After the reviews for One Indian Girl began to pour in, Chiki Sarkar of Juggernaut asked, “Why not review it on its own terms?” This review is a response to that question. 5 Points Readers Expect from a Chetan Bhagat Novel Like a Harlequin romance, a Chetan Bhagat novel has certain conventions. Both brands are … Continue reading Understanding Chetan Bhagat’s One Indian Girl on her own terms
I am an American woman traveling alone in India. I am not, however, a typical tourist. Before my current stay, I lived for 3 years in Mumbai. During that time, I visited 12 states, primarily in North India, although I made it as far south as Kerala. Since my husband and I left India 2 … Continue reading One American Girl in India
I was terrified. Of a book. Not just any book. A book like A Fine Balance, for instance, which was so terrifying to me that I couldn't make it more than a quarter way through. No, no, no. This book was no literary tour-de-force. This book was... my book. That's right. My own book.
Quando sono stato in Firenze, era una programme della cultura chiamata “Firenze porte aperte.” In the evenings, the museums would open their doors for free. Roaming the Uffizi at night while Andrea Boccelli sang in the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio is an exquisite memory of my time in Italy. You have returned that memory to me and opened a door. For that, I thank you. Grazie mille.
Rana Ayyub seems truly interested in discovering the truth of what happened during the 2002 Gujarat riots and in the encounters that followed. But the question remains: whose truth are we talking about here? That’s where Ayyub’s confirmation bias comes in.
The Vegetarian isn’t really about a vegetarian or vegetarianism. This book is about control. Control of our bodies, our minds, our sexual desires, our identities, even our very existence.
As I watched the Write India video the other day, I teared up and realized I wanted to tell the stories of my stories, the lessons I learned, and express my gratitude for the Write India program.
I stand in front of Diana's bench. It's my bench now. I'm a Diana, too. Not the Diana, of course, but that's my name nonetheless. For me, this monument to love resembles nothing of the kind. It's just a pile of rocks, crumbling after centuries of abuse and neglect.
But, what is literary fiction? Even experienced writers often have difficulty defining this genre. It's like porn. You know it when you see it, but ask someone to define it, and they either can't or won't.
Usha pushed herself up. Pain weighed down her limbs as she switched off the fan. She went over to the dining room table and collapsed into a chair. Her shoulders heaved as silent sobs escaped her lips. She rose from the chair and moved it under the fan. She climbed onto the chair and draped the dupatta over the fan's stainless steel blades. As she readied to tie the dupatta around her neck, the fan switched on. The dupatta flew out of her hand and on to the floor.