because everyone else is doing it. That’s the law. Support slut-walk, support tomato festival and support everything that’s western. Watch and encourage shows like Roadies and Big Boss and the lot, and learn how to be an asshole, for assholes and bitches are the new gentlemen and ladies. Did you get my drift? So, arise, awake! Stop not till you become an asshole! </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I believe in every word I said. I have sworn to be like that. Maybe I already am. But if you think I’m not and yet to achieve the above standards, I promise you I’ll try my best to be one, soon. All I ask in return is one little thing: stay the fuck away from me and leave me alone. I don’t care about your success, I don’t care who your girlfriend is, I don’t care if you’ve bought a car, I don’t care if you’ve cleared some super-difficult exam; unless you are an important person in my life, I don’t care about anything that’s related to you. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’ve lost interest in Cricket, I’ve no interest in reality shows, I rarely watch movies; for my world is something else, something beautiful, let me live in it. I don’t want to attend your parties and functions; so stop inviting me. I have no interest in your affairs, maintaining two girlfriends doesn’t make you a hero, so stop boasting about how and when you did them. I don’t give a rat’s ass. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">For once let me live in the moment. Let me have my coffee, without your bugging about my life. Everyone has his own baggage and I have mine. For it’s heavy with lots of dreams and my creativity, it takes sometime for me to lift it. I’m not in a hurry. Let me travel, both inside and outside of me. Freedom is one of the easily available things in life, yet so costly. You have made it that way. Let me buy it for once. Get away from me. Get away from my world. Let me enjoy the silence around me, and if possible, the silence inside me. Let me run peacefully early in the morning, and while doing it let me try and grow wings, let me fly, leave me alone, let me breathe, let me live; let me live, while I’m still alive… </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right; text-indent: 0.5in;" align="right"><span style=""> </span>Copyright © Karthik 2011</p><p></p>Karthikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711684817675364335noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-673788893963487879.post-11874023114718179992011-07-18T21:02:00.009+05:302012-01-11T10:55:07.185+05:30Kaivalya<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Stories have always ruled my world. Right from my childhood. Whether it's fiction or a real incident, as long as someone narrates it in an interesting way, I am game. Nothing fascinates me more than a good story. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">When I grew up and started reading novels, I entered into a whole new world – a world where I made a lot of new friends, a world in which I want to spend the rest of my life. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Talking of reading novels, thriller/mystery has always been my favourite genre. Although I enjoy other genres too, a good thriller on any given day works better. Nothing beats that. Romance is the only genre I don't prefer. And horror/paranormal is the only genre I wished to have read, but never could (for reasons unknown). <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ACIWrQcVSLE/TiRSSrvRUeI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/skD6f1K1Eqw/s1600/DSC08815.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ACIWrQcVSLE/TiRSSrvRUeI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/skD6f1K1Eqw/s320/DSC08815.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630715915052077538" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">After watching the movie, <i style="">The Shining</i>, I cursed myself for not having read the novel first. However, that got me thinking. When it comes to Indian authors, there are of course superb storytellers like R. K. Narayan, Amitav Ghosh, Vikas Swarup, but there has never been an author who could make up for a thriller similar to Forsyth or Ludlum or King. Sure there are plenty of award winning writers like Adiga and Rushdie, but in my humble opinion, they are not as entertaining as Archer, Sheldon, Brown and the lot. (Ashwin Sanghi and Amish are exceptions, maybe. I haven’t read them yet. So can’t speak for them.) Genre authors are scarce in India. But this all changed when I picked up a brilliant novel called <i style="">Kaivalya</i>, by Sumana Khan. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Until <i style="">Kaivalya</i> happened, as I said earlier, I had never read a paranormal thriller. Set in the midst of lush forests of Sakleshpura, Karnataka, it starts off with a bang. Before you know it you are sucked mercilessly into deep forests and the mystery that unfolds there. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Kencha, a tribal, is found dead in the forest under strange circumstances. His body is branded with a mysterious message written in Halegannada, an ancient and defunct version of modern day Kannada. As Dhruv Kaveriappa, the Chief Conservator of Forests, starts investigating, it gets more and more complicated with each step he and his team take in the forest. Animals die for no reason. An ominous shadow hovers around the people. A vacationing tourist finds an ancient gold and diamond studded pendent in the forest. If you find all these things horrific, then wait till the woman wears the pendent …</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Parallel to what is happening in and around the forest, a handsome man in his mid-twenties, Neel, starts experiencing strange things in his lavish penthouse in Bangalore. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">The branded message on the tribal man written in Halegannada speaks of Vijayanagar Empire of the 1500s. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">What is Kaivalya? Or perhaps who? What is Kaivalya’s story? What is the relation between Kaivalya’s story and the dreadful things that are happening now? How is the Vijayanagar era linked to the present day, i.e. 2005? (Yes, the story is set in 2005. There is a reason for it and you’ll know when you read it) If these things don’t stir your curiosity, then what will? </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">The two stories (one that is happening in Sakleshpura and the other in Bangalore) that seem unrelated to each other merge towards the end and bring the story to a shattering climax. The truth is far more terrifying than you could have imagined. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I have watched a lot of horror movies that provide a lot of good thrills. But can a book provide the same amount of goose bumps, I wondered. That was before I picked up <i style="">Kaivalya.</i> Sure it has a lot of scenes that will make you jump. And this is where Sumana Khan scores. Scaring the readers is not easy. For instance, a movie has a lot of things to offer – performance of the actors, a forbidding background music, camera angles, etc. But when it comes to a book of a similar genre, it’s a different ballgame altogether. You only have the power of your words to paint that scary picture. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">As I read on, I could hear the screams of the victims, I could smell the foul smell that occupies the house and forest, an indication that something terrible is about to happen, or perhaps, that has already happened. I could even feel that menacing shadow hovering above me when I’d slept for a while after reading about 80 pages. That’s the effect the book will have on you.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Then again, it’s not a typical whodunit story. The twists come subtly, when you’ll be least expecting. The characters come alive beautifully. All are ordinary people going about their lives in an easy manner. But when the same ordinary people are thrown into an abyss of horror and mystery, when pitted against an impossible enemy, they don’t have any other option except to fight the battle in an extraordinary way. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Characterization is one of the most important aspects of storytelling. And Sumana Khan handles it expertly. There are plenty of characters and each one of them has an important role to play. None of them is sidelined. Be it Drhuv, the hero; his love interest, Tara, DSP Joshi, Dr. Bala and Dr. Nithya, Shivranjani and her husband Ravikanth, Inspector Rao, Neel and his friend VJ, Inspector Shakti, Arundhati and finally, a bewitching, cold-blooded villain, Matchu – one of the best negative characters I’ve ever come across. Brutal, handsome, a genius in his game. He’s certainly one of the highlights of the novel. Whether you are a man or a woman, you just can’t stop yourself from falling prey to his charms. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Each and every character will be etched in your memory. Although some of the characters are away from the main action scene, yet fighting their own battle, they are all interlinked and brought together in the end to fight the bigger enemy. As a reader and as a person with a lofty ambition of writing a novel someday, this, to me, was an important lesson in storytelling. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Right from the first page to the last, the pace never falters. It moves at a rattling speed. And when the climax hits you, you’ll be dumbfounded. The last paragraph or for that matter, the last line is like a kick in the gut. It takes sometime to come out of <i style="">Kaivalya’s </i>effect. This is how a good story should be. It shouldn’t leave you even after the last page is turned.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">There are one or two weak points in the story though, but they are trivial and sure to go unnoticed. Not related to the main plot. For example, a character called Shivanna, (a close associate of the protagonist Dhruv), who is depicted like an important character in the beginning of the story, suddenly disappears. He never comes back into the story. Whatever happened to him is never revealed. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Anyway, in the midst of stupid novels with stupid names (<i style="">Oh, Shit! Not Again, </i>to name one) that are coming into the Indian market, <span style="font-style: italic;">Kaivalya</span> is a welcome change. For one, no other Indian author (at least not to my knowledge) has tried this genre. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">All in all, this is a brave book written for brave readers. Definitely not for the faint-hearted. If you enjoy horror / mystery / paranormal thrillers, then don't miss this. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;" align="center">******************</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;" align="center"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">You can order the book <a href="http://www.dogearsetc.com/item_details.jsp">here</a>. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p><br /></p>Karthikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711684817675364335noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-673788893963487879.post-70252718365849490232011-04-29T08:14:00.001+05:302011-04-29T08:15:31.251+05:30Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-add-space:auto; text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in">I had successfully managed to avoid Khaled Hosseini’s <em>The Kite Runner</em> for a very long time. The book had been silently sitting in my personal library, waiting to be picked up. But Forsyth, Ludlum, Wallace, Archer, Narayan and the lot kept dominating my world. They still continue to do so, and I’m happier that way.</p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-add-space:auto; text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"> One of the main reasons that kept me away from <em>The Kite Runner</em> is the fact that it is a morose story. Now I’ve always had a problem with such stories. Sometimes in competitions only those stories win that pull the strings of your heart. Whether it’s on the international scene or otherwise, between a tremendously researched thriller and a heart-wrenching story, it’s the latter that always wins. I’ve always hated that trend. It’s the same when it comes to movies. A recently released Kannada movie is a huge hit. It’s a tragic story and it’s pathetic. My friend and I tore our own clothes, and by the time we came out of the theatre, we were looking like beggars. Anyway, let’s not get there.</p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-add-space:auto; text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"> I’m not complaining about <em>The Kite Runner</em> though. I liked it immensely, all right; but more because of the way of writing rather than the story itself. Surely there are moments that really squeeze your heart, moments that make you stop reading and introspect upon your own life, moments that teach you to take a severe beating instead of running away and feel guilty later on, which by the way is one of the biggest lessons that one should learn. Sooner the better.</p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-add-space:auto; text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"> All these things are explained, or to be specific, shown so beautifully that it makes the reader relate to the characters, easily. This is the part, which really fascinated me to the core. A perfect example for, “Show, don’t tell” – the golden rule of storytelling. The story drags a bit here and there, and sometimes it gets boring too. But what a superb way of storytelling! The characterization, the voice, the language, the narration – everything is top notch. Every sentence is fantastic. Every paragraph paints a heavenly picture of a hellish world. If I’m to read the book again or pick up his next novel, it will be because of these very reasons. The entire book is like a lesson in creative writing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-add-space:auto; text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"> Khaled Hosseini is certainly one of the most powerful storytellers that there is now. Wonder why the so-called bestselling authors of India (read Rs. 95/- authors of India) can’t learn from Hosseini! Just like Hosseini, they too use first-person narrative. But all you will read about is the self-obsessed narrator/protagonist yelling at the top of his voice, “Me! Me! Me!” That’s the only thing that constantly rings in your ear. “Me! Me! Me!” It’s too forced, too loud, and too obvious. Can’t they learn from their 3 glorious mistakes? Or is it 4 already?</p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-add-space:auto; text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"> Robert Ludlum once said, “To me storytelling is first a craft. Then if you are lucky, it becomes an art form. But first it’s got to be a craft. You’ve got to have a beginning, middle and end.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-add-space:auto; text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"> So if writing is indeed an art, then Khaled Hosseini is a terrific artist. May he write more and enthrall the world!</p> <p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-add-space:auto; text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-align:center;text-indent:.5in">******************* </p>Karthikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711684817675364335noreply@blogger.com8