Pyar aur Poetry (Love and Poetry) is a fun and quick read. The story unfolds in a fictional college in Mumbai, India. It has a healthy dose of campus romance, poetry, drama – all perfect ingredients to pick you up if you are feeling blue. Happy reading! Do let me know your feedback..
Book Blurb
College beauty Arundhati Basu would rather stick her head in the proverbial oven than host this year’s Founder’s Day event with tongue-tied nerd, Nikhil Menon. Compared to the brilliant but elusive poet, D. G. Beckett, Nikhil is a green toad.
As Arundhati gets to know him, however, she finds herself oddly drawn to the shy geek, and he, in turn, grows in confidence as he spends more time with her. His hopes for a lasting relationship with Arundhati seemed to be within his reach.
If only she could forget D. G. Beckett!
Read a free excerpt before you decide to buy it!
Free excerpt available at indireads
About Indireads
Indireads offers a wide range of romance novellas written by both men and women, for South Asian readers everywhere. South Asian romance has its own unique characteristics and is very different from the western concept of romance. Drawing from the very essence of the region, our stories are representative of the modern, independent, and forward thinking South Asian of today, yet are rooted in our culture and tradition.
Through Indirom, we hope to create a thriving community of readers who enjoy reading well-written South Asian fiction and a group of committed writers who are able to pursue their passion of writing.
A snapshot of chapter one
ONE
Bathed in a pre-sunset glow, Arundhati’s suite looked ready to charm visitors with its quirky, schizoid interiors and winking marble floors.
Jostling alongside expensive upholstery and the latest gizmos and gadgets was a little shrine to literature. Works of eighteen century to present day poets, artists, writers, thinkers overflowed from the bookcases that lined the rust-colored walls. Delicate scrolls of poetry hung like drapes along the elegant French windows. The room reeked of indulgences, and nothing vouched for it more than the little display on the mantelpiece—dewy airtight bottles that held possessions of some of her favorite writers and artists—from Sylvia Plath’s hairband to Vincent Van Gogh’s pipe, to Balzac’s coffee cups. In preparation for Literati, the door to the sprawling balcony attached to the room was ajar, revealing footstools arranged methodically in preparation for the gathering. Gusts of sea breeze scraped against the windows when Vishwas, the domestic help, wheeled in a hostess trolley laden with appetizers.
By six o’clock, the Basu household reverberated with a flurry of doorbells, footsteps and giggles.
Arundhati stepped forward to receive her guests.
“Welcome, welcome for another interlude with art, poetry and life!
Welcome to the first Fortnightly Literati Friday evening of 2011, folks!”
Twenty-four animated eyes turned towards her.
“I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of
us—don't tell! They'd advertise—you know!”
Widening her kohl-lined eyes and throwing back her shoulders, she clasped her hands, intertwining long, tremulous fingers and continued, “I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now: This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one.”
Her voice dropped to a sharp, passionate gasp, “Any guesses, people?
Any tiny, glimmer of an idea? Any at all?”
The audience remained silent. Then Deepa, one of Arundhati’s best pals, said enthusiastically, “Plath, Plath of course! Are we discussing her works today?”
Deepa Shinde, Nisha Kumar and Arundhati Basu, were known as the ‘artsy sisters’ by their classmates since their high school days. Leafing through their high school scrapbook would reveal the devotion fostered among distinctive personalities—gutsy and impetuous Arundhati, enthusiastic and practical Deepa and timid and compassionate Nisha.
Seeing Deepa’s eager face, a bemused Arundhati tilted her head delicately, and flashed her pearly whites. “Deeps, you are close—yes, those lines were by Sylvia Plath and also Emily Dickinson, and today we are going to explore the image of the divided self and also the complex issue of identity.
“What is identity? How do we define Identity?”
Voices, whispers and sighs punctuated the moments that followed.
Arundhati’s famous literary tea party had set sail. Dressed in a printed, sleeveless, olive-colored, silk kurti, beige leggings and a pair of ivory tinted mojri, Arundhati looked approvingly at her guests that she had handpicked with care. Her best friends—Deepa and Nisha—were regulars. Among the rest of the group that had gathered that Friday were short story winners, class toppers and prize-winning poets. “Quite a
literati glitterati have congregated here tonight. The crowd is getting better and better,” she thought with glee.
Gathered at the literati party were students from the prestigious St Paul’s College. A stellar English literature course and diverse activities aside, this college was also known for its annual social extravaganza, Founder’s Day, that showcased the talent and interests of its students; an event that every
St Paulian secretly clamored to be a part of. But these offerings were not enough for the likes of Arundhati who lived, slept and ate English literature.
“We have a movie club, drama club and even a nature club. What about literary aficionados like ourselves? Where do we go?” Arundhati had addressed a bunch of like-minded students two years ago. So mesmerized were they by her eloquence and her so-called literary knowledge that they welcomed Literati with open arms.
Undying love for western classics, with a healthy dollop of admiration for American poets like Sylvia Plath, was among the many, unsaid prerequisites to be a part of this coterie. Contemporary Indian writers and literature were ignored. And it was a no-brainer that the mere mention of pop fiction or even Bollywood in front of Arundhati would stymie your chances of being part of Literati forever.
Gossipmongers alleged that literary snobbery, prizes and college prizes to one’s credit were surefire, hall pass giveaways. That was not all. Phonies, wannabes were strictly off limits. Such was the folly of youth that Arundhati often thought that she could smell a fake from far, much like a fashionista being able to identify a fake Louis Vuitton from an original in a sweeping glance. “It is a gift,” she often told her classmates in an affected tone. “It is all a matter of an impeccable, pristine literary palate, unsullied by paltry offerings of substandard writers.” And nobody dared to question Arundhati and her highbrow taste.
Like many young, elite class English lit majors, Arundhati’s head was not a little turned by her own belief in her naturally keen intellect, her bent for writing poetry and her eclectic tastes. She was bright and articulate and passionate about the written word. However, her own high opinion of herself accompanied by the puffed up literary plumage that she wore with great aplomb, made her literary pursuits seem self-indulgent, conceited and pretentious.
Born with a platinum spoon in her mouth, thanks to her multimillionaire industrialist father’s thriving fertilizer factories in Mumbai, Arundhati lived in a stately villa in the heart of Malabar Hills in Mumbai.
She was an only child who was allowed to indulge in her literary passion at the grandest scale possible by her father. Amidst the duo’s gimmicks, Arundhati’s mother, Jaishree Basu, remained a bystander as she flitted in and out of her ceramic pottery studio.
The literati evenings were a monthly affair held on fortnightly Fridays of every month in Arundhati’s lavish home. The procedure never varied; every month a list of topics would be drawn out and circulated among the interested, votes were then cast and the topics that got a majority were selected and announced only on the day of the meeting by Arundhati.
However, a literary kit would be prepared in advance comprising poems, notepads and pens, which would then be supplied to all the guests at the event.
That Friday, as usual, ideas, opinions and arguments tossed and turned as the evening rolled on. The delectable finger food, canapés and iced tea prepared by Chef Rustom Zaikawala fuelled up the literary intellects as they derided, appreciated the works under discussion, with Arundhati as a ringmaster cracking her literary knowhow and owning the gathering with her natural and unaffected fervor for the subject.
Dusk soon curled into an inky night and the literati troopers reluctantly bade farewell to the land of literature and artistic license, marking the end of another literati meeting. Standing in her now empty suite, she smiled to herself. “Next meeting could be more exciting,” she thought. Call it providence or staged—it was slated on the same day as the announcement of the Ithaca Poetry Contest winner and the Founder’s Day participants.
For the uninitiated, the Ithaca Poetry Contest is an annual contest organized by St Paul’s College. With the highest attention paid to the poems by a jury comprising lecturers, students and a guest writer, only the most sublime poems made to the short list. Barring any exaggeration, it must be noted that ever since Arundhati started brandishing her poems at the Ithaca Poetry Contest three years ago, other poets’ scorecards remained nullified. Comforted by that track record, Arundhati hugged herself to sleep that night.
The next two weeks flitted by. Students of St Paul’s College clocked in and out of an endless whirl of lectures and assignments. Monsoons finally caught up with the city. Everywhere there were bloated gutters and spluttering manholes, the hapless issues of indolent pre-monsoon maintenance. People hemmed and hawed about rain-related ordeals and government policies over masala chai and crusty samosas at roadside tapris. Students and office goers secretly prayed for rain holidays while
Arundhati readied herself for another Ithaca crown.
To read more of the free excerpt, turn to indireads.
Book Blurb
College beauty Arundhati Basu would rather stick her head in the proverbial oven than host this year’s Founder’s Day event with tongue-tied nerd, Nikhil Menon. Compared to the brilliant but elusive poet, D. G. Beckett, Nikhil is a green toad.
As Arundhati gets to know him, however, she finds herself oddly drawn to the shy geek, and he, in turn, grows in confidence as he spends more time with her. His hopes for a lasting relationship with Arundhati seemed to be within his reach.
If only she could forget D. G. Beckett!
Read a free excerpt before you decide to buy it!
Free excerpt available at indireads
About Indireads
Indireads offers a wide range of romance novellas written by both men and women, for South Asian readers everywhere. South Asian romance has its own unique characteristics and is very different from the western concept of romance. Drawing from the very essence of the region, our stories are representative of the modern, independent, and forward thinking South Asian of today, yet are rooted in our culture and tradition.
Through Indirom, we hope to create a thriving community of readers who enjoy reading well-written South Asian fiction and a group of committed writers who are able to pursue their passion of writing.
A snapshot of chapter one
ONE
Bathed in a pre-sunset glow, Arundhati’s suite looked ready to charm visitors with its quirky, schizoid interiors and winking marble floors.
Jostling alongside expensive upholstery and the latest gizmos and gadgets was a little shrine to literature. Works of eighteen century to present day poets, artists, writers, thinkers overflowed from the bookcases that lined the rust-colored walls. Delicate scrolls of poetry hung like drapes along the elegant French windows. The room reeked of indulgences, and nothing vouched for it more than the little display on the mantelpiece—dewy airtight bottles that held possessions of some of her favorite writers and artists—from Sylvia Plath’s hairband to Vincent Van Gogh’s pipe, to Balzac’s coffee cups. In preparation for Literati, the door to the sprawling balcony attached to the room was ajar, revealing footstools arranged methodically in preparation for the gathering. Gusts of sea breeze scraped against the windows when Vishwas, the domestic help, wheeled in a hostess trolley laden with appetizers.
By six o’clock, the Basu household reverberated with a flurry of doorbells, footsteps and giggles.
Arundhati stepped forward to receive her guests.
“Welcome, welcome for another interlude with art, poetry and life!
Welcome to the first Fortnightly Literati Friday evening of 2011, folks!”
Twenty-four animated eyes turned towards her.
“I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of
us—don't tell! They'd advertise—you know!”
Widening her kohl-lined eyes and throwing back her shoulders, she clasped her hands, intertwining long, tremulous fingers and continued, “I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now: This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one.”
Her voice dropped to a sharp, passionate gasp, “Any guesses, people?
Any tiny, glimmer of an idea? Any at all?”
The audience remained silent. Then Deepa, one of Arundhati’s best pals, said enthusiastically, “Plath, Plath of course! Are we discussing her works today?”
Deepa Shinde, Nisha Kumar and Arundhati Basu, were known as the ‘artsy sisters’ by their classmates since their high school days. Leafing through their high school scrapbook would reveal the devotion fostered among distinctive personalities—gutsy and impetuous Arundhati, enthusiastic and practical Deepa and timid and compassionate Nisha.
Seeing Deepa’s eager face, a bemused Arundhati tilted her head delicately, and flashed her pearly whites. “Deeps, you are close—yes, those lines were by Sylvia Plath and also Emily Dickinson, and today we are going to explore the image of the divided self and also the complex issue of identity.
“What is identity? How do we define Identity?”
Voices, whispers and sighs punctuated the moments that followed.
Arundhati’s famous literary tea party had set sail. Dressed in a printed, sleeveless, olive-colored, silk kurti, beige leggings and a pair of ivory tinted mojri, Arundhati looked approvingly at her guests that she had handpicked with care. Her best friends—Deepa and Nisha—were regulars. Among the rest of the group that had gathered that Friday were short story winners, class toppers and prize-winning poets. “Quite a
literati glitterati have congregated here tonight. The crowd is getting better and better,” she thought with glee.
Gathered at the literati party were students from the prestigious St Paul’s College. A stellar English literature course and diverse activities aside, this college was also known for its annual social extravaganza, Founder’s Day, that showcased the talent and interests of its students; an event that every
St Paulian secretly clamored to be a part of. But these offerings were not enough for the likes of Arundhati who lived, slept and ate English literature.
“We have a movie club, drama club and even a nature club. What about literary aficionados like ourselves? Where do we go?” Arundhati had addressed a bunch of like-minded students two years ago. So mesmerized were they by her eloquence and her so-called literary knowledge that they welcomed Literati with open arms.
Undying love for western classics, with a healthy dollop of admiration for American poets like Sylvia Plath, was among the many, unsaid prerequisites to be a part of this coterie. Contemporary Indian writers and literature were ignored. And it was a no-brainer that the mere mention of pop fiction or even Bollywood in front of Arundhati would stymie your chances of being part of Literati forever.
Gossipmongers alleged that literary snobbery, prizes and college prizes to one’s credit were surefire, hall pass giveaways. That was not all. Phonies, wannabes were strictly off limits. Such was the folly of youth that Arundhati often thought that she could smell a fake from far, much like a fashionista being able to identify a fake Louis Vuitton from an original in a sweeping glance. “It is a gift,” she often told her classmates in an affected tone. “It is all a matter of an impeccable, pristine literary palate, unsullied by paltry offerings of substandard writers.” And nobody dared to question Arundhati and her highbrow taste.
Like many young, elite class English lit majors, Arundhati’s head was not a little turned by her own belief in her naturally keen intellect, her bent for writing poetry and her eclectic tastes. She was bright and articulate and passionate about the written word. However, her own high opinion of herself accompanied by the puffed up literary plumage that she wore with great aplomb, made her literary pursuits seem self-indulgent, conceited and pretentious.
Born with a platinum spoon in her mouth, thanks to her multimillionaire industrialist father’s thriving fertilizer factories in Mumbai, Arundhati lived in a stately villa in the heart of Malabar Hills in Mumbai.
She was an only child who was allowed to indulge in her literary passion at the grandest scale possible by her father. Amidst the duo’s gimmicks, Arundhati’s mother, Jaishree Basu, remained a bystander as she flitted in and out of her ceramic pottery studio.
The literati evenings were a monthly affair held on fortnightly Fridays of every month in Arundhati’s lavish home. The procedure never varied; every month a list of topics would be drawn out and circulated among the interested, votes were then cast and the topics that got a majority were selected and announced only on the day of the meeting by Arundhati.
However, a literary kit would be prepared in advance comprising poems, notepads and pens, which would then be supplied to all the guests at the event.
That Friday, as usual, ideas, opinions and arguments tossed and turned as the evening rolled on. The delectable finger food, canapés and iced tea prepared by Chef Rustom Zaikawala fuelled up the literary intellects as they derided, appreciated the works under discussion, with Arundhati as a ringmaster cracking her literary knowhow and owning the gathering with her natural and unaffected fervor for the subject.
Dusk soon curled into an inky night and the literati troopers reluctantly bade farewell to the land of literature and artistic license, marking the end of another literati meeting. Standing in her now empty suite, she smiled to herself. “Next meeting could be more exciting,” she thought. Call it providence or staged—it was slated on the same day as the announcement of the Ithaca Poetry Contest winner and the Founder’s Day participants.
For the uninitiated, the Ithaca Poetry Contest is an annual contest organized by St Paul’s College. With the highest attention paid to the poems by a jury comprising lecturers, students and a guest writer, only the most sublime poems made to the short list. Barring any exaggeration, it must be noted that ever since Arundhati started brandishing her poems at the Ithaca Poetry Contest three years ago, other poets’ scorecards remained nullified. Comforted by that track record, Arundhati hugged herself to sleep that night.
The next two weeks flitted by. Students of St Paul’s College clocked in and out of an endless whirl of lectures and assignments. Monsoons finally caught up with the city. Everywhere there were bloated gutters and spluttering manholes, the hapless issues of indolent pre-monsoon maintenance. People hemmed and hawed about rain-related ordeals and government policies over masala chai and crusty samosas at roadside tapris. Students and office goers secretly prayed for rain holidays while
Arundhati readied herself for another Ithaca crown.
To read more of the free excerpt, turn to indireads.
