#BookReview Isha Doshi’s Hawkers of Kolkata

Blurb: Hawkers of Kolkata is an effort to treasure fond memories of experiences with people who we interact with on a daily basis. Before they are forgotten, before they become a rarer sight, I wanted to re-live those days. Covering many markets across Kolkata, the book will take you back to the pleasant days of childhood. A must read for all the 90s kids.

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Happy Christmas!

I saw mummy kissing Santa Claus. I did. Well, not Santa, but some fat bearded dude, who wasn’t my dad. I closed my eyes, thinking I was dreaming. When I reopened them, the man was still there and so was mummy and they were…doing…adult stuff which I was sure I wasn’t supposed to see so I turned around.

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Murder she wrote

My husband and I were an intellectual pair. We were together because we didn’t interfere with the other’s work and we had a handsome companion on our hand for social events people in our position were required to frequent.

The only thing I asked of him was fidelity and the only thing he asked of me was to maintain my good looks. He obliged me and I obliged him. It was the perfect marriage.

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Smile and wave

“This is your fault!”

“What did I do?”

I rolled my eyes as she smiled apologetically.

Feeling sorry for me for the slump my writing was in, she had spoken the most intelligent words ever to have come out of her mouth, “Let’s do something adventurous. Even if it doesn’t work out, at least it’ll give you a story.”

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A zebra’s stripes

The world was young, fresh and full of untold adventures. God was still sending down birds, beasts, trees and anything he could think of as His two favourite sons frolicked in the new Eden.

It was but seven days since the beginning of time when a curious looking four-legged creature walked onto the scene, braying like it had something awful stuck in its throat. God’s two favourite sons were delighted at the sound he made and took turns to get the creature to bray on command.

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Xenograft

“Subject 410 died of a cardiac arrest at,” a pause, a quick shuffle, “four hundred hours on the eleventh day of the lunar moon. Sample 41523 failed to graft correctly.”

A click, a soul-weary sigh, then, “Even though it was showing the greatest promise until twenty minutes ago.”

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