Sometime back I took to rummaging through the diaries I had kept conscientiously over the years and my life began a replay in slow motion. All that was captured in its pages sprang to life forcing me to  relive every joyful/sorrowful, peaceful/powerful moment with renewed acuity all over again. Rusty locks broke open, sealed doors were flung open and musty memories tumbled out to bust the veneer of equanimity I had cultivated painstakingly over the years. Sadly, times of torments exceeded moments of happiness and sufferings long suppressed, resurfaced. Opposing emotions played havoc with my heart and mind. Like gusts of wind they shattered the gossamer web of sleep and gathered in my breast like rainclouds that refused to rain. Pain lanced through me like lightening while anger stormed my senses like thunder. Collectively they invaded my psyche whirling, swirling like a tornado that would tear me apart if it did not find an outlet. If only tears would rain from dry eyes, if only sighs would escape from my ribcage, if only, this oppressive weight would lift. But my soul remained fettered to the past, my heart lay heavy in my chest and unrest fluttered in my mind, like a captive bird. Just when I though that I could bear no more, the pressure cooker burst. Piercing screams rent the seal of ‘normalcy’ while sobs rippled through the façade of placidity. Like a woman in labour, I had to either deliver my offspring or die in the process.

Thus it came about that my semi-autobiographical novel – ‘For the Love of a Man’ took birth. Like an illegitimate but dearly loved child I held it to my bosom but did not have the courage to expose it to public ridicule. Then I read about a competition held by oxfordbookstore.com soliciting first chapters of unpublished novels that were to be judged by Indian literary names like Amitav Ghosh, Shobha De. To my surprise I stood 3^rd amongst 1700 applicants from India and abroad! Along with the others, I was felicitated at a press conference and interviewed by journalists of leading dailies and magazines like India Today, The Hindustan times, The Hindu and the Indian express at an event held at The Park Hotel, New Delhi.

A reassurance such as this lead to the realization that I need not be ashamed of my brainchild. I decided to let the world know of her existence, whatever the price I had to pay.

Though.

‘I have done with sighs and anguished cries, with love and longing, lust and lies;

After elusive shadows, long I ran, never again will I crave the love of a man…’,

the precious product of such a love, my baby, my book deserved a place under the sun and I was determined to give her that.