A N A TLAS OF LOVE
Anuja Chauhan is the bestselling author of The Zoya Factor , Battle for Bittora and Those Pricey Thakur Girls . Popularly known as the rom-com specialist, she is the undisputed expert in writing contemporary Indian romance novels that pack in oodles of wit, punch and humourour very own Jane Austen who understands the pulse of desi love stories.
First published by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2014
7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj
New Delhi 110002
Sales Centres:
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Edition copyright Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd. 2014
Introduction copyright Anuja Chauhan 2014
The pieces included in this anthology are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
eISBN: 9788129131669
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This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publishers prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
Contents
Introduction
W RITING IS a lonely business. The writer gets semi-horizontal someplace quiet, places the laptop on her stomach (with a pillow below it to keep things from getting too hot) and then hammers away till her mind goes blank. Its essentially an outpouring, which begs the question, well then, what about the in pouring? Where does all that stuff come from? The people, the plot, the little nuances?
The inpouring, of course, comes from life. From the people the writer meets, the books she reads, the experiences she has, the multiple perspectives and viewpoints on the same issue that she is privy to. From the thoughts that cross her mind because of something she saw or heard or read or felt. And it was the laalach for just such a mother lode of inpouring that got me to edit this romance anthology.
My interest was piqued when Kausalya Saptharishi from Rupa Publications told me that through the Rupa Romance Contest, Id get to read lots of love stories, written by first-time writers from all across Indiaand I was on board.
Inpouring aside, there is also the fact that Im a sucker for love stories. Anybodys. Everybodys. Not just the ones with handsome heroes, feisty heroines, lashings of humour and happy endingsthough I must confess that those are my favourite. I also like the not-so-happy ones, the full-on tragic ones, and the ones with the twist I never saw coming. I like them all.
Atlas of Love contains sixteen stories out of the several thousands of entries that Rupa received since we announced this contest in April 2013. Theres no special significance to this number. It just happens to be the number of stories we liked (after a lot of agonizing and dithering and revising of lists) well enough to put into this collection.
Its called (rather grandiosely!) an Atlas because it seeks to explore the many facets of lovethe giggly, giddy excitement of the first crush; the mature resurgence that marks the second go at love; gay love, which demands the heavy price of crippling soul-searching and social ostracization; sadism masquerading as love; unrequited love; and the psychological aspect of obsessive self-love.
Three stories stand out for special mention. Phoenix Mills, which so beautifully captures the rootless randomness of our busy materialistic lives; Siddharth, which nails the nebulousness and confusion of long-distance relationships, and The Unseen Boundaries of Love, which compellingly lays bare the hypocrisies of our middle-class Indian values. Mixed Exotica Goes to the Party (selected as her favourite from the anthology by RJ Sayema of Purani Jeans, Radio Mirchi 98.3 FM) also finds mention here.
I also love Blossoms, which is light and innocent and casts so much sunshiny happiness on what could have otherwise been a pretty sombre collection.
To end, I do hope Rupa Publications continues with this initiativeto seek and find beautiful love storieswith the same single-minded, optimistic, never-say-die focus with which we should go through life, seeking love itself.
And everybody who entered the contest, thank you so much for giving me that exclusive peep into your hearts and minds.
Much love,
Anuja Chauhan
Phoenix Mills
Aurodeep Nandi
T HE PEOPLE visiting Phoenix Mills mall in Mumbai during the evenings can be broadly categorized into two typesthe office-weary, sweaty-shirt folks, and the rest of the world. In the former category are those who have spent most of the day sandwiched between a self-important plastic revolving chair and a computer.
Phoenix Mills, as the mall is known in popular parlance, is a stones throw from the neighbouring office districts of Worli, Lower Parel and Mahalaxmi, where huge glossy buildings have been erected as elegant tombstones to erstwhile Bombays dead mills. Phoenix Mills, too, has a similar storyall that remains of its factory days is a tall chimney kept intact cruelly to witness the glitzy decadence eat into what was once the livelihood of thousands of workers.
Come evening, and office-goers from South Mumbai swarm the mall; their overweight, ungainly anatomy pulled into high definition by the heavy bags that they carry on their backs like natural extensions to their spines. As much as I hated it, my own sweaty shirt and black backpack firmly placed me in this category.
My association with Phoenix Mills wasnt all that premeditated. It started innocently enough with office team lunches. Being fifteen minutes away from my workplace meant being whisked into the back seat of the bosss BMW, along with two other minion members of the team, all trying to crack jokes and make merry out of the unremarkable situation. Over the next six months, it was like the restaurant section of the mallNoodle Bar, Spaghetti Kitchen, Bombay Blues, Dominos, Natural Ice Cream, Baskin Robbinshad been a part of my primary education. Soon, picking up the now familiar menu cards turned out to be a mere formality.
This, however, came at the cost of an expanding girth. Sayoni could tell; she would often complain how it was becoming increasingly difficult to circumscribe her arm around me.
Sayoni. She, too, ran in the credits of Phoenix Mills. She had later admitted that the first time she had spotted me at a distance while waiting for our Facebook-ordained rendezvous at Phoenix Mills, she had had a very strong urge to run. Evidently, my atrociously bright shirt, huge black bag and swaying belly had almost scared her away. She was texting her best friend as to how to covertly make a quick exit, who in turnbless heradvised her to stay put. Sayoni took the chance and despite my misguided sartorial statement, eventually found me adequately tolerable.
My idea of a girlfriend at the time was somebody who would emerge stunningly out of the reels of a movie or from the pages of an erotic magazine. Sayoni, at her best, looked like the girl who would look dejectedly at the mirror during the first thirty seconds of a fairness cream commercial, wondering if she could ever make it big in the world with her ordinary looks.
