Poet, Author, Editor, Creative Writing Consultant

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Book review of SHRAYAN

Abha Iyengar’s Shrayan is an Indian fantasy novel that explores the individual’s struggle for both social and self-acceptance.

Review by Smita Sahay at Women’s Web

All of us have a hidden place within ourselves, the place of longing and of escape from the dissatisfactions of life. But is it as easy as it sounds? Abha Iyengar’s first novel, Shrayan, is the journey of a creature, half human, half animal, through rejection and self-awareness to self-acceptance. He seeks and struggles to be understood in a world where he does not belong. 
Iyengar liberally dips her quill into mythology and magic. The book is a fable of sorts; it brings to us a world of dissatisfied, imperfect characters, humans, semi-humans, or fantastical, fighting their own battles. Through these characters and their struggles, the reader learns something about herself too, for instance, learning to make peace with her unfulfilled desires.

Shrayan, a dweller of the underground, finds his first friends in snakes and Sapera and discovers dance, which gives him strength and solace throughout his life. Sapera’s brother Vishwasghat murders him and sells Shrayan like an animal. Fate rescues him and he reaches a school. This is where he discovers beauty and love for the first time. He learns Kshatriyam, a martial arts dance form, and he learns to read and write. However, due to certain unfortunate circumstances, he is forced to run away and he battles with his own bestiality. Eventually, he reaches a place where he finds food, shelter and a job with a baba and his hunchback companion. But will this last or will Life continue to test him?
Iyengar has brought magic realism and fantasy together. Shrayan has hooves and fur, but speaks, walks, eats and dances like a human. He reaches the fantastical land of happiness, where he meets Nordic beauties, snake-dragon women and a giant named Trishna, which means hunger. Iyengar brings in Indian arts, in Kshatriyam, mythology, in the dance drama unfolding the love story between Krishna and Rukmini, philosophy, in conversations Shrayan has with Lotus, Madira and Manila, and Indian culture, in kundalini. 

The narrative is conversational and engaging and lots of unexpected plot turns and character appearances keep the reader immersed. Love takes myriad shapes, and so does sexuality. Fatherhood recurs in the many relationships that are formed and lost. Most of the characters are silent and complex with histories, strengths and failings.
However, sometimes the conversational, chatty narrative takes away from the magic, and some motifs, such as that of the recurring snake, probably symbolic of something, could be more plausibly accommodated in the plot. Some character appearances and plot turns would have been more impactful with a deeper treatment. One also wishes that some other characters whom Shrayan meets through his journey, show up later and have more role in the story and his life. A clearer sense of the passage of time would avoid confusion and make Shrayan more concrete in the reader’s psyche – his is called “…the body of a young man‘s” at the beginning of the story, and he is in his early twenties towards the end of it.


Short chapters, easy language and a dramatic narrative make the book a light read. The speculative fiction and magic take one to far away journeys. Speculative fiction is an evolving genre in Indian literature in English. In this book magic, relationships, fate and a semi-human character come together in a contemporary Indian context, to make you reach into your own insecurities and imperfections. The next time you worry about your own hooves, think about how far Shrayan walked on them.

If you want a copy of SHRAYAN, write to me at abhaiyengar@gmail.com

Lost Soul

Lost Soul


Find me in other people's pages
in the songs and laments of others,
if you look for me on a single page
you may give up trying.
For I am that lost soul
which can be heard in everyone's cry
I am the universal sigh.

(C) Abha Iyengar, 16th December 2015

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

I Mourn for You, Paris

I Mourn for You, Paris
We watch the news,
Watch how the world burns,
Then go light our kitchen fires
Thankful to be cooking, living,
Breathing. Things may
go up in smoke anytime,
The world around you takes
No time to collapse into
A funeral pyre, the air
Awash with ash, and in
The grey of the morning news,
You have your first cup of tea
And pray for those who lost their
Lives in another time and place
While you were asleep in bed,
And you breathe now
Even as they lie dead,
Lost to their loved ones forever,
Just memories in the head,
In hearts that will grief forever.
The taste of tea is bitter,
Singes your mouth, you spit it
out. Look at the world and how
it carries on living in the face
Of Death. But know that
You cannot ignore this truth,
There are those who will
Bring it to you sometime,
So face it now, the terror
Of our times, and thwart
It before it cannot be held back
anymore. Too strong for your
voice, too strong for your steps
They need to be taken now.
(C) Abha Iyengar, 14th November, 2015

Friday, November 13, 2015

Praise for my EDITING SKILLS

Hi,
I worked with Abha to edit the MS of the debut novel. It was a really tough decision to hire an editor in the first place as one has lot of doubts and worries. But I am glad that I looked past all that and hired Abha to work on the book. Under her careful guidance and critical eye, the MS transformed from a vague 50 K word draft (with lots of loose strings) to a tight-gripping, emotional and well paced fantasy thriller. 

She helped add texture to key characters, clarity to location settings and lots of spice to the sub-plots. The best thing about her is her candidness and honesty. She communicates her thoughts and ideas very clearly, leaving hardly any scope for ambiguity and confusion. She also has this amazing knack for picking up minor glitches in continuity, naming and settings of the story - which is very impressive! Her punctuality, dedication and overall enthusiasm about the project, made working with her a very enjoyable experience. 

I am grateful to her for giving her time, attention and care to this project and would love to work with her again. 

Regards,

PM , Author of YA novel, on 13th May 2105

Review by Charanjeet Kaur, Chief Editor, MUSE INDIA, of The Gourd seller and Other Stories


Charanjeet Kaur: ‘The Gourd Seller & Other Stories’






Abha Iyengar
The Gourd Seller & Other StoriesKitaab International Pte Ltd, Singapore. 2015
ISBN-10: 9810934017
ISBN-13: 978-9810934019
Pages 52 | Rs 295 @ amazon.in (PB)

Haunting stories with raw honesty

The versatile and much-awarded poet and writer, Abha Iyengar comes up with another winning collection of short stories, following on the success of her earlier works: Yearnings, Shrayan, Flash Bites and Many Fish to Fry. The Gourd Seller & Other Stories, a slim volume of eight moving stories which have been critically acclaimed in their earlier publications in reputed journals, gains a great deal in depth by being presented as one cohesive text, with multiple themes and layers of consciousness emerging individually, as well as in an interplay of the various characters in situations, which border sometimes on the surreal.

There is an innate sense of the tragic that runs through the collection. Woman-centric to a major extent, seven of the stories recount, with understanding and empathy, the longings and conflicts which plague the women trying to come to terms with destinies that range from the unfortunate to the disastrous. A sense of betrayal and deception marks these destinies: A woman who has lost her husband in a tragic accident in Delhi, relocates to Kanpur and tries to rebuild her life with her daughter in the title story. Without her being aware of it, and despite their religious backgrounds, her initial disgust with the loud gourd seller, gives way to a feeling for him that she can barely understand. The bond between them is subtle, but magical. As the gourd diet purifies her in mind and body, its regenerative power also saves her daughter; but the price has to be paid. Rising over the personal emotional entanglements, Abha Iyengar depicts the mindless communal violence that claims the life of the gourd seller.

The title story is one of two stories that offer redemption and hope along with the tragedy. A similar regenerative power is evident in the Urdu poetry which the narrator discovers in 'A Matter of Time.' In most of the others, the baser instincts of human nature come to the forefront. The three stories set in the US are particularly harsh and unredeemed. Sundari, in 'A Family of Beauties,' the plain looking girl, molested by her grandfather and responsible for his death, faces further rejection from her beautiful mother and sister, and is exploited sexually by Tom, her sister's beau. The recurring presence of the rocking horse comes to symbolise the meaninglessness of both her life and death. Heidi's and Stan's relationship in 'Jagged Ends' is equally sterile, exploitative and violent and Stan's near accidental death mocks Heidi with its suddenness and what appears as her brush with good fortune – the winning of a large sum of money. The mismatch and futility of this relationship is mirrored in the coldness that grows between Rishi and the narrator in their first meeting in 'Marked Territories.' Isolated individuals, turning in upon themselves in their shells, without even the possibility of communication between them; and the explosion of violence, that snuffs all such possibility.

The intersection of the classes in both 'The Gourd Seller' and 'The High Stool' reflect different dimensions in the lives of the characters. As Reena understands herself and comes to accept the growing bond with the gourd seller, Altaf, and emerges from her dual tragedy with a strong determined will to live; the young mother Tara, in 'The High Stool' realises the hollowness of her Madam's world when she pushes the maid to get into a relationship with her husband to satiate his lust; the cynicism of the story is evident from the fact that Tara, Madam, and Tara's husband accept this situation without protest: the material benefits to all concerned are no match for questions of honour or conscience –
'Now I stay back at Madam's house quite often. My husband and children don't ask any questions. We have moved to a two room apartment in a better area. There is an attached bath with running water. My children are well-dressed and go to proper schools. Many sarees hang in my cupboard, presented to me by Madam. I have bought my family's acceptance, and Madam has bought my silence.'
The one story with a lightness of touch and an attempt at humour is the cryptic 'Haircut Sunday.' The bald protagonist, his unending experiments with new hair styles for his little son, the boy's discomfiture, his own hirsute compensations, the birth of a daughter who inherits his countable 'hairs' makes for the comic relief in this otherwise grim collection.

Abha's strength is her visualisation. The poet-cinematographer in her helps in construction of moving images that continue to haunt. Thus, the opening sentence of the title story – 
'The gourd seller's voice could be heard above the morning din. Over the pots and pans that Shantabai clanged in the kitchen. Over the swish of the sweeper's broom in the alley. Over the ratatttattttadddddhhhhh of the machine guns from the game playing of Reena's ten year old Anoushka in her room.' 
The introduction of the sights and sounds crucial to the development of the plot, the introduction of all the major characters, the ambience in which the story will unfold, a microcosm of the world into which we are to enter, - the master story teller has taken care to establish the facts as well as arouse the interest of the reader in this sweeping opening. Again, her use of visual motifs is striking: the dramatic call of the gourd seller, the rocking horse in 'A Family of Beauties,' the large bindi and the tattoo in 'Marked Territories,' the deep blue bedspread in 'Jagged Edges,' the peacock feathers in 'Drought Country' and the baldness of the protagonist in 'Haircut Sunday' take on a life of their own and define the parameters of the concerned narratives. The central motifs also help to lift the story from the reality plane to the planes of near-fantasy and the surreal and to give it the poetic and metaphorical edge.

The Gourd Seller & Other Stories is haunting in its raw honesty. Haunting also because the stories move beyond themselves, embedding themselves in the memory and revealing layers that manifest themselves progressively on reflection and contemplation.

I Mourn for You, Paris

We watch the news,
Watch how the world burns.
Then go light our kitchen fires
Thankful to be cooking, living,
Breathing. Things may
go up in smoke anytime,
The world around you takes
No time to collapse into
A funeral pyre, the air
Awash with ash, and in
The grey of the morning news,
You have your first cup of tea
And pray for those who lost their
Lives in another time and place
While you were asleep in bed,
And you breathe now
Even as they lie dead,
Lost to their loved ones forever,
Just memories in the head,
In hearts that will grief forever.
The taste of tea is bitter,
Singes your mouth, you spit it
out. Look at the world and how
it carries on living in the face
Of Death. But know that
You cannot ignore this truth,
There are those who will
Bring it to you sometime,
So face it now, the terror
Of our times, and thwart
It before it cannot be held back
anymore. Too strong for your
voice, too strong for your steps
They need to be taken now.
(C) Abha Iyengar, 14th November, 2015

Monday, October 19, 2015

The Gourd Seller and Other Stories Book Review by Tim Gurung

http://timigurung.com/2015/10/08/book-review-the-gourd-seller-other-stories-by-abha-iyengar/


gourdseller by abha iyengar
TITLE: THE GOURD SELLER & OTHER STORIES
AUTHOR: ABHA IYENGAR
GENRE: SHORT STORIES
PUBLISHED IN 2015
SIZE: 50 PAGES
THE GOURD SELLER & OTHER STORIES from ABHA IYENGAR is a small, interesting and nicely written book of short stories. It contains eight stories, THE GOURD SELLER is the first story, from which the name of the book is also derived, and all of the stories in the book are not only different but also relevant and meaningful as well. It deals with many pressing issues of our society, the language used to describe those issues is pithy and powerful, and they have been presented in a nice and proper way without even a trace of vulgarity. What makes the book even more special is that it was written through the meticulous and experienced eyes of a woman, who happened to be not only coming form the same society, dominated by the outdated patriarchal system where women are harshly marginalized, but also seen it through her own experiences, and it outweighs everything else as far as the authenticity of those stories is concerned. I read somewhere about writers from the western hemisphere lamenting about our writing, they allegedly said – eastern writers only write about the travails of our daily life and nothing more – but as long as I am concerned, our travails are not only our main inspiration of writing but also our main strength as well and they are as necessary and relevant today as they were before in our writing. And we should keep writing about it as long as it matters to us dearly, because it is our story and if we don’t write about it – Nobody will. We shouldn’t worry too much about what the others have to say.
I don’t know the writer personally, nor do I know about her other works, and I don’t have much to say in regards of her other works. However, I must say, she must be a seasoned and experienced writer of her own merit and it clearly shows on her writing. The writing is not only of a very high standard but also distinctly clear as well as very nicely executed. The subject matters of the stories are very powerful, the prose of the story is perfect, and the deliverance of the stories is nicely done. The writing flows smoothly as a cadence of untrammeled spring water, I didn’t even stop for once while reading this book and despite its seriousness on subject matter I thoroughly enjoyed the book. It is a brilliantly written book, if you care about our ongoing issues in our society, I highly recommend you to read this book. What’s more, it is not that big so you won’t need that much time to read it. 
TIM I GURUNG/AUTHOR AT ISSLCARE – http://www.timigurung.com

Monday, July 27, 2015

A flash fiction contest for August

This is an interesting site to know of, and there is also a short story contest. I've entered, what about you?



http://thecultofme.blogspot.in/2015/07/august-short-fiction-contest.html?showComment=1438066539812

Friday, May 29, 2015

The International Lit Bulb Festival: Flash fiction, non-fiction and poetry from Across the Globe.

The prompt: TOGETHER
The limit: 1500 words



My story: 'THE FAREWELL', featured here, as part of the festival. My thanks to Matt Potter.



The Farewell

“Some things go together,” Mrs. O’Brien’s voice cut across to reach Sheila sitting right at the back of the classroom. “For example, apples and oranges, eggs and bread, pen and paper,” she continued.

“Sheila and Tony,” whispered Sheila to herself, trying hard not to smile. That was because she did not want anyone to wonder at her happiness, and also because the smile would expose her buck teeth, something she was more conscious of than the other things. The other things were many; her bigness that made her hunch her shoulders self-consciously, flat feet which made her shuffle, the lank hair she tied into a tight pony behind her head for it refused to fall in waves around her face like Clara’s did.

Clara was the class beauty. Yet, Tony had chosen her. He had asked her yesterday to be his partner at the school farewell party, which was just a week away. He had walked her into a corner of the passageway and held her hand. He had looked into her eyes, touched her mouth gently with his index finger. “Shshh, don’t tell anyone though,” he had said, “let it be a secret. How we will surprise them, wont we?”

She had been unable to believe it and was still pinching herself. She had been touching her buck teeth ever since, wondering how he had put his finger to her mouth and not flinched. Maybe he would kiss her on the night of the party. The idea made her shiver and she closed her eyes in ecstasy.

“Sheila Briggs!” Mrs. O’Brien’s vice rang out. “Is the poet here talking about just apples and oranges or something else? Do you know what he is referring to?”

 “Yes, Ma’am,” Sheila stood up at once, her shoulders hunching, her face turning a sad orange-red.

“Well?” Mrs. O’Brien’s face was a number of question marks.

“He is talking about lovers, Ma’am. Love has blossomed suddenly in his heart for his girl. He likes to say they are like apples and oranges because…” she tried to stop her heart from beating hard, “…because he does not want to acknowledge this love…yet.” Her heart continued to thump. She was thinking of Tony and their unacknowledged love, for what else could it be?

“Sit down, Sheila,” said Mrs. O’Brien, for she could find no fault with Sheila’s answer. “But next time, you needn’t shut your eyes when I’m addressing the class.”

The class sniggered. Sheila was used to this, so she just hugged her secret hard to herself and ignored them.

That night she sat in her small room, waiting for her grandmother and mother to fall asleep, before putting on music to practice some dance steps. She imagined herself dancing in Tony’s arms. She moved slowly with the music, allowing herself to dream of him holding her close.

She was not beautiful like Clara but Tony had obviously seen her inner beauty, her intelligence and her sensitive nature. She had never thought him to be the sensitive type, actually not thought of him at all for he was quite out of her league, but…and she sighed at this, she would soon dance with him. He had touched her lips with his finger. She put her own finger where he had placed his and felt a sense of togetherness, her finger on top of his, and blushed at the thought, drawing her hand away from her mouth. Finally, she went to bed, her body tingling with anticipation.

Sheila realized she would have to tell her mother about the invitation, for she needed to shop for the dress. She had some savings she could use now. Sheila just hoped that she would be able to afford something that fit her well without drawing too much attention to her bulk. She would look for something that highlighted her warm brown eyes, which she thought was her best feature.

The next evening she managed to convince her mother to visit the shops with her, and quite exhausted by the end, she finally settled on a dress of cream satin that had a brown sash that drew in her waist. A fine lace of the same deep brown decorated the hem and small sleeves. The rather wide round neck was embroidered with the tiniest of flowers in yellow. She had actually fallen in love with the flowers more than anything else. Perhaps it was the tinyness of them, so unlike her, that attracted her.

She persuaded her mother into buying her a pair of small brown heels and a diamante clip for her hair. She also booked an appointment at the hairdresser’s, which she would visit just a few hours before the party. She hugged her mother in delight, and her mother did not have the heart to tell her not to set her hopes too high, for usually highly anticipated events did not play out as expected. She just hugged Sheila back, and together they took the bus home.

                                                                                *

It was the evening of the farewell party, and Sheila was ready. Tony had winked at her across the hall the day before, and she had smiled back, not caring that her buck teeth showed. You just needed to be appreciated by one boy to feel special and beautiful. And Tony was not any boy, he was a dreamboat. After the party, everyone would know that they were a couple; that they were together, like apples and oranges.

She smiled at her image in the mirror, the happiness spilling out of her eyes. The hairdresser had done what she could with her hair, and it now framed her face, softening it. The diamante clip glittered on one side.

She would have to walk to the school auditorium, but she did not mind that. She would walk along the river and then turn away from it towards the road that led to the auditorium. There was a breeze blowing, so she tied a scarf to keep her hair in place. She had almost passed the river when the wind grew gusty; the scarf left her hair and flew towards the riverside. Her eyes followed it and she saw that it had caught in one of the hedges. She walked gingerly towards them, not wanting to spoil her new heels. She just hoped that it would not rain, for that would spoil her dress. She needed to hurry. As she bent to pick up her scarf, she heard voices.

                                                                               *

They stood leaning on the side of the car. It was Tony’s red Volkswagen, a car Sheila hoped to get a ride in soon. Tony was smoking, and Clara was looking up at the sky, making a pretty picture. Her short silver skirt, embellished with sequins, winked like a thousand stars.

Sheila, watching from behind the bushes, stepped carefully on the dirt and grass, moving in closer. She wondered what they were doing together, here by the river.

“Sheila is going to be my partner this evening, Clara,” said Tony, flicking ash.

Sheila smiled. She turned, deciding to hurry towards the auditorium, to meet him there. His next words made here ears burn, and she stopped in her tracks.

“Thinks she is Barbie, that I have fallen for her charms, the stupid oaf.” He spat on the ground.

“That toothy Sheila…?” Clara gave a high laugh. “Well, isn’t she in for a surprise when I waltz in on your arm instead?”

“The fool. To think I would even give her a look. Anyway, I am richer by a hundred dollars. Won the bet I had with Harry. Harry told me I would not be able to invite her or even touch her. I have done both, held her hand, and also made her accept my invitation. Now we only have to see her face…”

“Oh, Tony, you are the best. You can pull anything off.”

“Kiss me, then, Clara, to prove it.” Tony pulled Clara into his arms.

Clara, who proclaimed to all the girls in school that she kissed no boy, turned her face upwards.

Sheila stood still. She watched them kiss and kiss again, then drive off in the car. She imagined them arriving at the auditorium, and the sighs that would go up at the sight of their grand entrance together.

She had kept the secret and told no one. She touched her front teeth with a finger, tears gathering behind her eyes. Then she walked slowly down the dirt path leading to the river.

The wind turned harsher, and fat raindrops fell from the sky to merge with the choppy river waters. The mud turned wet and slick around her as she lay there in her dress of cream satin and brown lace, with tiny yellow flowers around the rather wide neck.

She had smashed her front teeth in with a stone, so when they found her, she would look just a tad more acceptable.




Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Book Review of Abha Iyengar's novel ‘Many Fish to Fry’ by Dr. Amitabh Mitra


Book Review: ‘Many Fish to Fry’ by Dr. Amitabh Mitra
Author: Abha Iyengar
Publisher: Pure Slush (Australia)
No. of pages: 170
Date of publication: October 2014
ISBN: 978-1-925101-59-1
Also available as an ebook.
Available here: http://www.amazon.com/Many-Fish-Fry-Abha-Iyengar-ebook/dp/B00OKRD6BO

Abha Iyengar’ novel, Many Fish to Fry is a joyful reading experience.

It talks about Delhi, its people in a kaleidoscopic adventure of contemporary times. Delhi has grown and so has its population, bazaars, malls and colonies invariably known in India as places. Hilarious to the core, Abha explores the cosmopolitan environs of Delhites, their eagerness in living and loving in a crowded thought within numerous such moments.
As a Delhi seeker, I have been reaching out to this city since my teen years. I have seen it changing to a mega metropolis but always a home to people irrespective of class, caste, origins and even nationality. Abha’s search towards a novel within such a milieu, short sections almost like a prose poem, detailing streets, galis and daily ruminations of families living in block of flats.

To my greatest love, she even takes us on a tour of Old Delhi, its garish jewelry shops and craftsmen who live in meager conditions. Abha’s novel revolves around Delhi women, their expectations, desires and ambitions to grow and prove themselves in a vastly mobile economic climate.

The Hilsa, Bongs separated from Bangla and living in Delhi, a South Indian lady, her immediate neighbor narrating the story of their lives brings me the picture of easy style of writing of a possible memoir about a Japanese girlfriend and her love for her cat and boyfriends living in an equally huge metropolis of United States. Vikram Seth brought them alive very much like Abha Iyengar’s book, ‘Many Fish to Fry’. Wish she could have brought a gay relationship too within, that would made the book far more flirtatious, gay being such a taboo in India.

I remember the endless cups of Dhaba Chai , I had near Arpana Caur’s home at Siri Fort and engaging back home on endless discussions whether the Hilsa I was having is the genuine one from Padma or its a duplicate from Mynamar. You can never get a Hilsa out from a Bong but you can get a Bong and Hilsa in an amicable relationship out of Bengal.
Nandita Bose mentions rightly about many slices of life but to me they seem all connected in a rapid life scan where jugad is as infamous and acceptable as Delhi is.

Here is to Delhi, the whiskey and fried hilsa, dimmed lights, the faint aroma of my girl friend, she still lives close to somewhere there.


~Dr. Amitabh Mitra, poet and artist, author of ‘Stranger Than A Sun’

Click to purchase:

http://www.amazon.com/Many-Fish-Fry-Abha-Iyengar-ebook/dp/B00OKRD6BO