: Sweta Srivastava Vikram
: Louisiana Catch A Novel
: Loving Healing Press
: 9781615993543
: 1
: CHF 6.00
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 268
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB

A grieving daughter and abuse survivor must summon the courage to run a feminist conference, trust a man she meets over the Internet, and escape a catfishing stalker to find her power.
Ahana, a wealthy thirty-three-year-old New Delhi woman, flees the pain of her mother's death, and her dark past, by accepting a huge project in New Orleans, where she'll coordinate an annual conference to raise awareness of violence against women. Her half-Indian, half-Irish colleague and public relations guru, Rohan Brady, who helps Ahana develop her online presence, offends her prim sensibilities with his raunchy humor. She is convinced that he's a womanizer.
Meanwhile, she seeks relief from her pain in an online support group, where she makes a good friend: the mercurial Jay Dubois, who is also grieving the loss of his mother. Louisiana Catch is an emotionally immersive novel about identity, shame, and who we project ourselves to be in the world. It's a book about Ahana's unreliable instincts and her ongoing battle to deter-mine whom to place her trust in as she, Rohan, and Jay shed layers of their identities.
'Louisiana Catch is a triumph. In Ahana, Sweta Vikram has created an unforgettable character, strong, wise, and deeply human, who'll inspire a new generation struggling to come to terms with their identity in a world of blurring identities.'
--KARAN BAJAJ, New York Times bestselling author,The Yoga of Max's Discontent
'In Louisiana Catch, Sweta Vikram brings life to the complex human rights issue of violence against women. Through one woman's journey to make sense of her past and ultimately heal, Vikram shows us that yoga can reconnect us to ourselves, and that by empowering others, we transform our own lives.'
--ZOE LEPAGE, Founder,Exhale to Inhale
'Louisiana Catch perfectly captures what it means to be human in a digital world, where support groups meet online, love interests flirt on Twitter, and people get confused with personas. Equal parts tender and playful, moving and hopeful, Vikram's prose connects us with timeless truths about grief and redemption in a satisfyingly modern way.'
--STEPHANIE PATERIK, Managing Editor,Adweek

- 1 -

My name is Ahana Chopra, and I was born and raised in the most ludicrous city in the world: New Delhi. Sometimes, I feel New Delhi doesn’t understand me. Other times, I don’t understand it. I don’t think I’ve ever found a way to bridge the differences between what I was and what I was expected to be in this city.

In Delhi, you find the majority running away from something, stashing away some secret but pretending to be happy. In Delhi, you always need to be on your guard.

Thirty minutes ago, when I was out for an evening run close to my office, a group of men sitting on their motorbikes and sipping tea in small glasses started whistling and making loud kissing noises, “Baby doll, 36 DD!” I covered my chest with my arms and looked around. The streets weren’t empty, but harassers in New Delhi fear no one—neither the police nor the pedestrians. Two of the men got down from their bikes and started to walk toward me. I moved away from them and scoped out a different route mentally. I could taste bile in my mouth; my running route and routine represented a small zone of freedom for me, and I could feel it being stolen away. I pushed my glasses closer to my face and noticed a small path across the street where no automobile could enter. I didn’t think when I sprinted through the moving traffic—with the cars honking, people rolling down their windows and cussing at me. I fell down a couple of times and bruised my shin. But I got up and wiped myself off. I ran until I couldn’t see the harassers.

Because of the thrusting aggressiveness of the people here, I find myself making extra effort to go unnoticed. At work parties, I hide in a quiet corner with a glass of wine. On Monday mornings especially, I try to reach work when no one is around—discussing weekend debauchery isn’t my thing. At social gatherings, I want to disappear and become invisible. I don’t care whether others chat with me; it is equally fine if I am alone with my thoughts. I can just as effortlessly look outside and observe everyone as I can look inside to see all my thoughts and emotions. But, oh, the New Delhi elites, so preoccupied with everyone else’s business!

It must have been February 2013 when I was crossing the park to my parents’ house—troubled by everything and thankful that my mother’s bridge partners seemed to have deserted the place already.No one in this park knows about my life. I am safe.

“You Kashmiri?” It was one of several old women clad insalwar kameez—their long, full-sleeved shirts below their knees and baggy trousers were ill-fitting. They had wrapped their bodies in shawls and well-worn colorful sneakers. I sighed inwardly looking at the unfamiliar faces. Often these random “auntie