Kishwar Desai's debut novel reads like part crime-thriller and part social commentary. Through this novel, we are informed about the scourge of female infanticide in India - certainly something I knew nothing about. I thought it only happened in China. After reading this novel, I looked online and found articles written by Kishwar on the topic. A real eye-opener - apparently, such practices are not limited to India; there is a growing trend among the Asian population here in the UK too.

We are introduced to Simran Singh, a social worker who returns to her hometown to help in a case where a 14-year old girl has been accused of killing her family - 13 members in all. Her investigations lead us into a world where caste systems prevail, where tradition and modernity collide, and one in which girls are perceived as a liability. The action moves quite swiftly along, with enough twists and turns to keep turning the pages. If there's any criticism, it's that I felt like everything tied up too neatly in the end and in an almost offhanded sort of way; kinda like a Miss Marple wrap-up if you will. I don't know why that bugged me a little. Perhaps because of the gravity of the issue raised, I was left wanting for some real justice to be meted out.

Author Kishwar Desai will be speaking at Woolfson & Tay in October. It will be an opportunity to understand and learn about the facts of such crimes. So don't miss the event. - Fran

A touching pictorial memoir by photographer Phillip Toledano, chronicling the last three years of his father's life. Through photos and text, he captures his dad's battle with memory loss and the tenacity of a man determined to make the most of his life, despite the fading twilight.

This is a book you can browse through quickly, or if you like, linger on the images and immerse yourself in the little vignettes. These are intimate portraits, so intimate you feel as if you are in the sitting room, by the bed, or at the kitchen table. Some of the images and accompanying text are humorous, more often they are sad and poignant. Like the ones that Phillip takes of his dad's scribbles which are left about the house. One says, "Where is everybody?" Touching, hauntingly beautiful and yet, so full of love and life. A gentle reminder of the inevitable end that awaits us all. Will we slip so gracefully and so loved into the night? - Fran

Let's face it. This is not a book you read in one sitting. This is not a book you read for fun. This is a book that will invoke claustrophobia and feelings of helplessness. This is also not a book for the squeamish. This is a tale about an Afghan woman, stuck in her home, nursing a husband who is barely alive, keeping her children in check, even as she totters between grief, anger, frustration, sanity and helplessness. Outside, the bombs explode, sending dust and dirt everywhere; now and then, the sound of chants from wannabe martyrs punctures the silence; occasionally there is also the peppering of gun fire. Haunting, dark and sad. Very sad. - Fran

Imagine multiple afterlives. Imagine they are not as usually portrayed - not just harps and angels and pearly gates. One of them is a waiting room. This is where you go and you must wait, and wait, and wait. Until your name is no longer spoken on the earthly plane. Otherwise, you're stuck.

David Eagleman's deceptively simple scenarios in this collection of short stories can be read in a few ways. As the wanderings of a very imaginative mind. Or the musings of a neuroscientist (which is what he is) about the correlation between the mind, the body and the soul. Or a man who's just trying to remind us to stop griping and be grateful for all the many little things we take for granted, 'cos life really ain't that bad. Read it whichever way you like. You'll still be amused no doubt. - Fran

I really, really enjoyed this book. Read it in two days I did. Was transported to Mississippi circa 1960s, into leafy suburbs with rusty Cadillacs lining dust streets, where at any moment I imagined Willem Dafoe and Gene Hackman's FBI agents would turn round the corner and would not be amiss. A story with believable, likeable protagonists, and where a few 'villains' are, it must be given, wafer thin in terms of personality or character development. Nevertheless, a story with heart and a good handful of twists and turns to keep the page turning. And I ended up rooting for a good ending for all the long-suffering, tough-as-old-boots, indomitable women who inhabited this novel. In fact, I 'saw' the entire book in my mind's eye as a Hallmark/HBO mini series with Oprah or Lisa Bonnet on the cast. Nothing wrong with that. Visceral, visual and exhilarating. - Fran

You know I haven't read fiction in quite a while, and I found myself feeling quite tentative when I decided to foray back into this genre. I'm not really sure why but I tend to go through spells when it comes to reading. If I'm doing non-fiction, that's all I do for a while, and over the last couple of years, it's been nothing but non-fiction, history or self development stuff.

But hey, you have to hand it to the publishers, Sceptre. The blurb on the back cover of The Other Hand reads more like an instruction manual than a synopsis, and it caught my eye. It's cleverly worded and potential buyers are admonished to not tell others what it's about after they've read it. So... like the good girl I am, I will not spoil it for anyone else. Except to say that when I read the first paragraph, I knew I had to buy it.

The book starts like this:
Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl. Everyone would be pleased to see me coming. Maybe I would visit with you for the weekend and then suddenly, because I am fickle like that, I would visit with the man from the corner shop instead - but you would not be sad because you would be eating a cinnamon bun, or drinking a cold Coca Cola from the can, and you would never think of me again. We would be happy, like lovers who met on holiday and forgot each other's names.

Now, who can resist an opener like this? I couldn't. It's a cleverly told tale about two women, who meet under extraordinary circumstances, and who years later, meet again. While the storyline is certainly engrossing, I enjoyed the book in large part because of Chris Cleave's mastery of imagery and the way in which he uses words in telling this unusual story. I remember the last time I felt such admiration was when I read Arthur Golden's 'Memoirs of a Geisha.'

But beyond all that, The Other Hand also paints a vivid picture of the trials and tribulations faced by an asylum seeker. Oops, I hope I haven't given too much away. This is definitely a worthy read. - Fran

Thus far I've left all the blogging to Fran. Let's face it, she's far better equipped for the task than I will ever be. She carries her camera with her as a matter of habit, ever ready to whip it out and capture aspects of the world around her which link to her current passions. Besides she usually manages to get the object of her attentions within the frame, whereas I invariably focus on legs or ceilings. She's an old hand at Twitter and Facebook and actually remembers all the relevant passcodes and how to navigate between sites. For some time now she's been saying, 'You know you can add a blog if you like.'

So here it is:
This morning I awoke early to the sound of rain (in June!) and couldn't get back to sleep. I glanced over at my nightstand and realised I had no less than twenty-eight books sitting there gathering dust. I am actually reading about four of them. I then looked over at the dresser and saw another thirty or so volumes; the bedroom, much like every other space in our home is beginning to resemble a makeshift bookshop, one good reason to own one I guess. Another rationale for our latest venture is that I can't actually pass a bookshop without entering... and purchasing.

I tend to judge the ciites I visit and remember them by their bookshops. Shakespeare and Co in Paris, Books and Books in Miami, The Book Lounge in Cape Town and Daunt in London are among my favourites. It is exciting to think that we might create a similar space of our own. When I enter bookshops, subconsciously perhaps, I am looking for the theme or the essence of the place. This is written not only into the selection on offer, but also into the decor, the ambience and, of course, the people who own and run it. I want to know what they like, in effect, who they are. Just as clothes, cars, homes reveal the identities of their owners, so too with books. For what's it's worth, following are a selection of books that have moved or struck me over the past few months. 

An Unfinished Business by Boualem Sansal, banned in his native Algeria for his criticizing the government. This book is about two Algerian brothers living in Paris who discover some disturbing truths about their father's Nazi past and undertake a foreboding journey home. I read it in two sittings.
 
Everything is Connected, a memoir on the power of music to speak to all aspects of the human being: the animal, the emotional, the intellectual and the spiritual by conductor Daniel Barenboim.

Love Begins in Winter, heartbreaking stories about people for whom chance meetings with strangers force them to face responsibility for lives they believed had continued on without them, by Simon Van Booy.

The Armies, about the violent life of a small, fictional Columbian town by Evelio Rosero
Last Night on Earth, a chronicle of the life and experiences of choreographer Bill T. Jones
and my favourite -- Wandering Star, the moving story of two women, one Jewish, one Palestianian, caught up in the turmoil of the Middle East, but who aspire for peace by J.M.G. Le Clezio.

Reading through these I am aware that they are all by male writers. Not intentional, I promise. - Shivaun