Chanakya's Chant. Ashwin Sanghi's first novel, The Rozabal Line was originally published in under his pseudonym, Shawn Haigins. The book was. The book Corporate Chanakya had 3 sections – Leadership, Management and Ameya Naik has set this chant to hypnotic and reverberating Chanakya's. Chanakya's Chant. Pages · The book Corporate Chanakya had 3 sections – Leadership, Management and Training. During one of my Corporate.
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Chanakyas Chant Ashwin Sanghi eBook aT4S7cFL - Download as PDF File ( .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online. Chanakya. Acclaimed journalist and writer Dr Gita. Piramal delivers an interesting read in her irst book, Business Maharajas, where she writes about eight iconic. Just follow this link and you can find his books - Ashwin Sanghi Archives - Read A Lot. Which book is good, Chanakya Chant (Ashwin Sanghi) or The Alchemist Where can I get the 13 Steps to Bloody Good Luck by Ashwin Sanghi PDF?.
I am grateful to my editor, Prita Maitra, and my publisher, Gautam Padmanabhan, without whom none of my novels—including this one—would have seen the light of day. I am delighted to have worked along with two very talented individuals, Kushal Gopalka and Ameya Naik.
We could not have created the incredibly haunting audio track of Chanakya's Chant without their labour and inspiration. Their blessings move the fingers that hold my pen. T Prologue he old man sat propped up in his hospital bed. Monitors beeped numbers and flashed graphs, measuring his vital signs. His frail arms had been punctured with an endless number of needles and a tube ran through his mouth into his lungs.
He knew that life was ebbing from his body but had prayed to Shakti to allow him to live long enough to savour the moment he had been waiting for.
The room was dark, blackout curtains having been drawn to block out the sunlight, except for the psychedelic illumination produced by the moving images on television. The duty nurse sat on a chair beside his steel bed, dozing off intermittently. Light from the television sparkled in the octogenarian's eyes as he watched the eighteenth prime minister of India take the oath of office. The incessant buzzing of his three mobile phones brought his personal assistant, Menon, scurrying in.
The patient in the adjoining room was complaining that the relentless ringing was disturbing him. The fifty-something secretary peeped into the room to see his employer lying on the utilitarian bed, his gaze transfixed on the images flashed from New Delhi. He was oblivious to the cacophony of phones. He had waited thirty long years for this moment and was not about to let it be obstructed by phone calls.
In any case, he couldn't talk with the damn tube in his mouth. Menon had suggested that the phones be turned off but he had refused.
I'm not ready to allow anything—including my own life—to be switched off before I've relished this moment, he thought to himself. The hospital in Kanpur was not equipped to deal with his condition. Pandit Gangasagar Mishra couldn't care less. He refused to bloody die in a hospital bed in New Delhi or Mumbai. Kanpur was home and he would go meet his maker from his own abode and on his own terms.
He watched the scene unfolding at Rashtrapati Bhavan. The President was administering the oath of office to the charismatic woman.
She was dressed in her usual off-white cotton saree, trimmed with a pale gold border, and wore no jewellery except for a pair of simple solitaire diamond earrings. She quite obviously had the text of the oath before her on a single sheet of paper but did not seem to need it. It was almost as if she had spent her entire life preparing for the occasion.
Without fear, favour, affection or ill will! It was not possible to be prime minister without any of these, and she bloody knew it. It was only his opinion, though. But then, the wily Machiavelli had always believed that any clod could have the facts—having an opinion was an art. He chuckled and the result was a rasping cough, a reminder of his mortality, and the cancer that plagued his lungs.
The secret service detail standing outside his room heard him cough. They wondered whom they were protecting him from. Indeed there were many who wanted the bastard dead but it seemed that God had other plans. The nurse dabbed at it with a towel. He followed her movements with his deep, penetrating, all-seeing eyes—little video cameras that had seen and stored away the very worst of human behaviour in the gigabytes of his brain's hard disk.
His thin lips quivered as he gasped for breath, his hooked nose struggling to suck in life-giving oxygen in spite of the tube.
His skin had a pale translucent hue, like a rare parchment in a museum, and his thin frame occupied very little of the bed. How could this diminutive little man be so powerful?
In the lobby outside his room stood a posse of political associates. Pandit Gangasagar Mishra had no friends. In his world of politics there were only enemies. A clutch of newspaper hounds hobnobbed with the politicians outside hoping to get the inside scoop on Mishra's death before his death. The old man seemed to be mumbling something, a laboured effort to get the words out.
It was his daily prayer in Sanskrit. The red stain that spread on her left shoulder—almost in slow motion—had been fired from a Stinger. The august Ashoka Hall of Rashtrapati Bhavan descended into pandemonium. She seemed to lightly graze her lips over his, causing little sparks of static that travelled down his spine as he craved for the impassioned ritual to move towards its gratifying conclusion.
Her name was Vishaka—it meant heavenly star—and she was undoubtedly a celestial creature. Her translucent ivory complexion with just a hint of aqua, her sensuous mouth, and mischievous emerald eyes were partially covered by her cascading, silken, auburn hair as she bent over his face, planting little pecks of exquisite joy upon his eyes, nose and lips.
Paurus lay back on the silken bedspread in the chamber of the pleasure palace. Sounds of a veena wafted in from the antechamber as one of the courtesans played with chords from Raga Hindol—the raga of love. Along the north-eastern wall of the room stood a golden basin that had been filled with pure rose water, and opposite stood a large golden lamp that had been lit with sandalwood oil. Everyone leaves the earth a better place, some merely by leaving.
Never interrupt your enemy when hes in process of making a mistake.
Most things in Life usually pleasurable are illegal, immoral or fattening. Between two evils you should pick up the one that you have not yet tried.
Ten soldiers wisely led will beat a hundred without a head. War is all about deception. Always keep your words soft and sweet in case you ever have to take them back. Chnkayas guardian Vatsayayan wrote kamasutra positions of lovemaking 7. Keep your friend close and your enemies closer.
If a snake is not poisonous, this is all the more reason that it should pretend to be so. Early bird catches the worm but its the second mouse that gets the cheese. Clear conscience is usually a sin of bad memory. The end justifies the means. Bravery is simply being the only one who knows that youre scared.