I am on a fairly random reading spree these days – and just finished reading the Immortals of Meluha by one Amish Tripathi. I am still not quite sure what to make of that book.
Conceptually it’s interesting. It goes to the heart of Indian mythology and plucks out Lord Shiva and weaves a story around him, in a manner calculated to appeal to contemporary tastes.
The tale follows the life of Lord Shiva – with the underlying premise that he was NOT a God, but a mortal, a tribal chieftain who did extraordinary deeds and consequently legend made him into a God. It starts with his entry as an ‘immigrant’ into Meluha – an almost ideal country, and is turned into “Neelkanth” there and traces his life – whether its his romance with the emperor’s daughter Sati or his war on evil. (This is the first of the trilogy, so we need to see how the story progresses)
It was, well, like reading a hybridized version of Dan Brown and Chetan Bhagat.
The concept might have been inspired by the former - viz. take up divinity and holy cowisque subjects ( pun unintended) and attempt to build a racy ( and hopefully controversial) pulp fictional tale out of it. (As an aside, I kept on thinking of Ilium by Dan Simmons as well – the whole myth angle juxtaposed with modern concepts perhaps.. Ilium was bizarre though - the way it kept on jumping between eras gave me jet lag).
And the atrociously pedestrian language is certainly of the latter.(Chetan Bhagat has done a grave disservice to Indian literature. I know that Indian writing was laboured and pedantic BC*. But AD seems to be characterized by utterly casual lowest-common-denominator fiction.) This book has these so called italicized thoughtblurbs of Lord Shiva, which make one cringe (the English equivalent of “Kutte kameene mein tera khoon pi jaoonga”).
Let me take the comparison further - Dan Brown, while he lacks the erudition of say, Umberto Eco, did manage to throw some historical and cultural nuggets at one in Da Vinci/Angels and Demons. Amish on the other hand, littered his books with names and references, but there was no depth whatsoever. So one would have the book crowded with Brahaspatis, Veerbhadra and Daksha without etching them out at all ( not to mention the rather cutesy references – Nandi as an extremely overweight captain with the chosen tribe of Bull.).
The other big difference between Brown and Tripathi was that there was a consistent tenor through the novels in Browns book. Tripathi on the other hand started out with Lord Shiv as a human but then backtracked by introducing a number of Devas and Asuras and immortality which confused things.
The writer of this certainly scores over Bhagat on two counts - he has taken an interesting subject ( I am obsessed with mythology after all) and there might be certain homework which has gone into the creation of this book - so it doesn’t read like a horny collegians delusional ramblings. Though one wished he would have just raised the whole thing by a couple of notches. (The feeling I had while reading it was akin to when goes for a head massage and the masseuse while working in the generally right area consistently misses the spots which could make the whole experience divine ( pun unintended again)!)
I will probably read the sequels too. Ah well.
*BC= Before Chetan: Sorry, couldnt help myself.
** AD= After Dumbkoff (Sorry, couldnt resist that either)
P.S. Finished reading “Two states” sometime back, might explain the vitriol
P.P.S Extremely random post - what to do? house arrest and sleep deprivation continues...
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Bloggers and Books.
The other day I just finished a book by this rather famous blogger-who-become-an-author.
I don’t really know what I was expecting – since I am not a big follower of this particular person’s blog. I had a nebulous idea perhaps – of a plot which spoke the same language, or situations, places and events which I had experienced, maybe some controversy, maybe some humour – something topical which I could relate to.
What I didn’t expect, was to be bored out of my skull.
Harsh? Well yes, rather.
But the truth was what would have been tolerable-interesting as someone's private blog just did not translate into a readable or engrossing or even passable novel. I found the plot loose, the writing mediocre, the humour contrived, the characters one-dimensional, and the predominant reaction at the end of the book, was relief that it was over.
Strangely enough, these are criticisms which one could level at dozens of blogs, mine included – but that has never stopped me from reading those blogs (or writing mine for that matter), and I don’t think I have consciously passed harsh judgement on the content, the writing or anything of the sort. I enjoy reading those blogs – even when the sentence construction is faulty, even if the odd post is not very interesting, but the sum total of the parts ends up being an enriching experience.
But when the same thing happens in a novel, it is different altogether.
So that brings me to a very interesting point, – are we as readers more willing to forgive mediocrity in blogging but not so in books (even if it is from the same author?). Do we have vastly different expectations and levels of what constitutes an acceptable blog versus an acceptable book? I would say, yes.
The question is, why?
The most obvious and no-brainer answer to that of course, is that authors get paid money and bloggers don’t. So perhaps, if someone is writing for a fee, is a professional writer, one expects a much higher degree of competence.
The authors I read, MUST be at an intellectual, linguistic, entertainment plane which is much higher than what I am capable of doing. Then, and only then, can I enjoy, appreciate and can revel in the books. It doesn’t mean it has to be an intellectual opus – a lot of light reading isn’t, but then there is this indefinable and intangible ‘quality’ in it which sets it apart from amateurs, which one respects. It could be the turn of phrase, the etching of the characters, the quirky humour which subtly tells the reader, that there is much more to this writing gig, then well, just writing.
Maybe it’s a sense of fellowship – a blogger is a fellow, someone you can interact with, mail, comment, and chat with. An author is supposed to be a celebrity – inaccessible, aloof, and with a halo which is larger than life. So I might not be willing to extend the same benefit of doubt as I would to a blogger-mate.
The other reason could be the fact that in blogging, one is exposed to minute quantities of the persons thought processes at any given point of time – thousand to two thousand words, one incident. In a novel, one is exposed to maybe forty times that quantity. Much vaster canvas to be critical off isn’t it?
And I think very personally, bloggers who turn bad authors, bring out the biggest conflict in me -a person who has always harboured hopes of getting a book published some day.
On the one hand it gives this perverse sense of hope – that if someone who is not-very-good can get published; I might have a fighting chance too. On the other, it gives rise to a lot of self-loathing and criticism for NOT having done anything about it yet – especially when I knows in my heart-of-hearts that I might not have the perseverance, or the talent to actually write a decent book.
And there is always the other conflict – that even assuming average authors get published, does one actually want to go down in the annals of history as being one of those average authors or is it better not to attempt the task at all? Is it better to be mediocre and famous, or know one’s limitations and rein in one’s ambition to what one is passably good at?
I just shared this post with Mo, and she had a very interesting point. Viz. that bloggers are commentators and they comment on the current state of being – they are not story tellers. Which is a hugely valid point in retrospect – because one of the problems I DID have with the book, was that it was like a collage of events – not woven together, but just jostling each other for space.
So in other words this static, still photograph technique of writing can be acceptable in blogs, or to use an analogy – in a home video, might seem very amateurish when you go to a multiplex to watch a movie where you want action, dynamism and movement.
What do you think?
(No, not Sidin, I have not read Dork (Though I plan to). I do not want the post to be misconstrued just because he happens to be the latest from the bloggers-turned-authors genre).
I don’t really know what I was expecting – since I am not a big follower of this particular person’s blog. I had a nebulous idea perhaps – of a plot which spoke the same language, or situations, places and events which I had experienced, maybe some controversy, maybe some humour – something topical which I could relate to.
What I didn’t expect, was to be bored out of my skull.
Harsh? Well yes, rather.
But the truth was what would have been tolerable-interesting as someone's private blog just did not translate into a readable or engrossing or even passable novel. I found the plot loose, the writing mediocre, the humour contrived, the characters one-dimensional, and the predominant reaction at the end of the book, was relief that it was over.
Strangely enough, these are criticisms which one could level at dozens of blogs, mine included – but that has never stopped me from reading those blogs (or writing mine for that matter), and I don’t think I have consciously passed harsh judgement on the content, the writing or anything of the sort. I enjoy reading those blogs – even when the sentence construction is faulty, even if the odd post is not very interesting, but the sum total of the parts ends up being an enriching experience.
But when the same thing happens in a novel, it is different altogether.
So that brings me to a very interesting point, – are we as readers more willing to forgive mediocrity in blogging but not so in books (even if it is from the same author?). Do we have vastly different expectations and levels of what constitutes an acceptable blog versus an acceptable book? I would say, yes.
The question is, why?
The most obvious and no-brainer answer to that of course, is that authors get paid money and bloggers don’t. So perhaps, if someone is writing for a fee, is a professional writer, one expects a much higher degree of competence.
The authors I read, MUST be at an intellectual, linguistic, entertainment plane which is much higher than what I am capable of doing. Then, and only then, can I enjoy, appreciate and can revel in the books. It doesn’t mean it has to be an intellectual opus – a lot of light reading isn’t, but then there is this indefinable and intangible ‘quality’ in it which sets it apart from amateurs, which one respects. It could be the turn of phrase, the etching of the characters, the quirky humour which subtly tells the reader, that there is much more to this writing gig, then well, just writing.
Maybe it’s a sense of fellowship – a blogger is a fellow, someone you can interact with, mail, comment, and chat with. An author is supposed to be a celebrity – inaccessible, aloof, and with a halo which is larger than life. So I might not be willing to extend the same benefit of doubt as I would to a blogger-mate.
The other reason could be the fact that in blogging, one is exposed to minute quantities of the persons thought processes at any given point of time – thousand to two thousand words, one incident. In a novel, one is exposed to maybe forty times that quantity. Much vaster canvas to be critical off isn’t it?
And I think very personally, bloggers who turn bad authors, bring out the biggest conflict in me -a person who has always harboured hopes of getting a book published some day.
On the one hand it gives this perverse sense of hope – that if someone who is not-very-good can get published; I might have a fighting chance too. On the other, it gives rise to a lot of self-loathing and criticism for NOT having done anything about it yet – especially when I knows in my heart-of-hearts that I might not have the perseverance, or the talent to actually write a decent book.
And there is always the other conflict – that even assuming average authors get published, does one actually want to go down in the annals of history as being one of those average authors or is it better not to attempt the task at all? Is it better to be mediocre and famous, or know one’s limitations and rein in one’s ambition to what one is passably good at?
I just shared this post with Mo, and she had a very interesting point. Viz. that bloggers are commentators and they comment on the current state of being – they are not story tellers. Which is a hugely valid point in retrospect – because one of the problems I DID have with the book, was that it was like a collage of events – not woven together, but just jostling each other for space.
So in other words this static, still photograph technique of writing can be acceptable in blogs, or to use an analogy – in a home video, might seem very amateurish when you go to a multiplex to watch a movie where you want action, dynamism and movement.
What do you think?
(No, not Sidin, I have not read Dork (Though I plan to). I do not want the post to be misconstrued just because he happens to be the latest from the bloggers-turned-authors genre).
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Love of Books, and Books of Love
The big problem with being a bibliophile is that one needs regular shots of books to keep sane. The bigger problem of being a bibliophile is that the only way to get these regular shots is to buy the dratted books. Nice, neat solution you say? Not if you are almost permanently broke and especially not if you live in a house where it is almost impossible to walk for five minutes without tripping over books (I really don’t know why though. I think the books have little baby books in the nights. We can’t possibly have brought so many).
So what does one do? One trawls the area and joins the only library which seems to exist in the city. And so have I.
Now this library (and I use the term euphemistically) has been started by one fellow K. It is about the size of a large walk-in-closet and is bursting at the seams with M&B’s, Archies, Joan Collins and not much else. So I have been wading through this not-much-else’s of his (I had taken a diksha that I shalt not read MB’s when I was 14have stuck to it so far).
K unfortunately labours under the illusion that he understands his clients. Thus, every unsuspecting borrower is ambushed with what he thinks are great recommendations and he gets quite offended if one doesn’t borrow the said book. I tried his suggestions a couple of times – fairly innocuous sounding titles and synopsis. And then I found books rampant with “six foot of virile masculinity and rippling abs with ( or without) tight Armani T-shirts” and “women who had sweat drenched shirts tucked in and open to show delectable mounds of bronzed flesh” which has endangered a severe mistrust of his must-reads. (Yes K, there ARE females in the universe who don’t like books of lovin’ particularly. Interesting sidebar, noticed how male porn is always visual and femme porn is always verbal?).
Now having gone through most of the readable books, and quite a few unreadable ones, I find myself having to confront variations of these soft-porn and romantic thingummies.
M&B of course I have vowed not to read. Other books in the genre which I have picked up over the years in book-drought times have been along the following lines.
Danielle Steeles – read some of her stuff in my teens and came to the conclusion that all her books followed the following construct
1.A misunderstood and difficult childhood wali heroine
2.With a name which was usually Alexandra ( Alex for short) ( sometimes for variation the hero was called Alex)
3.The heroine lost her virginity at age 19
4.She went through 3 men – 2 of them who died in tragic and heartrending fashion and left the poor heroine destitute and/or pregnant and/or completely alone
5.Tears and crying in approximately 76.31% of the pages
Nicholas Sparks’s appears to the male equivalent of DS. Only with more muscular hero who dies in the end – the hero can either be a fireman or a cop or a recluse living on an island. The tough masculinity belied by the tender-easily-broken heart just aching to love and be loved.
Then there was one female called Judith McNought – who apparently tried to write historical stuff. But then her heroes had names like ‘Wolf’ and ‘Fox ‘or ‘Raven’ (NEVER ‘Crow’) who ravish women and then fall in love with the “innocence shining out of their eyes” (and also the voluptuousness shining out of their bodies), but they tie themselves into guilt-ridden knots since they have raped the said women.
The woman of course, has this rather conflicted view of wolf. On the one hand, she is horny as hell and wants to be er...taken again. On the other hand, the woman is passionately in love with the misunderstood poor-little-rich-boy-ignored-by-his-parents-in-childhood-and-hence-turned-into-ravager and wants to reform him. But then she also mistrusts him because he has the power to “shatter her heart into a million splinters”. And then all ends happily ever after.
Frankly, I think most females would have a strong distaste for anyone who rapes them – even assuming the said rapist is an Adonis look-alike. But maybe, that’s just my point of view.
The BEST plot however goes as follows (I had read this a dozen years ago and I still remember it.) I cannot for the life of me recall the name of the book or the author though. The story went something like this.
Starts with a suicide of a rich, successful, handsome (blah, blah) man. No one knows why this fellow should commit suicide since he is on the verge of a marriage with a girl of his dreams who happens to be also twenty years younger than him. So she (or someone else) starts investigating into the death.
Flashback time
1.Rich farmer A rapes next door neighbour’s fifteen or sixteen year old daughter B
2.B gets pregnant.
3.B’s parents coerce A to get hitched to B.
4.A and B get hitched, have a baby son C
5.Three four years of misery for B pass, while A continues to plant his seeds in the neighbouring lands.
6.B decides enough is enough and takes off into the sunset leaving A and C behind. End of B
7.Fifteen years later, C is hotness personified.
8.C goes to the Riviera or somewhere, and has a steamy affair with a Mrs. Robinson – let’s call her D. D is also married to rich fellow E.
9.Affair ends, D and E fade into the background
10.Twenty years further on, C falls in REAL love with F. They romance, they slow dance and they prance.
11.And then C commits suicide.
12.Why?
13.Because he finds out that a) Mrs Robinson (aka D) was actually B- his mother.
14.And he also finds out that from that torrid affair of his, this D/B/Mother had conceived a child – who, hold your breath turns out to be F the same person he has been having a romance with which of course involves sharing the conjugal bed.
15.F is essentially C’s child, conceived with C’s mother.
Do you feel like throwing up now? I did.
After that I have a mortal fear of picking up any such books.
Sigh. I need a new library.
So what does one do? One trawls the area and joins the only library which seems to exist in the city. And so have I.
Now this library (and I use the term euphemistically) has been started by one fellow K. It is about the size of a large walk-in-closet and is bursting at the seams with M&B’s, Archies, Joan Collins and not much else. So I have been wading through this not-much-else’s of his (I had taken a diksha that I shalt not read MB’s when I was 14have stuck to it so far).
K unfortunately labours under the illusion that he understands his clients. Thus, every unsuspecting borrower is ambushed with what he thinks are great recommendations and he gets quite offended if one doesn’t borrow the said book. I tried his suggestions a couple of times – fairly innocuous sounding titles and synopsis. And then I found books rampant with “six foot of virile masculinity and rippling abs with ( or without) tight Armani T-shirts” and “women who had sweat drenched shirts tucked in and open to show delectable mounds of bronzed flesh” which has endangered a severe mistrust of his must-reads. (Yes K, there ARE females in the universe who don’t like books of lovin’ particularly. Interesting sidebar, noticed how male porn is always visual and femme porn is always verbal?).
Now having gone through most of the readable books, and quite a few unreadable ones, I find myself having to confront variations of these soft-porn and romantic thingummies.
M&B of course I have vowed not to read. Other books in the genre which I have picked up over the years in book-drought times have been along the following lines.
Danielle Steeles – read some of her stuff in my teens and came to the conclusion that all her books followed the following construct
1.A misunderstood and difficult childhood wali heroine
2.With a name which was usually Alexandra ( Alex for short) ( sometimes for variation the hero was called Alex)
3.The heroine lost her virginity at age 19
4.She went through 3 men – 2 of them who died in tragic and heartrending fashion and left the poor heroine destitute and/or pregnant and/or completely alone
5.Tears and crying in approximately 76.31% of the pages
Nicholas Sparks’s appears to the male equivalent of DS. Only with more muscular hero who dies in the end – the hero can either be a fireman or a cop or a recluse living on an island. The tough masculinity belied by the tender-easily-broken heart just aching to love and be loved.
Then there was one female called Judith McNought – who apparently tried to write historical stuff. But then her heroes had names like ‘Wolf’ and ‘Fox ‘or ‘Raven’ (NEVER ‘Crow’) who ravish women and then fall in love with the “innocence shining out of their eyes” (and also the voluptuousness shining out of their bodies), but they tie themselves into guilt-ridden knots since they have raped the said women.
The woman of course, has this rather conflicted view of wolf. On the one hand, she is horny as hell and wants to be er...taken again. On the other hand, the woman is passionately in love with the misunderstood poor-little-rich-boy-ignored-by-his-parents-in-childhood-and-hence-turned-into-ravager and wants to reform him. But then she also mistrusts him because he has the power to “shatter her heart into a million splinters”. And then all ends happily ever after.
Frankly, I think most females would have a strong distaste for anyone who rapes them – even assuming the said rapist is an Adonis look-alike. But maybe, that’s just my point of view.
The BEST plot however goes as follows (I had read this a dozen years ago and I still remember it.) I cannot for the life of me recall the name of the book or the author though. The story went something like this.
Starts with a suicide of a rich, successful, handsome (blah, blah) man. No one knows why this fellow should commit suicide since he is on the verge of a marriage with a girl of his dreams who happens to be also twenty years younger than him. So she (or someone else) starts investigating into the death.
Flashback time
1.Rich farmer A rapes next door neighbour’s fifteen or sixteen year old daughter B
2.B gets pregnant.
3.B’s parents coerce A to get hitched to B.
4.A and B get hitched, have a baby son C
5.Three four years of misery for B pass, while A continues to plant his seeds in the neighbouring lands.
6.B decides enough is enough and takes off into the sunset leaving A and C behind. End of B
7.Fifteen years later, C is hotness personified.
8.C goes to the Riviera or somewhere, and has a steamy affair with a Mrs. Robinson – let’s call her D. D is also married to rich fellow E.
9.Affair ends, D and E fade into the background
10.Twenty years further on, C falls in REAL love with F. They romance, they slow dance and they prance.
11.And then C commits suicide.
12.Why?
13.Because he finds out that a) Mrs Robinson (aka D) was actually B- his mother.
14.And he also finds out that from that torrid affair of his, this D/B/Mother had conceived a child – who, hold your breath turns out to be F the same person he has been having a romance with which of course involves sharing the conjugal bed.
15.F is essentially C’s child, conceived with C’s mother.
Do you feel like throwing up now? I did.
After that I have a mortal fear of picking up any such books.
Sigh. I need a new library.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Kyuki Sassy Bhi Kabhi Bahu thi
These days I have come across a lot of stuff on literature for the female species - colloquially known as "Chick-Lit". This particular genre, is targeted I believe at urban girls between the ages of 25-35, working professionals, independent and all that jazz.
I suppose, I qualify.
But somehow I have never clambered onto chick-lit bandwagon. I have read a couple of the Candace Bushnell books ( the Mother of all Chick Litterateurs, The Fashionista-book Goddess, the One-who-started-it-all-with-Sex-and-the-city etcetera etcetera) and even sneakingly enjoyed the "Devil Wears Prada". But I don't think I can call myself an aficionado of the genre.
Maybe its because of the fact that there is too much fashion in it (and I really wouldn't know the difference between Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik. Heck, I hadn't even heard of them until I had do some work in the category a couple of years ago), too many stilettos..and uhm..I am rather coordination challenged. (As the hero wouldn't hesitate to point out - I must be the only
female in the universe who managed to fall off a stationary Exercycle. For the record, I did NOT! (whatever he may say hmpf)-. But the fact remains, walking around on stilettos would be a bit of a Hazardous-to-health activity) and well, chick lit has a LOT of alpha females (alpha types scare the shit out of me in real life, and in books).
Which is the reason I haven't seen Sex and the city or don't even particularly want to. Or any of travails of the Indian Bridget Jones (Brinda Joshis? Pliss excuse, couldn't help myself)
On the other hand I wouldn't say I was a sworn enemy either ( and if there are any rabid fans baying for my blood, let me interject hurriedly and say that I am a big admirer of slightly dated chick lit - viz. Heyer.There is a making-fun-at-self undertone in Heyer's work ( also sometimes seen in Desperate Housewives) which is quite lovely).
Anyways, I digress. If there is an audience who laps up stories of Harry Winston, chapatis and chips ..ahem .."post-coital cuddling", by all means, let the genre grow and multiply.
But what I DO want to know, is why each and every single of the book flaps, newspaper reviews, magazine articles, insist on describing these (the books, the protagonists and the authors) as "Sassy"?
I don't know what is about that word which manages to annoy me so much. It's supposed to be a emancipated word, but somehow it sounds utterly condescending which goes contrary to the woman-of-substance they try and portray. To my mind, there is something quite wannabe and brittle about the term.
Or maybe I am reading it all wrong?
I asked a colleague, a die-hard chick-lit fan, who is almost conjoined with a series of these books.
She told me that it meant women, who could stand on their own feet, and give (I quote) "as good as they get" back to the men in their lives, and who don't take shit from guys - even if they are significant others.Actually, even less if they are from significant others.
But doesn't that also describe Ekta Kapoor heroines I asked her. The Tulsi's and Parvatis of the world - who always have lots of money,seem to be living in mansions in metros, work ( take over their husband's business when those incompetent men cant do a thing) and are forever scrapping with villainous males in all shapes and forms? They even spend hours on their make up AND wear stilettos and high fashion kancheepurams.
She didn't seem very happy with the comparison. In fact she has stopped talking to me after that.
Maybe i should go and tell her that she is sassy.
Ah well.
I suppose, I qualify.
But somehow I have never clambered onto chick-lit bandwagon. I have read a couple of the Candace Bushnell books ( the Mother of all Chick Litterateurs, The Fashionista-book Goddess, the One-who-started-it-all-with-Sex-and-the-city etcetera etcetera) and even sneakingly enjoyed the "Devil Wears Prada". But I don't think I can call myself an aficionado of the genre.
Maybe its because of the fact that there is too much fashion in it (and I really wouldn't know the difference between Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik. Heck, I hadn't even heard of them until I had do some work in the category a couple of years ago), too many stilettos..and uhm..I am rather coordination challenged. (As the hero wouldn't hesitate to point out - I must be the only
female in the universe who managed to fall off a stationary Exercycle. For the record, I did NOT! (whatever he may say hmpf)-. But the fact remains, walking around on stilettos would be a bit of a Hazardous-to-health activity) and well, chick lit has a LOT of alpha females (alpha types scare the shit out of me in real life, and in books).
Which is the reason I haven't seen Sex and the city or don't even particularly want to. Or any of travails of the Indian Bridget Jones (Brinda Joshis? Pliss excuse, couldn't help myself)
On the other hand I wouldn't say I was a sworn enemy either ( and if there are any rabid fans baying for my blood, let me interject hurriedly and say that I am a big admirer of slightly dated chick lit - viz. Heyer.There is a making-fun-at-self undertone in Heyer's work ( also sometimes seen in Desperate Housewives) which is quite lovely).
Anyways, I digress. If there is an audience who laps up stories of Harry Winston, chapatis and chips ..ahem .."post-coital cuddling", by all means, let the genre grow and multiply.
But what I DO want to know, is why each and every single of the book flaps, newspaper reviews, magazine articles, insist on describing these (the books, the protagonists and the authors) as "Sassy"?
I don't know what is about that word which manages to annoy me so much. It's supposed to be a emancipated word, but somehow it sounds utterly condescending which goes contrary to the woman-of-substance they try and portray. To my mind, there is something quite wannabe and brittle about the term.
Or maybe I am reading it all wrong?
I asked a colleague, a die-hard chick-lit fan, who is almost conjoined with a series of these books.
She told me that it meant women, who could stand on their own feet, and give (I quote) "as good as they get" back to the men in their lives, and who don't take shit from guys - even if they are significant others.Actually, even less if they are from significant others.
But doesn't that also describe Ekta Kapoor heroines I asked her. The Tulsi's and Parvatis of the world - who always have lots of money,seem to be living in mansions in metros, work ( take over their husband's business when those incompetent men cant do a thing) and are forever scrapping with villainous males in all shapes and forms? They even spend hours on their make up AND wear stilettos and high fashion kancheepurams.
She didn't seem very happy with the comparison. In fact she has stopped talking to me after that.
Maybe i should go and tell her that she is sassy.
Ah well.
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