Sep 30, 2015

Freedom: The Outburst of Emotions!

The Independence Day of 2015 gave me more than one reason to celebrate!
On 15th August 2015 after a good gap of 24 months my work was published once again. This time my story was picked up for an E-mag named UNBOUND- compiled and edited by Neil D'Silva (author of Maya's New Husband fame) and Varun Vithaldas Prabhu (serial Authorpreneur).
Happy to also share that the logo/symbol design of UNBOUND was designed by me. :D 

Here's the Smashwords link for the first issue of  the UnBound E-Magazine where you can read numerous other fantastic short stories and poetry written on the theme- FREEDOM.


Rati arched her left eyebrow and brought both her palms up, gracefully bending her slender fingers, demonstrating the Sanjukta Hasta Mudra that was being taught. The light tapping on the tabla travelled to their ears from the adjacent hall, as the player delicately practiced the accompaniment for a khyal, then a thumri.

"Kathaakahe so Katthak!",the teacher continued. "We are storytellers. Every inch of your body, from your head to your toes, even your eyes, should emote in perfect synchronization."She instructed with a mouthful of betel nut and paan, taking intermittent breaks from the rhythmic chewing. She relaxed on the four-poster bed while their newest danseuse, a wispy brown girl stood on the Persian rug, listening attentively.

Rati went back to combing her lustrous length of wavy black hair, ten strokes at the minimum for each bunch of strands. Once done, she showed off her perfected pirouette, the gatherings of her embellished knee-length tunic swirling out and twirling back to hug her shapely legs.Then she struck a dynamic pose before the floor-length mirror, her hands raised taut above her head and studied the curves of her own body. The altha on her upturned palms was a richer red, especially that evening. Rati's cheeks blushed as she remembered his baritone voice calling her,"Jaise Ajanta ki murat koi!",in his heavily English accent.

The thought of being loved by a hopeless romantic sent a delicious quiver all over her. He had unabashedly lavished her with praises in a burgeoning mehfil —a hall packed with a motley crowd of local zamindars, British officers, and a stray poet or two as her audience. Rati peeredinto the mirror and retouched the dark kohl, enhancing the accent of the lines at the corner of her eyes which exaggerated its doe-like shape. Through the mirror, Rati noticed her teacher throwing an admiring glance towards her.

"Now, that's what you call ShringarRas!", she heard her exclaim, drawing the student's attention towards the preening Rati.
"Each of the nine emotions bring meaning to your performance. Understand them, feel them, and claim your freedom of expression through your naach. Be it the KrodhRas or the AdbhutRas, the BhayanakRas or the VatsalyaRas...", the teacher had visibly trailed off to a distant place in her thoughts, exactly after mentioning the emotion of mother's love.


Rudra stood stolid, on the topmost step along the waterfront, staring into oblivion, unperturbed by the drizzling rain. Dhoti clad, legs apart and rooted to the ground, hands akimbo, he could have easily been mistaken for a warrior right out of Hindu mythology. Like every year in August, the Ganga had swollen to its maximum height and showed no signs of calming down. The winds billowed and the waters raged, threatening to engulf the ghat.

Rudra was stirred by the floodwaters licking his feet and he acknowledged it as a gesture from the animated holy waters.
"I know, Ma! You can feel the rising fury in my soul, Rudra huffed under his breath.
"I'm told, I had been discarded at birth but you miraculously saved this orphan and let me live.So here I am. I will not let this life be wasted." He swore. "I know not who my parents are but I know I owe this to my motherland.I pledge my soul, in your freedom I will live!"With invigorated steps, the 20-something strapping lad headed for the Lahurabir police station, near the North-West end of Banares.

Nai Sarak was a narrow street but the busiest in the city, dotted with frail hawkers, passersby and the regular loafers. By nightfall, the city would have roughly 500 guards stationed at thenumerous gates of the different urban wards but it was only early evening, so all was mundane and casual. The only formal feature was the excellently proportioned, one-story high structure of the police station.A wide plain strip ran horizontally along the length of the building,effectively separating the base from its upper floor. Right in the middle of the first floor was a generously proportioned balcony supported by a fluted Doric six-column porch. The wall directly underneath the balcony had an unusual arched doorway which was the ground-floor entrance of the Lahurabir police station.

Rudra positioned himself across the street, exactly opposite the arch. He made himself less conspicuous by standing in the lee of the zamindar's haveli which was infamous as the harem of seductive nautch girls. A peeping tom lurking in the harem's vicinity wasn't an unusual sight, so getting caught wasn't a worry.
"How convenient!"Rudra fumed, imagining the lust-driven officers of the British Raj crossing over from the police station, making a beeline for the harem in the after-hours.
After the briefly distracting thought, he wiped the rain-water out of his eyes and returned his focus on the facade of the police station. Rudra gritted his teeth and fisted his palms, while he waited like a crouching tiger poised to prey.
"How dare they compel my brethren to go to war? Their slaves are we?"
Rudra's blood began to boil at the very thought, once again.
At half-past five with clockwork punctuality, the British officer would step out every evening onto the balcony. Rudra waited, his heart pounding while his ears turned a fiery red.
"God, please be with me!"he prayed, trying to steady his hand which was trembling with indignation. He tightened his hold on the square-butt, hard rubber grip andtacitly brought out the Smith & Wesson revolver from its perch at his waist. As his target came into the line of sight, Rudra pointed its barrel out.


Vismay Lal hollered in his sandpaper voice, "Aao, khao, sukhpao!",unaware that hisuncle had chosen the most appropriate words to anchor in the sales. The young costermonger was doing as instructed,happily sitting cross-legged on the groundwith five cane baskets of fresh produce from their farms. There was very little of it left in them now, so Vismay could relax a bit, twiddling with a small potato or jingling his bag of coins, now and then. He was busy staring at the procession of a palanquin, with his mouth agape, when one of his regular visitor's sprawling potbelly filled the frame, obstructing his view.

"Arre, silly boy!Why do you continue sitting here in the rains with the blanket on your head?"boomed the friendly havildar.
"Ram-Ram,Chachaji!"greeted Vismay, picking out the biggest, ripe yellow banana and handing it out,"Never mind the light drizzle; it will stop soon. It's a dream come true to get paid for just sitting around," he grinned while eyeing the gaudily dressed village belles who had stepped out of the zamindar's haveli, across the street. Vismay watched them intently as they walked past, his eyes growing larger and rounder than the ber fruit he was selling.
"You seem to have a better eye on the people than I do!"teased the policeman and chomped the banana down, all at the same time.
"No, no! Nothing like that, Vismay stuttered.
"You have full freedom to feast your eyes.You won't be charged for that!"jeered the policeman. "You'd better get going now. Enough for today!"he ordered, discarding the banana peel in one of Vismay's empty baskets.
"And remember, I am not your Chachaji!"he added blithely, turned his back, and set off down the road, rapping the ground twice with his long staff as he went.
"Achcha!",Vismay shouted out his agreement. 

He gathered his baskets, piling them one on top of the other, covered them with his frayed blanket, and hoisted them up on his head. Raising himself to his feet, he had just started walking cautiously when a tonga arrived outside the Lahurabir police station and two English women stepped down, one after the other, onto the paved curb, a couple of feet away from him. Awestruck by the sight of the buxom white ladies dressed in the most beautiful colored satins he'd ever seen, Vismay stood transfixed at the spot.
"Aaha, Memsahib!"he made no qualms about exclaiming aloud.

The pretty frilly umbrellas held up in their white gloved hands, swished past him, leaving behind a trail of floral perfume in the air. The wonderment did not leave his senses, even as he circumvented the stationary tonga and crossed the street.

As he was wont to do, Vismay slowed his pace down and went as close to the haveli as possible, in the hope of getting a fleeting glimpse of the beautiful dancers inside. He had turned around the bend of the curving footpath when he sensed the presence of a figure in the lee of the dark- stoned exterior wall. Curiosity getting the better of him, Vismay stopped to find out who it was. The unexpected sight of a gun being cocked shocked Vismay out of his wits and he reeled backwards in utter panic.


Lord Ogelsby Freeman roared like a lion emerging out of his lair, when he stepped out onto the balcony.His regular agenda had been disturbed, as his elevated view of the locality was marred by a tonga parked right outside the gate, in the street. The sight of his daughter and wife approaching the police station premises had driven him wild.

"Didn't I tell you girls never to visit me here, however urgent your need might be?"he growled at the two fair ladies."Please leave a message with the gatekeeper and return now. I shall join you as soon as I'm done here." Lord Ogelsby had hardly finished shouting, when the women disappointedly performed an about-turn and scurried off like scared mice, back to the tonga, without a single word.

Lord Ogelsby's face was livid. A three-inch long scar which sliced his left eyebrow and ran down his cheek,past the corner of his eye made him look more like a convict than an officer of the British Raj. His bluish-green eyes flashed with a peculiar yellowish glint, like that of a fiercefeline. Every time he opened his mouth to speak, the upper lip shrouded in a butter-hewed mustache rose like a curtain, exposing his jutting canines which reminded one of brandished daggers. It was as if God had designed Ogelsby with the intention of frightening everybody. His tongue was sharper than a saw, his mind viler than a serpent but his eyesight had been failing him lately.
"Go! Fetch me my monocles," Lord Ogelsby ordered the sepoy who was waiting on him.
"Hurry, you fool!" he snapped again, sputtering some of the water he'd sipped from the glass held out to him on a platter.

As the tonga cleared off, Lord Ogelsby leaned a bit further out from the sill to see the horses trot away. To resume his usual survey of the area from his lookout point, he straightened up and just then realized there was a bit of a flurry, right across the street. In the bad light, he had a blurred view but he could see that a peasant had collapsed in the street and his baskets of vegetables and fruits were strewn on the curb. Obviously scared of something the peasant was trying to scamper to his feet.

A man had stepped out of the shadows of the zamindar's haveli with a resolute stance, head turned up he was staring straight back at him.


Devaki Bai had resignedly sunk back, throwing her head on the pillow, her upturned right forearm gracefully resting on the crest of her temple. To the naive new student, her teacher was apparently demonstrating a dramatic dance pose, so she patiently continued standing there. Devaki Bai shooed her away with a limp left hand.

"How am I to expound the Navras in Katthak when the single most important emotion eludes me?" she lamented. An old memory had come sneaking around once again and raked up a forgotten emotion in Devaki Bai's heart. Tears dropped out of the corner of her eyes, quietly. There was unexplainable,excruciating pain when the biggest tragedy of her life, caught up with her!

Visions from her childhood flashed before her eyes — a DevaDasi performing in a temple, her shrill narrative of the mythological tragic tale of Vasudeva and Devaki — imprisoned by the evil Kamsa and forced to sacrifice their children. Even the eighth child, the newborn baby Krishna, had been immediately separated from the mother. Devaki Bai remembered how she had begun to hate her given name ever since that evening. She imagined her name was a curse! Therefore, as an adolescent danseuse, she readily took to the nickname given by her regular patrons—ChulbuleeBai —in the hope of shedding the curse of her original nomenclature but that was not to be!

The very mention of the VatsalyaRas while teaching her student had roused her maternal instincts. Devaki Bai felt a gnawing at the core of her heart.
"Crying again, Bai Ma? Why do you do this to yourself?"Rati enquired, sitting down beside her on the edge of the bed. Devaki Bai reluctantly rose from her reclining position and took a swig from the glass of cool water, poured out for her.
"You are the only one who calls me 'Ma' and gives more meaning to my life, Rati," Devaki Bai confessed through her ebbing tears. "I haven't shared my story with many but I think you deserve to know because you have loved melike my own daughter would have."
"Tell me everything. You can trust me!" Rati  took Devaki Bai's trembling hands in her own."What has been bothering you?"Rati asked, looking her in the eyes.
"I am guilty. It is not a rumor but the truth!"DevakiBai stuttered, emotions rife in her voice.

She rose from the bed and left Rati's side, hurriedly walking the length of the room, to stand by the window that granted a view of the Nai Sarak Street below.

"Like most danseuse, in my heydays I was blessed with abundant beauty and a silly heart full of love."Rati was all ears to each word uttered."There was no dearth of attention from men but little did I know the ways of the world! One particular admirer laid a trap and, unsuspecting, I walked right in and fell for him, so hard that I was soon with his baby," Devaki Bai's face crumpled in remorse but she continued in a voice, husky and low.
"I secretly gave birth to a beautiful boy and it was I who orphaned him too. I cold-bloodedly abandoned him in the wee hours of that fateful day,on the banks of the holy Ganga. It's been more than twenty years since, can you believe that?"Devaki Bai shut her eyes and pursed her lips."Rati, now I know it was a grave mistakeand I'm repenting but is there anything I can do about it?"Devaki Bai's voice trembled, distinctly pained by the memory. She buried her face in her own palms and began sobbing profusely.

Rati was at a loss for words. She only stood there with her arms wrapped around Devaki Bai in a warm embrace, unable to find a voice to console the grieving mother.
"If it is death that will give me freedom from my misery, so be it!"Devaki Bai howled and precariously leaned against the window sill, as if she was contemplating jumping out the window.
"Nonsense!"Rati pulled her back and tried to shush her."Why should you bear this burden on your conscience alone? The father was equally responsible for the baby," Rati protested.
"Over the past few months, every day at half past five in the evening, we have been seeing each other but continue to act like strangers. Every day, the father of my son stands there, right before my eyes; while over here, I wonder and worry, how and where our child must be. Such is my wretched life!" DevakiBai complained.

Just then, Rati noticed a sudden glimmer of hope in her teacher's eyes as they steadied,like they'd found what they were looking for. She intuitively followed Devaki Bai's gaze and there was a catch in Rati's breath when she saw that DevakiBai was staring fixedly at thefigure that had emerged at the balcony of the Lahurabir police station, across the street.


His finger had triggered the shot involuntarily, but the bullet went whizzing through the air, right on target. The sudden loud, sharp crack of the gunfire rent the humdrum noises on the Nai Sarak Street. The surface of the bullet was blazing hot with friction but at the core it must have been as cold as a piece of metal, for it went shooting ahead free from any guilt of its intent. Within a blink, the bullet had mercilessly pierced through coarse cloth and lodged itself in Lord Ogelsby Freeman's heart.

While they were startled by the sound of the gunfire right beneath their window, Devaki Bai and Rati screamed in unison as they saw the famously dreadful Lord Freeman,powerlessly doubling up and falling like a cloth doll over the balustrade of the balcony, down to the ground.

Rudra had not expected a vegetable vendor to come around and create a scene like that but destiny had made up its mind as much as he had. Uncaring about the result, the armed Smith & Wesson had emotionlessly fired and miraculously hit the target. Rudra's heart thumped crazily when he realized that his mission was successful. He took off from the scene of the crime and as his feet carried him away, he was suffused with an overwhelming feeling of happiness and sense of liberation.

There had been a great flutter of wings at the disturbing sound and the birds that were calmly perched along the roof terraces took flight, in fright. For the numerous hapless souls on the street down below, wrapped in their own emotional upheaval and weighed down by the British Raj, the sight of the freely flying wings was an omen of sorts!

Sep 28, 2015

Made In India by BIDDU- Book Review

Book Title: Made In India BIDDU (Adventures of a Lifetime)
Publisher: Read Out Loud  
My Rating: *****

About the Author: An Indian by birth, BIDDU is a globally renowned Pop singer who shot to fame with the stupendous success of 'KungFu Fighting'. Which was followed by the cult classic 'Aap Jaisa Koi' for the Hindi film 'Qurbani'. And the rest is history! 

"Have you heard of BIDDU?" someone asked, and my reaction was, "What kind of question is THAT?" I was genuinely bewildered because born in the 80's I grew up listening, crooning and dancing like crazy to Biddu's Pop hits. I am a genuine fan and I cannot imagine any music lover of my age, not remembering BIDDU! So when I came across his autobiography, my interest was immediately peaked. 

For a man of such immense talent and an artiste who's sold over thirty-eight million records worldwide, his autobiography shows how humble he still is at the core. Probably what keeps him grounded is the years of struggle and hardships that went into the strife to reach his dreams.

Biddu was born in India, and brought up in Bangalore. Having lost his father early in life he ventured out into the world on his own, almost penniless and built it all up from scratch. Though his initial years may have been really tough, the tone of voice that Biddu maintains while narrating episodes from his childhood and teenage, leaves the reader in splits. There is a tongue-in- cheek humor in the way he chooses his words and uses phrases with great comic timing.

It was absolutely amazing to get a peek into the early years of Biddu's life and I felt mighty privileged actually to have been given this book to read. Biddu started his career playing in a motley group of four boys who formed a pop band which he'd named 'The Trojans'- whose influences lay in the classic repertoire of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Their escapades in Calcutta surely make for an interesting read. Biddu narrates how he eventually landed in Bombay, and started doing two shows a day, five days a week at a hotel and also used to perform at concerts on weekends.
 Shakespeare said, 'Enough, no more, 'tis not so sweet as it was before'
To this Biddu adds his own two cents, 'Tis best to go while you'l be missed, don;t hang around lest they get miffed.'
What a lesson, I say! Words of the wise, indeed.

So Biddu set his heart on his original dream and set off on a journey. Though not a smooth journey, how he sailed his way quite literally,to London through Basra, meeting the bad 'Band-aids' on the way is an amusing episode too. Once on 'solid British soil' as he put it, Biddu did everything for survival; from selling carbon paper to random companies, going from door to door peddling paintings ,and working as a chef in a hamburger restaurant called Yankee Doodle.

Being a die-hard romantic myself, I was happy to read how he met and married his British lady love. I also loved that Biddu throws in some interesting trivia like how he named his music production company 'Subiddu' and how Frank Sinatra paraphrased the name in the reprise of one of his famous numbers by belting out 'doo be doo biddu'. 

All through out I was eagerly waiting to read how he struck gold with the "Kung fu Fighting?" track. It is an absolute treat to read about how the song was recorded in those days,signing Carl Douglas, adding the 'oh ho ho ho', and the chopping 'huh' and 'hah' vocals. This is one of his earliest tracks that brought him recognition by emerging as a hit all over the world. Biddu went on to write and produce hits for Tina Charles and soul legend Jimmy James. 

So all in all, Biddu's life story is full of interesting tales of how he scaled musical heights. The journey is as fantastic a roller-coaster ride as I'd imagined it would be.

While everybody know Biddu for his Indian Pop music album 'Made In India' I personally think , his cult classics "Aap Jaisa Koi" and "Laila O Laila" for the film Qurbani are superlative. 

In quick succession came the pop album, 'Disco Deewane', with Nazia Hassan, which became an instant hit, emerging as the largest selling pop album in Asian history,and was the first Indian album to hit the charts in fourteen countries. This album came out in April 1981 and I was born in December 1981. Assuming my music-lover mother had enjoyed listening to the music tracks from the album while she carried me, I think I have an explanation why my heart went 'Boom Boom' every time the tracks from this particular music album played; so much that I used to play the cassette on loop, on my walk-man when I was older.

April seems to be a lucky month for Biddu for it was again in the April of 1995 that Made in India, sung by the singer Alisha Chinai in her velvety voice, was released. It hit the charts and almost immediately became the three-million-selling album. I was in my teens at that  time, and I remember my mother used to scour a lot of film magazines,reading all about it. I remember sharing the trivia with my friends and enjoying dancing to the music together, with a glint in our eyes. Such were those days, simple and sweet! So you can imagine how thrilled I must have been reading all about the inside story in detail, that raked up poignant nostalgia.

I think, even the cover of the autobiography has been aptly designed by Rishad Patel, featuring Biddu in his quintessential rock-star avatar, and his long tresses blowing in the wind. 

So glad this one's MADE IN INDIA!

Sep 5, 2015

Pune International Literary Festival #PILF2015

Yesterday the 4th of September was the first day of #PILF2015 and it was my debut visit and experience of a Literary festival. I wish to document some learning that I came away with, after listening to some imminent and widely read authors who spoke at the podium.  
Today, the 5th of September is celebrated as Teacher's Day and I hope this post will be an apt ode to authors who I believe, are teachers in their own right.

After the Inauguration of the festival at the hands of Hon. Mr. Shatrughan Sinha, Om Books presented his biography 'Yours Truly, Shatrughan Sinha'. It was a rather interesting tête-à-tête between renowned film journalist Bharathi Pradhan and the illustrious actor. Shri Shatrughan Sinha made a candid recount of how people from different cultural backgrounds in India coined their own funny version of his name calling him everything from Shatrudhan Sinha to Shotrughno Sinha et al. It was a laugh-out-loud time alright! I'd expected a very serious hour ahead, discussing his life and times in Bollywood and politics but it turned out to be exactly the opposite. The man sure knows how to entertain! So humble and open about everything, he has spewed all the incidents and experiences of his life in his biography with utmost honesty he said. He spoke with absolutely no airs about him. Guess these are the traits that largely define why a certain person is so popularly adored. 
Time just flew by with me wishing we could hear some more from him. 
What stays with me is his ideology that come what may, you must stay original, never mimic someone, however much you may idolise another.

"If you can't be the best,

Try and be different from the rest!"
-Shatrughan Sinha

 'Jaico Books' session on 'The Secret of a Best-Seller' began promptly at 3.25 as scheduled and the literary fever finally had me in its grip. I went with the metaphorical empty glass and came away with a cup brimming with some very inspiring thoughts, that thrilled the writer in me to the hilt. 
#CrackingTheCode was just the apt title suggested by Sonal Raut from the crowd of attendees. 

The program was conducted so beautifully by Shatrujeet Nath- the author of ' The Guardians of the Halahala' and 'The Karachi Deception' fame who put forth the exact same questions that were riddling my mind. The panel of speakers comprised of Radhakrishnan Pillai (of the Chanakya series fame), Swami  Shubha Vilas (of the Ramayana series fame), Mehrab Irani (author Mad Money Journey) and Anamika Mishra (author of VoiceMates)

I was hanging on to every word that these successful book entrepreneurs were spouting. And they did not disappoint me at all. Their vast knowledge and expertise on their respective subjects is absolutely amazing. And despite being writing giants, they appeared so very down-to-earth and were absolutely frank with their answers.

I will try and enumerate as many 'pearls of wisdom' as I can remember.

Quite obviously because the subject of the evening was meant to enlighten us on how to write a bestseller, there were many aspiring authors and writers in the crowd. Author Radhakrishnan Pillai who began his journey to success with the 'Corporate Chanakya' had some very good tips for his audience. 
"Focus on one book, " he said and "Break away from the mould." Trying to parallely work on multiple book projects is not his style. He researched his topic thoroughly, chalked out a structure for his book and wrote it. Focused on making it a success and the fantastic response from his readers had him working on his next book. "Write one, see it to success and then go onto the next." That's the rule he works with. And the writer has to refresh his mind, forget about the success of his previous book and write the next like its his very first. 

If you were to ask me, the most impressive speaker of the evening was Swami Shubha Vilas for he was like an ocean of knowledge. Calm and composed in his seat and yet his underlying personality was that of a teacher, longing to bring about an awakening of sorts between his readers and listeners. Indeed a spiritual seeker and a truly motivational speaker.
He said some wonderful things that indeed brought about a paradigm shift in me. 
Swami Shubha Vilas rightly pointed out that every reader says 'What's in it for me?' when he/she picks up a book to read. If the writer can weave in some life lessons packaged in a gripping narrative, then you have cracked the code to writing a bestseller.

So every written book, whatever the subject may be, must primarily offer the Three Es- 
  1. Entertainment
  2. Enlightenment
  3. Enlivenment

On being asked how he came upon choosing to write on the Ramayana, retelling it for the modern audiences? Swami Shubha Vilas said it was his grandmother's bedtime stories that were at the heart of generating his interest in the epic. His book Ramayana- Rise of the Sun Prince portrays Rama in new light, describing his attributes such that the present generation can imbibe the virtues.
What can one learn from Lord Rama?
If you've got talent, use it correctly. 
  • Talent brings you to the bridge of success.
  • Good attitude helps you cross the bridge of success. Without the correct attitude towards life, without humility you will not be able to go too far. 
  • Character helps you preserve the success. Last but not the least, there lies the key to sustaining the upwards graph.
Another important aspect of writing a bestselling book was perfectly underlined by the finance guru Mehrab Irani. He stated that 'people connect' is most important above everything else. He rightly pointed out how his book '10 Commandments of Financial Freedom' did well but when he packaged some financial investment lessons in a fictional tale and presented it to his readers with 'Mad Money Journey', it was only then did he make waves as a more recognised author. When the readers were able to feel one with the financial ups and downs woven into the story, the book was an instant hit.

It all boiled down to the same thought again. 'What do you offer your reader?"
And Swami Shubha Vilas had some more pearls of wisdom for us.
Our 4 aims should be to 
- Live
-Leave a legacy.

All that we write should be worthy of being read and remembered.
When a writer writes, the focus and intent in writing the book should not be about oneself- 
very much like every shloka in the scriptures that start with a 'Namaha' which only means, 'Not about me!'. Everything we write should be with the reader in mind, should be more about the story that your heart is bursting to tell. And definitely not about how much you will be able to benefit from writing it. How far the book is going to go? That is not for us to predetermine. 

A bestseller is not that which sells the most but that which is read the most, remembered and cherished. 

When the forum was opened to three questions from the attendees, someone asked about something that possibly bothers each and every writer, how do you fight the fear of not making a bestseller out of your book?
Though all panelists threw fantastic light on the solution to this problem what made a connect with me was Swamiji's tongue-in-cheek reply. At this fag end of the program, we were all very keyed into his sense of humour. 

He said he wanted to teach us just two ways of being unhappy. 
1. Try to make everybody happy
2. try to make everybody happy with you!

At the very root of the fear of failure lies the need to make everybody happy because we end up judging our own success over other's response to our work, leading to a mental block.   

Signing the interaction off was this one true line -
The more you think and analayse and contemplate when working on your manuscript, the more you will go into doubt. Once the blue plan to your book is in place just type away. Let the writer in you take over and unleash your inner voice. 
Like Swamiji rightly called it - 'Paralysis by analysis'
End it!
Let your pen go. That is one fantastic lesson that I have carved into my heart. I have spent too much of time in self doubt and hence haven't been able to get that last chapter out. A big thankyou to all the authors who spoke their heart yesterday and re-instilled the faith and confidence to just 'WRITE'.

All through the few hours spent at the #PILF2015, I was lucky to be in the company of veteran blogger Vikram Karve. His anecdotes from his life as a naval officer. Each tale has dollops of humour and a life lesson in it too. What a thoroughly captivating personality and an infectious sense of humour he has. 

You can imagine I was smiling cheek to cheek till I walked out of the gates of YaShaDa. 
Now looking forward to reading all those books by the intelligentsia I came across yesterday. Even those recommended by some new and old writer friends who enjoy and celebrate literature with the same passion as I do.   

All in all an absolutely great learning experience on just the first day of #PILF2015
A big #ThankyouTeacher to all!