Clumsy. Awkward. Straight-forward. A writer, in progress. A pencil sketch artist by hobby.
The protagonist of Whereabouts could be the everywoman. It is a book of observation and introspection, of the ordinary that makes life such a universal experience.
I thought of the time my parents and I weren’t talking with each other. It made me think of how there are so many children who do not really have parents to reconcile with.
Indian origin author Avni Doshi's debut book published as Girl in White Cotton in India and as Burnt Sugar in the UK, is a Booker Prize finalist.
Of course, we never got a chance to make any of those ridiculous claims into reality, being two states away now, and instead fell into the easy habit of catching up with each other every now and then.
What if you could interact with the protagonist of a story you have written, one that has unresolved issues? Shameless by Taslima Nasreen attempts to do just that.
She was very scared. It felt as though it could get worse any day now, as though the previous times had been a walk in the park like the one she and Twyla took today.
“Are you okay?” she began, her searching eyes backing up her cautious tone. “Was this your first ...?” She paused and did not continue with the keyword here – death.
Those were foolish dreams. What good can come from leaving a monthly paying job to pursue something so irrationally unstable?
The string of nerves stretched very thin very quickly and she knew she could not function if it kept on. Her phobia needed to be treated.
Kunal Basu's Sarojini's Mother looks at the search for a birth mother by an adoptee, a literal puzzle that needs to be solved.
By the time they got her out and calmed her down, Bela murmured in low tones how devastated she was that she could not be Sora’s brother anymore.
One of those stunts had led to them being late to school, and the four of them – her sister, their two friends and she – had been made to kneel outside the principal’s office with their hands raised for two hours straight.
She could not love the “little bundle of joy”. All it did was remind her of that awful night, the pain, the cursed pain. And blood. She bled again to let this little thing breath. She had to bear the pain again for it.
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