‪#‎MIDNIGHT3‬ -A Short Story

Devaki, along with her husband and three sons, lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in Mettupalayam Street, Palakkad. Theirs was a fairly large house, with 4 bedrooms, a hall, a kitchen and a work area. She took personal pride in the way she ran the household with no helping hands. The garden and the lawn, laden with Australian grass was nothing short of a Kohinoor that shimmered on her crown as the queen of that house. It was winter and the trees that lined either side of the compound was busy shedding their leaves. The dry leaves weightlessly danced across the lawn to the mad tunes of the winter winds.

It was an exceptionally cold, December night. The wind was howling through the street like a hungry wolf. A wolf that no one dared to challenge.

Devaki was sleeping with her eyes tightly shut. Like always, she had her green woolen blanket over her head, covering her ears. It was when the analog clock, kept in the main entrance hall of the house, struck three that she stumbled out of her sleep with a jolt. She pulled down the blanket and instinctively searched for her husband sleeping near her in the darkness. But, there was no one in the bed except her. That’s when she remembered that her husband, Laxmanan, a senior auditor in LIC, was out on his annual tour of North Malabar.

Her ears twitched as she heard the rustling of feets moving over dry leaves scattered across the lawn. Initially, she speculated that it was a kind of dreamy hallucination. But then she heard a thud. She swiftly sat upright with a heavy, pounding heart. This time, she was sure she heard it right. The noise clearly meant that someone had climbed over the compound wall and was walking across the lawn. There were more than just one.

“Thieves…”, she thought as her mind and body panicked.
Then she saw the shadows of three ghostly figures right in front of the wall facing the bed. The thieves were silently crouching towards the rear. The bright halogen lamp across the street was too powerful for the thieves since they could not escape its glare. The light from the street lamp momentarily cast the shadows of the intruders into Devaki’s bedroom wall as they silently moved within the compound.

Her heart started hammering against her chest and even the chilly December night could not stop her from perspiring. She heard a feeble din of metal meeting metal. She sat still for a moment. A moment that seemed to stretch into eternity. She could hear the ticking of the wall clock, the yelling wind outside and then, the hushed noise of an iron-saw meeting the lock of the rear door. The thieves were meddling with the lock that secured the rear door of the house.

That very day she had read a newspaper on an infamous bunch of thieves from “Thirutu Gramam” who were on the prowl. She had read the entire report on how they murdered the entire household before they looted. She had a frozen spine when the news ended with the statement that the police had failed yet again in nabbing the thugs.

Her gut feeling confirmed that the trespassers, trying to break into her house, were none other than the ruthless burglars from “Thirutu Gramam”. They were going to kill her. Devaki wanted to cry out for help or maybe run out for aid. But, not even a single muscle in her body would move. It was as if her nerves refused her command. She clutched the bedspread and closed her eyes in dread at the thought of the impending tragedy.

As she listened, Devaki became numb with shock when she realized that thieves had already broken into her house. The lock had given away since there was this mild screech of an unwilling rear door opening up for the robbers. Anytime the burglars will be in the main hall and quickly, they will walk into her bedroom. And to make the situation even worse, her husband was away. She had no clue as to what was to be done in a situation like this. She just has a few seconds to decide what was to be done.

And that’s when a stray dog howled with all its strength somewhere in the streets. Miraculously, it impulsively triggered a kind of determination into Devaki. She gathered her senses. In a fraction of a second, she decided to call out for her sons, who were enjoying an engrossed slumber. Devaki sprang out of her bed like blitz, banged her fist against the wooden almirah near to her bed and screamed at the top of her voice:

“Siva, Ashoka, Shankara….wakeup… Siva, take the knife and sword, Ashoka bring the club… Shankara, take the iron rods…. there are thieves inside… DO NOT LEAVE THEM…BREAK THEIR SKULLS ….KILL THEM…. KILL THEM ALL….”

She yelled at the top of her voice and it was nothing short of blood curdling. And as she screamed, she pulled down the heavy, dressing table made of teak wood, creating a terrible noise and it felt like complete mayhem.

She heard the thieves rocketing out exactly the way they came in, but at triple the speed. Devaki could hear them scrambling out of the compound. She opened and closed the doors of the wooden almirah with all the strength she could muster. The neighbours woke up to the noise and then lights came on across the street, one after the other.

Devaki heard people pouring out of their houses to quench their curiosity and if need be, offer help to their neighbour in distress. With a nervous relief, she stared at her three sons sleeping in the far end of the room.

Only the eldest, the 6-year-old Sivan had woken up. He was rubbing his eyelids as if his mother had woken him a bit too early for school.

3-year-old Ashokan was still lost in his sleep alongside Sivan, oblivious to whatever was happening around him. He slept as if nothing had happened. And Shankar; he was in his cradle, enjoying a dream, sucking his left thumb.

Devaki gave a sigh of relief as she sent a silent prayer to every god she had ever prayed. She realized that presence of mind was the most powerful weapon a woman can possess in situations like these.

Devaki knew that it was going to be a long night with neighbours and police pouring in. Moreover, when her husband returned home the next day, she was going to tell him an exciting story over a coffee.

Srinath Krishnamoorthy (1)
Srinath Krishnamoorthy

Reach him at srinathtk86@gmail.com

Grab a copy of his National Best Selling Novel: Hope We Never Meet Again


A Tribute to the Greatest Storytellers in the World


A world without stories is like a desert as good as dead. And the humanity owes a lot to the most amazing storytellers called “mothers” for saturating our universe with lively colours.

Today was the official launch of ടി.കെ. ശങ്കരനാരായണൻ Sir’s‪#‎Pharma_Market‬. As I sat in the venue listening to great men speak about books, words, and literature, I wondered who really taught us to tell stories? Who inspired us to read and retell tales of courage, heroics, sacrifice and love?

Even when we talk at length about legends like MT, Basheer, Eco, Marquez, Kafka and Orwell, we silently forget the sweethearts who taught even those great writers to imagine evergreen stories for us.

Yes, the storytellers who instilled the spirit of fables in the hearts of great men to pen down the greatest stories of all time. Their mothers….our mothers.

It is a reality that every generation grows up listening to stories that were passed down through ages.

If we look back into our pasts, we all owe a lot to our grandmas, grandpas and moms for the incredible stories that they have told us. Our growing up is in some way molded by the stories they have told us. From making us gobble down our food to lulling us to sleep to scaring us from exploring dark corners of the house, the stories they have invented have played a pivotal role in shaping us as individuals.

I don’t know from where the heaven they got this unimaginable skill of instant storytelling. A mysterious craft that baffles even the greates thinkers and intellects. A crow, a random cat, a lizard crouching for its pray, even a wierdly shaped cloud is used as an object to build a story. They achieve impossible levels of magic realism and yet make it look so simple. What is so special about those stories is that it is told and retold to serve a single purpose called love. The food feels strangely more tasty when it is mixed with with a motherly story. The sleep is exceptionally deep when we fall into its lap with a fine little tale. Stories. Tales. Dreams. Wawoooo….what a blessed generation we are to have slept and woken and run and dived and flown and cried and drank and ate and dressed and pee to those amazing gems. Stories!!!!

I remember my mother threatening me with this strange story about the ‘Onida’ devil coming out of the TV Screen if I waste food. And this “Onida TV”karan became a part of numerous horror stories that made me a crazily obedient boy. I will never forget the numerous stories from Ramayana and Mahabharatha that made me eat, sleep and pray as a kid. Now, years later, I wonder what if all those stories were not there and if at all there, what if my mom had kept it away from me?

Gives me a nightmare 😦

Every day, at least once I thank my dear mom for all the stories she told me with utmost fervor and love. I thank her for taking me to a bookstore instead of a toy store or a textile shop or a cinema on the day she got her salary. I thank her for not putting me in front of a cartoon show to make her job of feeding me easier. A million kisses for telling me crazy, out-of-the-box stories about anything and everything 😦

We are nothing without those stories and we are nothing but those stories. Stories shape us and fashion an entire generation.

But, how many mothers are telling stories today? Do they carry stories in their hearts at least? To be more precise, how many mothers get time to patiently tell a story to their baby, pointing at the infinite stretch of white clouds or a big jackfruit hanging from a tree? How many mothers can we find today taking time off their busy schedule carrying their kid on their waist with a food bowl in their hand, walking across the lawn and telling a beautiful story about stars and good kings and beautiful princesses? How many mothers lull their little one with a sweet, nighttime story? We can hardly find any.

Life is fast. Between managing a career and a family, it is difficult to spend hours telling a story to make a child eat a few spoonful of food. Yes. Life is fast. An easy workaround is to put them in front of the TV. Play a Cartoon Channel or an animation video that will do the trick. But, the nectar of imagination and stories would never be fed that way. Our children are lost in the visual world that someone else has created while chewing their food. They are not listening to the stories that his mother tells. Our children are not so lucky to hear their grandma’s fable about the “Fox that Cheated the Pig” because grandparents are miles away, fighting a solitary battle with their own shadows. They have nobody to tell stories to. Those beautiful stories they got from their parents and the same stories they passed on to their children will be lost forever. Lost in the mist and rush of time. Lost under the annals of a fast, materialistic life.

I always wanna tell my dear friends who are parenting and bringing up their tiny tots that if you do not bring up your child amidst stories, they won’t have any stories to tell the world once they grow up. And the world without stories is, as I said in the beginning, a desert as good as dead. I find it disheartening to see parents taking their children to all kinds of public events and public places except for that relating to art and literature.

We can see parents taking children to pompous marriage receptions, senseless movies and mundane religious events, but abstain from taking their small ones to a library or a literary event or an art exhibition. Then years later those same parents complain that their child lacks imagination, skill and reading habit. How will he? You have not shown the sense to pass down even a fraction of the imagination that your own ancestors have given you. Then how will your child have the gene to imagine and love words in his DNA? Have you at least taken your child once in a while to watch the evening sea? To make him silently study the infinite ocean meeting the eternal sky at a finite point on Earth?

The golden wind of words and stories shall blow afresh. We think that knowledge is the most important thing in this world. We run behind it as if mad.But, I feel it is more important to dream.

As Albert Einstein once said… “Imagination is more important knowledge…”

Srinath Krishnamoorthy



A thing about friendship



I learnt an important lesson in life from the pretty lady smiling in the middle. I think we all can learn.
It is just over two years since I met Shanty Rajendran . We were classmates in ‪#‎MACE‬. I had quit my 3 year long IT career for an excuse to write. And the name of that excuse was MTech in ‪#‎MA_College_of_Engineering‬ .With just 20 students in a class, everyone was sitting just an earshot away from each other. With no tag around my neck and no dress code, I was lavishing out the new found liberation from corporate world. It was only short lived though. The pressure of doing a post-graduation and writing a novel virtually chocked the life out of me during the latter stages. But in those initial days, I was cracking stupid jokes (challi) as any proud back bencher would do. Made lots of friends or I thought so. Shanty would sit and laugh with others to every joke that we guys cracked. There was nothing to between us to be defined as friendship. We were simply classmates. A simple ‘Hai’ ‘Bye’ was all that we had in offer to each other on most of the days. Maybe, it was during the 2nd Semester Network Simulation Lab that we became friends. Shanty had to put up with the immense torture of being put up right in the middle of devil and the sea (myself and Riyaz Aahil).We used to make so much fun of her, poking and pulling her leg in her native Kollam slang. As usual, like with everyone else, tried my best to irritate Shanty by imitating her. But the only response I got was an innocent smile that trully portrayed her love for our jibes.

Once I asked her ” Don’t you feel like killing me for making so much fun of you Shanty?” All she said was ” you are like my cousins… they too make fun of me Kali akuva enne  . Still we never chatted for anything other than regular college stuff and that too, once in a blue moon. Forget uploading a pic in ‪#‎Facebook‬, we never, ever clicked a single snap. This is probably the first and maybe the last selfie we ever gonna take together.

Well, coming back to the story. With the end of 3rd semester classes in December 2014, we hardly met…we hardly spoke or pinged and we forgot that the other person even existed on the face of Earth. Days flowed to months and months went on become an year. I remember the ritual of wishing her ‘all the best’ during two university exams that followed ‘coz my roll number followed her’s. That’s it. That’s all. Were we friends? Were we family? Nope. Just classmates. I knew she was reading my blogs through the links I broadcasted through whatsapp. I thought it was more of a punishment than a delight to read my blogs. Well, somewhere in the middle, she got engaged. I do not remember dates, ‘coz my memory was short circuited during the period as I was busy with the publishing of my novel.

In November, ‪#‎Hope_We_Never_Meet_Again‬ got released. I casually sent her the Amazon link to buy the book and what I got in return was a picture of her broken leg, totally tied up and heavily bandaged with plaster. She was bed ridden and was unable to do even basic chores without someone’s support. I wished her a safe recovery and left it at that. I never thought she would buy the book or read it , let alone review it. In the middle of marriage preparations, in the middle of final MTech thesis evaluation and with a bad, broken leg…no way.

After all, what’s there in a silly book. And what am I to her? Friend? Not really. Family? Too far.

So, I left things at that. I was tensed in the beginning since reviews on my novel were very few. Even people who were associated with the book did not publish reviews. I felt lost and gone. And then, one fine day, I got an update in Facebook that someone had tagged me over a post. I checked and it was a beautiful review from Shanty. I was shocked. I rang her up and asked:

“How come you wrote a review without reading the book yar?”

The reply that I got was the best I ever heard: “I was not well enough to order a copy. There is no Amazon delivery here. So, I asked my brother to order your book in Trivandrum. My leg is a miserable mess of pain and there is a lot of commotion in the house as a part of my wedding preparations. But, lying in the bed, I read your book over the weekend. Non-stop. It’s a good one!”.

She not only wrote a Facebook review but gave a beautiful review in Amazon as well. A dedication and commitment much greater than I myself have shown towards my work.

Are we friends? YES
Are we family? YES

Friendship is not about chatting all the time, hanging around, taking selfies, uploading and then tagging those pictures over Facebook. Friendship is not a relationship to be shown-off. The true essence of friendship is to sincerely be there for the people you love and care for.

Family, is not being related through blood. Being family is to be ready to sacrifice and bear pain for one another. Being family is to love and support wherever you are…whatever you are. Being family is the willingness to spend quality time. Thank you ‪#‎Shanty‬ for teaching me this big lesson in life.Happy Married Life to you and Bimal.

A Short Story After A Long Time

Ritesh Journey DESTINY


A beautiful girl sat opposite to me. I was on my way to attend an important interview in Thrissur. We started talking. She was very smart with big, beautiful eyes and lovely expressions that I lost myself in her. We were so much in to our conversation that I failed to notice my train crossing Thrissur Railway Station. Such was her charm. It was only when I saw the Kochi International Airport through the grills of the train’s window did I realise that I had missed my station. I swallowed hard, pretended as if nothing had happened and smiled sheepishly at her. By then, the train had already reached Aluva and she had to get down there. I lost the job since I could not make it to the interview in time.

But, years later as I tell this story, she is my wife. 🙂

Sometimes, in life…we have to lose to win.

Travel as much as you can, ‘coz every journey holds a story that can change your destiny forever.

I lost that job but won something far more precious… ‪#‎Love‬

-A short story by ‪#‎Srinath_Krishnamoorthy‬



Book Review: Hope We Never Meet Again

Yes Jennifer GJ, you hold the first copy to fly abroad. And your beautiful review is probably the first to come from Canada. Today, we can say that ‪#‎HopeWeNeverMeetAgain‬ has been acclaimed internationally. This is a big moment for this humble work of fiction. I was afraid you would not love my book since the setting is predominantly Indian. Coincidence does take the form of fantasy that takes a few characters to the snowy terrains of Canada though wink emoticon I’m extremely delighted that you enjoyed the read. Thank you so much Jenny!!!

Dare To Live Courageously...


I not only had the opportunity of reading Hope We Never Meet Again, an amazing psycho-thriller novel written by Srinath Krishnamoorthy, but the privilege to follow his blogs in WordPress and meet him in person recently.

Srinath, I’m throwing my hat up into the clouds right now for you my friend!  When we met at the Delhi Airport and you brought and signed my very own copy of your book, it was a moment that I’ll never forget.  Is it true that it’s the first copy to leave India?  Thank you so much for that and for meeting me in Delhi while promoting your book at the Delhi International Book Fair.  Now that I have read it cover to cover, I would like to give my book review for you.

DSC00882                   941040_10153849465839557_5983224730819678058_n

As you know, our friend Darshith was the one…

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intolerance final

I’m no one to speak on patriotism… but all I want to say is that- shouting “Bharat ki Barbadi” and supporting terrorists, is like shitting on your own face. Now, that is a physically impossible task, but some idiots have made it look like a piece of cake. And, by beating them in the middle of the road and inside the Patiala Court, intolerant fools have proved beyond doubt that, they not only have shit in their hands, but in their heads as well. Since our country is going through lots of shit right now, spare a few minutes to sit back and think. (Burp)

Today, if someone shouts ‪#‎Jai_Hind‬ or ‪#‎Bharath_Matha_ki_Jai‬ or‪#‎Vande_Mataram‬, he is immediately tagged as a ‪#‎Sanghi‬ or ‪#‎RSS‬ or‪#‎Modi_Bhakt‬ and if one refuses to raise these slogans, he earns the title of an ‪#‎Anti_National‬ or ‪#‎Terrorist‬ or worse, a ‪#‎Pakistani‬. Guys, have we lost our balance??

‪#‎Intolerance‬… my friend, is not a one-way affair, it is mutual. And the best solution to intolerance is, not to be a part of it.

You cannot stand him, he cannot stand you and you both bang your heads.

Afzal Guru, Yakub Memon or any terrorist for any reason, are enemies of humanity. I’m not saying that they are the enemies of a particular country, but enemies of humanity. Wonder how many people who are raising slogans in support of these terrorists have lost their dear ones in a terrorist attack? Or how many of them have the sense to fear about losing their lives or one of their loved ones at the hands of a terrorist. Had they lost their father, brother or friend, they would definitely think twice before supporting this insanity. If you are a widow or son or daughter of one of the soldiers who lost his life in the parliament attacks, you may have an all new take on the issues at hand.

Being the son of a soldier, I know that it takes just one stray bullet to shatter families and ruin lives. I mean, we are talking about terrorists who are waging a war on this nation and soldiers who are trying to protect us.

When one of our brave soldiers is fighting for his life in a hospital, what is the logic behind staging a commemoration of martyrdom of a terrorist? Are our student bodies this insensitive? Yaaak 😦

Is Afzal Guru a man who worked for women empowerment like Raja Ram Mohan Roy? Is he an environmentalist like Medha Patkar? Is he an educational reformist? Did he work for the betterment of the poor and the oppressed like Ambedkar, that we celebrate his martyrdom?

Even when we say that meeting violence with violence is bad, we cannot let terrorists come in and challenge our country. We cannot educate a religious extremist who is clinically brainwashed and who is here with an intention to destroy our country. A hole in his head or a rope around his neck is the best possible solution he himself has to offer. He is here to kill and die. If he does not die, he keeps killing till he dies.

If you cannot stand in the shoes of an Indian Army soldier, think from a terrorist’s perspective. Why is he here? He carries a machine gun and sets out rampaging whatever comes in his way. He shoots and throws hand-grenade at anything and everything that comes in his way. Terrorists do not verify whether you are a ‪#‎communist‬, ‪#‎congress‬, ‪#‎BJP‬or #RSS or you are a ‪#‎JNU‬ or BHU or ‪#‎IIT‬ student. He simply shoots. He is sent in with just one intention and that is maximum destruction, maximum damage and maximum loss of life. The problem here is that we are aware of a few like ‪#‎Ajmal_Kasab‬ who execute these heinous designs at the ground level. Actually, they are the scapegoats in this entire plot. The real villains are the people who mastermind these terror attacks and brainwash innocent people in the name of Jihad to execute their dangerous intentions. The problem we are facing is that our intelligence agencies and our diplomacy are not strong enough to shut down these terror factories working outside India. We kill the pests walking in but their cocoon is still safe at large. If India needs a permanent solution from terrorism, it has to cross the border and kill the masterminds hiding safely in Pakistan or elsewhere.  I’m not saying they are the only bad people we have around here. Every ideology, be it political or religious, has its share of bloodshed. I will not go into the historical aspects of these things.

Hope we can think and work better as a nation.

Well, Jai Hind on that note!!!

Srinath Krishnamoorthy (1)
Srinath Krishnamoorthy


Relationships In A Shrinking World

We live in an ever-shrinking world with ever-expanding, ever-distancing relationships.- Srinath Krishnamoorthy


The photograph you see above was taken by me just before my flight landed in Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi. Our cities look like concrete tubs and feels like gas chambers. frown emoticon What is the impact of the so-called development pattern over our lives and our relationships?
We live in an ever-shrinking world with ever-expanding, ever-distancing relationships. Technology has helped us break the barrier of distance and time between individuals. But, even with all this, the bonding between people are becoming weaker by the day. When a major chunk of job opportunities are concentrated over mere 14 or 15 big cities in India, we leave behind a treasure trove that will vanish with time and will never come back.
I will tell you a small story. I went to a hospital in my hometown, with my mother who has a small issue with vertigo. I saw a very old man, almost 80, stumbling into the hospital entrance with a urine bag and walking stick. He looked completely zombie, with his T-shirt worn wrong way and his dhoti (mund) was almost falling off. Myself along with a nurse rushed to support him. We asked him where his wife or children were? He said “There is no one. All are away…all of them are outside”. After making him seated, he desperately rested his head on his walking stick, as if he was done with living alone. I saw at least 5 to 6 similar cases 2 hours I spent in the hospital. I felt pity and at the same time, hung my head in shame. If those children had a good opportunity to flourish in our own small town, the situation of the old folks would have been quite different. Saying thus, let us not hesitate to accept the fact that the old folks are to be held partially or fully responsible for their plight. They only flushed out their own children as per social norms to various bigger cities to lead the so-called ‘normal life’.
The big question here is – Are we even thinking of comprehensive development? The government says they will create millions of job opportunities. But, what we need to ask is ‘WHERE?’. In my own town/village or in one of those 15 big cities that is almost on the verge of bursting its belly. Every concrete house across this country shelters old couple who have no one in terms of company except for their shadows. Absolutely nobody to take care of them. Is this what we have in store for our parents? Is this the idealistic model that we are gonna teach our children on how to take care of the older generation? Is this wealth we have saved for an unpredictable, meaningless, inevitable future?

Today we have become a generation that has no clue about the fundamental idea of existence. Leaving the soil we were born, leaving the womb that gave us birth, leaving the nature far behind, forgetting the legends and stories that we grew up hearing, we are in search of wealthy answers to poor questions that hardly makes sense in this universe. ‪#‎Money‬‪ #‎Comfort‬

Srinath Krishnamoorthy (1)
Srinath Krishnamoorthy

Reach him at srinathtk86@gmail.com

Book Review-Hope We Never Meet Again-Srinath T K

This is one of the most unique review of #HopeWeNeverMeetAgain so far!!! The reviewer has given a psychological touch to a psychoanalytic thriller. Thank you #Brunda_Bru from Bangalore for this one in a million review.

Brewing words

I normally don’t do reviews and this might be the first one so far, Srinath is a good friend and an amazing author who by the whims of his writings has amazed me with his debut book” Hope We Never Meet Again”.

The story is weaved in two cities Bangalore and Palakad,a small village in Kerela.

So ,let me speak to you about it, like literally or figuratively;)sn2You: So is this like a romantic campus love story that you find in every other book round the corner?

Me: NAhhh, it’s not a complete dip in heart ,romantic love story but a fast paced, clear thriller story that weaves around Varun Diwakar who meets with an accident unable to bear the news of his friend’s suicide.His subconscious
mind then reveals the spiritual power to understand the situations around him on a different plane albeit love is the prominent part…

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Hope We Never Meet Again.

Terrific review of ‪#‎HopeWeNeverMeetAgain‬ by a very popular blogger and an amazing writer, Gursimran Kaur from Jaipur, Rajasthan. Really happy to see readers from across the country enjoying and celebrating ‪#‎Hope_We_Never_Meet_Again‬ . Humbled yet cherishing the awesome love and support the novel has garnered in such a short span of time. You may very well grab your copy from Amazon smile emoticon


Good morning to this cozy-lazy Sunday! How are you my lovely readers? Great as always, i hope.

So recently I read this book “Hope We Never Meet Again” written by Srinath Krishnamoorthy – my blogger friend and a very talented writer.

The title sounds as if it holds a romantic piece but oh it doesn’t. It is a psycho-analytical thriller – a genre that I usually don’t please to read. But I had to read this one because I received a signed copy with a very kind message written.

kind message

And this book; oh my gawd; turned out to be so captivating that I read it in just half a day. It contains many stories linked together, wrapped in so many twists and turns that it manages to hold your very attention till the last sentence.

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