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T. DARSHAN is proud to share his "authentic woman" philosophy through his works of fiction...

On a deserted train platform in New York City, the burden of true valor falls on a young daughter’s small shoulders. After her mother makes her promise she will never be a victim of her circumstances, she abandons the little girl, leaving her to walk alone through life. Karisma is a blank slate. Her destiny is unknown. Years later, Karisma is riding the A train with other vagrants; a mendicant priest; and her sister, Pam, when she feels a man observing her with an interest that is anything but casual. Although she finds it perplexing, Karisma has no idea that the mysterious man has been secretly watching her for a few days—and that he has already crafted an ingenious plan to help alleviate her challenging circumstances. But when the man who claims to be a recruiter from Princeton begins a conversation with Karisma, everything changes. He knows her name, and he knows she is a genius. In this compelling tale, a young woman is trapped between becoming a victim of her circumstances and the life her mother dreamed of for her. As she embarks onto a journey through time, she must decide whether to walk into the darkness of selfdestruction or into the light of a new life.
Paradoxically a Woman

      “Mama loves you so much,” she managed to say. “You just don’t know. I love you more than … It wasn’t supposed to be this  way. It was supposed to be so much more than this, baby. This part hurts. I knew it would. But that lets me know it’s right. That’s the nature of making tough decisions, sweetie; they hurt because they’re right, and that’s no excuse for what I have to do. We don’t make excuses,” she declared in a powerful tone. It was as if the bare soul of her message was contained in this statement. “None. We just do what’s right. We live inexcusably. We roll our sleeves up, tie our hair back, and endure what there is to endure. No excuses. We just don’t make them.” Although the how is often undetectable, the where of an emotional strike is usually less confounding. And the little girl found out that it came from the bottom of the very bottom—that was where pain hit after love released it. And still, her mother looked so beautiful, like an Indian goddess, so otherworldly in her own flesh. … Then her mother wiped away her tears, kissed her on the forehead, and took the first step along the road she had come to take.
Excerpt from Paradoxically a Woman