A conversation with Abhishekh Aggrawal

A comeback in blogging has been made with an interview which was conducted months ago from our literary agency. Author Abhishekh Aggrawal was in conversation with writer Madhurima Halder  and the Blue Sails Literary Agency Team for his book titled, '

1. What suddenly drew you towards this genre of fiction?
Ø There is always a sudden turn in people's life & something similar happened to me. That turn linked my thoughts & got converted into pen.

2.Who was your main inspiration behind writing?
Ø Writing a book is really a very tough job if the legends like Mr. Robin Sharma, Ravinder singh & Mr. APJ Abdul Kalam would not have been there then I could not be able to start with my pen. They really inspired me a lot.

3. If you would go back to your past then which aspect of your story would you change?
Ø I would like to change the phase which occurred in Mumbai when I was down through stomach ulcers & later with jaundice.

4. What was the hardest criticism received by you so far?
Ø I think there are lot many, but I took every critic in a positive manner.

5. Who are your favorite authors?
Ø Books Of Robin Sharma, Ravinder Sing and legendaries like Amisg Tripathi influenced me to write another master piece.

6. What do you currently do and what are your future plans on writing?
Ø Owing business and working as Ast. Director. I have some new concepts in writing and I'm working on the same.

7. Your message for your readers and other authors.
Ø Don't judge anything until you go depth in it because every story has some essence in it & wish readers should come to know about it. About Author's I truly respect all of them & would love to see everyone reaching their dream. Best part is all have some uniqueness in their writings which is understood by other Authors.

I haven't read In Other Words...

In Altre Parole...

In Other Words

Neelanjana Sudeshna Jhumpa Lahiri is a name I had to write about in my pages every moment. And the rest she created was history. I never had anything much to brag about, but one. I don't know anything to speak about, but one. I have even learnt few Italian phrases and words, not because my favourite writer had learnt it for some nearly twenty years, but for that one. 

A lot later I realised what I read was not her. In Other Words was a blur to me. Why did I be so happy after reading it? After all, I read the award winning translator, Ann Goldstein. I then consoled myself that I at least had a grip on her ideas. But how is that possible? Language is like a flow in the oceans. I will flow with the waves, ebb with the tides. There was no point in consolation. I never understood Jhumpa Lahiri's memories, stories, and nostalgia in her book. What I read was just English. And this was the prime reason why I chose to keep my inner spirit walking up and down. I never wanted the sprint of Italian to die in me. I want to keep it alive...alive like nothing else in my life. 

In Other Words is in a haze for me. There are distinct shadows in the book. Starting from its cover to the blurb. Everything is hazy and indistinct. 

Indistinct ideas with shadows all around

Someday I will read Jhumpa Lahiri's In Altre Parole. Someday I too will be able to know her language...till then I want to keep her other books close to my heart since no one knows it better than me, how she had changed me in particular and my life in general. Never in my dreams did I feel that there exists such a form of love, a love which keeps you alive and make you realize that nowadays were never just days. I can relate to her, I can witness her in whatever I write. Is such a world for an aficionado? 

11th July, Calcutta. 

Review of The Monk

The Monk

Written by Akshay Shroff

About the Author: Akshay Shroff has been a successful advertising sales consultant of domestic and international media, spanning over three decades, first in New Delhi followed by Mumbai.
He has been associated with voluntary organizations like the Lions and the Junior Chamber International in senior positions and also with trade bodies like the Delhi Advertising Club and the Press Club of India.
Married to Jayna since February 1981, he has been a responsible family man, a doting father of Rohan and a loving father-in-law of Stuti.
Has a Bon Vivant nature, nurturing friendships since over five decades.
Travel, trekking, reading and writing have been his passionate hobbies.
Lover of animals and Nature, dogs have been his companions on and off.
While THE MONK is his debut novel, writing will now be his full time engagement.

Storyline: Ten-year old Lakshya Gaitonde dreams of following a career in cricket like his idol, Sunil Gavaskar. But destiny has other plans for him.
He loses his father, Police sub-inspector Rajaram Gaitonde in the Mumbai terror attack of March 1993. He decides to follow his father’s footsteps and becomes a police officer.
In the July 2006 serial train blasts on the Mumbai suburban network, he loses his mother and fiancée.
In consultation with the Commissioner of Police, he devises a diabolical plan to crush the menace of terrorism at its roots.
Does he succeed? How does he manage to avenge the killing of his parents and his beloved? Why does he finally don saffron robes?

Review: I received the book on 27th June and completed its review by 29th. This evidence is enough to mention that the book was that much engrossing. The protagonist was well sketched and the character draws your attention from the very first line when Gaitonde goes to solve a ransacked house.

I am not used to reading thrillers a lot but I must say this book was more inspirational than thrilling which is a good point. The usage of words, metaphors and different figures of speech were flawless and the editorial team of Gargi publishers missed out few grammatical errors. It's written like a matured writer and would definitely ask everyone to try this book. It's overall a beautiful read. Unless and untill you read till the till last line, you wouldn't leave the book. It's that much engrossing! Akshay Shroff has done a great job with his debut book. While you read the book, the sentence construction and simplicity, you will never know that it's a first time writer.Even the cover of the book was thrillingly designed.

I would love to rate the book a 3.5/5

Publisher: Gargi Publishers

 Genre: Fiction/Thriller

The Speechless

The gold pot once buried

Doesn't tread back the same path 

And hence the blood in my veins 

Won't flow back

If the clod in the front door 

Doesn't try to tell my story. 

It's winter, my body burns with fever. 

If I don't peep through the clouds, 

I won't be able to see you dead. 

If I don't touch the stars, I can't hold you back. 

Now if you ask to paint back the 400BC paintings...

I will not make a difference. 

I will make a thoughtful aspect like an ape with a book. 

There would be silence if the dumb sky doesn't decide to throw up. 

If you never got the pain. You haven't been full of hopes. 

It's winter but the trees haven't dried up. 

Yet, there's still a point in time.

If I don't decide to walk up to you,

I will be speechless. 

Green stain

A green stain on the uneven geography and

Rhetoric questions on love. 

La donna! is what he said

When I rushed out to drench. 

What is love? A pretty, pricky thing. 

Out in the sun you go, but the tan. 

With time you need fuel. With time you need words. 

Where will I get so much? What should be the tax?

This is a caesura. 

A doubt, an unexpected explanation. 

O what is love?

A stab of a knife or a cat on a hot tin roof?

The Hitchhiker Called Life

I was in an illusion of sound

The sound of Goddess, the sound of enormity. 

I waxed the caps of my child, he liked it. 

For everyone is going outdoors,

And why will mine stay behind?

Since when did we start missing roads?

Only when we were missing homes. 

And when was it that we missed the Moon?

Only when the Child actually holds the hand.

I packed my responsibilities in lunch boxes.

I even indulged in affairs,

You haven't seen Sun shine so bright.

Oh is it summer? Or the last season of pride?

Go and claim your places, positions and positivity

Since you never know when you stop getting loved. 

Risk the elements of life

Be a hitchhiker

For everyone stands on a tripod. 

You drew the rain by the window, I saw you. 

I was unpacking my child's bag

Trying to figure out what he lost,

Books, pens or an eraser?

If books, I will buy him more. 

If pens, I will gift him more.

If an eraser, I will snatch it more.

I see you erasing the drawing.

What do you wonder?

The rain in front of your window would fall straight?

Even the knights of my night stab me with knife

Nightmares seem hollow. 

I am Infinity and one. Did I quarrel less with numbers?

But the bitter illusion of life and it's sweet melodies of earth

Teach me loving is not easy; watch out for more. 

Because you are jittery. 

Neeraj's debut book!

Novel: Falling In Love

Storyline:

 He was witty. She was traditional. He was happy go lucky. She was adorable next door girl. He instantly fell in love with her. She cocooned her feelings. He wanted her. She refused him. Who wins? Why she refused him? Will they meet? Will he be able to sweep her from her feet? Are love stories really for forever? Does love happen only once? How far can someone go to get his love?

Come, be a part of this eternal saga, a journey. A journey of two souls falling for each other where you will find funny one-liners, punches and oodies of romance. If you have ever fallen in love, it’s your story, it’s our story. Relieve, cherish and be a part of those moments, once again!

Author: 

Neeraj Mishra is 2004 batch Hotel Management graduate from Institute of Hotel Management, which is one of the pioneer institutes of India. He is an hotelier turned banker turned writer. ‘Falling in Love’ is his debut novel and he hopes to write many more. He believes in the philosophy of, ‘When your passion turns into profession, your work becomes worship.’

He is currently working in Banking Industry. When he is not sanctioning loans or writing, he picks up his Royal Enfield and goes on long rides. He is a writer who cooks well. He enjoys traveling and is a complete foodie. You can contact him via:

authorneerajmishra@gmail.com                             

Review: 

When I talk of writing styles it depends solely upon the author’s capability to dig right into the roots of what he/she is writing or delivering to the readers. In this case, Neeraj Mishra’s book didn’t really set the bars high but was able to convince. His two main protagonists, Manav and Sriti were well described but lacked characterization in some way. The one-liners were indeed splendid and I had a nice time reading these lines. The opening scene was scripted nice which will definitely keep the reader held to this book. In simple words, the book being a not so interesting read had a captivating sense of humour. Moreover, it had a predictable ending.

Writing Style: 

Pure, simple and what we call day-to-day English was used which will be easy for any reader to easily finish it off fast. The story runs rapidly as well and thus I describe it as a fast-reader. The language used was undemanding and coherent. The book lacks proper editing and proof-reading. There are numerous grammatical errors which is sometimes disappointing. 
Rj Publishers must have better editors. 

Story:

In my opinion, Neeraj Mishra could have worked out more with the story. However, being a fast reader I must say it didn’t really appreciate and didn’t really disappoint me too. The story was average, a normal one with a climax indeed interesting. I hope readers pick this book up. They will surely enjoy it during their leisure time.

Ratings:

I thereby rate this book a 2.5 out of 5. 

Viola

It was a beautiful morning 
And the sun shone because it had to.
Intervals played with motions,
Harmonic as a viola
Sharp as a harp.

Today shadows played with her music stand
Viola clefs turned to a stretched version of their deceiting curves...
Out went a music full of semibreves,
Lonely, longing and lustful.

Fingers moved,
But homecoming was far from the syllabi
And my voice calling her was out of apathy.
Apathy or sympathy?
Footnotes on a musical returning with its taste.

It was a beautiful night
And the moon shone because it was supposed to.
Tonight intervals listened to motions
Harmonic as a listener
Sharp as a whisperer.

Finding Literature through Poems

When my book shelf broke into a speech one morning, I discovered I am a writer finding my space. My neck being held high up against the wall, the bookshelf spoke of imprisonment and infinite freedom and my faces moved with its whiplash, injuring my cheekbones. We all are reading something, be it poems or a prose, trying to understand what they connote, and of course living Literature by writing poems. When I try to look towards uniqueness it is always through stanzas which deal with a fair sense of strangeness providing an eerie feeling. Last year it was a sort of survey I dropped on my shoulders to go through poetry collections in the Kolkata pustakmela. Priorities were language which included incongruity and verses and that would resonate.

I found myself in a fuss when I entered stores. I couldn’t really make up my mind, what shall I read? What shall I buy? Whom shall I read? And then I entered the next store…

I must mention Kolkata has variety. The first few books I went through were Donne’s. I never knew much about writers and while just reading a short piece of his, I googled. What happened was I couldn’t move any further and the survey was called off immediately. John Donne’s metaphysical poetries were on topics like joys of lovemaking and humanities subservience to God. His energetic and rigorous uneven lines were characterized by complex witty vanity along with contrasts. The lines which reverberated were:

Now thou has loved me one whole day,
Tomorrow when you leav’st what wilt thou say?

Donne’s poem Woman’s Constancy is a quite dramatic monologue. It is full of questions and arguments and the basic meaning is quite clear from the very first lines. The wit of the poem did make it sometimes humorous. His poems made me question lyrics and he played a major role in modern development of notes. I realized when I searched, Donne’s poetry was written some four hundred years ago, inspiring not only Amit of Tagore’s The Last Poem but thousand others. A variety of amorous experiences could be related by me, though they were startlingly contradictory sometimes.

It is not my work to critically write anything on him. I don’t know him even a unit. What made me stop by him was the name A Valediction. Studying John Donne is a future decision but as of now questions after answers keeps on arising. Language was the finest discovery and amalgamation done, but poems? What are these? Just mere verses?

And then the one image of two people, that soul cannot be divided but only expanded and the triumph of love makes me wonder is this possible only through poems? Literature indeed can be only found through poems? Or as if I say for God’s sake just hold your tongue and let me love!

We are great Writers

We all are great writers
We write stories of genres
Everyday writers sleep on a cushion of thoughts
And a pillow of love between their legs
Sleeping in gymnastic positions
One hand on their chest
While the other writing a little short poem.

We claim to be writers
Writing short stories and novels
Turning truths to lies 
And lies to vulnerable lies. 
Not all poets are writers
But among the crowd we are of the same sex
We are poets and writers of course but unique in nature.

We are great story-makers and story-tellers
Prepared to invade pages with inks full of dishonest honesty and irresponsible words
Fifty percent is resplendent creativity 
While the rest is an insincere sight of words.
We are great artists too 
Quitting pages, linking words, memorizing figures 
And letting them down the pipe of the bin.

Oh eve, listen we are great writers of our time,
Indeed indecent and independent.
We are making nature, creating characters.
Writers lose weight
Writers gain weight.
Untimely death gets designed on our troubles
Yes we are writers and each a great muggle.

In the Mid Autumn

In the mid autumn of your life,

When your father opened the door 

After seeing you I gave up my poems, my dearest 

And then Time wasted it's vulgarity on me.

In the mid autumn of your life  

When your mother closed the door 

After seeing you I gave up my love, my dearest  

And then Time overlooked me.