Category: Excerpts

Grief, mystery, and dark forces collide when Viji, mourning the loss of her twins, becomes the prime suspect in the drowning of her best friend’s baby. ASP Kanika uncovers a twisted web of black magic, leading her to question if she’s chasing a murderer or something much darker. Is she hunting a twisted killer, or has she awakened an ancient, malevolent force? And if so, how long before it comes for her?

Read the excerpt below to know more.

Vijayalakshmi
January 2001
Ajmer, India

‘You should have booked a taxi to Chandigarh,’ my mother-in-law suggested, her voice tinged with concern. ‘Travelling on a train with twins isn’t a good idea, especially in this cold weather,’ she added, observing as I packed the nursing bag for my three-month-old twins in the kitchen.

A few months ago, my husband Ankit convinced me to have our twins at his ancestral home in Ajmer, with his mother keeping a hawk’s eye on us. Being an orphan, I reluctantly agreed, knowing I lacked the experience and support to navigate the chaos of newborn twins alone. Little did I know, what was meant to be a supportive stint turned into a never-ending exile.

While Ankit, the mastermind behind the plan, coded programs for clients in Chandigarh, I spent my maternity leave grappling with my mother-in-law’s relentless advice, feeling like a wrestler in an endless match, nodding along as if it were my only move.

Now, as I hastily packed the twins’ nursing bag in the kitchen, itching to make my escape, my mother-in-law deftly tucked her saree like a pro wrestler gearing up for a title match. With theatrical flair, she motioned for me to hand over the pan and the water bottles.

‘I’ve got this,’ I declared with newfound bravado, causing her to pause. It was high time I asserted myself and showed her who the true mother of the twins was. As I poured boiling water into the thermos, her eyes tracked my every move, like a goalie defending a penalty shot. A splash here, a splash there—more than a few drops found their way on to the counter, allowing her to assert her dominance. Adjusting her gold bangle with the finesse of a queen surveying her domain, she graciously offered, ‘Come, let me lend a hand.’ I believe she meant: Come, let me belittle you. Because what followed couldn’t be described as lending a hand.

‘Back in my day,’ she remarked with a bitter edge, ‘my esteemed mother-in-law would have flipped the entire house over at the sight of such a spill, especially considering we live in a desert where every drop counts. Yet here I am, graciously helping you clean the counter without batting an eye.’ She served her daily dose of ‘you-know-nothing’ and ‘how lucky you are.’

The whistle of the pressure cooker caught her attention, prompting her to turn off the gas. Instead of preparing the aloo puri Ankit had requested for our journey, she continued her relentless track of ‘count your blessings’ detailing the hardships of raising twins and recounting the sleepless nights she endured with my colicky newborns over the past three months. According to her, every problem and every cry from the twins boiled down to hunger or the evil eye. Amidst her sugar-coated advice, her subtle jabs at me and my daughters never missed their mark.

Another one came my way, catching me off guard before I could even brace myself for the impact.

‘Better keep Kavya’s pacifier within arm’s reach. Her wails could resurrect the dead. It seems she inherited that booming voice from your side of the family, given that we could barely even hear Ankit’s cries as a baby,’ she quipped, effortlessly sliding in another jab with her ‘your side of the family’ dagger that seemed permanently lodged in my chest. Oblivious to the verbal wreckage she left behind, she unzipped the nursing bag, meticulously arranged the milk bottles I had carelessly tossed inside earlier and said, ‘You should have resigned or taken unpaid leave. We could have assisted in raising the twins. It is not that you earn a fortune. From what I gather, our estate manager earns a similar salary.’

‘Well, I guess I’m in the wrong line of work. Maybe I should resign from my job as a software engineer in an MNC and apply to become an estate manager, managing the inheritance bestowed upon someone by the Almighty who clearly picks his favourites,’ I replied, my tone laced with sarcasm, hoping she would end this ordeal then and there. But like me, she seemed to have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, dragging the conversation further. ‘The point you seem to overlook is that you’re no longer an orphan who had to fend for herself. Your husband can more than provide for you, and let’s not forget that everything we own belongs to Ankit as well. So, I fail to comprehend the urgency of dashing off to Chandigarh with three-month-old twins for just a couple of thousand rupees,’ she said.

I should have kept my sarcasm on a tighter leash, a skill I’ve been refining for half a decade, delicately sidestepping certain boundaries with my mother-in-law.

***

Get your copy of The Drowning by Nidhi Upadhyay on Amazon or wherever books are sold.

In Liberal Hearts, Nayantara Violet Alva takes readers into the heart of an elite college in rural Haryana, where privilege, self-indulgence, and academia collide. This debut novel weaves together a college romance and a coming-of-age story, exploring questions of entitlement, identity, and the consequences of cultural divides.

Read the excerpt to know more.

Dear Namya,
I’m not sure if I should be flattered or perturbed by the fact that you know I read/ study on my roof every night. Either way, what’s a man to do other than read to keep his imagination alive when his world has shrunk? I don’t know, I somehow prefer the old-school way to the reels my sister enjoys.

Was meaning to tell you that I saw Ted Bundy’s final interview on your recommendation. Really, you’d never be able to tell he was a psychotic, cold-blooded killer. Either way, I hope you have no such intentions with me. Just in case you do, know that I’m way stronger than I might’ve looked in July.

In case you are looking for poetry to read outside of your father’s romantic tastes, you’d be shocked to know that Urdu shayari has set a bar so high that your much-loved Alfred Noyes would be put to shame. But since you’re pretty English medium, I’d suggest Ted Hughes, or W.H. Auden. They have far more realistic takes on life, which might successfully challenge your rosy Mauryan notions.

‘Crow Tyrannosaurus’ and ‘As I Walked Out One Evening’ are simple yet existential enough to send you down a spiral you might just enjoy. They were of great comfort to me during Class 12 ISC.

Also, you’d asked which fictional character I relate to most. I guess I see a lot of myself in Eren Yeager from AOT.

I did end up reading your recommendations and I found The Beauty Myth powerful and quite fresh. If women were as impacted by the beauty standards set by toxic magazines in the Eighties, can’t even imagine their current state with Instagram filters, reels and stories at their fingertips. It makes me understand my Phool in a way that is a tad bit terrifying. I was wondering whether, even as a conventionally attractive girl, you have ever struggled with that kind of thing? Body image issues, I mean. Didn’t mean to probe, please don’t share if you aren’t comfortable.

Either way, do continue to suggest books because I do have some free time in between selling cigarettes, milking the cows and tending to the fields.

—Vir

I have read this note twenty times.

I reach for my book, open it to the page where my pretty yellow bookmark is but just can’t focus.

The poems he recommended have rendered me glum. I look down at the pile of all the notes he’s ever sent me, and I’m beyond impressed. His knowledge of literature, humanities, business and the world at large is nuts. Had Vir been some South Bombay or South Delhi boy at Maurya, everyone would’ve been gaga over him because he, without a doubt, has all the ingredients that mainstream popularity demands. Though he wouldn’t admit it, I’m sure he was all the rage at Spring Valley.

I still can’t forget Phoolkumari’s heartbroken face telling me about how their father died around four years ago. Vir must have been my age when the weight of his family’s subsistence descended upon his shoulders. The unfairness of his situation makes my head spin with frustration.

God, he and I are so different. I would hate for Mehreen to be right! We haven’t spoken since we fought. Maybe I should run to her room right now to fix things?

I look up at Pari to ask for her advice and can’t help but smile as I remember the mini freak-out she had earlier today when she saw another plant growing inside Tony’s pot. She sent her mother pictures and apparently the ‘weed’ is a periwinkle which she has now named Nancy. Pari announced that the two can share a pot and grow together. It is truly astonishing how the same person can be so aggressive yet endearing at the same time. Right now, she is drinking tea and typing belligerently on her laptop. I should take help in anaylsing the note.

‘Hey, Pari, who is Eren Yeager from AOT?’

‘Hmm, don’t ask me; I’m more of a Levi girl. Google karle and if you wanna watch, I’ll send you the link.’ Her eyes don’t move from her screen.

‘Hey, Pari, what exactly does conventionally attractive mean?’

Her eyes still don’t move from her screen.  ‘Hot like a young Katrina or Aishwarya, but in politically correct words. Man, I had bi-panic to the max while watching Dhoom 2. Do I look at Hrithik, or do I look at Aishwarya? Mad confusion.’

‘Haha, but are you serious about the meaning? That can’t be right . . .’

***

Get your copy of Liberal Hearts by Nayantara Violet Alva on Amazon or wherever books are sold.

Take charge of your career with HeadStart: Unlock the Secrets to Career Success. This guide is the ultimate toolkit for thriving in today’s competitive job market, packed with expert strategies and real-world insights from Vivek Gambhir and Sunder Ramachandran.

Read the excerpt below.

The Power of Knowing When to Quit

Ever feel trapped in a job or situation that’s just not working out? Knowing when to walk away is a powerful skill. Society has typically viewed quitting as a sign of defeat. Phrases like ‘winners never quit, and quitters never win’ get embedded in our minds in the early years, but sometimes quitting is the smartest move you can make.

We idolize athletes who push through serious injuries, even though they are risking their future. Despite the virtues of sticking with something, sometimes stepping away is the real hero move. Stepping away from something that isn’t working allows us to find something better. It frees up our time and resources and enables us to move in a more fulfilling direction.

Let’s talk about goals for a second. You set them at the start of your journey, right? But here’s the thing—they’re not set in stone. They don’t factor in the knowledge and experiences we gain along the way or new information that may arise. Life throws curveballs, and sometimes, those goals just don’t fit any more. Quitting isn’t giving up—it’s making room for something better.

So why do we stay in unfavourable situations? Firstly, unhappiness can make us feel stuck. Additionally, we often worry about how quitting might affect our reputation. But here’s the thing: remaining stuck is far riskier than taking a leap. Cognitive biases also play a sneaky role. Ever heard of the status quo bias? It’s why we stick with the devil we know, even when there’s a better option. Then there’s the sunk-cost fallacy—it’s like continuing to invest time, effort and money into a failing project, hoping it will turn around. And let’s not forget the endowment effect, where we cling to the familiar, even when it’s holding us back.

Here’s the bottom line: Quitting isn’t about giving up—it’s about moving forward. It’s about knowing when to bid farewell to the old and embrace the new. So, if something’s not working, don’t hesitate to shake things up. After all, life’s too short to remain mired in the mud.

These are some dilemmas that we’ve seen younger professionals
struggle with:
• My role is at a dead end.
• I find no fulfilment in my current job.
• Do I need to be bolder in choices and take more risks?
If any of these rings a bell, you’re probably dissatisfied with your
current job and considering a change.

Pro Tip from Vivek: Signs for Career Change
Vivek advises young professionals to focus on three key factors that make work fulfilling: challenge, learning and engagement. If two of these aspects are lacking for six months, it might be time to consider a change.

The three-day rule: Do you feel excited about your work for at least three days a week? If you lack engagement, you won’t be able to grow, learn, develop or add value to your role. Although work may have less engaging phases, if they persist for over six months, they can impact your productivity, mood and overall engagement.

The resume test: Can you consistently update your resume every six months with new and valuable skills and projects? If you’re not feeling challenged or able to develop your skills in your current role, it’s not doing you any good. Eventually, you just go on autopilot and don’t go anywhere.

You are checked out: Do you find yourself zoning out? Are your thoughts drifting away from work? Are you more interested in what else is out there instead of doing your job?

Your 2×2 Push and Pull Matrix

Questions to ask before resigning
Before you send that resignation email, consider the Push and Pull Matrix. It’s a valuable tool for deciding whether to stay
in your current role or move on to new opportunities. Career transitions are often influenced by a combination of push and pull factors which encompass a diverse range of motivations that prompt individuals to leave their current role and pursue new opportunities.

We have observed that young professionals are motivated to leave a role due to push factors like stress, a bad boss, lack of feedback or opportunities. There could also be pull factors that include an interesting role in a new industry, a role with more seniority or a broader remit and increased remuneration. These push and pull factors often interact in complex ways,
and there’s always a little bit of both during transitions. This means that you have to carefully consider both the risks and rewards associated with such a change.

Before putting in your papers, we recommend that you ask yourself the following questions to ensure you are making the right decision.

***

Get your copy of Headstart by Vivek Gambhir and Sunder Ramachandran on Amazon or wherever books are sold.

Caged… Memories Have Names, Gulzar Saab’s poetic autobiography whispers stories of love, loss, and longing! With verses that blend the hues of Rumi, Pablo Neruda, and Jibananda Das, the book paints vivid portraits of cherished figures like Birju Maharaj and Pancham, while weaving silken threads of unspoken emotions for his Abbu and Ma. We’ve handpicked some translations from Gulzar Saab’s reflections, a treasure of timeless beauty.

Tagore

With a mould of gurtied on his head, a rustic
Was crossing a vast maidan, both long and wide
Hearing the fragrance of the gur,
A canopy of bees hummed over his head
The sun rose higher and in the growing heat
The gur started to melt.
The simple villager was now astonished,
Drops of gur were running down his face
And he was licking them with his tongue.
I’m a simple villager,
Who has placed the sweet gur of Tagore’s poems
On my head?

Ghalib

‘Is there a man who does not know of Ghalib
A good poet he surely is, but infamous . . . ’
Ghalib describes himself thus.
Such mischief is not seen or heard in any other poet. And
then there was his devilsh ego!
‘Baageecha-e-atphal hai duniya mere aagey
Hota hai shab-va-roz tamasha mere aagey’
The world, a child’s playground, it seems to me
Endlessly, the play of life is enacted before me.
Please believe me when I say I have read the poets of India in every
language; both in the original and in translation. But I have not
found a poet of this temperament in any language besides Urdu.
Ghalib is a synonym for the Urdu language.
Now listen to his desire to vanish without a trace:

Museum Galli Quasim

Entering Galli Quasim
I have stopped at your mansion, Mirza Nausha
Let me call out to you,
First let Umrau go behind the curtains into purdah
Before I step inside.
Cooking vessels, the jug and tray are all removed
The rain used to fall for two hours
The roof would rain for four.
The same seive-like roof is now being repaired . . .
That it took more than a hundred years for this,
Saddens me.
In fact, the smudges of the coal dump in your house had to be erased,
And meanwhile,
Many governments changed, before your house could be reached.
Where you would sit with Kallan on the upper floor, do you
remember?
You would paste the sides of envelopes with gum,
On the boats of your letters Urdu would flow,
Flawless Urdu prose started lapping at untrodden shores . . .
Now a computer will take over the space.
A million letters will be dispatched from there.
They will not be as beautiful as those in your handwriting,

Baba

When the lamp burns out
A slight smoke rises
When the diminished sun sets
Long after sunset
The sky of steel glows with its light
When leaves break away
They float for a distance.
Why then, while you were leaving
Did you not turn and look back even once?
Just held your breath and
Wrapped in soil, you went to sleep.

Pablo . . .!

Often I feel there is truth in what Pablo says,
‘A poem is a bounced cheque.’
The one I wrote it for
Read it, inclined her head slightly and said,
‘It’s good,’ and returned it.
Sometimes, it’s written,
‘Present the cheque again!’
When published in my book, I presented it again.
This time, slightly biting her lip, she smiled, but . . .
By then, we were both in the second half of our lives.

***

Get your copy of Caged by Gulzar on Amazon or wherever books are sold.

What lies beyond the headlines of air combat, rescue missions, and daring operations? Air Warriors takes you into the heart of the Indian Air Force, weaving together stories of courage, sacrifice, and camaraderie that have remained largely unknown.

Read the excerpt to know more.

As he so often liked to do, nineteen-year-old Lieutenant Indra Lal Roy climbed into the wooden cockpit of his beloved square-nosed, single-seat SE 5a biplane (tail No. B180), and took off alone. It was early one July morning in 1918 with World War I still raging, as he flew over the battle-scarred trenches of France. The nose-mounted machine gun could fire through the propeller and there was a spare drum of ammunition mounted inside his cockpit. Soaring over the German-occupied French town of Carvin with the morning air smooth and still, this was his favourite time to fly. And hunt . . .

Fondly called ‘Laddie’ by his Squadron mates of 40 Squadron ‘A’ Flight, his boyish good looks belied his enviable reputation as an ace fighter pilot who had shot down ten enemy aircraft (two shared). Five of these were destroyed (one shared), and five ‘down out of control’ (one shared), in a little over 170 hours of flying time, in the space of just thirteen days.

Like many Air Aces of World War I, he loved to hunt alone, savouring the freedom of those solo forays in the war-torn skies over enemy lines that allowed for exceptional acts of individual bravery and courage. He trusted and leveraged to maximum effect his combat skills in dogfights with multiple German aircraft, including the mainstream Pfalz D.III and Fokker D.VII fighters that made up the backbone of their Air Force. Twice, he had shot down two enemy aircraft in a single combat sortie, and three on the same day once. As his score mounted and his reputation spread, he was feared and respected alike by his opponents.

This was his second tour of duty in France with the RFC, the Royal Flying Corps, that subsequently became the RAF, the Royal Air Force.

After his commissioning as a Second Lieutenant on 5 July 1917, he had been shot down and badly injured in December on his very first operational sortie with 56 Squadron, also equipped with SE 5a. So bad were his injuries that he had been given up for dead and put in a French mortuary, where he woke up subsequently and managed to get out by banging loudly on the door. The terrified morgue staff called him the ‘Boy from the Dead’.

He spent the next six months recuperating in a hospital during which time he made some beautiful sketches of military aircraft, some of which survive to this day, more than a 100 years later.

He returned to active duty in a ground job as an Equipment Officer. Lesser mortals would have been happy with that, but the fire of adventure and wartime fighter flying still burnt brightly in the nineteen-year-old, and he volunteered for, and soon cleared his medical exam for rejoining operational flying duties with in June 1918. Laddie was soon back where he belonged, in the cockpit of his favourite S.E.5a fighter. And the rest, as they say, is history.

It seemed as if he were a man in a hurry to make up for lost time, as he shot down one enemy aircraft after other, starting with a Hannover C on 6 July. This was followed by three victories in the space of four hours on 8 July (two Hannover Cs and a Fokker D.VII); two on 13 July (a Hannover C and a Pfalz D.III); two on 15 July (two Fokker D.VIIs); and one on 18 July (a DFW C.V). His tenth and final victory came on l9 July when he shot down a Hannover C over Cagnicourt.

On 22 July 1918, a 106 years ago, Laddie Roy had taken off in search of his eleventh victim. Still little more than a young boy, one month shy of his twentieth birthday, he had been attending St Paul’s school in Kensington, London, just a year ago. Now he was firmly established as one of the top allied air aces of the Great War, the War that was supposed to end all wars.

Everyone knows how hollow that claim turned out to be.

That fateful day, on 22 July 1918, as he patrolled the skies, alone in his S.E 5a fighter, high over enemy lines, did he at some point, have a premonition, a sense of foreboding like the Irish Airman in the famous W.B. Yeats war poem, and like him, feel, ‘I know I shall meet my fate/ Somewhere among the clouds above /A lonely impulse of delight/ Drove to this tumult in the clouds’, as he ran into a bunch of Fokker D VIIs of Jasta 29 (or 29 Fighter Squadron), of the Imperial German Air Service, as the Luftwaffe was called then.

***

Get your copy of Air Warriors by Arijit Ghosh on Amazon or wherever books are sold.

Ponniyin Selvan continues its epic tale of ambition and betrayal, beautifully translated by Gowri Ramnarayan. Don’t miss the exclusive excerpt!

It is the twilight hour at Kodikkarai. Peace reigns on land and sea. Fishing boats and catamarans are returning to the shore. The seabirds are flying home after ranging over the coastal waters in search of prey.

The beach is carpeted with white sand. Beyond the sandy stretch, the wilderness spreads thick and far. No branch moves on the trees, no leaf stirs. Silence prevails everywhere. The reddening sun hastens to sink on the horizon, while still lighting up the few clouds trying to hide his crimson rays.

A small boat floats on the waters close to the shore. Little waves rock the boat like an infant’s cradle.

A young girl is seated on the boat. As soon as we set eyes on her, we are reminded of Sendan Amudan’s description of his uncle’s daughter. Yes, she has to be Poonkuzhali—the girl with the flower in her hair. True to her name, a single screw pine petal is tucked into her long black tresses cascading over her strong, chiselled shoulders. She wears a necklace of shells and conches that had been washed ashore. These adornments gain in beauty because she is wearing them.

Leaning lithely on the boat, Poonkuzhali begins to sing. Does the sea lull its waves to hear her song? Do the gusting breezes waft in slow motion to catch those strains? The trees in the distant woods cease rustling, while the earth and sky remain unmoving. Entranced by her song, the sun halts on the horizon unwilling to sink into the sea. Let us listen to the song as it comes floating on the breeze.

When the restless ocean lies tranquil,
why do inner tides seethe and churn?
When the earth is buried in slumber,
why does a cussed heart heave and burn?

See, how birds of the wilderness
now wing their way to their nests.
See, how the hunters and tribesmen
turn homeward for a night of rest.

They lie plunged in an ancient silence,
both land and sky in a swoon.
Why then is a doe-eyed woman’s heart
seized by a nameless typhoon?

The sea is swathed in stillness
and the breezes blow, tender and balmy.

Why then is a woman’s heart battered,
by these night gales, swirling and stormy?

When the restless ocean lies tranquil,
why do inner tides seethe and churn?
When the earth is buried in slumber,
why does a cussed heart heave and burn?

The grief in her heart remains unknown. The pain in her voice remains untold. Was the song shaped with tears? Why should her melody overwhelm us? Why does it break our hearts? Poonkuzhali ceases singing. She plies the oars until the boat reaches the shore. She skips out, drags her boat towards the catamarans heaped together on the beach and props her boat against them.

There! The fire has been lit on top of the lighthouse. The flames will keep burning all night to warn the ships to keep off the coast. The waters are extremely shallow all along the Kodikkarai shore. Only small boats and catamarans can land there. Large ships would be mired in the sands. And if they approached at a high speed, they could run aground and be splintered. The Kodikkarai lighthouse renders a great service to seamen.

In the middle of the woods on the other side, a temple spire rises above trees squat and thick. The god Kuzhagar is enshrined under it. Two hundred years before our story begins, the poet Sundarar had visited Kodikkarai, worshipped the god who dwelt in the lonely woods and sang in distress, ‘Alas! Lord! Why do you dwell in the middle of these mangrove woods, alone, with no one for company? When there are scores of sacred towns, thronged by crowds of pilgrims singing your praises, why have you chosen to remain in this dreadful forest, in utter solitude?’

In the wild, beside the sea
Where biting winds do sharply blow
My sinful eyes are forced to see
You standing still in solitude
Forlorn—
With none to bear you company
My Lord!

What’s the harm if you should dwell
In bustling towns with devotees,
Whose chants and songs and praises swell
In joyful bursts of jubilance?
But you—
Still linger in this thorny dell
Dear Lord!

The grief in her heart remains unknown. The pain in her voice remains untold. Was the song shaped with tears? Why should her melody overwhelm us? Why does it break our hearts?

Poonkuzhali ceases singing. She plies the oars until the boat reaches the shore. She skips out, drags her boat towards the catamarans heaped together on the beach and props her boat against them.

***

Get your copy of The Cyclone: Ponniyin Selvan 2 by Kalki on Amazon or wherever books are sold.