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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 © Dhiren Shah 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 Writer’s Ezine for details Find us on Facebook | Twitter | Send us an email Administrator, Editor, Promotions and Marketing Manager: Namrata Administrator, Web-designer, Strategist: Arti Honrao

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01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Editor’s Note The Inevitable Anamika Fear Factor Bliss Lost Love The Woman Who Gazed at the Sea Me Moment Psychedelic – Part Two A Rare Sparkle Author Interview Book Review Just Another Page from a Diary The Mask That Thing Called Hope Is Your Mind at Play? Wisteria Reflections An Arduous Squeal Turning the Pages of Life Innocence A New Beginning Midway Her Rebirth Deaf Mamma Turns Geek

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26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

Believe in Yourself Those Days Humans Something Inside Me Once Upon a Dream Hues in the Sky A visitor – Bulbul Relationships

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If there is a gift that one can give to our own self then it has to be this - Just Believe. At any point of time in life we are a dreamer, a believer, a doer or an achiever and it is these stages that come together to define us. When you dream there will be chances that people will laugh at them and that is when you need to believe. Once you believe you do all that you can to make that dream a reality and once it comes true is when you are an achiever. “We all have our own life to pursue, our own kind of dream to be weaving. And we all have some power to make wishes come true, as long as we keep believing.” - Louisa May Alcott There is a dreamer in all of us, hidden somewhere, deep inside, waiting quietly for the night to come to take over our senses. Dreams have different meanings for all of us – Fantasies, aspirations, desires, ambitions etc. They are made up of our vivid imagination resulting into different ideas or images when we are asleep. But

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most of the times they end up being the fuel for us to chase something in our life. There is a time to dream without effort and constraint………and there is a time to do the work that will bring those dreams to life in real world. And while doing that work to reach your dreams give your best. Have faith and keep believing in yourself more than anything else. Don’t attach any conditions to your dreams. Some may come true some might not. It’s like eating a bunch of grapes. You might get some sweet ones and some sour ones. Just allow your dreams to drive you, to push you forward. Every dream starts with a dreamer and ends amidst the stars with the passion to pursue it. And it is your belief that takes you there. This month’s issue of WE is about beliefs for that is what it is all about. WE believes in the power of words that come together to create such beautiful creations. Each and every writer believes in their own magic. And all those wonderful readers believe in the beauty that is created every time power and magic come together.

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This issue is dedicated to all those dreamers, believers, doers and achievers of the world. Keep dreaming, Keep believing!

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The Inevitable by Chetan Dubey It was a new day. Aphrodite was once again going to meet Tithonus. Happiness bloomed from the way she glowed. It was really a new day in every sense. A new silver lining seemed to be there in the clouds that had been dissatisfied for the past many days. Soon enough though, it was clear that life is a masquerade. There was a gush of energy, an urge to meet her, to see her. Her pretty face beaming as she moved. Her gait no less than the west wind resurrecting even the dead leaves. The radiance in her eyes, the confidence of a gladiator. This was enough to get the emotions flowing. But the Three Sisters are always up for something to shock everyone. She passed by. The eyes met. The words came out but not what were wanted. He was with her and that changed everything; the great game. The Time laughed at the helplessness of the miserable character in its story.

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I kept watching her till she was visible no more. Watching was all I could do. Walking beside him she did not even notice the eyes that rested upon her, the heart that found peace only when he was with her. All the energy, the emotions falling into the meaninglessness, the blood pumping, and the adrenalin rush resulting into nothing. I can’t deny it. I try to fight it but I am losing control. That is inevitable, as it has always been. Author’s Bio: Chetan Dubey is a student by profession doing B.TECH in Electrical Engineering. He pursues his hobby of writing as a story writer and as a blogger. He can be reached at chetandubey1410@gmail.com and can be followed at lonerchetan.wordpress.com Editor’s Comments: Simple, subtle yet effective. The author has managed to express so much in few words.

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Anamika by Archana K B The train arrived at the platform shortly after. I was sitting at the platform, waiting for my express train, when another long train chugged in at its usual time. I was at one of those typical Indian railway stations, remarkably reminiscent with a pungent yet heady smell of sweat and dust along with the waste strewn here and there, on and off the tracks. It was early afternoon. Being a Friday, the station had more footfalls than on other weekdays. My packed bags were placed nearby. I was waiting for the express train which would take me to my family. There was a strange sense of fear, a burning, a tug of war going in my heart. My body was on autopilot, as if blinded by love. The tension at the household and the events unfolded thereafter, had swept off the smile from my face for past few days. I felt it better to go back to sort it out, rather than working hard in this distant location, running away from all. A big group of rural family came and settled nearby me. They had very few bags, but one or two were covered with the military cover. A well built man was the center

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of attention. Everyone shook hands with him. He kept stealing eyes to look at a young woman among them who was on the verge of tears. The elderly men helped to load up the bags onto the train coach. Looked like a soldier or someone who worked in the gulf countries? Recently married? How long would it be before he comes back again? How long would have been the vacation? The last announcement for departure of the train to Mumbai from Bangalore started again while the train started to move. The tears started flowing down. She was consoled by other women. His face had a grave smile. He was the man, the bread-winner, who was not supposed to shed tears. The family waved their hands to the young man. And the train moved away...And then the family...The dust settled. The empty tracks paved way for more sun light on the platform. After a while, people started coming more and more – mostly they belonged to the working class people who commuted long-distance daily in the crowded general compartment with their monthly passes. The female announcement chirping through the speakers

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enlightened me that the passenger train is arriving on the same platform. The people blended into their familiar groups formed over the months. I wondered whether my train would be late. The crowd was eager to grab the blue seats through the windows with the unconventional usage of handkerchiefs and their bags. I heaved a sigh of relief as the train reaped in away most of the people on the platform leaving me the required breathing space. And then, when the train was about to move, out of nowhere, ran a young shabby man screaming, “Anamika...” He went about every coach searching for the lady named Anamika. His looks and clothing revealed a mad man persona who was lost in the thoughts of Anamika. Soon, two constables came and took him away, while he resisted and cried badly calling out the same name again and again. Anamika…. The thoughts flushed in me again. A lost lover maybe…. How did they part? Any relation with the trains and railway station? Had they planned to run away in the same station which went awry? As the various options mulled about in my mind, the soul in me whispered some wisdom; on life and relationships. On the journey of life always tugging at

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the constant strings of relationships and making a living. The relationships consumed every human being bereaving his inner peace, for some with its presence and for some with its absence. Slowly, I called his phone, and reached out to him. “Hello.. ” “Mmm. Hello…Yeah.. I am at the station waiting for the train now..” “Oh.. okay. I reached home already.. Have tea if train is late. .”The hidden concern and care. “I did check online for the correct time…I will come to pick up around 8.. ”“Yeah…okay.. Bye then..” “Bye..” “And hey,… umm…uh.. love you.. ” “Love you too ya…Don’t worry for now..Okay? Chalo Bye..” The heart then felt lighter. Two sparrows from the tracks flew towards the sky.

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Author’s Bio: Though by education, Archana ought to be in the IT industry, she is occupied by her 3 year old daughter now. She loves blogging at her personal blog, www.archanaonline.com and taking pictures, and is a huge admirer of DIY crafts and home decor magazines. She is also an internet and social media freak. She can be reached at bluediamond.ta@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: The beauty of human relationships at its best.

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Fear Factor by Dhiren Shah Story Behind the Photograph: This picture was taken at Bhopal's Van Vihar National Park. Weirdly enough the snakes in the glass cages are fed live chicken by the park officials, apparently the snake do not eat dead meat! So they fill up the cage with the chicken and leave them in, I saw chicken stepping on the snakes at times and wondered what was actually happening and why was the snake not killing the chicken. The zoo keeper told me the snake will only kill when it is hungry!!!! Nature is simple; it’s only we who have perceived it more complicated I guess. This picture shows the chicken standing in the sun scared and perhaps praying for dear life, whilst the Russell’s viper seems to be eyeing a meal. In many ways this is a sad picture but I reckon sad is also an expression!

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Author’s Bio: Dhiren blogs under the name of Hitchwriter, and is also called hitchy!! http://hitchwriter.wordpress.com http://nd60.wordpress.com He can be reached at dhiren464@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: Perfect example of Darwin’s theory – survival of the fittest.

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Bliss by Sumitro

"I lie unquenched; in wait For it all to end The wait is no bliss The bliss is in expectation You are like raindrops That fall upon the parched land The sweat of the soil smells sweet The omnipotent Sun is impotent now You spell bliss for me!"

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Author’s Bio: Sumitro is a student of life and literature and scribbles occasionally. He lives in the city of Varanasi currently although his hometown (city) is Kolkata. He likes to observe and read people and their surroundings and loves to make new friends and acquaintances. He can be reached at beingsumitrobanerjee@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: This poem reflects the innocence that love is all about.

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Lost Love by Sushmita Shroff

After a long time I met you again Our eyes met and my heart raced again My mind stayed with you all through It was like stuck with you all through You brought back the feeling of me being alive again With just a glimpse of you, thoughts started flowing again They started pouring out frenziedly, becoming a prose, a poetry, random writing again Where were you all these years? I ask myself time and again Do stay and never go .. I plead with you again You My Dear! (My creative side) have returned like a lost love and I will never let you leave again

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Author’s Bio: Susmita Shroff is MBA (Finance). She is a homemaker and freelance mentor. She writes for pleasure and is a voracious reader and is passionate about writing. She is currently pursuing a creative writing course. She can be reached at susmita.d.dash@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: A different and unique take on love that will make you smile at the end.

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The Woman Who Gazed at the Sea by Steve Klepetar

The Woman Who Gazed at the Sea Wants nothing from you She is engaged with the light How it sparkles On an endless stretch Of water, penetrating Her eyes She has held her breath In morning mist Felt chilly spray tickle her cheek And watched white gulls Circle overhead Until that openness Lent her strength And her body could feel

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The pull of planets Wheeling elliptical paths Where her pride, where her blood Where the music of her strangeness Met the half-grown body of another sun

Author’s Bio: Steve Klepetar's work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications) and My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press). He can be reached at sfklepetar@stcloudstate.edu Editor’s Comments: A beautiful magnanimous beauty of a woman.

ode

to

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Me Moment by Janaki Nagaraj Bedtime and am ready to hit the bed. Hubby pops the question I dread! ” What’s for breakfast in the morning?” I am like –” Come on, give me a break! I just got off cleaning the kitchen and you are thinking of breakfast in the middle of the night?” I feel as if I am chained to the kitchen. Poor guy! I can’t really blame him. There are days when he goes without having a single, decent, home cooked meal. So, I ask him in a small voice – ” Ok, what would you like to have?” He tells me, and soon falls asleep dreaming and drooling about the breakfast he will have in the morning. I am lost in my own thoughts…breakfast? That means compromising on my beauty sleep. I am not a morning person. Though I get up early in the morning, it is to wake up the kids and pack them off to school, a feat I achieve in a somnambulistic state! Once the kids are off, I go back to the warmth and comfort of my bed and in no time in deep slumber. To quote my granddad – ” A short nap after a long sleep.” And, to make breakfast means that I have to forego this luxury.

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Before the breakfast part, there is another important thing for me, which I cannot forego and that is the Me Moment of the Day. My day, the wakefulness part, starts with a big mug of steaming, strong tea. A time which is unhurried, where every sip of tea is savoured with delight, a time where I enjoy my own company the most. A time I connect with nature…there is not much of a nature to boast off in the first place. But, there are a couple of big trees in front of my picturesque living room window. This is my favourite place. I sit by the window and watch the birds. I am completely tuned in to their singing and chirping. Crows, parrots, robins, sparrows (yes, we still have sparrows in Mumbai), sea gulls and many other small birds the names of which I don’t even know. Early in the morning there is this frenzied activity among them. The chattering of these birds resembles the classroom first thing in the morning where all the students assemble and talk excitedly amongst themselves. There is this bird, which I have not been able to spot till now, which makes a peculiar whistling sound. I like this so much and wanted to share it with my kids. One day, I told my daughter to listen to the sound, but she could not, at least not immediately. It took her sometime to

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really listen. I asked her –” Isn’t it beautiful?” She answered –” Yeah, whatever? ” Whatever???? I specially enjoy these moments during the rainy season. Rains cleanse everything. They not only purify the earth but also my mind. I like everything about rains. With a steaming cup of tea to warm my hands, I can sit for hours watching the rain. It is mesmerizing. The sound of the rain falling on the leaves, and on the ground….the smell of the earth, the bite in the air, the stillness, the chill which runs down my spine when the wind blows a spray of water on my face, the lushness and greenery everywhere. It is life everywhere. I can compromise on my beauty sleep, but I can never compromise on the beauty of the nature in the early hours of the morning where everything is coming to life…even me! *sigh* Time to make breakfast. Author Bio: Janaki Nagaraj is an emerging writer who blogs at http://janakinagaraj.com/. A graduate in English Literature, she is a homemaker living in Mumbai. She mostly writes poetry and blogs about her personal experiences. She can be reached at janu.memoirsofahomemaker@gmail.com Editor’s comments: A tale of every woman in every household of India.

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Psychedelic by Priya Anand Part 2 of 3 She sat up, not knowing what she was going to do. She waited hoping that this was just a hallucination and that brief window of sanity would open up and take her back to her living room, but it did not happen. She screamed obscenities in the wind, and when that did not work, she howled and bawled like a child. There was no reprieve, just dystopia with its mysterious furnaces and rock monoliths that seemed to have forcefully erupted from the ground. She walked a few steps keeping the familiar sofa in sight, in order to not lose her bearings, but there was no change in the scenery. She made a decision and began to walk away, hoping to find someone she could ask for help. Soon the sofa was out of sight and she felt that she had walked for hours. She was thirsty and hungry, her feet were aching, if this was still a dream, she wanted to wake up. An object shimmered in the distance, a faint red that became darker and larger. “O my God it was a car.”

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It was low slung and looked like a Macerate, the kind her husband raved about and yearned to own. She tried to open the door, but it was locked. How would she get in? She remembered the key she had found and had slipped into her pocket. “Aaha here it was”. She slid into the driver’s seat; the interior was plush with bucket seats clothed in red leather. Opening the glove compartment, she saw an old photograph in sepia, a man and a woman together yet apart; the man to the left facing the camera and the woman caught in the act of turning away, her face in profile. The man was Chirag, the woman looked familiar, but she could not remember where she has seen her before. She placed the photo back in the glove compartment and started the car. It responded with a roar; and she drove as if with a definite purpose, on an invisible road with no beginning and no end. A petrol bunk suddenly appeared on the horizon. It was a Bharat Petroleum bunk, with the customary blue and gold logo. Never had she been happier to see one. But as she drove closer, she saw tumble weed roll across the parking lot, the two pumps out front serving

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as lone sentinels for a bunk that appeared to be deserted. She parked in front of the bunk and walked into the cool interiors for a momentary respite from the heat. It appeared as if the bunk was suddenly abandoned, as the drawers beneath the checkout counter contained cash and the shelves were filled with goods. She randomly pulled out a pack of chips, a bar of chocolate, a coke, and some dental floss; junk could ruin her teeth. She stepped out and shivered, despite the blistering heat. As the car left the parking lot, an ominous crack sounded and the skies opened to pour black rain. It came in sheets, streaming across the windshield like thick viscous oil, making visibility zero. Suddenly the rain lightened briefly to allow her a glimpse of the way ahead; a man stood by the side of the road, if there was one; staring intently at the approaching car. He stuck his hand out as if to ask for a ride. She stopped and he rapped on the window, asking for permission to be let in. His face came into view; it was her husband. “Chirag, it’s you” she said and hugged him, as he got in. “Whoa Lady, hold on, I am no Chirag, I’m Chico” said the hitchhiker pushing her away. She sat back confused, if he said it with this much authority, it must be true.

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“Where do you want to go? “To Utopia, my lady. “ “There is no such place.” “Yes, there is. Allow me to show you the way. Just follow the yellow brick road,” he said with a cryptic smile. “Where’s the yellow road?” “Patience, it shall soon be revealed” He reached down and pulled out a square metal box, a tarnished bronze in colour. He opened it to reveal a cornucopia of drugs. She looked at him in confusion and he grinned showing large yellowed teeth, the canines tapered and sharpened to a point. He rifled through his inventory of drugs and said “What does my lady desire – could it be some acid, or maybe a bit of Jimson Weed, or what about mescaline extracted from Peyote? Tell Papa, what you want and I’ll give you a good rate” She looked the drugs longingly; she hadn’t had meds for some time. “I have no money,” she said. “Oh don’t worry, Sweetheart, you can pay me in kind” He handed her a few mescaline buttons. She nearly spat them out, as they were bitter to taste. “Believe me

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it’s worth the effort, don’t taste them, and swallow them” he said At first, she felt normal and wondered what the fuss was all about. She suddenly noticed the sky was a brilliant yellow, so bright it hurt her eyes. Fluffy orange clouds moved in a desultory manner and a bright blue moon hung low in the sky. She turned to look at the stranger beside her and giggled saying,”I think we’ve reached Utopia.” ~To be continued Author’s Bio: Priya Anand is bangalore based and has recently started writing short stories and poems. Some of her work has been published in Bangalore review and Spark. She is yet to discover her genre, but is having great fun trying to find it. She can be reached at priya7767@yahoo.co.in Editor’s comments: Enthralling is the word.

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A rare sparkle Story behind the Photograph: Beauty is often found in the most unexpected places. Just like the morning dew sparkling on a string of a spider’s web. It took me 16 shots to capture what I was ultimately looking for... but when I finally got it, the result was breath-taking! Author’s bio: Sushant, an IT graduate, works with an Indian multinational as a support engineer. A gadgetfreak at work and an explorer at heart, he believes that photography is the art which brings together both his interests. He can be reached at sushantayennemadi@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: Prolific is the word for this capture.

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Today we have Mrs. Usha Narayanan, the author of the book The Madras Mangler. Starting off with a gold medal in English from the University of Madras, and two Masters degrees – in English Literature and Education – Usha Narayanan took off like a magpie, collecting more bling from several interesting fields. She taught English before moving on to become a copywriter and creative director in several advertising agencies, including RK Swamy/BBDO, one of India’s top ten. Usha worked in Radio City 91.1 FM. She managed corporate communications and CSR activities in Scope International, Standard Chartered Bank. She wrote for a fun news website and launched a copyright permissions unit in India for an American publisher. A short story she wrote was snapped up for publication and this led to her writing a novel, a suspense thriller ‘The Madras Mangler'. The book is available in leading bookstores, on Amazon, Flipkart, Snapdeal, and as an eBook. Read more at her website: http://www.ushanarayanan.com. Follow her on www.facebook.com/writerusha and www.twitter.com/writerusha.

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The blurb of her book reads: Five pretty girls from around the country are enjoying college life in Chennai, chasing their own dreams until a psychopath comes to town, killing girls and dumping their bodies in the rivers. The killer is smart, dangerous and very angry. Just like Vir Pradyumna, ace criminologist from New York, who is fighting his own demons from the past. Ruthless politicians, bumbling cops, beer barons and cyber criminals run amuck. The killer snatches a girl whom Vir has sworn to protect. A Hollywood action crew and the crowds at the India-Australia cricket onedayer get sucked into the relentless buildup to a nailbiting climax. Will Vir be in time to stop the maniac and save the girl? Watch the gripping trailer of the book with some spooky music here: http://youtube.com/writerusha

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Some media reviews: ‘… a celluloid pot-boiler in print. Great job of handling a genre as tricky as a suspense thriller. Definitely would like to read more of her work.’ – The Hindu Literary Review ‘… introduces a new, handsome and dashing criminologist. Good for a lazy afternoon read.’ Mail Today ‘… a sensational combination worthy of the annals of pulp fiction.’ - Deccan Chronicle ‘Who will be next? A fast-paced, racy read!’ – Inbox Magazine ‘… flows effortlessly and absorbs the reader’s attention… a well-written chaos of terror and confusion’ – Verve Magazine’s Pick of the Month ‘… strong and independent women protagonists.’ – Femina ‘…The perfect poster victims include five pretty college girls, who are far from being delicate and vulnerable.’ – The New Indian Express ‘…breath of fresh air. Passes the ultimate litmus test of a thriller.’ – Rudra Krishna, Author ‘Made me start reading again. It’s the best kind of book, one that you can’t put down.’ – Suhasini Maniratnam, actor and director.

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In conversation with her in an attempt to know her more through her own words: Writer’s Ezine welcomes you. It is a pleasure having you here and thank you so much for your time. The Madras Mangler seems to be the talk of the town these days. How does it all feel? First, my heartfelt thanks to Writer’s Ezine for giving me this opportunity to connect with book-lovers and other writers. I am also thankful to Leadstart for choosing my manuscript from the hundreds they receive every month. The response to The Madras Mangler from readers and media reviewers since its launch has been exciting and rather overwhelming. I feel like a proud mother watching my child take its first steps into the world, and am grateful for the warm welcome that has been offered. Usually when people write their first book it is said to be something they are very comfortable with, as a genre. Was crime fiction/thriller always your favourite, leading to your writing this book? I am a book addict and read voraciously. Crime fiction and thrillers rank high on my reading list, followed by

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mystery, fantasy, mythology, humour and slice of life. More than the genre, it is important that the book is absorbing and well-written. The Madras Mangler – how did this come into being as a concept and then of course as a book? I am always inspired by the exuberance and the infinite possibilities of youth, and started off with five starryeyed girls, leaving home for the first time to live in a college hostel. They are fun, spirited and enjoying campus life with all its frills. Then the girls came to life and demanded more! They wanted challenges that reflect the world they face each day. They were eager to take on creeps and bullies, difficult parents and a patriarchal society. Finally, they put their courage against a serial killer who represents all that is evil and perverse in life. And the thriller was born! A debut novel that talks about serial killers and crime must have needed extensive research to back the whole plot. I discovered the hard way that a thriller may be a lot of fun to read, but writing one is really tough. Readers today are smart and well-informed, so you need to focus on every detail ― forensics, technology, timelines,

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locations, action and plot. I am happy that the effort paid off, as many readers have said that the book is ‘unputdownable’ and that they could not spot the killer. Your book deals with women’s issues with strong and independent women playing pivotal roles. Have you in real life come across any such instances? Open the newspaper or watch the news on TV and you are inundated with reports of crimes against women. Female infanticide, dowry death, honour killing, rape, acid attacks, domestic abuse... a woman is always in alert mode against these threats. Though she is the victim, society often holds her responsible for the crime, saying that she invited assault through her behaviour, her clothes or her very existence. The pain and fear these attacks provoke are universal and it becomes necessary for every woman to stand up and fight for her right to lead a meaningful life, free of fear. It is this deep-seated need that my novel addresses. Was having women as the central topic intentional in this story? Can we expect all your stories to be women centric? My characters determine the story. The five girls in The Madras Mangler are central to the plot, but there are also strong male characters like the handsome hero Vir,

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his friend Bishnu and the suave Aryan. ‘Where can we find men like Vir in Chennai?’ asks one reader, while another says, ‘Sequel please. Vir is too good a hero to be wasted on a single book.’ So, I choose to bestow equal rights on men and women in my stories, as in life! How has your experience been on this journey of becoming an author? Scary, filled with unexpected twists and turns, thrilling, exhilarating. Tell us something about your upcoming projects. My next is a breezy romcom set in the glam media world. It is a cocktail of fun and fizzy elements like power, politics, love, lust, hormones and hangovers. Another novel in the making is a mythological, with a full blast of action and adventure, demons and divinities. From copywriter to creative director to teacher to a corporate professional to now being a writer. How does it feel donning so many hats at the same time and excelling at all of them? How did it all happen? Did you plan a diverse career spanning across various fields?

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Creativity and a passion to connect ― these are the essentials to succeed in every one of these professions. Throw in a temperament that thrives on challenges and you end up with a career that is exciting and diverse. And here I am as a novelist, enjoying the freedom to create my own world, a world without end! Apart from the multiple roles that you have played professionally, tell us more about Usha Narayanan the person. I have lived for the most part in Chennai, earlier known as Madras, and in Honolulu, Hawaii where I did a writing course. I love books, travel and animals and have two opinionated cats. One message that you would like to give to your readers here. Keep reading, introduce others to books, and tell us what you like or don’t like. Remember, it is only your response that gives meaning to our work. Like Yeats, we spread our dreams under your feet. ‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’

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A huge thank you for sparing some of your precious time to be here today. We would also like to wish you all the best for all your future endeavours.

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:Intro: Five pretty girls from around the country are enjoying college life in Chennai, chasing their own dreams until a psychopath comes to town, killing girls and dumping their bodies in the rivers. The killer is smart, dangerous and very angry. Just like Vir Pradyumna, ace criminologist from New York, who is fighting his own demons from the past. Ruthless politicians, bumbling cops, beer barons and cyber criminals run amuck. The killer snatches a girl whom Vir has sworn to protect. A Hollywood action crew and the crowds at the India-Australia cricket onedayer get sucked into the relentless buildup to a nailbiting climax. Will Vir be in time to stop the maniac and save the girl? Watch the gripping trailer of the book with some spooky music here: http://youtube.com/writerusha

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: Book Review: 1. Cover: The cover page is captivating. With the image of a girl’s dead body it surely makes a reader sit up and take notice of it enough to grab it the next moment for reading. 2. Presentation: The author for a debutant has done a commendable job in terms of presentation. Mystery, suspense and thriller as a genre requires a lot of homework and the author has done it perfectly. 3. Narration: It is gripping – as required for any mystery novel. 4. Characters: The main characters are pretty well defined and easily connectable, though the story also has many other side characters who sometimes feel out of place in the plot. 5. Plot: This is where the author scores a 5 on 5. Excellent plot, gripping and nail biting to the end. Not one dull moment throughout the book for the reader. 6. Storyline: The storyline is well knit with the requisite ups and downs as the plot needs it. The author has managed to grab the reader’s attention from the first line of the novel till the end. The way author has added light moments sprinkled with liberal doses of light

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hearted humour this one surely makes a thoroughly enjoyable read. The climax is the show stealer. Edge of the seat thriller –definitely! 7. Story flow: The author has spoken about many issues at the same time in the story which some might find intriguing while some might find distracting. WE team found it immensely impressive for the way the author managed to merge all into one and yet create a very strong story line. 8. Language: Easy to understand, connectable and lucid. 9. Pros: The pro has to be its plot – very strong and captivating to the last word. 10. Cons: The only con is the climax. Though it is well done for a debutant, someone who reads thrillers a lot would notice that it somehow feels a bit hurried.

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: Overview: The overall rating for the book would be 4.5/5 solely for the storyline and narrative. A must read for all thriller and mystery lovers for the beauty of its narration. WE would like to THANK the author for sending across her book for review and wishes her all the best for all her future endeavours.

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Just another page from a diary by Abhijit Nambiar 16th December 2013 It was one of those spanner like item, which they use to tighten the nuts of tires of a heavy vehicle, conveniently “T” shaped rod whose distinctive shape was used to perfection to accomplish a ghastly ordeal, giving the phrase “fit someone to a T” a disgustingly new meaning. It was a lethal blow right on the center of my head, all I remember was the bone crushing pain it induced. Then it was a buzz, a disgustingly irritating buzz like that of an ambulance or a police jeep siren, little did I know that these two vehicles will play an important role in the coming years of my life filled with repentance. How I wish I had never survived the appalling torment. The ruthless, cold- blooded bastards would have never contemplated that the very rod with which they were parading their supremacy would come to haunt them for the rest of their ill deserved life. It was a rod that shook the country, it was a blow that stirred the conscience of citizens of our “independent democracy” and above all it was a night that acted as a spark in igniting a war, which the fairer sex fought for their emancipation against an apathetic administration.

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Sadly, it needed a sacrifice - a gruesome, merciless sacrifice which deprived the parents of their loving daughter, the little young brothers of their protective sister, and for me a friend who taught me how to smile in spite of the innumerable odds she was pitted against, a friend who became the darling of the entire nation, a friend whose fighting spirit and resilience henceforth shall be an exemplary influence whom the whole of female kind shall look up to. A year went by but the agony still haunts me to date, it left me with all kinds of strange paranoia. Today, I had to take the same dreaded fly over and I was on a bus. Instantly there was a sense of déjà vu. I felt uneasy, in spite of the chilling Delhi cold, my palms started to sweat, my heart started beating faster, I felt I couldn't breathe, as though something was shoved into my wind pipe (another phobia of mine). Panic struck me like a bolt of lightning, I was this close to shrieking my guts out, I wanted to ask the bus driver to stop; I just wanted to get out of the damned bus. It was then that I heard the voice: "Don't budge...Face your fears. You can do this for me."

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I recognized the voice; it was a voice that could stir a thousand emotions in me. If the warmth in her voice stirred up my affection, the wailing agony of her voice stirred all the pent up rage and remorse left inside me, sadly...that’s how I last heard her!! "Move on" she tells me, but how? I can't concentrate on my work, I am lost and dazed half of the time, innumerable visits to the shrink (he was the one who wanted me to write a diary) but I still quiver at the thought of taking a girl out; I still get nightmares about the incident and have spent sleepless nights having a dialogue with my conscience. Could I have saved her? Could I have done something different to overpower those goons for whose inhuman deeds can’t be described in a word, because it’s yet to be coined? Could she still have been alive fighting for her rights, if it weren't for me? My life right now is surrounded by all the repentance; I wish I had answers for the questions thrown at me by my resentful conscience. Wish someone could see the other side of all this, it wasn't one but two lives that they have destroyed that day. While you my friend, the most resilient of us, have settled down among the angels, I am stuck here with the devils that shall continue to haunt me, but I shan't let you down. Wish I could move on….

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Author’s Bio: Abhijit Nambiar is a vivid reader and a very moody blogger who in his full time job as a business consultant makes money out of dishing advises to businesses on how to run their businesses. He's not specific to any genre when it comes to reading or writing. He is a big fan of Stieg Larson, David Mitchell, and HBO style drama's kind of writing, where the characters are explored in detail and drive the story forward. Someday he would like to write his own book or write screenplays for TV. He can be reached at abhijitnambiar.sitm@gmail.com Editor’s comments: This one surely results into goose bumps.

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The Mask by Murli Melwani I must have been about eight years old then, or nine.... maybe ten. Mrs. Gian Chand would strut into our dingy house, turning up her nose at the smell of cooking which pervaded the house. Mother was forever in the kitchen. Mr. Gian Chand, an engineer with the federal Public Works Department was posted to our little hill town of H. The only reason why Mrs. Gian Chand socialized with my mother was because Kapurthala in far away Punjab was hometown to her, just as it was to my mother. Of course, they didn’t remember ever having met in Kapurthala. They did not share anything else, except this common link. My mother was the wife of a petty shopkeeper. She wore nothing except cotton salwar kameezes. Mrs. Gian Chand on the other hand wore silk saris which were of the latest fashion. Her hair was always blowdried. She spoke of the parties she went to and the amusing varieties of people she met there, always talking highly of her husband. He knew all the influential people in

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the town. Top shots in the government consulted him. Even the Prime Minister’s office called him from New Delhi. Mrs. Gian Chand gave examples to prove how good her husband was. Whenever he went on tour he always brought back some little present, a sari, a pair of slippers, and a shawl. He refused to see movies she didn’t think were worth seeing. My mother, open-jawed, absorbed all this. She related it to father and us, the children, the next morning at tea. Morning was the only time when we six were together- father, mother, three sisters, and I. Mother cooked paranthas over a charcoal fire while we sat expectantly, and hungrily, with empty plates and cups. She talked as she flattened the dough, slapped it once between her palms and flung it on the hot girdle. Father listened to everything in silence. Father did not think much of Gian Chand or his wife. His reason: neither husband nor wife had bought a yard of cloth from his store. Shortly afterwards mother began to taunt Father. Here was a man who knew how to look after his wife. And

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Father? He was someone who treated his wife like a slave. All he cared for was his shop, the amount of sales, the number of customers that came during the day. Did he ever take her to the movies? Had he ever asked her whether there was a special piece of clothing she required? One morning Father lost his temper and a quarrel followed. Mother shrieked that she worked, worked and worked, like an ox that was blindfolded in the morning and went round and round the same confined space. Father exasperatedly asked what he should do to please her. “Whenever I ask you go to the movie, you say, the actor is a wimp. Or the songs are not good or the dances too fast?” Also didn’t he have in his shop all that they wanted? Why patronize the competition? Mrs. Gian Chand dropped in that evening. I thought mother would talk about the quarrel with Father. But she didn’t and the next morning she related to us all the new stories Mrs. Gian Chand had told her. Father quietly nodded, as usual, and like us waited for a steaming parantha to be set on his plate.

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My mother and Mrs. Gian Chand had developed a habit of exchanging dishes, of sending each other a sample of any delicacy they may have prepared. I was always my mother’s bearer. One day mother had cooked chola-bhatura. She wrapped a packet and asked me to take it to Mrs. Gian Chand. Mrs. Gian Chand’s house was so big that I had to cross three big rooms before I came to hers. All the rooms were expensively furnished, with rich curtains, pictures, clocks and glass almirahs. Mrs. Gian Chand lay on a bed reading a magazine. Her face was hidden in it. Her hair was undone and stood out like an unkempt halo. She was wearing a bright red gown “Be-ji,” I said tentatively She lowered her magazine suddenly. I saw that her eyes were wet. She wiped her eyes with her arm in one quick gesture. I hesitatingly explained why I had come. She told me to put the packet on a table nearby. She looked at the magazine and started sniffing.

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I stood looking at her, wondering what I should do. If it was Mother, I’d have gone, put my arm around and asked why she was sad. A moment later, she said, “This story.” She laid the magazine on the bed, motioned me to come closer and pointed out an illustration in bright yellow and red. It showed a pretty woman standing behind a man, leaning her head against his shoulder. She began crying. “It’s written by a woman, she must have suffered as - like ...” Her voice trailed off. “Why must you cry?” I asked, puzzled, “No, no,” she replied weakly her tears. “The woman in the story, she is married to a very rich man. She has everything, servants, and a big house. She has the best clothes in the world. But her husband does not care for her. He comes home late. He doesn’t talk much to her. The woman has to tell many lies for his sake, so that people don’t pity her.” Her body shook with her sobs. I stood rooted to the ground. “Go away, go away,” she cried in her queerly pitched voice. I was frightened and ran out of the house. A few days later she called on mother. She

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strutted in; twisting her nose and grimacing because of the smell of cooking that filled the house. Author’s bio - Murli Melwani’s short stories have been published in magazines in various countries, including U.S.A, Hong Kong and India. Two of his stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, in 2012 and 2013. A few have been included in anthologies, including Stories from Asia: Major Writers from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh (Longman Imprint Books, U.K), RACCONTI dall’ INDIA. (Oscar Mondodori/Italy). He is the author of a collection of short stories: Stories of a Salesman. His book of criticism, Themes in the Indian Short Story in English: An Historical and a Critical Survey was published in 2009 to favorable reviews. http://indoenglishstories.blogspot.com He can be reached at murli@unigain.net Editor’s Comments: Simple yet heart-touching story of a harsh reality of life.

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That thing called Hope by Saranya Iyer It was Ten A.M. Standing in the bus line; she was reading a set of financial papers. “Madam, Could you please go inside the bus?” shouted a fellow who stood behind her. Hurriedly, dumping her papers inside the Gucci Hand purse, she ventured inside and stood quietly. It was a bright sunny day of October in Mumbai. People were facing a tough time with the heat that transition period offered and Lathika had to face another Interview. Today was just like any other day for her. Since last eight months, she was just prepping herself for the group discussion, personal interviews, series of interview rounds which followed, telephonic rounds, aptitude tests etc. Every odd interview she went, she thought she will make it anyhow. She pulled all the stops to succeed the interview but the truth is she did not. She had to make two hours of travelling to and fro to attend the interview sometimes. All she wanted to try and try to get in somehow. Hello, please take me through your CV.

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Lathika smiled and gave her entire background, work life experiences, challenges that she faced and overcame. It was not a tough attempt for her. The flow was as easy as if she had recited her CV. It spoke of her experience, the experience of giving multiple interviews. Before the interviewer could ask, she was aware what would be the next question. Strengths, weaknesses, reason for leaving the job, the company profile, current CTC, expected CTC, notice period and blah blah blah. Would you be able to handle the pressure the job will offer? What she would answer? She did not know if she could handle that pressure or not but the pressure which every company provided in the form of not giving her feedbacks was what she was handling it efficiently. After 30-40 minutes of discussion, the manager asked her to wait in the lobby for feedback. If you talk about ‘wait’, Lathika is very good in handling that. As she waited after each round patiently to know what exactly the feedback is, what went wrong, when would be the next HR call. After following up with them, ultimately she had to wait. Lathika gave a nod and waited in the lobby.

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As she was reading the outlook magazine, she saw a healthy girl carrying heavy back bag. She smiled at Lathika and asked her how the interview went. In an instant, you could make out that the girl was fresher. Lathika quickly told her the series of questions that the interviewer asked her and came back to her magazine. It was close to one hour that she waited outside the interview room. She asked twice to the receptionist about the feedback but did not get any answer. Lathika distracted herself thinking about the pending work that she had to do for her wedding. It was just 2 months remaining for her wedding and she had to finish several tasks. And then when she closed the outlook, a tall HR lady walked in. She was wearing high heels, tight formals with a dark brown lipstick. “HR and its flamboyancy”, Lathika thought. She told Lathika to carry on and they will call with the feedback after evaluating few people. Lathika was frustrated, angry but at the same time she did not wanted her day to go bad. She smiled again to that HR lady and walked out. Now elevator teased her by

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making her wait for another 10 minutes. It was eighth floor and she was helpless. She gave a sigh and waited. The Bus came to a halt. The driver shouted ‘ Kalina ‘ twice. Lathika‘s stop came. So was her interview venue. She jumped from the bus and thought this time she will make it somehow. It was a new day with lot of hopes, aspirations and dreams. She entered the plush office with a smile on her face. Entering her name on the register, she sat on the first floor meeting room. Yes, she was asked to wait. Author’s Bio: Saranya Iyer is MBA in Marketing who loves reading and writing. After having worked in the corporate for 5 years, she quit her job and stepped into her passion and started working as a lecturer of academics and Spanish language. An ardent fan of Jane Austen, her works never stop to amaze her. She is one of the co – authors of a book named ‘The plantain leaf’ which is based on short stories from South India. In her spare time, she loves listening to music and spending time with my family. She can be reached at saranya311@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: At times in life hope if the only thing we are left with.

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Is your Mind at Play? By Nishima Avasthi Mind games are generally thought provoking games or applications available online and in market so as to train minds but there are lots of People who play mind games in real life also so as to influence other's mind and take stock. The basic motive behind playing the same is to preserve one's prestige and get the things done, as desired. It can be played at home or may be at official and professional front. It is assumed that women play more mind games but actually it cannot be generalized gender wise. The woman can play to seek attention while a man can play to gain position or recognition. The play can be with your Boss, Superiors, Peers, Frenemies, Blood Relatives, Life Partner or Inlaws. This causes a Tug of war in silence. It's a kind of close encounter between the good and bad, between the right and wrong, between the heart and mind, however what is good or fair for one is immoral and unfair for the other. It's all in viewpoint. There is nothing wrong, right or permanent. Situation continues till one accepts the viewpoint of the other either being convinced or forced depending on the

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priorities, situation, emotional or mental status. Till then the tussle continues. Life becomes exam and situations or relations become the game of chess, where every decision, act and move of yours is going to change the scenario in favour or against. It can turn the table the other side, anytime. It’s going to impact one's future, which can be good or bad. Playing games is like a power game and relation becomes like that with a competitor. The desired goal is to have a winning competitive advantage over other. Sometimes it is challenging to remain untouched with the adversities of the surroundings or emotions, created purposefully by the dominant to create pressure. One's time and soul tasting time is to face this and pass the rough phase patiently. The real upbringing and one's strength is tested during these times. A good upbringing is one where any individual can face the music with patience and able to act sensible without disturbing the self or harming others in any manner. It can be done by tactfully suppressing or getting merged with the present, depending on personality types.

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The benefits of playing mind games are that your skills of arguing convincingly, logical reasoning, uninterrupted discussions and reverse strategies formation get honed. So basically the control over situation and people develops while the biggest loss is that during the whole process the sensitivity to feelings or emotions die gradually and a human transforms to a machine with every increased step of playing mind games in a long run. The Individual fails to connect with emotional requirements of home, family, work or society and so the disconnect develops. A vacuum is created in the sphere of Emotional wellbeing, making an individual aloof and unfit for the society. Thereby, any mind game is good till it enhances the intellectual side of a mind to a certain extent but if crosses the line, it weakens our bonding and mutual trust is lost. If it affects self or lives of our loved ones, it becomes harmful and should be avoided. Instead, focus should be made in effective communication in sensitive cases as winning Hearts is better than losing relations. Author’s Bio: Nishima, a self-driven and a go-getter, works with a renowned Financial Organization in Mumbai. Her job deals with processes, Operations and people. Most of the time is spent on Number Crunching Excel sheets. She loves to write, paint, cook and; play

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with her little daughter at home and occasionally dabbles with photography. Music and; Movies are her biggest passion. She can be reached at nishiema@gmail.com Editor’s Comment: An article that will make you think, a lot.

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Wisteria

Mysterious purple white wisteria Vines of flowery grapes gem mate On branches wrapping tree trunks Wisteria enormous moon blooms delirious. Wild mild wisteria wondrous Aromas falling idly from ferns Winding wandering through winds. Wisteria purple white mysterious Lisping whispering softly luminous As raindrops sparkle upon blossoms Enormous wisteria star lights delirious.

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Author’s Bio: Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications. She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. Poet and Geek recognized her work as their best poem of 2013. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses and she has three e-book titles. She can be reached at poetryjoan@statetel.com. Editor’s Comments: Celebrating the beauty of nature in a profound manner.

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Reflections by Alokita Jha

Mirror on the wall gives me a strange look A thousand impressions and little perceptions I can see rumination of mine Past is glued somewhere as a reflection of me, so fine! Mirror on the wall gives me a strange look Few reminiscence of my childhood memories, Stare through the glass I can hear a giggling voice of mine Somewhere as a reflection of me, so fine! Mirror on the wall gives me a strange look Slender impressions of my adolescence I can see those sparkling eyes of mine Somewhere as a reflection of me, so fine! Mirror on the wall gives me a strange look

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Few burdens of my middle age draw lines on my forehead, I can feel the stress as I touch this look of mine Somewhere as a reflection of me, so fine Mirror on the wall gives me a strange look Speculates impressions of me as it is I can see the past, present and future of mine Somewhere as a reflection of me, so fine! Author’s Bio: Give her a word and she'll stretch it into a story. Give her an emotion and she may make a whole movie revolving around it. Alokita loves scribbling anything and everything knocking her mind. A hardcore feminist, she is an undergraduate Psychology student. She can be reached at alokitajha@gmail.com Editor’s Comment: This poem defines life in the most perfect manner.

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An Arduous Squeal..!! by Lokesh Chauhan

Slogging for many a months, saving dollars for my tour, The destination I had always dreamt of, suddenly failed to lure. For long, the India I knew, was about its heritage and traditions, Though the recent episodes only strengthened my inhibitions. The colleagues of mine returning from India, narrate a sordid tale, Was once a land of affectionate people, who no longer prevail?

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The Streets are desolated and the nights have turned eerie, With a thousand eyes preying on you, venturing alone is scary Each passing day unveils severe atrocities on the foreign resident, The situation nowhere seems to improve, with the rationale apparently evident.

Today, it calls for a meticulous transformation in changing its face, To revive the lost faith in women, across the globe, with grace. Disclaimer: The above write-up is composed in regards to the latest unfortunate incidents in our Country rendering the female community highly unsafe..!! Author Bio: Lokesh Chauhan is an avid writer of poems on various situations. He loves to meet people from diverse backgrounds and make friends with them. He can be reached at lokesh0186@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: A pitiable state of our country, described in a profound manner.

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Turning the pages of life by Anukriti Jain Gazing at my not so good looking features in the mirror, criticizing my looks for not being the perfect ones, myself not being the epitome of personified purity. Sipping the tea from the cup of life and contemplating how trivial issues could affect our lives. Few days back, I was walking through the dingy lanes of the Seemapuri slums, lined up with ill lit houses with rickety doors and windows. I was simply trying to feel the trauma and hardships, rag pickers living in the slums would be facing every single minute, trying to embrace their pain knowing that it is simply impossible to undergo the same nightmarish dream they are living in. Suddenly my eyes captured something, something unusual, out of all dull faces, a face so vibrant. An encounter with the sunshine: Few days back, I met a little girl, her smile was as serene as white. Talking to her, completely mesmerized by the vivaciousness, she imparted. Her passion towards life was simply surreal.

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Instead of being enslaved in the chains of drudgery and poverty, there was not even a sign of sigh on her petite face (maiden smiling). Her bright enrapturing smile could let every person to forget all the problems and to wear that smile even in atrocious situations. Getting completely engrossed in conversation with maiden: Me: what is your name? (The girl having a spark in her beautiful eyes trying to say lot more than life) Girl: Chahat (I was thinking how apt is her name. She can inspire anyone to breathe in the air of aspirations.) Me: Do you like chocolates? Chahat replied she cannot eat sweet (medical problem). Her answer left me in despair. (She was still smiling) Me: So, you like to go to school? Chahat: I don’t go to school. I was disappointed at that moment. I was still looking at her face trying to express myriad feelings. Me: So, what do you like to play? Chahat: I don’t have time to play as I have to do household chores. (I was in excruciating pain). The teardrop, which had been dwelling in my eyes from so long, could not hold the strands of my eyes any Longer. Teardrops were parting their way down my eye lashes (overflow of emotions).

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Meeting Chahat and listening to her saga left me thinking that how we get sad about trivial matters. We must take inspiration from Chahat, who is combating every moment for her survival (still with a smile on her cute face). I visited most gloomy part of Delhi but that this incident created an imprint on my heart. It has given me so much, a moment of ecstasy my city has given to me. That was a beautiful encounter with life. I could still see smile in her eyes. This is a very emotional moment for me and is letting me to turn the page of my crinkly book of life. We should take pleasure of each and every precious moment bestowed upon us by our city and feel the aesthetic effect.

Author’s Bio: Anukriti currently works as a content writer and creator for various online magazines apart from being a freelancing writer for different websites. In her spare time she also works as an intern for NGO (Touch India Trust) and can be read at http://magazinemidas.blogspot.in/ She can be reached at anukritijain13@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: A touching anecdote that redefines the beauty of life.

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Innocence by Sridevi Nayak K Story behind the Photograph: This picture was clicked when I visited a fair during January of this year. I wanted to experiment with my photography skills so I took my DSLR along with me. Whilst I was busy capturing the myriad of colours and people in the fair, a child who had her face packed with ice cream, was constantly waiting for her chance to get lensed. I noticed her later when I covered the camera with lense cover. However, she was constantly looking towards my camera thinking she is finally getting her chance of limelight. she was continuously smiling wide and showing off variegated pose for the picture. I was awed by her gesture and I had to take her picture. In a jiffy I switched on my camera and started lensing her. Such a graceful kid! Author’s Bio: An ardent reader, night sky admirer, A bibliophile, A perennial learner, An avid blogger who likes to record her memories and her observation of things around her who aspires to have a career in publishing and completing a PhD in Corporate

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Communication. She can sridevi11790@gmail.com

be

Editor’s Comments: Innocence replenished with joy of being one.

reached

of

at

childhood

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A New Beginning by Gayatri Aptekar “Haven’t you packed your bags yet?” Abhay yelled, throwing my clothes towards me. “I won’t, until you answer my questions”, I yelled back. “Some questions are better left unanswered, as your heart wouldn’t have the capacity to handle the truth, so better leave, now”, he replied. The stillness in his voice surprised me. For a moment, I felt as if I was standing in front of a stranger. How could he abandon me like this? The whole world came crashing down and I felt helpless. I wanted to yell back but, I held myself and tried to be calm. “Let us talk it out”, I suggested. “Nimisha, I said leave. I’ve had enough and I can’t handle it anymore. It’s all over, leave”, he replied, this time stressing the word, leave with a stern voice. I opened, the olive green colour wardrobe, which we had purchased after two months of search. His clothes were neatly arranged just as his thoughts were. And my clothes were strewn away, just as the chaos in my mind.

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I placed all the clothes on the bed and sat there, wondering what to do. It was the same bed that was a witness to many passionate nights. I folded the clothes and put them into the suitcase. Cosmetics, watches, dairies, the stationery, everything that was mine in the house, I put them in the small handbag. One last time I stared at the wall where, we had painted the traditional Warli houses, plants and couples dancing. They stared back at me. The alarm clock on the bedside table, was asking me to stay. But what choices did I have, but to leave the house that I had made my home for the past two years. I had to leave and that too immediately, such was his pressure and such were his words, full of venom. I entered the elevator and the journey from the 12th floor to the ground floor, seemed like a long one, with images from the past, dancing in front of me, like an endless movie show. Those stolen glances, kisses and naughty pranks and the moment I thought of all those moments, a smile erupted on my lips, maybe just for a millisecond and then all I could hear were his words piercing every bit of my soul. “Get out of my life, you characterless woman”, he had yelled.

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Was I really a characterless woman? Why did it have to end like this? I noticed my thoughts were playing a Question Answer session, with a million questions bombarding at the same time, only to be left with silence, a screaming silence. After what seemed like an eternity, I was out of the building. I turned with a feeble hope in my heart that maybe he will be there standing near the window, maybe he would stop me, but he was not there. Even tears refused to flow. I caught a rickshaw and headed towards the station. I reached the station and Nikhil was there, as promised waiting for me. Perhaps the first time, he had kept his promise. “I am glad you are back”, he smiled. “Hmmm”, I replied, but I couldn’t stop noticing his teary eyes. As I turned towards the ticket window, he held my hand to my surprise. “I have the tickets Nimi, let’s go to Marine Drive”, he said. I couldn’t believe this. Whenever, I was depressed or felt lonely, Marine Drive was my solace. Right from

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college days, this place has helped me to elude the everyday challenges. We reached Churchgate station, in an hour and walked towards the ocean. The cool breeze soothed my aching heart. I sat there, observing the waves that hit the rock, persistently. For a moment, I felt like just jumping into the ocean and once for all; end my life, but then, over the years, I had learnt to fight every single battle of life and to my surprise I had survived and even won all of those. Then, how come today, I could quit...? I would not. “Here, have some ice-cream”, said Nikhil. “Thanks”, I replied. I saw a new Nikhil today, caring, understanding or maybe, I had failed to notice him all these years. I didn’t know what it was, but I was feeling comfortable in his presence. As my thoughts wandered, analyzing everything that happened in the past 5 years, tears, finally flowed. I cried to my heart’s content and Nikhil didn’t stop me either. We headed towards my new home in a cab, after two hours. It was a Saturday, and the roads were clear. As

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we reached there, I noticed the name-plate on the door, “Ms. Nimisha Joshi”. It was my maiden name. Maybe Nikhil read my mind. “We had our share of differences and our marriage didn’t work. In the past two years, I’ve realized my mistakes, and I want you back in my life as my wife. However, I don’t want you to rush into any decision. Take your time.” He replied and handed over the keys to me. “Thank you Nikhil for the support”, I replied. “No matter what you decide, just remember, I shall always be there for you”, he smiled, closing the door. Over the years, I’ve just been jumping from one relationship to another. To overcome the loneliness of a break-up I would end up in a new relationship, maybe for the wrong reasons. I searched love everywhere around me, but failed to recognize that, love was within me. This was a time for self-introspection and Nikhil’s words gave a new hope. The twinkle in his eyes, spoke volumes and I knew that he meant what he said. For the first time in my life, I felt somebody actually cared for me. I stood by the window and he turned back. We

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exchanged smiles and my heart knew it is a new beginning!

Author’s Bio: What do you get when you cross a creative and fun loving bibliophile with an NLP Practitioner? Ask Gayatri Aptekar, who is one of those rare breeds. When she’s not counseling students, couples (yes, couples!) and individuals about how to take their life to next level, she can be found “Outside the Kitchen Window”, wielding her magical wand to pen her thoughts, poems, fictitious stories, mouth-tingling recipes and book reviews. Along with all these creative adventures, she also finds solace in cooking, dancing and clicking pictures. And when she gets a little free time, she chooses to be a home-maker and a mother. She can be reached at gs.aptekar84@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: A wonderful reminder that every end did not mean the end to the road, it could be a sharp bend on the road of life.

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Midway by Parvathy Shifting was never an easy task. With a broken heart, it was even more tedious. With tears gushing down her cheeks, she piled up her clothes in the travel case. A final sigh and she was ready to move. Dragging along the hefty luggage and an even heftier heart, she descended the stairs slowly. It was her desire to have the staircase wall adorned with their photographs. She had them hung as in a timeline. The oldest ones at the bottom and moving each stair up meant cherishing the memories of a new chapter of their life. But then who had time to stand and stare at pictures? They all cling on to the wall, dust laden, and craving for a fond glance from someone. Ah! Now but she had time. With each moment monotonously long, she now had time. Their final picture together - beneath the old tree where they had always met. Eyes portraying a million shades of love, the memoir of their second anniversary. It was in the days followed that everything had changed. Drifted apart they had slowly, or were they, even before they knew of it? Silence stood between

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them as a poignant third person and it changed everything. One step down and their wedding photograph smiled at her. But that smile grieved her even more. What of all the hurdles they together had surpassed to have their families smiling on their day? Was that struggle for happiness too futile to have end up like this? Her eyes stared blankly at the beaming faces. Then the proposal -The idea of living her life backwards vexed her rather painfully. He was kneeling on with the ring and she stood their half smiling and half crying. She had found it hard to explain the tears of happiness to him. But real joy was when he gifted her, this picture on their wedding day. Until then she never knew that the moment too, was captured! This was her favourite picture of theirs, taken during the college arts fest drama. It was on the stage, being his Juliet her heart had first skipped a beat for him. She knew then, she was in love.

He didn't want all this happen to them. He too cursed the third person between. He could hear her upstairs. Packing she must be. Her swollen eyes he could never bare to even think of. Giving no time to thoughts, he

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decided to go to her and talk. May be things would then get back to normal. But then, that was when he actually gave time to the old photographs hung on the stair case wall. He hadn't ever understood why she wanted them hung there, in the timeline fashion. The first picture had both of them crawling on knees. She was as beautiful as now even then. The toddlers were but unlike now, innocent. And words spoken and unspoken never meant anything. Here she was in her favourite Cinderella gown and he was pulling her pony tail. The picture taken at an old family get together brought in memories of the then, credulous life. Was he in love with her all the while? He thought to himself. Next up was what she had called coming to age photograph. With the zealous air of adolescence, she had posed naively, Hijab clad, with him. And his bare chest showed off his sacred thread. The only picture that reflected their differences, but the secret glow in his eyes always had told him that the moment had been special.

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This was the picture he loved the most. All the while in college they had been together. But that day he was her Romeo. And then for the first ever time in life he had known what it was to be in love.

Their eyes met and tears then did all the speaking and somewhere between, melted the stoic bridge of silence. Together they were meant to be and a deep hug was all it took for them to acknowledge it. Mid stairs they found the key to their happiness. Above any bliss of words, beneath the shade of love. Beyond the meum and tuums, a world of their own. Author’s bio: Parvathy, a girl of 18, hails from Thiruvananthapuram in Kerala. With a deep passion for writing, she give words to her innate thoughts at her personal blog http://silentdrizzle-parvathy.blogspot.in. She has her world pivoting around her brother, pen and music and can be reached at parvathy296@gmail.com Editor’s comment: A walk down the memory lane.

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Her Rebirth By Viditi Bhargava It had been an exhausting day for me, as usual. Another big deal was waiting to be concluded. Everything was done. Most of staff had already left except some, who were on their extra shift, and my secretary. I looked up at the clock, 7.00 pm. My mother face flashed in my mind. I sighed as I recalled my mother’s words," Come back early today, I am making Dosa for you". She had come to my three- bedroom-hallow-apartment after almost seven years. But I couldn't make it to leave early. A tide of anger rose and fall inside me as my contemplation shifted from my mother’s woeful eyes to some documents on my desk that required my authorization. In a bid to release some steam I rose my chair and moved to the window and gazed at the down pour outside for few minutes before drawing the curtains to veil the diamond rain drops falling to dissolve on my cabin's windowpane. I ordered a steaming hot coffee, took a stroll around the cabin and finally again sat on my chair. But something inside me was unsettled. I let my eyes wander around my cluttered table when the small business card caught my attention, "Umeedh Bhavan, an orphanage”. In my ears the words of lady,

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from the orphanage that came for some donation stuff, was reverberating," There are many children without mother and many mothers without children, Ms. Megha".

My cell phone buzzed. I saw my best friend picture smiling within the frame bounded by that calling ring. As soon as I picked up the call, She started scolded me like she used to do when we were in college and I have forgot her birthday. A smile ran on my otherwise stubborn face but as she continued with her talks, I felt getting detached. Her voices were turning into a rattle with every bit of my strangling thoughts. It seemed hard to continue the conversation so I ended it abruptly with an easy excuse knowing that it would hurt her and me too. As I sat propping my head on my hands, peon knocked to place my coffee on the table. I looked at the clock

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again, 7.45 pm. I was still couldn’t drag myself away from my desk to go home. Then, my secretary entered and told me that she's leaving. I, hastily, said yes and tried to sign the papers that I needed to handover to her. In the haste to sign it, I spilled the hot coffee all over the documents and I instantly yelled, "Shit! Papers!". She, with a bizarre expression on her face asked," Don't you love yourself?" I felt like the floor beneath me has faced an earthquake. I shivered and a cold sweat drenched me. I could hear the rain falling outside. "Don't worry Ma'am, I will print another copy", she continued after an awkward silence. Completely shaken by her words, I replied, "its okay, you may go now, and it’s already late". She replied politely" Thanks Ma'am and take care of the burn". Her words made me aware of the burn. But the burns were not the only hurt I received . Her comment, ” Don’t you love yourself?”, stung me even more. The last time I had endured such anguish was when, Seven years ago......

"Mom, I want this child" brimming confidence "Don't be mad, we have a society to answer" shrugs

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"Is society more important than your child's child?" An unanswered question "Yes, when your child's father has left you and you're too young" voice trembles "But my child is innocent and I am still here for it!" Strong words "Megha, Don't forget I’m your mother" Voice reaching its height "And I will be a mother!" Words trying to win

"Megha......" Slap A mother triumphed over a mother to be. With the conversation that day, I lost my child and a part of myself. From that day, my life took a harsh turn where I was like a machine which couldn't feel anything so as not to feel the pain and guilt. I never blamed my mother or that man as they did their part but the one who didn't was me.

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I picked up the visiting card and "What’s stopping me now?", I asked myself. "Exactly, nothing", the reply came. Then I opened my laptop but this time to follow my heart. It’s a long time that I again felt my lost thrill. I looked at my burn and smiled as it has extinguished a burn within. My fingers trembled from excitement as I typed the website address. And my renowned typing speed turned surprisingly slow like it’s was my first try at typing. The time it took to load made my heart to throb. And then, I finally the moment arrived when I clicked on "Adopt A Child".

Five years later.....

"Tie your seat belt, Khush" Mom, Chaya said I wrote it wrong but I didn't. See" "What Khushi?" "My homework diary, Mom" "What? Gimme then" I felt like thousands of crackers were bursting in the sky. I felt a missing contentment to finally accomplish me as I read the details filled by my daughter on the first page,

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Mother's Name: Ms.Megha Sharma Father's Name: Ms.Megha Sharma I pulled my daughter into a tight hug, "It’s correct, Khushi". I wiped away my tears on my sleeve still hugging my daughter." Author’s Bio: Viditi Bhargava is an engineering student passionate about writing, mainly short stories and poems. She is an avid reader, painter, dreamer, narcissist and a tea addict with a good sense of humour. She is also the author of her creative blog: http://viditibhargava.blogspot.in She can be reached at bviditi.93@gmail.com Editor’s Comment: A mother makes a child and at times a child makes a mother.

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Deaf Mamma turns Geek by Shweta Chooramani A just born infant is akin to a newly assembled computer worked upon diligently for 9 months. So, technically, the delivered product is good to see and touch, can be collectively called hardware. Software, on the other hand, refers to the instructions, or programs, that tell the hardware what to do. Oblivious of this fact, the delighted couple is nothing but happy looking at the brightness of LCD monitor (read fairness/weight of the baby) for several days, weeks and months until its in a hibernation mode (first 3-6 months). Gradually, with the kind of attention this newly assembled bundle is receiving, the tantrums (passing baton from raising toast to raising IT ticket to helpdesk) is already knocking at the door. If yours is a listed MNC (joint family), you may have an effective in-house backend IT support (your mother /inlaw) else for those taking pride in their an entrepreneurial skills (shuns conventional ways of troubleshooting), living miles away from centralized

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helpdesk and head quarter, please get ready for dooms day. And when flaunting of your little bundle is over, the technical glitch surfaces, "No Software Found". And you wonder how many kilos ghee, badaam, khajur, pista and what not you have gulped down, then why God has been so mean in giving some more bytes of RAM and ROM. But don't we just click on "I Agree" without ever reading terms and conditions. Similarly, you wanted a child and pheww here it is in the hands, you child illiterate - who does know how to boot it, but then just keep staring at the blank monitor, CPU crying for gripe water ;p The bad bug doesn't end there. When you go for lunch with your friends, you find all carrying their newly born bio gizmos. Then, starts the never ending comparison of configurations, what operating system (massage oil, food, nappy, formula or no formula), which antivirus (vaccines, when, which paed, how much cost), is there drive segmentation (duties divided between mom and dad), how is the power backup (sleeps at night), dolby sound, video quality (started babbling, turning around, crawling) , accessories bought (pram, high chair, toys, walker etc), customer support (availability and access to mother/mother in law), service centers (marking

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daycares, crèches) and how many certifications you have got(chhhati, namakaran, annaprasan, mundan) !

The irony is, there are classes for dumb natives to become digital natives, but none to become child native. Alas! More so, if your lifestyle and arrangement with your spouse is more like F.R.I.E.N.D.S. (FARENDS), then this joint investment make you go begging for Angel Investors. A little big boss is bossing around with no software and you are looking out of the window like I did during maths exams and CPMT and so many other entrance exams...forget it. In a week, our cute little bio gizmos will be one year and the consultancy partners are fighting over attributing good quality chip (genes) to their clan and the difficult to handle ones to their sasural side, how predictable ! Goodnight, let me check on my power back up and whether the drive segmentation is working fine.

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Author Bio: Alongside being a fulltime mother, Deaf Mamma fulfils her love for writing by contributing to a number of blogs. Previously, she has worked for 8 years in the international NGO and corporate sectors. When not listening to nursery rhymes, she freelances for public health, disability, education, corporate social responsibility, social audits, community development and rehabilitation projects. Her personal blogs can be read at http://sinhasat302.blogspot.in/ She can be reached at shweta.chooramani@gmail.com Editor’s comments: The little things of life that spell JOY.

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Believe in Yourself by Hima Mehta Happened to meet one distance relative yesterday, went there to look at his health as have come to know that he is not feeling well since long and have visited hospitals, ICUs since last week. A self made person with such a loving family and professionally double graduate candidate who works as a principal of well known higher secondary school has had a sudden attack of nervous breakdown, higher blood pressure and a near stroke which turned him into a Zinda Lash-----a person who has started his life with Rs. 20/ and reached to such a successful life of own house, car and designation is thinking of committing suicide. I really got scared and was numb for some time, thinking of many things about life, relations, reasons, etc. etc. Let’s not get into the nittygritty of the actual reasons due to which he is facing all these problems but would like to draw an inference as below:

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Always have one person in life with whom you can share anything and everything starting from problem of bad stomach to unpleasant sex life, starting from stupid boss to nagging spouse. He or she can be anybody your mom, your spouse, your children or your friends. It is must to develop a care free attitude in life. Society is nothing it’s just a group of people who will always be happy when something bad happened to you and your family, it’s just bunch of idiots who are always ready to eat at all your invitations let it be a birth or a death. Blood relations are always important but not at the cost of one’s life as it is rightly stated that if a self will not be there with whom you will justify your relations. Believe and start reciting everyday that I and I is the only person important to me. Believe the almighty does exist somewhere recite Him, call Him, urge him and He will definitely listen to you not at the time you want but at the time He thinks appropriate. It may be the easy thing to say and write all these but not difficult for sure in implemented into day to days life with full integrity.

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That Uncle will surely be ok once he decides from within to be ok. But yes made me believe in many things, helped me to become selfish and will surely be helpful the incidents to me in future. Would just like to conclude that as it is rightly stated in our purana “Ahm Brahmasmi”….meaning I’m Brahma, I’m one and everthing is after me. BELIEVE IN ME.

Author’s Bio: Heading a state for a leading financial services company brings along loads of instances where you come face to face with life. Hima Mehta is one such individual who believes LIFE is the biggest teacher and she, still a student. When she is not doling out advices to gullible customers, she reads and attempts to write. She can be reached at himamehta17@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: Ever questioned life? This post will make you do so.

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Those days by Ompriya Tripathi

Let me hold your hand once again, And let's do all that we did when this began, I hate to walk alone on these streets, And to look at the distance where the sky with the green meets, This world is exquisite when you are by my side, Without you it's just a baffling ride, I really miss that playful wink, That always made my heart sink, Eyes just water it's the heart that weeps, Reminiscent images of good old days still it keeps, Long lost is the feeling of being complete, Every little hope now seems to deplete.

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Author’s Bio: Ompriya Tripathi is a 2nd year B. Tech student at HBTI Kanpur and can be reached at ompriya.tripathi723@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: Expression of love and pain at its best.

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“HUMANS” by Sonal Agrawal

The moment I croaked out A lady furiously came out I stared at her curiously But she stared hatefully I croaked to say hello She croaked to say go Croaking she threw a stone Which hurt with pain. You “so called” humans Call us crows a bad omen. Author’s Bio: Sonal Agrawal lives in Delhi. She is basically from Gujarat. She has completed her M.Phil in English literature. She loves to present her feelings in poems. She has blog in which she spreads her emotions

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for movies, books and world. She loves reading books and reviewing them. Blog linkhttp://storageofmind.blogspot.in/ She can be reached at sonalagrawal23@yahoo.com Editor’s comment: A light take on how we as humans are seen as.

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Something inside me by Nidhi

Something inside me, is causing conflict of emotion, Something inside me, is taking away my positive portion, Something inside me, is not letting me smile, Something inside me, is hurting me now for a while, Something inside me is not letting to let go, Something inside is making my mind fro, Something inside me, is not letting me be at peace, Something inside me is not ready to cease, Something inside me is frisking away my hope, Something inside me, is forming deceptions of scope, Something inside me, is not letting me be “me”, Something inside me is, stopping me to see, Where shall I find that something from within, I don’t know am I at guilt, or is it some form of sin…

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Author’s Bio: Nidhi Chawla is a freelance content writer by profession and loves writing articles and poems. She can be reached at nidhs10@gmail.com Editor’s comments: Carrying guilt is perhaps the worst form of existence ever.

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Once upon a Dream by Pratikshya Mishra

Once upon a dream When she believed he was her world Time and tide stood still Yet the flowers bloomed in full. Once upon a dream, When she was no longer a misfit Love showered its blessings And everything was beautiful. Once upon a dream, When letters carried the revelations of the heart, She was his, and he was hers And happy endings did prevail.

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Then, time began to flow, And tides waited for none Letters ceased to exist He and She were no more Flowers began to wither Love began to fade... Happy endings became a myth. Author’s Bio: Pratikshya Mishra is a self confessed dreamer who loves the world of fiction more than the real world. She’s currently pursuing her BTech in Electronics and Communication Engineering. A passionate blogger, she juggles her time between lab works, programmings and assignments; reading novels; watching Korean sitcoms and learning new skills to satisfy her curiosity every now and then. She dreams to own a big library, make a literary museum and eventually publish her work one day. In the years to come, she aims to sign off her name as- ‘Pratikshya Mishra, Engineer by profession; Writer and Blogger by passion.’ She can be reached at pratikshya.mishra72@gmail.com Editor’s Comments: If you have ever wondered what are dreams made up of, then this poem is the answer.

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Hues of the Sky by Namrata Story behind the Photograph: A day when everything went wrong since morning ended with a bad accident on highway. The bus that I was travelling was saved from a deadly accident and we were stranded in middle of nowhere. One look at the sky and all I could do was thank God for bringing me here. The entire scenery around me was looking so mesmerising that I knew it had to be clicked. The colours, the light hues of the sky, somewhere like dusk in between the day and the night the sight was breathtakingly beautiful. The onlookers were finding it weird for they were busy worrying about what to do and how to do while here I was busy clicking away to glory. This picture wasn’t planned at all. I intended to just capture the sky and a speeding car passing by added beauty to it.

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Author’s Bio: An investment banker by profession and a child - woman, a dreamer, a dancer, a bibliophile, a poetess, a writer, a painter, a singer, a go-getter, a doer and an achiever by passion is how Namrata can be described. She is a prolific blogger and ardent reviewer since past 3 years under the name Privy Trifles. Her short stories have been published in various anthologies titled 25 Strokes of Kindness, Time’s Lost Atlas and Stories for your Valentine. She can be reached @ privytrifles@gmail.com.

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A Visitor – Bulbul by Arti Honrao Story Behind the Photograph: Almost like everything in this world, even in photography it is either luck or hard work playing a role. Sometimes, it takes hours to get the best shot and somtimes, you get lucky. I happened to be lucky to be able to capture this beauty in the photograph. The door to our flat terrace was open and I was talking to a friend on my mobile phone when this Bulbul came and sat on one of the rods. While continuing to talk on mobile, I rushed to my room to get my Nikon Coolpix P510 and took this shot holding the camera in one hand and mobile in another. And then .. the bird flew away.

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Author’s Bio: Author of fiction books titled 'My Life story' and 'Is This Love and 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 get 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 can be reached at contact@artihonrao.net

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Relationships: How would you define Relationships? What do Relationships mean to you? Answering to questions like "Are you in a Relationship?" apart from a yes and a no, we have yet another option of 'it is complicated.' Even social sites asking these questions have gotten smarter. When someone talks about 'Relationship' he/she mostly talks about their love life. In a Relationship means that they have a partner in their life. I have seen Relationship statuses being changed so frequently these days. One day a person is in a Relationship and a couple of days later the person is Single and looking for. A few are constantly stuck on 'it's complicated' and yet they are 'looking for' rarely have I come across someone who is 'not interested'. Anyways. What I want to discuss here is about 'Relationships", why do we always assume and always consider a Relationship to be about a couple? Father, Mother, Siblings, Friends - are these not Relationships? Above all, can you not be in a Relationship with yourself? Think, why not?

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I believe, the strengthening factor in a Relationship is LOVE and as long as you have Love for someone, you are in a Relationship with that person. I also believe, that to Love others we must first Love ourselves. Unless and until we love ourselves for what we are, unless and until we love ourselves unconditionally, flaws and all, we cannot really love someone else or for that matter expect someone else to love us. My own experience in life has been that I have been able to spread love and do justice with the Relationships in my life (And, here I am talking about ALL Relationships in my life, from my father, mother, brothers, sister-in-law, nephew, to other relatives and my friends) only if I have been able to love myself for what I am and accept the flaws in me. To improve or to not improve is a different thing altogether. To know your flaws is the first step. Love yourself to be loved by others and love others unconditionally to strengthen your love for yourself. This in turn makes you loveable. Suppose, you know someone who has ill thoughts about you and despite that you love that person, put in

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your trust and just blindly love that person eventually it leads to the person being embarrassed for having ill thoughts about you, which makes that person have respect for you and love you for the unspoken forgiveness. Being able to forgive someone, or being able to love someone unconditionally is nothing but loving yourself, believing your own righteousness and having faith that as long as you are being good, no one's opinion about you matters much. I am in a Relationship with myself, I love myself for what I am and that helps me love others for what they are. When Love steps in forgiveness follows. When Ego comes in Love leaves; how would forgiveness stay then? There are so many unhappy people in the world because they do not know how to be happy. They are constantly thinking about how they have been wronged, thinking about people who wronged them, thinking about how badly hurt they are and sometimes, thinking of ways to hurt those who have hurt them, get even with people who have wronged them. With all these negative thoughts floating around them, they think - why am I not happy? When would I be happy? Well! The answer is always within, simply fogged by the negativity. You are not happy because you are not

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allowing yourself to be happy. You would be happy when you let go of all the negativity and learn to be happy. Learn to love yourself. Every morning look in the mirror and say, "I LOVE YOU, no matter what." If you think you cannot get rid of your problems just by loving yourself, I am going to be in your face saying, "YES YOU CAN." Loving yourself is healing. Once you begin to heal, you accept the facts and you tend to forgive people who have wronged you, who cares if they deserve your forgiveness or they don't. Forgive them anyways, forgive them for yourself. We all are aware of the saying "Anger is like holding a burning charcoal in your hand to throw at others." We eventually learn that it is more harmful for us than for others. We are humans, we get angry. How long do you stay angry is what matters. Have a burning charcoal with you? Throw it - vent out. If you are throwing it at someone, make sure you are ready to face the consequences. The consequences, which are less about other person's reaction and more about how you feel about it later. Angry words have their own way of coming back at you and they ALWAYS come and haunt you.

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If you fill your heart with love for yourself and firmly believe you have the right to be happy, there is no one powerful enough to change that. Love yourself each day and you will learn to love others. There might be people in your life you cannot love. Forgive them anyways, let them go. Clear the space, clear the negativity and make way for a happy life.

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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, short-stories, non-fiction,

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author interviews, book reviews etc. read Submission Guidelines for details).

(Please

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 About Arti Honrao Submissions for the June issue of Writer's Ezine are now open. Please do read Submission Guidelines before Submitting your entries using the submission form. The closing date for Submissions is 20th May.

Designed by Arti Honrao

Writer’s Ezine – Volume II May 2014 Issue

Profile for Writer's Ezine

May issue  

Writer's Ezine is a monthly literary online magazine started by Namrata & Arti with an intention of providing platform to emerging as well a...

May issue  

Writer's Ezine is a monthly literary online magazine started by Namrata & Arti with an intention of providing platform to emerging as well a...

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