Curse of the (caste) system

Eklavya, the son of Hiranyadhanus, was a prince in his own right. He may have been tribal, but he was a leader’s son. His father may not be King, but he was the commander of King Jarasandha’s army. And that lineage inculcated a deep interest in the arts of wars, especially archery in the teenage boy.

In many ways, Akhil, the eldest son of the village priest, was a rebel. He gave up the profession of his ancestors and chose to do engineering instead. Ever since he could remember, he had collected nuts and bolts and all kinds of scrap people threw away to build amazing things. Everyone appreciated his talents, until the day he announced his intention of becoming an engineer and not a priest.
“Who will take care of our temple, then?” the villagers asked, especially the other Brahmins.
“I will,” Makan Sharma, Akhil’s father answered them.
“What about after you?”
“That’s a long time away. We shall see.”
With that, Makan closed the topic and ignored the murmurs. But the dreams Akhil chose to follow, were not easy to achieve in his small village school. He needed to move away to a bigger city, he needed to coach for the competitive exams. And that needed money.

Eklavya watched Guru Dronacharya from behind the clump of trees. The sixteen-year old’s feet had boils and they bled from the thorns that pierced his skin through his barefoot march across the forest. But the boy was used to these hardships. The forest was his home and his way of life. His senses currently focused on nothing but the Guru teaching his disciples. The fine quality of the cloth draped around the waists of all the students spoke of their royal status, even in their simplicity. Eklavya’s own coarse, brown cloth contrasted starkly against their soft yellow texture. Their skin glowed brightly in the gentle morning sunlight. Eklavya’s eyes gleamed against his dark skin.He stepped out of the trees and approached the group. The Guru was standing few steps away from his students.
“Guruji,” Eklavya addressed Dronacharya in a reverent manner. He bent low and touched the Guru’s feet.
“Khush raho!” the Guru blessed him albeit the sudden appearance of Eklavya surprised him. “Who are you? What do you want?” he asked.
“Guruji, my name is Eklavya, the son of Hiranyadhanus, ” saying this, Eklavya introduced himself. He stood before the Guru with his head bent low and hands folded at his chest in respect. “I desire to learn archery from you. I have traveled far to meet you.”
The Guru glanced at the headband tied around the boy’s forehead, with a leaf attached to it and the rough texture of his brown dhoti. The boy’s appearance and his introduction left no doubts about his low-caste, tribal status. Guruji grimaced, then straightened his face.


Getting into the big coaching institute wasn’t tough. All Makan had to do was pay one full year’s fees in advance. It was the amount that turned out to be the challenge for the poor village priest.
Akhil knew, even though Makan refused to tell him, that his father had run into the clutches of that one-eyed money-lender in the village. Akhil vowed to fulfill his dreams and get into the top engineering college in the country. The Indian Institute of Technology (IIT).
Akhil didn’t mind sharing his room with eight other students; their beds just apart enough to accommodate one pair of feet. He didn’t mind the strain the low light in the room gave nor the ache in his back due to the hard mattress he sat on while studying. Nor the stench from the sewer that filled the room whenever they opened the only window in the room. The food from the catering mess was a far cry from what his mother served. But he willingly gulped it all in. He had only one goal in mind – to clear the competitive entrance exams.

“I am sorry, I cannot accept you as a student. I only teach children of Hastinapur’s royalty,” Guru Dronacharya dismissed Eklavya without another thought.
The words pierced Eklavya’s heart, but he did not let them shatter his dreams. He waited for the Guruji and the others to walk away into the Gurukul (School). Then he sat down and collected soil from the earth where the Guruji stood only moments ago.
Eklavya slipped back into the jungle and went deep inside. There, in seclusion, he used the soil to fashion an idol of Guru Dronacharya, under a large tree. In Eklavya’s mind, Dronacharya was already his Guru. Here he began a self-disciplined program to master the skill of archery. He followed a strict regimen, practicing every day and living a frugal, regimented life.
Eventually, one day, as Guru Dronacharya walked through the forest with his disciples, one of the young boys, Prince Arjuna, came across a dog that had been rendered mute by a maze of arrows binding its mouth. Although unhurt, the dog couldn’t bark. This astonished Dronacharya, and at the same time worried him. He desired to make Arjuna the greatest archer the land had ever known, and here was not just a worthy opponent, but a better one even. Eager to find the source of the arrows, the Guru began to investigate the area with his students. It took them not long to cross paths with Eklavya, now a full-grown, muscular man. A bow was slung across his shoulder and a bag of arrows graced his back.
The moment Eklavya saw Dronacharya, he stopped in his tracks and bowed low in respect with his hands folded in front of him.
“Who is your Guru?” the older man inquired.

“You, Guruji. I have learned under your tutelage.”

“Me?” the Guru was taken aback, “When have I ever taught you?”

“Please come, I want to show you something.”
Eklavya led the Guru and his entourage to the big, old tree and sitting under it, Guru Dronacharya’s statue that he created with his own hands.
The Guru turned speechless for a moment. He could not believe this low-caste, Tribal boy could be so talented as to overtake even his best student. That too, without any real teacher. Then a clever trick came to his mind. “Eklavya,” he addressed his pupil in absentia, “To be truly my disciple, you need to pay me my Guru Dakshina.” The Guru demanded his tuition fees from a student he never really taught

Amidst the thousands of students from all across the country, Akhil found he wasn’t the brightest. Talented, yes, but when it came to scoring in the tests they appeared for every week, he stood somewhere in the middle. A lot of his time also went in helping another student in his room. Akhil felt pity for Satish. Satish struggled with even the basic of concepts. If not for Akhil, he would have been crawling at the very bottom of the pile.
Two days before the exams, a student in Akhil’s class ended his life with rat poison. The Police claimed it was a failed love affair. But students spoke in hushed voices about the unbearable academic pressure. How long could a body and mind endure the extreme academic pressures being forced on it by the curriculum the coaching institute demanded the students follow? 18 hours every day on studies, whether at the institute or at home, with only 6 hours remaining for everything else. All seven days a week.
The only thing that kept Akhil going was his dream of seeing himself in the IIT’s.

“What should I pay you with, Guruji? I don’t have any gold or silver.”
“I don’t want gold or silver, Eklavya.”
“Then what, Guruji?”
“I want the thumb of your right hand.”

The results were out. Akhil scanned the list. He scanned it again and again and yet again. He rubbed his eyes and stared at it. No, his roll number wasn’t on it.
“Hey, Akhil! Come, I’m treating everyone,” Satish tapped his shoulder. “Good luck for next time bro. And thanks a lot for helping me. I wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for you.”
Akhil stared at Satish, dumbstruck. Satish moved on to talk to another boy.
“Why are so surprised?” another boy asked Akhil, “Satish got through using the reserved quota seats. He’s from a Scheduled Caste, you see.”
Akhil dragged his feet back to his room, his mind blank, his senses numb.

Eklavya cut off his right thumb without a protest and handed over the bleeding digit to his Guru. He paid his price for belonging to a Scheduled Tribe, a low-caste.

Akhil hung himself from the ceiling fan in his room. It was a curse being born an upper-caste, you see.


 How dare she?” fumed Mrs. Pooja Juneja, picking up all the newspaper pages off the table and trying to stack them in place. But her trembling hands couldn’t even hold them for a minute. They dropped to the floor and scattered with the wind from the whirring fan. Sweat beads dripped down her forehead and soaked her kurta. “I’ll show her!” She grit her teeth and clenched her stubby fingers, digging her long painted nails into her skin.

Mrs. PJ plopped back on her sofa, picked up her phone and once again opened whatsapp. The group was silent now in the aftermath of her argument with Ritu, her new, abominable neighbour. As the society’s ex-president’s wife, Mrs. Juneja considered it her duty to always think of ways to make the neighbourhood better. With dengue cases on the rise, she proposed another round of fumigation. Mrs. PJ scrolled up to see which of the women had agreed with her. Several even applauded her constant endeavours regarding the society’s matters. Only Ritu had the galls to contradict. Ritu – the ex-Miss whatever queen!

“That’s a good idea, Mrs. Juneja, but don’t you think we should check our own houses too? Afterall dengue mosquitoes breed in freshwater.”

“Our houses are clean,” Mrs. Juneja interjected.

“With due respect, sprinklers that run for hours in your garden not only waste water, they also create puddles. That is where mosquitoes breed.”

How dare Ritu suggest that she, Mrs. PJ, kept her sprinklers running on too long? How could small puddles of water pose any threat when most of them anyway dried up during the day? Ritu had then crossed the line when she asked Mrs. PJ to use a down-market bucket and mug to water her garden. And to think, Mrs. PJ had introduced Ritu to the group few days ago.

Mrs. PJ re-read all the messages, her heart pounding hard within her, her nostril flaring with each word. Worse, some others agreed with Ritu. She wanted to throw Ritu out of the group. She’d surely have a word with the admin. But, Mrs. PJ wanted more. She desired to disgrace Ritu the way Ritu had done to her. Tit for tat. An eye for an eye.

“Madam…,” her maid entered the room and wiped her hands on her chunni.

Mrs. PJ grunted and waved a hand in dismissal, not bothering to grace Kusum with more than a flitting glance. On other days, Mrs. PJ always scrutinized her maid as she left, visually ensuring nothing was hidden within the folds of her clothes. Although, her scrawny frame had little cloth wrapped around it to hide much anyway.

But today, Kusum did not move. “Madam,” she squeaked again.

“What is it now?” Mrs. PJ spoke with irritation, throwing the phone back on the sofa.

“I need some advance.”

“Advance? Why now?”

“Baba is ill.”

“Didn’t your brother get a job?”

Kusum hung her head. Mrs. PJ stared at the young girl with disgust. Why were these people always so needy? She picked up her purse and pulled out a five-hundred rupee bill and held it out. Without a word, Kusum took it and scampered away.


Kar legi na?” Mrs. PJ asked Kusum a third time, narrowing her eyes at her maid’s blank expression.

Kusum nodded.

“Don’t panic,” Mrs. PJ advised Kusum.

Kusum nodded again. With some hesitation, she opened her mouth to speak.

“I have already given your mother half the money. Don’t worry, I’ll be watching you. I’ll not let anything happen.”

Kusum did not react, only adjusted her dupatta.

“Oh, how many times do I tell you not to pull it up. The plan will not work.” Mrs. PJ adjusted Kusum’s dupatta to again reveal her cleavage. Kusum’s teenage body was so underdeveloped, Mrs. PJ had to even lend her a bra to push up her immature breasts. Didn’t her parents feed her anything? What did Ritu’s driver see in this girl anyway? “Wait here. Let me first check outside. And don’t pull the dupatta up.”

Mrs. PJ walked out to her porch and stood there, as if enjoying the wonderful breeze. She turned her head towards Ritu’s house in a casual manner and found their car waiting outside the garage. Much to her glee, the driver stood at the back of their car, wiping the window. Always that white uniform and that cap.

“Huh! As if a uniformed driver is any better!”

That moment she spotted another car in the driveway.

“Damn!” She needed the driver alone there. Mrs. PJ carefully scanned the entire driveway. There was no one else in sight. She breathed a sigh of relief and walked back in. Kusum stood frozen like a statue in the exact manner she had left the girl moments ago. “Go…,” she commanded.

Mrs. PJ watched Kusum walk out with uncertain steps. Kusum stopped at the door and turned back.

“Go…,” Mrs. PJ mouthed and waved a hand in irritation. She hoped the girl wouldn’t goof up. All she was required to do was walk up to that lad in the white uniform. Maybe talk a little. Give him a little attention. That was all. The rest, Mrs. PJ would handle.

Mrs. PJ waited for few minutes before proceeding outside behind her maid. She heard the neighbouring gate open with a squeak and suppressed a smile. Within seconds Kusum came into view in the neighbour’s driveway. From the corner of her eye, Mrs. PJ glanced at the car. The uniformed driver wasn’t where he stood  moments ago.

“Now what?” she mumbled to herself and whipped her eyes around the front yard. Just two cars and Kusum walking towards the one ahead. Why the hell was she still there when the target had disappeared? Mrs. PJ searched again and found the door of the car slightly ajar and a white uniform seated inside. He was bent low, maybe trying to tune the radio. Mrs. PJ’s eyes darted back to Kusum, who gave her a fleeting glance. Mrs. PJ knit her brows and shook her head. Kusum turned her eyes away and approached the car. She stood in front of the car’s front window, her back towards Mrs. PJ.

Mrs. PJ smiled with satisfaction as she imagined the view that the driver would be getting that moment and the actions that he would follow it up with. Kusum had confided in her two days ago how the driver often ogled at her. She had explained her discomfiture and wanted Mrs. PJ to talk to Ritu about it. That’s when the idea struck Mrs. PJ.

If only Kusum would move aside a little so Mrs. PJ could get a better view of the driver. Suddenly, Kusum’s hands flew to her mouth and she staggered backwards. Mrs. PJ had expected the opposite. She had expected Kusum to be pulled inside. But even this would do. The car’s door opened and a pair of ragged black boots stepped out. Mrs. PJ’s cue.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” she yelled and ran across her garden and reached the neighbour’s driveway in record time. “Ritu!” she screamed out her neighbour’s name.

Mrs. PJ reached the car and pushed her way in between the startled couple. Pulling the lad by his hand she stormed forward towards the house.

“Madam,” the boy spoke meekly, but Mrs. PJ continued to stomp ahead.

“Madam,” Kusum scampered behind her, but Mrs. PJ was on a mission.

“Ritu,” she screamed and rapped on the door.

The door flew open in no time and a smartly dressed couple stood at the door, the man two steps behind.

“Mrs. Juneja?” Ritu spoke in surprise, “What happened? Please come in.”

“What happened you ask me? What happened? This driver of yours was molesting my maid.”

“Your maid?” Ritu’s eyes darted behind Mrs. PJ.

“Yes. My maid. I saw your driver sitting there for long and thought maybe he could do with something to eat. I sent my maid to ask and look what he was doing.”

Ritu gaped at her open-mouthed. Mrs. PJ smirked inside. She ensured her voice was loud enough for other neighbours to hear.

“No, madam…,” the boy behind her began to speak.

“You shut up. You dirty scoundrel.”

“What happened Mrs. Juneja? Please come in.”

Ritu’s husband spoke up in a calm voice. Mrs. PJ glanced at him and found another man, a tall, well-built fellow, by his side.

“You heard me. Your driver was molesting my maid. And no, I won’t come in until this matter is settled. I will take him to the Police,” Mrs. PJ ranted.

“Madam…,” Kusum squeaked from behind, but Mrs. PJ ignored her. She’d get her moment- but not now.

“Please calm down Ma’am first. Let me talk to them,” the tall man addressed her.

“What will you talk to them? She is a small kid, barely fourteen. Can’t you see how scared she is? What will she say?”

“She is only fourteen?”

“Not even fourteen, I think.”

“And she works at your place?” the man was now on the porch, standing by her side. His presence seemed to intimidate her, but she refused to back down.

“Who are you?” She took one step back and noticed heads bobbing out of windows and figures materializing in balconies. “Their driver molested my maid,” she shouted loud enough for the crow flying overhead to lose its balance in fright.

“Ma’am, please leave his hand,” the man told her in a calm voice.

Her hand obeyed his order without thinking, but her mind refused to give in. “Why should I be talking to you?”

“Because he is my driver.”

“Sir … sir… I didn’t do anything!”

“Oh, your driver?” Mrs. PJ made a face. “So, what? He still did something wrong.”

“Madam,” Kusum whispered and tugged her sleeve.

“Look, how scared she is…,” Mrs. PJ pulled Kusum to her side.

“Madam,” she whispered again, with more confidence, “He is my brother.”

Mrs. PJ jerked her head to stare at Kusum. Kusum dropped her eyes.

“He didn’t do anything,” she mumbled and fidgeted with her dupatta. Tears sprung from her eyes.

Mrs. PJ gaped at her maid, too stunned to glance back.

“So, ma’am, she is your maid?”


“And how old did you say she is? Fourteen? Not even fourteen? Child labour, is it? Maybe you can visit the police station with me. I work there.”

<< THE END >>

#TornadoGiveAway -The Broken Home

Name of the book: The Broken Home

Author: Lopamudra Banerjee

Read some reviews:

1. Anirban Nanda

2. Sarmita Dey 

3. Niranjan Navalgund 

The Story:

An English translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s novella, ‘Nastanirh’, which was aptly filmed by ace filmmaker, Satyajit Ray as Charulata.

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About The Author 

Lopamudra Banerjee is a writer and translator, currently based in Dallas, USA. She has a Master’s degree in English with a thesis in Creative Nonfiction from the University of Nebraska at Omaha. Her unpublished memoir Thwarted Escape has been First Place Category Winner at the Journey Awards 2014 hosted by Chanticleer Reviews. She is an editor of Learning and Creativity, an e-zine for the literary and creative souls.

Her poetry, stories and essays have appeared at many print and online literary journals and anthologies both in India and the US. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Significant Anthology, Umbilical Chords: An Anthology on Parents Remembered and Kaafiyana, published by Readomania. Her English translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s novella The Broken Home is being serially published at Café Dissensus. She has received the Critics’ Award at Destiny Poets International Community of Poets, UK and also a Certificate of Merit as part of the Reuel International Prize 2015 for Writing and Literature. Her husband is an IT professional and they have two beautiful daughters, Srobona and Sharanya.

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#TornadoGiveAway – Equinox

Read some reviews:

1. Sundari Venktaraman

2. Ashwini Gopalkrishnan

3. Nikita Jhanglani

The Story:

When Indus Publishers announces a short story competition, it affects the lives of the ensemble cast in unexpected ways. A jaded journalist, a bored housewife, a starry-eyed ambitious girl, an army colonel, an impoverished divorcee-all enter the competition for pressing reasons of their own. They emerge with only slightly deeper pockets than they had but far richer in experience. Social issues are explored in an engaging manner, entwined in the lives of the characters- this is indeed the way of life. The novel also promises an enchanting look at the diversity in India; the characters belong to different Indian states and embody the peculiarities of the people of that region. Equinox and its checkered characters step to music of their own; many readers will find that it resonates with their own inner music.

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About The Author 

Always an avid reader, dreaming of delighting her own readers someday, Madhuri published her first two books in 2014. Haiku and other Micropoetry is a collection of short verse on nature and on life; while Equinox is a novel dealing with urban realities. While the former is pithy and thought-provoking, the latter is a simple reflection of modern lives. 

Madhuri lives and teaches in Pune. Films are as close to her heart as books are; she teaches Film Appreciation in addition to Creative Writing. She enjoys bringing her favourite authors and films to young minds. She also conducts workshops for children and adults. She has also written and published papers on films and on writing.

She is currently enjoying the monsoon, immersing herself in her personal library and nurturing ideas for her third book.

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#TornadoGiveAway – Birds of Prey


The Story:

You wake up, parched and famished, at the bottom of a deep well—dark and dingy with the foul smell of excreta and rotting scars and no seeming way to escape—what do you do?

This is the predicament that ex-ACP Anton Pinto faces when he reluctantly joins the investigation into the mysterious disappearances of men from affluent families of Mumbai. There is an inexplicable pattern behind the abductions and all suspicions point towards an old, physically-challenged, mysterious lady. Soon, Anton discovers that the seemingly unrelated men have one common link—the most popular and expensive international school in Mumbai.

Following clues that span from schools and old-age homes to illegal dingy hospitals, Anton is led through a labyrinth of incest, abuse, torture and suffering, spanning decades. 

What secret does the school hide behind its gates? What was the undisclosed crime that is thirsty for justice? Will Anton be able to save the men? Will justice be served? 

Birds of Prey will grip you with questions, taunt you about your societal choices and haunt you long after you have read the last page.



About The Author 

Archana Sarat is an Author and Poet for the last ten years. She shuttles between Chennai and Mumbai and loves both cities passionately. 

Her works are published in various popular newspapers, magazines and anthologies like The Times of India, The Economic Times, The SEBI and Corporate Laws Journal, The CA Newsletter, Me Magazine, the Science Reporter, the Chicken Soup for the Soul series, the WRIMO India Anthology, the GloMag Literary Journal and many more. 

She is popular in the online world for her flash fiction that appear every Saturday, called Saturday Shots. Though she is a Chartered Accountant by qualification, she took up her childhood love for writing as her vocation. She has a Diploma in Creative Writing from The Writers Bureau, UK. She lives with her husband and two sons. You can connect with her at 

Birds of Prey is her first novel.

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#TornadoGiveAway – The Lively Library & an Unlikely Romance

Name of the book: The Lively Library & An

Unlikely Romance

Author: Niranjan Navalgund

Read some reviews:

1. Floryie

2. Preethi Venugopala 

3. Kavya Janani 

The Story:

Unknown to Nayan, the library he inherits from his deceased father, is a mysterious place. Hiriya Halepu, Pu.Nayaka, Kapshi and and many others live there. They have a secret world with celebrations, romances, pangs of separation and conflicts. This is the Book-World. As two souls in this world fall in love, they encounter a strange predicament that separates them from each other. Things go from bad to worse when an unknown enemy sends a threat of destruction to this whole mysterious world. They call their resolute protector, Helmine, who unravels many unknown facets of this world, in an attempt to save it from the danger. The lovers struggle to find each other, and Helmine tries hard to decipher the threat messages. But will she be able to save this world from destruction? Will the two souls in love be united? There are no easy answers. Because, this is no ordinary Library, this is the place where books come to life.

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About The Author 

Niranjan Navalgund is a young chess professional who derives great pleasure in learning about life through the game of chess. He is a former National U-17 Chess Champion and a Commonwealth Silver medalist in the U-18 Category. He has been conferred with ‘Indradhanushya’ (2007) ‘Giants International Award’ (2009), ‘Kreeda Ratna’ Award (2010) and ‘Belgaumite of the year’ Award (2012) for his achievements in the field of Chess. He is a lover of words and occasionally tries his hand at writing stories and poems. He believes that writing is a wonderful exercise for the soul. Being a bibliophile, he harbours a special interest in the New Age Philosophy. Unusual stories excite him. He hopes to visit the Panda Zoo, someday. Niranjan lives with his family in Belagavi.

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#TornadoGiveAway – When I fell in love with Life


Name of the book: When I Fell in Love

with Life

Author: Geetha Paniker

Read some reviews:

1. Chittajit Mitra

2. Tushti Bhatia 

3. Dipanshu Rawal 

The Story: 

An anthology of writings from a cancer survivor whose therapeutic writing will guide, inspire, and heal your soul. She lays bare all the aspects of private suffering yet points out how she overcame each challenge with grit, determination, and a healthy dose of childish delight and wonder. Profound thoughts narrated in a simple language. Her words and wonderful ability to blend with her surroundings, yet stand out by absorbing the essence of it all; will challenge you to look at life through a rebel’s twinkling eye. Journey with this nature-loving, soul-searching, deep-thinking powerhouse. See what it feels like to touch rock bottom and build a solid foundation for a life made on her terms. A truthful story that continues to redefine the norm and gives you a glimpse into the life of a true survivor.

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About The Author 

Geetha Paniker is a retired primary school teacher. She has a unique ability to find beauty around when pain rains on her. It is this pain that keeps her grounded and humane. She is a teacher at heart, though she believes God and nature are the best teachers. 


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Go to Book No. 54 >> From Tiggie, With Love by Nitin Sharma

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#TornadoGiveAway – The Turning Point of life

Name of the book: The Turning Point of Life

Edited by: Ruchi Rai & Surbhi Sareen

Read some reviews:

1. Srivastava

2. Sukhdeep Singh 

3. Kavya Shah 

The Anthology:

Life represents a roller coaster ride, it is thrilling and full of ups and downs. Life does not remain the same forever and everyday is a new story. But some changes are the ramifications of certain events that change the life for good. These may either build you or destroy you. This book has exciting and thrilling anecdotes of varied turning points of life and how they changed the lives for good. It has all the hues of life covered in its stories.

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About The Editor 

Surbhi Sareen is a 22-year-old, young, chirpy girl who hails from Jalandhar, Punjab. She is a typical Punjabi by nature with big dreams in her eyes. She is a writer by choice and a book reviewer by profession. She has reviewed many books ranging from latest to classics. She is the contributing author of ‘Case Files of The Dead’, ‘Love-A Sweet Poison’, ‘Book of Dreams’,’Crush 2′ and the editor cum author of ‘Turning Point of Life.’ She also got her book review published in a literary magazine named ‘AAGMAN’. 

Besides writing, she loves photography, especially Bridal photography. She has a library in her room that includes books ranging from classics like John Donne, William Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Emily Bronte,Thomas Gray, Christopher Marlowe, Bacon, Charles Lamb to latest writers Chetan Bhagat, Sudeep Nagarkar, Robin Sharma, Ravinder Singh, Paulo Coelho, Preeti Shenoy, Durjoy Dutta, Jhumpa Lahiri. 

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Go to Book No. 48 >> Love, Whatever That Means by Aditi Mathur Kumar 




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