NOVEL~*Hiding behind a Stranger*~THREAD 40-Chapter 45(2 part) 11th Feb - Page 167

Originally posted by: lashy

Mitu's poem😳

Originally posted by: lashy

Muskaan you seem to be having a very hatke style of doing/completing your homework!!! 😆

Originally posted by: lghosh

Chhoti behena, yeh zara kahena,

yeh kaunsi 'vastness' ki baat hai?

Jo tumhaari chehere pe laali laye?

Yeh kaun si mass, volume, area aur -

density hai, jo samajh nahi aayi par,

sunne ke liye hum bhi hai bekaraar,

Vistaar se khulasa karna, na karna inkaar!

Originally posted by: Kuki715

walk !!😲

I will but like this

Originally posted by: lashy

😡 Don't change adjectives to suit you, Sandy!

My dearest Lashykanna,

I have started on a HBAS odyssey, catching up with and re-reading all your chapters from No. 45 onwards. My hands are better now, have been so for the last few weeks, but I had such a HBAS backlog to clear that I was intimidated. Now,at last, I have su mmoned up my courage and plunged into it. What I really want is to tell you what I particularly enjoyed in each of them, beginning with the first, No. 45.

You know, my pet, you are a girl of many parts, too many to count and tabulate. Till you came to this part of your tale, I had no idea you could write with the raw realism of the titans of the noir genre, James Hadley Chase for choice.

The section in Chapter 45, At a traveller's inn, in a town elsewhere, literally made me catch my breath in sheer shock when I came to the passage when the Ustaad meets, or rather encounters, for I think his back would have been always turned towards the assassin, the Strangler.

The power of your writing is such that I could see myself in the muck and dirt and stench of the back alley, holding my breath as the killer stalks the Ustaad, who is leading him on . I could practically feel the unbearable strain on the Ustaad's fingers as he struggles to keep the noose from his neck, feel the pounding of his over-strained heart and the gasping of his bursting lungs as they strove to get at least a breath of life-giving air into his system.

It was, to put it bluntly, horrible to contemplate. I knew he would survive, but for the few moments when I was reading that passage, that reassuring conviction seemed to be suspended, and I was, quite frankly, terrified. And yet I could admire your skill in conjuring up such a (literally) breath-taking scene.

When the Strangler's stabbing attempt fails, I thanked God for the special mail shirt Akbar had on, and I only wished I had a coat of mithril to gift to him, a gift that would protect him against anything, any time. I don t know if you are a lover of The Lord of the Rings, by JRR Tolkien, but if not, let me explain. Mithril is a very special and incredibly strong metal, made from an ore mined deep in the caves of Moria in Middle Earth, and forged by the dwarves, who alone know the secret of manipulating mithril, into a coat of armour that is as supple as silk and far, far stronger than steel. Akbar surely could do with a mithril coat!

I have a question here. Akbar tells the killer, before he despatches him to the special jahannum where he belongs, that he had been waiting to hear him mention the name of the man who had sent him on this killing mission. What if the man had never got around to mentioning Khalil's name? What would Akbar have done then? How much longer could he have stood the crushing pressure on his neck?

The other point that struck me as horribly realistic in the special high the Strangler gets when hearing what he thinks are the death throes of the Ustaad. It was sickening to read, but I admired your guts in being able to visualize such depravity and then put it down on paper. It reminded me of another psychopath, the Hassassin in Dan Brown's Angels and Demons, for whom killing was like heroin.. each encounter only sating his desire for a while, before the craving reappeared. One wonders how , and why, the Lord created such horrors and let them loose upon our unfortunate earth.

Finally, I loved the realism of the opening scene in the tavern, with the shivering pseudo-washerman trying hard to control his shaking hands and to dispel the biting cold that has him in its grip with the hot soup. I loved too the passage below, which is, despite the almost casual note it strikes, a cutting commentary on the inequality that plagues humanity, and on the endless sufferings of the poor.

It was as beautiful a foggy evening as could be, if its cottony parade of suspended clouds were to be beheld beside the comforts of a warm bonfire, with a hot snack in hand and two shawls on the back. Like the privileged folks out there were doing from their fancy latticed terraces. For poorer folks like him though, with nothing beyond two meagre meals for food and a torn blanket for warmth, the evening was brutal.

I knew the Ustaad would do it, but still, I relished the bit when he lets this informer go, with a fat purse to ease his transition back into what one could call "civilian life. Once a chap is frightened for his life, he is useless for the Ustaad's trade, for he will be thinking more of saving himself and avoiding risks than of going out on a limb to collect precious information. As Gabbar Singh says in Sholay, Jo dar gaya, samjho mar gaya. Luckily for the poor chap, the Ustaad's way of cashiering someone no longer useful to him is more merciful than Gabbar Singh's!😉

You are getting along marvellously, my dearest child. In your romantic scenes, for all that I feel a tad awkward with them, you seem to always manage to introduce something novel and enchanting. This time it is Heera's home made perfume. A lovely idea!

This is it for now. I shall try and cover the next chapter by tonight. As I am writing these comments just for you, I am posting them on the thread for this chapter. If someone else reads them, fine, but if not, that is fine too. I want you to see them, that is all.

Affectionately yours,

Shyamala Periyamma

Originally posted by: sashashyam

My dearest Lashykanna,

I have started on a HBAS odyssey, catching up with and re-reading all your chapters from No. 45 onwards. My hands are better now, have been so for the last few weeks, but I had such a HBAS backlog to clear that I was intimidated. Now,at last, I have su mmoned up my courage and plunged into it. What I really want is to tell you what I particularly enjoyed in each of them, beginning with the first, No. 45.

You know, my pet, you are a girl of many parts, too many to count and tabulate. Till you came to this part of your tale, I had no idea you could write with the raw realism of the titans of the noir genre, James Hadley Chase for choice.

The section in Chapter 45, At a traveller's inn, in a town elsewhere, literally made me catch my breath in sheer shock when I came to the passage when the Ustaad meets, or rather encounters, for I think his back would have been always turned towards the assassin, the Strangler.

The power of your writing is such that I could see myself in the muck and dirt and stench of the back alley, holding my breath as the killer stalks the Ustaad, who is leading him on . I could practically feel the unbearable strain on the Ustaad's fingers as he struggles to keep the noose from his neck, feel the pounding of his over-strained heart and the gasping of his bursting lungs as they strove to get at least a breath of life-giving air into his system.

It was, to put it bluntly, horrible to contemplate. I knew he would survive, but for the few moments when I was reading that passage, that reassuring conviction seemed to be suspended, and I was, quite frankly, terrified. And yet I could admire your skill in conjuring up such a (literally) breath-taking scene.

When the Strangler's stabbing attempt fails, I thanked God for the special mail shirt Akbar had on, and I only wished I had a coat of mithril to gift to him, a gift that would protect him against anything, any time. I don t know if you are a lover of The Lord of the Rings, by JRR Tolkien, but if not, let me explain. Mithril is a very special and incredibly strong metal, made from an ore mined deep in the caves of Moria in Middle Earth, and forged by the dwarves, who alone know the secret of manipulating mithril, into a coat of armour that is as supple as silk and far, far stronger than steel. Akbar surely could do with a mithril coat!

I have a question here. Akbar tells the killer, before he despatches him to the special jahannum where he belongs, that he had been waiting to hear him mention the name of the man who had sent him on this killing mission. What if the man had never got around to mentioning Khalil's name? What would Akbar have done then? How much longer could he have stood the crushing pressure on his neck?

The other point that struck me as horribly realistic in the special high the Strangler gets when hearing what he thinks are the death throes of the Ustaad. It was sickening to read, but I admired your guts in being able to visualize such depravity and then put it down on paper. It reminded me of another psychopath, the Hassassin in Dan Brown's Angels and Demons, for whom killing was like heroin.. each encounter only sating his desire for a while, before the craving reappeared. One wonders how , and why, the Lord created such horrors and let them loose upon our unfortunate earth.

Finally, I loved the realism of the opening scene in the tavern, with the shivering pseudo-washerman trying hard to control his shaking hands and to dispel the biting cold that has him in its grip with the hot soup. I loved too the passage below, which is, despite the almost casual note it strikes, a cutting commentary on the inequality that plagues humanity, and on the endless sufferings of the poor.

It was as beautiful a foggy evening as could be, if its cottony parade of suspended clouds were to be beheld beside the comforts of a warm bonfire, with a hot snack in hand and two shawls on the back. Like the privileged folks out there were doing from their fancy latticed terraces. For poorer folks like him though, with nothing beyond two meagre meals for food and a torn blanket for warmth, the evening was brutal.

You are getting along marvellously, my dearest child. In your romantic scenes, for all that I feel a tad awkward with them, you seem to always manage to introduce something novel and enchanting. This time it is Heera's home made perfume. A lovely idea!

This is it for now. I shall try and cover the next chapter by tonight. As I am writing these comments just for you, I am posting them on the thread for this chapter. If someone else reads them, fine, but if not, that is fine too. I want you to see them, that is all.

Affectionately yours,

Shyamala Periyamma

Originally posted by: --cute.manasi--