Title: My Singapore Fling
Author: Sudesna Ghosh
Price: INR 99
My Singapore Fling by Sudesna Ghosh is a contemporary, fast-paced and engaging read on modern dating in India and its woes. You will meet Dipa, a 30-something Bengali, Kolkata-based writer. She’s had her share of heartbreaks and now seeks a fun, meaningless, no-strings attached fling. And so she travels to the island city of Singapore in search of an accent. Yes, an accent. Because she is crazy about men with British and Australian accents!
What struck me about My Singapore Fling the most that it is very Indian in its setting and context. And is devoid of any guilt or judgement. Dipa seeks a fling, and she is extremely honest about it to herself and gal pals. No covering up of the intentions or motives. Ghosh’s writing also lays bare the many insecurities that women must come to terms with in a changing India today. Do not also miss the strong emphasis on the importance of your gal pals. Across countries and time zones.
The word hedonism often came to mind while flipping the pages, and I was left with a silent smile. Because Ghosh often articulates a women’s oft ignored dreams and desires. Dipa is very clear about she wants, and her honesty is refreshing. With My Singapore Fling, I was often reminded of Bridget Jones and Sophie Kinsella.
I also had a hidden agenda. I’ve read two of Ghosh’s previous titles: News Now – Being A TV Journalist and What Would I Tell Her @ 13 and was curious to trace her evolution as a writer. And My Singapore Fling made me feel all warm and fuzzy within.
I’d say the book is best enjoyed with a dessert and beverage of your choice. And I know what I’m gifting my gal pals next!
Find My Singapore Fling on Amazon.
He promised to call later that night. An innocuous, non-committal statement. Something she knew he would say to any girl he was friends with. But she being she couldn’t help but read much into it. She speculated a million scenarios in her head until it threatened to explode. She took a sleeping pill that night.
You were too enamored with his words, his lopsided smile and the simmering texts to notice the tell-tale signs. His tarrying, his lying, his vices. You always turned a blind eye to them all. There was little you could do, you admitted. And blinded by the light, you didn’t see me lurking in the shadows.
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The wall was her canvas. A silent witness to her angst and its expressions. She wrote, painted and drove holes through it. Picking apart the peeling paint helped build concentration, she said. Scrubbing the color off it reinstated her belief in clean new beginnings. The wall was her punching bag, her confidante, her agony aunt.
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