The Literature Aficionados

“They thought that the bullets would silence us, but they failed. And out of that silence came thousands of voices. The terrorists thought they would change my aims and stop my ambitions. But nothing changed in my life except this: weakness, fear and hopelessness died. Strength, power and courage was born.” This book is about a young girl, a Pakistani women’s rights activist and a Nobel Prize laureate. The book follows her story as her life transforms from an ordinary young girl to a true hero. The book is narrated by Malala herself. Malala was a kid just like us: she watched shows like Shaka Laka Boom Boom; she would imagine drawing to avoid her annoying brothers; she would pray to have that pencil every night before sleeping but it was never there. She was just like us; she was curious about the misogynistic traditions in her house. Even when her friends and neighbours were scared from the Taliban, she refused to let them win. “There are two powers in the world; one is the swor...

  The room is the epitome of artistry and architecture, a perfect blend of both, just enough to provide an ethereal aura to it. The king-size bed, soft as cotton, is covered in a nice rufous, silken sheet and the memory foam pillows, in their crimson-lighted covers, were ideal to provide the perfect sleep. The gleaming black headboard, with complicated filigrees of gold and silver twining, gives a touch of royalty to the bed. On the plumbeous-ashy walls hang paintings of the best artists from around the world. The infamous painting of the coral black hors on an ivory-white canvas by George Stubbs hangs above the votive lights placed on a mahogany table. The table in itself is a magnificent piece of art. With its curved knees and intricate carvings on its skirt, it defines grandeur. Just to the right of it is a glass door with white frames lading to the 200 squared-feet balcony. On the parapet, lying in neat rows, are the most beautiful flowers arranged in the perfect gradient. They...

From the moment I crossed the threshold into the old dinghy house, I felt an aura follow me, unlike others before, this was not the aura of an unfortunate trapped soul. No, this aura was different, it was inhumane, and by the time I had reached the living room, it had entrapped me in its vicious vice like grip. Every step that I took into the interiors of the house, the grip kept tightening, like a noose around my soul, waiting to snap and liberate me of this mortal existence...   F inding my way around the house, I reached the door of the main bedroom, but by this time the diabolical emanation was taking its toll on me, beating down on me with all its might. My head was splitting and I was getting delirious, to the extent where the elephant motifs, on the teak wood door in front of me, started morphing into a kaleidoscopic array of black and brown faces dancing mockingly in front of me... assimilating any leftover will power left in my corporeal shell, I pushed through the do...