By James A. Levine
An unforgettable, deeply affecting debut novel, The Blue laptop tells the tale of Batuk, a precocious fifteen-year-old woman from rural India who's bought into sexual slavery through her father. As she navigates the awful realities of Mumbai’s universal road, Batuk manages to place pen to paper, recording her inner most suggestions and writing wonderful stories that support her go beyond her day-by-day lifestyles. fantastically crafted, strangely hopeful, and full of either tragedy and humor, The Blue computing device exhibits how even within the such a lot tricky occasions, humans use storytelling to make feel of and provides desiring to their lives.
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Extra resources for The Blue Notebook
I sat down on the floor, plump, brought my knees to my chin, and gave the old woman a look of absolute resolve. ” She did not engage my gaze, or appear to have heard my demand. Her only response was to kick me. Part of getting old is that you become scrawny, which must be why when they kill a goat at the last moment before its natural death, it tastes like wood. The old woman did not have a single ounce of flesh on her leg. It felt as though I were being kicked by a human table leg. What is more, Table Leg kicked with venom and it hurt like hell.
Of course I had been cleaned by my mother or an aunt, but never like this. The old woman had remarkable strength in her bony hands. With the soap and a scratchy yellow cloth, she scraped a layer of skin off every part of my body. Each time I screamed, she scrubbed harder, until I realized the folly of crying out. I think she was quite disappointed not to find any lice in my hair, because she inspected my head twice. When she was satisfied she told me to climb out of the tub. I stood naked before her, expecting her to offer me the towel she held in her hands.
The dirt slowly accumulates with each entrant. When man makes sweet-cake on me, my bedding is so thin that I feel this notebook’s staples against my back. The only reason that I am fed is to keep my breasts filled and my bottom rounded and desirable. Man thereby feeds me. I am not deranged, for I know that man spends a hundred rupees to have his bhunnas in my face or in my legs, or two hundred in my brown hole. I am not deranged. I do not really see gold on my ceiling when I look up and I do not smell perfumes in the air.