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This e-magazine is a compilation of Poems, Short Stories, Short – Story Series, Non – Fiction, Photographs published on Writer‟s Ezine. Cover Photo © Arti Honrao Image source Google Images, unless mentioned otherwise. The copyright of the work published in this magazine remains with the author of the individual work. Please contact the authors and Writer‟s Ezine if you need to use the content. You are free to share the content as long as you retain and respect the copyright. Visit

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Editor‟s Note Fiction Poem Poem Poem Non – Fiction Book Review – I Author Interview – I Short Story Literati Poem Fiction Poem Short Story Series Book Review – II Author Interview – II Author‟s Quill Poem Poem Poem Poem Poem Fiction Poem Recipe

In – Dependence Sinister You Are My Sin Part Time Happiness The Titanic Heroes Bubbles He Fixed The Match, She Fixed Him Shikha Kumar Shadows At Night Wanted – Storytellers Believe in Thyself Burying My Father Beginnings Where The Heart Is – Part Two How I Won The Love Deal Ada Wiam Hammering of the Indian Cricket Team by England An Innocent Girl Plight of a Young Girl One and the Same That Sea Wave Gendai Night Above the Valley My Lost Childhood Introduction to Cook „N‟ Tell Segment

Editor‟s Note: In-dependence All of us are in love with our independence. And after we start earning it‟s like an added bonanza. Living in different cities away from parents, taking care of ourselves, managing expenses we feel we have made it in life and can be termed as “Independent”. We feel we are survivors and can manage things on our own. Till yesterday I also belonged to the same school of thought only to realize how wrong we all are…! “No living person is

independent….. Even if you abandon everything and go to stay on the mountains you still need the air to survive. You are dependent on that. You are not independent till you die” – said Osho. This quote of Osho was like a wakeup call to me. Thinking about it…it‟s so true…. We are dependent on so many things in our life even when we feel we are independent. We need the milkman to deliver milk to our doorstep, the grocery shop owner to purchase our monthly groceries, the taxi driver, the auto driver, the bus driver, the dabbawala…. The list is endless. From

the time we wake up in the morning till the time we sleep at night we take the help of someone or other to perform our duties. Looking back on it, we are truly in dependence on all this and many more things for our survival. Then why are we so fiercely protective about our “independence�? Or are we protecting something we never had till now? It is this mutual independence that makes this life interesting adding the much needed chutzpah. In this issue there are many stories and poems which talk about this independence and it is enthralling to read how one single word can be interpreted in so many ways. Hope you enjoy reading them as much as we did collating them together for you. As always we look forward to hear from you at feedback@writersezine.com as it always feels great to know your thoughts. Do drop in to say hello to us!

Sinister The lamp post in front of their house was not working today. For so many nights, the light emitting out from it had given a sigh of relief to him. The warmth of light could not be felt inside the house but he felt safer just to watch it through the sleepless nights. “No matter how hard he might try to explain to his parents, they would never understand him�, he had thought countless times. He was gifted with an ability that had become a nightmare for him. But it was their new house that had further complicated the things. The memory of the first night in the new house was still vivid in his little mind. Everybody was asleep except him. The screeching sound produced by the fallen leaves had kept him awake. He had found his solace in the lamppost that lit brightly. The streets were clear as the winter season had just begun. There was nothing creepy about the house and for an instant he was relaxed. But as soon as he went to his bed again to try and sleep, he heard the raging clouds and it rained that night. It was not the rain that had left him scared nor it was the thundering clouds, it was the fact

that the rain drops were falling only over a particular area and that was their house. The rest of the street was dry. He had clutched his pillow tightly and wrapped himself with the blanket till sun initiated the following morning. He had tried to convince his parents about the same but they had referred it as his bad dream. Why had they not? There were no signs of rain anywhere. Today, the street was thinly lit with just the front porch lights of their house. The swing which his father had installed for him was covered with thick snow. He could not sleep as the winds were literally screaming that night. It was the chilliest night he had ever experienced in this house. He was tossing and turning in his bed restlessly. The blanket was not required anymore. He could feel the sweat trickling from his forehead. Something was not right. He could hear it. The voice was muffled and faint. He got up from his bed and went near the window. He could feel his heart racing with every step he took towards the window. There was nothing outside. The street looked normal. Every damn thing was covered with thick snow by now. But the whimpering noise was getting stronger with every passing second. His clothes were now drenched with his own sweat. Suddenly, he saw something shift in the snow far ahead. He looked closely. It felt as if someone was approaching the house. In a few moments, he

could see the footprints and the displaced snow around the area. Someone was surely approaching the house but no one was visible. The foot prints were progressing fast now. He felt chills down his spine and tried to scream out loud. But his voice could not find a way out of his throat. The footprints stopped at their doorstep. He went numb. He was expecting someone to knock the door now. A loud thud on the door swept him through his feet and he fell down. The thud was not generated on the house‟s door. Someone had banged the door of his room. He crouched on the floor clutching his arms around his body in fear. He never locked his door as he was still too young. He saw the doorknob turning. The door was unlocked now. “Mom! Dad!” he tried to shout as the door swung open. But even he could not hear his own voice, it was too shallow. Then, there was a loud wailing and a strong gush of wind carried him off his feet striking his body against the wall. A creepy silence prevailed. “Wake up son. Why are you on the floor?” his mother asked him as he tried to open his eyes. “Jesus you‟re freezing”, she cried out as she touched his arm. “Come here you poor boy”, she added. He fell into her arms and hugged her tightly. He could feel the warmth of her body against his. But this was something he had always loathed. “Not for long”, he thought as his eyes

gleamed revealing something sinister and then there was an uncanny smile on his face.

About Anmol Rawat: Anmol is an ardent blogger and a voracious writer. He has completed his graduation is English Hons and has a flare for writing for as long as he can look back. Nicholas Sparks is the author who inspired him initially to write and read more. He is an active participant at various blogging platforms. Book Reviews are a part of his blog and budding authors have contacted him for reviewing his book in the past. You can reach him at ar.anmolrawat@gmail.com regarding anything other than spam. Editor's Comment: Scary and Sinister

You Are My Sin

You are my sin Or is it happening to women too In random corners of the world? Walking past a guy, Breaking away his aura of serenity and solitude As the ripples blend into his bloody soul Ripping apart his senses Cruising through all his nerves And make him tremble and topple From something which made him royal. Muting him from his compositions And the noises that surrounded him ever Mystifying beauty that, his eyes had just conquered. Perhaps phenomenal waves slash through the woman shore; With altered dimensions and a profound scar? Questions pour in. At the loudest blow of silence But the mistaken moment of this sinful life The deadly reversal of her dormant antiquity

Where she holds the strings so tight Making herself sure of not parting them That would bring again devastation In the reincarnation of the phoenix which rose from its own ashes. The retreating monsoon and the steaming tea The art without senses but spoke of stories Unsaid for they were to be concealed Deepening the waters of melancholy I search you beneath the concrete existence Of all the droplets that came for you In the surreal kingdom of tender stings I see you at the other end of my breath Conjuring and draining away all the waters Gathered and stuffed up to pour on you. You are my sin.

About Kartika Narayanan: The poet Kartika is an architecture student and can be reached through email: kartika.yegnan@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Deep and profound.

Part Time Happiness

I was happy for a few days I didn't care what everyone said I was trying to keep my friendship and love apart that is why she said, “you feel nothing because you don't have a heart" I was stunned after hearing all this I let you go that time But I didn't knew this thing The thing that it is her which I will miss I tried to persuade her I tried my best to make her come back but that was not enough so I gave it a rest I wasn't crying but I was sad because I can't have what I previously had I know I didn't kept my words and that is why she was hurt Our relation didn't last very long And now all I know is, “I was wrong"

About Nitin Rawat: Nitin Rawat is a 24 years old commerce graduate from Delhi University and is pursuing MBA from SMU. Editor's Comment: A tale of love and betrayal.

The Titanic Heroes

Heroes are not made at all Rather they are born To use their heroism with flying colors For blooming a sweet smile at least On the lips- abandoned and neglected, Yet, some heroes are born On the thirteenth of a month And compelled to be a titanic In their every voyage for searching Of one more gold for adding to humanity! Maybe, they run towards the luminous sun To inflame their torches of victory But a black cloud chases them On the hint of a mysterious villain To pour water on their flame of victory! Indeed, they long for climbing the tree-top To entertain the leaves and flowers But they are obstructed always By the pecking crows and the shrewd monkeys With their harsh crowing and chirping, „‟Let us be entertained first‟‟. Thus, pearls are cast to crows, Monkeys are garlanded under compulsion

And the sun sets in the rainy evening Before the poor heroes can climb up To the waiting stage of leaves and flowers!

About Piyush Kanti Deb: Pijush Kanti Deb is a new Indian poet with more than 180 published poems and haiku in more than 50 nos. of national and international poetry magazines and journals print and online like Down in the dirt, Tajmahal Review, Pennine Ink, Hollow Publishing, Creativica Magazine, Muse India, Poetry Pacific, Teeth Dream Magazine and so on. At present he is working as an Associate Professor in Economics. Editor's Comment: Every time you read this poem you will find a new meaning in it.

Bubbles The town hardly sleeps on this festive time. Stalls, bazaars, amusement rides, and circus every single entertainment 'commodity' takes its place on its heart, how so ever dark or bright it is. To quench many a thirst, the whole town crowds to the place. A grandpa with a crunch, a teenager with his girlfriend, a mother with her child - name any class of people, they are there. And I, being a very common college-guy, would never miss any such days. It's always good to be on a place which is filled with nothing but sheer enjoyment, fun and thrill. We climbed up the lane, seeing all happy faces around, hearing screams and laughter from all sides. Infinitely many stalls have taken roof, where sellers and buyers debate a lot on costs of items. Food items are there in plenty, the smell of which tempts you to do well to your taste buds. There are rides which take you very high to the sky and throw you down in a jiffy. There can always be a fear of hitting your head on the branch of that tall tree or sometimes about the loose screws of the 'giant' machine! Money, in currencies and not coins, will

dance all the way from your pockets to unknown pockets, which in turn offer you a smile. Years after years, even though every single thing in the place is the same, you discover something new there. And as I went in search of that new thing, my eyes got stuck in a little kid - a small boy of probably 10 years of age - holding his father's hands. His eyes were very spontaneous, if he was a camera he would have captured by then, hundreds of pictures using his lens. His eyes finally halted on a balloon stall, where a man was selling balloons of varied colours, sizes and shapes. This kid, I assume, was asking his dad to buy him one. Soon, I saw both of them coming back holding balloons on their hands. The boy was holding the balloon so loosely and started capturing pictures again. In a moment, his eyes got stuck once again and this time it was on an ice-cream seller. His father paced hard, bought him a cone ice-cream and walked towards him. The boy, impatient, came running to the dad. As he ran, his grip loosened on the balloon and it flew away - all the way back. Sumptuous cone was what he was seeing then and never a look went by the lost balloon. He never had a reason to look back, I felt. He started tasting the ice-cream and the scene made me smile. Tired by the walk, I sat on the green park which was lit so bright with festive lights. A bubble fell on the grass close by, which took my attention to a

kid. There he was holding tens of bottles filled with some soapy water having special sticks to blow off. He looked almost of the age as the other kid. But he had no hands to hold to nor did he wear any rich bright clothes. His eyes were also spontaneous but it hardly got stuck at places. "Saar, madam, bubbles bubbles", he shouted with the chunks of language he knows. He stopped at every single group of people, telling the same dialogue. He received waves of "No", irritation, and very rarely a smile! But any of those, hardly destroyed the fire in him. He still shouted and walked towards groups. It was out of some unknown vigor, I handed over a 20 Indian currency to him, when he came towards me. He didn't forget to smile, something which I couldn't see in the rich kid, handed over the bottle and stick. "Thank you saaar", he walked away collecting the cash from my hand. I added a 10Rs too, but he didn't take it. He just smiled again. That was a smile of content, a smile we hardly possess. His eyes showed marks of sleepless, tiresome nights, but his voice and his smile covered them. He started blowing bubbles and walked far from my vicinity. I smiled. I took the stick he gave and tried blowing the water. Yes, after desperate efforts, I made one beautiful bubble on the hollow part of the stick, and blew it hard. The bubble went not too far, but somewhere near a short tree and rested on the grass. It stayed there undisturbed for a while.

Then it burst to nothing but water. Before I took my eyes from the liquid, I found something nearby, a balloon which I found in the hand of the rich kid. It was lying all unattended. Inaudibly, I could hear the shouts the bubble-boy made. And, just for a second did they last.

About Viju Sudhi: Pursuing a B.Tech Degree in ECE, Viju Sudhi is just a kid who prefers wielding his pen more. Residing in the capital of Kerala, Viju finds time to read and write on his taste. He is more interested on appreciating the glimpse of nature rather being a Techie guy unlike most of his friends. Reach him at fakeblazes@gmail.com . Follow itshush.blogspot.com Editor's Comment: A peep into the mirror of life.

Book Review – I :Intro: Shreya – I'm a highly qualified Delhi girl earning an enviable salary. My parents are having a tough time finding a suitable groom for me. However, recently they have a proposal from this very interesting guy from Mumbai. I almost get mesmerised when he starts talking to me. I think I like him very much. Kunal – I'm owner of a textile company in Mumbai. My Mom wants me to get married. Again. She has recently suggested a suitable girl from Delhi. What my Mom doesn't know is that I've met Shreya before once in my life and I've been looking for her ever since. I have a vendetta to settle. The author takes you along on a journey via roads of revenge, agony, remorse, attraction, titillation, tantalisation and romance. Do Shreya and Kunal make it, or do they fall prey to their past?

:Book Review: 1. Cover: The cover is simple and depicts the story line very nicely. 2. Presentation: The presentation of the story is more like a movie fashioned as a family entertainer. It has a lot of aspects where there are multiple genres like romance, drama and thriller all merging in together. 3. Narration: The narration is fun filled, at some places the author does make you laugh and blush with the romance. 4. Characters: The main characters Shreya and Kunal are very clearly etched and they stay with you throughout the book. Their habits and all make it easy to connect to their persona and to some extent understand their reasons for their behaviour in the story. 5. Plot: The plot is not very strong or promising as a story but the author has surely managed to ensure that the thin framework of the plot doesnâ€&#x;t affect the novel in terms of presenting the story. 6. Storyline: The storyline as the blurb says is about Shreya and Kunal – The author takes you along on a journey via roads of revenge, agony, remorse, attraction, titillation, tantalisation and romance. Do Shreya and Kunal make it or do they

fall prey to their past? In terms of the description there was no newness that was found in the story making some angles passable while there are few chapters where the author has done a good job in describing the moments of passion beautifully. 7. Story flow: The story flow is lucid one that keeps the reader glued on to it with its various twists and turns that the author keeps bringing it. But somewhere it doesnâ€&#x;t connect, in terms of lack of emotions from the characters to let them warm up to the readerâ€&#x;s hearts. 8. Language: The language is very simple, easy to connect for every array of readers. 9. Pros: It is for the masses, people who enjoy reading for the joy of reading without any other thought or expectation. Simple story line is its strength. I strongly feel the author has a potential because of which I believe the story could have been much better. This book is being promoted by two very large websites Bharat Matrimony and Happy Trips which speaks volumes about the author. 10. Cons: There are a few typos and editing mistakes which could have been avoided. Though they can be ignored as the storyline set by the reader is one that grips a reader but if one is a voracious reader and reads with a very open mind they are bound to find few loopholes in the story.

:Overview: The overall rating for the book would be 3.5 out of 5 purely to the authorsâ€&#x; narrative. The author has the potential and does look promising. WE team would like to thank the author for sending across this book for review and would also like to wish her all the best for all their future endeavours.

Author Interview – I Today we have with us the author of recently released He Fixed The

Match, She Him, Ms.


Shikha Kumar who is IT Manager by profession, author by passion. Shikha Kumar has a BTech degree in Computer Science from Bharati Vidyapeeth, Delhi. Professionally she‟s as a Manager with Tata Consultancy Services. She has travelled to, and worked in different countries. She enjoys travelling, reading, writing and watching movies. This is her first attempt to present her writing abilities to the world. The blurb of her book reads: Shreya – I'm a highly qualified Delhi girl earning an enviable salary. My parents are having a tough time finding a suitable groom for me. However, recently they have a proposal from this very interesting guy from Mumbai. I almost get mesmerised when he starts talking to me. I think I like him very much.

Kunal – I'm owner of a textile company in Mumbai. My Mom wants me to get married. Again. She has recently suggested a suitable girl from Delhi. What my Mom doesn't know is that I've met Shreya before once in my life and I've been looking for her ever since. I have a vendetta to settle. The author takes you along on a journey via roads of revenge, agony, remorse, attraction, titillation, tantalisation and romance. Do Shreya and Kunal make it, or do they fall prey to their past?

Let‟s hear what she has to say about things close to her heart. 1. Extending a warm welcome to you at Writer‟s Ezine, today we would be talking about your debut novel He fixed the Match, she fixed Him. Your thoughts on it.

Thank you for having me over and it‟s an absolute delight for an author always to talk about his or her book. This is my debut novel and I have mixed bag of emotions from excitement to fear. But I think gradually the positive emotions are surpassing others. 2. About the moment when you felt you wanted to be a writer. Was it something you cherished since childhood as a dream?

I had no such ambition honestly. Maybe if I answer your question in diplomatic words it would sound more flashy; but truth is that it‟s purely an accident however a very very fortunate one. I was a Science student who went to engineering college and then landed in India‟s top IT Company. Writing has always been an alter-ego, but very recently I tried hands with it. 3. We would like to hear your journey to becoming a publisher author.

Journey has been full of ups and downs. Having written a good story was not good enough. Finding a publisher was also only half battle won. I think maneuvering your way to reach readers is biggest challenge at hand. 4. Your book has been receiving rave reviews in the first week of its release. Is there any such review (good or bad) that has stayed with you that you would like to share it with us here?

Yes I‟ve been little fortunate in that regard. Sample chapter got people interested and it helped to make contacts with book related forums as they saw my book as good potential. I think one of the best compliment was from a reviewer who unashamedly acknowledged that he usually don‟t like love stories but my book made him remain glued till the end. Another one that I‟ll remember forever is when a reviewer mentioned that good Indian woman author has finally arrived. 5. In your story you have attempted to mix multiple genres like humour, drama, romance with a little bit of thrill in it. Was it intentional?

Oh yes of course. My book is being applauded for its unpretentious nature. All my characters appear real and true to life. So just as in life we always have all elements you mentioned, so does my book. As I say, my book is kind of “family entertainer” and has something for every age to relish. 6. Given the flood or romance novels in the Indian market, where do you see your book amongst all of those? What is that one thing that sets your book apart from them all according to you?

How much I wish that Indian market was actually flooding with romance, but I would like to defer here. It‟s only flooding with frivolous relations and few authors are also too busy justifying infidelity.

Don‟t want to sound pompous but my book is actually a genuine attempt at mixing romance and traditional values, modern times and complexity of relationships. My book doesn‟t talk about onenight stands or purposeless dating; it talks about beauty of love in a manner that youth can relate. 7. Both the led characters in your book have very strong family values despite being young and super successful. Is there a message you are trying to send out through this to today‟s youth?

I‟m so glad you said that. Yes my characters are mature despite age and success. And trust me I know many such people around. Today‟s youth is often misunderstood and their restlessness is misquoted. Also the kind of phase we are passing through, the youth is witnessing most troubled time pertaining relationships. The message is very simple, believe in love but also in understanding and patience. And when you find love or it finds you, give it enough reasons to stay around. Don‟t let your career or any past frustration ride on you and destroy it all. 8. Love triumphs despite all odds. That can be concluded after reading your book. How much of it are you? Do you believe in it?

I‟m more than 100% of it. I believe in love and also in its healing powers.

9. Talking about your book it has descriptions about both the cities in greater detail – Delhi and

Mumbai. Any special connect that you share with them which made you write it?

Now that‟s a very interesting question. Delhi because I‟m Delhi girl so it‟s a very or most special city to me.It is my home. Mumbai because I‟ve no connections there but that city still amazes me. It was my first book and the kind of story I was narrating, I anticipated that my people might start being skeptical that I‟m writing someone close‟s story. This isn‟t the case at all. So to ward away any such potential suspicion I rooted my story in Mumbai mostly, because I‟ve never been there and have no association either. 10. How does it feel to receive such wonderful endorsements from market leaders like Bharat Matrimony for your debut novel?

It feels wonderful being backed by huge business houses. My book got them interested is a big compliment in itself. I truly feel elated. 11. We would like to know about any future projects you are currently working on.

I‟m trying to buy sometime from life these days to finish my next. It‟s a love story, again with a twist. So for my first where I emphasized that how Shreya & Kunal were alike despite being wary of each other; for second I‟m trying to create a story around the mad attraction of the opposites. 12. Some words for your readers.

Thank you for reading my book if you have. Please let me know your honest opinion at contact@authorshikha.com In case you havenâ€&#x;t please find some time to read and share your feedback. And in case you are not interested in reading it at all, thanks for reading my interview Thank you very much for your time

Shadows At Night I woke up in the hotel room where we had spent our first night together as man and wife. My body still ached from the torture that Sekhar had subject me to. My cries had gone unheard. It was as though I was merely a mute spectator the last night. The more the pain he inflicted, greater was his pleasure. My resistance was like an aphrodisiac for him. Till I decided to give in to him and welcomed the blows he rained on my body and face. I welcomed the pain, watching the whole scene detached, from outside my body. Did I notice the cold look he has in his eyes? Was I too blind in the faith I had towards my parents in finding me the perfect groom that I decided not to look beyond the handsome face that Sekhar was? When he forced himself upon me, did he see the tears that rolled from my eyes and unto the white pillows, staining them grey with my kajal? As the pain shot up my body, twisting it from insides, why did his eyes gleam with accomplishment? Was this monster on top of me really the man I had intended on spending the rest of my life with? Sekhar… Sekhar… If only you realized. That I would gladly have listened to anything you said. If only you had chosen to hear me. I wish I could tell you how much I had dreamt of this night. Don‟t

you realize that no one had prepared me for this? None of the books and movies had warned me that this was how things would be. That my body, which was supposed to bloom to your touch, is now writhing in pain? I remember how you looked at me when you came to see me the first time. I had thought that you were measuring my beauty, your eyes that caressed me so gently then. How mesmerized you were, blinded even! Was it because you knew that I was too weak to resist you? I fell for your charms; you won over my family with your easy going manner. But never in my wildest dreams, would I have thought that this was how my marital night would be. Was this simply the beginning of more nights that are, undoubtedly, to follow? Deep inside I know that people would not change overnight and that this is who you are. But are you willing to let me reach out to you? If only, I can convince you to seek help. All is not lost. I know that there is some part of you which loves me, in its own twisted way. My eyes open against the sunlight that wafts in through the delicate cream lace curtains. You are

nowhere around. I heave a sigh of relief, involuntarily. The sheets hugging me remind me of last night. Traces of blood mark it, from the wounds you inflicted. My body is sore and it feels as though sandpaper had been rubbed on it the entire night. It is burning in between my legs, I can feel the dried up blood on them. I can‟t open my left eye fully. It is swollen around my eyelids where the ring around your right hand hit me. I can hear the shower running in the bathroom. I pray that you take a longer time inside as I scramble for my clothes and the shards of dignity that are scattered around. But they lie around torn by you in your throes of passion. At first, I had not understood. I mistook your desperation for eagerness. But somewhere, I understood that what you were doing was beyond my control…and yours. You open the bathroom door and come strolling towards me with a smile on your lips, the smile that never reached your dark eyes. The complimentary towel from the hotel fit smugly around your hips, raising your hands to hold me. I cower back. And that is when I see the hurt in your eyes. „Baby, I‟m sorry. Sorry if I hurt you…‟ you say. „What happened was beyond my control. Forgive me…‟

I want to forgive you, Sekhar. I really do. A part of me has been in love with you since the day I set my eyes on you. You were supposed to protect me till the end of time. But what is one supposed to do when your protector turns into a sadist, one who derives pain from your pleasure. But the look in your eyes melts my heart. Of course, I can‟t help but forgive you. I try to put it behind me as you hold me close, tenderly this time, such a difference from last night. And I thank my lucky stars. Maybe it was just a night. Maybe it was the strain of the wedding. Maybe, maybe… I dream of a thousand excuses for you as I take my bath. I take care to mark my forehead with the deep maroon of the kumkum, marking me as your wife, your soul mate. We had made a pact, a promise to be there for each other. I couldn‟t break it just because of one night. I see you running your eyes over me as I step inside the room. I shudder seeing the look you have, but you come up and kiss my neck, on the bruise you made last night. And all was forgotten, for now. I covered the bruises I had with makeup. Carefully, so that it doesn‟t show. We have a wonderful day, you and I, exploring the hotel and having lunch in the posh restaurant the hotel boasted of. You ordered the finest wine and

the famous shrimp delicacy. You insist on feeding me with your hands. I blush seeing the look the waiters give. But you turn a blind eye towards everyone and everything except me. You took me to explore the rest of the places around the hotel afterwards. Playing with me on the beach and kissing me tenderly when you thought no one was looking. You gave me love to last for a lifetime that day, as if to make up for the previous night. You watched the sunset with me, holding my hand. It was time for us to return back to our room. But I was no longer scared. It was all behind us now. Tonight, would be different, I thought. You smiled at me as you locked our room. Your hands were all over me, hungrily. But then, you pulled apart and brought the package from under the bed, where you had kept in hidden. „What is this?‟ I asked with open curiosity. „Open it and see for yourself…‟ you said. I opened it and the palest of a peach sheer gown slipped between my fingers. „The richest of the rich, the best of all, for my princess‟, you murmured in my ears. I was delighted. You stopped at nothing when it came to me. I went into the bathroom to wear it, excited. Tonight was going to be the night. My fingers trembled in excitement, thinking of the wonderful things that

you would do to me. I left my hair open, the way you liked and came to our room. The lights had been switched off and the room was masked in a silver glow in the moonlight. I see you waiting on the bed, nursing a drink in hand. Your eyes light up when you see me. But there it was, again‌the cold look that I had seen once before, in your eyes. I must have panicked. The last thing I remembered before shutting my eyes as you dragged me on the bed and tore apart the beautiful gown were the glint in your eyes that took possession every night. About Aathira Jim: Aathira Jim is a twenty five year old selfproclaimed bibliophile who has been in love with books ever since the time she could remember. She recently discovered her passion for story telling with a relish and has been trying to do justice to all the voices inside her head. She fervently believes that chocolate is the greatest invention of mankind other than books. When she is not day dreaming, she can be found on her blog, where she does the same through words. Aathira can be contacted on her blog: http://awanderingmindofabookaholic.blogspot.ae/ Editor's Comment: Tender and moving, a tale that makes you see the reality albeit a bit harshly.

Wanted – Storytellers I am not a Chetan Bhagat fan or of the category of writers that he has come to represent in the Indian literary scene. Yet, I want the likes of Chetan Bhagat, Advaita Kala, Nisha Minhas, Shobha De and the rest of the bandwagon of chic-lit and popular fiction to continue writing for they do serve a purpose in our world. As Manjula Padmanabhan, writer and artist, says about Chetan Bhagat, “His

significance has less to do with what or how he writes than the fact that an audience exists for his kind of writing.”

Populist writing is like a Rohit Shetty or Priyadarshan movie – the masses love it, the classes shrink from it; but at the end of the day slap-stick comedies and garish masala movies are the ones that rake the most moolah. With younger readers, in stiff competitive worlds, always running short of time and with stress levels bursting at the seams, we cannot deny them the pleasure of their quick-bus-ride or light-afterdinner reading material. Chic-lit and populist novels are selling like hotcakes, emphasizing that many people are reading,

and publishing houses are ready to experiment and cater to changing audience and reading habits. To quote Amitabha Bagchi, author of the novel Above Average, “I've met people who have

told me they have read only two English novels, Anurag Mathur's Inscrutable Americans and Chetan Bhagat's Five Point someone.� Populist writing is actually simplistic writing and that is what makes it endearing. The young and the restless do not want grandiose literature. They want an enjoyable, fast-paced read, which they can understand and discuss. Peer-pressure, social networking, fast and furious lifestyles, all demand reading material that is easy to digest and popular enough to be tweeted about and hash-tagged. Populist writers in India are what a Sidney Sheldon or a Jacqueline Suzanne is to the readers and the publishers. They are not writing for literary awards; they write for entertainment and they are best sellers, read across geographical boundaries. Their books have run-of-the-mill themes and plots and even good field work but a lover of good literature would always wonder, the masterpiece that a writer of sound literary

standing could have produced, using the same material. The success of popular fiction can be tracked down to three basic factors: 1. Storylines that an average Indian youth can relate to – from college corridors and hostels, to chasing American dreams, to being almost single to eventually adorning bindis and bangles. 2. Easy vocabulary, unpretentious English, simpler narration – basically, a laid-back reading without the need for a dictionary. 3. Successful publishing formula with low pricing but high market outreach. Amidst all the shifting trends, I am wondering about the whereabouts of the serious reader and the serious literary writer. I ponder whether books with expletives and references to casual sex get publishers and readers just like quarrels and misgivings on a reality-show garner the maximum TRPs. I am concerned whether good linguistic appeal is not significant anymore and mere ramblings can be converted into coveted bestsellers. But most importantly, I am worried that are these kinds of books that the youth will get habitual of reading! Is the easy availability and general popularity of these books, pushing intellectual readers into the background and

creating a barrier between readers of varied genre? Populist fiction does have a purpose in the literary circuit but we must be wary of two things: • The quality of literature that we are habituating the young to read, especially in the name of “trending” literature. • The criticism of Indian fiction in English as necessarily dystopian, pompous, and focused on an international audience or the awards bazaar. While parents and teachers have an important role in guiding children and youth towards what they read, it is also important for the literary writer in India to evolve a less pretentious, more relaxed writing style. The metaphors are good, the imaginary brilliant, and the nuances myriad, it is the narrative has to be as free-flowing. At the Hay Festival in 2011, Tarun Tajpal argued, “Contemporary Indian writing in English is

inadequate and the populist Indian publishing industry is sucking the life out of literature. Cultures in ferment tend to produce great writing but we don‟t see this happening in India.”

Before the publishing industry discovered new money in chic-lit, writers like Ruskin Bond, Rudyard Kipling, RK Narayan, Rabindranath Tagore,RK Laxman, Nissim Ezekiel, Sarojini Naidu, were creating vivid prose for an audience spanning age-groups. They were truly the populist writers. Their writings were neither grandiloquent nor controversial; they were ageless and continue to inspire and indulge readers with classy let simple writing. Indian writing has immense untapped prospects. The latest trend is the retelling and reinterpretation of mythologies (case in point, Amish Tripathi and Ashok Banker) but we have a treasure trove waiting to be recovered in the form of historical fiction, translations of regional works, and science fiction, to name a few genres. The publishing industry is aware of the vast potential of the Indian market; this market only awaits good writers and good stories. As amateur and professional writers, as regular and occasional readers, it is imperative for us to revive the faith in and the habit of good writing and reading. Samit Basu, sums it up, “What

Chetan has done is this: He's shown how wrong Indian publishers are when they explain away their failures to sell Indian fiction to large numbers of Indians by saying there are no readers. Of course there are readers; Chetan's managed to let them know he exists.‌ Chetan

Bhagat is a step towards Indian fiction publishing realizing there are readers out there if you can figure out how to reach them. I hope this happens soon.” At the IFFI 2014, Meghna Gulzar, speaks in the context of the movie, Libaas, “There are films that

are stuck for years, and suddenly find a release date. So I think every film comes with its destiny." I believe this is true for every other literary manuscript hidden in the drawers of the closet writer.

About Aneesha Myles Shewani: Aneesha Myles Shewani is a full-time IT professional currently employed as a technical editor. She is a voracious reader with a wide foray of reading interests - from historical literature to science fiction. This working mother is also an amateur writer/blogger and her blog – www.felinemusings.com is a reflection of the various facets of her personality. She aspires to be a published novel writer. She can be reached at aneesha.myles@gmail.com

Believe in Thyself

O creature of blood and flesh With a heart to purify and keep it fresh Stacked up with a pack of bones Strong enough to lift and sculpt stones O holder of an effective yet simple digestive system Why do thou fall prey and love being called a victim? Thou art the creator of life and thou art the destroyer too Is it then a convenient blame game on you know “who”? What role does a religion have in today‟s world? Where bombs and bullets are being hurled

Every holy book preaches peace Is that but a fleece? O Possessor of an extraordinary intellectual mesh Creator and re-creator of situations afresh How can thou claim victory in any war? By drawing lines and amidst cries of abhor When thou canâ€&#x;t control a slimy tongue or your own emotions How can thou claim control on nations and such deceived notions? Thou seem to digest junk, thou seem to digest deceit Thou can digest the entire generation being uncouth Thou can control and achieve every feat Only when thou shall digest the simple yet long prevailing truth O creature of blood and flesh When thereâ€&#x;s still some time, please refresh!

About Srikant Rao: Srikant works in a Corporate Shipping Company by profession and is a story-teller by hobby. Srikant loves reading and music. He also considers himself an amateur photographer and a ShortFilm maker. Author can be reached at sriks3@gmail.com Editor's Comment: A very inspiring poem that is bound to motivate one and all.

Burying My Father The last time I saw Dad was at the supermarket, by accident. As I maneuvered through the rattling shopping carts and demo tables, I saw him by the cereal aisle. He was dressed in his green scrubs, glasses hanging from his curved nose, reading the different prices carefully. “Dad, what are you doing here?” I asked. “I have to eat, don‟t I?” he said. He cleaned his glasses with his handkerchief and shoved them into his breast pocket. Dad was 70 and still working for the Meadowland Hospital District. He never believed in retirement. He said once people retired, they died shortly after. “Why did you shave?” I said and touched his upper lip with my finger. “Mustache got on my nerves.” he said, but I wasn‟t certain about this. Dad‟s mustache was his trademark. When I was a little girl, he groomed it every night with his own scalpel. Sometimes he left the cut hairs upon the kitchen table and I‟d eat my breakfast cereal and apple next to them. “I got to go, Dad, I‟ll see you later.”

“Maybe.” Dad nodded. I hadn‟t seen him in over a year until that day. Yet, even though Dad and I didn‟t talk much or get along well, I found out I was his beneficiary when he died, probably because I was his only „legitimate‟ child, as he would put it. My parents married in 1976, had me in 1980, and divorced in 1995. Dad never paid child support or visited me after the split. I never knew what came of him until I saw him at the supermarket. In Dad‟s will, he left behind $25,000 for funeral costs, $25,000 for me to keep. The funeral home tried to sell me the most expensive coffin possible, but I kept turning them down. “Your father will rest eternally in this solid oak casket,” the salesman said and rubbed the lid continuously. “It was crafted in China.” “Isn‟t everything made in China?” I asked. The salesman froze for a minute and shakily said, “Yes, almost everything, ma‟am.” “I‟ll take the cheapest coffin you‟ve got.” I said. “But our economical coffins are not crafted in China.” “Neither was my dad‟s body.” Then I spoke to another lady who helped me pick out Dad‟s plot. I wanted the cheapest one as well and she showed me a space ironically located in The Garden of Life. It was against the gate of the cemetery, tucked away behind an angel statue. Meadowland Hospital had just purchased the lot

next to the cemetery, so in a few months, Dad would be buried next to the place he loved more than me. “I‟ll take it.” I said. “There will be construction going on close to it,” the saleslady said. “And it‟s quite hidden, so your father would be a little hard to find.” “Not a problem. I couldn‟t find him when he was alive.” I expected Dad‟s funeral to be short, like he would‟ve wanted. He was always in a rush. When I was a kid, he cracked his head on our backdoor twice because he ran right into it on his way to work. If he attended his own funeral, he‟d say “Hurry up, I‟ve got to get to the afterlife.” and then he‟d ascend in a cloud and bust his head on an airplane. But his funeral dragged on for two hours. Dad had charm, especially with women, so he fathered six other children I didn‟t know about until the funeral. Each of them spoke about how loving he was, how he used to bounce them on his knee, and how he would call them every night to ask how their day went. “He was a tremendous father,” Anita, Dad‟s other daughter, said. “It‟s amazing how much love he gave to other people.” “Yes,” I said to myself. “That is amazing.” A few weeks later, I visited Dad‟s plot during my lunch break. His grave marker, also the cheapest one the funeral home had, lied crookedly over

him. I tried to straighten it, but it was too heavy. I sat down next to Dad, running my fingers upon his engraved name. “I‟m sorry for being so cheap with your funeral,” I said. “But I learned how to be cheap from you, so it‟s your fault entirely.” I stood up and looked at his grave marker. His first name wasn‟t spelled correctly. The accent mark was missing. I found some sticky notes in my purse and placed an accent mark diagonally, just the way he‟d write it. The wind blew his accent mark onto the nearby angel statue. I put it back where it belonged and found a rock to keep it down. “I‟m also sorry for using your old scalpel to cut

fruit. I guess that‟s not what it‟s for, but I have to eat, don‟t I?”

I didn‟t have any flowers with me, so I drew one on a sticky note and left it on Dad‟s grave. Then I went to my car and drove at 70 miles an hour towards my office building. About an hour into my shift, my stomach rumbled. I walked to the snack bar and got myself an apple. When I got back to my desk, I opened my top drawer and saw Dad‟s scalpel. It was sharp and shiny. But I bit into the apple instead. The juice squirted all over my face. I wiped the residue off with Dad‟s old handkerchief.

About Darlene P. Campos: Darlene P. Campos is an MFA candidate at the University of Texas at El Pasoââ€&#x;s Creative Writing Program. In 2013, she won the Glass Mountain magazine contest for prose and was awarded the Sylvan N. Karchmer Fiction Prize. In 2014, she was nominated for Best of the Net's Fiction Category. Her work appears in Prism Review, Cleaver, Red Fez, Bartleby Snopes, Elohi Gadugi, The Writing Disorder, Connotation Press, Word Riot, Plain China, and many others. She is from Guayaquil, Ecuador, but has lived in Houston all her life. Her website is www.darlenepcampos.com Editor's Comment: A very moving tale of the beautiful relationship of a father and daughter in life and beyond it too.


Your melodious words were pleasing, Like shiny pearls on a string, You speak sweet and optimistic, The smoothest words you pick. But these words, you squander on me No longer impress, nor affect me. Neither eases my grief nor pain Given by you, but, again I heard you affirm, But do you ever conform?

You want me to trust you Once more, to forgive you! Trust is like an eraser, Each mistake makes it smaller. I think, of the futile pain Given by you, once again You promised, you assured, You said I am not being fair, I listened to your romantic claims, Not believing, all the same. Once more, I would have given in But I know, once more, you will fib The hurting, the sadness, the pain Given by you again, and, again! I believed you time after time Now itâ€&#x;s time to get off the dime To walk new roads, new places to visit; Time, not to forget, but to forgive, To say goodbye and departing; And look forward to a new starting; To declare the end of the endings; And trust the magic of new beginnings....

About Huma Masood: Huma Masood, an adept market analyst and researcher, now pursues writing - her first

passion. She is an avid reader and loves to share thoughts on her two blogs - Silken Scribblings (http://thescribblings.weebly.com/silkenscribblings) and www.humamasoodwrites.wordpress.com. Passionately curious about life, she believes that every accomplishment began with a decision to try. Editor's Comment: The poet has managed to weave magic in her words creating sounds of both pain and joy together.

Where The Heart Is – Part Two Part One Part Two 'Our situations are not much different; your

children couldn't care for you - my parents didn't care for me', Ramya thought to herself, even as she held the gnarled hands of someone's forgotten grandmother. Paati! Where are you? Will I see you again?

'I really should trawl through Face book and get back in touch with Aarti!', she told herself firmly. 'I badly want to meet Paati and have a cup of her famous filter kaapi. That will be the perfect antidote to this depressing saga'. She was waiting in the courtyard of the last home on their list, as Karthik flipped through his photos. He had got some amazing shots, in his words, and flipped the camera to show her a breathtaking black & white shot of a wrinkled hand in a smooth one - hers. Marveling at his skill, Ramya flipped through the pictures, looking at the latest ones. They might use three photos, if he was lucky and Karthik, typically, had shot twenty times as many! Suddenly, she stilled her fingers and clicked the back switch to take her back two photos.

'Karthik, when did you take this?â€&#x; she turned to him. 'Which one? Oh that? Just now. I was wandering

inside and came upon this sweet granny sitting all by herself, stringing flowers in the back room and took her picture. Great shot, eh? See how the light slants on her faceâ€&#x;. he pointed. 'How do I zoom in and see close up?' Ramya cut him shot. 'Hand it over - I'll show you before you delete

something by mistake! Hey, Ramya, you alright? You are looking a bit funny. Is it the heat?' 'No, no, the old lady in there, stringing the

jasmine, she looks very familiar. I want to see her face clearly.'

As the well-loved face swam into focus, Ramya looked up in shock. Letting go of the camera, she ran inside. Ignoring his shout, she hurried into the rooms, turning into the one where Karthik said he found her. Paati!

"Paati!� Ramya gasped her voice breaking. The hands stringing the garland stilled and the bowed head looked up. After a moment's puzzled glance, recognition spread in the eyes and Paati's face split into her wide smile. 'Ramya! Is it really you? What are you doing here?

What.... how... how are you, my dear child? What have you been doing to yourself? You are rail thin!' The sound of her name broke the dam and Ramya threw herself into Paati's lap. 'Paati! Paati! What are you doing here, Paati? Why

are you here? Where is everyone? Uncle? Aunty? Why aren't you with the family? What has happened?â€&#x; Ramya couldn't stop the questions.

'Ah calm down, child! You haven't changed one bit.

Twenty five questions before the other person can open her mouth! All in good time. You tell me about you - how are you? How are your parents?' Paati asked in her mellow voice.

After all the time she spent recently in thinking of Paati, to find her in the back room of an old age home far away from the city nearly broke Ramya's heart. Swallowing her tears, she tried her best to answer Paati's questions. If she knew her at all,

Paati will respond to her own rapid-fire questions only when she was ready. 'I don't know about my parents, Paati but I am

doing really well. After my dad used me as a punching bag while he was all but soaking in alcohol and yet again, mum mutely stood by, I said enough was enough and walked out of the house. You remember Madhu periappa? He had been begging his brother to get some sense and kick the habit. Alternatively, he begged mum to stay with his family for my sake. I was the only one who took him up on his offer. I moved in and despite having two young children of their own, my uncle and aunt were really nice to me. Helped me finish school. I got a scholarship and put myself through college. Studied journalism and am now working with this national daily.' Heavy footfalls announced the arrival of a bewildered Karthik at the door. Ramya looked up and introduced him to Paati. 'Karthik, I need some time. You can leave if you like; I'll make my own way back.' 'Don't be silly, Ramya. I'll wait in the car. I'll just

be working on the photos so you take all the time you need', he said and walked out slowly, with a small smile for Paati.

'That's a good looking boy right there - is he your boyfriend?â€&#x; asked Paati, wiggling her eyebrows at Ramya. 'Paati!' hissed Ramya, checking to make sure Karthik wasn't within earshot. 'God, you are just

as incorrigible as ever! Remember how you used to tease me when I had that huge crush on that boy who lived down the road from us?' 'You all but carried a sign board on your forehead,

my dear child! No scared!'chuckled Paati.





Blushing furiously, Ramya tried to bring Paati back to the main issue. 'Now you please answer

my questions, Paati. Why are you here? Why aren't you home? What has happened?' she finished with worry coating her voice once again.

A big sigh escaped from Paati's lips. 'What will I

say, dear heart? I am not home because there isn't one anymore. It all came crashing down a while back.' 'What happened?' 'What can I say? A few months after Aarti's

wedding, my son and daughter-in-law decided to visit Rahul in Australia. Did you know that Rahul had moved to Sydney? He had been inviting his parents to visit him since he moved but it was

never the right time. Finally, after Aarti got married and moved away to Germany, my son and daughter-in-law decided to visit Rahul. That lovely boy arranged everything - sent the tickets, planned local trips, arranged for time off from work so he could take them around and all they had to do was get there. So he kept saying, calling home every day till they flew. Meera was so excited! Rahul called them from his office where he was finishing up his work so he could have a long weekend with his parents...' Paati's voice broke and she stopped abruptly.

~ to be continued

About Lavanya Donthamshetty: Lavanya Donthamshetty is a part-time writer, fulltime mother / gourmet chef / referee of pitched battles between her two warring children. She contributes to sites such as Women's Web, India Together etc, writing on varied subjects such as food, parenting, elections etc. She lives in Chennai with her husband and their sometimes adorable duo. She can be contacted via email lavanya DOT asokan AT gmail DOT com. Editor's Comment: What next is something that will haunt the reader after reading this.

Book Review – II Writer‟s Ezine would like to thank the author Ada Wiam for sending in such a wonderful book to be reviewed by our Editorial Team and also agree for an interview with us. :Intro: Making a deal with an arrogant guy is difficult. Making a love deal with the same? It is complicated. Here are the few pointers to win a deal, with your ex-childhood best friend. 1. Cook for him and make sure it‟s a mess. If it makes him sick, all the better. 2. Buy him a gift. It is better if it is something really cuddly. 3. Ignore him completely, when he starts to notice you. 4. Go on a date with the new guy and get caught while you‟re trying to kiss 5. And finally, get yourself kidnapped. His heart, body and soul will be yours to keep. As Liana tries to make Asher fall for her, just so she can humiliate him, she realizes she isn‟t the right person for the job. She needs the help of her

friends and a little bit of luck. But what she needs most is restraint; the love deal has more fine print than she gambled for. :Book Review: 1. Cover: The cover is cute, mushy with beautiful pastel shades depicting the YA romance the book is all about very clearly. 2. Presentation: The presentation is very simple, which in an unusual case suits the storyline perfectly. Had the presentation been made even a little bit more jazzy perhaps the beauty of it would have gone. 3. Narration: The narration is very emotive, high on sentiments and emotions going straight to the heart of the reader. 4. Characters: The characters come alive in those pages, you begin to feel their pain, their anguish and smile in their joys. That is a commendable job for an author. 5. Plot: The plot is very well crafted. It shows the efforts that have been put behind the same. 6. Storyline: The story line is straight without any pretensions making it one enjoyable read.

7. Story flow: The story flow is very smooth as is expected in such books without any much steep ups and downs. 8. Language: the language is one that will connect to each and every heart, the genre being YA the author has refrained from using any words which might sound a bit heavy or too huge to create the much needed impact and yet has managed to create the impact with minimalistic words accurately. 9. Pros: Well narrated, the strong point being the author knows what she wants to deliver and that clarity of thoughts shows in the book very well. 10. Cons: At some places I felt the narrative loosen up a little bit for a while before it took up once again to gather momentum and continue in that stride for some time. :Overview: The overall rating for the book would be 4 out of 5 to the storyline, the characters and the authorsâ€&#x; narrative. The author manages to cast a spell on the readers with this debut novel. WE team would like to thank the author for sending across this book for review and would also like to wish her all the best for all their future endeavours.

Author Interview – II WE has Ada Wiam today with us in conversation sharing with us about her book How I won the love deal. Ada Wiam is a self-confessed chocoholic and a book worm, a writer and a dreamer. She loves creating characters and their worlds with her imagination and a little ink. She finds both contentment and escape through writing stories. Happily married with a wonderful family, a loving husband and supportive friends, Ada divides her time between writing and reading. Ada Wiam is a pen-name. The blurb of her book reads: Making a deal with an arrogant guy is difficult. Making a love deal with the same? It is complicated. Here are the few pointers to win a deal, with your ex-childhood best friend. 1. Cook for him and make sure itâ€&#x;s a mess. If it makes him sick, all the better. 2. Buy him a gift. It is better if it is something really cuddly. 3. Ignore him completely, when he starts to notice you. 4. Go on a date with the new guy and get caught while youâ€&#x;re trying to kiss 5. And finally, get yourself kidnapped.

His heart, body and soul will be yours to keep. As Liana tries to make Asher fall for her, just so she can humiliate him, she realizes she isn‟t the right person for the job. She needs the help of her friends and a little bit of luck. But what she needs most is restraint; the love deal has more fine print than she gambled for.

Let‟s know her better in her own words: 1. Extending a warm welcome to you at Writer‟s Ezine , today we would be talking about your novel How I won the Love deal. How does it feel to finally be a publisher author?

Hello. Thank you for having me here. To give birth to your first baby – You all know how wonderful that feeling would be.

2. About the moment when you felt you wanted to be a writer. Was it something you cherished since childhood as a dream?

My mom always said that I used to visit my aunt‟s house every Friday after school to read books, when I was just five. After reading so many wonderful novels, I can‟t not think about creating a new world with my imagination. I started writing since high school and the love for writing grew into all consuming passion when I was in college. Now here I am, writing and reading to my heart‟s content. 3. Romance as a genre is one that is eternal in every manner. How has your experience been writing about it, in terms of responses from readers?

Romance – who doesn‟t love it? My reading journey started from the genre romance and so was my writing journey. It is easy for me to feel connected whenever I write a love story and so… I chose to dip my fingers inside the world of love when I started to fall in love with words. I can‟t help, but feel happy and warm all over whenever a female protagonist finds her happy ending, including mine. I know… tragic endings give more power to the story, but to make others happy is also a grand job. Only a happily-ever-after romance could do that and I love writing them and my readers… well, they love reading it. The only destination I want to reach as a writer is to make others happy with my words.

4. You have been very active on wattpad before becoming a full-fledged published writer. How has your experience been there? Did it help you?

Wattpad have been my safe haven for writing for more than five years. Every single reader I‟ve in wattpad have helped me in one way or the other. I get more than hundred private messages a month, all stating that they would love to read more of my works. When I first start How I Won the Love Deal on Wattpad, I was insecure and had no intention of finishing it. But my readers pressured me in finishing that. So yes… I‟ll forever be thankful to wattpad and my readers from wattpad. 5. YA as a genre is fast catching up pace amongst readers here in India. Your views on it.

YA is becoming increasingly popular, even among the adults. Maybe, because… we all love to go back to the innocent school days in our life. When I read YA, I have the feeling of travelling back in time, to find the old memories back, again! 6. How much of the real Ada Wiam do we see in the author Ada Wiam?

The real me is an introvert and a lazy procrastinator. I love to hide in my room with a book and a bunch of chocolates. The writer in me can be a little more open and friendly, but as lazy. I still suffer a lot while talking. But give me a pen and a paper, or a keypad, and I can be buoyant and peppy.

7. Your book talks about friendship and love in almost an equal tone where both are portrayed as the most important aspects of one‟s life. How much do you believe in it?

I believe in it, wholeheartedly. There is nothing more important in my life than my friends, family and my hubby. So… all my works portrays a deep friendship and of course, love. Love is a powerful emotion. Be it amidst family, friends or lovers. No human lives can be complete without love, can it? 8. Do we see you experimenting with genres?

Creating stories is a mesmerizing art. Only a few can master the art of sculpting the words with graceful efficacy. Some of us, like me, though, love to experiment with words. I am an amateur in creating stories, but my love and fascination for it prods me to write, to experience and to experiment. Though I am addicted to the genre romance, I am trying new dishes, as well. Wait for it. 9. We would like to know about any future projects you are currently working on.

A mainstream fiction titled „The Word Eater.‟ It is almost finished and waiting to be polished. This NaNoWriMo I started a sci-fi novel titled „Machine OOX‟, which is currently hibernating. Also, having my hand full on a college romance, tentatively titled „Believe me. I‟m lying.‟

10. Some words for your readers.

Hey all. If you ever come across my poetries or stories or novels, and liked them, donâ€&#x;t hesitate to write me. Youâ€&#x;re welcome to read, ridicule or raise my spirit. I am open to the words more than the silence; open to mockery than the dismissal. Yeah, so help me with your words, so that I can create some beautiful world. Thank you for your time. Bye. Love. Peace. Thank you very much for your time

Hammering of Indian Cricket Team by England

The recent mauling of Indian cricket team by England in Investec test series by 3-1 was spectacular. My deepest sympathies to brave and gritty Indians who fought Britishers in their own land and lost gallantly! This all brought a painful recollection of such a defeat which I witnessed personally. Though I am not a cricket buff and I rarely sit and watch matches on TV but like everyone else I feel elated when Team India win a match. I try to follow cricket at times when the team is doing good and breaking some records. In any case, there have been so many matches and tournaments happening nowadays that it is difficult to keep track. World cup of 20-20 in 2012 was one of those tournaments I was clueless about. It was happening in Sri Lanka and I was there for some work. It was the last day of my tour in Colombo. We finished our meeting with one of our

customers on Airport road and proceeded towards Colombo when my agent Ruwan had this spark. He was a short fair guy with a toothy smile, always tried to be funny. „Hey, don‟t you know that today evening is super 8 match between India and Australia?‟ he spoke out from behind as our Nano taxi surged on crowded road. „Yeah I read it somewhere. Can we go there today?‟I asked tentatively .We were free for the evening and it could have been good recreational activity for us. But I knew that these matches were important and probably all tickets would have been sold out .Even if some are available than it will be on high prices. „Why not?' „He hit my back with palm of his hand' „Let‟s give it a try. But beware that there will be lot of traffic and maybe we will return empty handed‟. We had nothing to lose except time so we moved towards R Premdassa stadium in Colombo. As the darkness descended on the port city aided by overbearing clouds, we skipped some heavily clogged lanes with help of artful direction by Ruwan. I felt the excitement as the tall stands of the stadium appeared nestled in a heavily populated area. As soon as we got out of car when we were near enough, 3-4 dark men approached us. Ruwan negotiated with them quietly and came to me with an unexpected price. It was just INR

300 per person. That was it; I am going to witness this international match, the first one ever in my life. We left our bags and laptops in the car, asked him to reach hotel and merged into the crowd moving towards the entrance. I was still apprehensive about the whole business of entering the stadium as I had heard hoary stories of having to stand in line for hours and stampedes which will almost kill you. But again it was a cake walk as we jostled inside with crowd controlled by smartly dressed Security personnel outside the stadium. As we entered the stand and started climbing the stairs, young volunteers wearing black T shirts-Jeans checked our tickets and tied a small plastic band in our wrists. I still was not able to believe my luck that I will be watching Dhoni and Yuvraj, Gambhir and Virat at Indian side. Shane Watson and Hussey from Australia live .As we climbed up, I saw a mosque in the vicinity of stadium and nearby shops serving kebabs. It was too late and I was hungry .Ruwan assured me that we can get sandwiches and beer within the stadium. We settled at a place with a group of Australians behind us, a group of Sri Lankan youngsters below us and by our side and pretty girls from Pakistan along with escorts far at the end of the stand. Needless to say that Indians were all around some wearing colors of flag all over.

The actual match started far from my vision, the super hero players were looking like minions. I could not understand when toss happened but India decided to bat first. Dhoni seemed to be talking with press at one corner of stadium while our stand was scanned by a dog squad. Ruwan brought glasses of bear and sandwiches as the first ball was thrown .Gambhir and Pathan commenced the innings. Indians all over were cheering their team. As one of them struck a four, the spectators erupted in roar, the cheer girls at the bottom of stand, on nip of ground gyrated, and the metal nozzles placed around the ground threw up the flares. There were festivities all around. Crowd was now roaring for six and I was gulping beer merrily. Ruwan being a cricket aficionado was throwing up all kind of statistics assuring me that India will win this time. But Gambhir had to go. We lost our first wicket in 3rd over which silenced crowd a little bit. No worries, Ruwan assured, India has humongous batting line up. Pathan hit a six and crowd went crazy. However unassumingly things for Indian team started sliding down as we kept on losing wickets one after another .They never reached to the crescendo which everyone expected and closed the innings at 140/7. India had a chance, some people were saying and I was very hopeful .The third beer and handful of fried snacks were helping me to keep my mood at

bay. A slight drizzle changed the scene as volunteers pulled huge sheets of rain cover on the ground with army like efficiency .Soon the ground was looking like an oversized morgue. But the rain did not last for long and the covers were removed with same efficiency. Australian batsmen descended and Indians surrounded them .The field was set and everybody was anticipating that Dhoni will have some magic tricks to bag the match .He did as he started with a spinner Ashwin .However things never came in Indiaâ€&#x;s hand as Shane Watson and Warner created a partnership which ended only when they were very close to the target and with ample overâ€&#x;sâ€&#x; to play for .India failed miserably to get any wickets or stem the run rate .India lost the match with 9 wickets and 7 oversweet left the stadium dejected as we have lost a major battle of life. Pakistanis at the far end of stand were looking quite happy as they walked out of stadium along with us. However Ruwan still kept the night alive and invited me to one of his family get together happening nearby. I agreed and I did not regret as they were having an amazing party in one of the plush Sri Lankan houses. The part went on long after midnight where everyone shared my grief .It was a great end of one of the eventful day.

About Rohit Agarwal: Rohit Agarwal is a Marketing Professional, who works in the midmanagement level in a Textile company based in Ahmedabad.His work experience of about 15 years is based mainly in Ahmedabad. He has traveled extensively within India and abroad in the line of duty. He is excited and moved with stories, as he is an avid reader. This is his debut book. He resides in Ahmedabad with his two kids and wife.

An Innocent Girl

The right path she didn't know, The right steps she didnâ€&#x;t know, The vast blue sky and the large clouds might thunder, But the little girl only wonders ‌ What is all this, what is the world like? All these questions aroused in her mind, But she gave a gentle smile and walked to a little while, And thought to throw all the confusions, Because she truly loves the world of her illusions!

About Shubhangi Srivastava: Shubhangi Srivastava is 18 years old currently preparing for engineering exams. She has been writing from 3 to 4 years. She usually writes what she feels or when she is going through some emotional conflict inside her. Human emotions

and worldly affairs fascinate her very much. Writing brings peace to her soul. My email address – mailtoshubhangi@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Innocence personified and captured very nicely through words.

Plight of a Young Girl

Sitting awake this dull night Trying to understand my fright How difficult the journey had been As the people I met were all mean Never thought anything like that Would happen just because of a brat Taking away all my light Are the deeds of guys always right? Those blaming and questioning eyes Haunting me out through days and nights And the hardness of life Took away all the positive vibe In such a small age like mine I feel being born a girl is crime Had I been a cool dude I would have enjoyed all the time

Life would not have been so busy And I would have been so easy Roaming around here and there I would have enjoyed fair No prohibitions had been Enforced upon me by mean Had I not been born a girl I would have ruled the world

About Harshita: Harshita is the author of her life. The mistakes she makes can't be erased. The only option is to turn the page and start a new chapter. A Writer, who needs pen and paper to express herself, An Optimist, tries to find for positivity in everything that happens, A Believer, believes what happens is because GOD has different plans for her as he wants to give the best to her. Editor's Comment: A painful picture of the reality around us.

One and the Same

Drenched in the rain I strode upon The corridor, so grim, dimly lit; Faces hidden in nooks but adorn The puffball soaked in tears sit. Glided past me, “An angel? Is it? An angel on earth, is it I see?� Elegant and graceful as can be Yet with strength and clarity! Blessed with her glance and speech There forth, sought my name, the only Soul to notice, befriend, beseech, In such heaving maul, my company! As days went by, our friendship grew A frozen confidante was she, These memories blossom so anew

Like daffodils with morning dew. Rapture of laughs, silence queer, and Midnight cucumber crumbs made An unpunctuated infinite strand Of thoughts to be shared, appraised! Merciless critic ye, hand in hand With justice, truth, reason, said Selfless love for the loving, Ignorance for the nonchalant, Remembrance for the retentive, Remission for the repentant! In the mirror yourself you see, The reflection you see should be. Whether the Universe mirrors you Or you it, breathe in, take time, Listen to, follow the voice inside Resonating, pleading to be heard; Not to slight you it said To soar the spirits of all instead To imbibe the spirit of brotherhood For we are but all one and the same! The light of realization you show Has struck me hard as iron, true, Nothing more do I have to say, Eternal gratitude for you ensues.

About Lakshmi K: Lakshmi K is a medical student who has a penchant for writing. You can contact her via krishku65@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Words that will take you on a mystical journey.

That Sea Wave

Full of energy, full of vigor, It played with the heights, from low to higher It had in itself the limitless ocean It was free... bereft of any worldly commotion Like a fairy, playing in the sunlight, It kept playing‌ With its own tides! All of a sudden, it splashed on my sand fort, Destroying and, taking away my creation ashore Sweeping across all the filth too It went back without, complaining to the blue Merging itself with the sea now calmly It didnâ€&#x;t have any fear, of losing its identity Now, indeed, it left me wondering With some random thoughts, that just kept hovering. Should I now complain of my broken fort?

Or thank the wave and enjoy the now clean sparkling shore.

About Neha Goswami Dwivedi: Neha Goswami Dwivedi is a person with an artistic heart, educated to be an engineer/management professional and likes her skills to explore everything around her. Apart from writing poetry, taking random pictures of whatever is there in front of her and exploring the art and craft world too are some of her other areas of interest. Editor's Comment: A poem that says much more than its words.


1. A breeze turns the page... Lime-green trees 2. Clouds snag their hair on a mountain, A rabbit's destiny unfolds 3. Murder in the garden ...the silent screams of a sweet pea 4. That old willow counting her seasons... Another yellow leaf 5. The old pine tree, I look up... Into heaven

The above are known as Gendai - or modern Haiku. They differ in the aspect of not being structured like a classic Haiku and are they limited to any one theme. Gendai usually, but not always, consist of two different thoughts whose connection lead to a third thought.

Possible connections for the above verses: 1. New page, new leaves... Springtime, new season when first leaves are lime-colored 2. Clouds caught, rabbit caught...both prey to an uncontrollable force 3. Total garden damage, sweet peas - summer flower... severe hailstorm (inferred from the type of flower and word 'murder '- hail is always a summer event) 4. Old tree, autumn leaves... white hair, old person (indirectly inferred from the word 'another ') 5. Old tree, ancient heaven ...both high and both old About Janice Thomson: Janice Thomson is a multi-media artist residing on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada. She is a Chinese brush painting and digital graphic artist whose works have been shown and sold across Canada. She writes all forms of poetry and has been published in various chapbooks, anthologies, magazines and newspapers. Janice has also studied Japanese poetry and creates haiga and taiga from her paintings and photographs. Editor's Comment: Freshness in these verses brings a smile on your face.

Night Above the Valley Last night in bed I tossed and turned worrying about the fact that night wasn‟t exactly long. Night has to battle it out with day every single day. Night is probably so worn out about the fact that day had become the majority. Night was barely existent. But anyhow when the night began, it‟s beautiful. I watch the world go by, standing on the roof of my house. It‟s all so quiet. It‟s finally dark. It‟s finally mine. As the chatter of the day dies down, the voices in my head become clearer. But unfortunately I had to try and be cheerful about the day because that was the only time I got to see Upen. He helped the tourists who passed by our village. He would drive them on his grey jeep all the way to the top of the hill. They don‟t stop at our village. They just pass. I pity them. The valley has much more to offer than the cliff; the same as night. Every morning, before the first few streaks of sunlight fled into our valley, we would carry our knick knacks, hot steaming tea and sometimes baskets that we had weaved the previous night, to the cliff. Sometimes the boys would give us a ride

on their jeeps. Other times we would just walk uphill. My work would get over by 3 pm every day. Then it would start getting dark and the tourists retreated to the safety of their hotel rooms; though some of them wander out with the excitement of an adventurer, and then truly walk only the few blocks to the liquor shop. Itâ€&#x;s amusing how they all walk with the grace of superior creatures, the ones that come from far away cities for short holidays. They come with their wannabe young wives and bratty children. They come on their middle class tour incentives. They also come, in the privacy of their tiny hotel room. Yet they walk around looking at me, as if to say their few five rupees are going to get me dinner. They look at me, when their wives look away, ever so sly. As if they own me in that one moment of buying my baskets. Sometimes itâ€&#x;s refreshing to take a break, during the off season, when tourists are less. Only a few photographers and campers are seen. When in fact they come in order to hide, and not be seen by us regular village people. I study from home. I work because it makes me feel productive. My father owns a tiny restaurant. He sells the momos my grandmother makes. They spend time talking to tourists, they exchange enthusiasm as if it keeps them alive in the boredom of their morbid lives.

Upen comes home sometimes, he watches me study. I sometimes teach him. He is unschooled. So far he knows a few words of French, a little math and three poems of Samuel Coleridge. He woos the foreigners who come to our valley with the little knowledge that he has gained. They nod their heads and squeal in delight as if he is a dog who just learned fetch. Upen doesn't understand my dislike for tourists. He doesn‟t understand that I despise their prejudices. But he is sweet and kind. He seems simple. But sometimes I catch him standing alone at the edge of the cliff reciting the poem I taught him. His sorrow is so deep, he doesn‟t remember anything. I am not in love with Upen. But I long for him. I am happy in his presence. He makes the valley come alive with his exaggerated enthusiasm. I don‟t mind sharing that. The last few streaks of sun light are beginning to disappear. It‟s getting really cold. I drag my blanket around me and watch the valley brimming with lights below. Upen gets off his jeep and sits next to me. He counts the cash he has made for the day. My baskets are all sold out. The night sets in. I lean over and kiss him. He kisses me back. And we recite Coleridge together as the stars descend upon us.

The moonshine, stealing oâ€&#x;er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

About Jennifer Sharmila: Jennifer Sharmila is a 20 something blogger, compulsive writer and a Theatre enthusiast. She is also a deceptively sweet introvert and an incessant Dreamer. Her writing includes crude poems and heart breaking stories as well as worldly pretentious opinions on silly issues. Say hello at www.mindlesschatter0.wordpress.com Editor's Comment: A beautiful ode to the language of the Universe – love.

My Lost Childhood

I stood by the sea, like a small child, As wave after wave caressed my feet! Slowly, I lost myself in thoughts of yesterdays, Where my home was my world A birdâ€&#x;s cry, music to my ears! Oh! I wish I could reach back To the past, To my past, Where I was not just a lost soul Where I was just another five year old!

About Rohan Pillay: Rohan is a B.A. English Literature student. He is more of a scribbler than a poet in the true sense. This is his first attempt at publishing his work. You can reach him at rohan.pillay21@gmail.com .Your comments and feedbacks are necessary for

him to polish his writing skills and the same are most welcome. Editor's Comment: Childhood, one of the most beautiful phases of our lives very nicely depicted.

Introduction to the Cook „N‟ Tell Segment Writer's Ezine introduces a new segment, which will be featured January 2015 onwards. Cook 'N' Tell - a bimonthly dose of easy-tomake recipes where Mayura Chetan Honrao will share some amazing, mouth-watering, yet ready to make dishes. This post introduction segment.

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If you are someone like me who likes Tomato Omelet but finds it too heavy for digestion thanks to „besan‟ (Gram Flour) batter; you will love this alternative. Call it Rava Dosa if you will or call it Rava Tomato Omelet – in the end what matters is – you get the satisfaction of eating omelet without it being too much heavy on your stomach. This recipe has been tried (by mom) and tasted (by me)

Rava Tomato Omelet/Rava Dosa Ingredients: Semolina (Baarik Rava): 2 medium sized bowl (katori) Medium sized tomatoes: 4 Medium sized onions: 2 Green chillies: 2-3 Coriander (as per your liking) Ginger: 1 rupee size (1/4 inch) (less if you do not like the taste of ginger) Salt to taste Water: ½ Glass Oil for cooking Procedure: Take finely chopped tomatoes and onion in a bowl, add salt, coriander, crushed ginger and finely chopped chillies (alternatively you can add the chillies after you spread the batter on the pan) and semolina. Mix well. Add water and stir to mix well. Make sure the batter is of proper consistency (neither too thick nor too thin.) to make it easier to spread on the pan (tawa) Cover it and keep aside for 20 minutes.

Heat a non-stick pan / tawa and spread 1-1½ spoon (medium sized cooking spoon) batter on it. Add oil (grease it on the corners) and cover it with lid. Cook on low flame for some time. Remove the lid and cook on medium flame till golden brown. Flip it and cook the other side as well.

Serve hot with coconut chutney.

About Arti Honrao: Author of fiction books titled 'My Life story' and 'Is This Love & Autumn - The Last Leaf' and novel 'Resemblance - The Journey of a Doppelganger'

Arti enjoys writing short stories on Relationships. She has attempted writing different form poems but most enjoy writing Prose poems where she gets to express without the limitations of words or rhyming. Most of her writings depict human feelings and emotions, which she tries to bring onto the page and into the minds of the reader. She believes that essence of writing lies in not only entertaining the reader, but speaking to them through words. She writes at www.artihonrao.net and can be reached at contact@artihonrao.net

About Writer‟s Ezine When Alfred Hitchcock said “Ideas come from everything” little did he know that everything would mean literally everything in this world. Taking inspiration from him, two fellow bloggers and friends – Namrata and Arti debated one day the exact meaning of Freedom of Expression and its rightful usage is today‟s times. And so was born Writer‟s Ezine, a monthly literary online magazine (E-zine) with the intention of providing platform to emerging as well as established writers from around the world. Born out of a need and a necessity of solely being able to express all that one feels, thinks and understands Writer‟s Ezine is one place where writing and creativity come together to ensure a wonderful experience to the reader. As you read along and turn a page you will find your mind wandering into places you never thought of before, making you sit up and question the biggest mystery of all times – LIFE. This is one place where readers, writers, poets, photographers, idealists, thinkers, atheists, believers and story-tellers all will be in sync with creativity. We accept submissions in poetry, shortstories, non-fiction, author interviews; book reviews etc. (Please read Submission Guidelines for details).

So what are you waiting for, unleash the artist within and paint the palette with colours of your choice! About the Administrators We are readers and writers madly in love with the written word. To know more about us please visit us at: About Namrata > http://www.privytrifles.com About Arti Honrao > http://www.artihonrao.in Submissions for the January issue of Writer's Ezine are open. Please do read Submission Guidelines before submitting your entries using the submission form. The last date for submission for the entries for January issue is 20th December. Do check our Sitemap for easy navigation of the Writerâ€&#x;s Ezine website. Get the direct links of the issue entries right into your email box; subscribe to the newsletter of Writerâ€&#x;s Ezine.

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Writer's Ezine - Volume IX December 2014 Issue  

Born out of a need and a necessity of solely being able to express all that one feels, thinks and understands Writer’s Ezine is one place wh...

Writer's Ezine - Volume IX December 2014 Issue  

Born out of a need and a necessity of solely being able to express all that one feels, thinks and understands Writer’s Ezine is one place wh...