This is a fairytale every girl must read, so there is no misconception that not every heroine of a fairytale book is the Disney princess version. There are cynical girls with tongues as sharp as steel who make you love them for their honesty, wit, and sarcasm.
I was lucky enough to win an arc from Netgalley and I’m already counting down the days to the sequel! So let’s dive right in.
Violet made of Thorns follows our protagonist Violet who was orphaned at a young age and possesses the gift of sight. She uses her gift and her wit to climb her way up the ranks until she becomes important enough to the King himself. She makes herself irreplaceable. It follows her journey as she navigates court and tries to figure out a curse placed on Crown Prince Cyrus… who she happens to hate.
I related to Violet as a protagonist more than I’ve related to any of the Disney Princesses I watched growing up. She was smart and witty and she did what she had to do to survive. It was a breath of fresh air to all the girls who are described to be completely good, and who always toe the line. There’s nothing wrong with a completely good character, it’s just so much more fun to write one who has to school herself into being good. Always more entertaining to teeter on the line of the forbidden. Being bad is far more fun. Or at least it’s more fun to read about
I thought the romance was really well done. It was so obvious that the characters were struggling with their attraction for each other. I love that both characters were flawed. I loved how they worked through it and their problems to try and come to some sort of mutual understanding. I love the lack of inhibitions and the way their story was constructed.
This book made me feel in a way seen.
I do wish I could pick it up when the final installment was out though because the wait might kill me.
So filled with complex and cunning characters, lots of political mystery, fantasy and magic as well as the age-old trope of enemies-to-lovers romance, I am completely sold on this book. Five stars
So I devoured Kingdom of the Wicked in a single sitting and then picked this up immediately. While I enjoyed it, this one didn’t suck me in as completely as the first one. This is not to say it wasn’t a fabulous read.
This review will contain spoilers for Kingdom of the Wicked.
Picking up right where the first book left off, we follow Emilia from her home in Sicily to Hell, newly engaged to Prince Pride of Hell, and escorted to the underworld by Wrath. She insists on taking Vittoria’s murderer Antonio with her and that is essentially where the story begins.
I think the first book essentially establishes Emilia’s character as a streghe who takes pleasure in the mundane aspects of life. Cooking, living her life, and flirting with boys. This book sort of shatters that world for her and introduces her to the world of sin and what the indulgences of those sins mean. It made me question the nature of what we call sin. If it feels good with no consequences can it be deemed a sin? It was an interesting concept to explore.
I liked Maniscalco’s description of Hell. She chose to go a different route from the usual burning heat, barren fields and rivers of fire. She made Hell, cold and desolate, and described it in a way that I’ve never read before. The world-building here was different from the first book because while there she created Italy, here she gets to create a realm that is entirely her own which was executed brilliantly.
I did feel like a lot of this book was movement. Movement from kingdom to kingdom and the story was building up to the singular event which was the Feast of the Wolf. But it was still a good read to immerse oneself in. It also helped that this installment was more character driven than plot driven which means as a reader one gets invested more in Emilia than the actual plot. I liked Emilia’s character growth here as well, she is learning how to navigate the world of demons in a realistic manner while being a badass in her own right. Plus the food, had me drooling once again.
The plot-twist at the end had my brain swimming and I don’t know how I’m going to live until September 27th for the final book in the trilogy.
Two years have passed in quick succession since this author discovered the Bridgerton series. What with a plague running rampant and a show released on the books, one wonders what the greater evil is. While most might argue the widespread death in wake of the plague is definitely the greatest evil to beat, this author thinks…not. After all, hypocrisy and art remain eternal, those laid to rest however might claim to receive the peace of never having experienced the travesty of the Bridgertons.
The Zoya Project, Society Sexposé, 2022
THE BOOKS
In February 2020, I was sitting in my college dorm trying to find a book to pass the time. Romance has always been one of my go-to genres, and so a deep dive into Goodreads led me to Julia Quinn’s regency romance book, ‘The Duke and I’. I love regency romances, I have since I discovered the hallowed pages of Jane Austen when I was eleven.
Pride and Prejudice, 2005
So, I picked it up and went through it pretty quickly. And I was… horrified. As most fans already know, the story follows Daphne Bridgerton the fourth sibling of eight Bridgertons as she makes her debut in London’s season. She is set on being wed by season’s end, and for the beginning part of it, remains unsuccessful. Our male hero, The Duke of Hastings, his Christian name – Simon, has arrived for the season, yet is tired of being courted by desperate Mamma’s of the ton. The Duke, you see, has no wish to be wed.
The rest of this review will contain spoilers. My advice would be to turn back now if you still wish to remain ignorant of the story.
The Duke and Daphne enter into a mutually beneficial arrangement wherein they will pretend to court each other allowing Daphne to become desirable and have her pick of suitors and let Simon be at peace without being bothered by desperate debutantes. It’s the basic trope of fake dating, common to a number of books. They fake their courtship, end up falling in love, end up in a compromising position, are caught by the eldest Bridgerton – Anthony, there is a duel, and eventually, Daphne and Simon end up married.
It’s a pretty simple story, there isn’t too much wrong with it till now.
We then find out Simon’s reluctance to marry was his decision to never have children because of some daddy issues he suffers from. If all the drama already wasn’t enough, this is the icing on the ‘Oh My God!’ cake. He doesn’t tell Daphne he won’t have children but rather that he can’t. Daphne unaware of how children actually come into this world, as girls often are, agrees because she wants Simon. They discover the pleasure of the marital bed until Daphne eventually finds out the truth. Here is what happens next.
‘She shifted restlessly, and Simon felt the strangest, most intoxicating surge of power. She was in his control, he realized. She was asleep, and probably still more than a little bit drunk, and he could do whatever he wanted with her. He could have whatever he wanted.‘
‘A quick glance at her face told him that she was still sleeping, and he quickly undid her bloomers. Underneath, she was wet and needy, feeling her leap beneath her fingers.‘
“Oh, Christ!” she suddenly burst out, her voice harsh and primitive with need. “I’m going to—I can’t—” Her eyes pinned upon him with a strange, pleading sort of look, and she made a feeble attempt to pull away.
In most instances, I, and other educated people would call this – rape. I do feel terrible because while this is in no uncertain circumstances rape, this is not exactly how it took place in the book. Now that we have some context on how consensual this was, let’s delve back into Quinn’s words. The real ones this time
He shifted restlessly, and Daphne felt the strangest, most intoxicating surge of power. He was in her control, she realized. He was asleep, and probably still more than a little bit drunk, and she could do whatever she wanted with him. She could have whatever she wanted.A quick glance at his face told her that he was still sleeping, and she quickly undid his trousers. Underneath, he was hard and needy, and she wrapped her hand around him, feeling his blood leap beneath her fingers.
“Oh, Christ!” he suddenly burst out, his voice harsh and primitive with need. “I’m going to—I can’t—” His eyes pinned upon her with a strange, pleading sort of look, and he made a feeble attempt to pull away.
The Duke and I – Julia Quinn
This is where I put down the book to try and fathom what had just happened. Surely, this was an educational moment regarding men experiencing sexual assault. Quinn would address it. I let myself dive back in.
…
She did not address it.
I think she makes Simon apologize to Daphne after this, they have children and end up happy. I was appalled. I would not pick up the other seven books in this series, because of how wrong this one moment was. It was a matter of principle.
When the show came out I watched it and then titled the review for both the book and the show as my ‘Bridgerton Sexposé’. As research, I began reading the others in the series, noting the sexual problems that came up in the few I got through. I read Anthony Bridgerton’s story, then Benedict’s, and I was halfway through Collin’s, by which point I’m sure I had lost a few IQ points when I had to bin the sexposé due to personal reasons.
So here goes. In Anthony’s book, we were slammed with this –
‘Kate’s body seemed to stiffen and melt at the same time. And then she blurted out, “I think we should wait.” He nibbled on her ear. “Wait for what?” She tried to wiggle away. He didn’t understand. If he’d understood, he’d be furious, and he didn’t seem particularly upset. “For the wedding night,” she clarified. He drew back, his dark brows flattening into a straight, and perhaps a little bit angry, line. “No,” he said simply.’
And then with this –
“Tell me how to make it right. For I don’t think I can grant you your reprieve.” He molded his body against hers, his strong arms holding her close as he groaned, “I can’t wait a week, Kate. I simply cannot do it.”
And in the third book regarding Benedict which I actually quite enjoyed, we were hit with this bordering on an ‘I won’t be able to stop the sexing later’ implication –
“If you want me to stop,” he said, his voice achingly hoarse, “you need to tell me now. Not in ten minutes, not even in one. It has to be now.”
THE PROBLEM
Suffice to say Quinn’s books are ripe with sexual problems. Lines are crossed and never addressed. Here’s my issue with this.
Historically, not much would be wrong with this. After all, after marriage, a wife would be her husband’s property, for him to do with her as he wished. So rape and sexual assault were common. What with the lack of sex education women had, it wouldn’t be surprising if they didn’t even see it that way.
But in a fictional romance book where anachronisms are one to the dozen, one wonders why Quinn won’t change sex for her female protagonists. Why not make it a consensual act for her readers? If she was keeping all her points and settings in the book accurate to a fault I would even let it slide for the sake of historical accuracy, but in a book where she isn’t stuck to making sure every p and q is accurate, why make the sex scenes so?
As a reader, and a woman above that, I wonder if she sees such gestures as romantic. Or if not romantic perhaps this is a norm and she doesn’t consider it a problem. At any rate, it turned me off the show and the rest of the books with a fury drumming up and down my veins.
THE NETFLIX SHOW
I’ll begin with the good.
The instrumental covers while historically inaccurate are done quite brilliantly, especially in the second season.
Onto the bad. Let’s go in order so it’s easy for everyone to keep track. Sex and then race.
SEX
I’m going to begin by saying that this show is intended to be a frothy and frivolous period drama to tickle our corona virus-ridden lives and infuse them with a feel-good watch. This did not happen.
I have to say the second season focused on Anthony Bridgerton, who looks far more dashing than he did in season one, did brilliantly by eradicating anything that reeked of rape or sexual assault. Hey, if you can’t handle the address then the better idea is to not show any of it at all. It’s an idea I can get behind.
As mentioned earlier the sexual problem lies in the first season. I might have let everything else go had they removed the rape scene featured above. But they made it less rapey and still had it. So while I would say they tried hard to make sure it wasn’t a problematic sexual scene, they didn’t come across as successful.
I’ll repeat, there are a variety of anachronisms in the show. For the most part, Daphne and Simon wouldn’t be romping around the fields like animals in heat if they held their reputation as Duke and Duchess dear. Yet Netflix showcased that and chose not to remove the sexual assault.
Some progress… but really not a lot.
RACE
Here is where I had the greatest problems with the Bridgerton show. There is a massive difference between creative license and misrepresentation. As someone living in the 21st century, I have to say that diverse casting in our entertainment forums is an absolute must. We need to see casting with POC because the range and depth of their talent still remain unfairly unexplored.
The creators of Bridgerton decided that in a primarily white historical world they would have a diverse cast. It was a decision worthy of applause. I wish they had come outright and said that while people of color (POC) were widely discriminated against in history, they wished to utilize the vast amount of talent that POC brought to the table as well as their experiences. Instead, they decided to misrepresent history and take matters completely out of context thus creating a problem.
I’m going to mainly address season 2 because that is material that I’m better educated at. Spoilers ahead, brace yourselves.
So in Season 2, we follow the eldest Bridgerton, Viscount Anthony. The show turns our female leade Kate (Katherine) Sheffield into Kate (Kathini) Sharma [pronounced Shaama].
For foreign readers the name is pronounced : Shur – Ma. It’s not that difficult. Any amount of phonetic research might have proven so.
Here’s my issue with this. This is a show placed in the year 1814. Effectively this places us in a time when India was colonized by the English, where we as a race were used as slaves and soldiers and generally referred to as savages. Here are a few lines from a textbook used to teach Indian children about the way we were treated during the colonial period. I’ve used the most basic source, perhaps not even worthwhile reading academically, to show how well colonial brutality continues to be remembered.
The Britishers urge for vengeance and retribution was expressed in the brutal way in which the Indian rebels were executed. They were blown from guns, or hanged from the gallows. Images of these executions were widely circulated through popular journals
So this is the time in which we view Bridgerton season 2. A time when an Indian woman if found in England would not be given anything. Not the scraps from the hearth even, nor employment as the lowliest servant in a peasant family’s home. We were colonized and brutalized.
The show portrays an English woman (Mary Sheffield) who married an Indian man and brought her Indian daughter and stepdaughter back to be introduced into high society after many years of staying in India even when her Indian husband died. The show shows how her parents cut her off which is likely what would have happened, but then does this really convoluted thing where they say now the three Indians are back and will be introduced to society and readily accepted. I mean it sort of seems to go without a hitch.
I would have, perhaps, even been more open to the idea of an Indian woman being picked up by a British lord as his mistress and her girls being introduced into society. That would be highly unlikely and yet still more believable. But then the outward Indianness of the name Sharma would have been missing and who is an Indian, if not OBVIOUSLY identified by their last name?
What bothers me is what this misrepresents. The civil rights movement is widely studied, so perhaps the racial ignorance of the previous season might still be overlooked. A season, where it is easy to portray that a white king married a black woman and gave the Black people their rights. It negates the entire struggle they went through, instead crowning a white king, a colonizer, as the savior of Black people. I can perhaps let that go because the civil rights movement is widely taught across the world. This does not justify the portrayal in any way, but I won’t digress because I have better knowledge about the Indian struggle.
Aside from Indians, very few people will have studied colonial India the way we are taught it, from the jotedaar take over by the EIC at the beginning of colonization, all the way to the brutality of the partition in 1947. It misrepresents the struggle of our people. A struggle that lasted almost 200 years seems almost trivial, for what were we really struggling for when the savagery of our kind was so easily accepted by the English? Our savagery, so common, that a Viscount decided to marry an Indian woman and make her his Viscountess.
The research, from the various aspects of Indian culture they tried to appropriate to the presentation of the women, is all incorrect. Edwina apparently plays the maruli. I don’t know what that is, I’ve never heard of it. I can only assume she is talking about a mUrAli, which is the flute. She reads Guleeb. As a woman brought up in India, I’m surprised someone didn’t lynch Edwina, because no one would pronounce his name that way. It is Gaa – lib. Something a woman in India would know how to pronounce correctly. It is a common Indian AND Islamic name, regardless of the poet who made it his own. Of course, the issue of their accents is another oddity. Perhaps that is one stone best left unturned (but really, how do both girls raised in India have such clear English accents? Improbable.) The fact that they think Indian women, obsessed even till date about izzat and pardah, would consider the impropriety of having sex in the garden or even dressing scantily, where scraps of skin are on display, is laughable.
Edwina calls her sister, Didi, and father, Appa, but her mother is Mamma (French emphasis at the end). It seems strange to have such a difference, they might have kept it similar just for the sake of it and had her address Mary as Amma. But perhaps that would have tipped the character, that in modern times is basically a British Born Confused Desi, onto the scale of TOO Indian. Basically, they wanted the character from Never Have I Ever, which I can’t get into because that is a whole other travesty.
Yes.
So here’s where we land. Keep the Indian actress. Make her the lead. BUT – do not justify her color, with nonsensical claims. Keep her Kate Sheffield and say yes we cast her because things are different now and she is a powerhouse we wanted to use for this role. Don’t make her Kathini Sharma and try to make light of the history of her race.
FIN.
So to end, the show and the books are not to my liking. And can anyone really blame me for it? I did chance upon the last and final book of the Bridgerton series and really, even the stories get repetitive and ludicrous to the point of hysterical laughter. A sham all around.
I know a lot of people want to watch the show for the ‘good sex’ (and highly inaccurate sex) but if we watch it then it should be done with the knowledge of the misrepresentation that we watch.
After all dear reader, the seasons of Bridgerton may froth with frivolity and romance but they soon bubble into a boil and tip over their truths. And no one really does appreciate the burns of an honest writer, do they?
Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t tend to do horror. So despite the rave reviews I’ve heard about Kerri Maniscalco I hadn’t picked up any of her books. Her earlier series titled Stalking Jack The Ripper is something I remain unfamiliar with. But the world of bookstagram is truly a rabbit hole. And as Alice, unable to resist temptation, I fell into these books because of all the fanart and fanfiction that was circling the net. And I’m so so glad I did.
I wouldn’t describe this series as horror but high fantasy. The first in a trilogy, Kingdom of the Wicked follows protagonist Emilia Maria Di Carlo a young witch residing in Italy with her family. Emilia has been warned by her Nonna of the Malvagi or the Wicked, Seven Demon princes from Hell who are dangerous to witches. When Emilia’s twin Vittoria is brutally murdered, she sets out on a vicious journey in desire of revenge, going so far as to summon a demon of Hell. Prince Wrath.
Let me begin by pointing out that the world-building is aboslutely marvellous. From the very first line you are immersed in Sicily. The writing lets you luxuriate in Italy. One of the things I enjoyed most about this book was the setting and the description of food. The way Emilia cooks actually made me hungry while reading. The description of the orange peel infused wine to the roasted cloves of garlic with fresh crackling bread, pestos and sauces and desserts. All of it was done absolutely perfectly and that description and world-building above anything else is what made the book a five star read for me.
I liked how vulnerable Emilia was. A lot of the time I find fantasy heroines to be slightly unrelatable in terms of how quickly they get over reality and transition into badass fairytale characters. I liked that Emilia took time to grow up. Her anger and lack of control of it really made her a realistic hero for the story, and by the end of it her growth felt like it was on the right trajectory. She was still learning but she was definitely a stronger character.
The rest of the characters were also well written and played a well enough role in the story. I loved Wrath. Introduced with a classic hate-to-love trope, I really enjoyed the banter between them. There’s enough romantic tension between both Wrath and Emilia, but they also have just enough edge to keep things entertaining. And the build up of their relationship in this book allows for their to be greater fulfillment in the next one.
I was surprised at how the mystery was resolved which I believe is a good thing for a murder mystery. You are kept guessing until the end.
Basically this was a five star read and I can’t wait to dive into the next installment. I need to know where Emilia and Wrath’s story is going to go.
This is Sabaa Tahir’s foray into the real world. She moves from Ember to the reality of All My Rage and she brings the emotion with her. I read this in a single sitting and that is telling enough.
Told from the point of three characters and moving through past and present, All My Rage touches upon topics that are valid for everyone. From the art of loss to grief, forgiveness, abuse, religion and kindness this is a novel that takes a deep dive into emotion and surfaces once every thread and knot of suffering has been unwound on a sea of self-realization. Following Misbah, Salahuddin and Noor through their different stories, Sabaa addresses the struggles that people go through in their lives and the people they encounter that teach them that there is more than what you experience in this one moment. There is more after this. Light after this.
“I was eighteen. Full of fear. I should have prayed instead for a man unbroken.”
~ Sabaa Tahir
Sabaa brings to life both the Mojave Desert and Lahore in vivid detail. She builds up the settings for the stories, penning a love letter to the place that housed her childhood and the place from where she comes. Desi culture is portrayed beautifully in this book. I am not religious and yet culturally I relate to the book. That is the point that Sabaa tries to make, that everyone experiences faith, spirituality, and culture differently, and it is a point that while not spoken about actively, comes across poignantly. There is diversity within faith and culture, but no one seems to give room to let others live through these concepts the way they want to.
When I was in high school, I was competing out of the city in a sociology tournament with a focus on religion and culture in India. When it ended, I was approached by one of the judges who wanted to ask me how I could defend Jihad in the Quran. I have been educated to believe that Jihad is the personal struggle someone goes through in life, but not everyone will interpret it that way, and those who are unaware will go with the mass opinion that it entails terrorism. This was the first time I saw the concept cleared in a young adult novel. What is so appalling is that so many people I have encountered on my journey won’t take the time to educate themselves. And that is the problem. It isn’t about this one concept it’s about the ignorance that we as people wear on our sleeves, ready to judge and dismiss anything that we are unable to understand.
This is a book for everyone. Because it talks about so many things that are so relevant to people everywhere. As people, we face abuse and racism and religious intolerance every day. We face unkindness every day. We carry fury within our veins from things that we take from others that we are not owed, and we let it lie dormant until it overcomes us in a tidal wave. I was once told that if you aren’t ‘a white man’ in this world you will be unsafe, be it now or later, here or elsewhere. This is a book that urges us to educate ourselves on cultures and experiences that we may not go through, because without that we will be unable to share the kindness the world desperately needs. This is a book that teaches us to respect others while living the lives we wish to.
This is the perfect read for a cold winter. Winter thaws as spring arrives fleetly bringing with her kesari sunsets and a plethora of blossoming flowers. Tahira in Bloom was such a lovely way to bring spring to the cold dreary days of December.
A coming-of-age novel, Heron has a refreshing take on trying to figure out where you’ll fit in, in the years that come after high school. While the main reason I picked up the novel was the promised romance, I kept at it because of the growth that our protagonist/ titular character has through the course of the story. As an aspiring fashion designer and a desi abroad, Tahira has that unique combination of supportive parents yet ones who still push for what they believe is right. It is interesting to see the growth within the familial relationships that Tahira has.
There’s also an in-depth exploration of how people outgrow friendships towards the end of high school. People grow out of love with each other as they grow older and often it is better to let toxic friendship run their course rather than try and hold onto them. It was a factor of the novel that I thought was beautifully done. Wrought with pain and sadness and yet relief that ‘this’ is no longer something one has to work so hard at.
Filled with romance, this is more a character-driven book than a plot-driven one. Heron puts a lot of emphasis on making her characters likable yet flawed and therefore relatable. There are misunderstandings and mistakes but all of those are solved reasonably, and mostly we get to see a girl going into womanhood with some very realistic traits. Hard-working and determined but still very much a teen trying to figure out what life has to offer and what romance and love truly mean. It’s a journey for her and a realistic one at that which is so important for a young adult book, given the target audience who will relate to the story.
But above all the book is bursting with florals. Every description is colorful and so informative about the art of floral arrangements. It is truly a work of art to read about it and was the best part of the entire novel.
The Indian Wedding, is as primordial as the great deities of old that are penned in legends and lore. It is ancient, it is traditional and well it’s a whole lot of fun. I haven’t really attended an Indian wedding in totality. No one close to me has actually gotten married. Until last week when my sister tied the knot. And so here I am, writing about the great happiness of the Indian wedding tamasha. That joy that accompanies the craziness. That feeling of family colliding with traditions and the mixing of cultures. That feeling of bringing two people together, forever and always. Marriage is an age-old canticle beaten into the earth by the feet of our brides as they walk down the aisle, and this is my ode to it.
What I love the most about an Indian wedding is the co-mingling of culture. In the vast land of the subcontinent, no one family is the same. Families vary from neolocal to patrilocal to matrilocal all the way down in the South. Brides are decked up in gold and diamonds or maybe nothing but flowers and silks. The color once scarlet and gold now varies to pearl and rose, ice blue and baby pink. Weddings range from crores to a few rupees in rural areas. Even caste and religion are now defied in an attempt to come together in the way of love.
We’ve always been a very small family. Our grandparents scattered across the plains of North India. Our few cousins, uncles and aunts spread across the globe. So when my sister got engaged I found a new family dynamic coming into play. And truly, brothers are all the jazz that theya re described to be here. What with my Jiju coming to rescue my friends and me from Haryana Police at Cyber Hub and figuring out travel plans for foreign best friends. It was a revelation to me, to have one more sibling in the immediate vicinity.
There are very few people in the world that I consider truly close to my heart. My sister has always been one. She is my star on a cloudy night, a guiding light, my very best friend in the whole universe. There is no one I love more. She is the better person, she is kind and generous and unfailingly good. She loves and loves and just continues to love. She gives in to my bratty tantrums and we can never stay mad at each other for longer than ten minutes. She is my person. And while I like to say she is blessed with me, the truth is that in this journey of life, she continues to be the best gift in my life, all day every day. I aspire to how kind she is, I aspire to better myself so I can make her as happy as she makes me.
When I gave her to my Jiju I did it with the utmost trust and faith that he was the one person in the world who would make her happy beyond words. The kind of happiness that cannot be described in words, that is witnessed only by all the greater beings in the universe and the stars who sing their stories. Or in Delhi’s case, the pollution that clouds the sky. That is the kind of happiness I wish for the two of them and believe that they can give each other.
This isn’t going to be a very long piece, just a reflection of the few things I wish for my sister to have as she begins this new journey in her life. Here goes –
“People are usually blessed with one set of parents. With one family. You two have been blessed with two of everything. Two sets of parents, may they always have health, may you always have their blessings and with those blessings, paneer, hummus, pesto, kebabs and biryani.
You also happen to have two sisters. And while that is blessing enough, I hope that you are blessed further with always having them near your side in life, to walk alongside you, to keep you warm on cold nights and give you clothes when you are in an immediate fashion crisis.
Should you want children may they be born healthy and hopefully female because God knows we need more daughters, not to mention how many cute clothes you can buy them. I also hope and pray for any future children that be named nice normal names, I pray that their parents don’t name them things like Apple or North West or Blue Ivy.
May you always have a small joy in every day of your life. A cup of steaming hot chocolate on a December morning. A really breath-taking work out. A sunrise tinted cherry pink and lavender and sunsets comprising of scarlets and golds. Flowers for your garden. A new outfit to wear that makes you feel royal. Music that speaks to your soul. Impromptu dance parties with the RIGHT speakers. Lights and paintbrushes. Dogs. Sisters. Friends to keep you company and family to keep your hearth warm.
May you travel the world and see things that surprise you. Have something to laugh about together. Learn something new everyday. Find time for each other everyday. Find a new way to make each other smile every day. Find kindness and generosity and goodness in every corner of your life.
When I think of you, I think of only the happiest things. Pessimist though I am, the glass is always half full when it comes to you, because I cannot fathom any negativity or nazar even daring to approach the two of you from a distance. However life tends to be unpredictable and should any darkness come near your bubble of happiness, I wish for you to have the strength to overcome it.
Alka Joshi has officially become an instant-buy author for me. I adore her writing and I love her characters. I’d like to thank Harper Collins for sending me an ARC of The Secret Keeper of Jaipur!
Set twelve years after the events of The Henna Artist, this installment follows three protagonists. We encounter Lakshmi once again, we meet a new character, a young tribal woman named Nimmi and of course my most beloved character from the first book, Malik. Set in the towns of Shimla and Jaipur, Alka weaves a mystery that connects our three characters from across the states, from snow to sand, from person to person. Each idea ties in perfectly with the next, making it a pleasurable experience to solve. All the threads come together perfectly.
While it isn’t necessary to read the first book before picking up this one, I would highly recommend it. Having read The Henna Artist provides depth to the characters that the reader will be unable to experience.
‘The Secret Keeper of Jaipur’ sucked me in almost immediately. Contemporary fiction usually takes me a few chapters to get involved and interested in, but within the first few chapters of this book, I was engrossed in knowing how the characters had grown, what they were doing, how their lives had progressed. The writing remains soft and simple which is wonderful because you get to focus on the intrigue of the plot and the journey of the characters. The narration is able to create vivid imagery and the descriptions are almost visceral yet softened by the simplicity of the writing.
“Pearl and ruby bangles, now too large for her thin arms, threaten to slide off her wrists. “
It’s one of my greatest fears that Indian authors brought up in America or who live in America will try and appropriate Indian culture in their writing. One of the prime examples for me was a show that came out on Netflix called ‘Never Have I Ever’ or a book that came out earlier this year titled ‘Cast in Firelight’. But all of Alka’s writing is well researched. You can tell that she takes the time to do the research regarding Indian culture that she might be unaware of, and she mentions as much in her book. The customs of Nimmi’s tribe are brought to the front with tact, she researches the construction techniques that would have been used in 1960’s North India, she researches smuggling in India. All of it is well thought out. Where The Henna Artist spoke about poignant topics regarding domestic abuse and the slow climb out of poverty, The Secret Keeper of Jaipur explores relinquishing emotional custody of someone you have raised as a child, friendships between women who might once consider each other rivals, and affairs and sex. This book depicts Alka’s range.
What I really loved though aside from the way the plot tied together and the narrative style, were the characters. I really enjoyed seeing Lakshmi again! While the romance between Malik and Nimmi was negligible, I enjoyed the romance between them. It was barely there, and yet there was something soft and safe about it. At the same time, Lakshmi is now married to the handsome Doctor Jay from the previous book and yet we experience angst within her well-established romance, what with the reappearances of old flames and doubts. It was interesting to see how all the relationships evolved towards the end and how all the old relationships from the first book tie into this one. Range, range, range!
“But you can’t be friends when you’re in love with the same woman.”
~ The Secret Keeper of Jaipur, Alka Joshi
All in all, I loved this book, and while I have mulled over it I can’t honestly decide which of the two I like better. Perhaps a reread is in order.
Spoilers will be added to this review on June 29th!
The Secret Keeper of Jaipur will be available to purchase on June 22nd.
I don’t usually read high school romances anymore, they seem unrealistic to me, what are the odds that you meet the man/woman you will end up marrying ten years later in school when the most pressing problem is getting an A in history class or the newest pimple that pops up on your nose making you look like Rudolph at Christmas. But I picked this up because the blurb was deliciously enticing. And I loved it for reasons far greater.
It was so nice reading about a person of color! All the romances I’ve been reading have been about white people and I’m so glad to finally have some diversity! But that was just one of the small somethings that made this book good.
So when I went to this I was expecting a very Wattpadish romance. This past month has been a slow reading month for me and most of what I’ve been reading is a part of this genre I have conveniently named ‘bad-boy trash’ in which case there are some really problematic themes of reluctance and sexual prowess and bullying which I don’t want to attack here. Suffice to say I was very surprised by how different what I got was!
Firstly, the friendships. I adored that there were healthy girl friendships, with no drama. The high school seemed normal as well, there wasn’t the typical mean girl who’s a cheerleader or the valedictorian to be. Nandini, Cora and Karina are so lovely together (DIVERSITY FOR THE WIN!), and it was so nice to see a high school book focused on relatively normal happenings rather than picking up on tropes that are so easy to build on. Bullying, cliques, mean girl, friend drama. Sure those are things that happen in high school, but they don’t happen to everyone and there are schools able to cultivate a normal experience similar to the one I had. Drama isn’t continuous in just one student’s life, it happens and then it doesn’t. The constant support between these three friends was so wholesome and lovely as they pushed each other to be their best selves and yet backed off when it was needed. It felt healthy, something I share with my own girlfriends. Relatable. (Also I know we weren’t supposed to like Xander but I was kind of rooting for him and Cora to sort of get together… or maybe have their own book? Casual feelers put out, universe do your magic!)
I think it was so important to put out the fact that characters can’t be put into the boxes we as readers and writers seem to create for them. When I went into this book, I was expecting a leather jacket-wearing jerk, riding a motorcycle with childhood issues of being assaulted or bullied or whatnot (courtesy of the bad-boy trash I have had the misfortune of reading). It was delightful to see that Ace was described as a bad boy with his leather jacket and disregard for rules, but he wasn’t just that. He was a guy who loved eating strawberry sorbet, and classical music and he likes stargazing and astronomy and isn’t stupid. The characters felt so fleshed out. It made me feel more comfortable in my skin knowing that we aren’t just one person meant to fit in boxes. I realized how strange it is for me to be ashamed of how much TV I watch just because I am academically inclined and read a lot. No one is just one thing, and I loved how that was tackled in a subtle manner, so effortless that it’s barely there and yet it resounds.
I loved that not everything had a happy ending. Between Karina and her parents, some things were resolved and others weren’t and that’s how life is, you don’t get a win on everything. I really enjoyed that Tashie chose to resolve the biggest things in Karina’s life, resolving the conflict of what she’s going to do in college and leaving her love life to imagination. Karina continues to date Ace in secret and hasn’t figured out how she’s going to tell her parents or when or even if she will, and that felt okay because as I said above, not everything is an easy fix in life. Usually, realistic books in YA and romance aren’t my thing but the story was just woven in such a way that I actually adored it.
And finally, what I adored about this book was the romance. As of late, I have been disillusioned by the romance genre, what with all the problematic assault themes that are underlying them or the emotional abuse or the control issues. Romance isn’t supposed to be this complete dependency, it’s about love between two separate entities. People who still remain their own, they just begin sharing parts of themselves with another person. Parts that might be hidden from a sibling or a parent or a friend. I loved that Ace and Karina didn’t try to complete each other, we are complete people on our own, they added strength and resolve to each other’s characters, they provided support, they had chemistry that felt good, but they remained their own. It felt so healthy and it felt like romance the way it should be written. Was Karina a damsel in need of saving from her parents? Perhaps she was, but what struck me was that it was never once Ace’s job, in the book, to save her. It was her own. I loved that they were able to respect boundaries and draw lines for themselves and never once did it come in the way of the relationship because at the end of the day they remained their own people. And having said that, the sparks and the chemistry were abundant and sweet and exactly what romance should be with first dates and melty kisses and stargazing. It was a romance I would want for myself, not the thing of fantasies.
So yes, I will be picking up more of Tashie’s books as soon as she writes them. And as someone suffering from anxiety, I’d like to thank her for the tips and the beautiful poetry. A fabulous, fabulous debut.
I’ve loved Delhi, ever since I’ve started studying history in middle school. Its culture, its history, the small noisy haunts with its plethora of fragrances and smells and the hidden ones no one knows about. But being the blunt rather acerbic person I am, I tend to call a spade a spade, and I have to say there are frequent times when I feel the need to escape from the dirty city, the crazy traffic and the people. And in those times I find refuge in Aligarh.
Aligarh is where my mother grew up. It’s a university town where my grandparents have spent the majority of their lives in a little pink villa they built and pioneered for themselves and named Aimun. A small corner of the world that belongs only to us and the team of stray kittens and puppies our age-old cook rescues and tries to hide (mostly unsuccessfully) from my grandmother. My mother then takes these little guests at Aimun back with her to Delhi. There is a small mango orchard and a front garden which Nani tends to every evening at 5 pm, walking around pruning her bougainvillaea that grows coral and pale pink, white and fuchsia. She sits on the small white wooden swing that sits on the front lawn enjoying the fruits of her hard work, her salwar kameez slightly damp. At night she sits with Nana to watch the 9 pm news, after a long day of work at the Public School.
Aimun
They’re an odd pair, two intellectuals but every time they talk to each other I can see how they’ve lasted 64 years. They’re unfailingly kind, generous and loving people. They’ve had colorful lives, so much so that Nana has written six books in Urdu about his travels and adventures. Perhaps it runs in the family.
Often when we go, we get immersed in our phones and our work. But I’ve had the opportunity to hear about their lives. The vibrant characters that have populated their lives and Aligarh. Their stories. I’ll put my head on Nani’s lap, the soft cotton of her salwar kameez and I’ll say “Tell me a story?”
And so they do…
1954
“My Abba was a very open-minded man, he believed that every girl in his family must be educated. Often my brother would argue with him, he didn’t want me to study further. He wanted my father to get me married. I had actually wanted to be a doctor but my brother wouldn’t let me. But my father let me first at least get my B. Ed and then even my M.Ed. He used to tell me ‘Zakia it is most important to widen your mind and learn. You will never be dependent on any man or woman if you are educated’ He educated all six of us sisters He sent me from home all the way to Lucknow’s Karamat Hussain Muslim Girls Women’s College. I had gone with my best friend Razia Sayeed. We used to take the train to Lucknow. Actually in the newspaper they printed about my father and eldest sister, that no one should marry the Adhami girls because they were getting an education!”
Sitting in the drawing-room of Aimun, the walls of which are painted a pale lemon yellow, reminiscent of summer sunshine of the lawns outside, Nani’s words come out in a rush. The upholstery is swirly beige and creamy lace, the furniture vintage and my nani, her short hair dyed an elegant black from the Loreal box, wears a blue cotton kurta with a white dupatta slung over one shoulder. As she talks about life at Karamat Hussain Muslim Girls Women’s College Lucknow the room starts to turn from sunshine to sepia, as though we are being immersed in time itself.
“Lucknow was a town of great regal glamour, you know.” my Nani says, looking outside at the garden as she talks. “Everyone there was always raised with the idea that hamesha tameezdar rehna hai. Aaj kal aise kahan hota hai?” she asks me conversationally. “The city was a prime place for learning, history was everywhere, gardens and parks filled with flowers and fountains, there was art wherever you looked. Baazar mein they used to sell chikankaari suits and from Marris Music College, there was a perpetual sound of riyaaz and the rasp of harmonium.”
“The city was actually a lot like Aligarh. Different religions and castes lived together quite normally. These were years just out of partition. While we had seen the violence, we were just slightly removed from the horrors, I don’t know how we escaped the ravages that Partition wore down on the city, but it was strange to see mohalladaari in some parts of the city and hatred or indifference in other parts of the city.”
What’s mohalladaari? I ask, interrupting her train of thought, quietly.
“Arrey, nowadays, it has ceased to exist. In a way tameez aur tehzeeb kuch zyaada hi hogaya hai. In our day, all the houses used to be very close. And when we were children we could just jump from our roof to our neighbour’s roof to meet our friends or go and get something for the kitchen when our Ammi requested it, cheeni, doodh, woh sabh. Now even Khalda” (her younger sister) “calls before she comes, though she is usually on her way by the time she calls. This habit of mohalladaari has long since finished with all the formalities of today. Even when your mother was a child, all of our friends in Aligarh would just drop by without a word of warning or a proclamation. That was the essence of mohalladaari.”
It feels like all the memories my Nani has kept inside her, seem to spill over the brim as she talks about her time in Lucknow. Her experience with the city. I find myself beginning to traverse the lanes of this city, which is still a phantom to me. Perhaps completely fictional imagery has taken a grasp over my mind as I imagine Lucknow, the train station filled with people and coolies as the train khat khatoes into the station, carrying my nani and her friend Razia. They step out of the carriage, with their fathers in tow. And then they make their way to Karamat Hussain Muslim Girls Women’s College, encountering open windows filled with singing that fills the air, vendors hawk chikan work at them in pristine white colors.
“What was the Women’s College like Nani?” I ask bringing her back to where we started from.
“It must have changed now.” She responds trying to evade the question.
I cajole and wheedle until she finally gives in. “I don’t remember much about the building and architecture and all if that’s what you’re looking for,” she says finally. “But I remember the people. I can tell you about all the people I met and how they shaped me.”
After an enthusiastic nod, she begins. The world seems to tilt and suddenly I find myself in Lucknow. Not the city, but in my Nani’s story, I begin sketching out the details she tells me within my mind. The sepia begins being drawn out in harsh black lines and characters begin to take shape as she describes them.
“The entire environment of the College was so friendly. I remember feeling like I was always surrounded by friends when I was there. The hostels used to be above the classrooms and every morning we would just go down for classes. But above all, I remember one thing.”
Nani braces herself, the slightest pull back in her shoulders, the tilt of her head as she slips into the pull of the past, reliving her most colorful memories, which to me in sepia seem vivid, while to her must feel like bathing in a rainbow of remembrance.
“In our College, we had a very formidable headmistress. Ms Roshan Jahan. All the girls would be very scared of her. She was this lone force, an unmarried lady in a position of power who was educating women to be like her. She was an enlightened woman. But here was the strange part. She was such a progressive lady, being the headmistress of a big women’s college and advocating for women’s education and yet she was very strict with all of us. She was very conservative. And she was very big! She used to have trouble walking and with her strict demeanour, when she entered the room she would open both doors and squeeze in and glare at us and immediately silence would fall upon us in a hush. And yet she loved us girls limitlessly. She would make food from her own kitchens to send to any girl who had fallen sick and make sure all of us were comfortable and felt happy.
Zakia
I remember jab mere vaalid aaye the pehli baar college mein. He was immediately seated in the waiting room, it was his very first visit to me since I joined the College. I remember how annoyed he was when I came home from break and he told me the whole story. He had arrived at the college and asked to see Zakia Adhami. In the waiting room itself, he was asked a number of different personal questions until finally, they asked who he was there to see and why. And he told them in simple language that he was my father. Immediately Ms Roshan Jahan asked him in her bold voice.”
Nani begins an imperious imitation of the Headmistress she remembers so well. “‘Where is the proof?'” Nani quotes Ms Roshan Jahan. “‘Aap baap hai Zakia ke, yeh hume kaise maaloom. Hum kaise maan lein!?” (How would I know you are truly Zakia’s father?)
“And this was a man wearing pajama and a sherwaani! He was a lawyer! A classy man! My father was so angry he left the college premises without meeting me. And he refused to visit me again at the College! He never came back to Karamat Hussain Muslim Girls Women’s College after that first visit. And I remember him calling Ms. Roshan Jahan ‘bilkuli paagal khaatoon'” she raises her hand as she translates the Urdu. “A complete mad woman!”
“Every day during class, we would have left our room doors open and Ms Roshan Jahan would walk up to the upper level and do a sweep of every room.”
“Every day!?” I asked in surprise having never faced such strictness in my own education.
“Every single day.” Nani reaffirms. “She would make sure our rooms were clean, kept organized, the bistars were made. When she used to make her rounds she used to make sure no girl was keeping anything objectionable.”
“Objectionable?”
“Arey magazines, records vaghaira.” Nani clarifies what her version of objectionable was. “Actually I had two classmates, Mehru and Jean, and they were the daughters of Nawabs. And they used to have a tape recorder, and none of us girls had it. So we used to enjoy the music that the tape recorder used to play in the hostel. We used to listen to Mallika Pukhraj a ghazal singer. And Ms Roshan Jahan found out we girls would listen to music in the evenings. After all, there was nothing much to do after games in the field downstairs, basketball and all. In her rounds, she went and opened the closet and took the tape recorder, and both Jean and Mehru got scolded tremendously!”
Suddenly she pauses, breaking off at that.
“Did you ever hear of Anand Narayan Mulla?”
I nod my head at the mention of the poet. “His daughter used to teach me English. That is only one example of one of the behtareen teachers I had and she was soooo beautiful. Some of the best teachers. And then I had Razia Sajjad Zaheer as my Urdu teacher. Her father was a communist and was a big freedom fighter. She married Raj Babbar you know. At any rate, she was a very educated woman. She used to give me Urdu novels to read. Stories! One of the books was named, ‘Zaalim Mohabbat'” Nani waves her hand like the Queen of Genovia about to giving an over-enthusiastic wave before providing the unnecessary translation. “A Sinful Love!” She clarifies.
“Zaalim Mohabbat was written by a woman actually, Hijab Imtiaz Ali. At any rate,” the story finally starting to loop back. “There were two girls to one room, so I had just gotten this book, Zaalim Mohabbat, from Razia Sajjad Zaheer and it was lying in mine and my friend, Razia Sayeed’s, room. Razia Sayeed was my very best friend, I met her in Karamat Hussain only! I remember both of us would sit and cry together, because of how homesick we were. We are still friends today, she lives in London, Razia does.”
Left to right, Zakia Siddiqi and Razia Sayeed
Nani pauses looking at the bougainvillaea blooming outside, the fuschia bright against the lemon walls of the room. I wait for her to remember everything until she is ready to continue to recount.
“Anyway, Ms Roshan Jahan did her rounds and found the book lying on my table. She confiscated it and as soon as classes were over Razia and I were called to her chambers. And there she asked us in her sternest voice, who had given us the book. She asked us ‘Is this the kind of book to read? The name itself is sinful’ she said. We responded timidly that Razia Zaheer Aapa had given it to us to read. Immediately Razia Zaheer had judgement passed upon her.” Nani took on the imperious voice of Ms Roshan Jahan again.
“‘So it is Razia Zaheer who is spoiling my girls'” Nani imitates. “Immediately Razia Aapa was called, and a scolding was soundly administered to Razia Zaheer Aapa alongside a warning that she was never to give us such a book again.”
“But what was her problem with the book?” I asked Nani, having books confiscated by my own teachers before.
“Oh, she simply didn’t like the name. A Sinful Love, it was the name that was problematic for her.”
I let this information sink in, astounded by the revelation, that books could be confiscated on such grounds. But Nani doesn’t wait long. She is grasped by the flow of the memory she is in and she continues on.
“Aise hee there was a film. You know by that famous actor…” Nani pauses to remember the name. “Dilip Kumar!” Her whole body jolting in excitement. “Dilip Kumar ki nayi film! Deedar!” she pauses again, recounting the incident in her mind, methodical storyteller that she is.
“All us girls had wanted to see his new film. We went together Ms Roshan Jahan’s office to ask her if we could go and see the film. We couldn’t go alone you see, we were always taken by one of the teachers or one of the school wardens to the theatres, or anywhere for that matter. And I remember her answer still word for word. ‘Bilkul bhi nahi, iss qism ki khurrafaat filums dekhne ki aap logon ko koi zaroorat nahi, aap apne ghar baithiye.'” (Absolutely not! No one will watch rubbish films like this, sit at home!)
“What problem did she have with Dilip Kumar now?” I asked curiously.
“Arrey, why would she have a problem with Dilip Kumar?” Nani asks in exasperation as though I evidently haven’t grasped the concept that was Ms Roshan Jahan yet. “She had a problem with the name of the film! Deedar!”
“Deedar?” I ask, confused.
“It means to meet someone,” Nani says with an accompanying wiggle of eyebrows and a wavy sort of shake of her head, as though the meaning should be clear to someone as Hindi challenged as me.
“‘Kiska Deedar karogi?'” Ms. Roshan Jahan asked. And then she promptly took us for all kinds of English films, to widen our minds.”
“Then what?” I asked, waiting for the story to continue.
“What, then what?” Nani says with a finality, “Then I came to Aligarh Women’s College to study, what else?”
“Did you meet more teachers like Ms. Roshan Jahan?” I asked.
“Arey no, no.” she says leaning back, the room fading back into reality as my mind begins to leave my imagined Lucknow filled, now, with posters of Dilip Kumar, Zaalim Mohabbat and an overweight lady in a chikankari suit with a heart of gold running rampant through the inky streets with a tape recorder grasped over her head. The lemon walls and swirly upholstry come back into focus. “She was one of a kind.” Nani says with a sigh, clasping her wrinkled hands over her lap.
