Sunday, 29 November 2015

Tales of N and V Part Nineteen

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"Look young man I  have a lot of pending work to do  and  do not have all the time in the world  to play with you , got it sonny" Vikram looking at Abhi painfully said  and left  for office .The door behind his father back slowly closes in front of his eyes .Sighing to himself , he satisfies himself by  playing  with his football all alone and by himself   but off  suddenly he over hears Preeti's voice outside the main door  and immediately opens the door making Preeti look stunned . Hey Preeti , what's up ? he queered .Err..... I am fine what about you  ?she asked him trying to sound a little  chirpy and cheerful  .But Abhi found something wrong midst  when  he sees two little legs move  behind her .
Ma ..... Abhi called out .Looks like the little monster has come here again for an dental check up .

Uff.....Abhi send her  here then beta .
'Come baby ...lets go to the dentist aunty's den ' he said by pulling her little arms  forward .'No...' she shouted and looked at her mother for help .
Abhi smiled to himself as if he achieved something  which is quiet close to him .

Chalo.....then I am going to tell Ma that this little monster the way what is your name ? Abhi abruptly  questions   her with a percussing glance and without completing his statement properly  .
'Nimisha'  the little monster replied .
When everything seems to be going against you, remember that the airplane takes off against the wind, not with it. -Henry Ford. what does that mean? Nimisha enquired  mockingly with her hands on her tiny waist.

It's a quote dear  , her mother said and Abhi nodded in agreement and closes the doors in front of them by bidding his good byes to them .

Namarata who silently stood there  watching this scene  , silently weeps  but she is  caught by Abhi's fiery  glances.Seeing him staring at her like this , she immediately wiped off her tears from her eyes  and calls  Sambu  and starts barking her orders on him .
This made Abhi laugh aloud because  "he has not seen women off this sort " 


With lots of Love and Hugs

Writer Gal

Saturday, 21 November 2015

Book Blitz of A Thousand Unspoken Words By Paulami Duttagupta

A Thousand Unspoken Words 
Paulami Duttagupta 
Publisher: Readomania 

A hero, a person who displays great courage for the greater good, can also fall. But what happens to a fallen hero? A Thousand Unspoken Words is the unique journey of a hero who falls. 

The champion of the underdogs, the writer who uses the nom de plume Musafir is famous in Kolkata. His incisive criticism of the injustices around him earn him many enemies but he holds his ideals above all else. Scathing attacks at his books and a night of hide and seek from political goons leads Musafir unto a path he never liked, faraway from his ideals. He runs away and chooses the comforts of money over the travails of following one’s ideals. The hero falls. 
But Tilottama, passionate fan’s hopes don’t. When he comes back after many years, emotions, love and lust take charge and an affair brews. Will she bring back her hero? Will he rise again? Or will the thousand untold words, the many stories of the ideal writer be lost forever?

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Wahan kaun hai tera, Musafir jaayega kaha’, the retro radio show played the SD Burman classic. Tilottama looked at her radio once and tears blurred her vision.

‘O Sachin karta this song reminds me of him.’

Tilotamma quickly wiped her eyes and turned the radio off. The day had been taxing enough. She needed to unwind, get Musafir out of her mind. How crazy could some people get? He had just written a fictional piece. How could fiction humiliate a government in power with an absolute majority? Wasn’t this a democracy? How could the supporters of a faith or political party get all insecure and burn his books?

The object of Tilottama’s despair, Musafir, was a writer supposedly based out of Kolkata. He wrote books at irregular intervals, and hid behind the veil of anonymity. His pieces were mostly social commentaries and satires on the state of Bengal. They were all fictional but had come under severe criticism in the past few months. Little paperbacks in funny covers, his books were available in old, rambling, bookstores across the city. Some were also available with the book vendors on the footpaths of the city.

When the news of the pulping of Musafir’s books had reached her a couple of days ago, Tilottama hadn’t thought things would go beyond a protest or two. The people of the city wouldn’t let go of things without a sign of protest. They got agitated at trivial things like who was included in a cricket team, and burned effigies and tyres in protest. They took out processions for Vietnam and Gaza. They could protest against him; but there would also be scores who would come out for her Musafir. They did when Firaz was hounded for his paintings of Goddesses.

‘And when they come out in large numbers, these goons will realize what it feels like standing before a civil society. They just can’t stifle Musafir’, she had confidently told her friends. What she did not realize was Musafir wasn’t exactly popular with the masses. His works were mostly literary and catered to niche readers. Her admiration for him had made her assume he was more popular than he really was.
Things had happened much faster than expected and spiralled out of control. Musafir’s printing press was vandalized and set on fire. Even as she and other Musafir fans watched, his books were dumped into that raging fire; words and hopes lost. The hundred odd fans tried to put up a bravefight, sang songs of freedom and stood with placards. But nothing worked. A couple of local channels had tried to stand by them in solidarity. The protest ended as a camera was smashed by the hoodlums on the road. People started fleeing fearing more violence.

‘They would kill us if they could’, Tilottama angrily spat out. ‘We were just so outnumbered. These were organized cadres. Yes, they were. Their bosses just can’t pretend to be innocent.’

A handful of policemen stood by pretending as if nothing was happening. The printing press was in one of the dingier parts of North Kolkata. It mainly did odd jobs like printing leaflets and bills, a few little magazines etc. and would print Musafir’s books on the sly. That is where he gave shape to his voice. The place was reportedly registered in the name of a man long dead, and people were left guessing who Musafir was. Some said the owner was a refugee who was avenging years of discontent. Some said his son was murdered by members of the ruling party. Some said he was just a frustrated man using the medium to lend himself a voice. To some other the entire idea was amusing and fascinating.

Tilottama grimaced and wiped her face clean. She was cutting a very sorry picture indeed, covered in grime andtears. All she could think of was her Musafir. She fought back her tears wondering what could have happened to her hero. For the past couple of years a strong wind of incumbency was blowing and Musafir’s voice had become stronger. Everything came under Musafir’s attack; from Dhaniajhapi to the burning of monks, the ban on English in government run schools, the apathy in the use of computers and much more. However, recently he had become vocal against all forms of religious appeasement and challenged the special religious laws. He had also set the stage against land acquisition bills, mismanaged industrialization plans and pre-election harangues. Musafir wrote as many books as possible bringing the discrepancies to light. And that is what brought about his downfall.

Tilottama sat on her bed and hugged her knees to her chest and went over the events of the day. She bit back the memory of the man who had asked her to let go of her placard, but that face would just not fade. 

‘What had he called himself,’ she wondered, ‘Ayushmaan . . .no Riddhimaan.’

He was a photographer! How dispassionate could he be?He had watched the carnage, merrily taken snaps and asked her to throw away her placard. If even the press did not come out in support of Musafir, then who would? Weren’t both of them fighting to make the pen immortal? Why was the media silent now; because Musafir didn’t have international backing, or corporate sponsors? She was upset that Poltu had shamelessly praised the man. Riddhimaan and the likes of him would give importance to writers only if they had a South Block or Writers’ Building backing.

‘I wish this government goes down. They will go down. I promise you Musafir they will,’ she told herself.
The loud banging of her window pane broke her reverie. The rains had lashed Kolkata with all their fury that evening. 

‘Even Mother Nature is angry. Drown the city, drown all of us. Since we have nowhere to go and hide our shame,’ Tilottama said aloud.

She continued to rant as she shut the window. She had hurt her finger in the process. Then she walked into her bedroom looking for the first aid box. As she cleaned the cut, the antiseptic made her skin burn and her thoughts drifted to Musafir. There was no way to divert her mind. Maybe reading Musafir would help, or maybe writing. Musafir always said he wrote to look for answers. Maybe she could do that too. But nothing gave her peace; maybe she was obsessed with the writer. The gag on Musafir was beginning to become a personal loss to her.

About Paulami Duttagupta 
Paulami DuttaGupta is a novelist and screen writer. She shuttles between Kolkata and Shillong. She has worked as a radio artist, copy writer, journalist and a television analyst at various stages of her life, having been associated with AIR Shillong, The Times of India—Guwahati Shillong Plus, ETV Bangla, The Shillong Times, Akash Bangla and Sony Aath.As an author, her short stories have appeared in various anthologies and literary magazines. A Thousand Unspoken Words is her fourth book. Paulami also writes on politics, social issues and cinema. Her articles have appeared in Swarajya, The Forthright and NElive. 
Paulami is associated with cinema and her first film, Ri-Homeland of Uncertainty received the National Award for the Best Khasi Film. Her second film Onaatah—Of the Earth is at post production stage and will release in 2016. She is currently working on her third screenplay. A short film tentatively titled ‘Patjhar’ is also in the pipeline.
Paulami is a complete foodie and is almost obsessed with watching one film every day. She also loves reading—political and social commentaries are her favourite genre. Literature classics and books on cricket are also a part of her library, apart from a huge collection of romances. Jane Austen’s fictional character Mr. Darcy is her lifelong companion. She is an ardent fan of Rahul Dravid and has been following all news about him for almost twenty years now.

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Book Review of The Ruby Iyer Dairies by Lakshmi Hariharan

The Ruby Iyer Diaries
Laxmi Hariharan

The Blurb

The prequel to The Many Lives of Ruby Iyer: This is a peek into the soul of an angry, young girl, who will come of age in a city on the verge of total annihilation.

                                                        Book Review 
The Ruby Iyer Diaries by Lakshmi Hariharan  is excellent book to read .It is a book where every teenager can connect with Ruby's character .Her anxiousness  to save her city Bombay  from the demons and the frustrations to recognize who she really is that once had forced her to run away from her own sweet paradise (home ) is written  in an beautiful way by the author  .

Me thinks :Book is quiet a good read for all who are going  through a grave phase and to all those teenagers who  can recognize with MS RUBY IYER .

I received the ARC of this book via the author as well as TBC .
Thank you Rubina for the same .

The Series 

Buy @
Get a FREE copy of The Ruby Iyer Diaries here 

Meet the Author

She had an awesome time launching TV channels for MTV and NBCUniveral (Syfy) around the world, when a near death experience convinced Laxmi Hariharan that she had to get writing. A one-time journalist with The Independent, she has since published fast paced action thrillers with a dash of romance and a touch of the fantastical such as the multi award winning The Ruby Iyer Series. Featured among the top five women in media in India Today, she also blogs for the Huffington Post, has written for The Guardian and has been featured in many publications including The Times of India, The Economic Times, The Telegraph and Verve. Married to a filmmaker and fellow author, her life often resembles a dramedy of errors film script. A Bombayite by birth, she lives in London, where she writes while listening to electronica and is an avid street art photographer. She is also the proud owner of a mononym Twitter handle @laxmi

You can her @



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Tales of N and V Part Eighteen

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"Namarata look hear dear at me for once I  say" Vikram said feeling bad for  the words he did utter in the party hosted by his friends  yesterday .Putting an arm around her waist  , he slides next to her ."Oh what a gorgeous body she has" He thinks  and starts playing with  her tummy which nicely tucked under the quilt.'What are going here ?' she asks  him .
'Mending fences'V  says by rolling on her .Accha I  see N says and wraps her arm around his neck .
'Take time out for the ones who are hurting 'I read it some where .
So I  am trying to put that  thing into practice now V , Namarata says and kisses his lips  tenderly .
Hmm I see ,V says and pulls her over  by kissing her lips roughly .
At this rate we are going to have a baby soon, V says 
Shut up !  she exclaims and when she  is about to get up ,the night linen  falls off the bed .This makes her a little shy and she slides down under him .Their eyes tentative met and exhaustion claimed them .
They went to sleep happy because "Their journey so far has been quiet enriching in the sense that ,though they had to  give up  hope of living happily ever after with their only son Abhi  for the sake of reuniting their sister- in -laws families , but it has been quiet satisfying task  as their son has come back to enjoy their hospitality  and have a   splendid time with them i.e. V and N(his parents ).


This post I am linking it to #Monday Musing and

With lot of Love and Hugs

Writer Gal

Tuesday, 17 November 2015

BOOK BLITZ OF Karmic Kids by Kiran Manral

Karmic Kids 
The Story of Parenting Nobody Told You !
Kiran Manral 


Move aside Tiger Mom and forget Helicopter Parenting, Karmickids is the view from the other side of the fence – of laid back parenting, of giving in to food jags, of making unstructured play time mandatory and of not bursting a blood vessel when your child’s grades are not something you might want to discuss in public.

A roller coaster ride of love, laughter, and a few tears, Manral takes you through the beautiful chaos of the early years of parenthood. Written in a gently humorous style, this home grown, hit-the-ground-running account of the chaos of day-to-day parenting is peppered with anecdotes, reminiscences, a little practical advice and is a non-preachy, hilarious take on raising a spirited child while retaining one’s good spirits through it all.

Grab your Copy 

What others say about Kiran Manral 

“I enjoy reading Kiran’s books. The genre of easy reading and happy reading with inevitable style, she keeps you hooked on the book from the first page to the last.”-- Tisca Chopra, actor

“This quick paced, fun new book had me enthralled.”--Tara Sharma Saluja, Actress and Co-producer and host of The Tara Sharma Show
“Kiran's writing style is witty, humorous and makes you think. She has a penchant for making even the most mundane, interesting because of the razor sharp observations, served with a dollop of dead-pan humour.” --Preeti Shenoy, bestselling author

“Kiran's writing is that rarity in today's world - the ability to be really good without taking itself too seriously. This is writing that is effortless in its humour and also its fluidity. It asks not for heavy literary criticism but for a certain laid-back enjoyment.” --Parul Sharma, bestselling author

"Kiran's stories are fun, engaging and always fresh - and her droll style, of course, inimitable!"-- Yashodhara Lal, bestselling author
“Kiran's writing is delightful, her wit inimitable and her sense of romance untarnished by cynicism that is so typical of our times.”— Shunali Khullar Shroff,  bestselling author

“Kiran Manral's sparkling sense of humour leaps off the page, every page. Her blog posts, books and columns have given me great joy over the years. She has a distinct original voice that brought a breath of fresh air in the world of Indian Writing in English.” – Devapriya Roy, Bestselling author  

About the Author 

Kiran Manral worked as a journalist with The Asian Age and The Times of India before she quit full time work to be a full time mommy. One of the leading bloggers in India, her blogs were listed in Labnol's list of India's top blogs, and her parenting blog, Karmickids, was ranked among the top five parenting blogs in India by Blogadda. She was also a Tehelka blogger columnist on gender issues.

She was listed among the 10 non-celebrity 'social media stars' on twitter by the TOI and IBN Live named her as among the 30 most interesting Indian women to follow on twitter and among the top 10 Indian moms to follow on twitter in 2013. Fashion named her as amongst the most stylish authors in India. listed her as one of the 20 women authors from India to be followed on twitter.

Post the 26/11 terrorist attack in Mumbai, she founded India Helps, a volunteer network to help disaster victims post 26/11 and has worked on long term rehabilitation of 26/11 Mumbai terror attack victims and 13/7 Mumbai bomb blast victims, amongst others. She was part of core founding team behind Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month ( and Violence Against Women Awareness Month (, two very well received social media awareness initiatives.

Her debut novel, The Reluctant Detective, was published by Westland and her second novel Once Upon A Crush, was published by Leadstart a couple of years later. Her third book All Aboard! was published by Penguin Random House in August 2015. Karmic Kids is her fourth book and first nonfiction book. She has one more book due for release in 2015.

She is on the planning board of the Kumaon Literary Festival, an advisor on the Board of Literature Studio, Delhi, an Author Mentor at and a columnist at She was awarded the Women Achievers award by Young Environmentalists Group in 2013.

She currently blogs at and is on twitter @kiranmanral.

Saturday, 14 November 2015

Tales of N and V Part Seventeen

Vikram look here , I  am highly impressed with  you and the way you tackled Preeti's emotions with ease which I am unable to do so Namarata said while  making ladoos for Diwali .'Accha  I  see he said in delight ' with his mouth full of eagerness to kiss her .Namarata  you know the true  reason  behind our separation from our dear loving  son Abhi  .I  know it is only your mother .....she trail off by ranting her  tales of misery  out with a tear drop trailing off her cheeks .Rubbing it off   she continued making ladoos for diwali with Vikram looking at her with envy .

"Hey madam how do you work with such a ease after all the cruel  happening  you had to see "V questioned N .To this N  simply shrugs her shoulders in upward direction .V  slowly comes near her and wraps his arms from behind and says "Make good memories "
What "Make good Memories " hmm  the way in which your sister saw us that day , I  can't still digest it V.
Ha ha ha .... Vikram laughed aloud  .What is so funny ! she queered as she started to wash the oil pan with Vim gel .Vikram turns  her around to face  him  and says "Madame I   had to  lived with her  for  35 years in fear off what next she is going to demand/ask   me  to give up ".Vikram pulls Namarata closer to her and kisses her passionately and Namarata too returns it with same vigour .Uncle V and Aunty N , Happy Children day ! .Turning towards the voices from the entrance of door , they ran quickly and opened the door   and Shushed them with their mocking stare. "Happy Children day Mr.V  "a girl from the group of perky  children said. N laughed aloud and hugged the little  girl who is filled with a lot of fear  .Hmm V says curtly and leaves to their bedroom where  his little boy Abhi  is playing with his toys .Seeing his son , his eyes gets filled up  .But when he was about to lift him up , the children who have come to his place said "Ah! a new baby has come to Aunty N's place "Wow  and other adjectives are used by them to describe him  i.e. Abhi .Abhi too smiles  at t them and says  "Happy Diwali cum Children day to all " in his soft baby voice .
Preeti who has entered the scene from other another bedroom   takes a photo  .

Wordless Wednesday #107 @Abracadabra

I  love this picture made by TBC  for 'Metro Diaries ' by Namarata .Because of the following reasons 

  • The image looks quiet soothing to our eyes .
  • This image also expresses true love as it contain a rose , a musical note and a novel .
  • Actually this is  what a mixture  of  true love mean  isn't it :-) .
Happy Diwali to all !

With lots of Love and Hugs 
This prompt is hosted by Ruchira Khanna's blog
Writer Gal 

Wednesday, 11 November 2015

Cover Reveal of Soul Warrior by Falguni Kothari

Cover Reveal:
Book One


Twisted myths. Discretion advised.
Fight fate, or succumb to destiny?
In the dark Age of Kali, the Soul Warrior alone stands guard over the Human Realm, protecting its denizens from evil-willed asuras or demons. When a trick of fate appoints him guru to a motley crew of godlings, he agrees to train them as demon hunters against his better judgment. Suddenly, Lord Karna is not only battling the usual asuras with sinister agendas, but also rebellious students and a fault-ridden past.
Spanning the cosmic realms of mythic India, here is a tale of a band of supernatural warriors who come together over a singular purpose: the salvation of Karna’s secret child.


When you grow up in India, you are engulfed in tales of good and evil, gods and demons, karma and reincarnation on a daily basis. India’s myths are as much part of day-to-day life as is bathing. So I wondered if heaven and hell actually exists what would they look like? What are the good or bad souls doing in this Heaven and Hell? Are the souls in Heaven any happier being stuck there than the souls repenting in Hell? Do they want to come back to Earth as humans?

These questions were the basis of Soul Warrior’s mythos, as was Vedic India and the Mahabharata. India has such a rich offering of grand stories, and its people have a thirst to read them. I want to tell these stories, but in my way. I didn’t want to simply retell the popular tales. I wanted to reimagine them. Go beyond the known myths into the realm of pure fantasy.



Kuru Kshetra Battlefield.

Day 17 of the Great Kuru War, seven thousand five hundred years ago.
Death is hot.
That surprises me. I’d imagined death as cold and brutal. Merciless. But in truth, death is hot as blood, and constant like a heartbeat.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. My lifeblood ebbs to the rhythm. My head ripped from its torso by Anjalika, the arrow of death that burns even now with the energy of the sun. Struck from behind like some novice. Felled in battle by that lily-livered usurper the Heavens smile upon—Prince Arjun. Brother Arjun.
What have I done?
I harness the thought. Cease all reflection and wrench free of my mortal body. I soar up, up into the gloaming, snapping the ties that tether me to life. Dead, I have no use for ties.
“A matter of perspective, Karna, O son of my godsire.” The unearthly words strum through the air, and I quiver like a plucked bowstring, overcome as much by the voice as its blasphemous claim. “Bonds of devotion nourish the soul, brother.”
There is that word again. Brother. Unpleasant laughter wells up in me. Alive, I am abandoned, denied my birthright—Celestial or royal. Death, it seems, changes everything.
A bright, nebulous light brings forth Lord Yama, the God of Death, atop his divine mount. His elephantine thighs ripple beneath a silken dhoti, ochre and crimson of color, as he guides the mammoth water buffalo to a halt. An iron medallion sways against the God’s powerful cerulean torso, its center stone an ethereal blood orange.
Hypnotic. Pulsing with life. I am drawn to the stone.
“Piteous waste,” Lord Yama mutters, surveying the carnage of war far below us.
I trace the trajectory of his gaze and behold the battered remains of my army drenched in the evidence of its mortality. Is it true? Have we died in vain?
Words form inside me and I will them out. “Shall we go, my lord?”
“Ha! Impatient to be judged, are you? Anxious to have your fate revealed?” asks the Judge of the Hell Realm. His red-black eyes burn with intelligence and compassion in a blue-tinged face that is long and lean and hard. “Rest easy, brother-warrior. You are not bound for the Great Courtroom.”
Not bound for Hell? Where then? Fear has eluded me for so long that I take a moment to recognize it. A hollow-bellied feeling it is, as annoying as a bone stuck in my throat.
“My lord, I have done bad deeds…terrible deeds in my life. I have waged wars, this horrendous bloodshed, and all because my pride could not—would not abide rejection. I have sinned. I must atone for my actions.”
Lord Yama smiles in a way I do not like. “You have redeemed yourself admirably, Karna. You forfeited your life for the greater good today. The deed far outweighs any misguided ones. Be at peace, brother, and enjoy the fruits of your karma.”
There is but one place to enjoy such fruits—the Higher Worlds.
I’d rather burn in Hell for eternity. I say so. “I won’t live amongst the Celestials.” Coexisting with the very souls who’ve spurned me is unthinkable. Watching her—for she would surely reside in Heaven soon—will be eternal torture.
Yama shakes his head, the horns on his crown slashing to and fro. “I thought you might say that. Relax. Your destiny lies elsewhere.”
“Am I to be reborn then? Am I to begin a new life, and forget the past?” Pain, sharp as a blade, lances through me at the thought. Forget my past? My family? Even her? Was that my punishment? To forget all that made me human?
It must be so. For have I not betrayed them as surely as I’ve betrayed my prince regent?
“Human rebirth is not your destiny, either. You are chosen, brother. Your war skills are needed for a higher purpose.” The God slips off his mount, his garments rustling in agitation. “This unjust war has pushed the Cosmos to the vortex of a cataclysm. Tomorrow, the Kuru War will end. Fearing its outcome, the Celestials rolled the Die of Fate and have unwittingly bestowed on Demon Kali untold powers.” Lord Yama bares his fangs in disgust at the foolish gamble. “Imagine the havoc that asura and his minions will wreak on the weak if left unchecked. The Human Realm must be safeguarded during Kali’s dark reign.”
I can imagine the horror only too well as I have battled with evil all my life. But I am done with wars. I am done with defeat. I won’t waste another lifetime fighting.
“With due respect, my lord, I am not the man for this task.”
“You are not a man at all,” Yama thunders, fists shaking. “You are the son of Surya, the Sun God. Accept that you are no ordinary soul.”
I say nothing. I think nothing. I feel something but I squash it down.
Lord Yama’s thick black brows draw together. “Demon Kali will try to pervade every particle of good that exists in the Cosmos, beginning with the corruptible Human Realm. Once he obliterates all of humanity, he’ll set his sights on the Celestials. Kali will not stop until he’s destroyed our way of life. But you can stop him. You are light to his darkness. Do you understand now why you had to betray him? Your beloved humans need you, Karna. I need you. Our father believes in you. Claim your rightful place in the Cosmos.”
Impatiently, Lord Yama removes the iron medallion from his neck and holds it out. The vermillion sunstone glows as if its soul is on fire. Nay! It is my soul that is on fire.
Indescribable energy curls through me. I gasp, though not in pain. I shudder and feel myself grow large, grow hot. Was this rebirth?
I am strong, full-bodied and lethal once more. Then I roar as light bursts forth from my very core and I throb with glorious, blinding power. When I come to myself, my world has changed again. Bubbles of color shimmer all around me: cobalt and saffron, azure and rose. By karma! They are souls. Infinite floating souls.
“Behold the spectrum of life: the worthy, the notorious, the righteous and the sinners.” The God of Death’s soul was a worthy sapphire blue with a tinge of silver. “Your duty, should you choose to accept the office of the Soul Warrior, is to hunt down the red-souled asuras and crush them. Whatever you decide, I wish you a long and successful Celestial existence, Karna,” Yama booms out and vanishes into the purpling sky.
The parley has stunned me. The world of color holds me in thrall. I was dead. Yet, now I am not. A new path lies before me. Unwanted, unwelcome, I insist on principle. I close my eyes. Open them to stare at the medallion cupped in my hand—a golden-hued hand at once familiar and not—and know myself for a fool. I do want this. It’s what I am.
Bastard-born. Rebel. Son. Husband. Father. Warlord. And protector. I fist the talisman, buoyed by its concrete warmth. This is who I am.
I am the Soul Warrior.

Grab Your Copies Here 


Meet the Author

Falguni Kothari is a New York-based South Asian author and an amateur Latin and Ballroom dance silver medalist with a semi-professional background in Indian Classical dance. She’s published in India in contemporary romance with global e-book availability; Bootie and the Beast (Harlequin Mills and Boon) and It’s Your Move, Wordfreak! (Rupa & Co.), and launches a mythic fantasy series with Soul Warrior (The Age of Kali, #1)

Stalk Falguni Kothari @

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