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Once upon a time, my favor­ite fairytale was Cinderella. A rags to riches story with a fairy godmother and a handsome prince thrown in the mix. It was hopeful, happy, and magical.Or so I thought.

Years later, I realized how prob­lematic the story is or all fairytales are. Cinderella, Snow White, Rapun­zel, Sleeping Beauty—they are all the same: There is a perfect girl—with flawless skin and glossy hair—and she has many problems in life. She is unwanted and often mistreated, and she always pines for a prince. Then comes a dashing ‘Prince Charming’ who puts an end to her misery by fighting against the ‘villains’ and becomes her ‘hero’.

The girls never become their own heroes.

These stories are still what most of us are reading to and telling our children because they are popular. And by doing so we are covertly perpetuating the idea that girls are the weaker sex and thus fueling misogyny.

Stories can be powerful resources for confidence building and our fairytales—despite its goodness-al­ways-prevails message—do nothing in that regard.

I feel it’s time to move away from Brothers Grimm and Hans Chris­tian Andersen so that our daughters don’t grow up with a warped idea of how we are defined by our gen­der. It helps that there are so many new and exciting takes on classic fairytales now. ‘Fierce Fairytales’ by Nikita Gill is one of my favorites. Here, the once helpless heroines are empowered and don’t sit around waiting and wishing for a prince. The poems and stories also deal with issues of love, feminism, abuse, and mental illness.

But retellings aside, there is a book that we should all be reading to our children. ‘Goodnight Stories for Rebel Girls’ by Elena Favilli and Francesca Cavallo is an illustrat­ed collection with stories of 100 inspirational females. Written in a fairytale format with the classic opening line ‘Once upon a time’, these are real stories of phenome­nal woman like Marie Curie, Coco Chanel, Michelle Obama, Malala Yousafzai, and Serena Williams, among many others.

Growing up, I felt there was a severe lack of female role models to look up to—in the worlds of sci­ence, politics, history, art, sports, etc. But it wasn’t because there weren’t remarkable women out there but because their stories nev­er came to the forefront, always being overshadowed by the tri­umphs of men. Goodnight Stories for Rebel Girls can be an empow­ering read for all girls (and wom­en too!) as the stories convey an important message: Though dam­sels might sometimes be in distress, they are capable of finding their own way out.

Some stories stay with you no matter how long ago you read them. For me, “Not Without My Daughter” by Betty Mahmoody is that story. I read it when I was in high school and have never revisited it as it’s just too painful. But I can recall everything about it as if I only recently read it. This is the book that instantly comes to mind when someone asks me for a recommendation or to list my favorites.
The book narrates how a two-week family holiday in Tehran, Iran became a two-year battle for freedom. Though it ultimately ends in a daring escape, Betty’s account of how her Iranian-born husband duped her into visiting his homeland and then kept her and their daughter, Mahtob, prisoners within his family home is harrowing and, quite frankly, makes you weep.
Betty married Dr Sayyed Bozorg Mahmoody in 1977 and the couple lived in Alpena, Michigan. Everything is perfect in their marriage up until her husband convinces her to go to Iran with him for a ‘short trip’. Once the promised two weeks are over, Sayyed refuses to return to the US and takes away his wife’s passport so that she too can’t go back home.

From 1984 to 1986, Betty and Mahtob, who was four when she left the US to visit her father’s home country, were held in Iran against their will. During this time, Sayyed becomes increasingly abusive and his family too make life difficult for Betty, insisting she stay inside at all times, and wear the chador if she absolutely has to go out. Her husband threatens to kill her if she leaves or, worse, take Mahtob away from him.
The book details Betty’s escape to Turkey with her daughter, through the snowy Iranian mountains—a journey of 800 km—with the help of many Iranians she meets along the way, and it even reads like a thriller in bits and pieces. The book also narrates Betty’s struggle to understand how her husband suddenly turned into a monster, as well as how she shielded Mahtob from all that was happening around her.
Fortunately, Betty makes it back to the US in 1986 and files for divorce.
However, there’s that lingering fear that Sayyed is on their trail and will manage to hunt them down and kill them, just as he promised. For years after their return, Mahtob played with an alarm button around her neck and Betty carried a gun. They lived under assumed names and kept their past a secret, until Betty wrote Not Without My Daughter and it was made into a film in 1991.
I have to admit that Not Without My Daughter isn’t well written. But then again it doesn’t matter. You will find yourself cheering for Betty as she plans her escape and, all the while, you are reminded of a mother’s unwavering love for her child.

The world is divided on Charles Bukowski. Some think he is a literary genius while others think he didn’t write but ranted and that made for bleak reading. There are entire articles dedicated to why you shouldn’t read Bukowski. But then reading is a very subjective affair. What appeals to one might not to another and our reading preferences, much like our tastes, evolve over time.

Which is why I recommend Bukowski to you. When a friend recommended his works to me a few years ago, I was appalled by the use of language and what seemed like a blatant dislike of womankind. But there was no denying that Bukowski was all about ‘quotable quotes’. And that was precisely why I found myself gravitating back to his works despite the initial skepticism over his books. Here I recommend three of his books to help you find out if he appeals to your reading taste or not.

Post Office (1971)

I’m recommending ‘Post Office’ because this is Bukowski’s first novel, published when the author was 50 years old. And this is where we are first introduced to Henry Chinaksi, Bukowski’s alter ego, who makes frequent appearances in many of his books thereafter. His works are considered largely autobiographical. In the novel, Chinaski drifts from woman to woman, barely able to hold down a job and thus living hand to mouth. However, in Bukowski’s randomly crafted world, Chinaski is irresistible to women, despite his crankiness, alcoholism, and misogyny. There isn’t much of a plot but the bits of introspection and the eventual redemption of sorts are what make it a compelling read.

Women (1978)

‘Women’ is Charles Bukowski’s third novel that depicts the highs and lows of Henry Chinaski’s life as a poet, alcoholic, and lover. Besides Chinaski’s drunken antics and sexual debauchery of Los Angeles in the 1960’s and 70’s, there’s not really all that much in Women. After spending many years working in the United States Postal Service, Henry quits his job to pursue a writing career. While trying to make a living selling poems and editing not-so-popular magazines, Chinaski drinks and stares at women. And so, you will read about a series of sexual adventures where each woman is “prettier than the last”. There are plenty of reasons why you could call the writing misogynistic but Bukowski gives you a glimpse of life on the verge of a breakdown, and thus a novel that makes you think.

Hot Water Music (1983)

This short story collection, that reads like a record of obsessions of drinking, gambling, women, and writing, is witty and fun. Wit was never Bukowski’s problem but conveying that in a manner that does not offend often was an issue. The stories here address what the world can do to people and also what people, in turn, can do to the world. A motel room stinking of sick, a decrepit apartment with a perpetually arguing couple, and a bar tended by a skeleton, there’s a lot of morbid and, quite frankly, sometimes downright disgusting narration in this anthology. But that’s also how Bukowski has succeeded in painting a picture of the darkest bits of human existence.

Crime fiction
Snap
Belinda Bauer
Publisher: Penguin Random House
Published: 2019
Language: English
Pages: 433, Paperback

Belinda Bauer’s novel ‘Snap’, inspired by the murder of a pregnant woman, Marie Wilks, on the M50 in 1988, was longlisted for the Man Booker prize. It’s extremely rare for crime fiction to make it to the Man Booker list. But Snap isn’t a run-of-the-mill crime fiction either. In an interview, Bauer said she was more interested in victims than in crimes and, true to her words, Snap focuses more on the repercussions of the crime, in terms of the impact it has on the family of the victim, rather than on the crime itself.

Set in a small British town of Tiveron, Snap tells the story of 14-year-old Jack and his younger sisters following the murder of their mother. After being abandoned by their grief-ridden father, the three children live in a house stacked with newspapers that carry news of their mother’s murder. Jack’s sister continues to collect the papers in what is a macabre way of holding on to her mother’s final memory. Jack has to deal with the trauma of losing his parents while shouldering the responsibility of keeping his family together. It’s a lot for any teenager but Jack manages to keep the family afloat by breaking into homes and stealing whatever he can. There is a horde of other interesting characters whose lives become inextricably linked by this one unsolved murder.

Bauer worked as a journalist and then as a screenwriter before, at the age of 45, she finally sat down to write a book. Better late than never because Snap has both the edge-of-your-seat suspense as well as the turbulence of an emotional rollercoaster. It’s not just a wonderfully crafted novel about a teenage boy’s hunt for his mother’s killer. Bauer also explores how a single crime has so many ripple effects, and how it can affect different people differently. You find yourself pondering how life has the potential to fall apart and maybe eventually come together.

Bauer said that she had “never read anything that was actually marketed as a crime book” and that she started her journey of writing crime fiction “possibly on a different footing to someone who was immersed in the genre”. You are glad it was that way because what’s come out of it is an intriguing tale of loss, trauma, and familial bond, one that alters the way you view life.

Phoebe Morgan’s second psychological thriller, ‘The Girl Next Door’, received fantastic reviews, just like her debut novel ‘The Doll House’ that was published in 2018. And rightly so because Morgan’s writing is gripping, characters believable, and she sure knows how to convincingly turn things around.

In The Girl Next Door we meet Jane Goodwin who, in her neighborhood, is considered to be a perfect wife with the perfect family. But the fact is, she goes to great lengths to keep up the façade. Things are far from perfect in her household but Jane manages to cover her bruises. When her neighbor, 16-year-old Clare Edwards, goes missing and is found murdered, Jane realizes she has to protect her family, lest her meticulously crafted life starts unraveling.

The premise might seem simple enough, like any other whodunit, but just when you think you have it all figured out, Morgan starts shifting the spotlight on another character, making you rethink your theory. The story is narrated from three different perspectives: by Clare leading up to her death, by her next door neighbor Jane, and then the detective investigating the crime, DS Madeline. Each narration sheds light on crucial clues and makes you question what you considered to be true after completing the previous chapter.

I have always been a sucker for crime fiction and take great pride in the fact that I’ve read so many authors in the genre that, by now, I’m usually able to predict the ending. I have been able to guess the endings of the last few thriller novels I have read halfway through the books. But The Girl Next Door broke my record.

What I loved about The Girl Next Door is that there were times when things felt very unsettling. It gave me the creeps and I actually shuddered a bit. Very rarely has crime fiction had that effect on me in recent years. Though the novel isn’t a killer-on-the-prowl-thriller that makes you want to sleep with the lights on, it’s dark and disturbing and thus messes with your head a bit. The wonderfully layered story has everything to keep you on the edge, a little scared but still unable to let go.

Paul Kalanithi was just months away from qualifying as a neurosurgeon and completing his postdoctoral fellowship at Stanford University when he was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer at the age of 36. Suddenly, the doctor becomes the patient. And his plans to start a family with his wife, Lucy, now seems like a distant dream, one that would perhaps never come true.

Kalanithi chooses to pen a book because, as he writes in an email to his best friend, he has outlived two Brontës, Keats and Stephen Crane, but, unlike them, he doesn’t have anything to show for it. Writing When Breath Becomes Air is a) his way of coming to terms with his death and, more importantly, b), as his wife said in an interview after the book’s publication, his way of communicating with his daughter Cady after his death.

However, when Kalanithi died on March 2015, the book wasn’t complete. His wife Lucy wrote an epilogue for it and the book was published 10 months later. In the book Kalanithi ponders on what makes life worth living when one is facing death. Apart from meditations on life and death, Kalanithi also gives us a glimpse into the life of someone who strives to always maintain a positive outlook.

For Kalanithi, life was never about avoiding suffering. So when his wife asks him, “Don’t you think saying goodbye to your child will make your death more painful?” when they decide to have a child, his reply is, “Wouldn’t it be great if it did?’”

‘When Breath Becomes Air’ is perhaps the most soul stirring book I’ve read. Lucy writes in the epilogue that his memoir can teach us to face life and death with integrity. And indeed When Breath Becomes Air serves as a reminder to value life and not think of death as a tragedy. Kalanithi’s message is simple: We are all confronting mortality on a daily basis, whether we know it or not, and the beauty of life lies in the fact that it’s so uncertain.

“Before my cancer was diagnosed, I knew that someday I would die, but I didn’t know when. After the diagnosis, I knew that someday I would die, but I didn’t know when.” The important thing, he says, is not how long we live but how we live.

But be warned, this isn’t a book you can read in a single sitting or even over the course of a few weeks for that matter. There were times when I couldn’t read another page. But I also wanted to be comforted by Kalanithi’s words and to find out how Lucy and his daughter were doing. It’s compulsive but you have to put it aside and take time to process what you have read after every few pages.

Fiction
When Breath Becomes Air
Paul Kalanithi
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 2016
Language: English
Pages: 228, Hardcover

When her novel ‘The Palace of Illusions’, based on the Mahabharat told by Panchaali, was published 10 years ago, many readers asked Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni what she would write about next. Usually that was a question she had no answer to but this time she instinctively knew she had to write about Sita. Just like Panchaali, she wanted Sita to be able to tell her own tale.

In Hindu mythologies, women are more often than not relegated to the margins and we rarely get to know them unless it is in context of their husbands who are always mighty warriors. Which is why retellings of these ancient texts are so important. They bring women to the forefront and give them a chance to tell us how things transpired in their lives and how they felt about it.

And ‘The Forest of Enchantments’ is just that. It’s Sita filling in the gaps in the story and recollecting her version of events. What I specially liked about Divakaruni’s retelling of the Ramayana is that it’s not just Sita’s story either. The other women—Kaikeyi, Mandodari, Surpanakha—also get a chance to set their narratives straight. They are more than just mothers, wives and sisters. Kaikeyi is an excellent charioteer and swordswoman, and Mandodari is shown to be a perceptive leader with infinite compassion for her people.

We know how the Ramayana plays out but even if you don’t reading Divakaruni’s version of the mythology is enough for you to understand the story. There’s everything there, from Sita’s birth and her marriage to Ram, the eventual exile, to Ravana kidnapping Sita, and the ultimate rescue and the birth of Luv and Kush. Divakaruni has also chosen to be faithful to the original text and kept the ending the same. But it’s much more nuanced than in the original text.

Sita’s Ramayana, which is what this book essentially is, is far more than a story of morality and filial duty, as Ramayana is generally made out to be. The Forest of Enchantments reads like an important commentary on love, duty, the importance of balancing the two and, sometimes, when situations demand, being able to prioritize one above the other.

I read The Forest of Enchantments on a weekend. Divakaruni’s writing is a joy and the story too is captivatingly told. If you, like many women I know, have always been slightly angry by the unfairness of things in Ramayana, then this book will appease you  a little.

Fiction
The Forest of Enchantments
Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Publisher: Harper Collins
Published: 2019
Language: English
Pages: 359, Hardcover

FICTION
PONTI
Sharlene Teo
Publisher: Picador
Language: English
Pages: 291, Paperback

Sharlene Teo won the £10,000 Deborah Rogers Writers’ Award for her unpublished manuscript ‘Ponti’. Later, Picador bought the rights to it in a seven-way auction. The cover has a wonderful comment by Ian McEwan on it. When I bought the book, I had pretty much made up my mind: This was going to be one special read.Sadly, it wasn’t. The much-lauded book feels strange and is, frankly, a bit tiring as well. That’s not to say the debut novel doesn’t have a prom­ising plot or Teo’s writing is bad; perhaps what it needed was more editing. What got published seems like a rough draft of a potentially great book.

The novel is set in Singapore where we meet Szu and Circe as teenagers. Their friendship is thick but uneasy. Szu comes across as clingy, and Circe could be best described as neurotic. Szu’s mother, Amisa, was once a star—having been featured in a series of horror movies that were ignored when they first came out but now enjoy a cult following—but works from home as a ‘hack medium’ (someone who connects the living with the dead) when we meet her.

The novel revolves around these three characters, with some men making occasional, vague, and redundant appearances. However, it’s Amisa who intrigues and infu­riates you as she goes about her life, oblivious to what’s happening around her and with blatant dis­regard for her daughter. You get a sense of the problematic relationship between the mother and daughter from the start but it’s crudely por­trayed. So much so that when Amisa falls ill and is hospitalized and Szu prays, “Please just get better and look normal again. Just get better and let me hate you in peace,” you aren’t really surprised or bothered.

The narrative alternates between the past when Szu and Circe were growing up and the present-day when a 30-something Circe works as a social media consultant for a firm whose new project is to remake Ami­sa’s cult horror movies. There is also a third narrative—of the young and beautiful Amisa who gets the chance of a lifetime when a director offers her the lead role in his upcoming film. Amisa’s story is gripping—the only story that manages that effect—but the character, albeit fascinating, seems hastily written and you can’t connect with her much.

Also, a lot of what Teo tells us about the characters feels pointless. I mean, what’s the use of a long and lengthy description of a tapeworm infestation that Circe is taking medi­cation for? It doesn’t factor into the story and the description is tediously drawn out. You could argue that it is mundane things like this that give a story a real feel but Teo’s writing isn’t powerful enough for that. It takes a good writer and a sharper editor to tell a simple yet gripping story.

It’s only in the last few pages that Teo shines and the story finally makes sense. But, as a reader, you have lost all interest in it by then.