‘The Accidental Theologist’


Hello & Welcome back Book Lovers.   blog

It’s been a while and we apologize for it.

Hope you reading a lot of books these days.

Today we have a very intriguing and curious psychologist turned reporter turned theologist turned writer with us.

Meet Award winning writer, Lesley Hazleton  who has spent more than 10 years of her life staying in the Middle East, covering stories on politics, religion and history of the country.

She is an agnostic and has written extensively on Christianity, Islam and Judaism.

Anyone who meets Lezley will tell you that that she is confident, articulate and a classy style diva.

Her previous works include detailed stories of Israeli women, A memoir of Jerusalem, Mother Mary, Jezebel, Shia Shunni Split. Her in-depth narrative, coherent writing and archaic facts is what keeps one glued to her books. She started researching and writing on various religions during her stay in the Middle East.

Her new book “The First Muslim” examines the narrative account of Prophet Muhammad in his formative years and how he rose to power. She describes him as a complex man with varying notions on politics and faith.

‘The First Muslim’ is also on The Crossword Bestseller list.

She currently stays in Seattle and spends gloomy evenings working on her next project, you can also know more about her from her blog .wwww.theaccidentaltheologist.com

Read an extract of her interview with us..

 

1.         A lot of Biographies have been written on Prophet Muhammad and on  his life and teachings…what made you delve  into his life further?

Basically, frustration!   I’d read many modern biographies of him, but either they seemed overly timid, as though tip-toeing through his life, or they were devotional hagiographies.  Either way, they had a soporific effect on me, and this seemed utterly wrong;  how could anyone do that to such a dramatic life?   Muhammad carved a huge profile in history, and yet the more I read, the less I seemed to have any real sense of who he actually was.  I wanted to do justice to a remarkable story – to accord him the integrity of reality, of a full life lived.  And sure enough, the deeper I went, the more complex and interesting he became.

 

2.         You have also written on the whole divide between the strongest Muslim communities ‘Shia and Sunni Muslims’ which is a strong intense war even today..Do you think the basis of this laid the foundations during Prophet Muhammad’s era?

It did.  My previous book, After the Prophet, explores this.  In a sense, the split began at the moment of Muhammad’s death, though the roots of it reach back into his lifetime.  It’s an intensely human story – a tragedy of epic dimensions that spans three generations of Muhammad’s family and the first fifty years of Islam.  And it goes deep to issues that still haunt us:  pragmatism and idealism, faith and politics, power and powerlessness.  Sometimes I imagine that if the story had only been better known, the US would never have been so foolish as to have invaded Iraq, which is precisely where the Sunni-Shia split crystallized.  But I know that’s probably just wishful thinking

 

3. For writing any kind of extensive biography you would have to spend huge hours in researching and checking every facts that must have come along.. tell us about your difficult  days spent on writing this book?

In a sense, I was living a kind of dual existence:  I’d wake every morning in misty Seattle to people and events half the world and almost half of history away, in seventh-century Arabia.  Yes, it was difficult – not least because I was aware of how intensely The First Muslim would be scrutinized, especially since I am an agnostic Jew, not a believing Muslim.  But it was also a joy.  To live in two worlds at once, the Pacific Northwest and the not-so-pacific Middle East?  To keep daily company with a prophet and bring a remarkable life to life?  This is a writer’s privilege.

 

4. Care to tell  the readers more about the sacred relationship between Muhammad and his first wife Khadija..

Islamophobes love to paint Muhammad as a lecherous polygamist, thus betraying nothing but their own ignorance (and their lascivious imagination).  Muhammad and Khadija were in a loving, caring, monogamous marriage for 24 years until her death, when he was still struggling for acceptance of his message.  In late life, he married nine other wives – diplomatic marriages, as all leaders of the time made – but it’s clear that he mourned Khadija until the day of his own death.

 

5.         You have stayed in the Middle East for more than 10 years.. where women are treated as  inferiors and the status never seems to change for the longest time right through Islam and women don’t have a say at all .Do you think we will see changing times soon for women in the Middle east?

I think this change is inevitable.  After all, the Quran, unlike the Bible, goes to great pains to include women.  It won’t happen overnight, just as revolution doesn’t happen overnight (or in a single season, per the journalistic meme of “the Arab spring”), but more and more strong women’s voices are emerging both in the Middle East and in other Muslim countries.

 

6.         We always see a whole debate where in the West, Islam as a religion is now being considered very negative, extremist and as a religion disliked by the West due to the Jihad wars and terrorists acts committed in the name of jihad. Any views on how this opinions of Islam as an extremist religion can be changed and Did Muhammad actually preach Jihad the way it has been preached by militant Islamist groups.

There have been dozens of fatwas by leading Islamic scholars saying in the strongest terms that slaughtering civilians in the name of God is an obscene travesty of Islam.  In the Quran, jihad specifically refers to the struggle to lead a good life “in the path of God,” not to armed conflict.  The interpretation of jihad as warfare only came into being three centuries after Muhammad’s death, and while I certainly can’t speak for him, I’m pretty sure that if he could see what was being preached in his name by violent extremists, he’d be the first to stand against them and call them out as murderers.

 

7. All your books are so detailed, factual, gripping. What can we expect next from you?

Well, talking of gripping, I think it’s time for me to come to grips with my own agnosticism, so I’m working on a kind of agnostic manifesto.  I’m enjoying the luxury of writing again in the first person – there’s great freedom in that – and of exploring (and challenging) my own thinking.

 

8. Apart from being an Accidental Theologist, tell us some of your quirks?

Off the top of my head:

— a love of paradox

— an ability to eat six dozen oysters at a time

— a weakness for knee-high suede boots

 

9. Authors you admire?

Let’s just start with Graham Greene, Peter Matthiessen, Virginia Woolf, Joan Didion…

 

10. Types of books you dislike reading

— books with lazy, clichéd language (alas, most popular fiction)

— books that fail to spark my imagination (alas, most academic writing)

— books that are self-serving (like too many political autobiographies)

 

11.       Books you can’t put down

I seem to be very good at putting down books described as “un-put-downable” (I fell asleep a few pages into The Da Vinci Code).  Books I really can’t put down are books I read for a second, even a third time.   Right now that’s Richard Rodriguez’ new book Darling.  It’s subtitled “a spiritual autobiography” but I’m glad to say it’s not – it’s something far more intricate and supple, and I love the way his mind works.

 

12. You have travelled the world over, your favourite country/destination?

Places I keep secret!  Untouched, magical places.  A hidden saltwater lagoon in the San Juan islands;  a hot spring coming out of the rock in the mountains north of Guadalajara;  a sage-scented wadi deep in the Sinai desert – these and others are places where I have sat quietly for hours at a time, and I am still grateful for their existence.  I’m not religious, but as Laurens van der Post once wrote, “an amen to such places.”

 

Price: Rs 599

Published by Atlantic Books

Represented & Distributed exclusively by Penguin Books India

Available on www.crossword.in and at a Crossword store near you.

 

Signing off for now

 

 Until next time Geeks.

 

 And don’t forget to drop in your comments.

 

 For details and queries write to crosswordconnect@gmail.com

 

 Happy Reading!

 

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Sneak Preview of ‘The Bone Season’ by Samantha Shannon


I like to imagine there were more of us in the beginning. Not many, I suppose. But more than there are now. bone season

We are the minority the world does not accept. Not outside of fantasy, and even that’s blacklisted. We look like everyone else.

Sometimes we act like everyone else. In many ways, we are like everyone else. We are everywhere, on every street. We live in a way you might consider normal, provided you don’t look too hard.

Not all of us know what we are. Some of us die without ever knowing. Some of us know, and we never get caught. But we’re out there.

Trust me.

I had lived in that part of London that used to be called Islington since I was eight. I attended a private school for girls, leaving at sixteen to work. That was in the year 2056. AS 127, if you use the Scion calendar. It was expected of young men and women to scratch out a living wherever they could, which was usually behind a counter of one sort or another. There were plenty of jobs in the service industry. My father thought I would lead a simple life; that I was bright but unambitious, complacent with whatever work life threw at me.

My father, as usual, was wrong.

From the age of sixteen I had worked in the criminal underworld of Scion London – SciLo, as we called it on the streets. I worked among ruthless gangs of voyants, all willing to fl oor each other to survive. All part of a citadel-wide syndicate headed by the Underlord. Pushed to the edge of society, we were forced into crime to prosper.

And so we became more hated. We made the stories true. I had my little place in the chaos. I was a mollisher, the protégée of a mime-lord. My boss was a man named Jaxon Hall, the mimelord responsible for the I-4 area. There were six of us in his direct employ. We called ourselves the Seven Seals.

I couldn’t tell my father. He thought I was an assistant at an oxygen bar, a badly paid but legal occupation. It was an easy lie. He wouldn’t have understood if I’d told him why I spent my time with criminals. He didn’t know that I belonged with them. More than I belonged with him.

I was nineteen years old the day my life changed. Mine was a familiar name on the streets by that time. After a tough week at the black market, I’d planned to spend the weekend with my father. Jax didn’t twig why I needed time off – for him, there was nothing worth our salt outside the syndicate – but he didn’t have a family like I did. Not a living family, anyway.

And although my father and I had never been close, I still felt I should keep in touch. A dinner here, a phone call there, a present at Novembertide. The only hitch was his endless list of questions.

What job did I have? Who were my friends? Where was I living?

I couldn’t answer. The truth was dangerous. He might have sent me to Tower Hill himself if he’d known what I really did. Maybe I should have told him the truth. Maybe it would have killed him.

Either way, I didn’t regret joining the syndicate. My line of work was dishonest, but it paid. And as Jax always said, better an outlaw than a stiff.

It was raining that day. My last day at work. A life-support machine kept my vitals ticking over. I looked dead, and in a way I was: my spirit was detached, in part, from my body. It was a crime for which I could have faced the gallows.

I said I worked in the syndicate. Let me clarify. I was a hacker of sorts. Not a mind reader, exactly; more a mind radar, in tune with the workings of the æther. I could sense the nuances of dreamscapes and rogue spirits. Things outside myself. Things the average voyant wouldn’t feel.

Jax used me as a surveillance tool. My job was to keep track of ethereal activity in his section. He would often have me check out other voyants, see if they were hiding anything. At first it had just been people in the room – people I could see and hear and touch– but soon he realised I could go further than that. I could sensethings happening elsewhere: a voyant walking down the street, a gathering of spirits in the Garden. So long as I had life support, I could pick up on the æther within a mile radius of Seven Dials.

Soif he needed someone to dish the dirt on what was happening in I-4, you could bet your broads Jaxon would call yours truly. He said I had potential to go further, but Nick refused to let me try. We didn’t know what it would do to me. All clairvoyance was prohibited, of course, but the kind that made money was downright sin. They had a special term for it: mime-crime. Communication with the spirit world, especially for financial gain. It was mime-crime that the syndicate was built on.

Cash-in-hand clairvoyance was rife among those who couldn’t get into a gang. We called it busking. Scion called it treason. The official method of execution for such crimes was nitrogen asphyxiation, marketed under the brand name NiteKind. I still remember the headlines: PAINLESS PUNISHMENT: SCION’S LATEST MIRACLE. They said it was like going to sleep, like taking a pill. There were still public hangings, and the odd bit of torture for high treason.

I committed high treason just by breathing.

But back to that day. Jaxon had wired me up to life support and sent me out to reconnoitre the section. I’d been closing in on a local mind, a frequent visitor to Section 4. I’d tried my best to see his memories, but something had always stopped me. This dreamscape was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. Even Jax was stumped.

From the layering of defence mechanisms I would have said its owner was several thousand years old, but that couldn’t be it. This was something different. Jax was a suspicious man. By rights a new clairvoyant in his section should have announced themselves to him within forty eight hours. He said another gang must be involved, but none of the I-4 lot had the experience to block my scouting.

None of them knew I could do it. It wasn’t  Didion Waite, who headed the second largest gang in the area. It wasn’t the starving buskers that frequented Dials. It wasn’t the territorial mime-lords that specialised in ethereal larceny. This was something else.

Hundreds of minds passed me, flashing silver in the dark. They moved through the streets quickly, like their owners. I didn’t recognise these people. I couldn’t see their faces; just the barest edges of their minds. I wasn’t in Dials now. My perception was further north, though I couldn’t pin down where. I followed the familiar sense of danger. The stranger’s mind was close. It drew me through the æther like a glym jack with a lantern, darting over and under the other minds.

Moving fast, as if the stranger sensed me. As if he was trying to run. I shouldn’t follow this light. I didn’t know where it would lead me,and I’d already gone too far from Seven Dials.Jaxon told you to find him. The thought was distant. He’ll be angry. I pressed ahead, moving faster than I ever could in my body. I pulledagainst the restraints of my physical location. I could make out the rogue mind now. Not silver, like the others: no, this was dark and cold, a mind of ice and stone.

I shot towards it. He was so, so close . . . I couldn’t lose him now . . .

Then the æther trembled around me and, in a heartbeat, he was gone. The stranger’s mind was out of reach again. Someone shook my body.

My silver cord – the link between my body and my spirit – was extremely sensitive. It was what allowed me to sense dreamscapes at a distance. It could also snap me back into my skin. When I opened my eyes, Dani was waving a penlight over my face. ‘Pupil response,’ she said to herself. ‘Good.’

Danica. Our resident genius, second only to Jax in intellect. She was three years older than me and had all the charm and sensitivity of a sucker punch. Nick classified her as a sociopath when she was first employed. Jax said it was just her personality.

‘Rise and shine, Dreamer.’ She slapped my cheek. ‘Welcome back to meatspace.’

The slap stung: a good, if unpleasant sign. I reached up to unfasten my oxygen mask.The dark glint of the den came into focus. Jax’s crib was a secret cave of contraband: forbidden fi lms, music and books, all crammed together on dust-thickened shelves. There was a collection of penny dreadfuls, the kind you could pick up from the Garden on weekends, and a stack of saddle-stapled pamphlets. This was the only place in the world where I could read and watch and do whatever I liked.

‘You shouldn’t wake me like that,’ I said. She knew the rules.

‘How long was I there for?’

‘Where?’

‘Where do you think?’

Dani snapped her fingers. ‘Right, of course – the æther. Sorry. Wasn’t keeping track.’

Unlikely. Dani never lost track.

I checked the blue Nixie timer on the machine. Dani had made it herself. She called it the Dead Voyant Sustainment System, or DVS2. It monitored and controlled my life functions when I sensed the æther at long range. My heart dropped when I saw the digits.

‘Fifty-seven minutes.’ I rubbed my temples. ‘You let me stay in the æther for an hour?’

‘Maybe.’

‘An entire hour?’

‘Orders are orders. Jax said he wanted you to crack this mystery mind by dusk. Have you done it?’

‘I tried.’

‘Which means you failed. No bonus for you.’ She gulped down her espresso.

‘Still can’t believe you lost Anne Naylor.’

Trust her to bring that up. A few days before I’d been sent to the auction house to reclaim a spirit that rightfully belonged to Jax: Anne Naylor, the famous ghost of Farringdon. I’d been outbid.

‘We were never going to get Naylor,’ I said. ‘Didion wouldn’t let that gavel fall, not after last time.’

‘Whatever you say. Don’t know what Jax would have done with a poltergeist, anyway.’ Dani looked at me. ‘He says he’s given you the weekend off. How’d you swing that?’

‘Psychological reasons.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means you and your contraptions are driving me mad.’ She threw her empty cup at me. ‘I take care of you, urchin. My contraptions can’t run themselves. I could just walk out of here for my lunch break and let your sad excuse for a brain dry up.’

‘It could have dried up.’

‘Cry me a river. You know the drill: Jax gives the orders, we comply, we get our flatches. Go and work for Hector if you don’t like it.’Touché.

With a sniff, Dani handed me my beaten leather boots. I pulled them on. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Eliza’s asleep. She had an episode.’

We only said episode when one of us had a near-fatal encounter, which in Eliza’s case was an unsolicited possession. I glanced at the door to her painting room.

‘Is she all right?’

‘She’ll sleep it off.’

‘I assume Nick checked on her.’

‘I called him. He’s still at Chat’s with Jax. He said he’d drive you to your dad’s at five-thirty.’

Chateline’s was one of the only places we could eat out, a classy bar-and-grill in Neal’s Yard. The owner made a deal with us: we tipped him well, he didn’t tell the Vigiles what we were. His tip cost more than the meal, but it was worth it for a night out.

‘So he’s late,’ I said.

‘Must have been held up.’

Dani reached for her phone. ‘Don’t bother.’ I tucked my hair into my hat. ‘I’d hate to interrupt their huddle.’

‘You can’t go by train.’

‘I can, actually.’

‘Your funeral.’

‘I’ll be fine. The line hasn’t been checked for weeks.’ I stood.

‘Breakfast on Monday?’

‘Maybe. Might owe the beast some overtime.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘You’d better go. It’s nearly six.’

She was right. I had less than ten minutes to reach the station. I grabbed my jacket and ran for the door, calling a quick ‘Hi, Pieter’ to the spirit in the corner. It glowed in response: a soft, bored glow.

I didn’t see that sparkle, but I felt it. Pieter was depressed again. Being dead sometimes got to him.

There was a set way of doing things with spirits, at least in our section. Take Pieter, one of our spirit aides – a muse, if you want to get technical. Eliza would let him possess her, working in slots of about three hours a day, during which time she would paint a masterpiece. When she was done, I’d run down to the Garden and flog it to unwary art collectors. Pieter was temperamental, mind. Sometimes we’d go months without a picture.

A den like ours was no place for ethics. It happens when you force a minority underground. It happens when the world is cruel. There was nothing to do but get on with it. Try and survive, to make a bit of cash. To prosper in the shadow of the Westminster Archon.

My job – my life – was based at Seven Dials.

According to Scion’s unique urban division system, it lay in I Cohort, Section 4, or I-4. It was built around a pillar on a junction close to Covent Garden’s black market. On this pillar there were six sundials. Each section had its own mime-lord or mime-queen. Together they formed the Unnatural Assembly, which claimed to govern the syndicate, but they all did as they pleased in their own sections. Dials was in the central cohort, where the syndicate was strongest. That’s why Jax chose it. That’s why we stayed.

Nick was the only one with his own crib, further north in Marylebone. We used his place for emergencies only. In the three years I’d worked for Jaxon there had only been one emergency, when the Night Vigilance Division had raided Dials for any hint of clairvoyance. A courier tipped us off about two hours before the raid. We were able to clear out in half that time.

It was wet and cold outside. A typical March evening. I sensed spirits. Dials was a slum in pre-Scion days, and a host of miserable souls still drifted around the pillar, waiting for a new purpose. I called a spool of them to my side. Some protection always came in handy.

Pre-order the book the here http://goo.gl/RzQcBh

The Book releases at a Crossword Store near you on 20th August 2013

 

Price: Rs 499

 

Publisher: Bloomsbury India

 

Signing off for now

Until next time Geeks.

Happy Reading!

Crossword Bookstores

Sneak Preview of ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’ (Secretly Written by J.K Rowling)


Pro­logue            68813_495762773837687_1167583344_n

The buzz in the street was like the hum­ming of flies. Pho­tog­ra­phers stood massed be­hind bar­ri­ers pa­trolled by po­lice, their long-snout­ed cam­eras poised, their breath ris­ing like steam. Snow fell steadi­ly on to hats and shoul­ders; gloved fin­gers wiped lens­es clear. From time to time there came out­breaks of desul­to­ry click­ing, as the watch­ers filled the wait­ing time by snap­ping the white can­vas tent in the mid­dle of the road, the en­trance to the tall red-brick apart­ment block be­hind it, and the bal­cony on the top floor from which the body had fall­en.

Be­hind the tight­ly packed pa­parazzi stood white vans with enor­mous satel­lite dish­es on the roofs, and jour­nal­ists talk­ing, some in for­eign lan­guages, while sound­men in head­phones hov­ered. Be­tween record­ings, the re­porters stamped their feet and warmed their hands on hot beakers of cof­fee from the teem­ing café a few streets away. To fill the time, the wool­ly-hat­ted cam­er­a­men filmed the backs of the pho­tog­ra­phers, the bal­cony, the tent con­ceal­ing the body, then repo­si­tioned them­selves for wide shots that en­com­passed the chaos that had ex­plod­ed in­side the se­date and snowy May­fair street, with its lines of glossy black doors framed by white stone por­ti­cos and flanked by top­i­ary shrubs. The en­trance to num­ber 18 was bound­ed with tape. Po­lice of­fi­cials, some of them white-clothed foren­sic ex­perts, could be glimpsed in the hall­way be­yond.

The tele­vi­sion sta­tions had al­ready had the news for sev­er­al hours. Mem­bers of the pub­lic were crowd­ing at ei­ther end of the road, held at bay by more po­lice; some had come, on pur­pose, to look, oth­ers had paused on their way to work. Many held mo­bile tele­phones aloft to take pic­tures be­fore mov­ing on. One young man, not know­ing which was the cru­cial bal­cony, pho­tographed each of them in turn, even though the mid­dle one was packed with a row of shrubs, three neat, leafy orbs, which bare­ly left room for a human being.

A group of young girls had brought flow­ers, and were filmed hand­ing them to the po­lice, who as yet had not de­cid­ed on a place for them, but laid them self-con­scious­ly in the back of the po­lice van, aware of cam­era lens­es fol­low­ing their every move.

The cor­re­spon­dents sent by twen­ty-four-hour news chan­nels kept up a steady stream of com­ment and spec­u­la­tion around the few sen­sa­tion­al facts they knew.

‘… from her pent­house apart­ment at around two o’clock this morn­ing. Po­lice were alert­ed by the build­ing’s se­cu­ri­ty guard…⁠’

‘… no sign yet that they are mov­ing the body, which has led some to spec­u­late…⁠’

‘… no word on whether she was alone when she fell…⁠’

‘… teams have en­tered the build­ing and will be con­duct­ing a thor­ough search.’

A chilly light filled the in­te­ri­or of the tent. Two men were crouch­ing be­side the body, ready to move it, at last, into a body bag. Her head had bled a lit­tle into the snow. The face was crushed and swollen, one eye re­duced to a puck­er, the other show­ing as a sliv­er of dull white be­tween dis­tend­ed lids. When the se­quinned top she wore glit­tered in slight changes of light, it gave a dis­qui­et­ing im­pres­sion of move­ment, as though she breathed again, or was tens­ing mus­cles, ready to rise. The snow fell with soft fin­ger­tip plunks on the can­vas over­head.

‘Where’s the bloody am­bu­lance?’

De­tec­tive In­spec­tor Roy Carv­er’s tem­per was mount­ing. A paunchy man with a face the colour of corned beef, whose shirts were usu­al­ly ringed with sweat around the armpits, his short sup­ply of pa­tience had been ex­haust­ed hours ago. He had been here near­ly as long as the corpse; his feet were so cold that he could no longer feel them, and he was light-head­ed with hunger.

‘Am­bu­lance is two min­utes away,’ said De­tec­tive Sergeant Eric War­dle, un­in­ten­tion­al­ly an­swer­ing his su­pe­ri­or’s ques­tion as he en­tered the tent with his mo­bile pressed to his ear. ‘Just been or­gan­is­ing a space for it.’

Carv­er grunt­ed. His bad tem­per was ex­ac­er­bat­ed by the con­vic­tion that War­dle was ex­cit­ed by the pres­ence of the pho­tog­ra­phers. Boy­ish­ly good-look­ing, with thick, wavy brown hair now frost­ed with snow, War­dle had, in Carv­er’s opin­ion, daw­dled on their few for­ays out­side the tent.

‘At least that lot’ll shift once the body’s gone,’ said War­dle, still look­ing out at the pho­tog­ra­phers.

‘They won’t go while we’re still treat­ing the place like a fuck­ing mur­der scene,’ snapped Carv­er.

War­dle did not an­swer the un­spo­ken chal­lenge. Carv­er ex­plod­ed any­way.

‘The poor cow jumped. There was no one else there. Your so-called wit­ness was coked out of her—’

‘It’s com­ing,’ said War­dle, and to Carv­er’s dis­gust, he slipped back out of the tent, to wait for the am­bu­lance in full sight of the cam­eras.

The story forced news of pol­i­tics, wars and dis­as­ters aside, and every ver­sion of it sparkled with pic­tures of the dead woman’s flaw­less face, her lithe and sculpt­ed body. With­in hours, the few known facts had spread like a virus to mil­lions: the pub­lic row with the fa­mous boyfriend, the jour­ney home alone, the over­heard scream­ing and the final, fatal fall…

The boyfriend fled into a rehab fa­cil­i­ty, but the po­lice re­mained in­scrutable; those who had been with her on the evening be­fore her death were hound­ed; thou­sands of columns of newsprint were filled, and hours of tele­vi­sion news, and the woman who swore she had over­heard a sec­ond ar­gu­ment mo­ments be­fore the body fell be­came briefly fa­mous too, and was award­ed small­er-sized pho­tographs be­side the im­ages of the beau­ti­ful dead girl.

But then, to an al­most au­di­ble groan of dis­ap­point­ment, the wit­ness was proven to have lied, and she re­treat­ed into rehab, and the fa­mous prime sus­pect emerged, as the man and the lady in a weath­er-house who can never be out­side at the same time.

So it was sui­cide after all, and after a mo­ment’s stunned hia­tus, the story gained a weak sec­ond wind. They wrote that she was un­bal­anced, un­sta­ble, un­suit­ed to the su­per­star­dom her wild­ness and her beau­ty had snared; that she had moved among an im­moral mon­eyed class that had cor­rupt­ed her; that the deca­dence of her new life had un­hinged an al­ready frag­ile per­son­al­i­ty. She be­came a moral­i­ty tale stiff with Schaden­freude, and so many colum­nists made al­lu­sion to Icarus that Pri­vate Eye ran a spe­cial col­umn.

And then, at last, the fren­zy wore it­self into stal­e­ness, and even the jour­nal­ists had noth­ing left to say, but that too much had been said al­ready.

 

Three Months Later

Part One

 Nam in omni ad­ver­si­tate for­tu­nae in­fe­li­cis­si­mum est genus in­for­tu­nii, fuisse fe­licem.

For in every ill-turn of for­tune

the most un­hap­py sort of un­for­tu­nate man

is the one who has been happy.

Boethius, De Con­so­la­tione Philosophi­ae

Though Robin El­la­cott’s twen­ty-five years of life had seen their mo­ments of drama and in­ci­dent, she had never be­fore woken up in the cer­tain knowl­edge that she would re­mem­ber the com­ing day for as long as she lived.

Short­ly after mid­night, her long-term boyfriend, Matthew, had pro­posed to her under the stat­ue of Eros in the mid­dle of Pic­cadil­ly Cir­cus. In the giddy re­lief fol­low­ing her ac­cep­tance, he con­fessed that he had been plan­ning to pop the ques­tion in the Thai restau­rant where they just had eaten din­ner, but that he had reck­oned with­out the silent cou­ple be­side them, who had eaves­dropped on their en­tire con­ver­sa­tion. He had there­fore sug­gest­ed a walk through the dark­en­ing streets, in spite of Robin’s protests that they both need­ed to be up early, and fi­nal­ly in­spi­ra­tion had seized him, and he had led her, be­wil­dered, to the steps of the stat­ue. There, fling­ing dis­cre­tion to the chilly wind (in a most un-Matthew-like way), he had pro­posed, on one knee, in front of three down-and-outs hud­dled on the steps, shar­ing what looked like a bot­tle of meths.

It had been, in Robin’s view, the most per­fect pro­pos­al, ever, in the his­to­ry of mat­ri­mo­ny. He had even had a ring in his pock­et, which she was now wear­ing; a sap­phire with two di­a­monds, it fit­ted per­fect­ly, and all the way into town she kept star­ing at it on her hand as it rest­ed on her lap. She and Matthew had a story to tell now, a funny fam­i­ly story, the kind you told your chil­dren, in which his plan­ning (she loved that he had planned it) went awry, and turned into some­thing spon­ta­neous. She loved the tramps, and the moon, and Matthew, pan­icky and flus­tered, on one knee; she loved Eros, and dirty old Pic­cadil­ly, and the black

cab they had taken home to Clapham. She was, in fact, not far off lov­ing the whole of Lon­don, which she had not so far warmed to, dur­ing the month she had lived there. Even the pale and pug­na­cious com­muters squashed into the Tube car­riage around her were gild­ed by the ra­di­ance of the ring, and as she emerged into the chilly March day­light at Tot­ten­ham Court Road un­der­ground sta­tion, she stroked the un­der­side of the plat­inum band with her thumb, and ex­pe­ri­enced an ex­plo­sion of hap­pi­ness at the thought that she might buy some bridal mag­a­zines at lunchtime.

Male eyes lin­gered on her as she picked her way through the road­works at the top of Ox­ford Street, con­sult­ing a piece of paper in her right hand. Robin was, by any stan­dards, a pret­ty girl; tall and cur­va­ceous, with long straw­ber­ry-blonde hair that rip­pled as she strode briskly along, the chill air adding colour to her pale cheeks. This was the first day of a week-long sec­re­tar­i­al as­sign­ment. She had been temp­ing ever since com­ing to live with Matthew in Lon­don, though not for much longer; she had what she termed ‘prop­er’ in­ter­views lined up now.

The most chal­leng­ing part of these unin­spir­ing piece­meal jobs was often find­ing the of­fices. Lon­don, after the small town in York­shire she had left, felt vast, com­plex and im­pen­e­tra­ble. Matthew had told her not to walk around with her nose in an A–Z, which would make her look like a tourist and ren­der her vul­ner­a­ble; she there­fore re­lied, as often as not, on poor­ly hand-drawn maps that some­body at the temp­ing agen­cy had made for her. She was not con­vinced that this made her look more like a na­tive-born Lon­don­er.

The metal bar­ri­cades and the blue plas­tic Corimec walls sur­round­ing the road­works made it much hard­er to see where she ought to be going, be­cause they ob­scured half the land­marks drawn on the paper in her hand. She crossed the torn-up road in front of a tow­er­ing of­fice block, la­belled ‘Cen­tre Point’ on her map, which re­sem­bled a gi­gan­tic con­crete waf­fle with its dense grid of uni­form square win­dows, and made her way in the rough di­rec­tion of Den­mark Street.

She found it al­most ac­ci­den­tal­ly, fol­low­ing a nar­row al­ley­way called Den­mark Place out into a short street full of colour­ful shopfronts: win­dows full of gui­tars, key­boards and every kind of mu­si­cal ephemera. Red and white bar­ri­cades sur­round­ed an­oth­er open hole in the road, and work­men in flu­o­res­cent jack­ets greet­ed her with ear­ly-morn­ing wolf-whis­tles, which Robin pre­tend­ed not to hear.

She con­sult­ed her watch. Hav­ing al­lowed her usual mar­gin of time for get­ting lost, she was a quar­ter of an hour early. The non­de­script black-paint­ed door­way of the of­fice she sought stood to the left of the 12 Bar Café; the name of the oc­cu­pant of the of­fice was writ­ten on a scrap­py piece of lined paper Sel­l­otaped be­side the buzzer for the sec­ond floor. On an or­di­nary day, with­out the brand-new ring glit­ter­ing upon her fin­ger, she might have found this off-putting; today, how­ev­er, the dirty paper and the peel­ing paint on the door were, like the tramps from last night, mere pic­turesque de­tails on the back­drop of her grand ro­mance. She checked her watch again (the sap­phire glit­tered and her heart leapt; she would watch that stone glit­ter all the rest of her life), then de­cid­ed, in a burst of eu­pho­ria, to go up early and show her­self keen for a job that did not mat­ter in the slight­est.

She had just reached for the bell when the black door flew open from the in­side, and a woman burst out on to the street. For one strange­ly stat­ic sec­ond the two of them looked di­rect­ly into each other’s eyes, as each braced to with­stand a col­li­sion. Robin’s sens­es were un­usu­al­ly re­cep­tive on this en­chant­ed morn­ing; the split-sec­ond view of that white face made such an im­pres­sion on her that she thought, mo­ments later, when they had man­aged to dodge each other, miss­ing con­tact by a cen­time­tre, after the dark woman had hur­ried off down the street, around the cor­ner and out of sight, that she could have drawn her per­fect­ly from mem­o­ry. It was not mere­ly the ex­traor­di­nary beau­ty of the face that had im­pressed it­self on her mem­o­ry, but the other’s ex­pres­sion: livid, yet strange­ly ex­hil­a­rat­ed.

Robin caught the door be­fore it closed on the dingy stair­well. An old-fash­ioned metal stair­case spi­ralled up around an equal­ly an­ti­quat­ed bird­cage lift. Con­cen­trat­ing on keep­ing her high heels from catch­ing in the met­al­work stairs, she pro­ceed­ed to the first land­ing, pass­ing a door car­ry­ing a lam­i­nat­ed and framed poster say­ing Crowdy Graph­ics, and con­tin­ued climb­ing. It was only when she reached the glass door on the floor above that Robin re­alised, for the first time, what kind of busi­ness she had been sent to as­sist. No­body at the agen­cy had said. The name on the paper be­side the out­side buzzer was en­graved on the glass panel: C. B. Strike, and, un­der­neath it, the words Pri­vate De­tec­tive.

Robin stood quite still, with her mouth slight­ly open, ex­pe­ri­enc­ing a mo­ment of won­der that no­body who knew her could have un­der­stood. She had never con­fid­ed in a soli­tary human being (even Matthew) her life­long, se­cret, child­ish am­bi­tion. For this to hap­pen today, of all days! It felt like a wink from God (and this too she some­how con­nect­ed with the magic of the day; with Matthew, and the ring; even though, prop­er­ly con­sid­ered, they had no con­nec­tion at all).

Savour­ing the mo­ment, she ap­proached the en­graved door very slow­ly. She stretched out her left hand (sap­phire dark, now, in this dim light) to­wards the han­dle; but be­fore she had touched it, the glass door too flew open.

This time, there was no near-miss. Six­teen un­see­ing stone of di­shev­elled male slammed into her; Robin was knocked off her feet and cat­a­pult­ed back­wards, hand­bag fly­ing, arms wind­milling, to­wards the void be­yond the lethal stair­case.

Strike ab­sorbed the im­pact, heard the high-pitched scream and re­act­ed in­stinc­tive­ly: throw­ing out a long arm, he seized a fist­ful of cloth and flesh; a sec­ond shriek of pain echoed around the stone walls and then, with a wrench and a tus­sle, he had suc­ceed­ed in drag­ging the girl back on to firm ground. Her shrieks were still echo­ing off the walls, and he re­alised that he him­self had bel­lowed, ‘Jesus Christ!’

The girl was dou­bled up in pain against the of­fice door, whim­per­ing. Judg­ing by the lop­sid­ed way she was hunched, with one hand buried deep under the lapel of her coat, Strike de­duced that he had saved her by grab­bing a sub­stan­tial part of her left breast. A thick, wavy cur­tain of bright blonde hair hid most of the girl’s blush­ing face, but Strike could see tears of pain leak­ing out of one un­cov­ered eye.

‘Fuck – sorry!’ His loud voice re­ver­ber­at­ed around the stair­well. ‘I didn’t see you – didn’t ex­pect any­one to be there…⁠’

From under their feet, the strange and soli­tary graph­ic de­sign­er who in­hab­it­ed the of­fice below yelled, ‘What’s hap­pen­ing up there?’ and a sec­ond later, a muf­fled com­plaint from above in­di­cat­ed that the man­ag­er of the bar down­stairs, who slept in an attic flat over Strike’s of­fice, had also been dis­turbed – per­haps woken – by the noise.

‘Come in here…⁠’

Strike pushed open the door with his fin­ger­tips, so as to have no ac­ci­den­tal con­tact with her while she stood hud­dled against it, and ush­ered her into the of­fice.

‘Is ev­ery­thing all right?’ called the graph­ic de­sign­er queru­lous­ly.

Strike slammed the of­fice door be­hind him.

‘I’m OK,’ lied Robin, in a qua­ver­ing voice, still hunched over with her hand on her chest, her back to him. After a sec­ond or two, she straight­ened up and turned around, her face scar­let and her eyes still wet.

Her ac­ci­den­tal as­sailant was mas­sive; his height, his gen­er­al hairi­ness, cou­pled with a gen­tly ex­pand­ing belly, sug­gest­ed a griz­zly bear. One of his eyes was puffy and bruised, the skin just below the eye­brow cut. Con­geal­ing blood sat in raised white-edged nail tracks on his left cheek and the right side of his thick neck, re­vealed by the crum­pled open col­lar of his shirt.

‘Are you M-Mr Strike?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I-I’m the temp.’

‘The what?’

‘The temp. From Tem­po­rary So­lu­tions?’

The name of the agen­cy did not wipe the in­cred­u­lous look from his bat­tered face. They stared at each other, un­nerved and an­tag­o­nis­tic.

Just like Robin, Cor­moran Strike knew that he would for­ev­er re­mem­ber the last twelve hours as an epoch-chang­ing night in his life. Now, it seemed, the Fates had sent an emis­sary in a neat beige trench coat, to taunt him with the fact that his life was bub­bling to­wards catas­tro­phe. There was not sup­posed to be a temp. He had in­tend­ed his dis­missal of Robin’s pre­de­ces­sor to end his con­tract.

‘How long have they sent you for?’

‘A-a week to begin with,’ said Robin, who had never been greet­ed with such a lack of en­thu­si­asm.

Strike made a rapid men­tal cal­cu­la­tion. A week at the agen­cy’s ex­or­bi­tant rate would drive his over­draft yet fur­ther into the re­gion of ir­repara­ble; it might even be the final straw his main cred­i­tor kept im­ply­ing he was wait­ing for.

‘’Scuse me a mo­ment.’

He left the room via the glass door, and turned im­me­di­ate­ly right, into a tiny dank toi­let. Here he bolt­ed the door, and stared into the cracked, spot­ted mir­ror over the sink.

The re­flec­tion star­ing back at him was not hand­some. Strike had the high, bulging fore­head, broad nose and thick brows of a young Beethoven who had taken to box­ing, an im­pres­sion only height­ened by the swelling and black­en­ing eye. His thick curly hair, springy as car­pet, had en­sured that his many youth­ful nick­names had in­clud­ed ‘Pube­head’. He looked older than his thir­ty-five years.

Ram­ming the plug into the hole, he filled the cracked and grub­by sink with cold water, took a deep breath and com­plete­ly sub­merged his throb­bing head. Dis­placed water slopped over his shoes, but he ig­nored it for the re­lief of ten sec­onds of icy, blind still­ness.

Dis­parate im­ages of the pre­vi­ous night flick­ered through his mind: emp­ty­ing three draw­ers of pos­ses­sions into a kit­bag while Char­lotte screamed at him; the ash­tray catch­ing him on the brow-bone as he looked back at her from the door; the jour­ney on foot across the dark city to his of­fice, where he had slept for an hour or two in his desk chair. Then the final, filthy scene, after Char­lotte had tracked him down in the early hours, to plunge in those last fewban­der­il­las she had failed to im­plant be­fore he had left her flat; his res­o­lu­tion to let her go when, after claw­ing his face, she had run out of the door; and then that mo­ment of mad­ness when he had plunged after her – a pur­suit ended as quick­ly as it had begun, with the un­wit­ting in­ter­ven­tion of this heed­less, su­per­flu­ous girl, whom he had been forced to save, and then pla­cate.

He emerged from the cold water with a gasp and a grunt, his face and head pleas­ant­ly numb and tin­gling. With the card­board-tex­tured towel that hung on the back of the door he rubbed him­self dry and stared again at his grim re­flec­tion. The scratch­es, washed clean of blood, looked like noth­ing more than the im­pres­sions of a crum­pled pil­low. Char­lotte would have reached the un­der­ground by now. One of the in­sane thoughts that had pro­pelled him after her had been fear that she would throw her­self on the tracks. Once, after a par­tic­u­lar­ly vi­cious row in their mid-twen­ties, she had climbed on to a rooftop, where she had swayed drunk­en­ly, vow­ing to jump. Per­haps he ought to be glad that the Tem­po­rary So­lu­tion had forced him to aban­don the chase. There could be no going back from the scene in the early hours of this morn­ing. This time, it had to be over.

Tug­ging his sod­den col­lar away from his neck, Strike pulled back the rusty bolt and head­ed out of the toi­let and back through the glass door.

A pneu­mat­ic drill had start­ed up in the street out­side. Robin was stand­ing in front of the desk with her back to the door; she whipped her hand back out of the front of her coat as he re-en­tered the room, and he knew that she had been mas­sag­ing her breast again.

‘Is – are you all right?’ Strike asked, care­ful­ly not look­ing at the site of the in­jury.

‘I’m fine. Lis­ten, if you don’t need me, I’ll go,’ said Robin with dig­ni­ty.

‘No – no, not at all,’ said a voice is­su­ing from Strike’s mouth, though he lis­tened to it with dis­gust. ‘A week – yeah, that’ll be fine. Er – the post’s here…⁠’ He scooped it from the door­mat as he spoke and scat­tered it on the bare desk in front of her, a pro­pi­tia­to­ry of­fer­ing. ‘Yeah, if you could open that, an­swer the phone, gen­er­al­ly sort of tidy up – com­put­er pass­word’s Hather­il­l23, I’ll write it down…⁠’ This he did, under her wary, doubt­ful gaze. ‘There you go – I’ll be in here.’

He strode into the inner of­fice, closed the door care­ful­ly be­hind him and then stood quite

still, gaz­ing at the kit­bag under the bare desk. It con­tained ev­ery­thing he owned, for he doubt­ed that he would ever see again the nine tenths of his pos­ses­sions he had left at Char­lotte’s. They would prob­a­bly be gone by lunchtime; set on fire, dumped in the street, slashed and crushed, doused in bleach. The drill ham­mered re­lent­less­ly in the street below.

And now the im­pos­si­bil­i­ty of pay­ing off his moun­tain­ous debts, the ap­palling con­se­quences that would at­tend the im­mi­nent fail­ure of this busi­ness, the loom­ing, un­known but in­evitably hor­ri­ble se­quel to his leav­ing Char­lotte; in Strike’s ex­haus­tion, the mis­ery of it all seemed to rear up in front of him in a kind of kalei­do­scope of hor­ror.

Hard­ly aware that he had moved, he found him­self back in the chair in which he had spent the lat­ter part of the night. From the other side of the in­sub­stan­tial par­ti­tion wall came muf­fled sounds of move­ment. The Tem­po­rary So­lu­tion was no doubt start­ing up the com­put­er, and would short­ly dis­cov­er that he had not re­ceived a sin­gle work-re­lat­ed email in three weeks. Then, at his own re­quest, she would start open­ing all his final de­mands. Ex­haust­ed, sore and hun­gry, Strike slid face down on to the desk again, muf­fling his eyes and ears in his en­cir­cling arms, so that he did not have to lis­ten while his hu­mil­i­a­tion was laid bare next door by a stranger.

The Book releases at a Crossword store near you on 5th August.

Pre book it on www.crossword.in at Flat 25% off

Price: Rs 599

Signing off for now

 

Until next time Geeks.

  

Happy Reading!

 

Crossword Bookstores

‘Gen X Author Turned Publisher ’


Hello & Welcome Back Book Lovers!

sachin

We always aim to bring you the best of the Literary World..

Hope you enjoy reading our blogs.

We always appreciate feedback from our geeks.

These days we have so many young writers on the block from various parts of the country whose simple stories have been become a huge rage and have touched and inspired millions.

One such story is of author Sachin Garg who has written over 4 books and comes in the league of romance young guns such as Ravinder Singh, Durjoy Datta, Madhuri Banerjee and many more

Meet Sachin Garg, An MBA Graduate from MDI, Gurgaon who left his lucrative corporate Job for the love of writing and Books. As teenager he was always interested in reading books on varied topics and had a dream of writing a bestseller novel one day..

During his MBA course period he met Durjoy Datta, a classmate who happen to share the same dreams of writing and publishing books. Thus emerged the Publishing House called  Grapevine Publishers

Both Durjoy and Sachin jointly own and manage Grapevine Publishing house out of Delhi.

Apart from publishing and writing his own books, Sachin also provides a unique platform for various young authors to showcase their writing talents.

This multitalented author and publisher describes himself as a Wanderer, Philosopher, Travel freak, Movie Buff, and Party Rocker.

When he is not writing he is on the hunt for finding new writers…

His Latest Book ‘Come On Inner Peace’ is available at a Crossword near you..

Get to know the author better with his candid interview with us.

 

1.       The Transition from an author to an entrepreneur how did that happen?

I wanted to have a bigger footprint on the publishing industry than I was having. My strength is understanding reader tastes and executing projects. And being a publisher seemed the best way to put all my ideas into action.

2.       How has the experience been with dealing with authors for your own publishing house?

We have been fortunate to have not only to have  very talented people working with us, but also very professional and balanced people. We make sure we don’t set any unrealistic expectations and that communication is clear, because of which we’ve had very strong bonding with our authors and zero attrition with them.

3.       Any advice to young budding authors?

Have patience. Even though a lot of authors may seem to be overnight successes, there is always years of effort gone behind every brand. Work hard and respect your peers.

4.       You have written so touching and funny books… your inspirations behind them..

I derive my inspiration from the places I travel to. I’ve always been very fond of travelling and have travelled across 13 countries in the world, apart from extensive traveling within the country. Wherever I go, I talk to a lot of people and try to capture their stories in my books, which is why, you will notice, each of my book is based in a different city.

5.       How do authors approach you to get published or vice versa?

I attend a lot of events and meet a lot of people professionally. I get a lot of book ideas interacting with people who have nothing to do with the publishing industry. As I said, I believe execution is one of our biggest strengths. When I believe some people have an interesting life or career, we pitch a book idea to them.

Also, our submission guidelines are available on the net, for aspiring authors to submit to us.

6.       Are you enjoying more as an author or as a publisher?

That’s a very difficult question because I honestly enjoy both equally. Because I am an author, my readers welcome me in their lives. And as a publisher, I get to share my joy of getting published and reaching out to an audience with my bunch of authors.

 7.       Tell us something more about your new book ‘ Come On Inner Peace..’

The idea for ‘Come On, Inner Peace. I Don’t Have All Day!’ came to me while I travelling to Rishikesh for vacation. I came across an Ashram and received some unforgettable wisdom there. The first thought I had when I came out was – this needs to be put in a book! So I put the wisdom in a story which everyone would enjoy and came out with Come On, Inner Peace.

8.       A day in your life…

My days are very different during the time when I am working on a book compared to when I am not. When I am writing, I only write. But normally, it would be something like this –

I wake up at around five to catch up on some reading or writing. Around seven, I go to the gym and spend until nine there. I reach office around ten and manage my calls/meetings/ planning. For the evening, if I don’t have any meetings, I catch up with friends. I watch around three or four movies every week. And I enjoy playing squash on the weekends.

9.   With so many Indian authors and books flooded in the Indian market. You’re take on how can a publisher or an author stand out and compete with various books and authors?

One of the things we do is that we limit the number of books we publish. As a publisher its very tempting to sign on a lot of authors because it increases your chances of finding a bestseller but we have taken a call to publish only a certain number of books every month so that we can give adequate attention to each of our books.

As an author, the first rule is to not do what others are doing. Often aspiring authors ask me which genre is doing well so that they can write in that segment. That’s not how it works. Write what comes to you naturally and if its a good book which is marketed well, it will catch on.

10.   Best reads for you..

Michael Crichton, always.

11.   One author you would love  hanging out with..

I’ve had had the good fortune  to have had many author friends. Durjoy Datta and Nikita Singh remain the preferred choices.

12.   In your free time.. you

Read books, run.

13.   If you were not an author or publisher. You would have been..

I would have loved to be an athlete but I was never good enough. The dreaded truth is that I would have still been in some MNC marketing some boring product, which is what I was doing before Grapevine happened.

 

All his Books are available at a Crossword store near you or http://www.crossword.in

 

Signing off for now

 

Until next time Geeks.

 

And don’t forget to drop in your comments.

 

For details and queries write to crosswordconnect@gmail.com

 

Happy Reading!

 

Crossword Bookstores

‘Decoding Relationships’


 

Hello and welcome Back Book Lovers.                                                               hul

 

It’s been a while since we updated the blog  and hope you are reading more and more books.

 

For all those have like to look at life in a broader, deeper and meaningful perspective, this author will give you insights on how spirituality can  guide to become a better human being in various stages of your life.

 

Gopika Kapoor has written 2 bestselling books on Parenting and Pregnancy , keeping spirituality at its core. Her new book dwells deeper on how spirituality can change the way you look at relationships. It gives a perfect guide  to take right steps from dating to marriage.

 

Gopika is a communication consultant, an NGO worker , an author and also written extensively for various print publications.She has studied Vedanta under the ‘Chinmaya Mission’. In her free time she loves playing the guitar, reading as many books as possible, initiating and carrying out various charitable projects and spending quality time with her family.

 

Her new book ‘Spiritual Relationships’ will unveil a lot of dating mantras which will help you guide you in meeting your right partner and sustaining long term healthy relationships.

 

Her mantra in life is ‘If you want to have a happy relationship with anyone – your partner, your child, your pet, your mother-in-law, just about anyone – first become happy yourself’. Now that’s something to really think about!

 

Read her interview to find out more..

1.       Who inspired you to take on spirituality?

In spirituality it is said that when the student is ready the master appears. So it was with me. When I was a week pregnant (and I guess, ready to receive knowledge even though I didn’t know it then!) my husband’s aunt, an ardent devotee of Swami Chinmayananda and a very learned lady started a Vedanta class. That’s how I started my study and it’s been nine years since then.

 

2.  How did spirituality change you as a person?

Before I started studying Vedanta under the Chinmaya Mission, I was not inclined towards spirituality or spiritual studies even the slightest bit. But when I started my study, I was hooked. My entire perspective of the world and my life changed completely. It was as though I had been looking out of a muddy glass, which was suddenly cleaned and I could see the view clearly. I realized that so much of what I value in life – all the material things – actually mean nothing when you look at them in the larger scheme of things. I also reflected on my own life and how it had unfolded, and the events that were the most traumatic had actually made me grow and mature. I also became so much calmer and more content to let life unfold than get agitated when something unexpected was thrown my way.

 

3.Were you so spiritually inclined when your first fell in love or became a mother?

Not at all! I was your average young working woman. I worked with an NGO working in the field of women’s rights and had absolutely no interest in the Geeta or anything remotely spiritual. I must have been about a week pregnant when I started attending a Vedanta study group and this changed my entire perspective of life. A friend of mine says that it was my kids’ sanskaras that prompted me to join the study group!

 

 4.  What are the spiritual tools that one needs for a successful relationship?

I think you need to know yourself and what you want out of life and a relationship. You also need to have the ability to look beyond the physical and really see what a person is about – is s/he a good human being, are your values and beliefs compatible, can you see a future together? And above all, you have to have faith in the relationship and the belief that your life is moving according to a divine Master Plan, and whatever happens is in keeping with this plan.

 

5. As this generation is called the makeup and break up generation where nothing lasts long, how does one sustain a meaningful and long relationship.

I think you need to keep growing in the relationship, as well as an individual. You need to give each other space and respect it. You also have to make sure that you’re not taking each other for granted, and be grateful for the relationship you have every single day. And more than anything, I think you have to not take life too seriously and be able to laugh together – that’s the true cement of any relationship.

 

6.  ‘First impression is the best Impression’ your take on that?

If the impression is purely physical, then I don’t agree. There have been so many times in my life when I have got a really good or bad first impression of someone based on how they look or project themselves, and have had to change my mind about them once they have revealed their true colours. However, there are a few times when our instincts tell us to stay away from some people or are strongly drawn towards someone – in this case I would listen to my gut feeling.

 

7.  Datings do’s and don’ts/

DO’s:

Be open to the person you are dating

Be willing to look beyond their physical appearance to discover who’s on the inside

Be honest with yourself about what you want

Guard yourself against the terrible threes – jealously, possessiveness and ceaseless expectations

 

DON’Ts:

Change yourself – physically, mentally or spiritually – to be with a particular person

Lose yourself in a relationship – there is a life beyond the one you love

Get caught up in ego battles

 

8.    A perfect date according to you.

If you’d asked me this question 10 years ago, I would’ve given you the usual spiel: candles, wine, long-stemmed roses, soft music, etc. But as I grow spiritually, I realize that moment spent just being with the person you love is enough to qualify as a perfect date.

 

9.     Do you believe in the concept of Soul mates and does spirituality plays an important role in keeping the connection alive?

In my book Spiritual Relationships, I’ve turned the concept of soul mates on its head. Read it to find out more about this! (If you want me to elaborate more in this answer, let me know and I will send it to you)

 

 

10.    A day in your life

Rise at 6.30am and wake my kids up at 7 after packing their snack. Morning rush getting everyone and myself ready and out of the house. I leave at 8.45am for work at Ummeed Child development Center, an NGO where we work with kids who have developmental disabilities. I work from 9 to 2pm. Get home and have a quick lunch and either try writing something or update social media to market my books. My kids are home at 3.30pm and then on it’s their time – swimming, classes, talking about their day, playing games – it’s all about them. My husband is home around 6.30 and we all have dinner around 7.30. The kids get ready for bed and read to themselves while we go for a brisk half-hour walk. We’re back around 8.45, tuck the kids in bed after reading to them and saying prayers. We’re often out, but otherwise, I’m in bed with a book, and unless it’s a page turner (which regularly keeps me up till 5am – very unhealthy, I know!), I’m fast asleep by 10.30pm.

 

11.   Favourite hangout spots

In Mumbai: Lalbaug Market (I love the colour and life, especially during Diwali), Colaba Causeway, Matunga Circle (for dosa), and my all-time favourite, the strip between the Taj and Radio Club.

12.   Favourite food and holiday destination

Favourite food: Thai, Italian, Lebanese

Holiday destination: Somewhere that I’ve never been before!

 

Publisher: Hay House India

 

Price: Rs 299

 

Signing off for now

 

Until next time Geeks.

 

And don’t forget to drop in your comments.

 

For details and queries write to crosswordconnect@gmail.com

 

Happy Reading!

 

Crossword Bookstores

Sneak Preview of ‘Inferno’ By Dan Brown


Fact:cover

All artwork, literature, science, and historical references in this novel are real.

‘The Consortium’ is a private organization with offices in seven countries. Its name has been changed for considerations of security and privacy.

Inferno is the underworld as described in Dante Alighieri’s epic poem The Divine Comedy, which portrays hell as an elaborately structured realm populated by entities known as ‘shades’ – bodiless souls trapped between life and death.

Prologue

I am the Shade.

Through the dolent city, I flee.Through the eternal woe, I take flight.

Along the banks of the river Arno, I scramble, breathless . . . turning left onto Via dei Castellani, making my way northward, huddling in the shadows of the Uffizi.

And still they pursue me.

Their footsteps grow louder now as they hunt with relentless determination.

For years they have pursued me. Their persistencehas kept me underground . . . forced me to live in purgatory. . . laboring beneath the earth like a chthonic monster.

I am the Shade.

Here above ground, I raise my eyes to the north, but I am unable to find a direct path to salvation . . . for the Apennine Mountains are blotting out the first light of dawn.

I pass behind the palazzo with its crenellated tower and one-handed clock . . . snaking through the early morning vendors in Piazza di San Firenze with their hoarse voices smelling of lampredotto and roasted olives. Crossing before the Bargello, I cut west toward the spire of the Badia and come up hard against the iron gate at the base of the stairs.

Here all hesitation must be left behind.

I turn the handle and step into the passage from which I know there will be no return. I urge my leaden legs up the narrow staircase . . . spiraling skyward on soft marble treads, pitted and worn.

The voices echo from below. Beseeching. They are behind me, unyielding, closing in.

They do not understand what is coming . . . nor what I have done for them!

Ungrateful land!

As I climb, the visions come hard . . . the lustful bodies writhing in fiery rain, the gluttonous souls

floating in excrement, the treacherous villains frozen in Satan’s icy grasp.

I climb the final stairs and arrive at the top, staggering near dead into the damp morning air. I rush to the head-high wall, peering through the slits. Far below is the blessed city that I have made my sanctuary from those who exiled me.

The voices call out, arriving close behind me. ‘What you’ve done is madness!’

Madness breeds madness.

‘For the love of God,’ they shout, ‘tell us where you’ve hidden it!’

For precisely the love of God, I will not.

I stand now, cornered, my back to the cold stone. They stare deep into my clear green eyes, and their expressions darken, no longer cajoling, but threatening.

‘You know we have our methods. We can force you to tell us where it is.’

For that reason, I have climbed halfway to heaven.

Without warning, I turn and reach up, curling my fingers onto the high ledge, pulling myself up, scrambling onto my knees, then standing . . . unsteady at the precipice. Guide me, dear Virgil, across the void.

They rush forward in disbelief, wanting to grab at my feet, but fearing they will upset my balance and knock me off. They beg now, in quiet desperation, but I have turned my back. I know what I must do.

Beneath me, dizzyingly far beneath me, the red tile roofs spread out like a sea of fire on the countryside . . .illuminating the fair land upon which giants once roamed . . . Giotto, Donatello, Brunelleschi, Michelangelo,Botticelli.

I inch my toes to the edge.

‘Come down!’ they shout. ‘It’s not too late!’

O, willful ignorants! Do you not see the future? Do you not grasp the splendor of my creation? The necessity? I gladly make this ultimate sacrifice . . . and with it I will extinguish your final hope of finding what you seek.

You will never locate it in time.

Hundreds of feet below, the cobblestone piazza beckons like a tranquil oasis. How I long for more time. . . but time is the one commodity even my vast fortunes cannot afford.

In these final seconds, I gaze down to the piazza, and I behold a sight that startles me.

I see your face.You are gazing up at me from the shadows. Your eyes are mournful, and yet in them I sense a vener -ation for what I have accomplished. You understand I have no choice. For the love of Mankind, I must protectmy masterpiece.

It grows even now . . . waiting . . . simmering beneath the bloodred waters of the lagoon that reflects no stars.

And so, I lift my eyes from yours and I contemplate the horizon. High above this burdened world, I make my final supplication.

Dearest God, I pray the world remembers my name not as a monstrous sinner, but as the glorious savior you know I truly am. I pray Mankind will understand the gift I leave behind.

My gift is the future.

My gift is salvation.

My gift is Inferno.

With that, I whisper my amen . . . and take my final step, into the abyss.

Chapter 1

The memories materialized slowly . . . like bubbles surfacing from the darkness of a bottomless well.

A veiled woman.

Robert Langdon gazed at her across a river whose churning waters ran red with blood. On the far bank, the woman stood facing him, motionless, solemn, her face hidden by a shroud. In her hand she gripped a blue tainia cloth, which she now raised in honor of the sea of corpses at her feet. The smell of death hung everywhere.

Seek, the woman whispered. And ye shall find.

Langdon heard the words as if she had spoken them inside his head. ‘Who are you?’ he called out, but his voice made no sound.

Time grows short, she whispered. Seek and find.

Langdon took a step toward the river, but he could see the waters were bloodred and too deep to traverse. When Langdon raised his eyes again to the veiled woman, the bodies at her feet had multiplied. There were hundreds of them now, maybe thousands, some still alive, writhing in agony, dying unthinkable deaths. . . consumed by fire, buried in feces, devouring one another. He could hear the mournful cries of human suffering echoing across the water.

The woman moved toward him, holding out her slender hands, as if beckoning for help.

‘Who are you?!’ Langdon again shouted.

In response, the woman reached up and slowly lifted the veil from her face. She was strikingly beautiful, and yet older than Langdon had imagined—in her sixties perhaps, stately and strong, like a timeless statue. She had a sternly set jaw, deep soulful eyes, and long, silver-gray hair that cascaded over her shoulders in ringlets. An amulet of lapis lazuli hung around her neck—a single snake coiled around a staff.

Langdon sensed he knew her . . . trusted her. But how? Why?

She pointed now to a writhing pair of legs, which protruded upside down from the earth, apparently belonging to some poor soul who had been buried headfirst to his waist. The man’s pale thigh bore a single letter—written in mud—R.

R? Langdon thought, uncertain. As in . . . Robert? ‘Is that . . . me?’

The woman’s face revealed nothing. Seek and find, she repeated.

Without warning, she began radiating a white light. . . brighter and brighter. Her entire body started vibrating intensely, and then, in a rush of thunder, she exploded into a thousand splintering shards of light. Langdon bolted awake, shouting.

The room was bright. He was alone. The sharp smell of medicinal alcohol hung in the air, and somewhere a machine pinged in quiet rhythm with his heart.

Langdon tried to move his right arm, but a sharp pain restrained him. He looked down and saw an IV tugging at the skin of his forearm.

His pulse quickened, and the machines kept pace, pinging more rapidly.

Where am I? What happened?

The back of Langdon’s head throbbed, a gnawing pain. Gingerly, he reached up with his free arm and touched his scalp, trying to locate the source of his headache. Beneath his matted hair, he found the hard nubs of a dozen or so stitches caked with dried blood.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember an accident.

Nothing. A total blank.

Think.

Only darkness.

A man in scrubs hurried in, apparently alerted by Langdon’s racing heart monitor. He had a shaggy beard, bushy mustache, and gentle eyes that radiated a thoughtful calm beneath his overgrown eyebrows.‘What . . . happened?’ Langdon managed. ‘Did I have an accident?’

The bearded man put a finger to his lips and then rushed out, calling for someone down the hall.

Langdon turned his head, but the movement sent a spike of pain radiating through his skull. He took deep breaths and let the pain pass. Then, very gently and methodically, he surveyed his sterile surroundings. The hospital room had a single bed. No flowers. No cards. Langdon saw his clothes on a nearby counter, folded inside a clear plastic bag. They were covered with blood.

My God. It must have been bad.

Now Langdon rotated his head very slowly toward the window beside his bed. It was dark outside. Night.

All Langdon could see in the glass was his own reflection—an ashen stranger, pale and weary, attached to tubes and wires, surrounded by medical equipment. Voices approached in the hall, and Langdon turned his gaze back toward the room. The doctor returned, now accompanied by a woman.

She appeared to be in her early thirties. She wore blue scrubs and had tied her blond hair back in a thick ponytail that swung behind her as she walked.

‘I’m Dr. Sienna Brooks,’ she said, giving Langdon a smile as she entered. ‘I’ll be working with Dr. Marconi tonight.’

Langdon nodded weakly. Tall and lissome, Dr. Brooks moved with the assertive gait of an athlete. Even in shapeless scrubs, she had a willowy elegance about her. Despite the absence of any makeup that Langdon could see, her complexion appeared unusually smooth, the only blemish a tiny beauty mark just above her lips. Her eyes, though a gentle brown, seemed unusually penetrating, as if they had witnessed a profundity of experience rarely encountered by a person her age.

‘Dr. Marconi doesn’t speak much English,’ she said, sitting down beside him, ‘and he asked me to fill out your admittance form.’ She gave him another smile.

‘Thanks,’ Langdon croaked.

‘Okay,’ she began, her tone businesslike. ‘What isyour name?’

It took him a moment. ‘Robert . . . Langdon.’

She shone a penlight in Langdon’s eyes.

‘Occupation?’

This information surfaced even more slowly.

‘Professor. Art history . . . and symbology. Harvard University.’

Dr. Brooks lowered the light, looking startled. The doctor with the bushy eyebrows looked equally surprised.

‘You’re . . . an American?’

Langdon gave her a confused look.

‘It’s just . . .’ She hesitated. ‘You had no identification when you arrived tonight. You were wearing

Harris Tweed and Somerset loafers, so we guessed British.’

‘I’m American,’ Langdon assured her, too exhausted to explain his preference for well-tailored clothing.

‘Any pain?’

‘My head,’ Langdon replied, his throbbing skull only made worse by the bright penlight. Thankfully,

she now pocketed it, taking Langdon’s wrist and checking his pulse.

‘You woke up shouting,’ the woman said. ‘Do you remember why?’

Langdon flashed again on the strange vision of the veiled woman surrounded by writhing bodies. Seek and ye shall find. ‘I was having a nightmare.’

‘About?’

Langdon told her.

Dr. Brooks’s expression remained neutral as she made notes on a clipboard. ‘Any idea what might have sparked such a frightening vision?’

Langdon probed his memory and then shook his head, which pounded in protest.

‘Okay, Mr. Langdon,’ she said, still writing, ‘a couple of routine questions for you. What day of the week is it?’

Langdon thought for a moment. ‘It’s Saturday. I remember earlier today walking across campus . . . going to an afternoon lecture series, and then . . . that’s pretty much the last thing I remember. Did I fall?’

‘We’ll get to that. Do you know where you are?’

Langdon took his best guess. ‘Massachusetts General Hospital?’

Dr. Brooks made another note. ‘And is there someone we should call for you? Wife? Children?’

‘Nobody,’ Langdon replied instinctively. He had always enjoyed the solitude and independence provided him by his chosen life of bachelorhood, although he had to admit, in his current situation, he’d prefer to have a familiar face at his side. ‘There are some colleagues I could call, but I’m fine.’

Dr. Brooks finished writing, and the older doctor approached. Smoothing back his bushy eyebrows, he produced a small voice recorder from his pocket and showed it to Dr. Brooks. She nodded in understanding and turned back to her patient.

‘Mr. Langdon, when you arrived tonight, you were mumbling something over and over.’ She glanced at Dr. Marconi, who held up the digital recorder and pressed a button.

A recording began to play, and Langdon heard his own groggy voice, repeatedly muttering the same phrase. ‘Ve . . . sorry. Ve . . . sorry.’

‘It sounds to me,’ the woman said, ‘like you’re saying, ‘Very sorry. Very sorry.’’

Langdon agreed, and yet he had no recollection of it.

Dr. Brooks fixed him with a disquietingly intense stare. ‘Do you have any idea why you’d be saying this? Are you sorry about something?’

As Langdon probed the dark recesses of his memory, he again saw the veiled woman. She was standing on the banks of a bloodred river surrounded by bodies. The stench of death returned.

Langdon was overcome by a sudden, instinctive sense of danger . . . not just for himself . . . but for everyone. The pinging of his heart monitor accelerated rapidly. His muscles tightened, and he tried to sit up.

Dr. Brooks quickly placed a firm hand on Langdon’s sternum, forcing him back down. She shot a glance at the bearded doctor, who walked over to a nearby counter and began preparing something.

Dr. Brooks hovered over Langdon, whispering now. ‘Mr. Langdon, anxiety is common with brain injuries, but you need to keep your pulse rate down.No movement. No excitement. Just lie still and rest. You’ll be okay. Your memory will come back slowly.’

The doctor returned now with a syringe, which he handed to Dr. Brooks. She injected its contents into Langdon’s IV.

‘Just a mild sedative to calm you down,’ she explained, ‘and also to help with the pain.’ She stood

to go. ‘You’ll be fine, Mr. Langdon. Just sleep. If you need anything, press the button on your bedside.’ She turned out the light and departed with the bearded doctor.

In the darkness, Langdon felt the drugs washing through his system almost instantly, dragging his body back down into that deep well from which he had emerged. He fought the feeling, forcing his eyes open in the darkness of his room. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like cement.

As Langdon shifted, he found himself again facing the window. The lights were out, and in the dark glass, his own reflection had disappeared, replaced by an illuminated skyline in the distance.

Amid a contour of spires and domes, a single regal facade dominated Langdon’s field of view. The building was an imposing stone fortress with a notched parapet and a three-hundred-foot tower that swelled near the top, bulging outward into a massive machicolated battlement.

Langdon sat bolt upright in bed, pain exploding in his head. He fought off the searing throb and fixed his gaze on the tower.

Langdon knew the medieval structure well.

It was unique in the world. Unfortunately, it was also located four thousand miles from Massachusetts.

Outside his window, hidden in the shadows of the Via Torregalli, a powerfully built woman effortlessly unstraddled her BMW motorcycle and advanced with the intensity of a panther stalking its prey. Her gaze was sharp. Her close-cropped hair—styled into spikes—stood out against the upturned collar of her black leather riding suit. She checked her silenced weapon, and stared up at the window where Robert Langdon’s light had just gone out.

Earlier tonight her original mission had gone horribly awry.

The coo of a single dove had changed everything.

Now she had come to make it right.

 

Copyright © Dan Brown 2013

Publisher: Random House India

Release Date: 14th May 2013

Pre-order it: www.crossword.in

Price: 750

The Family Saga Continues…


Hello & Welcome back Book Lovers.     555219_10151476186518606_1731945767_n

Today we give you a review of the third volume of the Clifton Chronicles ‘Best Kept Secret’ by Jeffrey Archer.
( Review written by Sidharth S)

A suggestion..if you havent read the first two you better not read this one as you will be missing on whole lot of the twists in the tale.

Also for those who have read the first 2 volumes a must read saga of the story of the docker boy Harry Clifton and a connection with the rich and famous Barrington family of Bristol completely changes his fate.

(I guess we all are attached to the name Harry thanks to Ms Rowling 🙂 )

Recaping the earlier books ..Young Harry befrineds the young Giles Barringhton, Falls in love with young Emma Barrington, hates Hugo Barrington as he might be a threat to the Barrington lineage. Torn by his inability to marry his love Harry goes to war and a change in his identity to escape his family back home lands him in behind bars where he pens his first book.  He is ultimately rescued by his love and brought back home to Bristol and turns into a full time author which follows the demise of Hugo Barrington leaving the families with the perplexity  of the heir to he Barrington estate and a secret left behind..

Set in the small town of Bristol where now with the third volume we see the emergence of the third generation of Clifton-Barrington family. The son of Harry Clifton, Sebastian is seen prominent in this book and family ties even more stronger than before.

Archer’s third volume is fast paced leaving no room for boredom. It takes you through the years of Harry being a successful author, having a family, supporting his friend Giles political ambitions and eventualy helping his son Sebastian who befriends the wrong people which land him at the hands of an internaional Crook.

Mr Archer ‘s narrative style of writing gives each character so much depth, that you become so closely attached to them. A lot of Archer’s novels showcase England in the earlier 20th century spanning over years many a times having backgrounds of war and politics. The Clifton chronicles which are now going to be seven volumes takes us trough strong family bonds, love, jealousy, anger, greed of wealth, political ambitions, changing economies, lies, deciet, secrets and myriad characters.

Archer’s flair of storytelling is undeniably gripping appealing to a wide audience of readers.

For all those who have loved Archer’s novels in the past will definately like every bit of this saga. And all those who havent yet read his books but love complex family dramas will come to like the Clifton chronicles.

Giving it 3.5 stars out of 5.

Publisher: Pan Macmillan India

Price: Rs 350

Signing off for now..

Until next time geeks

Happy Reading!

Crossword Bookstores.