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Vivek SreedharAuthor of Ketchup & CurryCindy Pereira, born and raised in Bangalore, India, prefers to be called a storyteller rather than a writer. Her love for telling stories began at a very young age when her dolls became the actors for scripts created in her mind. At one point in time, as a little child, she had a book filled with self-drawn paper doll cut-outs – each an actor or an actress in her personal fantasy stories. This turned to writing in middle school when she and her best friend hand wrote stories for each other, complete with binding and cover pages. Some of her stories sparked out of dull journeys home from work and some are just yarns. Cindy has a Master's Degree in English Literature and loves to trek, run and just ‘catch the sun.’ She is married and lives with her husband in Bangalore.
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In ‘Lost And Found,’ the author allows the protagonist, Doug Geoghegan, a young English lecturer at a junior college in Bangalore, to narrate the story of his life in his own way. He writes about the boyish, and passionate love he had for a girl who never really loved him back, his friends whom he grew up with, his sisters who considered him their father figure, and his grandmother and her battle with schizophrenia. He sometimes quotes from an old
In ‘Lost And Found,’ the author allows the protagonist, Doug Geoghegan, a young English lecturer at a junior college in Bangalore, to narrate the story of his life in his own way. He writes about the boyish, and passionate love he had for a girl who never really loved him back, his friends whom he grew up with, his sisters who considered him their father figure, and his grandmother and her battle with schizophrenia. He sometimes quotes from an old diary of those days of blissful ignorance, jumping forward, and then backward, and then forward again, narrating his memories as they came back to him. ‘Lost And Found’ is a love story; a story of a young man who narrates his emotional journey back home, back to the woman he could never stop loving. But who is this woman? Is she the one with the red hair and the aqua-blue eyes? Or is she the one who ‘laughed with the Gods?’ And then, after all the years of separation, does he go back home to her at last?
In this collection of Short Stories, the author celebrates the innocence of childhood, marks the deep pain of loss, and honours the messages of hope in deep blue skies and lacy white clouds. From the horrors of a road accident and the fury of a village mob, to near death experiences and then to the wings of butterflies, she lets her imagination fly, like dandelions dancing in the breeze. She celebrates children who found perfection in the imperfect, aunts and
In this collection of Short Stories, the author celebrates the innocence of childhood, marks the deep pain of loss, and honours the messages of hope in deep blue skies and lacy white clouds. From the horrors of a road accident and the fury of a village mob, to near death experiences and then to the wings of butterflies, she lets her imagination fly, like dandelions dancing in the breeze. She celebrates children who found perfection in the imperfect, aunts and uncles who learnt lessons the hard and hilarious way, love lost and found, leaders, scholars, cops and rascals who were caught in moments embarrassing and campers who worked through the night to start one little fire in the rain. The stories in this collection do not conform to any theme and are purely for the joy of quick and easy reading.
Something appeared to be amiss in the Anglo-Indian town of Landsend – Doug Geoghegan could feel it as he drove to work that morning. The two young men whom he'd noticed by the Cross Road looked hardened and desperate, and very familiar.
About an hour later, all hell broke loose when 25 children of the Mount St. Joseph School and their teacher were taken hostage by two armed men. What made it personal was th
Something appeared to be amiss in the Anglo-Indian town of Landsend – Doug Geoghegan could feel it as he drove to work that morning. The two young men whom he'd noticed by the Cross Road looked hardened and desperate, and very familiar.
About an hour later, all hell broke loose when 25 children of the Mount St. Joseph School and their teacher were taken hostage by two armed men. What made it personal was that Doug’s wife, the school’s Headmistress had also been with them at that time!
Doug decided to act rather than just sit tight and wait for the police – but would he be able to get the children and the ladies with them to safety?
The frail beggar woman wanted to change her life; she wanted all the nice things she often dreamed of when she rocked herself to sleep under the stars. She wanted to live in a big white house with a garden and a fence, and she wanted a comfortable bed to lie in when the nights turned cold. She wanted a big handbag filled with money and wanted to spend it on what-so-ever she liked. She wanted all the comforts that every rich woman had and wished that the means to
The frail beggar woman wanted to change her life; she wanted all the nice things she often dreamed of when she rocked herself to sleep under the stars. She wanted to live in a big white house with a garden and a fence, and she wanted a comfortable bed to lie in when the nights turned cold. She wanted a big handbag filled with money and wanted to spend it on what-so-ever she liked. She wanted all the comforts that every rich woman had and wished that the means to possess these would come by her one day. But then, rather than step out into an unknown world that appeared to only promise a rat-race and hard work each day, she preferred the one she lived in presently. It was familiar and in some manner, easier.
Included in this collection are some stories written more than 20 years ago and some that are fairly recent. Each story tells a different tale; some are humorous, some are witty, some carry a mild streak of pain and some just tell a simple tale with no frills attached. The characters in each story are normal people who lead normal lives, with successes, regrets, triumphs, humiliations, grudges and a little ‘shedding of baggage’ along with a healthy dose of
Included in this collection are some stories written more than 20 years ago and some that are fairly recent. Each story tells a different tale; some are humorous, some are witty, some carry a mild streak of pain and some just tell a simple tale with no frills attached. The characters in each story are normal people who lead normal lives, with successes, regrets, triumphs, humiliations, grudges and a little ‘shedding of baggage’ along with a healthy dose of laughter, sorrow and mystery. They make for quick reading on any day, any month of the year. In some stories, the writer pokes fun at herself. In others, she just relates mundane incidents, finding a silver thread of wonder in them. And there are those that you would call yarns – the type that are told around crackling campfires, late in the night under the distant stars.
The little girl, per pig tails tousled and unkempt with a complete red bow tying one bunch of light brown hair, but its partner all open and undone peeped through a coin sized hole in the board that divided the front room of her humble home from the bedroom. She wore a hand-me-down T shirt and a ski Read More...
Peepal Trees or the Sacred Fig Trees are tenacious No, this is not going to be an essay on a tree that is considered holy in India. But a little background will help. This particular tree among others is considered sacred and has been worshiped for over thousands of years. This is a 24-hour oxy Read More...
About a year or two before my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she began to show small signs of it, forgetting obvious things, hiding food in uncommon places and almost always misplacing her rings, spectacles or her wrist watch, or something or the other. Quite naturally, as a result she Read More...
It was a pleasant Friday evening and he decided that he would by-pass the dusty village of Javangalli and ride on to Bangalore through the town of Malvalli. He rode out of Sategal and over the bridge across the Cauvery, feeling the wind swish-swash as he passed each pillar of the long, gigantic stru Read More...
It was early morning yet and the mists of late November had clouded his shack so heavily that he could not see more than ten feet before him. He urinated in the common toilet shared between six houses in the row and mechanically ambled toward the tap to fill a pail with water, gently moving away ano Read More...
28 Feb 2020 – We leave for the airport early in the morning to pick my brother and sister-in-law up. They are going to stay at our home during their holiday. Everyone is talking about Covid 19 ravaging Wuhan. No one even realises what this whole thing is. My brother has a cough. He insists tha Read More...
I am not fond of knives. By that I mean that I am not a collector of those bits of weaponry or cutlery, depending on your preference of usage. I don’t collect them; I don’t store them. I use them now and again in the kitchen when I putter around there to experiment how far my body would Read More...
Varun considered himself a 21st century man, abreast with the times and sensitive to the demands of a rapidly transforming society, which was in favour of woman and their empowerment. When he married, he ensured that not only did he live separately from his rather conservative mother, but had also k Read More...
It wasn’t difficult for any of us to recognise the statue despite the grotesqueness of the work itself – the figurine of this great architect of India’s Constitution was absolutely dissimilar to the actual man himself, Dr. Ambedkar. It had a small head, a strawberry pink face, a gr Read More...
Flowers are flowers when ‘live with sap, They smile above their glossy leaves; When petals ope to butterflies, And welcome, nosy humming bees. Not so bound fast to a string, Or to a circular frame enslaved; For one adorns a woman’s hair, The other sighs upon a grave. Flower Read More...
When my cousin Rosalie passed away some five years ago and my eldest brother called up and gave us the stunning news, we were absolutely shocked. Rosalie had perhaps been 34 or 35 at that time, with two very small daughters and a husband whom I had never met before the funeral. But it’s not Ro Read More...
It was sharply cold outside and it was dark. Yet high in the heavens, above the cloud of churning, white mist the stars were bright pins of icy light. The road was lit up by my cab’s headlights, but ahead of the beam, hazy in the swirl, all was dark. Behind us, in the distance shone a single b Read More...
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