Woman…woman…woman… Very good, disloyal, loyal, this and that, and god knows what else. In every country and in every age, great thinkers have put forward some opinion or the other about woman. If one gentleman emphasizes her beauty, another insists
Ismat Chughtai needs no introduction. Born on 15 August, and with a name that implies infallibility, Ismat Chughtai prefigured the struggles of common women in the sub-continent.[1] My ‘affair’ with her began at the time I was studying Comparative Literature at
“For thus hath the Lord said unto me: Go, set a watchman, let him declare what he seeth.” —Isiah 21:6 The entire novel hinges on the above quote. It’s about what we see and what we do about what
And Home Was Kariakoo MG Vassanji Doubleday Canada Rs 1,555 | 400 pp A book about Africa (East Africa, in particular) by a writer of Indian origin who spent his childhood in Africa but now lives in Canada—a writer
Walk in C-minor Peggy Mohan Harper Collins Rs 350 | 280 pp There is no originality. It is the same old cliché. You just can’t say it is out-of-the-box and get away with it. There is nothing out-of-the-box in
The other day, I looked out into the balcony and the 35-year-old jacaranda tree seemed happy. The sky was overcast, and I kept thinking of what a grand sound the word ‘tempest’ made. Spring has turned into a near monsoon
Autobiography of a Mad Nation Sriram Karri Fingerprint Rs 450 | 381 pp Autobiography of a Mad Nation is an ambitious book that seeks to be larger than just the pages it is ensconced in. But therein lays the
“With whose love are you smitten, O sea? For among the woods of the shore where like the small-headed goats from the Pooli land, Seagulls thronged and fished, Your waves kept lashing Against the screw pines Bearing white blossoms
There is no real recipe for success, no magic formula which will guarantee that a book will sell millions and millions of copies and turn its author into a household name. We’ve been told this countless times and yet, there
When we imagine how our favourite authors penned their greatest masterpieces, we often wonder about where they were. Did they seek solitude in a log cabin in the woods, or did they prefer the buzz of their local pub or