Interviewing Varsha Dixit: author of ‘Rightfully Wrong Wrongfully Right’


Varsha Dixit is the bestselling author of contemporary romance. ‘Rightfully Wrong Wrongfully Right’ her latest book released in August 2016. To find out more about Varsha and her books visit her website

Twitter: @Varsha20

It was a pleasure and honor to interview her as a new member of The Book Club, hosted by the prolific blogger and author Rubina Ramesh. To know more about TBC, log on to:

Lopa Banerjee: Hello Varsha, very nice to know about your upcoming book ‘Rightfully Wrong Wrongfully Right’. It would be my pleasure to ask you a few questions regarding the theme, title and other aspects of this novel.

The title of the book “Rightfully Wrong, Wrongfully Right” appears to be very intriguing and smells of quite a bit of suspense too. What made you choose this one, and what can the readers expect from the novel?
Varsha Dixit: Thank you Lopa for asking an interesting question. The title is apt for the protagonists, Gayatri Dutta and Viraj Dheer.  They both sometimes have right reasons for committing wrong acts but somehow their wrongs make them so right for each other. The book is a love story but this time the love is steamy, bold and manipulative.
Lopa Banerjee: How would you define the two protagonists of the novel, Viraj and Gayatri? Is this book a journey of their exploration of each other, and the conflicting realities they face on the way?

Varsha Dixit: Gayatri Dutta and Viraj Dheer, are feisty, strong headed and very determined. Gayatri Dutta, a rich, spoiled diva, is fighting to establish herself even as her tyrant father pushes her into a life not of her choice. Viraj is a genius and a con who shuns society and its hypocrisies. Gayatri sees Viraj only as a means to an end. For Viraj, Gayatri is the epitome of all that he despises. So when their paths cross, it is a battle of wills, desire and sparks shoot off.
Lopa Banerjee: What do you think about contemporary romance novels, romantic thrillers, and the sexy, haunting variety of romantic tales? Do you think your book RWWR conveys a strong tale, pertaining to these categories of fiction? If yes, what would you say is the USP of the book?

Varsha Dixit: My stories probably vary from others books in the romance genre for my stories are not only about romance. They are about friendships, about families and about society. My stories are a genuine effort, on my part, to provide the milieu of readers, young and old, with a humorous read, without overlooking the intelligence and thinking quotient of our personalities. The USP of Rightfully Wrong Wrongfully Right are the protagonists. They are not sweet, simpering or wholly good. Often they come on the wrong side of right. J
Lopa Banerjee: How is the story/the narrative journey in your latest book different from your two earlier bestsellers, Right Fit Wrong Shoe and Wrong Means Right End? How do you think you have evolved in your storytelling, post the publications of these two books, and how would you describe your writing journey keeping in mind these bestsellers?

Varsha Dixit: Friendships have always played a very important role in my life and continue to do so. Friends are the family we choose and I have to say I chose well. My ‘Right and Wrong’ series is about three friends, three different women in three different phases of their lives. ‘Right Fit Wrong Shoe’ was about a small town simple girl, ‘Wrong Means Right End’ was about a divorced young mom and ‘Rightfully Wrong Wrongfully Right’ is about Gayatri Dutta, the woman who has gone out of her way to mess up other people’s life. Now it is the reader’s turn to know the ‘how’ and ‘why’ about Gayatri and the mad scientist, Viraj Dheer.
Lopa Banerjee: Do you believe in happy endings when you pen romance novels, or would you be ready to experiment with a more shady, somber finale for your novels? Why do you think happy endings work most with the audience, and are you comfortable with the trend?

Varsha Dixit: I like happy endings for my characters. If I were to describe myself, I would say I have a pretty sunny disposition so that makes it even harder for me to write bleak plots. In my second book, Xcess Baggage , I kept the ending a cliffhanger – the gal and the guy did not meet. To this day, six years later, my readers write to me extremely upset and sad that Meghna and Byron did not meet. How could I leave them separated? It was cruel on my part etec. So I think post that I just find it easier to sleep if my characters have a HEA (happily every after).

Also, for romance genre happy endings usually work for they bring a positive closure to the readers. They are like comfort food, they make the readers feel good from inside.

Thank you Lopa for hosting me on your blog and for asking such interesting questions.



Book Review: The Haunting and Other Stories by Dr. Sunil Sharma

Published by: Authorspress. 2016

ISBN-10: 9352072723

ISBN-13: 978-9352072729

168 Pages Haunting_Cover image 

‘The Haunting and Other Stories’, a collection of short stories by Dr. Sunil Sharma, an extremely erudite professor of English, author, poet and editor starts off in an almost fable-like manner, weaving a story within a story narrated by a nine-year-old child, combining the elements of fantasy, folklore, adventure and the stark, seething world of our everyday realities. The reality of the daily ignominies of a struggling labor class family slaps us hard on the face, with the deep, haunting narrative of human trafficking that takes us to a grueling voyage to the city’s vicious underbellies. A widespread, crude, vicious world is woven with the author’s dexterous use of images that cement the apparently disparate worlds of Laxmi and Tanya, the burgeoning, sedate upper class and the trampled, anguished working class, and at the end of the story, their worlds collide in the subtly symbolic, allegorical way of storytelling.

In the stories that follow, including ‘A Teen Daughter’ and ‘An Indian Police Station: A Philosophical Thought’, ‘At The Party And After’, we see the subtle and timeless manifestations of various multi-faced urban voices that coalesce as a collective consciousness. The voices, that of the anguished daughter missing her mother in a critical, apathetic parochial family, the harrowed woman trapped inside the police station, looking into the inherent doom and catastrophe of humanity inside the surroundings, the bespectacled bald loner trapped as an odd display amid a vain, wealthy social gathering are pitted against each other as emblems of diminishing humanity, of a skeptic and brutal moral world where essential human values are dead and replaced by a sinister, decaying reality. The collective psyche of the protagonists of each individual story embraces a subtle, essential suffering, the suffering of a burdened human existence. The burden of the mutilation of a world of emotions, a world of deep-rooted human values lies heavy on their shoulders.

The protagonist of the story ‘At The Party And After’ mutters to himself over phone: “I am unwanted everywhere…In my family, by my brothers and sisters. In my office, in my neighborhood…..” In an interior monologue that follows, the author sums up his plight. “He knew he was trapped inside a hopeless social situation….he felt he was neither inside or outside. He did not belong…. felt like a permanent outsider.” With deft strokes, here the author highlights the pain, the alienation and the internal crisis of the ones living on the fringes of an emerging Indian society, a merciless, ruthless and banal society.

In the story ‘Borderless’, the fluid, multi-faceted visages of humans intersect with each other in a surreal, almost seductive journey into the Alphs, where each of the travelers, including the protagonist discovers his self-identity in an uncharted territory miles and miles away from their ancestral moorings. In the process, he, along with his co-travelers, rediscovers the true meaning and essence of ‘home’. “Janaab, home is where you truly get a feeling of belonging. Where you are able to do what you want to do. Where you feel respected, wanted and loved. Not a place, even if it is one’s home country, where there is always a sense of dread amongst the people and in the streets.” The introspective lines from Sahil, the immigrant from Pakistan sums up the human need for looking into the essence of our self-identities as integral parts of a country, a race or in terms of an overarching humanitarian landscape that defies spatial boundaries. Also, as humans, we are trapped into a lot of human-constructed parameters, and the evils of those parameters keep lurking from the nooks and crannies, the fissures and crevices of our mundane urban existence, which is evident in the immensely sad, dichotomous depiction of the urban India he portrays in this rich, dynamic collection of stories.

For me, personally, some of the most haunting depictions of the collection include the fictitious young waiter at the wayside hotel, who later is transformed into a ruthless hunter, the vulnerable, emotionally fraught parents of the little girl Smita in ‘Change’ who disguises herself as a boy in a desperate bid to earn acceptance and love from her gender-biased parents, the ruthless male chauvinist tormentor Sukumaran and his coy, timid wife Sudha in the story ‘Dream’, the guileless Ram Babu and his vain wife who had to pay an extreme price for her frailties and life choices in ‘Second Chance’. The author’s touching, gripping vision of suffering of the urban characters takes us readers on an unforgettable voyage, where he explores the dwindling emotional fabric of humanity. In the entire short story collection, the characters, images and their subtle representations are born out of the inimitable passion and instinct of the author/storyteller consumed in their complex, emotionally fraught microcosm. These are the stories that draw us to our own dark pits, where the author weaves the urbane human journeys of getting lured and sucked into common human frailties.

While the emotional journeys of the characters and their subtle epiphanies are riveting and profound, the author’s depiction of those journeys are unique and remarkable, as he leads us to some quintessential universal truths through those journeys, with his deft, inimitable use of images and metaphors. The images and metaphors are mostly the nucleus of these poignant narratives, and through them, Dr. Sunil Sharma, the academic and the author weaves his open-ended, deep, visually rich stories with a highly discerning emotional lens. Through this lens, he reflects on the decomposing fabric of a contemporary India, pitted against the relentless struggles of a socially conscious author.

The book is highly recommended for lovers of literary fiction, for those who love the presence of a subtle intertextuality running through seemingly benign narratives, also for those who love layered, canonical reproductions of literary classics with a subtle and unthinkable twist.


The Amazon link to buy the book:

HIS DRUNKEN WIFE By Sundari Venkatraman

Marriages Made in India

Book #2




Sundari Venkatraman




The badass Shikha is startled when the nerdy Abhimanyu proposes marriage. She loves… herself, and Abhimanyu doesn’t figure on her list anywhere. For Abhimanyu, however, it was love at first sight when Shikha walked into RS Software, where the two of them work.


When Abhimanyu shows her that he just might be rich enough for her, a pleasantly surprised Shikha accepts his marriage proposal and moves into his swanky apartment.


But it looks like the love is all from only Abhi’s side as Shikha continues to drink herself crazy. Yeah, even at their wedding party.


And then Abhi sets out on a honeymoon to Thailand with His Drunken Wife…


*MARRIAGES MADE IN INDIA is a five-novella series that revolves around the characters you have met in The Runaway Bridegroom.


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About the author


Sundari Venkatraman


His Drunken Wife is the ninth book authored by Sundari Venkatraman. This is a hot romance and is Book #2 of the 5-novella series titled Marriages Made in India; Book #1 being The Smitten Husband. Other published novels by the author are The Malhotra Bride, Meghna, The Runaway Bridegroom, The Madras Affair and An Autograph for Anjali—all romances. She also has a collection of romantic short stories called Matches Made in Heaven; and a collection of human interest stories called Tales of Sunshine. All of Sundari Venkatraman’s books are on Amazon Top 100 Bestsellers in India, USA, UK, Canada & Australia under both #romance & #drama categories.

Other books by the author







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‘Her’: Voices in Unison


Note: For all of womanhood and our blood that brings forth generations. A chain of poems that started in The Significant League, an online literary group in Facebook.

For years, I have breathed in the
dingy hollow of my own blood,
Trembling, gasping, clutching at the skinny edges of myself.
For years, we have cracked open
Praying the whirlpool gets a nobler name, praying it does not strain us,
lapping at the shores of our thighs
we have so much strived to hide.
Today I listen to the deep-throated music of my own blood,
Naked, primal, alive.
I listen to it, watching it return in cycles.
I am sucked into the dense clouds
And wet earth of my being,
I am free, I sing, swirling in
spirals of a woman, menstruating, unabashed.

All Rights Reserved. Lopa Banerjee. August 16, 2016.


Sufia Khatoon’s poem in response to the previous poem on womanhood:

A thousand galaxies away
In the city of soul’s, a pair of eyes blink and stare, unaware of existence
On a fateful night I came into being, oblivious to the bloody core,
I evolved like millions of stars,
Building consciousness and subconscious state of things.
Secretly in my core too, a stream gathered drop by drop.
Dormant, quite and waiting to fulfill another cycle.

It waited, calmly soaking within a storm,
I hear soft whispers of pain in it’s weakest state.
Nothing is in control of the mind,
Nothing is in control of the body,
Blood flower blooms in the core of thorns and I bleed again,
Bearing the restless pain,
Feeling the wet river that flows freely,
Clogging every pore of my footprints and I understand the universe.
-Sufia Khatoon….17/8/16


Note: In solidarity with the thousands of little girls, who are forced to be child brides in various parts of the globe, sacrificed in the alter of ‘marriage’ and forcefully initiated into brutal sex and a life of ignominy, deprived of the minimum education, hygiene and empowerment that she rightfully deserves.

Upcoming publication in an anthology for WORLD HUMANITARIAN DAY, to be published on August 19, 2016.

A mad, creepy stench seeps into me.
The night, smelling like litter and raw onions
Perforates my inner core. But wait, what is it?
The exposed visage of my yet to develop breasts
that might become a river, swelling with milk
and burnt poetry some day?
The parched, trembling virgin lips that an unknown mouth crushes
merciless, shoving his ugly, flabby, dated body into
a crescendo of submission, devastating the silken petal
between my thighs? Drops of virgin blood from a defenseless vagina,
assures my clan that my father’s honor is in right hands, that
my girlie dreams of unknown ocean pearls, decorous words, counting tricks
taught in a useless girls’ school will burn away in the tandoor,
Like all other ‘haraam’ around me. A child bride of Arabia, Africa, India, Syria,
I am chipped, peeled off, tender pieces, craving for light, my biggest sacrilege.

All Rights Reserved. Lopa Banerjee. August 13, 2016.


Note: An excerpt/chapter from my book-length memoir/narrative nonfiction, ‘Thwarted Escape: An Immigrant’s Wayward Journey’. This chapter is my humble tribute to Jamaica Kinkaid and her edgy personal essay ‘Girl’.

“The caged bird sings with fearful trill

Of the things unknown, but longed for still

And his tune is heard on the distant hill

For the caged bird sings of freedom.

…But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing….”


(Maya Angelou: I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings)


Whose are those eyes that pry on me as I hover at the doorway? Whose are those faces that measure my gait, as I grab a seat in crowded vehicles? Whose are those feet that crisscross mine as I walk along the dingy lanes, following the flashlights? I should have felt the warning rattle at the door. I should have heard the noisy presence of heavy feet stomping the old cement floors. I should have braced myself for invaders taking direction, seeping through the damp, concrete walls.  Being born a girl, my mind was quiescent and tame, but I had sunrise, I had hope. I was simmering in my pretty looking prison. I was simmering in arrogance and expectation.

In a sleepy little town that stretches all the way to far-flung railway stations, I sit hunched in a chair that creaks, facing the window, from which I look at the thin sheet of rainwater floating up the grease and mud of the road. I glare at the passers-by, never waiting for them to notice me, as I know since my girlhood that they will, inevitably. “How did it cross your mind to step out in the dark of the Amaavasya (no moon) night, with this wild, unruly hair of yours? And how can you forget you must not run, hop or jump in this condition? It is the 2nd day of your female periods, girl; and mind it, we call it “shoreer kharap”, a special, inexplicable sickness, not without a reason.”

I feign a half-smile, then cringe silently, unsolicited voices whizzing by, guarding me from the edges of their eyes as I partake in a vain unraveling. My naked self is greasy with sweat, messy with heat and the blood that my egg has just released. Ah, yes, I must honor the gift of sanctity between my legs. My footprints are that of a ghost, they must die within a deep pool of silence. I must remember sundown, remember to crawl inside the fence, shutting off the slapping wind. There, my own heartbeats lull me back to your world, through the traffic lights of your commands.

I should have adored the pretty pink frills of my frock and the cup of hot, frothy milk of my childhood when I remained among the stack of fairy tales and pelting rain.   Beneath those locked doors and wordless wallowing, as my lungs held the solid air as a snug encasement, I thought I had embraced  my sanctuary. In this breeding ground of maiden virtues of virginity and sanctity, I never knew I was entwined in rage and loneliness.

“Hey girl, you have a lovely voice. Can you sing more songs for me?”

“Hey, I kept looking at your chiseled face in the photo studio today. A bit more slant to the right, relax your fingers against your chin, make a bigger pout, there you go. Ek chhobi-tei biye (just one photograph, and marriage is fixed)!”

What else can you do? Sew, knit, cook, make hand-embroidered tapestry? Can you show us samples?”

When did I learn how to turn on and turn off the music and let it pour from the damp speakers? When did I learn to explode in the presence of curious, sneaking men, stomping around, grimacing, with my thick braids swishing against their pockmarked faces? Did you all rejoice then, knowing that I was stripping myself into nakedness, bit by bit, my soft, maiden songs sitting tight at the knife-edge of my teeth?

In the pretty-looking prison of my  blossoming womanhood, I saw with wide, gaping eyes the dawn melt into the day. I had opened the window panes, waved at the world offering the vestibules of change. I had walked by the narrow alleys,  as the sun fell over me in a smudge of embrace. Ah yes, the sunlight has over-indulged my tomfoolery, there, it sits tight, over my skin, my face, my arms, preventing me from being the coy woman, the ‘forsha’ (fair) maid.

I should have braced myself for darkness and gloom in all those bright hours when I had soaked myself with rapture and expectation. Were the crisp airs of vanity my own? Was the bluebird chirping in my throat unwomanly, psychotic?

By now, I should have learnt to focus on my own life as an outcast, to thrive in my madness and be pleased to walk alone amid the crowded city streets with impetuous fools. You were probably right when you thought how gloom had plagued me, crawling all the way up to my toes, ankles, knees, thighs, waist and my rib cage, tasting the delicious orchards of my womanliness.

My femaleness each month pushes through the blood and clots and cramping, the clockwork of my body, the awareness of my sexuality. You have taught me right to hide it away, to feel shameful of it when needed, and also, when needed, proclaim boastfully how my body is a temple, a heaven to be worshipped. You have rightly taught me my skillfully carved out path, to be a sexy woman and a shy child, punctuating my whispering, my gasping, my moaning and my sighing. You have taught me right, breast to hip, moist bits that promise a riot, an uproar, a tempest, weathered well.

“Let woman be a plaything, pure and fine, like a gem, irradiated by the virtues of a world that has not yet arrived.”

Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

I know now what I have between my legs. All the way from my first uterine cramp to the ultimate trophy of giving birth, I am pinned into your geometric cages, your mountainous pile of definitions and instructions. I do not care to sift through your lessons of how to obtain my femininity. I have known all of my fresh, fertile curves and pumpkin vines. I know it’s not worth dying for, you know, preparing to be peppered and injected, since menstruation to menopause, covering my body in polished jewelry and opals. Being born a girl, I should have known how to place myself in neat, transparent jars—compact, polished, cloaked in my femininity.

Would you again iterate and reiterate our prescribed purpose and potential in this dark, ramshackle attic? I return to the disheveled rubble of my long forgotten childhood. As I stand here today, I have danced all my dances, sprung up like weeds rooted in the old nursery of my existence. I hurl my powder puff and concealer, my body mist, my flirty winks and my bathroom mirror at this awful world of vows, and intrusion.











What happens when the terrible twos come in threes? 

Stuti loves being a mother to her triplets, but it can be a harrowing routine. She’s even more submerged in the craziness when she takes them and her mom-in-law for a trip to Rajasthan, the land of the erstwhile Thar desert royals and their palaces. After the passing away of her husband, she feels she owes it to her mil to take her to her favourite holiday. In the Amber Palace, her reckless toddler rushes onto a modelling shoot. As she picks up her daughter who has tripped over a gorgeous zardozi sari, her gaze clashes with that of the man she’d hoped never to set eyes on again in her life. 


A passion that threatens to set fire to more than just her senses 

Revath was everything she wanted in a man, but six years ago he chose to walk away from her. Now he wants to be back in her life. When she knows he doesn’t want the same things in life that she does, would she be wise to let anything rekindle between them? Is it already too late for rethinks? 


Desire that has to be denied 

Revath knew the moment he met Stuti again that he couldn’t just let her go. But Stuti is absolutely the wrong woman for him. It was proved six years ago when they chose diametrically opposite ways for themselves. He doesn’t believe in forever, so what’s he doing asking her for a second chance? 



Can three little miracles be a barrier to two people finding love?


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About the author 



Summerita Rhayne writes contemporary and historical romance with lots of emotional conflict. She first got published in 2013 and has won contests with prestigious publishers such as Harlequin and Harper Collins India. Her pet belief is, if the inspiration is strong enough, the story characters will find a way to make the writer pen them down, even when writing time is in short supply. When cerebrally confronted with the sizzling interaction of two Alpha characters, the only way to get peace is write their book!


At heart, she’s a family person and even though she loves her medical teaching profession, she happily becomes a homemaker when not at work. She loves winding down with music, romcoms, cricket (strictly watching only) and social networking. 


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