“Why did a nice soul like you decide to write a thriller?” Yeah, that’s what a truly nice soul ― I’m not one ― a soft-spoken lady I meet at the Madras Book Club, asked me one evening. We had gathered to listen to Shobhaa De talk about her book Sethji but the author was late by over an hour. “I was caught up in traffic, my God, it was horrendous… totally unexpected,” she said, apologizing profusely.

So, the audience had time to kill and we were making desultory conversation. This lady, let’s call her Tara, told me about the children’s book she had written and about the favourable reception to it. I told her about my book that had just been picked up for publication by Leadstart Publishing, for their juicy fiction or Jufic imprint.

“What is your book about?” asked Tara.

“It’s a thriller, about a serial killer,” I said.

“But why, why a thriller?” her voice faded and she seemed to flinch a little, drawing back into her seat, perhaps expecting me to pull out an axe or at least a syringe filled with a killer virus.

Yeah, that’s often the reaction I get when I mention my book and its title. The Madras Mangler. Not a title for the queasy-minded, is it? And really, do you want the name of our city associated with a nasty murderer of all things? Aren’t we a lovely, lovable, peace-loving people?

Of course, of course. We are so placid that visitors from other cities often assume that we are in a coma, that there’s no life after 9 pm. That our clubs are dead, our malls are deserted and the night owls are contemplating harakiri.

Well, in my defence, I had contemplated becoming a children’s writer when I completed a course on creative writing in the University of Hawaii, when I had the good fortune to live in Honolulu. More about that later. But when I decided to try my hand at a novel, I heard a lot of stories from friends who had edited children’s magazines, contributed to children’s sections in newspapers and generally had similar notions. The one thing they often mentioned was that Indian parents were often extremely ambitious for their children. They wanted them to spend all their time in improving their chances to pass entrance exams to IIT, IIM, or qualify for a seven-figure salary, perhaps abroad. Enid Blyton (my favourite) or the Wimpy Kid series (today’s favourite) was not on the to-be-read list for their kids. Did I want my fledgling effort to sink unnoticed, buffeted by strong winds of parental aspirations? Nope.

Well, the struggle to find the right genre continued. Read more in my next.

Want to share your opinion on what kids should read? On being a Tiger Mom or Dad? Or anything else? Do write in. I’m eager to hear from you.