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The Manglik Curse: Will it Stop Avni from Meeting ‘The Right Guy’?

What would you do if fate kept bringing you back to the one who got away? In The Right Guy, author Tarun Vikash spins a heartfelt tale of missed opportunities, unexpected reunions, and the courage to finally say what’s in your heart.

Read this exclusive excerpt where Dhruv and Avni face the harsh realities of love, family, and the courage it takes to hold on to the one who matters most.

The Right Guy
The Right Guy || Tarun Vikash

***

A Week Later

 

I reached Chennai.

 

Avni’s mom had asked me to meet her urgently. I was really nervous. Avni had not told me anything. She just said that something had happened at Bala’s wedding because of which her mom and dad were really upset. I’m already scared of Avni’s dad. I reached Avni’s home and Uncle opened the door. He looked at me angrily and went inside to his room. Aunty immediately came to the door and welcomed me in.

 

‘Dhruv, I think you are aware of what happened at Bala’s wedding,’ Avni’s mom said.

 

‘I don’t understand, Aunty. What happened?’

 

‘Look, we know Avni likes you and even you like her. But it will be good if you stopped meeting her from today onwards.’

 

‘Amma, please don’t talk to him like that,’ Avni interrupted.

 

Avni, let me talk, please.’

 

‘Aunty, did I make any mistake? I am sorry if I have hurt anyone,’ I said.

 

‘It’s not about you, Dhruv. It’s about your family.’

 

‘What happened, Aunty? Did anyone call and say something to you or Uncle?’

 

‘What was the point of getting Avni’s kundli matched with yours at Bala’s wedding, when I haven’t given any approval of your marriage with her?’

 

‘Huh? When did this happen?’

 

‘Ask your sister. She did all this,’ Aunty said. I looked at Avni. She nodded.

 

‘Your sister shamed my daughter in front of all the guests there.’

 

‘But what happened? Avni, at least you tell me,’ I asked.

 

‘Avni is manglik. And, till date, only we knew that. But now, due to your sister, everybody knows. In fact, your sister and Bala’s wife even laughed at Avni.’

 

‘Shreya Didi didn’t laugh, Amma,’ Avni interrupted.

 

‘Do you see my daughter? She’s still defending your sister. But what did your sister do? She made a joke about my daughter in front of so many people. Do you know that the pandit said, in front of everyone, that my daughter is not a good match for you? How do you expect me to feel, Dhruv?’ said Aunty.

 

‘Aunty, I had no idea about all this. I am so sorry, I’ll speak to—’

 

‘Now, all my relatives know about this. This is a gross invasion of our privacy, Dhruv. I didn’t expect this of your family. Does your mom know about this? Do you know how much we are being mocked right now? In our family, everyone has got to know that Avni is a manglik. Now, who will marry her?’ said Aunty.

 

I wanted to say that I would marry her but it was not the right thing to say right now. I was really scared. Why would Didi do something so stupid? Damn.

 

‘Does your mom know about this kundli match?’ Aunty asked me.

 

‘Aunty, I myself got to know about this today. How would Maa know?’

 

‘Check with your sister. She must have already informed your mom as she did to the rest of the world.’

 

‘I am really sorry, Aunty. Didi would not do anything to hurt Avni. This was all a mistake.’

 

‘I am not saying anything to you, Dhruv. Just don’t meet Avni from now on.’ Avni held her mom’s hand tightly.

 

‘We can’t get our daughter married to you. Not today, not ever,’ Aunty said.

 

‘Aunty, I apologize again on behalf of Didi. Everything will be all right. My mom doesn’t care about all this. She already loves Avni so much.’

 

‘That is why your sister made a joke of my daughter. Is it?’

 

‘Aunty, to be frank, everyone in our friends circle knows that Avni and I want to marry each other. Maybe that is why Didi might have asked the pandit to match our kundli.’

 

‘And what about the mockery we are getting from everyone? Do you know what people are saying about my daughter now? We can’t even go to their houses now.’

 

I did not know what to say. I shouldn’t have come alone. I shouldn’t have even come here. Why did you do this, Didi?

 

‘I am sorry, Aunty,’ I said, folding my hands.

 

‘He is still here?’ Uncle entered and spoke to Aunty while looking at me.

 

‘Appa, please,’ Avni said.

 

‘Hi Uncle,’ I said, as I stood up. Uncle did not say a word.

 

‘Tell him not to meet my daughter from now onwards,’ Uncle said.

***

Get your copy of The Right Guy by Tarun Vikash on Amazon or wherever books are sold.

Can Matchmaker Jia Find Her Own Happily Ever After?

When love, family, and ambition intertwine, craziness and magic are bound to follow. In Swati Hedge’s Match Me If You Can, pub owner Jaiman Patil is smitten with journalist Jia Deshpande, who loves to play matchmaker. As their lives get more tangled, Jaiman’s feelings for Jia grow stronger, and her matchmaking efforts start causing chaos. In Mumbai, though, happily-ever-afters are never far away.

 

Read this exclusive excerpt to find out what’s really going on!

 

Match Me If You Can
Match Me If You Can || Swati Hedge

***

The Patils’ and Deshpandes’ lives were so intertwined that when the time had come to name Jia, a year after his best friend’s son was born, Papa simply took the first three letters of Jaiman’s name and scrambled them up to create “Jia.”

 

It didn’t stop there. Papa and Mr. Patil became business partners, raking in millions in profits throughout Jia’s and Jaiman’s teen years, until Mr. Patil decided to start something of his own and went to America to set up the new industrial business. That was right around when Jaiman was moving to Pune, a few cities away, for college. After Mr. and Mrs. Patil left, and then Jia too, for journalism school in London, Jaiman became a permanent part of the Deshpande family.
Jia would return to India during winter break to find Jaiman mixing plum cake batter in the kitchen, throwing his head back and laughing at one of Papa’s corny dad jokes. He would pause to check if Mamma’s glass of wine needed refilling, and ask Jia’s sister, Tanu, about her latest legal clients. He’d usher Jia over to the kitchen counter and show her pictures of all his weekend getaways with the Deshpandes, which happened every other Saturday, since his college was only a three-hour drive from Mumbai. It was surprising to see how easily he had made his way into her family’s hearts. So much so that when Mamma’s cancer took her away over five years ago, right after Diwali, after Jia had graduated and returned to Mumbai for good, Papa brought Jaiman along with them to scatter Mamma’s ashes in the sea. When Tanu broke down as those ashes disappeared into the waves, it was Jaiman’s shoulder she cried on.

 

“So how was work today?” Jaiman prodded, and Jia looked up from the tomato sauce dripping from her fork onto the plate.

 

“It was all right.” Jia shrugged as she helped herself to more lasagna. “I pitched the new matchmaking column to my boss last week, but Monica still needs more convincing that I’m the best person to run it.”

 

“Oh, wow.” Jaiman raised a thick brow. “Sounds like a big responsibility. But there’s nothing Jia Deshpande can’t do when she sets her mind to it.” He winked at her before swallowing his next bite.

 

Jia ignored the rush of hormones that flooded her body at his wink and the way his tongue darted out to lick the side of his lip. It was hard to be mad at Jaiman for taking over her life when he was this . . . nice. No wonder everyone in her family loved him.

 

She let out the smallest of sighs and returned to the rest of the lip-smacking lasagna sitting on her plate. “Maybe I’ll make lunch for you tomorrow, Papa,” she mused aloud with the next bite.

 

“The chicken breasts I bought during my last grocery run won’t stay fresh for too long.”

 

Papa shook his head. “Don’t worry, Jaiman used them for lunch today. You should have been there!”

“Yum,” Jia agreed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Papa interrupted her train of thought by speaking up. “Jaiman also took me to the doctor this afternoon. My chest was hurting so bad, I was sure it was a heart attack.”

 

Jia didn’t react. This had happened three times so far. No, not an actual heart attack scare. Papa’s unwarranted trips to the cardiologist.
“But then it turned out it was just gas!” Papa chortled. “Just like last month!”

 

The only person Papa hadn’t seen for his presumed illnesses was a therapist. The one kind of professional who could actually help him, Jia believed. He had kept the grief of Mamma’s death to himself for five long years now, allowed it to manifest in unhealthy ways, like imagined sickness and fretting over every little thing. Perhaps it was his coping mechanism—assume every minor problem was a dangerous illness, so that it could be detected early, unlike Mamma’s cancer.

 

Jia hoped she might, someday, set Papa up with someone wonderful who would ground him into reality and bring him some peace. But knowing her father, knowing how devoted he’d been to Mamma, it was unlikely to happen. Maybe falling in love wasn’t a choice, but working on nurturing that love within a relationship absolutely was. And it was a choice Papa wouldn’t be willing to make with anybody except Mamma.

 

After dinner, as she was putting her plate in the sink—the housekeeper would do the dishes in the morning—Jaiman sidled up beside her, the citrusy scent of his cologne heavy in the air. Jia didn’t understand how a man could smell this good the entire day. It should be illegal. She turned to him, arms folded, trying not to visibly inhale.

 

“Good job on the lasagna.” He grinned at her. “Thanks. I have to get back to the pub now. Do you want to join me? I could use your help taste-testing  some new drinks.”

 

Jia’s gaze went to the wall clock hanging in the living room across from the open kitchen. It was just past ten, and although it would have been smarter to spend the rest of her night brainstorming ways to convince Monica, maybe a cocktail or two wouldn’t
hurt.

 

It was Friday night, after all. “Sure,” she said finally.

 

***

Get your copy of Match Me If You Can by Swati Hedge on Amazon or wherever books are sold.

Fool Me Twice: A Birthday Surprise Like No Other but Was it Worth the Risk?

Ever wondered what happens when teenage romance collides with life’s unexpected curveballs? In Fool Me Twice by Nona Uppal, the answer unfolds amidst the bustling streets of New Delhi. Brace yourself for a whirlwind of emotions as we delve into Sana’s journey of love, loss, and the resilience that follows.

Read this exclusive excerpt to know more!

Fool Me Twice
Fool Me Twice || Nona Uppal

***

‘Ashish, can you cut it out, please? You’re going to get us arrested.’ Bani had been game for Ashish’s plan in theory, which meant she, half-drunk on a pint of beer, had nodded furiously when he had explained it. Now that they were mid-execution, it seemed at least slightly criminal.

‘I’m too young and pretty to go to jail.’ Ashish turned around to glare at Bani.

‘I’ve got this,’ he hissed back.

‘Bhaiya, in sabka kitna (How much for these)?’ Ashish asked the man handling the roadside bird shop, pointing to all the birds on display. ‘And the ones at the
back too.’

The shop, called ‘Flying Dreemz’—a five-minute walk from our school, Horizon High International, in Hauz Khas—adorned the streets with the pastel hues of pink, blue and green cages that could only do so much to hide the sad faces of the birds trapped in them. The shopkeeper was understandably suspicious. Was he being recorded for a prank on TV?

 

‘Sab? Fifty ke fifty? Pakka?’ he confirmed. The deal was one of those too-good-to-be-true kinds.

‘Haan, pakka. All birds, no discount. Kitna?’

Ashish had no way to determine if the price the shopkeeper quoted was a steal or a loot. When his father had handed him the stack of notes, he’d been ultra-generous. ‘Make sure you get her something nice,’ he had said, patting Ashish on the back.

Handing the shopkeeper the money warily, Ashish wondered if this was going to be a disaster.

‘Badiya sir,’ the shopkeeper said, comically bobbing his head as he retrieved the notes from Ashish.

Having successfully completed the transaction, Ashish looked at Bani with his ‘Are you game?’ eyes.

‘This could either be epic or an epic blunder,’ she blurted out, her hands fixed on her phone camera, with Ashish positioned in the centre of the shaky frame.
‘Lekar kaise jaayenge aap inhe (How will you take these)?’ The guy asked Ashish, eyeing his i10. ‘Truckwruck ka kuch arrangement?’
But carrying the birds home was not what Ashish had in mind.

One by one, he unlocked the cages that weren’t really locked in the first place. Having been born and bred in captivity, it took a few seconds for the birds to
realize what an open cage meant. Only when one of them dared to flap its wings and fly into the blue sky did the others realize they could do it too.

 

‘Yeh kya kar rahe hain aap?’ the shopkeeper shrieked, finally looking up from counting his earnings.

‘Saala paagal!’ he scrambled to lock the leftover cages, yelling profanities at Ashish and Bani, but it was too late. The last bird had already flown away.

 

Ashish hadn’t gone mad, though. Far from it. Every day for the past two years, Ashish, Bani and I had walked out of our school’s main gate soon after the final school bell for a quick ice cream before heading back home. Our trusted Kwality Walls cart was usually parked right next to this bird shop, the ownership of which had been passed down to many different men over the years. Despite looking forward to my Cola bar all day, my skin burning from the sweltering heat, one look at the birds would make me lose all my appetite. I admit that it was mostly silly. But I couldn’t drown it out. All those pretty birds locked away in pastel-coloured cages, waiting for someone to set them free. Instead, they were bought by rich people and carried in cars to jazz up their maximalist homes.

 

It was one of those things I thought no one was noticing, a two-second glitch on my face that the most attentive of eyes could miss. Here’s where I got it wrong—Ashish was always looking. So, for my eighteenth birthday, when his consistent pleading for me to tell him what he could gift me failed, he rejigged his strategy. What could he do that would mean more than buying me a pair of shoes I would ditch for my Bata chappals or a bag to fill with stuff I would much rather carry in my hands?

 

After capturing the rainbow colours in the sky as the birds flew away, Bani panned the camera towards Ashish’s face. ‘Look here,’ Bani signalled.
Ashish faced the camera. ‘I don’t know if this is stupid,’ he said. ‘Umm, it probably is. But, fuck it. It fits because I’m stupidly in love with you. Happy birthday, Sana.’

 

Bani turned the camera around to record herself.
‘If you think it’s stupid, it was all his idea,’ she said, laughing. ‘But I love you too, munchkin.’

 

The end was a lot choppier than the rest—the camera being stuffed, while still on, in Bani’s bag, as they escaped in Ashish’s i10 that drove like it was always in second gear. I saw the video and heard the entire story a week later, on the night of my birthday, as Ashish and Bani sat next to me and played it on Bani’s laptop. Scrunching up the fabric of my loose t-shirt to wipe the fat tears trickling down my cheeks, I broke out laughing as the end scenes rolled. This kind of luck and love, I realized, might just be illegal to possess.

 

***

Curios to know what happened next?
Get your copy of Fool Me Twice by Nona Uppal wherever books are sold.

“Where I sweated and wilted, Edwina was as cool as a cucumber”, 'The Last Vicereine' — An Excerpt

In the spring of 1947, Lord and Lady Mountbatten set foot in the sultry heat of Delhi. A woman of unparalleled charisma, influence and beauty, Edwina Mountbatten was also one of Jawahar’s closest. Little did anyone know that their lives were about to change forever as lines would be drawn through the soul of undivided India.
A beautiful, heart-breaking tale of love, loss and unflinching faith, Rhiannon Jenkins Tsang’s The Last Vicereine takes us through a blossoming relationship that was one of a kind, amidst the storm of Partition.
Here is an excerpt from the novel:
My God, India was hot! Standing on the tarmac at Palam airport, the heat took my breath away. Everything was white. My eyes ached from the brightness. Had I been living so long in the darkness that I had forgotten the light?
Where I sweated and wilted, Edwina was as cool as a cucumber. We had landed ages ago and the boxes were mostly unloaded. The Viceroy and Vicereine Designates had been received by the waiting dignitaries and Dickie had long since finished inspecting the guard of honour. Yet she tarried.
She stood about ten feet away from the foot of the steps to the aircraft. All fizz and sparkle, her weight resting seductively on to one hip, she was deep in conversation with two Indian men. Already, they were under her spell. They were Liaquat Ali Khan, General Secretary of the Muslim League, and Jawaharlal Nehru, Vice President of the interim government. Both of them were famous and I recognized them immediately from newsreels, papers and books. The handsome, charismatic Nehru was the man most likely to be the Prime Minister of the new independent India after we left. But it looked like Edwina knew them personally. She had greeted them like they were long-lost friends. Now she was chatting animatedly, talking French style, with her hands and shoulders, as was her way.
The rest of us were gathered by the cars, waiting to leave the airport. Dickie’s face was inscrutable. But he pulled awkwardly at the hem of his jacket as if trying to straighten it when it was not creased. It was getting embarrassing. She was almost flirting. Did she know she was keeping everyone waiting? If she did, she didn’t seem to care.
Squinting and shading my eyes against the sun, I saw that now Nehru was doing the talking. He must have said something very funny for Khan rolled his eyes to the sky and all three of them burst out laughing.
It was a relief when at last we got in the cars.
‘Best keep the windows up as much as you can once you enter Delhi,’ the young British officer from the 14th Punjabi Regiment warned. He closed our car door gently, almost as if he were tucking children up in bed.
I was squashed between the side of the car and Ronnie Brockman who seemed owl-like in his spectacles. He, in turn, was wedged against a bulging padlocked briefcase and Elizabeth Ward. Just after we landed Edwina had thrust the shoebox containing the tiara into my hands for safe keeping. Tenderly, I cradled it in my lap as the cars sped towards New Delhi.
On the outskirts of the city we stopped so that Edwina and Dickie could transfer into the horse-drawn landau for the final leg of the journey to Viceroy’s House. I could not see the point of such a show for there was a marked lack of crowds to welcome the new Viceroy and Vicereine. Out of nowhere, I remembered that in 1912 someone had thrown a bomb at the elephant carrying the then Viceroy, Lord Hardinge, and his wife when they were passing through Chandni Chowk in Old Delhi. The Viceroy had sustained serious injuries, and the mahout had been killed. And now Dickie and Edwina were out in front in the open-topped carriage. They smiled through clenched teeth at the non-existent crowds, and hated one another. They had not exchanged more than a few words during the whole flight.
Through the windscreen of the car I watched the landau with its mounted escort of the Viceroy’s bodyguard, wheel past India Gate. Facing the Gate was a high stone canopy underneath which stood a monumentally square, almost Soviet-style statue of King George V.
‘Look!’ Ronnie Brockman pointed to the great cupola dome of Viceroy’s House. In the distance, it seemed to float on a cushion of the palest blue. ‘Designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens. Isn’t it magnificent?’ Ronnie had been in New Delhi during the war when he was Secretary to Lord Louis in his capacity as Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia. He was gearing up for the role of tour guide. ‘The city of New Delhi was commissioned in 1911, and designed by Lutyens and his colleague Herbert Baker. It is in a unique style, as you will see, combining Western classicism with Indian decorative motifs.’ Elizabeth and I nodded dutifully. Judging the danger of bombs, stones and Molotov cocktails to be minimal by this point, I rolled the window down.
There was no wind, not even the promise of a breeze. The pennants on the lances of the Viceroy’s bodyguard barely moved. The men were tall in their turbans, splendid in white breeches, black jackboots and red jackets. The hooves of their horses clattered as they rode a neat collected trot.
‘North Block, South Block.’ Ronnie Brockman was feeling at home, proudly indicating the two great administrative blocks of red sandstone, one on either side of the road, each topped with its own miniature dome. Here was the heart of the British Raj that ruled over four hundred million people. I wondered who might be looking down at us from behind the black unblinking windows. The size and the scale of the buildings made Whitehall look like a toy town. Surely it was Britain that was ruled by India, not the other way round?
Grab your copy of ‘The Last Vicereine’ here today!

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