I let my light, leak out of my veins
Translucent and silver.
I let it, dance around the cosmos
Skating amongst the planets
And all the other rocks and dust,
Spreading out like
Long fingers
Splayed across the universe
In an eternal hold.
I let it drip slowly
Leaving streaks of brilliance across my skin
Before dripping down my fingers
Into a pool of luminescent
Colors.
The gold of a sunny day,
The viridescence of the dusty skies
The azure of the hottest stars
And a thousand shades of ebony
In which they are able to glow.
I let my light illuminate,
The nooks in between which
The darkness sits
Steeped in silences
So that it may seem, a bit noisier
A bit more musical
Than before,
So that every murky crag
Of black night sky
Stuck in between the stars
Will seem heartbreakingly
Wondrous.
The stars are a wondrous thing to behold. They twinkle in the dark skies like little beacons of hope. A reminder of the light. For me, they’ve always held enchantment. The constellations even more so. After all, the stars are placed in the cosmos in no particular order. It is we who give them an order. We name them and connect them with pencil lines on graph paper and chart their position in the sky so we won’t forget. We name them according to how they look. Heracles, after the Greek hero, chasing the world looking for one more adventure. Cetus, the sea-monster, roaming the skies to satiate his lust for flesh. Dragons and fairies, hunters and beasts. All written in hard to read shapes across the skies. We have given our stories to the stars. Embroidered them across the sky so that thousands of years from now we won’t forget because the steadfast stars will be there, to remind us. So here’s me introducing – The Constellation Series. Telling the stories of the stars that we might not know, depicting emotions that we feel in stories we no longer remember, except on clear nights when we use our fingers to find the shapes. Creating the feelings that those stories were meant to so long ago when they were first inked across the sky.
For this series, I got a fantastic chance to collaborate with the extremely talented graphic designer, Sana Hassan. She’s done a lovely job creating the watercolor art for each poem!
Here’s an ode to the stars, the oldest storytellers in the universe…
Indian marriages are considered sacred unions. Once the pheras have been taken and the ‘swaha’ said it’s permanent, this is the way of life. Divorce is a rare option. In some ways I find myself pondering the flip side of the Indian marital coin. We’re taught that once the mangalsutra is on and the sindoor applied, it’s forever. Perhaps this is what gives us a penchant to make our marriages work. And at the same time, we find it hard to extract ourselves from situations where it’s not working. Domestic violence and marital rape cases in India are one of the highest in the world. And amongst these percentages, sanskari practices and modern trends, that we desperately try to blend in our marriages, we have someone who ‘makes matches in heaven’. Say hello to Sima Taparia, from Mumbai.
Late at night unable to sleep, I put on ‘Indian Matchmaking’ prepared to be thoroughly entertained and came out horrified. Sima Taparia is ‘the top matchmaker’, from Mumbai India. She is working with over 135 Indian families to help them arrange their marriages. Arranged marriages are an old part of Indian culture, and as many Indians have witnessed in their parents and their own experiences, they are as capable of working as love marriages are. So where does Sima Aunty fit in? She works with families and gets a ‘biodata’ for the girl or boy she’s matching and then hands them out to the other families she’s working with and makes them meet. It’s the classical dating app – ‘Interfering Indian Aunty’ and it does work in several situations. So where then does the problem lie?
Sima Aunty’s dictate on how to find a match
The reality show/documentary is problematic in a number of ways. Netflix has picked up on some of India’s worst qualities and showcased them centre stage – casteism, colourism, classism. So does the inherent problem lie first and foremost in the idea that the general public finds this show hilarious or in the fact that these are real problems that the youth of India continues to face, which Sima Aunty does nothing to change, despite the huge platform she has been given.
Let’s start by looking at Sima Aunty. She’s a woman who believes that God has placed her on earth to make matches that are pre-ordained in heaven. She uses Buddhist chanting, which is used to soothe the mind, to change the negative energy of another person (who is not even in the room with her) into a ‘positive vibe’. She believes in the age-old idea that the matching of kundlis is the very first thing to see and that the pandit ji who reads faces is the primary pool from which accurate knowledge about people will flow. Give her some robes and a chandan ka tika and she could be the next brand, like Patanjali. Not one thing she says on the show in terms of her duty as a matchmaker – is rooted in reality (i.e. I am good at this job therefore I should do it). I am a firm believer in ‘to each his own’, so more power to Sima Aunty as long as she doesn’t enforce her beliefs on her clients. (SPOILER ALERT: she does).
What’s more is that Sima Aunty has a sort of fixation on slim and trim, fair and tall and caste. There isn’t a single episode in which she doesn’t say either ‘fair, tall and well educated’ or ‘pretty, slim-trim, well-cultured family’. Most of the times these comments are in regards to the woman. I can count on my fingers the number of times she refers to the boy as the same. The first thing Sima Aunty tells Snehal Totla regarding Pradhyuman Maloo, is ‘the reason I thought you both would match well is because he is also slim, trim and tall… you are also slim trim and tall.’ Seems like Sima Aunty can pick out two people who look alike in a line-up and lead them to the mandap. I guess it’s its own skill. It was a blow to her credibility and it led to many questions arising in my mind in regards to how she matches people. If it’s based on only looks I’m not surprised that none of the clients on the show could make it work.
So rather than dissect what’s wrong with this series as a whole, I’m going to take it apart through a few of Sima Aunty’s clients and emphasize the main indiscretions this show commits at the end. Just to keep things fresh.
APARNA
Here’s the first thought that went through my mind on hearing Aparna’s predicament. A ‘thirty-four’ year old woman – the time period for getting a good match is long gone. That’s probably the first issue we need to address as a society, our judgement towards women who get married at a later age. We look at women as spinsters when they pass into their 30s. It’s a mindset so deeply ingrained in us, that even I, coming from a liberal household, couldn’t help but think it was too late for her. And I would bet money on the fact that most viewers started with the same thought.
While talking to Aparna and her mother, there is a pained expression on Sima Aunty’s face. She tries hard to hide her clear disdain at Aparna’s personality and fails. Aparna is an educated lawyer, she knows what she wants and she isn’t afraid to voice it. True that she may come across as a bit abrasive but she seems adamant on what she wants. Sima Aunty did not appreciate this as evidenced by her many comments. Problem #2, Sima Aunty doesn’t seem to realize this is a professional relationship she’s entered into. Just because Aparna is calling her ‘Sima Aunty’, doesn’t give her the right or relationship to pass comments on Aparna’s personality. The comments passed on the show give Sima Aunty an unprofessional air and I wouldn’t go to her simply on that basis. Furthermore, when Aparna emphasizes on wanting someone who is on the same page as her, Sima aunty brushes this off as swiftly as she can by saying ‘you must compromise, you must adjust.’
Here’s where the problem lies – marriage in my point of view won’t work if one doesn’t compromise. But the chances of Sima Aunty saying to a male client, what she does to Aparna is highly unlikely. She barely mentions it while talking to/about the hugely problematic Akshay. And even her explanation lacks, Sima Aunty makes no effort to explain what she means by adjustment. Aparna comments seconds later that there are parts of her personality that she wouldn’t be willing to change for anyone, which seems reasonable enough. Sima Aunty does a shoddy job of explaining to Aparna that she doesn’t have to adjust and compromise her personality 100%. In fact, she doesn’t bother saying that at all. She simply says “in a marriage, you have to adjust”. Does that imply then, that Aparna must mould herself completely around her husband? Or does that mean there has to be some compromise on both sides? Badly done Sima Aunty. Either she’s completely misogynistic or she’s bad at her job, which is it? It’s hard to say…
PRADHYUMAN
Pradhyuman has a fixation on attraction. That’s his primary criteria for meeting a woman – the first impression she makes on him will be based on physical appearance. He tries to hide it by adding the words mentally attractive, after a bit of effort on his part, trying to make what he’s saying not sound as bad as it does. His friends say that the primary characteristic that Pradhyuman looks for in a woman, is her looks. To which he laughingly agrees. Sima Aunty doesn’t find this problematic as evidenced by Snehal Totla above. What Pradhyuman has essentially done, is reduce his partners to their face value. Let’s address the problems here. What happens when his wife gets pregnant? She gains weight and suddenly becomes unattractive (to Pradhyuman). What’s Pradhyuman going to do then? What happens when she gets zits on her menstrual cycle, is unable to lose the baby weight, gets wrinkles when she ages. Does the attraction die? What happens when you have nothing to talk about, bond over and no similar interests. Does the attraction die? Only Pradhyuman can answer these questions. But Sima Aunty doesn’t address this. She waves it off and says ‘He’s fussy, I’ll have to work extra hard to find him a match.’ The rest of Pradhyuman’s criteria are fairly vague. Problematic? Hugely. Did Pradhyuman even see anything other than Rushali’s photograph – Sima Aunty says she’s tall, she’s slim, she’s fair, she’s a model. Pradhyuman is visibly excited and says she dresses well, looks nice and carries herself well. She might as well have been mute and deaf and he wouldn’t have noticed.
AKSHAY
Perhaps the weirdest way I’ve seen the Oedipus Complex in real life…
I am not usually judgemental. But this family made it really very hard… Akshay will bear the brunt of my disdain. Or rather, I can’t find it in my heart to feel such strong emotions for a mere puppet on strings. I’ll direct my disdain towards Preeti. Preeti is every bahu’s worst nightmare. She is the saas from the Indian TV serials you and I grew up watching. I wouldn’t be surprised if she lifted her kurta and you found the umbilical cord still connected to her and her beloved son. Akshay is everything that is wrong with this show, this society and Indian marriages in general. Akshay wants a woman exactly like his mother. His mother wants a woman who is flexible. Seems incredibly hypocritical when Preeti herself is not flexible towards the Bahu she’s bringing in.
Domestic staff in Indian households work incredibly hard. Having lived on my own, I know the amount of hard work they put into their jobs. What Preeti essentially wants is an addition to her domestic staff, who she doesn’t have to add to her payroll. She wants someone who will nanny her future grandchildren, who will open the front door and who will be running back and forth from the dinner table to serve the men and elders rather than enjoy her own meal. She wants someone who will cook meals, clean the house and bring chai every day at four o clock. I have immense respect for housewives. But I don’t agree with the idea that to be a married woman is to be unpaid indentured labour. And that’s exactly what Akshay and Preeti want.
As for Radhika – congratulations, you escaped right on time. And to Preeti – better start looking before the BP problems resurface.
HUMOR ASIDE, WHAT ARE THE PROBLEMS?
Netflix has picked up on this show and documented Sima Aunty’s work to the world showcasing the age-old tradition of Indian arranged marriages to the world. They’ve showcased several problematic individuals in the show and not only highlighted the problems in the system on display but the hidden shadows in our marital system that we as an audience try to brush under the carpet. Here’s a quick aerial view of each.
Prevalent and explicit casteism today:
Sima mentions in every episode that caste is important to look at. She includes caste/community in her biodatas in the top few lines and matches according to the clients ask. What she’s essentially done, or rather allowed to take place is the reinforcements of rigidity in the ranking of the caste system. It’s no secret that casteism is rearing its ugly head once more in the country and historically it’s hard for families to accept marriages between drastically lower caste and upper caste matches. I wasn’t expecting Sima aunty to be able to change this mindset in one documentary. But what I definitely didn’t expect was the shocking airing of casteism as though it were dirty laundry she was putting out for the neighbours to see. What this essentially does is spotlight something that is already considered okay to do and allow the general public who are watching the show to shrug it off as acceptable. I won’t delve into the religious aspect because in the new India it’s highly unlikely for any type of inter-religious mingling in terms of matrimony. What I was expecting was for Sima Aunty to try and make an effort to explain to any of her clients or the viewers that looking at caste is an outdated practice, which she wouldn’t like to endorse. But Sima Aunty makes no effort, in fact, the way she points it out, and the way she often sticks to specific caste groups within a range for her clients. She makes no effort to alter the system in any way despite being given immense power to do so with her platform, background and ability to sway the clients. She not only endorses that it is acceptable to look at caste but rather highlights it as a must in her method. Does Sima Aunty work with clients who are Dalits? And if so does she give them only matches within the same caste group?
It’s the propagation of a highly problematic ancient system that has been seen from the ancient scriptures as well as the most widely read Indian myth, the Mahabharata. If we were to bring all the concepts from there into the future, dowry, kanyadaan, agnipariksha, the eight rules of marriage from the Manusmriti, etc. and a client looked at these as must-haves, Sima Aunty would say ‘I have to look at my client’s preferences.’ All in a days work after all.
The contention around compromise :
Why not give it a try Akshay, people all over the world have two working parents? Or will you have to ask Preeti first?
When one looks at Aparna, the first and foremost thought that went through my mind was, she’s so demanding. But the inherent thought process involved in that idea is wrong. Personally, I believe that compromise should be equal. But let’s be fair, had any man been as demanding, would Sima Aunty have used the words she did for Aparna? Unstable, demanding, negative, egoistic, stubborn… Akshay/Preeti demand a number of highly unreasonable things and Sima Aunty laughs and says ‘Akshay is not willing to look at the proposals.’ Why didn’t Sima Aunty say – Akshay/Preeti should be flexible, he should not be so demanding, he is a bit stubborn, he is an overgrown man child and she’s surprised his mother let him leave her womb? Why shouldn’t a woman who is demanding and unwilling to compromise be treated the same as a man who might do the same?
The crux comes down to the fact that even today we look at women making the compromise 99% of the time. Why is it that Geeta the other elite matchmaker the show features thinks it’s okay in the 21st century to tell Ankita (another of Sima Aunty’s clients) that the woman has to make more compromises and if her husband wants to move for his work she should be ready to pack her bags and go with him despite running her own successful enterprise. Might as well tell the guy, ‘Here’s a pack mule you can roam the world with, while she asks no questions’.
This is an India where women have to ask their potential partners, ‘Will you let me work?’ The fact that as a woman you have to ‘ask permission’ to make a decision, that is for you, your own security, your independence and your happiness is appalling. A world where you have to ask someone for permission to work and have a career, is not a world of equals. And yet we don’t laud the fact that Aparna wants to work, she wants someone who has some general knowledge about the places they travel to and she wants someone who is ambitious about their career. She knows what she wants, and that according to Sima Aunty is exactly why she shouldn’t get it. Sima Aunty makes no effort to try and change Preeti’s mind. She doesn’t tell her that working women are not as abnormal as she may find them. She doesn’t treat Aparna and Ankita the same way she treats Akshay.
This is hugely problematic for me. I have seen my mother, my sister and both my grandmothers working in successful businesses and being the best in their fields. They are hugely successful and they have never once been stopped. It is upsetting for me to see a woman working in such an influential position as Sima Taparia is, to reduce the efforts of women such as these and more with a few mere sentences about what she thinks Aparna is all about because of her demands.
Playing with Marriages, The Use of the Kundli:
Now, this is a fairly short complaint because it’s a religious belief in a way, which I in no way intend on attacking. But I do believe that leaving final matches on the matching of horoscopes is archaic and it inspires a culture of laziness. On the basis of kundli’s you can make easy excuses as to why it didn’t work out or reasons to stay in a marriage that isn’t working (bacche kundli mein 5 out of 5 match tha…), or to explain why you aren’t great at your job, as Sima Aunty conveniently does.
All I’m trying to say, is that to leave potential marriages to a chart that the pandit ji drew up at the temple based on time of birth, rashis, yoga, etc. It seems like an easy way out for Sima Aunty. But again this is a point, that is of completely personal belief and as a reader can be disregarded if you feel it is incorrect.
The Advantages of being Attractive
I don’t really know how to tackle this point. Let me start by saying that in class 12 English while teaching us how to write a matrimonial ad for the Board exams, I clearly remember my teacher instructing the class to be careful as to what we put down. “Don’t talk about height, skin color, weight, eye color, caste, religion and any other controversial demarcation.” This is incorrect. I remember thinking CBSE had given me at least one life skill before I graduated. Chalo, if I don’t get a job, am unable to buy a house and in general, am unsuccessful, I’ll be able to advertise myself correctly enough for marriage. This is false knowledge. If I submitted the ad I sumbitted for my Board Exams, to a newspaper I assure every reader, that not one boy would have called. Not even the ones whose mummies were having high BP and palpitations at the idea of their sons being single. I will provide a single example, and then urge you to scour the newspapers for more so you might witness the plethora of nonsense people are publishing.
Sima Aunty explicitly says it is easy for her to find matches for tall, fair, slim-trim people. How did Nadia feel about that? She’s got a dusky, dark complexion. Vyasar? Who is by no definition slim-trim (Fact of observation, in no way is this intended as an insult). Ankita and Aparna are curvy, Akshay has a dark complexion, and Pradhyuman has no brain. Here’s the thing – attraction differs from person to person. Handing out physical descriptions in the biodata makes it easy for others to prey on physical insecurities and, for lack of a better word, flaws. I’d bet my life on the fact that if Pradhyuman had been shown a photograph of any woman on the show (Aparna, Nadia, Ankita, Rupam, Manisha, Rashi) his answer to meet them itself, would be an unsurprising no. I felt personally attacked by this. Everyone has their insecurities and to be told that to get married you need to fit in these three categories, tall, fair and slim is an incredibly tall order for any man or woman to fill.
The generalization is far too wide. Say I’m all three and I have horrific scarring on my face (which is true, I suffered for eight years with severe acne and scarring). Does that mean it’s okay to not give me the best of the matches for me that Sima Aunty has to offer. That’s the sort of pattern Sima Aunty applies. I detest judgement on physical appearances and yet the fact that I’m now forced to write this increases my horror at Sima Aunty’s methods.
Vyasar was matched only with other over-weight women. Pradhyuman was matched with Sneha because they fit into the same categories physically. Aparna was matched with men of similar physical build. (This is all personal observation). It’s incredibly sad.
WHATS THE VERDICT?
Here’s my final point of order. It is unrealistic for me to assume that one woman, even Sima Taparia from Mumbai sent by God himself, can change the system. It’s not going to happen. My point of contention lies mainly in the fact that Sima Aunty has a huge position in the matrimonial system of India, she now has an international platform and she doesn’t do the smallest thing to try and change it. She infuses the show and thereby the system first with her own archaic and unprofessional views and them embraces the highly troubling mindsets of the rest of the population. I would have liked to see her say one time, “Beta, don’t look only at physical appearances and physical attraction.” or “Caste is not so important in today’s day and age.” If she had said these things even once towards the opinions coming her way I would have been sold a little on the show because I could watch it knowing, at least she’s trying. If she hadn’t made comments on Aparna, tried to base her matches on the face-reading pandit and displayed a clear discrepancy on the way she treats male and female clients, I might have appreciated the work she’s dedicated her life to. But the sad and simple fact is, she didn’t and above any other reason that is why Indian Matchmaking is a problem.
So, here’s raising a glass to Sima Aunty from Mumbai – Congratulations, you’ve failed at doing what really counts and you’ve done it ungracefully. Wonder what the God who sent you has to say about that. This is Zoya from Delhi, signing off.
This was such a sweet romance! It was a light read, perfect to pass an afternoon. It’s funny and romantic and filled with drama. It’s a perfect romantic comedy. A Girl Like You by Gemma Burgess came out years ago in 2011. I’m picking it up now because lately I’ve been in the mood for reading very Nora Ephron-esque romantic comedies and this didn’t disappoint.
The story follows Abby in her late 20’s. After breaking up with her long time boyfriend she finds herself single for the first time since high school and living with a very handsome male roommate Robert, as she tries to get the hang of dating. With Robert being the charming womanizer that he is, Abby soon finds herself taking lessons from Robert on how to date like a man, and come out shining.
This is a pretty classic romance trope, girl meets player, player teaches girl in the art of… well playing and inevitably sparks fly, there is an accidental kiss and they live happily ever after. While the story itself follows the trope, it sells itself wonderfully. It comes across as original despite the trope, and in the romance genre when you have to follow certain tropes because they’ve been established through the ages that’s the most difficult thing to accomplish – originality. And A Girl Like You has originality in spades!
“I’ve discovered the secret to successful singledom. I’m acting like a man. And it’s working.”
― Gemma Burgess,
The language is very very British, filled with colloquialisms and colourful slang from the 2010s. There are lots of humorous moments alongside deeper philosophical drunk conversations. The story flows simply following Abby on good and bad dates and building up her friendship with Robert.
More than the romance I absolutely adored Abby and Robert’s friendship. It was so cute! With their banter and their heart to heart conversations they were so comfortable around each other, and in any long-lasting relationship that’s so important! When things got dark for Abby, Robert was the one who came looking for her, found her, helped her out and didn’t pressurise her. They have so much chemistry and Gemma builds it up through their friendship till you’re at that amazing moment where you’re hitting your head because you know these two people love each other and so does every other character except for the dunces themselves!
This is a romance I’d recommend to everyone and even if you aren’t a romance fan it is a lovely light-hearted read filled with laugh out loud moments that can help when you’re looking for a lighter read. God knows, everyone needs some happiness this year!
Here’s the thing about Paris. It’s been written about a thousand times over with the air of elusive romance that even lovers steeped in flirtations sigh about. So when you go in with a cynical nose upturned, ready to find a city that’s been oversold, be prepared to be disappointed, because Paris is everything that’s been written about it. And more… The romance lies stagnant in the air, as people walk in droves on the banks of the Seine, the greenish water rippling with the breeze, the gothic buildings tower over you as you walk along the small cubby stores alongside the road selling vintage art prints and souvenirs. The perfect blend of modern graffiti on the walls that beckons in friendly casualness and the gothic, baroque history that looms over you in startling beauty. The only way to fall in love with this city is to walk its streets slowly, experience all that travel books have warned you about, eat your weight in decadent pastries and airy macaroons, and do it all with just a pinch of madness.
The trip started off with a five am journey from London St. Pancras Station to Paris’s famed Gare Du Nord. I, with my penchant for mishaps, looked at the wrong train times and my best friend, Julia, overslept, both meeting each other outside the dorms, half-dressed. When you travel to Paris in flannel sleep pyjamas paired with leather boots, you can guarantee it’s going to be a crazy kind of adventure. Julia and I hailed an Uber driver, who drove at break-neck speed which had me praying for my life as Jules made casual small talk with the driver as to why we were late. It was by some small miracle that we made it on board and collapsed on our seats and then finally stopped to laugh. London to Paris is only a two-hour train journey so when we stepped out of Gare Du Nord, the sun shone bright and sunny and the train station was thronged by taxi drivers.
Here’s a tip – when you need a cab in Paris always use Uber and your ears. When we sat in the cab, suitcases set, the cabbie a young wiry man with a heavy French accent rattled off the number of euros it would take to get to Champs-Élysées, where we were staying. I readily agreed, thinking to myself that 5 euros to go a forty-minute distance was a pretty sweet deal. The cabbie turns up the radio and lowers the window, the wind rushing alongside us as we take in the streets, apartment buildings still adorned with black gothic balconies and trees on each side of the road forming a colonnade of green. It was a stunning entry to the city as we stopped just a few meters away from the Arch. The cabbie opened my door and held out a palm for his money. It was after placing the crisp five euro note in his hand and registering his aghast expression that I realized the price for the ride was a steep 75 euros. It was like the splash of cold water that your mom dumped on you to wake you up for school. At any rate, we checked into Hotel Cecilia on Avenue Mac Mahon, brushed our “We almost missed the train here” hair, applied some lip-gloss and headed for the metro, each of us buying ten tickets before we headed out on the M1 train to the Louvre, feeling very Parisian. The train ran by as we took pictures and posed waiting for our stop until we realized we were on the wrong train going in the opposite direction. It took us a while to ask around before getting on the right one. Always, always, always learn a few French phrases before you go to France because everything in the metro will be announced and written only in French.
Café Mollien, Louvre Museum
The Louvre is a work of art. The palace, now a museum sprawls, out in true French splendor, the glass pyramid glinting in the sun. The magnitude of artwork to be seen is so great, that it’s best to make a list of what you really want to see rather than rush around the museum trying to see everything. The line to see the Mona Lisa was exorbitantly long and unsurprisingly enough, no one was actually stopping to look at da Vinci’s famed smile, they were looking at her through tiny screens. Beyond the Louvre lies the Tuileries Garden, beautiful but sparse as the spring just begins to set in. And from there it’s a short walk to Notre Dame along the banks of the Seine. While Notre Dame was closed due to the unfortunate fire, we got to see the beautiful St. Chapelle.
St. Chapelle
St. Chapelle was the royal chapel on the Ilé de la Cité consecrated in the year 1248 and considered to be the height of Gothic architecture, but it’s main claim to fame is the magnitude of stained glass windows. The colors range from glassy carmines to translucent gold and deep, deep azures, all splaying a rainbow-tinted light show on the floor.
Parisian weather, not unlike London weather, can change in the blink of an eye. It went from sunny to cloudy to pouring within a few hours. Julia and I were soaked through. And the next morning we woke to still, thundering raindrops outside our window and dreary grey skies. We had to choose activities that wouldn’t get us wet, and so we very wisely chose Sacré Coeur (this would perhaps epitomize face-palm moments).
View from the top of the Basilica
The Basilica was built by the French as a symbol of Catholic repentance. It lies above the city, in the quiet, colorful streets of Montmartre. The view is brilliant on an ordinary day, and on a rainy one, the city gets a foggy air of mystery. The Basilica gives off an Italian vibe which is unsurprising given the Roman-Byzantine style of architecture that’s used to construct it. The insides are filled with lovely stained glass windows and an impressive organ, the silence is generous and holds a separate sort of eloquence and peace. It is in itself a voice. We got to the Basilica around 8 am and had the entire spot to ourselves for a good hour and a half, where we enjoyed the view, looked around, and then decided to climb to the top. When you go to Sacré Coeur and climb to the top, you need to be prepared for a long climb, narrow and steep steps made of slick stone. And when it’s raining, the steps turn slippery and it feels at one point, like you’re crawling across the roof. I was splayed against the wall moving inch by inch as Julia basically ran up the stone steps waiting patiently at intervals for me to catch up. But even on rainy days and despite the horrific climb, the view from the top of Sacre Coeur is breath-taking. It holds its own kind of magic, foggy and dreary grey magic, but it’ll seem more enchanting if you aren’t scared of heights, or perhaps more accurately – don’t suffer from the fear of falling. Once we had made the perilous climb back down to Earth we hopped a cab to Rue De Rivoli and got an early morning, no waiting in line table at Angelina Cafe.
The hype around the cafe is understandable given the divine quality of the food. The coffee is dark and rich, the hot chocolate so thick it’s almost a sauce. The lemon and raspberry macarons burst with tart flavor and the croissant sandwiches are fresh and aromatic. The presentation is done in a very dainty, rustic style. It was the best meal we had on the trip, though that can be attributed to me given that in my rush to do everything I barely stopped for food and didn’t let Julia either.
[wpvideo KvzrziVO]
From there we made our way to the Musee D’orsay through the drizzly lanes of Paris, something out of a montage. The museum is a beautiful structure. It used to be an old train station and the interior architecture is a thing of beauty. The museum also houses a lot of impressionist artwork from the 19th century, but the true beauty is the architecture. That is perhaps a point to be contested but it was the best part of the museum for me.
Street markets are always a fun thing to do and Parisian street markets are filled with colorful character. Marché des Enfants Rouge is a market dating back to the 15th century. It’s bursting at the seams with all kinds of cuisines and small variety of flower shops. Bread of every kind, that the bakers tear apart in front of you, crackles as it breaks apart both visually and audibly. Wheels of cheese carved into intricate designs and elegant samples displayed on small trays. Whole fish ogling people in a deadened stare as you walk by. Pastries with crumbly bases coat your fingers with buttery flakes and ganaches that melt on your tongue, explosive with flavor. The scent of fresh potatoes, garlic butter, meat swirling around in aromatic smoke as they are cooked for the many patrons thronging this haunt of Paris. The artwork on the boards of different stands jumps out at you in colorful exuberance. There’s something small for everyone. We purchased a slice of lemon tart that glowed so bright it looked like it had been cut from the sun itself.
The neighborhood around the market is less historic and more modern. The shops are small and are mostly vintage clothing (much to Julia’s delight). The storefronts are faded and the walls in places are covered with what can perhaps be described as existentialist street art. The interiors however are loud, with racks of clothes and fur-covered loungers for husbands of shoppers (or for me while Jules shopped), music pulsates across the air as men and women shop through the area.
The day ended with a spectacular sunset at the Pont Neuf. The sky was like a piece of artwork. The river rippled below tranquil, broken only in spells when boats filled with deafening party-goers crossed underneath. The sky was dark and cloudy save for a sliver of brilliant sun, that tinted the whole thing dazzling orange. Every sunset in Paris is an enchanting experience. The bridge is filled with romancing couples and street singers and artists who give accompanying violin or accordion music. Aside from the effulgent fire streaking across the skies everything seems to fall under the greys of a 50’s film until it is engulfed by the deep black of the night shimmering with the starry Tour Eiffel. It was the perfect end to the day.
Sunset at Pont Neuf
Having learned my lesson from the mind-numbingly terrifying climb up to the dome of Sacré Coeur, the moment I saw the sky filled with sunshine the next morning, I donned my beret and did the 20-yard walk to the Arch so I could climb it and see the view, while the steps were dry. The steps are much wider than the narrow inclined ones at the Basilica but higher. The climb requires stamina (in which, sadly – I am severely lacking). I reached the top, heaving great breaths trying to gulp air and take in the magnificence of Paris around me. It’s a city at a lessened height than the Basilica and the Eiffel Tower, but very much worth it. You see in greater detail the lives of everyday Parisians walking the streets like ants, dots in the distance on their balconies and in their homes. It’s like seeing local life in Paris through an aerial lense. The Arch also happens to be a brilliant spot to live near given that you can take the Hop On Hop Off Bus from there. The bus is a brilliant way to see Paris. You get to see the city and you can get off and on where and when you like. We took the red route through the main city and then the blue on the outer lines which takes you through the red light district of Pigalle where Julia was scandalized by the number of stores displaying lingerie and very graphic sex toys and through Montmartre, where the streets are charmingly cobbled and unsatisfyingly quiet. Here the buildings are painted in charming pastels and the cafes have outdoor seating which are filled by locals and tourists chatting, eating, and smoking cigars. Here’s the catch – the blue line on our bus didn’t have any commentary. We sat looking out waiting to alight the bus at Montmartre and explore while the bus drummed out a string of Parisian classical music the most prominent being the supremely irritating ‘Aux Champs-Elysées’ sung in a high pitched nasal tune. Fifty minutes later we were back where we started on the red line, absolutely baffled as to how we had been so obtuse as to miss our stop. We had to do the entire journey on the blue line, again to get off at the right stop and then a third time on our way back to the red line. By the time we got back from our multiple joy rides on the blue line, evening had settled over the city and the insipid sky blue turned into a greying aqua. Julia and I walked from the Le Marais near the Cathedrale Notre Dame all the way to the Eiffel Tower. Here having been forewarned by the great Indian being that is my mother to be wary of pick-pockets I shed my backpack and any other non-essentials and left them with Julia who would wait in a nearby cafe while I went up. Here’s the thing – the view is a masterpiece, the sunset is breath-taking and disasters follow me wherever I go. My phone which had been at 70% when I went up crashed after the first few pictures and when I got it back to working the battery was at an earth-shattering 1%. And I had absolutely no idea where Julia was waiting, no way to call an Uber to get home and no idea how to get out of the mess I was evidently in. But at the top of the tower, I was, and that experience would not go to waste. So I watched the sun set over the city in a panoramic display trying not to panic. Once night had fallen and I made my way down I risked a text to Julia asking her where she was and receiving a prompt response. I told her the predicament I was in and then saw the screen go black as the battery tragically died. No google maps, no idea of where the restaurant was, and no clue what Julia was going to do. I headed back the way we walked where there were a number of small restaurants, sprinting to meet Julia and miraculously found the tiny cafe she mentioned.
“My friend!” I gasped, my lack of stamina rearing its ugly head once again. “My friend was here! Polish, brown-haired girl.” I said hunched over trying to catch some air. The waiter, an old man looked at me with a small smile and said “Ah yes! She just left, to look for her friend.” I looked at him in dismay. “Don’t worry!” he said handing me a charger and a glass of water. “Wait five minutes for it to charge. Then call her! And if you can’t find her we will call the police.” waving it off as if this was an everyday occurrence. When I called Julia a few minutes later she was looking for me at the entrance of the tower, also gasping for breath. Our paths had crossed in our mad dash towards each other and we probably didn’t even realize it. It was an anxious night for both of us which now fills us with hysterical laughter. “I went to every security guard to ask about you!” Julia exclaimed when she made her way back to the cafe slumping across me handing me my backpack heavy with a charging wire and two battery packs. We sat there waiting to see the tower light up at the end of the hour with a shower of twinkling lights. And the view and the company of Julia perhaps made the whole ordeal worth all the trouble. Tired by our many rides across the blue line and the constant test to my physical education abilities, I printed out our tickets for Disneyland the next day, set the alarm, and tried to rest.
View from the top of the Eiffel Tower
When I awoke at 6 am, I got dressed, donned sneakers rather than boots, and then woke Julia and we went down for breakfast before we caught the train to the amusement park. Just as we were about to step out of the hotel to reach the park early I opened the ticket to check everything was in order and noticed that I had read the wrong times and we were about to leave four hours too early. Sheepishly I turned to Julia who was rummaging through her purse to return the large room key to the receptionist, when I told her what had happened she simply went still, and then hunched over and began to laugh. So we went back up to our rooms, slept a bit longer, and then left for Disneyland when the sun was actually shining. It seemed like it would go off without a hitch when we exited and saw the large pink castle framed against the sky, a charming picture. We pressed our metro tickets to the scanners at the exit so the small booths would open and let us out. They beeped red. Over and over again. I was stumped. These were brand new metro tickets that had received a clear green beep when we left from Avenue Mac Mahon. Why wouldn’t these tickets let us out? We were quite stuck. So unknowingly we pressed a large red button at the handicap scanner and tried to explain our problem in English. The person on the other end didn’t understand and the doors simply flew open and we fled out of the station. Had I known then what I know now, I would probably never had the guts to do it. It turns out you have to buy a different sort of metro ticket to get to Disneyland and the normal ones just won’t suffice. The penalty of course is some much cherished time in the slammer and an exorbitant 90 euro fine. Having gotten away with it, I can walk with a little swagger in my step now, because I can claim to have broken a law in another country.
Here’s the thing about Disneyland, if you’re not a kid, the magic sort of disappears. You have to be a fan of the vomit-inducing roller coasters to have the most amount of fun, which Julia was and I, was not. We did all the rides, Julia the more scary ones, and I did the lighter ones, unable to contain my derisive laughter when we got to the Magic Tea Cups. Julia did manage to get me onto a ride Crush Coaster, named after the turtles in Finding Nemo, where I screamed continuously for the entire minute and a half without pausing to draw a breath. Julia didn’t even have a chance to scream she was laughing too hard at my one, lengthy, never-ending, high pitched scream that evidently scared the six-year-old behind us. There’s a tiny catch, to truly enjoy the best part of Disneyland – the theatrics in the parade and the jaw-dropping fireworks, you should stay at the Park’s resort. There’s not much to do once you’ve done the rides and not much food to eat on a budget that isn’t sugary waffles and mozzarella sticks. We were tired and the wait for the 10 pm fireworks seemed never-ending. Nevertheless it was worth it. Magnificent colors lit up the sky in explosive displays, song and waterworks and fiery infernos of colors sweep you away in the magic you probably felt as a kid that seemed missing from the park throughout the day.
It was a good experience, but not something I would repeat. And if you ask Julia, I’m sure you’ll get a far funnier and darker response.
Our final day started early, with timed entry into the Palace of Versailles, and this time our alarms didn’t go off and we awoke a bit too late. It was a mad dash through train station after train station, making sure to this time, purchase the correct metro ticket. We raced to the final train and watched the glass doors close without us behind them. It was a comical moment as I tried to get the doors to open in despair and watched the train leave without us.
When we got to the Palace, Julia did a bit of pleading, flashed a student ID and we were in. It almost felt like a waste to buy the ticket at all. Versailles perhaps defines French opulence in a way no other monument or relic of French royalty can. Gold and gilded edges, intricate gardens, multiple stone fountains, silk and velvet, rainbow tints in each different room. Creams and ivories, tangerines and sunshine, emerald and limes, violets and lavender, rose and salmon. Each room served a purpose, some that seem exceedingly inane now and some that make some modicum of sense. The gardens were so large that we tired just walking through them in the search for the musical fountains at one point splitting up. As I walked in circles looking for the fountain shows I espied a figure sunbathing on the bench a familiar purse under her head. On closer inspection it was Jules, napping peacefully like a cat on a sunny day, too tired to look for the fountains anymore. It seemed like an apt solution until we realized that there was a shuttle that could take us from place to place within the palace grounds.
When we got back to Paris we got off the train at the Tower, ate dinner at the Cafe where we first lost each other, and then walked all the way to the Pont Alexander III to watch the tower light up. It was the perfect end to the trip, listening to La Vie En Rose and singing loudly and rather badly as we watched the very emblem of Paris glow gold across the Seine.
This trip, is in a way, my love letter to Paris. It marked me with memories of our madness and I marked it with the same, my footsteps against the cobblestone roads, my terrible singing in the air of the Pont Neuf, my fingerprints at Ladureé and Angelina. It was a dream that came true to be there experiencing spring in the city with one of my favorite people. The glamour and glitz, the history, and the adventure all culminated to press very fond memories of this trip against my mind and heart. It was an experience that had all the essential elements to help someone grow, humor, friendship, awe, and a splash of crazy. Or as many have argued, a steady waterfall of crazy. And if I had to do it all again, to see the city for the first time again, I would choose to do it all exactly the same way. To find Paris the way I did, on this trip or not at all. And that is perhaps the best romance, the city could have given me.
I looked around at the variety of people that are moving around in front of the large mosque. Sweat soaked vendors shout out their wares in broken sentences, the words broken by dialect, sometimes Hindi, sometimes English, sometimes Telegu. The smell of meat being charred into delicious mouthwatering kebabs and skewered by hands covered in a thick coating of masalas, cumin, chilli, haldi, laung. The shine of rows and rows of rainbow tinted bangles glinting in the light, some simple coloured rings of glass, others made of lac, dotted with gaudy rhinestones and crystals. The sound of boiling water swishing from cup to cup as they concocted Irani chai served with a single Osmania biscuit, at the tea stall, seeping the scene into a romantic sepia, like being a part of an old film about Persian history. Rows of bindis, and earrings, and all sorts of other colourful knick knacks.
This is the market that sits right at the roots of the Char Minar. It’s filled with vibrancy and character. There is a mustachioed man selling rip off sunglasses. “Only 250 rupees!” he calls out loudly, his words thickly accented, swatting his assistant on the back, to go out into the crowd, with the rack poised on his shoulder, to make more sales.
There are little children dressed in vibrant neon t-shirts of pink and yellow who sell strands of fragrant mogra strung together into delicate gajras. Why don’t you go to school I wish to ask while slipping the soft white petals of the mogra onto my wrist and paying the ten rupees they ask for. The man to the far right sells Mother Dairy ice lollies, the packaging crisp and cold.
Somewhere in the crowd sits a mehendi-waali, the fragrance of henna permeating the air, seen on the palms of foreign women as they walk around with their hands upheld so that the wet green paste doesn’t get on their clothes. Some pattern the large minarets of the mosque on the fingers of the women, others settle for the net on the knuckles that look like intricate lace gloves or the traditional peacock on the soft skin of the wrist.
One man sells unstitched salwar-kameez sets on a long rack. How does he save the rich cloth that shines in jewel toned hues, I wonder from the heat and miasma of smells, the dampness of sweat, the richness of saffron rice and the sweet tang of ripe mangoes. The color of violent eggplant and gold brocade, lacy pale pink, ferozi blue, sunshine yellow and rich amber like molten gold coins. Cloth that look fit for nizaams sold for mere thousand rupees underneath the heat of the glowing sun.
The woman to the far left sells kaala khatta her skin glistening, her dark hair clearly dyed in comparison to the wrinkles lining her face, the smile lines crinkling deep at the corner of her eyes and mouth. Her sari a dark blue that brings out the vibrancy of her skin and eyes. “Where did you buy your sari?” I wish to ask, the rumpled blue silk catching my eye at every turn. It reminds me of royalty. The blue of royalty, the azure of the sky as she closes her kala-khatta dukaan at the end of the day. She simply sells cups of crushed ice dipped in sour syrups and yet she looks like a queen, in her rumpled sari, working in her old age. Perhaps it is something she has always done, or perhaps it is something she does to pass the time in her old age, with her children gone and raised. But she stands. Her regal blue sari complimenting the royal mosque behind her.
The monumental granite mosque sits like a queen in the city, I can’t help but think. She is surrounded by hundreds of rainbow umbrellas at her feet, under which people have put up shop for countless years, and they will do so, for so many more to come. The spattering of cultural color across history.
This book was phenomenal. I loved it, adored it, enjoyed it to the fullest. Everything about it was so appealing from the cover to the description (Mulan is one of my favourite movies!). So I had to review it.
Spin the Dawn by Elizabeth Lim came out earlier this year and it follows girl tailor Maia in a world that resembles the Silk Road, as she dresses as a boy to be the Imperial Tailor and provide for her family. It seems fairly simple, the usual girl disguised as boy trope. But this book becomes so much more than that for so many reasons. So many elements I love! Color! Mythology! Fairytales! The Silk Road! Ah mi!
The plot was gripping. It moved slowly, which made the reading process slower but at the same time, the story grips you in a soft way. The story moves from poignant as Maia explores her relationship with her brothers and the way women are underestimated and not respected to rivetting as Maia begins to compete against eleven men to become the imperial tailor. I had thought that the book would end with the decision of who the imperial tailor would be, but the competition seemed to end early on. From around 40% Elizabeth Lim begins to construct the world outside the summer palace. Lim mixes Chinese mythology with fairytales of her own and the result is wondrous. I love folktales and fairytales from around the world. I collect them in fact but have never been fortunate to find books on Chinese mythology or folktales, so this book was a treat. I found the way that sunlight, starlight and moonlight were captured to be intriguing, well thought out and fairytales in their own right.
Characterwise I really liked the characters. Sendo was barely in the book and yet I felt I connected to him. The author explored the loss of siblings and described it as a tangible loss which remained through the book. I thought it was so well done especially considering how that sort of loss never truly leaves you. It remains woven through life and that’s exactly what Elizabeth manages to show. I found Maia quite relatable. She was annoying at times and naive but I thought it made her more relatable given that she had led such a sheltered life before. She grew into her own person and that was lovely to see. I liked the chemistry between her and Edan, the banter was well done and it didn’t read as an insta-love thankfully. The romance turned more from rivals to lovers which is my favourite kind. I do wish that Edan was a young enchanter, I’m not a big fan of large age gaps, anything greater than eight years is weird for me so a 500 year age difference was tough for me. But I looked at this the same way I do when I read fae novels, ignorance for the most part.
And now, the reason this book garnered four stars from me, was the writing. Luxurious, immersive writing. The laughter of the sun? The blood of stars? I am obsessed with the celestial bodies and being able to see them described so fully, and with such a new viewpoint was so interesting and rewarding.
I can almost taste color when Elizabeth Lim writes it. Everything was described so beautifully. It didn’t come alive in my mind as stories usually do but it came alive as illustrations. I could imagine the most stunning illustrations for a number of scenes and it is such a sad thing that I can’t draw because the images and paintings that my mind has conjured while reading this book are so rich and so lush filled with violent riots of color. I’ve never been very interested in fashion but if there’s one thing that could draw my attention, it’s the description of the embroidery in this book. Embroidery has always been to me the telling of stories using a needle and thread. Jewel colored stitches on toned fabrics, nothing is more beautiful. I want the clothes in the book. The paper jacket, the embroidered shawl.
“Sapphire,” I said studying the ocean’s gentle crests and troughs. THE WATER SPARKLED. “sAPPHIRE, LIKE THE STONES LADY TAINAK WEARS AROUND HER NECK. but there’s a hint of green… jade green and the foam curls up like pearls.”
–Elizabeth Lim
The scenes with the demons were actually chilling and I found myself looking over my shoulder while on the flight (on which I was reading the book) because it made me feel uneasy. That is a mark of stellar writing
A story of myth and legend interwoven with the tale of the struggles of fighting for what we as women deserve. It gave me a chance to explore Chinese mythology while sailing alongside skeins of magic, romance and beautiful embroidery. I can’t wait for the sequel!
How do I say in words how much I loved this book! I finished this entire book in about four hours, I sat in the lobby of my residence, telling myself I would head to the gym after I finished this chapter. And four hours later the gym had shut, I hadn’t done my groceries and I was sitting in a frigid lobby, hugely satisfied with my latest purchase and feeling so sated despite being thoroughly unproductive. Though the craving for sweet, cinnamon sticky buns proved to be a slight discomfort.
“Maybe men can learn a thing or two from women.”
~ Shelby Mahurin
The story follows the witch in hiding Lou and chasseur (a fancy word for a man of the church who also happens to be a hunky witch hunter) Reid as they are forced into holy matrimony despite being unable to stand each other. So this is very obviously a hate to love trope with a forced marriage. And aside from that Lou hides not only from the Chasseurs but a secret that has followed her all her life. Suffice to say the plot is hugely captivating. And from the very first chapter, you find yourself addicted to Lou and Reid’s story.
I loved the world Shelby builds. Named Belterra, it reminded me very much of rural cities in France that steeped in city glamour but aren’t as busy as Paris. And the magic woven in makes it even more unique. She describes bakeries and theatres, festivals and events and the political system and religious beliefs. Every aspect of this new world has been thought out and planned and it makes for a more immersive experience while reading. The magic system was slightly confusing to me but the abstinence on Lou’s behalf resulted in her not having to use a lot of her powers so I didn’t have to focus too much on it. It was confusing in the sense that it was a bit too complex. I actually found Coco’s powers a lot easier to understand.
As for the characters, I found Shelby’s take so refreshing. A lot of YA books make sex a novelty for women rather than men, so it was very refreshing to see Lou being more attuned to her sexuality and teaching Reid how to embrace his as he goes from being a virgin brainwashed into believing chastity implies purity. And the romance between them is done so well because it’s not only sex but there is legitimate build up and angst between both the characters before they embrace the romance blossoming between each other. And in terms of personality I felt connected to both Lou and Reid they were relatable characters, who were flawed and took the time to improve themselves in ways that they could, they had compassion and secrets they didn’t want to share, and they both felt so very human. She did a fantastic job with both characters. I found some of the scenes concerning the villain a bit chilling and that in my opinion is the mark of good writing for evil characters. The side characters were all interesting and some were very very lovable, so I’m a bit apprehensive because of who Shelby might kill off in the coming books.
The language was simple and yet the descriptions of the ‘celebrations’ at the tail end of the book are written so beautifully as are the descriptions of Soleil et Lune are pure magic. I liked this style of writing but the story doesn’t get washed away in overly descriptive flowery language but it also isn’t boring and plain. It’s a nice blend.
In summary, I want the next book. Now. This second, Today. Tonight. Tomorrow.
It’s no secret that I love Margaret Rogerson’s books. A few years ago I read her debut book which was so fantastic and the moment I heard she was writing a new fantasy, I wanted it. And so here is my review of her second, utterly fabulous book Sorcery of Thorns.
Completely different from the world of Whimsy, the world of Austmeer, Summershall (lovely name reminds me of Anne of Green Gables) and the Great Libraries, Margaret spins a much darker realm. Here, books are revered and guarded. Literature in the wrong hands can be dangerous and the love for books and reading thrives in Austmeer. The world-building is intricate and complex. It’s too dark for me to be able to describe it as rich, but it reminded me a bit of a fantasy version of England, where demons can crop up amidst the rainy weather and beneath the gargoyles that guard the Great Libraries.
Margaret has a new take on books. I think it was an intriguing one at that. People who read and work with books always seem to be underestimated. Reading is a primary skill so those who choose it as a profession in any way are often underestimated in my opinion. Margaret in writing this book demonstrates how wrong that is. People who read are the keepers of large strongholds of knowledge. We archive histories and stories and all the knowledge that lies within. It was so lovely to see this come forth and in such a unique manner! Grimoires that contain such hefty amounts of knowledge can turn into maleficts that can destroy you with a single swipe. Demons and sorcerers and librarians are all a part of this complex tale that at its heart is about the love of reading.
I really liked Elisabeth as a character. She was driven by her passion for the grimoires and the magic system developed around her and Nathaniel is well thought out and woven in well with the plot. Nathaniel himself comes across as the handsome nerd with plenty of secrets, so he was definitely a swoon-worthy character especially with his dark looks and sarcasm. The romance takes a backseat in this novel. It’s there, and there are some very sweet moments but the majority of the book’s focus is on the thickening plot and on the world-building. Given how well done both of these were, the small romance for me wasn’t a problem. I am a reader who prefers romance in the book but everything is so well plotted and interwoven that the subtlety of the romance didn’t bother me in the least. The villain was chilling and maniacal in a sense and I couldn’t help but hate him.
But of all the characters, my favourite was Silas. He was so complex and intriguing and despite being a demon, he was so compassionate. His entire demeanour and attitude were so cool and collected and charming while being caring and for me, he ended up being the true hero of the book. He didn’t have to behave the way he did with Nathaniel, and yet he treats him more as a son than a master. A morally grey character who could lean either towards heroism or villainy and chooses heroism. It’s a lovely addition to the book.
The language is truly immersive. You escape into the library of Summershall and travel through to Brassbridge where the city is a vicious place to be unless you can make it. The libraries loom over you as grimoires whisper secrets in your ear. Her writing is gorgeous. She doesn’t describe colour and nature as vividly as she does in Enchantments but rather sets the scene for a more academic world, where cities reign over the world. It shows the enormous range she possesses and the more she writes the more money I will probably end up spending.
Five fantastic stars for a book that above all else holds libraries and books in high esteem.
For anyone who is a YA and contemporary romance fan, Anna And The French Kiss is almost a classic of the genre. Most fans would have read it when they enter the fandom of this genre. Penned by Stephanie Perkins in December 2010 it follows Anna a high school senior who leaves the USA to finish high school in Paris where she discovers the city, makes new friends including the handsome and charming Étienne St. Clair who just so happens to have a British accent.
As far as the book goes it’s a four-star read for me. One of my old favourites having read it when I was just starting out high school myself. The characters are fun and fleshed out so that they keep you entertained and the chemistry between Anna and St. Clair is a slow burn sort of best friends to romance one that is well done. It’s filled with lots of drama as, let’s be honest, high school usually is. Complicated teens with hormones. Anna has problems with her friends and she grows from that which I liked. So I quite enjoyed it in totality.
But the star of the book isn’t Anna. Nor is it St. Clair though it’s always nice to have some handsome, hunky eye candy in books. The star of the book is (drumroll please)… Paris! The capital city of France, home to so much more than just French kissing, city of romance, city of lights, city of dreams, city of desserts.
A few days ago I came back from my very own Parisian adventure that I embarked upon with my best friend Julia, and while there I was looking through my kindle for books to read late at night once our feet were sore and tired and chanced upon Anna and the French Kiss. What’s better, I thought than to read a Parisian adventure while I had my own.
One doesn’t realize it but Paris sort of its own character in the novel. It breathes and lives through the characters, an entity apart that is far more interesting than any of the humans in the book. Perkins sort of tracks a journey through Paris as Anna discovers the city. I found myself looking at pictures of places we had already been and marking out more spots I wanted to go. Shakespeare and Company is a tiny bookshop filled with people and a cafe buzzing with a pet honeybee, the books teetering off the shelves, the deep green and gold sign winking at you as you walk across from Notre Dame into the hidden niche where the bookstore hides. It’s described with an air of romance, which is fitting given that St. Clair buys the Neruda book for Anna from here. The Latin Quarter is filled with little bars and pubs and small shops and cafes. It’s mostly a student hub but the cobbled street with the bikes locked in against overgrown creepers, with lots of restaurants for students going to Sciences Po and more to discover. This is actually where Anna’s school SOAP is located.
I desperately wanted to visit Notre Dame but the fire last month sort of shattered my plans and even Point Zero was closed off. While walking the Le Marais, you can see the impressive St. Etienne Du Mont Cathedral after which our hero is named. The Luxembourg Gardens are just starting to thaw from the rough winters, and the fountains are filled with muddy water waiting for spring cleaning. There are soft pink and white blooms everywhere. The Seine laps at the banks and as you walk the turquoise sort of seeps into everything around.
Paris is an entity on its own, but when I read Anna on the fourth day of our trip, it seemed to come further alive. It became less a tourist destination and more of a city that was a home. It was lived in. It was real. Once we were back in London, it wouldn’t be just a memory in my travel diary or scrapbook, it would remain alive. It’s really an interesting thing that happens psychologically. Even within the pages of the book, when you read it it doesn’t seem like a mystery. You can follow Anna as she walks through Paris and understand the book better.
I’d recommend this book to anyone who is a fan of YA romance. But I’d also recommend that you wait to read it before you travel to Paris. It’s a much richer, fuller and vivid experience.
across as a bit abrasive but she seems adamant on what she wants. Sima Aunty did not appreciate this as evidenced by her many comments. Problem #2, Sima Aunty doesn’t seem to realize this is a professional relationship she’s entered into. Just because Aparna is calling her ‘Sima Aunty’, doesn’t give her 
