Book Review: The Truth About You and Me by Emma Cooper

 

Book: The Truth About You and Me

Author: Emma Cooper

Publisher: Boldwood Books

Source: Netgalley

The Blurb:

Maggie always wanted to be an astronaut but ended up being a cleaner. She loves her job. 

Every Friday, she attends the last showing at her local indie cinema after finishing her job. 

One night, Jack, the owner of a popular bookshop (and a voracious reader who has lost the ability to read after an accident), goes to the same screening. These two strangers are about to fall in love – there’s just one complication: Jack knows nothing about Maggie. 

Maggie knows everything about Jack. How? Because Maggie has a unique gift of knowing exactly what the person is thinking the moment she touches them. 

Over a series of Fridays, Maggie and Jack get to know each other, but the closer they grow, the bigger the secrets that could tear them in two. 

One slight touch, and she knows that she isn’t the total stranger he thinks she is.

Will she risk everything to tell him the truth – or is true love something that only happens in the movies?

My Thoughts:

This is my second book by Emma Cooper, and I’ve loved them both.

They're both love stories with some surreal elements. The last book (that I read), ‘The One Before the One’ was

a time travel romance,

and this one has a touch of magic realism, which makes for a really fun combination.

Emma’s writing is very engaging, the execution of the story smart. This story is told from the dual point of view, with the switch in perspective happening exactly when it needs to. 

The truth about Jack and Maggie: we know the truths from the very beginning, and yet the writing and storytelling kept me hooked. Even the informative descriptions about Alexia (the inability to read because of a head injury) and the secret behind hearing people’s thoughts didn’t feel like fillers. Also, the author has managed to build suspense that keeps you intrigued.

The characters: I really liked Maggie and Jack and their wonderful chemistry. It was so pleasant and endearing when they were together. Nell and Riz were two very interesting characters that added an extra layer of depth to the story.

My only quibble is that a few portions felt a bit drawn out —for instance, the time Maggie spends at Jack’s home. Although it was a significant part of the plot, I felt it could have been trimmed down a little. Also Maggie’s moments with Derek didn’t really contribute to the story. But apart from that, I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

This post is part of Blogchatter Half Marathon. 

A Girl With a Fountain Pen

The crisp November breeze waltzes inside the dimly lit room, as I watch you from the corner. You stare at a blank screen, the faint blue light falling on your face. Your arched eyebrows join into a frown, as you struggle with your story ideas bubbling inside your head. Did I ever tell you that too many ideas bursting at once can hurt as much as having none? No I haven't —we haven't talked in a very very long time.

‘One idea at a time?’ I whisper but you don't pay attention.  

‘What’s wrong with me?’ You blurt out in frustration. ‘My imagination has conveniently set off for a long vacation, I guess.’ You heave a deep sigh.

I skip a beat when your hand moves towards me, but you pass me by and reach for your phone instead.

I watch you in desperation as you scroll the screen. 

‘It’s been more than 40 minutes, my lady, and you haven't written anything. Switch off the laptop maybe?’ I chime but you ignore me, yet again. 

Why did you even bring me to your writing room if you won't even look at me? Don't you smell the metallic scent of ink drying inside me?

Remember your school days? We were so close. I used to smile giddily as you filled me with royal blue ink, not caring about the blue stain on your soft fingers. I’d gulp down the ink, sighing in satisfaction, as I moved on your notebook.

‘Try me, maybe? I might help unlock your imagination.’ I offer again, but all in vain. 

You put the phone back. Right beside me. I yearn for attention, you know that? But you don't touch me. 

Getting back to the blank document, you type a few lines. I feel good, it's okay as long as you're writing. Suddenly, the room darkens, just a patch of light landing on your face from your dearest laptop. The electricity has gone. After a while, you groan, and the room has plunged into complete darkness. You’ve switched off the laptop as well. 

I am about to doze off when a yellow glow blooms. You have lit a pale blue, scented candle. Is it lavender or rosemary? I wouldn't know. You put the candle on the side table, and it warms my body. And right then, our eyes meet and lock for a moment. A smile flickers on your lips as you pick me up. Your erstwhile favourite fountain pen! Can't tell you how giddy I feel, my heart warmer than the glow of the candle light. 

You settle in the chair and open a notebook. And just like that, you are writing again! My flow is scratchy in the beginning. It hurts a bit but I absolutely don't mind. You shake me a few times, sloshing the ink back to life. I chuckle. And, this time when my tip touches the surface of the notebook, I glide gracefully across the page. 

‘Oh, the joy of writing with a fountain pen!’ You murmur, and I swell with pride. 

I can feel you smile, as you fill the page after page. Ink might dry again, someday, but tonight it flows, and so do we. 

This post is part of Blogchatter Half Marathon. 

My Hindi Translation: You Weren't Mine But You Mattered by Eric Wilson

My Hindi Translation 

तुम मेरे नहीं थे,

पर तुम अहम थे मेरे लिए।

मुझे कोई हक़ नहीं कि मैं तुम्हें याद करूँ,

बिल्कुल नहीं!

तुम मेरे थे ही नहीं कि मैं तुम्हें थाम सकूं,

या कि खो दूं।

मगर फिर भी, 

मेरे वजूद का एक हिस्सा तुम्हारी याद से बंधा है।

जैसे कोई डोर जिसे मैं बाँधना भूल गयी।

अजीब है ना ये?

किसी को चाहना 

बिना ये जाने कि उस प्यार की जगह क्या है?

मानो कोई राज़ 

जो सीने में एक धीमा सा दर्द बनकर रहता है…

तुम मेरे नहीं थे,

पर तुम बेहद 

अहम थे मेरे लिए।

This post is part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 

मेरे सपनों की कविता

So we speak in our dreams and understand what others are saying, but do you ever hear a clear voice —someone saying something significant and insightful like a quotation —without knowing where it came from?

I wrote a little poem inspired by such a voice someone whispered in my dream: 'जैसे सूरज की किरणों ने बारिश की बूंदों को छू लिया हो।'

तुम्हारी बोलती नज़रें

प्यार की पहली झलक थी

जो मन में ऐसे बसी मानो

कभी ना बुझने वाली दीये की लौ।

और तुमसे मिलना कुछ ऐसा था 

जैसे सूरज की किरणों ने

बारिश की बूंदों को छू लिया हो।

When sunrays touch suspended raindrops, Physics does a colourful poetry of its own, no? That's what I thought when I woke up hearing these lines. 

This post is part of Blogchatter Half Marathon.

The Surreal Realm of My Dreams

Dreams are fascinating in so many ways. Even more so if they're vivid. They feel like borrowed hours in another mysterious world. Have you ever noticed that in those hours, we act with perfect instinct, completely true to our nature?

I’ve been a dreamer for as long as I can remember. Some dreams from many many years ago still live in me, clear and vivid.

I have written a horror story that was inspired by my dream. Strangely, my dreams generally fall in the genre of thrillers. If only I had the calibre to write a thriller. To my chagrin, I don't know what to write beyond a certain intriguing point where the suspense should actually build and then unravel. But clearly, out of my depth. But here's a post that I attempted. The Couple Outside the Door.

Recently, for reasons known only to my subconscious, I suddenly stopped having dreams, or I wouldn't remember a thing the moment I woke up, and I can't tell you how frustrating that had been. It felt like I had lost some kind of power. Sounds silly, but it's true. I would deliberately think of something, really hard, before going to sleep, willing a dream into being. But nothing came. 

Good news: my dreams have finally returned to me. And I’m happy wandering through the surreal realm of my dreams yet again.

Now I am chasing the almost impossible: lucid dreaming. It sounds too magical to be real. I can only imagine how it might feel in reality. 

P.S.: I watched Vanilla Sky recently. It was so mind-bending that it took me some time to register it.

This post is part of Blogchatter Half Marathon.

BOO!

Mystery, intrigue, a sense of unease and a touch of an eerie suspense —Horror used to be one of my favourite genres, even though I am not easily spooked by ghosts or the supernatural. I used to enjoy it mostly through movies and serials, occasional magazine stories but very few books ever seemed to truly ignite a sense of fear in me. And what’s the point of reading a horror story if you don’t feel scared? One of my family friends was flabbergasted to know that I could watch horror at night while I was alone. 

But then, for some reason, I stopped watching or reading horror for a while. Then about two years ago, I came across some really good horror books that rekindled my interest in this genre all over again.

Yesterday, Kiran Manral posted a photo of a horror book she is a part of —BOO! And it suddenly reminded me that I had bought that book but never got around to reading it. So, I dug it out and the first thing I did was check the index. I am thrilled to see some of my favourite writers listed —Jerry Pinto, Arunava Sinha, Kiran Manral. And there are also some writers I’ve been waiting to read —Shashi Deshpande, KR Meera, Jahnavi Barua. 

I already started reading the first story, He Ghoul by KR Meera, and I’m hooked. Now I can’t wait to read more! 

Have you read this book? Do you enjoy reading horror stories? 

This post is part of Blogchatter Half Marathon

Magic Box 2: A Delightful Collection of Children's Stories

If you listen to FM Radio, you must have come across Yaadon Ka Box –a wonderful audio storytelling platform, crisp stories full of heart and nostalgia. I feel truly thankful to be part of this amazing team. We are now stepping into Season 8 (my second season).

Last year, Neelesh sir started his own publishing imprint, The Slow Imprint, in association with Ekada (Hindi wing of Westland Books), and published five lovely books, including Magic Box, a well-loved collection of beautiful children stories. 

And now, Magic Box 2 is here, and available for pre-order. It’s a delightful collection of 18 exciting and imaginative children stories (Hindi) published by Ekada Westland and Slow Imprint. I’m thrilled that some of my stories have found a place in this volume too.

This book brings together a wide range of stories –a haunted house, unique friendships, an unusual fight, lessons from the animal world, a dash of fantasy, tales that evoke the innocence of school days, and much more. It’s a perfect fit for buddy reading with your children. 

The Blurb:

A new magic on every page, a hidden friend in every story! And this friend doesn't just laugh and play with children, but with anyone who has a childlike heart. This is Magic Box 2-the second book in the Magic Box series, with stories for children.

Inside the book, you'll find mischievous animals from the jungle, colourful birds, butterflies, curious kids asking questions, parents pondering answers, clouds, rain, sunshine and much more! When children step away from mobile and computer screens and dive into the stories in this book, they'll discover a world that is simple, straightforward and beautiful. Isn't that exactly what we want to give to our children?

Writers: Smriti Sachdev, Dr Ranjana Jaiswal, Anita Sethi, Harsha Chaudhary, Deepak Heera Rangnath, Kinshuk Kaushik and yes, Tarang Sinha too!

This post is part of Blogchatter Half Marathon

Book Review: Falling Apart and Other Gifts from the Universe by Catherine Ryan Hyde

 

It's so fascinating how some writers —their writing style/storytelling/characters —pull you in instantly.

Catherine Ryan Hyde is one of those writers for me. I can easily call her one of my favourite storytellers. There's something about her writing, it hits you right in the feels.

My first book I read by her is ‘My Name is Anton’, and it's still my favourite.

'Falling Apart and Other Gifts from the Universe' is about two people: a sixty two years old woman, Addie and a seventeen-year-old Jonathan. Addie is recovering from an alcohol addiction (along with some other personal agonies) and Jonathan is homeless, carrying the weight of an unhappy, broken home. Then, one day the Universe makes a plan so that these two lonely people come across each other and bond so dearly.

‘Do you believe in Karma?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t suppose I do, no. Why? Do you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But just now I got bowled over by how much I want it to be true right now. I want the universe to give you some big, wonderful thing as a reward because you were kind tonight to somebody who really, really needed it.’

The writing is neat, engaging and quietly powerful. It's an uplifting and heartwarming story, not really packed with twists and turns, and yet the storytelling somehow keeps you hooked. 

Addie and Jonathan’s bond is tender and genuine, their conversations endearing. Addie is flawed yet real and her goodness shines through her scars and toughness. Jonathan is too good to be true but I’m not complaining at all. 

Secondary characters have real presence too. Wendy is so nice and thoughtful, someone who doesn't pamper Addie but guides Addie through her rough patch. Jeannie is a striking and unpredictable character. Even Bill, Addie’s brother who pops in briefly, leaves a soft mark. 

All in all, like previous three books from the author, I loved this one too. 

My favourite quotes:

‘There are two parts to a genuine, useful sorry. One is that you regret what you did and the other is that you’ll do better next time. The first part is easy. Most people never get the second part right. Or even try to.’

'A crutch is a useful tool. Just don’t forget to put it down when your leg is healed.’

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 

When No One Was Looking: A Bookish Dreamscape

When no one was looking, she found herself sitting on a stone bench beneath a cherry blossom tree, a book resting in her lap. Her face broke into a smile. 

‘Ve Din’ by Nirmal Verma. 

It was an old copy. She opened the book and ran her palm across the page, feeling the texture and the traces of a handwritten message:

‘उनके लिए जिन्हें शब्दों की जादूगरी पर यक़ीन है…’

(For those who believe in the magic of words.)

She leafed through the pages and paused on a paragraph.

‘—पुरानी लिखी हुई कॉपी के बीच एक अनलिखा, कोरे पन्ने सा सफ़ेद और विस्मयकारी। वह सपने सा लगता। ट्रॉली बस की तारों पर पक्षियों की काली कतार लग जाती―धूप में अपने पंख सेकती हुई। हम इन्हें झूठे बसंत के दिन कहा करते थे।’

A soft breeze caressed her face, and she looked up. A wispy cherry blossom waltzed down and brushed her cheek as it fell on the book. A faint fragrance lingered in the air.

And then, as the place came into her full view, her breath caught in ecstatic surprise. A cobblestone boulevard, lined with flowering trees in various colours, stretched ahead, opening towards a cerulean lake. It looked as though all four seasons had merged. 

The sunlight was soft, hanging like a transparent curtain. ‘I have this book; can't wait to dive into it!’ She put the book on the bench and rose to her feet. 

Books —lots of books, were tucked into charming little shelves built along the roadside. Lovely pink carts laden with volumes, and an old blue jeep, half hidden among the fluttering wildflowers in the velvety meadows to the left—all unattended as though waiting for anyone who loved to read. On cue, a faint scent of old paper drifted through. 

It was a mesmerizing dream, so vivid that it felt lucid. A giddy sensation filled her as she sauntered ahead, taking in the dreamscape. A man was turning the pages of a book, leaning against a moon shaped bookshelf. 

She could see the cover. ‘From Scratch’ by Tembi Locke.

‘Oh, I really want to read this book!’ She blurted in delight. 

The man turned to look at her. Enchanting eyes behind golden framed spectacles. He smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ve watched the series,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes! It was so heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time.’

The man stretched out his hand, the same lopsided smile on his face. ‘Here, take it. You won't be able to decide whether the series is more beautiful or the book.’

She took the book hesitantly and kept it close to her heart. ‘Really?!’

‘Absolutely really.’ He laughed and looked around. ‘You can take any of these books. No worries at all.’

She turned to find a small cottage style bookshop across the road, close to the lake. Turquoise panels, glass windows, nestled beneath a large Jacaranda tree, purple blooms hugging the red tiled rooftop of the shop. Bookshop Sirimiri. She gasped and the man, busy with another book, chuckled.

She opened ‘From Scratch' as she sprinted towards the library. 

‘…a memoir of love, Sicily, and finding home’

As she stepped into the bookshop, a woody scent mingled with the faint aroma of coffee and cinnamon greeted her. Tall shelves artfully lined with many beautiful editions.

A book seemed to be smiling at her from the reception desk —‘Boy, Unloved’ by Damodar Mauzo, translated by one of her favourites: Jerry Pinto.

An adorable elderly woman looked up, smiled and said, ‘We have many lovely reading corners. Read whatever you like, as much as you want.’

A strange calm whispered through the space. She made her way towards her reading nook, reading a paragraph from the book:

‘Like scars, these memories will stay with me for a lifetime. What age was I when the windows and doors of the house last stood open? When Daddy and Ma sat and actually talked to each other, discussed things? When someone said a word of praise to me?’

She slipped into a comfortable chair resting beside a white wooden table; a wall-sized window overlooked the same cerulean lake that ran alongside. 

And then someone placed another book on the table and drifted away.

‘Lonely People Meet’ by Sayantan Ghosh. She picked up the copy and read a paragraph: 

‘He didn’t feel the instant desire of puppy love which convinces people to seek immediate companionship. Instead, he wished this to be like catching a slow-moving train. One that’s about to leave the station, the whistle has been blown, but there’s enough time to jog alongside before finally grabbing the handle and taking the leap.’

She set both the books on the table. There was something about the titles and the passages. A soft melancholy settled over her. She sighed and looked out the window. It had started to drizzle. Sirimiri. 

P.S: The books mentioned in this post are on my TBR list.

This post is part of BlogchatterHalfMarathon

For Bookish League hosted by Ritu.