How opal mehta got kissed pdf


 

How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life. Home · How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life Author: Viswanathan Kaavya. BriAn TrAcy, author of No Excuses (The Power of Self-Discipline) and How the Best. realizes ruthenpress.info How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild. or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. First eBook Edition: April ISBN: To my parents. How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got.

Author:ALTHA BECKELHIMER
Language:English, Spanish, Hindi
Country:Micronesia
Genre:Art
Pages:223
Published (Last):10.11.2015
ISBN:174-3-77555-283-1
Distribution:Free* [*Register to download]
Uploaded by: CLARICE

78965 downloads 140189 Views 30.66MB PDF Size Report


How Opal Mehta Got Kissed Pdf

PDF - How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got A Life: A Novel. A lively and irresistible first novel about an overachieving teenage girl who discovers that. How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life [Kaavya Viswanathan] on ruthenpress.info *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. A funny, fast-paced, and. How Opal Mehta. Got Kissed,. Got Wild, and Got a Life. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. CO

May 31, Nasty Lady MJ rated it did not like it Recommends it for: People Who Think Plagiarism is Okay Recommended to Nasty Lady MJ by: I thought I could make big money since it was pulled by the publisher Shelves: cliches , crappy-book-anyway , barely-finished , face-palm , annoying-heroines , anti-feminist , useless-characters , dumb-ass-heroines , it-had-so-much-potential-but , meh-characters To see full review click here If you were into the YA scene circa you probably heard of the Kaavya Viswanathan saga. Heck, even if you didn't read YA back then and half way paid attention to the media you probably heard about how the teen got a publishing deal than blew it by plagiarizing various works. This review isn't about the plagiarism. Sure, I'm going to discuss it some at the end, but more in the context of today's P2P phenomenon. Honestly, think Viswanathan's own plagiarism been tal To see full review click here If you were into the YA scene circa you probably heard of the Kaavya Viswanathan saga. Honestly, think Viswanathan's own plagiarism been talked about enough-though I did think she also copied Mean Girls. And I'm not just talking about plot, I'm talking about actual quotes being slightly reworded. Honestly, finding the plagiarism sections was easy because the tone of the writing felt so different in the rest of the novel. And that's what this review is going to be about, the rest of the book. I know, I know, how can I review or in this case rant since I can't use my usual review format because I can't find one redeemable feature about this book and it makes me long for Alexandra Adornetto's purple prose-well, I'm going to try. Let's start with the easiest thing: plot. The plot was pretty simple. And plots can be simple.

I was relieved. I was so surprised and horrified when I found these similarities, when I heard about them over this weekend. Or do you think that I hope that people who know me will believe that I'm telling the truth, that I've never been anything less than honest in my entire life, that I'm so horribly sorry for this mistake. But that's all it was, a completely unintentional mistake.

Viswanathan's Opal Mehta pages "a full-scale argument about animal rights The mink like being made into coats. The foxes want to be made into scarves. I promise! Priscilla gasped. It must all go. All of it. Well, almost all of it. I still have some like bangs and a little fringe in back. Not all of it, because after four inches vanished, I started making panicked, whimpering sounds that touched even Frederic's heart And I kept telling myself, She's only doing this because she loves you Mia Thermopolis never had fingernails.

Mia Thermopolis never had blond highlights. It certainly isn't Mia Thermopolis. She never owned enough cashmere to make her concerned for the future of the Kazakhstani mountain goat population. I was turning into someone else. I also drew largely from autobiography to tell the story of my year-old Indian American Jersey girl, Dimple Lala.

To the best of my knowledge Born Confused was the first book with a US female teen desi heroine; that was one of the reasons my publisher wanted it, and it is certainly one of the reasons I wrote it And so I was extremely surprised to find that the majority, though not all, of the passages in Opal Mehta taken from Born Confused are those dealing with descriptions of various aspects of South Asian culture food, dress, locale, even memories of India, etc.

One would think that these kinds of cultural details at least could have been drawn from Ms. Viswanathan's personal experience, given our similar cultural backgrounds and the similar cultural backgrounds and ages of our protagonists.

The feeling was almost as if someone had broken into your home — and in some ways this is what literally had happened, considering so much of Born Confused is drawn from my life and home : The alcohol cabinet in my non-drinking household in small town Massachusetts was now in Opal's, the details of my family's two dinnertimes because of all the years of working late into the night by my father, too; my mother's food, from her mother's recipes, transplanted to Opal's table, her slinky black outfit too; my ecstatic and eye-opening discovery of Jackson Heights, Queens during an enthralled and emotional day there many years ago, suddenly turned to Edison, New Jersey Viswanathan and myself — details that may have escaped a person not familiar with the culture.

Inside, padded carefully between layers of tissue, was an unbelievably resounding salvar khamees, one of those Indian outfits consisting of loose-fitting pants with a long top and scarf, or dupatta. The deep crimson fabric screamed sanguinely open. A river of nearly neon gold dye wound noisily through its length. The salvar was ornately embroidered with gold and silver and garnet beads and little bells that made a racket even as I lifted it out of the box.

All in all it was, in fact, so loud I could hear it.

Heavy, too — funny how all those little driblets could add up. In my past experience, gifts from Edison rarely boded well. And when I tore apart the layers of carefully packed tissue paper, I found an elaborate salwar kameez — loose pants, a long tunic-style top, and a trailing scarf, or dupatta. The salwar was a startling peacock-green, and embroidered so ornately with gold and silver threads and glittering beads that it made my eyes hurt.

When I lifted it up, the room resounded to the tinkle of thousands of tiny golden bells. It was surprisingly heavy — all that jigna really added up — and it was the last thing in the world I ever wanted to wear. Brown sugar roti and cloud-puff puris just itching to be popped. Coconut rice fluffed up over the silver pot like a sweet-smelling pillow.

Samosas transparent, peas bundling just below the surface. Spinach with nymph-finger cloves of garlic that sank like butter on the tongue.

And the centerpiece: a deep serving dish of lamb curry, the pieces melting tenderly off the bone. Instead, the house had smelled of spices all day, and when we sat down at the dining room table, I nearly combusted at the sight of the extravagant feast my mom had conjured up. The table creaked with the weight of crisp, brown rotis and feather-light, puffy puris.

A basket of my favorite kheema naan sat beside the clouds of cashew and sultana-studded coconut rice in an enormous pot. There was plump okra fried in oil and garlic till it melted like butter on the tongue, aloo curry studded with peppercorns and glistening chopped chilis, and a crock of raita, a cool, delicious mixture of yogurt and sour cream, bursting with finely chopped onions and cucumbers.

How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life

The centerpiece was a deep dish of mutton curry, the meat my mom only used halal bought from an Arab butcher in Edison already falling off the bone. I had few memories of the place, but the ones I held were dream clear: Bathing in a bucket as a little girl. The unnerving richness of buffalo milk drunk from a pewter cup. My Dadaji pouring tea into a saucer so it would cool faster, sipping from the edge of the thin dish, never spilling a drop. A whole host of kitchen gods looking so at home in the undishwashed unmicrowaved room.

Meera Maasi crouching on the floor to sift the stones from rice. Cows huddled in the middle of the vegetable market, sparrows nesting on their backs. Children with red hair living in tires. A perpetual squint against sun and dust.

How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life Kaavya Viswanathan Free EBooks - PDF Drive

Some impressions stood out sharply in my mind, still as clear as freshly developed Polaroids. I remembered the cold, creamy taste of fresh buffalo milk, Babaji pouring Ovaltine from one tin cup to another until froth bubbled thickly on the surface and it was cool enough to drink.

I remembered shooting rockets made of coconut leaves off the rooftop terrace, and watching the beady-eyed green-and-yellow lizards that scuttled over the putty-colored walls after a hard rain.

I remembered cold baths from a bucket with a plastic dipper, and sweet, oily badam halva from the nearby Chola hotel. Sometimes I still read the old Enid Blyton books, which were only available in countries of the former British empire.

It was sad and it was a shock that it could happen on such a big scale This was a big book that was getting so much attention and publicity. It is the most surreal thing that's ever happened to me. Retrieved August 9, Archived from the original on May 12, Retrieved May 12, Archived from the original on September 4, The Harvard. Retrieved October 14, Asian Americans portal Books portal India portal s portal. Retrieved from " https: Chick lit novels Novels involved in plagiarism controversies American young adult novels Little, Brown and Company books American novels Debut novels Recalled publications.

Hidden categories: All articles with dead external links Articles with dead external links from October CS1 maint: Unfit url Articles with short description Pages to import images to Wikidata Articles with dead external links from September Articles with permanently dead external links.

Namespaces Article Talk. Views Read Edit View history. Languages Add links. This page was last edited on 4 March , at By using this site, you agree to the Terms of Use and Privacy Policy.

PDF - How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got A Life: A Novel

Little Brown and Company. Sloppy Firsts , page 7: For the first twelve years of my life, these qualifications were all I needed in a best friend. But that was before Bridget's braces came off and her boyfriend Burke got on, before Hope and I met in our seventh grade Honors classes.

For the first fifteen years of my life, those were the only qualifications I needed in a best friend. We had bonded over our mutual fascination with the abacus in a playgroup for gifted kids. But that was before freshman year, when Priscilla's glasses came off, and the first in a long string of boyfriends got on.

Sloppy Firsts , page 6: Yet another example of how every girl had to be one or the other: Pretty or smart. Guess which one I got. I had long resigned myself to category one, and as long as it got me to Harvard, I was happy. Clearly, it was time to switch to category two. Second Helpings , page Sloppy Firsts , page His eyes are always half-shut. His mouth was always curled into a half smile, like he knew about some big joke that was about to be played on you.

Even the webbing between her fingers was the color of coffee without cream. Even for someone with her Italian heritage and dark coloring, it was unnatural and alienlike. Every visible inch of skin matched the color and texture of her Louis Vuitton backpack.

Even combined with her dark hair and Italian heritage, she looked deep-fried. She lazily skimmed her new paperback copy of Reviving Ophelia—she must have read the old one down to shreds.

She just stood there, popping another piece of Doublemint, or reapplying her lip gloss, or slapping her ever-present pack of Virginia Slims against her palm.

Insert oral fixation jokes, here, here and here. Her hair—usually dishwater brown and wavy—had been straightened and bleached the color of sweet corn since the last time I saw her They sat down at a table, lazily skimmed heavy copies of Italian Vogue, popped pieces of Orbit, and reapplied layers of lip gloss.

Jennifer, who used to be a bit on the heavy side, had dramatically slimmed down, no doubt through some combination of starvation and cosmetic surgery. Never Seen in Nature Blonde. It was also so straight it looked washed, pressed and starched. So I froze, not knowing whether I should a laugh b say something c ignore him and keep on walking I turned around and saw that Marcus was smiling at me. I froze, unsure of a what he was talking about and b what I was supposed to do about it Uh, ha.

I looked up and saw that Sean was grinning. I was sick of listening to her hum along to Alicia Keys, and worn out from resisting her efforts to download me a pink tube top emblazoned with a glittery Playboy bunny. I had even begun to recognize his cologne sweet and woodsy and spicy, like the sandalwood key chains sold as souvenirs in India.

Except that today was Thursday. That just made him move in closer. I was practically one with the leather at this point, and unless I hopped into the backseat, there was nowhere else for me to go. That just made him move in closer, until the grommets in the leather embossed the backs of my knees, and he finally tilted the book toward me.

No tension to complicate our whatever relationship. I should be relieved. A nonsexual female friend. That was a good thing.

There would be no tension to complicate our relationship and my soon-to-be relationship with Jeff Akel. I was relieved. Poster reads, "If from drink you get your thrill, take precaution—write your will.

Poster reads, "All the dangerous drug abusers end up safe as total losers. The mink like being made into coats. The foxes want to be made into scarves. It must all go. All of it. Well, almost all of it. I still have some like bangs and a little fringe in back.

Not all of it, because after four inches vanished, I started making panicked, whimpering sounds that touched even Frederic's heart And I kept telling myself, She's only doing this because she loves you Mia Thermopolis never had fingernails. Mia Thermopolis never had blond highlights.

It certainly isn't Mia Thermopolis. She never owned enough cashmere to make her concerned for the future of the Kazakhstani mountain goat population. I was turning into someone else. Inside, padded carefully between layers of tissue, was an unbelievably resounding salvar khamees, one of those Indian outfits consisting of loose-fitting pants with a long top and scarf, or dupatta.

The deep crimson fabric screamed sanguinely open. A river of nearly neon gold dye wound noisily through its length.

The salvar was ornately embroidered with gold and silver and garnet beads and little bells that made a racket even as I lifted it out of the box. All in all it was, in fact, so loud I could hear it. Heavy, too — funny how all those little driblets could add up. In my past experience, gifts from Edison rarely boded well. And when I tore apart the layers of carefully packed tissue paper, I found an elaborate salwar kameez — loose pants, a long tunic-style top, and a trailing scarf, or dupatta.

The salwar was a startling peacock-green, and embroidered so ornately with gold and silver threads and glittering beads that it made my eyes hurt. When I lifted it up, the room resounded to the tinkle of thousands of tiny golden bells. It was surprisingly heavy — all that jigna really added up — and it was the last thing in the world I ever wanted to wear.

Brown sugar roti and cloud-puff puris just itching to be popped.

Coconut rice fluffed up over the silver pot like a sweet-smelling pillow. Samosas transparent, peas bundling just below the surface. Spinach with nymph-finger cloves of garlic that sank like butter on the tongue. And the centerpiece: Instead, the house had smelled of spices all day, and when we sat down at the dining room table, I nearly combusted at the sight of the extravagant feast my mom had conjured up.

The table creaked with the weight of crisp, brown rotis and feather-light, puffy puris. A basket of my favorite kheema naan sat beside the clouds of cashew and sultana-studded coconut rice in an enormous pot. There was plump okra fried in oil and garlic till it melted like butter on the tongue, aloo curry studded with peppercorns and glistening chopped chilis, and a crock of raita, a cool, delicious mixture of yogurt and sour cream, bursting with finely chopped onions and cucumbers.

The centerpiece was a deep dish of mutton curry, the meat my mom only used halal bought from an Arab butcher in Edison already falling off the bone. I had few memories of the place, but the ones I held were dream clear: Bathing in a bucket as a little girl.

The unnerving richness of buffalo milk drunk from a pewter cup. My Dadaji pouring tea into a saucer so it would cool faster, sipping from the edge of the thin dish, never spilling a drop.

A whole host of kitchen gods looking so at home in the undishwashed unmicrowaved room. Meera Maasi crouching on the floor to sift the stones from rice. Cows huddled in the middle of the vegetable market, sparrows nesting on their backs.

Children with red hair living in tires. A perpetual squint against sun and dust. Some impressions stood out sharply in my mind, still as clear as freshly developed Polaroids. I remembered the cold, creamy taste of fresh buffalo milk, Babaji pouring Ovaltine from one tin cup to another until froth bubbled thickly on the surface and it was cool enough to drink.