Life is What You Make It: A Story of Love, Hope and How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny | Page 1 of 115

Author: Preeti Shenoy | Submitted by: Maria Garcia | 13157 Views | Add a Review

Few books are only available in 'with images' version.

Life is

What You

Make it

Books by the same author

34 Bubblegums and Candies

Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake

The Secret Wishlist

The One You Cannot Have

Life is

What You

Make it

Preeti Shenoy

westland ltd

61, 2nd Floor, Silverline Building, Alapakkam Main Road, Maduravoyal, Chennai 600 095

No. 38/10 (New No.5), Raghava Nagar, New Timber Yard Layout, Bengaluru 560 026

93, 1st Floor, Sham Lal Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi 110 002

First published by Srishti Publishers & Distributors, 2011

This e-book edition published by westland ltd, 2014

Copyright © Preeti Shenoy 2011

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-93-84030-62-9

Typeset in AGaramond by Srishti

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written permission of the publishers.





A new world

Nothings gonna stop us now

Election Selection

Girl on a Motorcycle

Life is what you make it

The needle swings

Destiny changes in moments

Ready to fly

Never Belittle Love

Racing ahead

Dancing in the dark

The descent

A stop gap relationship

The day something died

Deeper down the bottomless pit

The ink blots

The light goes out

A plan for a final exit

No way out

A tiny ray of hope

Faith is a powerful thing

One step at a time

I am the master of my fate


Author's Notes

For Satish, Atul and Purvi,

without them I am nothing.

For Dad and Mom who give me strength.

For my closest friends Ajay and Cherissa

who accept me as I am.


William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;

I am the captain of my soul.


I wait my turn on the chair outside the doctor's office. The psychiatrist, to be precise. The so-called expert. We have travelled all the way from Bombay to Bangalore to make this trip. Getting an appointment here is like getting an appointment to meet the Pope at the Vatican City. I don't know how many months one has to wait to get an appointment for that. I am told many months. For this visit, dad had to pull a whole lot of strings. Finally one of his oldest friends managed to get it. It is one of the best mental health care centres in India. Or so I have been told. Perhaps it is. Every magazine and every newspaper seems to mention it and quote its expert doctors on anything to do with mental health.

The drive to this place itself is beginning to seem ominous. The road lined with large trees, spreading their branches covering the place with gloom, as our hired car makes its way, it makes me want to get down and run. But I do no such thing. I sit and watch my surroundings. There is a blue board with large white letters proclaiming the name of the mental health institute, which is spread over a sprawling campus of ten acres, full of old buildings with fading yellow paint, dingy corridors, trees, bushes, even a cafeteria and scores of vehicles in which patients arrive with their families in search of hope. In me, there is none left. There is only despondency and an increasing feeling of frustration.

We pass a large building brandishing a board which proclaims it is some kind of a guest house. I notice the peeling paint again. The car passes the other buildings, the Psychiatry ward, the Casualty and Emergency services, the De-addiction centre, the General ward, the Observation ward and the pale yellow cottages called units for some in-house patients. It looks like any other hospital and there is nothing to suggest that it is a mental hospital, except of course if you observe the signs and the people. I hate it all. It fills me with a kind of dread. I don't belong here. I ought not to even be here in the first place. But I am, and there is nothing I can do about it.

The driver parks the car and we enter a building which is an out- patient screening block.

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Wake up life is calling
Keep writing these kind of books amazing
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