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A literary Review

A literary Review

An analytical review by a literature professor  of my book.  click link below & enjoy..

book_review

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The Return of Gussie Fink nottle

The Return of Gussie Fink nottle

Return of Gussie Fink Nottle
Some of you may have my earlier adventures in Gussie’s avatar when I gave out the prizes in a village school we had adopted as part of our CSR activities. For the newbie, here is the link
https://soumyamukherjee8.wordpress.com/2015/07/26/giving-out-the-prizes/
Now once again I had an invitation from a school to attend their literature day as a chief guest.
It happened like this. The principal of an international school is a loyal follower of my blog and has actually read almost everything that I have written. She has also read my book and admired it greatly and has shared her opinion and appreciation of the book in particular and my writing in general on the social media. Totally flattered on having an intelligent articulate attractive young lady fan, we were in touch through social media.
Incidentally, a great many more women read than men, and they also comment and express their appreciation, often getting in touch with the author. This is one of the major perks of writing and a superb incentive to aging nerds like me.
Her school was celebrating a literary week where they invite an author to give an inspiring speech, and decided to invite me this year. Thrilled at the prospect of being recognised as a writer, I gladly accepted.
I anguished over what to wear, and remembering gussie and the split trouser theory, I gave ethnic wear a miss, thus avoiding entertaining the students with wardrobe malfunctions, as dhotis and churidars have a nasty habit of unravelling at inopportune moments; and stuck to sober casuals.
Fortified with plain orange juice I landed up at the impressive sprawling premises of the residential school, a little way outside the city. As I was ushered to the principal’s room, the memories of being sent up to see the principal came surging out of the unconscious, creating flutters in the stomach. There were a few young thugs waiting outside the boss’s lair, but they seemed unperturbed by the imminent interview. Perhaps the ubiquitous cane having been eliminated from the proceedings have resulted in such sangfroid.
The principal’s room was huge, much larger than mine, but it was not manned by a fire breathing ogre nine feet high in a cassock and a front to back collar; but a petite demure lady in a sari, whose rimless glasses were the only severe aspect and kept me from being flippant and flirtatious.
I was taken around the campus on a tour. The boys’ hostel evoked strong feelings of nostalgia. I even entered that place I had often dreamt of visiting in my misspent youth; the girls’ hostel. Needless to say, the children were in class and not in the dorms. A couple of boys were flushed out from under a tree outside the girls’ hostel and sent packing, after hearing their lame excuses for their presence there. My heart went out to the poor blighters.
I then inspected some kids dressed as literary characters and looking miserable, all except mowgli, who was prancing around in his briefs and happily living up to the role of the wild jungle man cub without fear of reprisal from the teachers.
We proceeded to the auditorium and a surprise awaited me. There, among the decorations with literary themes, were three larger than life drawings; at the centre of which, flanked by Shakespeare and Wordsworth, was a replica of my book cover. I felt like the golf crazy Russian poet in one of plums golf stories, who thought that only Tolstoy and Shakespeare were any good, and comparable to him, and Wodehouse was tolerable, and the rest were rubbish.
Thoroughly pleased and embarrassed, I stoically sat through the performances of the much suffering volunteers, and the student body suffered them glumly, with bored clapping appreciating the end of individual bits. Only glitches were loudly appreciated.
Finally the dreaded moment came, and I had to earn my lunch. As the final item, the patience of the audience was stretched thin, and I had to tread cautiously, armed only with coconut water pick me ups.
Once again, forewarned by Gussie, I steered well clear of motivational talks. Instead, to give credence to my status as an author, I told them a story. To ensure total comprehension, I requested the vernacular language teacher to translate along in the local language, using all colloquialisms.
I made the story as politically incorrect as I could get away with, keeping the students happy, with a hidden message of tolerance and inclusiveness which would mollify the teachers. I acted, pranced, made animal noises and generally played the fool. Soon, the roars of laughter and appreciation that would be a match to the reception of Gussies speech came as music to my ears, and I could see the teachers smiling too.
After the speech I had a photo session with the kids and there was a mad scramble to shake my hands and take my autograph. A young lady wanted me to sign her shirt, but I dissuaded her warning her of her mother’s reaction, when she persuaded me to sign her hand.
This was my five minutes of fame promised to every citizen in this century. I briefly knew what rock stars feel all the time.
This is the story I told them, although altered to suit the mood.
https://soumyamukherjee8.wordpress.com/2014/03/07/beauty/

 

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Promo for my book

http://www.amazon.in/Memories–Novella-Hilarious-Nightmare-Growing/dp/9386073757/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1467367874&sr=8-1&keywords=9789386073754

 
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Posted by on December 10, 2016 in books, Uncategorized

 

Three idiots in a dark wonderland

Three idiots in a dark wonderland

The three wise monkeys – a Review
Have you ever laundered money? Do you know how to evade tax, cook the books, open benami offshore accounts, and turn black money into white? Well, Jeet Gyan, chartered accountant and author, in his second novel The Three Wise Monkeys, tells you how. He even draws diagrams to explain it.
Do you think accounts are mind numbingly dull? And auditors are the most boring of people? I did so too, till I met the three wise monkeys, the protagonists of the novel, Amar Akbar and Antony. These three idiots are, like the author, chartered accountants, but probably unlike the author, passed with great difficulty, are naive, jobless and not very competent. They are also idealistic, and aspire to be honest auditors, which it appears, is an oxymoron. Moreover, the figures they study are not only the ones found in dusty ledgers.
But fortunately, like most males, the blood does not reach their brains when in the presence of attractive women, and other more vital organs take up the job of thinking. Thus when our heroes meet three ladies who send temperatures soaring, their life changes, and they are thrown in the middle of the rollercoaster real world of dirty finance, and their world turns topsy turvy.
They meet up with sleazy businessmen with feuding wives, conniving girlfriends, shady brokers, bought awards, sibling rivalries, policemen, income tax sleuths, both straight and crooked, bar girls, musclemen, cows, and a variety of other interesting creatures.
They audit desolate dockyards in Kutch, dairy farms and even dance bars and end up in jail, on breaking news headlines, in glitzy parties and exotic locales they would not have dreamt of in their previous, innocent and impecunious existence. This world is a far cry from the Irani cafes, their previous home from home.
The book takes you through the bumpy ride of the three idiots or wise monkeys who see hear and speak very little evil through the wonderland of the dark world of high illegal finance, with a fair sprinkling of babes, bosoms and bimbos for glitter.
I would rather not reveal more of the intricate plot and let the suspense remain as to if and how the trio survive the ride and whether their dreams come true.
One word of caution though; the author attempts a breezy comedy style of recounting, and it seems he tries too hard. The effect desired is the comic thriller, but it seems to fall a bit short. A straight thriller may have worked better.

 

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A Broken Man , A Review

A Broken Man , A Review

A Broken Man, a Review
Akash Verma, the bestselling author of two previous novels appears to have done it again with A Broken Man, published by Shristi.
This is a love story, but not just another love story. It is a story about politics, caste, student movements, the vernacular versus English divide, culture shock and the creative process.
The protagonist is a dalit boy from the backwaters of India’s hinterland who comes to a city to try and escape poverty through education. Here he gets involved in the ugly underbelly of student politics in order to survive. He also encounters the idealistic version of student politics, but as an adversary.
This encounter changes him, and ultimately changes the very course of his life. He finds the lodestar of his life, which brings a new focus in his very being. This happens when he saves the life of a Brahmin girl who was a student leader and daughter of a prominent politician during an attempt on her life.
This results in his discovery of a new world and a new kind of people, so far totally outside his experience. He finds love, finds heartbreak, uncovers his creative being and ultimately changes the course of his life to become a celebrity in Mumbai.
I do not wish to disclose much of the twists in the story, which keeps flashing back and forth in time between Mumbai and Lucknow, and is told as a story the protagonist is telling his driver during a long drive to Lucknow in a quest to reunite with his lost love.
The growth of the shy rustic boy who only knew disdain and accepted that as his due to the acclaimed writer in Bollywood is the fairy tale of his life, which his good fairy, his lost love, made possible,is the real story.
It is a story about hope

 
 

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A wonderful endorsement

http://youngbookworm.blogspot.in/2016/09/memories-novella-by-soumya-mukherjee.html

 

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A review that warms the heart

A review that warms the heart

This is what a member of the Wodehouse fans club wrote to the group
Hi friends. I was waiting at my orthopedic Doctor’s clinic yesterday. The Doc was late by an hour. There were about 10 patients waiting impatiently. I was the only person happily engrossed in reading a Book ,with an occasional smile on my lips.I was oblivious about the strange looks given by other patients since I appeared to be least bothered about the delay. This was told by the receptionist who was watching all this and was quite amused.
Any guess about the Book?
Well, apparently every one in the group would say “PG of course. ”
But it was not PG for a change, it was this Book. 👇🏻

 

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