The Junk Bookstore - Kuala Lumpur's Antiquarian Bookshop...oh yes, and that old, old kiss!

by Susan Abraham

Pictured here is an illustration from the women's fiction my mother and her friends read in their time. The short billowy dresses they wore with matching coloured bags and earrings and the fashion magazines they snuggled up to. Looking back, the days felt transient and more ephemeral.

Such is the starry-eyed atmosphere that engulfs the Junk Bookstore, Kuala Lumpur's popular antiquarian bookshop and promotes its reputation as a thrilling, intimate haunt.

It's a captivating little place and may yet prove tighter than a mansion's alcove with its poky corners that hoard literary treasures in the vein of an ancient toyshop clutter.

After all, its matchbox size ensures a silent warning that, you may just stroll in at the risk of of a book-pile precariously perched from somwhere in the forgotten past, collapsing onto the floor in a thunderous heap.

And do be careful climbing up the staircase that you don't suffer a thump on the head from a secret sloping wall, bent on mischief.

In spite of the limited space, the shop is famous for its colourful shelves of second-hand books that drag out all the romantic flavour from the world's rich Colonial past.

Think of it as an Aladdin's cave with boxes of mixed-up oil lamps, for any literary enthusiast seeking mystery and adventure.

There are hundreds of detective novels - for instance, the startling range of a Perry Como series featuring Film Noir blondes and cigar-smoking thugs, - thrillers, limited local editions of Malaysian/Singaporean women's magazines from the Sixties, romances, comics and all kinds of other amusing paperback fare.

Sentiment is heaven so carry more tissues than usual whenever you visit this tiny haven.

The Junk Bookstore,
78, Jalan Tun HS Lee,
50000 Kuala Lumpur,
Tel: 603 238 3822.

The Junk Bookstore - Kuala Lumpur's Antiquarian Bookshop...oh yes, and that old, old kiss!

by Susan Abraham

Pictured here is an illustration from the women's fiction my mother and her friends read in their time. The short billowy dresses they wore with matching coloured bags and earrings and the fashion magazines they snuggled up to. Looking back, the days felt transient and more ephemeral.

Such is the starry-eyed atmosphere that engulfs the Junk Bookstore, Kuala Lumpur's popular antiquarian bookshop and promotes its reputation as a thrilling, intimate haunt.

It's a captivating little place and may yet prove tighter than a mansion's alcove with its poky corners that hoard literary treasures in the vein of an ancient toyshop clutter.

After all, its matchbox size ensures a silent warning that, you may just stroll in at the risk of of a book-pile precariously perched from somwhere in the forgotten past, collapsing onto the floor in a thunderous heap.

And do be careful climbing up the staircase that you don't suffer a thump on the head from a secret sloping wall, bent on mischief.

In spite of the limited space, the shop is famous for its colourful shelves of second-hand books that drag out all the romantic flavour from the world's rich Colonial past.

Think of it as an Aladdin's cave with boxes of mixed-up oil lamps, for any literary enthusiast seeking mystery and adventure.

There are hundreds of detective novels - for instance, the startling range of a Perry Como series featuring Film Noir blondes and cigar-smoking thugs, - thrillers, limited local editions of Malaysian/Singaporean women's magazines from the Sixties, romances, comics and all kinds of other amusing paperback fare.

Sentiment is heaven so carry more tissues than usual whenever you visit this tiny haven.

The Junk Bookstore,
78, Jalan Tun HS Lee,
50000 Kuala Lumpur,
Tel: 603 238 3822.

The Junk Bookstore - Kuala Lumpur's Antiquarian Bookshop...oh yes, and that old, old kiss!

by Susan Abraham

Pictured here is an illustration from the women's fiction my mother and her friends read in their time. The short billowy dresses they wore with matching coloured bags and earrings and the fashion magazines they snuggled up to. Looking back, the days felt transient and more ephemeral.

Such is the starry-eyed atmosphere that engulfs the Junk Bookstore, Kuala Lumpur's popular antiquarian bookshop and promotes its reputation as a thrilling, intimate haunt.

It's a captivating little place and may yet prove tighter than a mansion's alcove with its poky corners that hoard literary treasures in the vein of an ancient toyshop clutter.

After all, its matchbox size ensures a silent warning that, you may just stroll in at the risk of of a book-pile precariously perched from somwhere in the forgotten past, collapsing onto the floor in a thunderous heap.

And do be careful climbing up the staircase that you don't suffer a thump on the head from a secret sloping wall, bent on mischief.

In spite of the limited space, the shop is famous for its colourful shelves of second-hand books that drag out all the romantic flavour from the world's rich Colonial past.

Think of it as an Aladdin's cave with boxes of mixed-up oil lamps, for any literary enthusiast seeking mystery and adventure.

There are hundreds of detective novels - for instance, the startling range of a Perry Como series featuring Film Noir blondes and cigar-smoking thugs, - thrillers, limited local editions of Malaysian/Singaporean women's magazines from the Sixties, romances, comics and all kinds of other amusing paperback fare.

Sentiment is heaven so carry more tissues than usual whenever you visit this tiny haven.

The Junk Bookstore,
78, Jalan Tun HS Lee,
50000 Kuala Lumpur,
Tel: 603 238 3822.

D. Devika Bai, a Malaysian novelist who thrives on seclusion and simplicity.

Pictured is D. Devika Bai, a former teacher turned novelist who successfully authored her debut historial fiction in 2005 titled The Flight of the Swans, published by Monsoon Books Singapore, 320pp, S$23-50 (MYR49-90).

For content information and purchase details, please scan to end of this entry.

The Flight of the Swans was nominated for the Commonwealth Writers' Prize 2006 (for the SE Asia & South Pacific regions. Bai has also been featured in Sawnet's (South-Asian Women's NETwork) bookshelf section and an extract from the first chapter of The Flight of Swans was published in DIMSUM (Asia's literary journal, volume 11.

Here is a day in the writing life of Ms. D. Devika Bai, who is now working on her second novel, with a resolution to completing it by year-end.

As told to Susan Abraham by D. Devika Bai.

"I've chosen the Indian Ocean slave-trade as the subject of my second book. Not much has been written about it to this present day from a fictional sense. Yet, it's a theme that existed during the same era as the trans-Atlantic slave-trade. I narrate my story through the voice of an Indian gypsy-girl. By the way, Indian gypsies are another subject rarely explored on, in English fiction.

"When I started writing The Flight of the Swans 9 years ago, I did not own a computer with Internet facilities. There were also no cybercafes in Rawang, Selangor, where I live.

"My relatives in Chennai, India kindly sent me material I needed for research. As for the rest of the bits, I delved into my own book collection.

"Of course now for the second book, I use the Internet a lot. The bulk of research has been done but I daresay, I still have to look up a fact or two when I'm writing.

"As they say, fact is itself stranger than fiction. Already, I've worked on my story for more than 2 years. I'm two thirds done and am trying to finish it by 2007 if I can.

"I've always been a notorious homebody so even with a title like published author for The Flight of the Swans, my life still hasn't changed all that much.

"I don't go to town unless absolutely necessary. I only visit relatives when a function comes on or otherwise, ocassionally. I've lost touch with most of my friends and colleagues, except for those who reside in the town where I live. And I know that they're presently delighted with my book.

"Anyway I'm happiest when I'm writing and that's what matters to me.

"There was a flurry of media interviews just before and after the official booksigning events for The Flight Of The Swans in July, 2005. I find it exhilarating but humbling to be in the public eye."I must admit that being a published author has definitely opened up possibilities for my writing. It's also given me a real sense of elation and achievement.

"However I work more from the home now especially that I'm writing my second novel.

"I wake up at 7.30am. My breakfast is always simple and fuss-free. A thosai, chappati or slices of bread with butter. My plan is to then catch up with the BBC news on television and to skim through the headlines of the morning papers. That's followed by a variety of household chores that could be anything from sweeping, dusting or mopping. This lasts for about an hour. I'm very lucky that I don't have to cook. Two wonderful people handle this for me. My mum and my sister-in-law.

"I start writing everyday around 9.00am. The only compulsory ritual here that I engage in is to sharpen my pencils fastidiously beforehand. That's because I write in longhand.

"There is of course, a clear difference between writing a book and what teaching used to be for me. As you know, writing is far more exhausting. It demands intense concentration that is focussed on a single page at a time whereas in the classroom, you could easily divide your attention with students, books and the blackboard.

"Anyway, for the next three hours I become completely immersed in this story that I'm busy creating. I don't set any kind of target for the number of words or pages to be finished at one sitting. I take it slow, mulling over words and sentences. I happily lose myself in this world. And I don't wait for inspiration. Routine and discipline do it for me.

"Still, if you mention inspiration on the offside, my muse has to be my late father. He was an avid reader and will always stay my hero.

"The first story book I ever read when I was a child was Lassie. My Dad bought the book for me. During my growing years, I started reading the English Classics and my father's collection of Reader's Digest condensed novels and World War II epics. Then, I went on to read the Pulitzer Prize-winning The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck (borrowed), and A Town Like Alice (a gift)."Both novels had me hooked!

"Once I started work as a teacher, there was no stopping me from buying my own novels and becoming a voracious reader. Though I've given away all my old novels now, I still have with me The Good Earth which I treasure.

"Writing, for me came as a natural consequence of reading. My book collection now consists of some classics and contemporary novels. I also own books on philosophy & religion, mythology, culture and history. "Anyway to come back to my morning, when the writing gets a bit overwhelming, I'll confess to flitting out of this new door to grab a cup of coffee. For awhile, I'll admire the red and white hibiscus shrubs outside my window and listen to the birds twittering around the bushes.

"This is easy for me as my antique writing desk is stationed in a corner of my bedroom, right next to the window.

"On it are my writing material, dictionaries, files, a calendar and a-clock-and-pen-holder. I also have a very old greeting card propped up beside the clock. There's a reason for this. The pictures on the cards are coloured in metallic shades and I keep it especially for a silvery dove that it depicts. To me, that dove symbolises all that's good in the world.

"I stop for lunch at 1pm. It's always rice and a curry with a vegetable selection on vegetarian days which are for me, every Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. On other days, I'll have fish and meat. Lunch is followed by poring over the newspapers and a siesta.

"I'll have my tea with biscuits and cakes. Then I'll settle for any one of my favourite hobbies. This could be anything from pottering in the garden to cleaning and polishing the family heirlooms. Some of the ornaments are more than a century old.

"I also enjoy listening to songs and tunes that command a Waltz rhythm, or an Indian or Latin American beat. Besides, I have a penchant for classic Indian films or even the old Oscar-winning Hollywood ones.

"After a spell of these, it's back to writing until dinner time. I wind up my day, watching my favourite soaps and catching the midnight news on tv. "I would recommend for any aspiring author who wants to write in a specific genre of English fiction, to read several books by other authors who write in this field. And to never ever give up looking for a publisher.

"Today, I nestle future ambitions of meeting with other authors, seeing my novel The Flight of the Swans adapted for either the small or big screen and especially this... To ride on the Singapore-Kunming Express when it's completed. You see, the railways is very much in my blood as I have had three generations of my family working for the Malayan Railways. This stretches all the way back to the time of my great-grandfather."

ISBN: 981-05-2367-X
Available for next day despatch from
Monsoon Books, Singapore (please see link at start of post)
& from Amazon Online.

Set in British Malaya and India, The Flight of the Swans is an expansive family epic with a war theme revolving around the vision of a flight of swans or a bird in solitary endeavour that signals a cursed Captain and his family's hurried escape from the hands of the British. This, to face hardships in another land as well as hopeful dreams.

Family upheavals, mangled from a wounded political and historical landscape as well as sibling rivalry for the hand of a beautiful courtesan, hold reflection on a new brand of literary Indian writing in Malaysia that rests on ambitious history and vivid description of lives lived and lost through circumstances and bad decisions. This is a story that deals with the beautiful, the exotic and the tragic.
Photograph is author's own.

D. Devika Bai, a Malaysian novelist who thrives on seclusion and simplicity.

Pictured is D. Devika Bai, a former teacher turned novelist who successfully authored her debut historial fiction in 2005 titled The Flight of the Swans, published by Monsoon Books Singapore, 320pp, S$23-50 (MYR49-90).

For content information and purchase details, please scan to end of this entry.

The Flight of the Swans was nominated for the Commonwealth Writers' Prize 2006 (for the SE Asia & South Pacific regions. Bai has also been featured in Sawnet's (South-Asian Women's NETwork) bookshelf section and an extract from the first chapter of The Flight of Swans was published in DIMSUM (Asia's literary journal, volume 11.

Here is a day in the writing life of Ms. D. Devika Bai, who is now working on her second novel, with a resolution to completing it by year-end.

As told to Susan Abraham by D. Devika Bai.

"I've chosen the Indian Ocean slave-trade as the subject of my second book. Not much has been written about it to this present day from a fictional sense. Yet, it's a theme that existed during the same era as the trans-Atlantic slave-trade. I narrate my story through the voice of an Indian gypsy-girl. By the way, Indian gypsies are another subject rarely explored on, in English fiction.

"When I started writing The Flight of the Swans 9 years ago, I did not own a computer with Internet facilities. There were also no cybercafes in Rawang, Selangor, where I live.

"My relatives in Chennai, India kindly sent me material I needed for research. As for the rest of the bits, I delved into my own book collection.

"Of course now for the second book, I use the Internet a lot. The bulk of research has been done but I daresay, I still have to look up a fact or two when I'm writing.

"As they say, fact is itself stranger than fiction. Already, I've worked on my story for more than 2 years. I'm two thirds done and am trying to finish it by 2007 if I can.

"I've always been a notorious homebody so even with a title like published author for The Flight of the Swans, my life still hasn't changed all that much.

"I don't go to town unless absolutely necessary. I only visit relatives when a function comes on or otherwise, ocassionally. I've lost touch with most of my friends and colleagues, except for those who reside in the town where I live. And I know that they're presently delighted with my book.

"Anyway I'm happiest when I'm writing and that's what matters to me.

"There was a flurry of media interviews just before and after the official booksigning events for The Flight Of The Swans in July, 2005. I find it exhilarating but humbling to be in the public eye."I must admit that being a published author has definitely opened up possibilities for my writing. It's also given me a real sense of elation and achievement.

"However I work more from the home now especially that I'm writing my second novel.

"I wake up at 7.30am. My breakfast is always simple and fuss-free. A thosai, chappati or slices of bread with butter. My plan is to then catch up with the BBC news on television and to skim through the headlines of the morning papers. That's followed by a variety of household chores that could be anything from sweeping, dusting or mopping. This lasts for about an hour. I'm very lucky that I don't have to cook. Two wonderful people handle this for me. My mum and my sister-in-law.

"I start writing everyday around 9.00am. The only compulsory ritual here that I engage in is to sharpen my pencils fastidiously beforehand. That's because I write in longhand.

"There is of course, a clear difference between writing a book and what teaching used to be for me. As you know, writing is far more exhausting. It demands intense concentration that is focussed on a single page at a time whereas in the classroom, you could easily divide your attention with students, books and the blackboard.

"Anyway, for the next three hours I become completely immersed in this story that I'm busy creating. I don't set any kind of target for the number of words or pages to be finished at one sitting. I take it slow, mulling over words and sentences. I happily lose myself in this world. And I don't wait for inspiration. Routine and discipline do it for me.

"Still, if you mention inspiration on the offside, my muse has to be my late father. He was an avid reader and will always stay my hero.

"The first story book I ever read when I was a child was Lassie. My Dad bought the book for me. During my growing years, I started reading the English Classics and my father's collection of Reader's Digest condensed novels and World War II epics. Then, I went on to read the Pulitzer Prize-winning The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck (borrowed), and A Town Like Alice (a gift)."Both novels had me hooked!

"Once I started work as a teacher, there was no stopping me from buying my own novels and becoming a voracious reader. Though I've given away all my old novels now, I still have with me The Good Earth which I treasure.

"Writing, for me came as a natural consequence of reading. My book collection now consists of some classics and contemporary novels. I also own books on philosophy & religion, mythology, culture and history. "Anyway to come back to my morning, when the writing gets a bit overwhelming, I'll confess to flitting out of this new door to grab a cup of coffee. For awhile, I'll admire the red and white hibiscus shrubs outside my window and listen to the birds twittering around the bushes.

"This is easy for me as my antique writing desk is stationed in a corner of my bedroom, right next to the window.

"On it are my writing material, dictionaries, files, a calendar and a-clock-and-pen-holder. I also have a very old greeting card propped up beside the clock. There's a reason for this. The pictures on the cards are coloured in metallic shades and I keep it especially for a silvery dove that it depicts. To me, that dove symbolises all that's good in the world.

"I stop for lunch at 1pm. It's always rice and a curry with a vegetable selection on vegetarian days which are for me, every Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. On other days, I'll have fish and meat. Lunch is followed by poring over the newspapers and a siesta.

"I'll have my tea with biscuits and cakes. Then I'll settle for any one of my favourite hobbies. This could be anything from pottering in the garden to cleaning and polishing the family heirlooms. Some of the ornaments are more than a century old.

"I also enjoy listening to songs and tunes that command a Waltz rhythm, or an Indian or Latin American beat. Besides, I have a penchant for classic Indian films or even the old Oscar-winning Hollywood ones.

"After a spell of these, it's back to writing until dinner time. I wind up my day, watching my favourite soaps and catching the midnight news on tv. "I would recommend for any aspiring author who wants to write in a specific genre of English fiction, to read several books by other authors who write in this field. And to never ever give up looking for a publisher.

"Today, I nestle future ambitions of meeting with other authors, seeing my novel The Flight of the Swans adapted for either the small or big screen and especially this... To ride on the Singapore-Kunming Express when it's completed. You see, the railways is very much in my blood as I have had three generations of my family working for the Malayan Railways. This stretches all the way back to the time of my great-grandfather."

ISBN: 981-05-2367-X
Available for next day despatch from
Monsoon Books, Singapore (please see link at start of post)
& from Amazon Online.

Set in British Malaya and India, The Flight of the Swans is an expansive family epic with a war theme revolving around the vision of a flight of swans or a bird in solitary endeavour that signals a cursed Captain and his family's hurried escape from the hands of the British. This, to face hardships in another land as well as hopeful dreams.

Family upheavals, mangled from a wounded political and historical landscape as well as sibling rivalry for the hand of a beautiful courtesan, hold reflection on a new brand of literary Indian writing in Malaysia that rests on ambitious history and vivid description of lives lived and lost through circumstances and bad decisions. This is a story that deals with the beautiful, the exotic and the tragic.
Photograph is author's own.

D. Devika Bai, a Malaysian novelist who thrives on seclusion and simplicity.

Pictured is D. Devika Bai, a former teacher turned novelist who successfully authored her debut historial fiction in 2005 titled The Flight of the Swans, published by Monsoon Books Singapore, 320pp, S$23-50 (MYR49-90).

For content information and purchase details, please scan to end of this entry.

The Flight of the Swans was nominated for the Commonwealth Writers' Prize 2006 (for the SE Asia & South Pacific regions. Bai has also been featured in Sawnet's (South-Asian Women's NETwork) bookshelf section and an extract from the first chapter of The Flight of Swans was published in DIMSUM (Asia's literary journal, volume 11.

Here is a day in the writing life of Ms. D. Devika Bai, who is now working on her second novel, with a resolution to completing it by year-end.

As told to Susan Abraham by D. Devika Bai.

"I've chosen the Indian Ocean slave-trade as the subject of my second book. Not much has been written about it to this present day from a fictional sense. Yet, it's a theme that existed during the same era as the trans-Atlantic slave-trade. I narrate my story through the voice of an Indian gypsy-girl. By the way, Indian gypsies are another subject rarely explored on, in English fiction.

"When I started writing The Flight of the Swans 9 years ago, I did not own a computer with Internet facilities. There were also no cybercafes in Rawang, Selangor, where I live.

"My relatives in Chennai, India kindly sent me material I needed for research. As for the rest of the bits, I delved into my own book collection.

"Of course now for the second book, I use the Internet a lot. The bulk of research has been done but I daresay, I still have to look up a fact or two when I'm writing.

"As they say, fact is itself stranger than fiction. Already, I've worked on my story for more than 2 years. I'm two thirds done and am trying to finish it by 2007 if I can.

"I've always been a notorious homebody so even with a title like published author for The Flight of the Swans, my life still hasn't changed all that much.

"I don't go to town unless absolutely necessary. I only visit relatives when a function comes on or otherwise, ocassionally. I've lost touch with most of my friends and colleagues, except for those who reside in the town where I live. And I know that they're presently delighted with my book.

"Anyway I'm happiest when I'm writing and that's what matters to me.

"There was a flurry of media interviews just before and after the official booksigning events for The Flight Of The Swans in July, 2005. I find it exhilarating but humbling to be in the public eye."I must admit that being a published author has definitely opened up possibilities for my writing. It's also given me a real sense of elation and achievement.

"However I work more from the home now especially that I'm writing my second novel.

"I wake up at 7.30am. My breakfast is always simple and fuss-free. A thosai, chappati or slices of bread with butter. My plan is to then catch up with the BBC news on television and to skim through the headlines of the morning papers. That's followed by a variety of household chores that could be anything from sweeping, dusting or mopping. This lasts for about an hour. I'm very lucky that I don't have to cook. Two wonderful people handle this for me. My mum and my sister-in-law.

"I start writing everyday around 9.00am. The only compulsory ritual here that I engage in is to sharpen my pencils fastidiously beforehand. That's because I write in longhand.

"There is of course, a clear difference between writing a book and what teaching used to be for me. As you know, writing is far more exhausting. It demands intense concentration that is focussed on a single page at a time whereas in the classroom, you could easily divide your attention with students, books and the blackboard.

"Anyway, for the next three hours I become completely immersed in this story that I'm busy creating. I don't set any kind of target for the number of words or pages to be finished at one sitting. I take it slow, mulling over words and sentences. I happily lose myself in this world. And I don't wait for inspiration. Routine and discipline do it for me.

"Still, if you mention inspiration on the offside, my muse has to be my late father. He was an avid reader and will always stay my hero.

"The first story book I ever read when I was a child was Lassie. My Dad bought the book for me. During my growing years, I started reading the English Classics and my father's collection of Reader's Digest condensed novels and World War II epics. Then, I went on to read the Pulitzer Prize-winning The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck (borrowed), and A Town Like Alice (a gift)."Both novels had me hooked!

"Once I started work as a teacher, there was no stopping me from buying my own novels and becoming a voracious reader. Though I've given away all my old novels now, I still have with me The Good Earth which I treasure.

"Writing, for me came as a natural consequence of reading. My book collection now consists of some classics and contemporary novels. I also own books on philosophy & religion, mythology, culture and history. "Anyway to come back to my morning, when the writing gets a bit overwhelming, I'll confess to flitting out of this new door to grab a cup of coffee. For awhile, I'll admire the red and white hibiscus shrubs outside my window and listen to the birds twittering around the bushes.

"This is easy for me as my antique writing desk is stationed in a corner of my bedroom, right next to the window.

"On it are my writing material, dictionaries, files, a calendar and a-clock-and-pen-holder. I also have a very old greeting card propped up beside the clock. There's a reason for this. The pictures on the cards are coloured in metallic shades and I keep it especially for a silvery dove that it depicts. To me, that dove symbolises all that's good in the world.

"I stop for lunch at 1pm. It's always rice and a curry with a vegetable selection on vegetarian days which are for me, every Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. On other days, I'll have fish and meat. Lunch is followed by poring over the newspapers and a siesta.

"I'll have my tea with biscuits and cakes. Then I'll settle for any one of my favourite hobbies. This could be anything from pottering in the garden to cleaning and polishing the family heirlooms. Some of the ornaments are more than a century old.

"I also enjoy listening to songs and tunes that command a Waltz rhythm, or an Indian or Latin American beat. Besides, I have a penchant for classic Indian films or even the old Oscar-winning Hollywood ones.

"After a spell of these, it's back to writing until dinner time. I wind up my day, watching my favourite soaps and catching the midnight news on tv. "I would recommend for any aspiring author who wants to write in a specific genre of English fiction, to read several books by other authors who write in this field. And to never ever give up looking for a publisher.

"Today, I nestle future ambitions of meeting with other authors, seeing my novel The Flight of the Swans adapted for either the small or big screen and especially this... To ride on the Singapore-Kunming Express when it's completed. You see, the railways is very much in my blood as I have had three generations of my family working for the Malayan Railways. This stretches all the way back to the time of my great-grandfather."

ISBN: 981-05-2367-X
Available for next day despatch from
Monsoon Books, Singapore (please see link at start of post)
& from Amazon Online.

Set in British Malaya and India, The Flight of the Swans is an expansive family epic with a war theme revolving around the vision of a flight of swans or a bird in solitary endeavour that signals a cursed Captain and his family's hurried escape from the hands of the British. This, to face hardships in another land as well as hopeful dreams.

Family upheavals, mangled from a wounded political and historical landscape as well as sibling rivalry for the hand of a beautiful courtesan, hold reflection on a new brand of literary Indian writing in Malaysia that rests on ambitious history and vivid description of lives lived and lost through circumstances and bad decisions. This is a story that deals with the beautiful, the exotic and the tragic.
Photograph is author's own.

Ripping Yarns - a London antiquarian bookshop

by Susan Abraham

The Ripping Yarns Antiquarian Childrens' Bookshop, on Archway Road, just opposite the Highgate underground train station in North London specialises in a delightful assortment of second-hand and antiquarian stock in adult subjects as well as childrens'.

The quaint bookshop is tucked away on a quiet leafy street corner.

Unassuming and intimate even with its suggestion for an army of chilhood remembrances, one can easily spot the neat shelves, roped in with long-lost favourites made up of the Just William series, Rupert the Bear, Biggles and hoards of other countryside garden tales, detective stories and old glitzy romances.

The captivating Sexton Blake Library still enthralls with the meticulous attempts of the intelligent Blake together with his sidekick, the irrespressible Tinker, both whose workings, seem an apt replica of a habitual Sherlock Holmes lifestyle.

It is easy to stay enraptured, observing their cleverly-worked out assessments of murders, fraud, blackmail and crime. The famed sleuth offers his own brand of justice when a case doesn't always conclude in its predictable fashion.

Other nostalgic novelties include memorable football annuals and schoolgirl comics. Books and magazines are painstakingly wrapped, packaged and preserved to keep the stacks of lovable literature looking regal. Expect a cheery customer service.

Personal Anecdote: Along the row of shops and just before the zebra crossing to the station, is an adorable little cafe where you can stop for a natter, lattes and sandwiches; a welcome treat to go with your book purchases.

Ripping Yarns - a London antiquarian bookshop

by Susan Abraham

The Ripping Yarns Antiquarian Childrens' Bookshop, on Archway Road, just opposite the Highgate underground train station in North London specialises in a delightful assortment of second-hand and antiquarian stock in adult subjects as well as childrens'.

The quaint bookshop is tucked away on a quiet leafy street corner.

Unassuming and intimate even with its suggestion for an army of chilhood remembrances, one can easily spot the neat shelves, roped in with long-lost favourites made up of the Just William series, Rupert the Bear, Biggles and hoards of other countryside garden tales, detective stories and old glitzy romances.

The captivating Sexton Blake Library still enthralls with the meticulous attempts of the intelligent Blake together with his sidekick, the irrespressible Tinker, both whose workings, seem an apt replica of a habitual Sherlock Holmes lifestyle.

It is easy to stay enraptured, observing their cleverly-worked out assessments of murders, fraud, blackmail and crime. The famed sleuth offers his own brand of justice when a case doesn't always conclude in its predictable fashion.

Other nostalgic novelties include memorable football annuals and schoolgirl comics. Books and magazines are painstakingly wrapped, packaged and preserved to keep the stacks of lovable literature looking regal. Expect a cheery customer service.

Personal Anecdote: Along the row of shops and just before the zebra crossing to the station, is an adorable little cafe where you can stop for a natter, lattes and sandwiches; a welcome treat to go with your book purchases.

Ripping Yarns - a London antiquarian bookshop

by Susan Abraham

The Ripping Yarns Antiquarian Childrens' Bookshop, on Archway Road, just opposite the Highgate underground train station in North London specialises in a delightful assortment of second-hand and antiquarian stock in adult subjects as well as childrens'.

The quaint bookshop is tucked away on a quiet leafy street corner.

Unassuming and intimate even with its suggestion for an army of chilhood remembrances, one can easily spot the neat shelves, roped in with long-lost favourites made up of the Just William series, Rupert the Bear, Biggles and hoards of other countryside garden tales, detective stories and old glitzy romances.

The captivating Sexton Blake Library still enthralls with the meticulous attempts of the intelligent Blake together with his sidekick, the irrespressible Tinker, both whose workings, seem an apt replica of a habitual Sherlock Holmes lifestyle.

It is easy to stay enraptured, observing their cleverly-worked out assessments of murders, fraud, blackmail and crime. The famed sleuth offers his own brand of justice when a case doesn't always conclude in its predictable fashion.

Other nostalgic novelties include memorable football annuals and schoolgirl comics. Books and magazines are painstakingly wrapped, packaged and preserved to keep the stacks of lovable literature looking regal. Expect a cheery customer service.

Personal Anecdote: Along the row of shops and just before the zebra crossing to the station, is an adorable little cafe where you can stop for a natter, lattes and sandwiches; a welcome treat to go with your book purchases.

Billionaire tycoon Sir Richard Branson may buy the Borders' UK division.

susan abraham

Recently, the bookseller Borders, announced its withdrawal from the United Kingdom to concentrate on its American chains. With a price tag of £50 million, there's a strong possibility of Branson stepping in. Click on Retail Week to read their scoop from Katie Kilgallen and still hot off the oven.

Personal anecdote: Travelled once on a Virgin Blue flight enroute Sydney to Melbourne. A morning of thunderstorms. Flights delayed, cancelled. Airport a crowded mess. Branson showed up, took the same flight as me, - flights had been switched all round - then soothed frays of irate businessmen and women who spotted harried I-have-to-go-somewhere-urgently expressions; by making us playing toilet paper games and other childlike entertainment. He turned the aisle I was seated in, into a proper party. The end result was a waiting press at Tullamarine airport, Melbourne and a planeload of smiles! No one could have done it better.

Smooth, cool maverick. Top-class charmer! No pretensions. None whatsover.

Billionaire tycoon Sir Richard Branson may buy the Borders' UK division.

susan abraham

Recently, the bookseller Borders, announced its withdrawal from the United Kingdom to concentrate on its American chains. With a price tag of £50 million, there's a strong possibility of Branson stepping in. Click on Retail Week to read their scoop from Katie Kilgallen and still hot off the oven.

Personal anecdote: Travelled once on a Virgin Blue flight enroute Sydney to Melbourne. A morning of thunderstorms. Flights delayed, cancelled. Airport a crowded mess. Branson showed up, took the same flight as me, - flights had been switched all round - then soothed frays of irate businessmen and women who spotted harried I-have-to-go-somewhere-urgently expressions; by making us playing toilet paper games and other childlike entertainment. He turned the aisle I was seated in, into a proper party. The end result was a waiting press at Tullamarine airport, Melbourne and a planeload of smiles! No one could have done it better.

Smooth, cool maverick. Top-class charmer! No pretensions. None whatsover.

Billionaire tycoon Sir Richard Branson may buy the Borders' UK division.

susan abraham

Recently, the bookseller Borders, announced its withdrawal from the United Kingdom to concentrate on its American chains. With a price tag of £50 million, there's a strong possibility of Branson stepping in. Click on Retail Week to read their scoop from Katie Kilgallen and still hot off the oven.

Personal anecdote: Travelled once on a Virgin Blue flight enroute Sydney to Melbourne. A morning of thunderstorms. Flights delayed, cancelled. Airport a crowded mess. Branson showed up, took the same flight as me, - flights had been switched all round - then soothed frays of irate businessmen and women who spotted harried I-have-to-go-somewhere-urgently expressions; by making us playing toilet paper games and other childlike entertainment. He turned the aisle I was seated in, into a proper party. The end result was a waiting press at Tullamarine airport, Melbourne and a planeload of smiles! No one could have done it better.

Smooth, cool maverick. Top-class charmer! No pretensions. None whatsover.

Poem : Untitled

susan abraham

I, the lipsticked fish
slip-sliding on
a colourless wish, to
brave the crested wave,
criss-crossing, the
limpid pools
of your eyes in its
sliced goodbye, from the dark
so nigh, I
the pragmatist
to your existence, in
an ocean of
preserverance, swimming
on my whim, a
teary soulful dream,
my screams, a well-lit
stream to your silent
watchful gleam.

Poem : Untitled

susan abraham

I, the lipsticked fish
slip-sliding on
a colourless wish, to
brave the crested wave,
criss-crossing, the
limpid pools
of your eyes in its
sliced goodbye, from the dark
so nigh, I
the pragmatist
to your existence, in
an ocean of
preserverance, swimming
on my whim, a
teary soulful dream,
my screams, a well-lit
stream to your silent
watchful gleam.

Poem : Untitled

susan abraham

I, the lipsticked fish
slip-sliding on
a colourless wish, to
brave the crested wave,
criss-crossing, the
limpid pools
of your eyes in its
sliced goodbye, from the dark
so nigh, I
the pragmatist
to your existence, in
an ocean of
preserverance, swimming
on my whim, a
teary soulful dream,
my screams, a well-lit
stream to your silent
watchful gleam.

Non-Fiction ( excerpt from my travel story)

Words by Susan Abraham

...my time in Italy was framed by romantic disclosures of a Roman interlude.
I lived for some weeks near the Trevi Fountain in a little guesthouse that measured its steps close to Via Del Trafaro.

I could also rest on the Spanish steps whenever I wanted or walk to the crowded Pantheon which hung onto the 21st century like a gaunt old man with broken teeth. I did all these with some relish, stopping for doughnuts and tiny pizzas along the way. I ignored the men on motorcycles who added long low whistles to my hunger pangs.

My quaint little room, housed by a Kashmiri rug and cosy bedspreads, was quiet. Often I watched television or read. I had come to Rome to reflect and brood somewhat somberly, on a marriage gone wrong. To soothe the soul, I visited basilicas and cathedrals, wearing something of a mystified expression. I prayed. Between trips, I drank soups and ate spaghetti in tiny restaurants, often communicating in hesitant English. I pretended I could speak nothing.

On kinder afternoons, I watched musicians practice their violin recitals for evening concertos. Afterwards, they received pats on the back and strode off looking stylishly eccentric with their long hair, shawls and capes. While waiting to rehearse in the quiet chuch, they had milled about, noisy and boistrous; spilling that classic Italian enthusiasm.

I walked for miles even as I planned a visit to Tuscany, where a man would follow me to the dress shops and coming so close I could feel his breath on my cheek, he would ask to be kissed.

In Florence, the pavements were shiny. Vespas and sports cars circled and zoomed about the wide alleys with sing-song pleasures. Beautiful giggling girls watched me with curiosity and interest.

In Rome, one could pick up dirt in the air like Seville would pick up the scent of flowers, but this old civilization often compensated for its woes with the presence of glorious old statues and fountains that splashed up a formidable welcome for tourists. All amidst the mad honking of cars and scooters.

The guesthouse was managed by Sarimah, a vibrant Moroccan who told me stories of her new marriage to an Italian businessman.

His mother was a tyrant.

She spied on Sarimah through a crack in the bathroom and grumbled that her tummy was flabby. She often complained about Sarimah to friends while they played cards, gossiped, drank black coffee in the patio or went shopping and wasted money.

Sarimah said she was too much in love with her husband to leave but that one of these days, she would yank her mother-in-law's wig off when her sweetheart had gone to the office and give the nosy old lady a bit of what for.

Sarimah often encouraged me to sit on the awning which had been well-gardened and boasted a splendid view of Roma, as she insisted was "the heart of Republica Italia." With this treat, came a chilled glass of orange juice with its classic cherry and umbrella in the middle. Sarimah would also offer me croissants.

It was the close of winter and not yet hot. Still, the in-between weather was humid. Before I left, we hugged each other tightly and exchanged e-mails. Sarmah cried a little.

The night-shift was managed by Antonio, a middle-aged man and half-bald. He was short and portly but commanded a thunderous voice. He indulged in yarns over the telephone and scolded a Bangladeshi assistant who spoke fluent Italian but promptly messed up daytime accounts. The shrill arguments kept me awake. But Antonio was very good with the discreet answering of bells and illegal locking of doors at wee hours, from one or two misadventures, that I never complained.

The metropolitan subways were littered with con-men. They wore foxy expressions, smuggled toothpicks craftily between their dirty teeth and constantly made it a job of whispering updates and flashing finger-signs at each other. Two down, one to go, kind of thing. One soon learnt to tell a wickedly raised eyebrow from a genuinely puzzled one.

I often sat at the Trevi fountain where legend had it, that if you threw a coin backwards, Rome would lure you back from anywhere in the world.

Connie Francis sang a song a about it and Frederico Fellini made a famous film called La Dolce Vita with one of its most celebrated scenes where the blonde bombshell, Anita Ekberg would emerge from the fountain fully-drenched and wearing something very tight. The fountain became instantly famous and my father kept dog-eared calendar pictures of the controversial scenes. Debates argued on the exploitation of Ekberg's regal innocence. The film was made long before I was born.

The Trevi fountain was often crowded with lovers, tourists and Bangladeshis who all spoke Hindi with their sly grins and who sold Marilyn Monroe posters, rose stalks and roasted peanuts. One morning, strangers jostled about and someone pulled my hand, asking me to join in the crowd. "Ronaldo, Ronaldo" she cried gaily. Ronaldo was filming an advertisement for the cinema. Everyone huddled together like a jamboree.

The football star kicked a ball about like a small boy. All the time he grinned, showing perfect white teeth. He was Rome's hero. Policemen, bodyguards, a thick press, fans, lovers, tourists and the Bangladeshis, all milled about celebrating this unexpected carnival. I was so close, I could have touched him if I dared. Instead, I watched Ronaldo studiously while drinking my coffee on the cold winter morning that was still not quite spring.

I think today, that in one of the many calendar pictures my father kept, like rusty chocolate boxes featuring Mediterranean landscapes and Swiss cafes, I could have been a pensive woman lounging somewhere in the background on the Spanish steps while smoking a cigarette and watching a puppet show. All the time, I'd be thinking of my old love with his magic touch. You would never have thought this from a calendar photograph.

In fact, my old love would have been so close in the memory, I could have touched him if I dared. ...

Non-Fiction ( excerpt from my travel story)

Words by Susan Abraham

...my time in Italy was framed by romantic disclosures of a Roman interlude.
I lived for some weeks near the Trevi Fountain in a little guesthouse that measured its steps close to Via Del Trafaro.

I could also rest on the Spanish steps whenever I wanted or walk to the crowded Pantheon which hung onto the 21st century like a gaunt old man with broken teeth. I did all these with some relish, stopping for doughnuts and tiny pizzas along the way. I ignored the men on motorcycles who added long low whistles to my hunger pangs.

My quaint little room, housed by a Kashmiri rug and cosy bedspreads, was quiet. Often I watched television or read. I had come to Rome to reflect and brood somewhat somberly, on a marriage gone wrong. To soothe the soul, I visited basilicas and cathedrals, wearing something of a mystified expression. I prayed. Between trips, I drank soups and ate spaghetti in tiny restaurants, often communicating in hesitant English. I pretended I could speak nothing.

On kinder afternoons, I watched musicians practice their violin recitals for evening concertos. Afterwards, they received pats on the back and strode off looking stylishly eccentric with their long hair, shawls and capes. While waiting to rehearse in the quiet chuch, they had milled about, noisy and boistrous; spilling that classic Italian enthusiasm.

I walked for miles even as I planned a visit to Tuscany, where a man would follow me to the dress shops and coming so close I could feel his breath on my cheek, he would ask to be kissed.

In Florence, the pavements were shiny. Vespas and sports cars circled and zoomed about the wide alleys with sing-song pleasures. Beautiful giggling girls watched me with curiosity and interest.

In Rome, one could pick up dirt in the air like Seville would pick up the scent of flowers, but this old civilization often compensated for its woes with the presence of glorious old statues and fountains that splashed up a formidable welcome for tourists. All amidst the mad honking of cars and scooters.

The guesthouse was managed by Sarimah, a vibrant Moroccan who told me stories of her new marriage to an Italian businessman.

His mother was a tyrant.

She spied on Sarimah through a crack in the bathroom and grumbled that her tummy was flabby. She often complained about Sarimah to friends while they played cards, gossiped, drank black coffee in the patio or went shopping and wasted money.

Sarimah said she was too much in love with her husband to leave but that one of these days, she would yank her mother-in-law's wig off when her sweetheart had gone to the office and give the nosy old lady a bit of what for.

Sarimah often encouraged me to sit on the awning which had been well-gardened and boasted a splendid view of Roma, as she insisted was "the heart of Republica Italia." With this treat, came a chilled glass of orange juice with its classic cherry and umbrella in the middle. Sarimah would also offer me croissants.

It was the close of winter and not yet hot. Still, the in-between weather was humid. Before I left, we hugged each other tightly and exchanged e-mails. Sarmah cried a little.

The night-shift was managed by Antonio, a middle-aged man and half-bald. He was short and portly but commanded a thunderous voice. He indulged in yarns over the telephone and scolded a Bangladeshi assistant who spoke fluent Italian but promptly messed up daytime accounts. The shrill arguments kept me awake. But Antonio was very good with the discreet answering of bells and illegal locking of doors at wee hours, from one or two misadventures, that I never complained.

The metropolitan subways were littered with con-men. They wore foxy expressions, smuggled toothpicks craftily between their dirty teeth and constantly made it a job of whispering updates and flashing finger-signs at each other. Two down, one to go, kind of thing. One soon learnt to tell a wickedly raised eyebrow from a genuinely puzzled one.

I often sat at the Trevi fountain where legend had it, that if you threw a coin backwards, Rome would lure you back from anywhere in the world.

Connie Francis sang a song a about it and Frederico Fellini made a famous film called La Dolce Vita with one of its most celebrated scenes where the blonde bombshell, Anita Ekberg would emerge from the fountain fully-drenched and wearing something very tight. The fountain became instantly famous and my father kept dog-eared calendar pictures of the controversial scenes. Debates argued on the exploitation of Ekberg's regal innocence. The film was made long before I was born.

The Trevi fountain was often crowded with lovers, tourists and Bangladeshis who all spoke Hindi with their sly grins and who sold Marilyn Monroe posters, rose stalks and roasted peanuts. One morning, strangers jostled about and someone pulled my hand, asking me to join in the crowd. "Ronaldo, Ronaldo" she cried gaily. Ronaldo was filming an advertisement for the cinema. Everyone huddled together like a jamboree.

The football star kicked a ball about like a small boy. All the time he grinned, showing perfect white teeth. He was Rome's hero. Policemen, bodyguards, a thick press, fans, lovers, tourists and the Bangladeshis, all milled about celebrating this unexpected carnival. I was so close, I could have touched him if I dared. Instead, I watched Ronaldo studiously while drinking my coffee on the cold winter morning that was still not quite spring.

I think today, that in one of the many calendar pictures my father kept, like rusty chocolate boxes featuring Mediterranean landscapes and Swiss cafes, I could have been a pensive woman lounging somewhere in the background on the Spanish steps while smoking a cigarette and watching a puppet show. All the time, I'd be thinking of my old love with his magic touch. You would never have thought this from a calendar photograph.

In fact, my old love would have been so close in the memory, I could have touched him if I dared. ...

Non-Fiction ( excerpt from my travel story)

Words by Susan Abraham

...my time in Italy was framed by romantic disclosures of a Roman interlude.
I lived for some weeks near the Trevi Fountain in a little guesthouse that measured its steps close to Via Del Trafaro.

I could also rest on the Spanish steps whenever I wanted or walk to the crowded Pantheon which hung onto the 21st century like a gaunt old man with broken teeth. I did all these with some relish, stopping for doughnuts and tiny pizzas along the way. I ignored the men on motorcycles who added long low whistles to my hunger pangs.

My quaint little room, housed by a Kashmiri rug and cosy bedspreads, was quiet. Often I watched television or read. I had come to Rome to reflect and brood somewhat somberly, on a marriage gone wrong. To soothe the soul, I visited basilicas and cathedrals, wearing something of a mystified expression. I prayed. Between trips, I drank soups and ate spaghetti in tiny restaurants, often communicating in hesitant English. I pretended I could speak nothing.

On kinder afternoons, I watched musicians practice their violin recitals for evening concertos. Afterwards, they received pats on the back and strode off looking stylishly eccentric with their long hair, shawls and capes. While waiting to rehearse in the quiet chuch, they had milled about, noisy and boistrous; spilling that classic Italian enthusiasm.

I walked for miles even as I planned a visit to Tuscany, where a man would follow me to the dress shops and coming so close I could feel his breath on my cheek, he would ask to be kissed.

In Florence, the pavements were shiny. Vespas and sports cars circled and zoomed about the wide alleys with sing-song pleasures. Beautiful giggling girls watched me with curiosity and interest.

In Rome, one could pick up dirt in the air like Seville would pick up the scent of flowers, but this old civilization often compensated for its woes with the presence of glorious old statues and fountains that splashed up a formidable welcome for tourists. All amidst the mad honking of cars and scooters.

The guesthouse was managed by Sarimah, a vibrant Moroccan who told me stories of her new marriage to an Italian businessman.

His mother was a tyrant.

She spied on Sarimah through a crack in the bathroom and grumbled that her tummy was flabby. She often complained about Sarimah to friends while they played cards, gossiped, drank black coffee in the patio or went shopping and wasted money.

Sarimah said she was too much in love with her husband to leave but that one of these days, she would yank her mother-in-law's wig off when her sweetheart had gone to the office and give the nosy old lady a bit of what for.

Sarimah often encouraged me to sit on the awning which had been well-gardened and boasted a splendid view of Roma, as she insisted was "the heart of Republica Italia." With this treat, came a chilled glass of orange juice with its classic cherry and umbrella in the middle. Sarimah would also offer me croissants.

It was the close of winter and not yet hot. Still, the in-between weather was humid. Before I left, we hugged each other tightly and exchanged e-mails. Sarmah cried a little.

The night-shift was managed by Antonio, a middle-aged man and half-bald. He was short and portly but commanded a thunderous voice. He indulged in yarns over the telephone and scolded a Bangladeshi assistant who spoke fluent Italian but promptly messed up daytime accounts. The shrill arguments kept me awake. But Antonio was very good with the discreet answering of bells and illegal locking of doors at wee hours, from one or two misadventures, that I never complained.

The metropolitan subways were littered with con-men. They wore foxy expressions, smuggled toothpicks craftily between their dirty teeth and constantly made it a job of whispering updates and flashing finger-signs at each other. Two down, one to go, kind of thing. One soon learnt to tell a wickedly raised eyebrow from a genuinely puzzled one.

I often sat at the Trevi fountain where legend had it, that if you threw a coin backwards, Rome would lure you back from anywhere in the world.

Connie Francis sang a song a about it and Frederico Fellini made a famous film called La Dolce Vita with one of its most celebrated scenes where the blonde bombshell, Anita Ekberg would emerge from the fountain fully-drenched and wearing something very tight. The fountain became instantly famous and my father kept dog-eared calendar pictures of the controversial scenes. Debates argued on the exploitation of Ekberg's regal innocence. The film was made long before I was born.

The Trevi fountain was often crowded with lovers, tourists and Bangladeshis who all spoke Hindi with their sly grins and who sold Marilyn Monroe posters, rose stalks and roasted peanuts. One morning, strangers jostled about and someone pulled my hand, asking me to join in the crowd. "Ronaldo, Ronaldo" she cried gaily. Ronaldo was filming an advertisement for the cinema. Everyone huddled together like a jamboree.

The football star kicked a ball about like a small boy. All the time he grinned, showing perfect white teeth. He was Rome's hero. Policemen, bodyguards, a thick press, fans, lovers, tourists and the Bangladeshis, all milled about celebrating this unexpected carnival. I was so close, I could have touched him if I dared. Instead, I watched Ronaldo studiously while drinking my coffee on the cold winter morning that was still not quite spring.

I think today, that in one of the many calendar pictures my father kept, like rusty chocolate boxes featuring Mediterranean landscapes and Swiss cafes, I could have been a pensive woman lounging somewhere in the background on the Spanish steps while smoking a cigarette and watching a puppet show. All the time, I'd be thinking of my old love with his magic touch. You would never have thought this from a calendar photograph.

In fact, my old love would have been so close in the memory, I could have touched him if I dared. ...

Shorts - Arthur Miller

Words by Susan Abraham

Naturally, it was the tell-all tale of those slick b/w photographs which portrayed the late legendary American playwright, Arthur Miller, that gripped the world with the intensity of iron plates clad across hearts. Here above, is a passionate Miller/Monroe photograph that may tear at any heartstring.

Arthur Miller was said to have held a true writer's dream. Writing one of his famous plays (No Villian), hurriedly in just 6 days and a literary novel, Focus, in just 6 weeks that though sold only 90,000 copies to begin with, his work did eventually win a wide acclaim. The rag-to-riches story of a jobless, out-of-school lad who was forced to take menial jobs to support his family during the era of the Great Depression, traced Miller's ardous but determined footsteps before he went on to study English Literature and Journalism, while all the time, staying obsessed with Ibsen. The suave playwright would in turn become screen goddess Monroe's lover and later, her husband. Miller conducted his love affair with Monroe, while still married to his childhood sweetheart, Mary Slattery. Perhaps it is not wrong to conclude that Miller spotted the same dashing air as that of the Italians. Those who wear a hurried grace in rushing somewhere or pacing a floor, yet stay unaware of their readymade beauty. They are gentlemen true to themselves while devoid of pretension.

Caption: The playwright with his trademark horn-rimmed glasses, sitting cross-legged and contented in this introspective scene while posing with his manual typewriter and library to complement the silent story.

Shorts - Arthur Miller

Words by Susan Abraham

Naturally, it was the tell-all tale of those slick b/w photographs which portrayed the late legendary American playwright, Arthur Miller, that gripped the world with the intensity of iron plates clad across hearts. Here above, is a passionate Miller/Monroe photograph that may tear at any heartstring.

Arthur Miller was said to have held a true writer's dream. Writing one of his famous plays (No Villian), hurriedly in just 6 days and a literary novel, Focus, in just 6 weeks that though sold only 90,000 copies to begin with, his work did eventually win a wide acclaim. The rag-to-riches story of a jobless, out-of-school lad who was forced to take menial jobs to support his family during the era of the Great Depression, traced Miller's ardous but determined footsteps before he went on to study English Literature and Journalism, while all the time, staying obsessed with Ibsen. The suave playwright would in turn become screen goddess Monroe's lover and later, her husband. Miller conducted his love affair with Monroe, while still married to his childhood sweetheart, Mary Slattery. Perhaps it is not wrong to conclude that Miller spotted the same dashing air as that of the Italians. Those who wear a hurried grace in rushing somewhere or pacing a floor, yet stay unaware of their readymade beauty. They are gentlemen true to themselves while devoid of pretension.

Caption: The playwright with his trademark horn-rimmed glasses, sitting cross-legged and contented in this introspective scene while posing with his manual typewriter and library to complement the silent story.

Shorts - Arthur Miller

Words by Susan Abraham

Naturally, it was the tell-all tale of those slick b/w photographs which portrayed the late legendary American playwright, Arthur Miller, that gripped the world with the intensity of iron plates clad across hearts. Here above, is a passionate Miller/Monroe photograph that may tear at any heartstring.

Arthur Miller was said to have held a true writer's dream. Writing one of his famous plays (No Villian), hurriedly in just 6 days and a literary novel, Focus, in just 6 weeks that though sold only 90,000 copies to begin with, his work did eventually win a wide acclaim. The rag-to-riches story of a jobless, out-of-school lad who was forced to take menial jobs to support his family during the era of the Great Depression, traced Miller's ardous but determined footsteps before he went on to study English Literature and Journalism, while all the time, staying obsessed with Ibsen. The suave playwright would in turn become screen goddess Monroe's lover and later, her husband. Miller conducted his love affair with Monroe, while still married to his childhood sweetheart, Mary Slattery. Perhaps it is not wrong to conclude that Miller spotted the same dashing air as that of the Italians. Those who wear a hurried grace in rushing somewhere or pacing a floor, yet stay unaware of their readymade beauty. They are gentlemen true to themselves while devoid of pretension.

Caption: The playwright with his trademark horn-rimmed glasses, sitting cross-legged and contented in this introspective scene while posing with his manual typewriter and library to complement the silent story.

The New York dancer and her book. I spoke to Sukanya Rahman.

Sukanya Rahman performing the Orissi

Sukanya's parents, Habib and the famous Indrani Rahman, in playful mood at Juhu Beach, Mumbai in earlier years.

Indrani, Ragini and Sukanya, Three Generations Performance, New York University Theatre, September 29, 1979

Sukanya's mother, Indrani far left with the late President John F. Kennedy, Jacqueline Kennedy, Nehru, John's mother, Rose Kennedy and India's ambassador B.K. Nehru in Washington DC, 1961.

Sukanya today, pictured with her brother, Ram - a photographer and also her husband, the playwright, Frank Wicks at a friend's wedding in Delhi.

Sukanya turned artist, displays an original note card which she designs for her business industry.

Photos reprinted with kind permission from Sukanya Rahman

SUKANYA RAHMAN who studied painting at the Ecole Nationale des Beaux Arts in Paris and the College of Art in Delhi. Just before linking hands with her grandmother and mother in Indian traditional dance, Sukanya also studied American modern dance with Martha Graham.

Dancing in the Family which is her first book consists of an engaging and witty photographic memoir involving three women in a family that are passionately bound together by Indian classical dance and aptly set gainst a historical backdrop. Today, Sukanya who has 2 sons, lives on an island in Maine, America with her playwright husband, Frank Wicks. Sukanya has also turned into a fulltime visual artist but is currently working to get a British or American editon of her 2001 memoir out onto the international market.

As told to Susan Abraham by Sukanya Rahman

"Martha Graham was already quite elderly and not in the best physical shape by the time I came to her school. But she was always grand, elegant, dramatic and larger-than-life despite her small stature. My lasting impression of her will always be that of her scarlet lipstick.Today on looking back, I've become somewhat of a recluse which is why I live on a secluded island in Maine. But when I dance on stage and face the public, a transformation always takes place. I become instantly confident and derive great joy in communicating with my audience.

"Of course, it was my unconventional family background that provided me with the stimulus to live by my own rules and live a full and interesting life. I can only speak for myself but I suspect that everyone no matter how mundane their lives, has a story lurking deep down underneath. One simply needs the audacity and motivation to flush it out.

"For me, it was always easy. My mother was a famous dancer in India and my father a prominent architect. Such a situation opened doors for me which may otherwise have remained closed.

"Still, the greatest high came late for me in my performing career when my older son arranged for me to perform at his college. As youngsters, my kids were often mortified when I'd appear before their all-American classmates in my exotic stage attire so I was flattered, surprised and deeply moved by his invitation. It turned out to be a full house with a wildly enthusiastic audiene. At the end of the performance, my son stepped up on stage and handed me a bouquet of flowers. The audience cheered and made me feel like a rock star. I decided instantly that it would be my final solo performance because how could anything else ever top that. Today, that remains my one precious memory.

"Now, most of my costumes are in shreds and stuffed in suitcases at home. But as for some of the saris and ornaments, I still wear them when I need to dress up. I find the idea of leaving a legacy rather presumptious but if some of what I've loved pursuing might fire up younger artists, that would be wonderfully satisfying.

"The most challenging part of researching Dancing In The Family was doing justice to my grandmother's story. She died before I decided to write the book.But even in her lifetime, she cloaked herself in mystery and would simply make up stories about her life.

"I was not computer savvy and much of my research at the New York Performing Arts Library and the New York Public Library was poring over micro-film records and tattered, yellowed reviews, programmes, handbills and of course, intimate family letters. It was thrilling, never painstaking!

"I wrote my book over a long period of time while I was still juggling family, dance, touring and my art work. Time away from the children was always painful though whenever we could my husband and I dragged them along on our travels. Because my book was completed over a long period of time, it went through several incarnations.

"As for the photos in my book, they're all from archives. Still, my brother, Ram, who works as a professional photographer and designer, helped me a great deal with the re-shooting and restoration of certain photographs. It's not at all easy writing about your family and while there were some ups and downs, there was also a great deal of support and encouragement.

"Sometimes I think I would love to try my hand at fiction, but I'm quite daunted by the very thought!Writing this book for me felt like giving birth - with a much longer gestation period involved - and by the way, giving birth to my children was not followed by post-natal blues.

"Seeing my book finally in print was the most terrifying part of the process. Turning the pages, I remembered that when I was growing up, my childhood felt like a stage set. But on looking back, I feel today that I was greatly priviledged to have the unique family and the upbringing I had.

"I would say to aspiring writers who are engulfed in research for fiction or non-fiction, not to give up. I have ended up with a file full of wonderful letters of rejections. Let me tell you that working with a good editor is critical. For me, the entire process of gathering facts and collating informationa often felt like I was lying on a psychiatrist's couch, asking myself questions and answering only to myself.

"I think that the internet has made the research process much easier overall. In my case however, my greatest resource turned out to be personal family letters, many of which I had saved over the years. So the solution here is "don't throw anything away...

"Now and then, I do think of writing another book. Already, there are things bubbling in the back of my mind. At the end of the day, the art of dancing did bring to me the gift of endurance for my present years.

"And as for Dancing in the Family, the book itself rewarded me with a great sense of preserverance and accomplishment and preserverance yet again..."

Originally published by
HarperCollins, Delhi, 2001, pp 158, hardcover.
Hardcover is out of print
Dancing In The Family has been ressiued in paperback. Cover design by Ram Rahman/Sukanya Rahman
Now in paperback, published by Rupa & Co. Delhi, 2004.

A limited number of signed copies available by sending a check for $19.00 (includes shipping and handling) payable to
Dance in Maine Foundation,
124 Bayview Road
Orr's Island, Maine 04066 Photographic Content reprinted with kind permission from the author.

The New York dancer and her book. I spoke to Sukanya Rahman.

Sukanya Rahman performing the Orissi

Sukanya's parents, Habib and the famous Indrani Rahman, in playful mood at Juhu Beach, Mumbai in earlier years.

Indrani, Ragini and Sukanya, Three Generations Performance, New York University Theatre, September 29, 1979

Sukanya's mother, Indrani far left with the late President John F. Kennedy, Jacqueline Kennedy, Nehru, John's mother, Rose Kennedy and India's ambassador B.K. Nehru in Washington DC, 1961.

Sukanya today, pictured with her brother, Ram - a photographer and also her husband, the playwright, Frank Wicks at a friend's wedding in Delhi.

Sukanya turned artist, displays an original note card which she designs for her business industry.

Photos reprinted with kind permission from Sukanya Rahman

SUKANYA RAHMAN who studied painting at the Ecole Nationale des Beaux Arts in Paris and the College of Art in Delhi. Just before linking hands with her grandmother and mother in Indian traditional dance, Sukanya also studied American modern dance with Martha Graham.

Dancing in the Family which is her first book consists of an engaging and witty photographic memoir involving three women in a family that are passionately bound together by Indian classical dance and aptly set gainst a historical backdrop. Today, Sukanya who has 2 sons, lives on an island in Maine, America with her playwright husband, Frank Wicks. Sukanya has also turned into a fulltime visual artist but is currently working to get a British or American editon of her 2001 memoir out onto the international market.

As told to Susan Abraham by Sukanya Rahman

"Martha Graham was already quite elderly and not in the best physical shape by the time I came to her school. But she was always grand, elegant, dramatic and larger-than-life despite her small stature. My lasting impression of her will always be that of her scarlet lipstick.Today on looking back, I've become somewhat of a recluse which is why I live on a secluded island in Maine. But when I dance on stage and face the public, a transformation always takes place. I become instantly confident and derive great joy in communicating with my audience.

"Of course, it was my unconventional family background that provided me with the stimulus to live by my own rules and live a full and interesting life. I can only speak for myself but I suspect that everyone no matter how mundane their lives, has a story lurking deep down underneath. One simply needs the audacity and motivation to flush it out.

"For me, it was always easy. My mother was a famous dancer in India and my father a prominent architect. Such a situation opened doors for me which may otherwise have remained closed.

"Still, the greatest high came late for me in my performing career when my older son arranged for me to perform at his college. As youngsters, my kids were often mortified when I'd appear before their all-American classmates in my exotic stage attire so I was flattered, surprised and deeply moved by his invitation. It turned out to be a full house with a wildly enthusiastic audiene. At the end of the performance, my son stepped up on stage and handed me a bouquet of flowers. The audience cheered and made me feel like a rock star. I decided instantly that it would be my final solo performance because how could anything else ever top that. Today, that remains my one precious memory.

"Now, most of my costumes are in shreds and stuffed in suitcases at home. But as for some of the saris and ornaments, I still wear them when I need to dress up. I find the idea of leaving a legacy rather presumptious but if some of what I've loved pursuing might fire up younger artists, that would be wonderfully satisfying.

"The most challenging part of researching Dancing In The Family was doing justice to my grandmother's story. She died before I decided to write the book.But even in her lifetime, she cloaked herself in mystery and would simply make up stories about her life.

"I was not computer savvy and much of my research at the New York Performing Arts Library and the New York Public Library was poring over micro-film records and tattered, yellowed reviews, programmes, handbills and of course, intimate family letters. It was thrilling, never painstaking!

"I wrote my book over a long period of time while I was still juggling family, dance, touring and my art work. Time away from the children was always painful though whenever we could my husband and I dragged them along on our travels. Because my book was completed over a long period of time, it went through several incarnations.

"As for the photos in my book, they're all from archives. Still, my brother, Ram, who works as a professional photographer and designer, helped me a great deal with the re-shooting and restoration of certain photographs. It's not at all easy writing about your family and while there were some ups and downs, there was also a great deal of support and encouragement.

"Sometimes I think I would love to try my hand at fiction, but I'm quite daunted by the very thought!Writing this book for me felt like giving birth - with a much longer gestation period involved - and by the way, giving birth to my children was not followed by post-natal blues.

"Seeing my book finally in print was the most terrifying part of the process. Turning the pages, I remembered that when I was growing up, my childhood felt like a stage set. But on looking back, I feel today that I was greatly priviledged to have the unique family and the upbringing I had.

"I would say to aspiring writers who are engulfed in research for fiction or non-fiction, not to give up. I have ended up with a file full of wonderful letters of rejections. Let me tell you that working with a good editor is critical. For me, the entire process of gathering facts and collating informationa often felt like I was lying on a psychiatrist's couch, asking myself questions and answering only to myself.

"I think that the internet has made the research process much easier overall. In my case however, my greatest resource turned out to be personal family letters, many of which I had saved over the years. So the solution here is "don't throw anything away...

"Now and then, I do think of writing another book. Already, there are things bubbling in the back of my mind. At the end of the day, the art of dancing did bring to me the gift of endurance for my present years.

"And as for Dancing in the Family, the book itself rewarded me with a great sense of preserverance and accomplishment and preserverance yet again..."

Originally published by
HarperCollins, Delhi, 2001, pp 158, hardcover.
Hardcover is out of print
Dancing In The Family has been ressiued in paperback. Cover design by Ram Rahman/Sukanya Rahman
Now in paperback, published by Rupa & Co. Delhi, 2004.

A limited number of signed copies available by sending a check for $19.00 (includes shipping and handling) payable to
Dance in Maine Foundation,
124 Bayview Road
Orr's Island, Maine 04066 Photographic Content reprinted with kind permission from the author.