Life Is What You Make It

“If you have not made somebody’s day happier, if you’ve not appreciated something good that has happened to you and if you have not felt thankful to be alive, then you have wasted that day of your life on earth!”

~Preeti Shenoy, Life Is What You Make It

Alright, before I start about the book, let me just declare that I can’t tolerate love stories. Surprised? Yeah, I get that a lot.

Bleeding hearts, love letters, sleepless nights, butterflies and all the other insane things people relate to love – I hate them all. Particularly when the author takes up multiple pages describing how blissfully painful the sensation is.

I totally hate when simple events are exaggerated. Oh, I can’t stand to read how people in love, trip over something as tiny as a pencil and break their leg! Love isn’t about such mindlessness and I dislike it when authors illustrate it so.

Having said that, I was a bit tentative about reading the book. Knowing it was a love story, I had evaded the book for some time now. It was only when I held the book and read the description on the cover that I realized that the story addressed a bigger issue; a disease bigger than unrequited love; Bipolar Disorder.

I so wanted to read the book after that! 

I wasn’t new to the condition; I’ve read blogs of people who are bipolar, and a few other articles too.

So the adventure began. It kept me awake through the night, and that doesn’t happen often, in the case of books that is.

I’m not into reviews, so here’s the story in short. It’s the life of an Indian girl, whose ambition penetrates her love story. She is the brightest student in her MBA batch, until she starts showing signs of bipolar disorder. With her recovery, ends the story.

I only felt that the learning-to-manage-without-medication process was too quick to be true. It is a lengthy process, as I understand, but it seemed simple in the book.

Bipolar Disorder seems to have a simple solution, and trivial matters, like trusting the “weird sisters“, end up tragic. Maybe that’s the queer thing about the written word. But that’s a topic for another time.

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