Uncover the timeless charm of Banaras with Vertul Singh. From its sacred ghats and vibrant temples to its rich history and culture, Singh’s vivid storytelling paints an unforgettable portrait of Banaras, making it a must-read for anyone seeking the soul of India. Read this exclusive excerpt and embark on a journey through the heart of Banaras today!
Banaras || Vertul Singh
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The crescent-shaped layout of Banaras city on the western banks of the river Ganga is truly unique in the world. It stretches from the Samne ghat in the south to Namo ghat in the north—a total of eighty-four ghats over a linear distance of about 6.4 km. The original city was on the northern side on the elevated plateau of Rajghat, near the Varuna–Rajghat confluence, which served as the hub for the ancient river trade. The city’s expansion towards the southwestern side started with its growing importance as a pilgrimage site. Alongside the sacred kunds, the ghats gained prominence, too, for religious ablutions and sacramental rites. These ghats are the cultural and religious identity of Kashi. Built mainly from sandstone, sourced from the Chunar quarry in the nearby Mirzapur, each ghat has a history and a purpose. Every ritual performed on a ghat is followed by merry-making and indulgence. This sensualist aspect of Hinduism is what makes Banaras a city pulsating with life. A disjunction between the sombre and existentialist questions of the great crematorium and the epicurean delights it lays out. It is here that the difference between Shiva, the lord, and Shav, the corpse, is completely wiped out. The ghats are the spiritual and cultural ambience of the city, and the centre of traditional scriptural erudition. They are not just structures but the muse of the city—the very soul of the city is encapsulated here. The holy Ganga, flowing in a crescent shape, lends its shape to the layout of these ghats. For some reason, though, Ghalib, in his Masnavi, has compared the beauty of Banaras with China to describe the crescent shape of the Ganga.
Someone once compared the beauty
of Banaras to China,
And since that day its brow is wrinkled
With the bend of the Ganga
Most of the important Hindu temples are located along these ghats. These sonatas set in stone are of recent origin, when we consider the antiquity of this city.
It is irresistible for me to not quote James Prinsep here. When it comes to his description of the ghats of Banaras, he is more of a poet than a member of the Viceroys’ government. In a letter to his sister, he described his first tryst with Banaras as:
This is glorious sight to see the ghats of Benares covered with a moving sea of heads, studded at small distances with temples of red and white stone, all minutely covered and adorned with flowers, while from a hundred places, cymbals and drums peel forth their strains of adoration. The time too is generally favourable to the exhibition, namely, at an eclipse of the sun or at the rising of the full moon. As soon as the signal is given by Brahmins, plunge all the bathers and ripple the holy waters for a mile and a half along the shore.
These ghats, over the years, may have undergone a change of name, although travellers like Ralph Fitch and Jean-Baptiste Tavernier were not able to pinpoint and name these obscure ghats. All the same, in the medieval literature on Kashi, a few unfamiliar names of the ghats do appear. This aspect is important for tracing the changing paradigm of Hinduism, whenever it was threatened. This has mostly happened in the last 300 years. During the British Raj, every Hindu ruler wanted to have a slice of this sanctum pilgrimage pie, by purchasing and renaming a ghat or two after his dynasty or the name of his principality. Even the Muslim rulers, most notably Aurangzeb, attempted and were largely successful, in altering the skyline of the sacred crescent ridge of Banaras forever. Thus, we now have ghats that are named Scindia, Darbhanga, Panchkote, Mysore, Vizianagaram, etc. However, the two most prominent and important ghats for Hindus remain the Dashashwamedha ghat and the Manikarnika ghat, both of which record a heavy pilgrim footfall throughout the year. These two most ancient ghats have also been the places where most of the Puranic stories on Kashi are set. Based on lores, particularly in the Kashi Khand, five such ancient ghats are noteworthy: the Asisamved teerth on the Asi–Ganga confluence, the Varuna–Ganga confluence as described in the Linga Purana, the Dashashwamedha ghat, the Panchnanda ghat or the Dharmnad, at the confluence called of five mythical rivers: Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati, Kirna and Dhootpapa. At Panchnad and at Varuna–Ganga confluence ‘the Padoka’, it is important to note that Vishnu is the chief pilgrimage deity. The last ancient one being the Manikarnika, we have already mentioned about the well that was filled with the sweat of Vishnu.
***
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Experience the exciting world of The Ancestors by Laksh Maheshwari and Ashish Kavi, where the Somvanshi family deals with the changes brought by a mysterious black element. Follow Karan and Shantanu Somvanshi as they uncover surprising secrets and face new challenges. In this exclusive excerpt, see how Karan takes control at Vantra and learns about the powerful but risky Super Soldier Project.
The Ancestors || Laksh Maheshwari, Ashish Kavi
***
11 December 2020 | 1.15 p.m.
While some were still trying to get used to Jay’s disappearance, Karan displayed quite a healthy demeanour when it came to dealing with the loss of one of his oldest friends. Perhaps, it was their falling out or the speculation that he was the one responsible for Dhruv’s death. Perhaps, it was both. But now, Karan could claim what truly belonged to him, and that was his place in Vantra. That’s why he did not feel an ounce of guilt when he occupied Jay’s office and removed every single element that was a part of his personality. He discarded the prototypes of all the projects Jay had kept as souvenirs from the ventures he had built in his career. The wall of fame which once displayed Jay’s accolades was now decked with certificates, awards and degrees that belonged to Karan. Even the direction of the furniture in the room had been changed completely. The desk, which used to be diagonally aligned in the corner of the room, was now placed in the centre. And in that corner, Karan now sat on his white mat, deep in meditation. While his body remained still as a statue, his closed eyelids fluttered ever so slightly as his trance took him places he could hardly recognize.
In front of him was a panel of six army generals occupying a round table, discussing a highly confidential matter—the Super Soldier Project.
One of the older generals spoke. ‘By the end of the vote,it appears that the majority—that is, the four of us—is against investing in the Super Soldier Project on the grounds that it has already failed the previous test, thus making it completely unreliable.’
A younger general, sitting at the other end of the table, said, ‘I believe we must give another chance to this collaboration, because Vantra Technologies is interested in taking it over. The Vantra CEO, Mr Karan, would be leading it and Major Devansh will be supporting it.’ He then whipped out a file and turned to the page that listed the key characteristics of the super soldier.
a. Regenerating dead soldiers in the golden hour.
b. Soldiers will be controlled centrally by an AI that can access their location, physical movements and brain activity.
c. The AI will be connected to them by a strap on their neck.
d. This will grant them high endurance, healing power and flight, and multiply their speed and strength.
Upon reading these points, one of the generals who had already voted against the project, said, ‘I believe that this is still too irrelevant for the nation. Moreover, the fact that it’s headed by Major Devansh’s father’s company would paint the army as capitalist and merely trying to accumulate profits.’
One of the two generals who were in favour of the super soldier countered, ‘Let’s not forget that Vantra has been nothing but respectful towards the defence forces and they have gifted the nation with some of the best technologies. With their intent, I don’t think there would be any questions on the army’s character.’
The entire room erupted in incomprehensible arguments. After a short while, when everyone refused to quiet themselves, the general sitting at the head of the table yelled, ‘Gentlemen! Please!’ Everyone settled down instantly, giving apologetic looks to the general. ‘We must definitely look at every aspect of this deal before arriving at a decision. However, the most significant factor is that even if we choose to invest, would Vantra be able to succeed in thisproject which has been a failure in the past?’
Silence engulfed the room as the generals exchanged thoughtful glances. A distant and impatient tapping was the only sound that remained. Karan tried to look around the room to see where it was coming from and what it meant. Slowly, it all started to dissolve as Karan’s trance became weaker. He returned to the darkness behind his closed eyes. When he opened them, he saw Devansh standing in front of him, engrossed in a book that was kept on Karan’s desk, tapping his foot on the ground.
‘The army is sceptical,’ Karan said and Devansh turned to him.
‘What?’
‘We need to pick up the pace, the army is in two minds,’
Karan said, immediately getting up from the mat and opening his laptop on the desk.
Oh, don’t you worry about that. I just got back from the training sessions. It’s far more optimized now. They’ll be blown away.’ Devansh’s voice had conviction, but Karan was still concerned.
Before Karan could say anything else, one of the super soldiers walked into the office on cue. Karan looked at Devansh, who gestured to him to go ahead and test him out. Karan walked towards the super soldier and said, ‘D, activate SS1.’
***
Get your copy of The Ancestors by Laksh Maheshwari and Ashish Kavi on Amazon or wherever books are sold.
Can you guess what the best asset is for building wealth? It’s not money, gold, or property—it’s you! In The Book of Wealth,Mark Mobius reveals the secrets to true prosperity by emphasizing the importance of investing in your skills, education, and attitude. By focusing on personal development, you can unlock boundless potential and set the stage for lasting success. Ready to transform your future and achieve greatness? Start by investing in yourself!
The Book of Wealth || Mark Mobius
***
In order to be wealthy, you need to have assets. Assets can be money, gold and other precious metals, property, stocks, bonds, art, jewellery and many other things. But many people forget the most important asset: themselves.
So, the first step towards fortune begins with investing in your best asset—you. Your earning power will depend on how well you have trained and educated yourself. If you want to earn money as a health trainer, it is vital for you to develop your own body so you can demonstrate to others how good you look, which will attract customers to you. If you want to earn money as a carpenter, you must try your best to learn from the most skilled experts so you can demand the highest appreciation and income.
When you realize that you are your best investment, you will begin to make conscious decisions to focus on your development and well-being. You will begin to see that your success in becoming wealthy will depend on the foundation you have built in your own education, experience, social status and influence.
You, like others, are a unique individual, and you, like others, have boundless potential that can be unlocked by investing in your skills, education and health. A critical aspect of this is self-empowerment, where you control your destiny and become less reliant on external factors. You become more self-sufficient, which boosts your confidence and resilience.
An important aspect of this is gaining knowledge and expanding your horizons, beyond your current community and into the ever-changing world. This will enhance your ability to innovate and find new paths to success. A key item of self-development is setting high goals. You must dream of great things and aspire to what you normally would not imagine you can achieve. This way, you will both consciously and unconsciously take proactive steps towards reaching your dreams. Amazon’s growth is an example of this.
When you are considered for a job or have been hired to do a job, the people you work for and with will evaluate you and consider what you bring to the task at hand. In addition to your education and experience, people will consider your attitude. If you have a bad attitude, it can pull energy out of the workplace. That bad attitude will be like a poison pill and damage the work environment and the group objectives. A good and positive attitude can penetrate a group and organization, leading to success for all concerned and contributing to your individual success too. Always remember what Zig Ziglar said: ‘Your attitude, not your aptitude, will determine your altitude.’ It is about your positivity: How do you react when things get challenging or tough?
What will contribute to and create a good attitude for you? First, you need to be grateful for the opportunities you get for success. Second, you must be optimistic in the face of risks and danger. Someone once said, ‘The world belongs to optimists.’
***
Get your copy of The Book of Wealth by Mark Mobius on Amazon or wherever books are sold.
What happens when a struggling photographer’s secret hobby turns into a dangerous game? In Bhaskar Chattopadhyay‘s latest book, Aperture a photographer becomes obsessed with spying on people in a shady hotel through a hidden window in his apartment. When he witnesses a murder, he turns to detective Janardan Maity for help, but there is more than they have bargained for!
Read this exclusive excerpt and join them on a thrilling investigation.
Aperture || Bhaskar Chattopadhyay
For several seconds, there was a heavy and distinctly uncomfortable silence in Maity’s sprawling drawing room. Maity’s expression was calm but serious. Sayantan Kundu had sunk back in his chair, clearly exhausted after letting the burden of his truth out. I, on the other hand, was wondering what was going on in Maity’s head presently. Was he excited at the prospect of having to deal with such a bizarre set of events? Or was he disgusted by the young photographer’s heinous acts? I figured it was a bit of both.
‘I suppose,’ Sayantan finally said, ‘you would want the specifics.’
‘You suppose correctly,’ came Maity’s response. Sayantan took a few seconds to find the words. Then he said: ‘It happened exactly a week ago. On Tuesday, the nineteenth of June. It was a hot day, but a brief spell of rain in the afternoon had cooled things down a little. A young couple had checked into one of the rooms on the third floor—the same level as I live in my own building. Seemed like a honeymoon couple. The woman was pretty, but a— how shall I say—coarse sort of pretty. Long straight hair. Poorly-done henna on her palm. Glass bangles. Overdone makeup. The young chap was rugged and good-looking.
It seemed to me that they . . . they weren’t very well off. I mean why would they be in that hotel otherwise? But . . . they did seem to be in love. Deeply. They were having a good time and not just in a sexual way. They would talk for hours on end. Sometimes, I would get bored. But as you can imagine, Mr Maity, in this profession, we are not allowed to get bored. I waited for my chance. Sometimes, it seemed it would come. They would cuddle, kiss, get cosy. I’d get some good shots. But then they would break off. As if . . .as if something was stopping them, as if there was a barrier between them.’
Maity and I were listening with such rapt attention that I had not even noticed when Mahadev had come and taken the empty cups away.
‘They would seem . . . sad. But then it was the woman mostly who would cheer up, throw her arms around her husband and embrace him. They would go to bed. That was when I would get the . . . the real shots.’
‘From your room,’ Maity said. ‘Are you ever able to hear anything that happened in the rooms of that hotel? Any sound of any kind?’
‘No. After I got into this . . . business, I invested in a tinted glass, had it installed on the ventilator opening. I can see everything clearly from my side of the window. But no one would be able to see me from the other side. Plus, I chose the colour of the glass in such a way that it would camouflage my window. One disadvantage of doing all this, though, was that I would hear absolutely nothing, no sound from the other side.’
‘I see,’ nodded Maity. ‘Interesting, very interesting!’
‘Anyway, I got some really good shots of the couple. In . . . in the act, you know? Shots that would suffice for my purpose. The best shots are the ones that show the faces clearly. I’m sorry you are having to hear all these details, but . . .’
‘As despicable as your crimes are, Mr Kundu,’ Maity interrupted, ‘I’m afraid the details are important. That’s usually where the devil resides.’
‘I understand,’ Sayantan nodded. ‘Like I said, I got some good shots. But that night, while they were in the . . . you know . . . the height of their act, something else caught my attention through the lens. At first, it seemed quite funny to me. In fact, I remember having chuckled behind my camera. The room exactly below them was occupied by a middle-aged couple. Perhaps in their late forties or early fifties. They had checked in a day before, on the eighteenth. When the younger couple were having sex, I could see the middle-aged couple look up at the ceiling of their room. They could obviously hear the noises coming from the room above. And they were clearly not amused. The wife said something to the husband, the husband replied angrily. There was a brief quarrel between the two. It was amusing, to be honest . . . this . . . this contrast between what was going on in those two rooms. One on top of the other.’
‘What happened then?’
‘The quarrel stopped after some time. The woman went to bed, held a pillow over her ear. That didn’t seem to work, because she flung the pillow across the room, and it almost hit her husband. The husband yelled at her—she yelled back. That’s when the real quarrel started. It all came to blows. The wife seemed furious.’
‘And this young couple in the room above . . .’ Maity interjected with a suggestion of a question.
‘Yes,’ nodded Sayantan, ‘they had . . . finished by then. They were exhausted. The couple below were now in a bitter fight. The woman had started slapping her husband left, right and centre. She was screaming and sobbing. The husband was taking all the hits. But after a while, he punched his wife right across the face. Sent her flying across the room and on to the bed.’
‘He . . . he killed her?’ I asked, apprehensively.
***
Get your copy of Aperture by Bhaskar Chattopadhyay on Amazon or wherever books are sold.
Here’s your chance to defy the ordinary with Against the Grain by Pankaj Mishra, a book that celebrates those who dare to be different. Through engaging conversations with notable outliers like A.R. Rahman, Uday Kotak, and Wing Commander Rakesh Sharma, the book shares real stories of success, failure, and the pursuit of dreams.
Read this exclusive excerpt to discover how the Chandrayaan-2 mission turned setbacks into breakthroughs, capturing the true essence of resilience and innovation.
Against the Grain || Pankaj Mishra
***
The concept of ‘successful failure’ resonates deeply in the story of India’s Chandrayaan-2 mission. It was a bold leap, aiming to explore the uncharted south pole of the moon. Despite the setback in the landing phase, the mission wasn’t a loss. The orbiter continues to gather valuable data, contributing significantly to our understanding of the moon. More importantly, with lessons learned from Chandrayaan-2’s challenges, Chandrayaan-3 could land successfully on the moon.
This journey transcends the bounds of space; it’s a metaphor for outliers—to find poetry in problems and to reach for the moon, quite literally, even when the first leap falters. And that’s what I love about these conversations. These outliers talk about their failures with the same pride they have for their wins. Because, let’s face it, owning your failures is a kind of success.
When you sit with someone like Wing Commander Rakesh Sharma, you can’t help but feel the gravity—no pun intended—of his experiences. Here’s a man who’s been to space, but what’s more fascinating is his down-to-earth wisdom on failure.
‘If you can be yourself and not feel that you have to measure up to some image somebody else has of you, that’s liberating; it frees up a lot of energy for you to do
other things.’ —Wing Commander Rakesh Sharma, the first Indian in space.
Rakesh’s words resonate deeply with me. The freedom to be yourself, to not be confined by others’ expectations, is liberating. It’s a lesson I’ve carried with me throughout my journey.
How has life’s unpredictability played a role in your journey, Rakesh?
Rakesh Sharma: ‘I must tell you that I am blessed and extremely lucky, because I got a chance to do everything in life. I was barely twenty-two, and the air force decided to run an experiment. We had just got the MiG-21 supersonic aircraft—they wanted to catch young guys, and I got a chance. I joined the air force young, and before my twenty-third birthday, I had flown twenty-one operational missions in the 1971 war. Then, I got selected for the test pilot course, and despite not being all good in academics, I managed to become a test pilot. A fighter pilot and a test pilot—fit and young—and I then got a chance to go to space. Things have happened to me.’
Rakesh, how do you view failures in your life?
‘As far as failures are concerned, it depends on how you are looking at them. For example, most people think that when they set the bar for themselves and do not achieve it, that is a failure. But when you have constantly striven to get what you set [out to achieve] for yourself, and even then if you fall short, you will, in the process, improve yourself, right?’
Indeed, striving itself is a form of success. This is a perspective I’ve often found comforting.
‘So, I made mistakes during combat, and that’s part of the learning—I wouldn’t really put that down as a failure. That is just a learning experience. As a test pilot, I have had the chance to eject from an airplane because the engine backed up, and I would call it learning, not a failure. The important thing you need to ask yourself is: How do you remain invested? Do you have the passion for the job you are doing?’
Passion is a recurring theme in our conversations. Rakesh, how did you deal with the daunting tasks in your career?
‘In my case, whenever I looked at a daunting, challenging task, my first reaction was, “Hey, I will not be able to do this.” At each stage during my flying career,
when I went from slow to medium to faster to supersonic aircraft, at each stage, I felt, “Oh my god, this is too fast. There is no way I can hack it.” But when you actually get into it, you find that things are not half as difficult as you imagined them to be!’
You know, this idea of passion being the driving force, it’s something that has come up time and again in the conversations I’ve had. But hearing it from a guy who has been to space and back just hits differently. It’s like all those talks I’ve had over the years suddenly get this extra layer of, well, gravity. Rakesh, you echo something we all know deep down but sometimes need a nudge to feel. It’s fascinating how we often overestimate challenges.
‘So, when opportunities come your way, don’t get intimidated. Of course, be prepared that you might not hack it, but no need to get intimidated. Either it will
happen or it will not happen. After all, when I went for the selection as a kid, there was no pilot aptitude test. Now, there’s a pilot aptitude test, and if you fail it once, you will never become a pilot in the Indian Air Force, so there is tremendous pressure on you. If you have it, you have it; if you don’t have it, you approach it like that—you can’t prepare for something like that!
Indeed, some aspects of life and career are beyond meticulous preparation.
‘Similarly, when you are doing test flying, the best you can do is your best. You can read up all there is to read. You can de-risk, but you signed up for it. You are honourbound to go and do it. Even if you are scared, you go and do it as best you can. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out—that’s part of the landscape you have chosen to be in.’
Choosing our landscape, our path, comes with its own set of challenges and rewards.
‘So, this is one life lesson we really need: never back off! Failure is not the end of the world. Pressure is something that we bring upon ourselves. We should give it a bash. Just be yourself!’
So there you have it—wisdom from a man who has seen the earth from a point most of us can only dream of reaching. But what strikes me most is how grounded his insights are. ‘Just be yourself,’ he says.
Simple, yet profoundly liberating.
***
Get your copy of Against the Grain by Pankaj Mishra on Amazon wherever books are sold.
Stories from Kashmir always tug at the heartstrings, and we have something truly exceptional for you! In This Our Paradise by Karan Mujoo, follow the lives of a Hindu and Muslim family from Kashmir as they navigate the storm of political unrest. Through the innocent eyes of an eight-year-old boy and the challenging journey of a young man named Shahid, this novel reveals how their worlds are forever changed by the forces beyond their control.
And Shahid leapt from adolescence to teenage. He sat for his twelfth standard exams in 1985 and barely passed. There was only one government college in Kupwara, and admission there followed a certain pattern. You would get a seat if you were a brilliant student with exceptional marks. You would get a seat if an influential politician made a phone call on your behalf. You would get a seat if you greased the palms of the education department officials.
Shahid and his family failed to meet these criteria. Corruption had seeped into the cracks and now was running riot in the Valley. Every government official, whether senior or junior, asked for bribes unabashedly. This culture was born during the reign of Bakshi Ghulam Mohammad. Having taken over from the Sheikh as the prime minister in 1953, he had opened industries, provided subsidies, improved healthcare and made education accessible. But he had also turned a blind eye to the greed and malpractices of those close to him.
Once he set this precedent, it was gleefully followed by everyone else.
It became clear to Shahid that there was no room for people like him in Kashmir. Every door he knocked on was rudely shut in his face. The few jobs available in Zogam involved manual labour or farming. But Shahid was clear he did not want to stoop so low. He wanted a life of dignity. A life independent of the mood swings of weather gods.
Since there was no work or college to go to, Shahid began whiling his hours away at Rajeshji’s shop. Every morning, after breakfast, he would leave his house and head over there.
After ordering a cup of tea, he would sit on a stool and read the newspapers. He was not the only aimless, unemployed boy searching for succour at the shop. Scores of boys from Zogam and Kupwara, who had been shunted out by the system, came there to smoke and gossip.
Rashid was one of them. Shahid often heard him talking to his entourage, among other things, about the Quran and Hadiths. His eyes shone passionately as he discussed the various ayats. While giving these mini-sermons Rashid smoked like a steamer ship. He lit up Capstan after Capstan, often mid-sentence. Due to the relentless smoking, his incisors bore brown tobacco stains. Some of the boys jokingly called him the smoking prophet, which both offended and pleased Rashid. One day, he asked Shahid to pass a matchbox and the two became, at first acquaintances, and then friends. When they started talking, they discovered they had much in common. Both of them were frustrated by the corruption in society, both were unemployed, both were dismissive of menial jobs. For the first time in his life.
Shahid could call someone a friend. Over long sessions of tea and cigarettes (Shahid started smoking under the influence of his new friend), their bond thickened. They confided their fears and dreams to each other. They tried to come up with ways to jumpstart their stagnated lives. Rashid was certain the society needed an overhaul. The privileged and corrupt had to be shaken up. The playing field had to be leveled.
One day, a boy from Kupwara came to the shop to smoke a cigarette. He was carrying a few files, which indicated he had a government job. It was unclear what sparked the confrontation—a grazing of the shoulders, a challenging stare—but for some reason Rashid started slapping the boy, accusing him of stealing jobs and paying bribes. Unaccustomed to violence, Shahid froze for a moment. But then he too saw red. He lunged out with his leg and caught the boy squarely in
his ribs. The boy groaned and collapsed on the ground. Rajeshji ran out of the shop to help him. Rashid and Shahid, their hearts pounding, their veins surging with adrenaline, ran away towards the fields.
‘The bhatta deserved it,’ Rashid said breathlessly. Shahid had not noticed the narywun which had marked out the boy. But it did not matter. The system had to be dismantled. Even if it was one kick at a time.
Brawls, abuses and loutish behaviour were frowned upon in Zogam. A small council of elders, both Muslims and Pandits, turned up at Shahid’s house and requested his father to reign him in. Such incidents were not good for the village, they said. Shahid’s father and Zun were shocked by their son’s involvement in the fracas. They convinced the group that Shahid would never indulge in such behaviour again. After they left, Zun crumpled and sobbed quietly. When Shahid came home later that night, his father admonished him.
‘You have humiliated us in front of the whole village. I had to bow my head and ask for forgiveness on your behalf.’ Zun, teary-eyed, said, ‘Shahid, you have always been such a gentle boy. From where did this fire erupt in your chest? It must be those scoundrels you keep hanging around with at the shop. Swear by me that you’ll stop meeting them. Swear by me!’
Shahid heard their complaints quietly. He had nothing to say. He went to his room and lay down on the hard bed. Deep in his heart, he knew he had done no wrong.
***
Get your copy of This Our Paradise by Karan Mujoo on Amazon or wherever books are sold.
Loving someone who doesn’t love you back is something many of us have experienced. Rithvik Singh‘s I Don’t Love You Anymore offers solace to those who feel deeply and love unconditionally. Here are five powerful selections from the book, each one a gentle embrace for the heart, reminding us that healing and letting go are part of the journey. Dive in and let Rithvik’s words be the comforting companion you need on your toughest days.
I Don’t Love You Anymore || Rithvik Singh
***
If you ever knew someone who loved you enough to be terrified of losing you, I hope you know how rare it is to find someone like that. Someone who would leave flowers on your dining table, kisses on your forehead and the scent of love in your heart. Someone who would gently hold the pieces of your heart on days when life gets too hard. If you ever knew someone who loved you the way the sky loves its stars, I hope you didn’t end up breaking their heart.
And if you did, I hope life breaks your heart too.
***
You’re not the kind of flower
that can be plucked
and put in someone’s hair.
You’re the kind of flower
people find too pretty to pluck. The kind of flower that deserves to keep blooming.
***
Things are hard with people who don’t love you hard. People
whose love isn’t the ocean but its waves. The ones who always
leave you confused. They don’t tell you that they love you, but
they also don’t accept that they don’t. They hold your hand but
refuse to hold your heart. They lend you space in their heart,
but they don’t let you stay in it.
***
I’ll watch nine episodes of a show in one day, but keep postponing
the last one. When things change. When fate changes. I avoid
watching it. I try not to make it to the end. I bury my curiosity
and start another show. I go out and meet a friend. I do
everything I can to not let the show end. But I know I’ve got to
face the ending, no matter how much it terrifies me, or how far
I try to run away from it. I know the show has already ended. I
know the ending won’t change. This is not about the shows.
***
Love
It’s in having tea at midnight with someone who is used to
having it at night, only to give them company.
In forgetting the distance between cities and crossing it with
a smile on your face—only to put a smile on the face of the
person you love.
Seeing a flower shop and immediately getting a few for someone.
Sitting on video calls at night and not talking to each other
because you’re both tired, but never being too tired to not
make some time for each other.
Holding hands in busy streets and holding them tight at the
end of a busy week.
It’s in refusing to let distance change your feelings. In ensuring
that love never leaves.
It is in Harinder Sikka’s stories that ordinary people find themselves thrust into the most extraordinary circumstances and emerge victorious. The following three excerpts, each from his unputdownable bestsellers, showcase Mr Sikka’s masterful storytelling.
In Gobind, we meet a young man born into poverty, whose determination to rise above his circumstances leads him to join the Indian Navy. Yet, beneath his shining success lies the weight of unfulfilled promises and unrequited love. There are decisions he must make and promises he may have to break.
Vichhoda reveals the story of Bibi Amrit Kaur whose life is shattered by the violence of the 1947 riots, propelling her into a new existence in a foreign land. Despite the pain and loss she endures, her spirit remains unbroken!
Calling Sehmat, inspired by true events and adapted into the hit film Raazi starring Alia Bhatt, is the extraordinary journey of a young Kashmiri girl thrust into the world of espionage. Sehmat’s tale explores the sacrifices made in the name of patriotism and the indomitable courage of an unsung heroine.
Read the three excerpts below to discover more!
Gobind || Harinder Sikka
As the sun emerged from the distant horizon, the fields too began changing colour. The rapidly strengthening sun rays turned brighter with every passing minute, turning the dark and dense looking crops into a lush green landscape. Tiny golden-yellow flowers on top of the crops looked as if each plant had been knighted with a golden crown by mother nature. All kinds of birds emerged from their deep slumber and filled the atmosphere with a burst of chirpy sounds.
The entire village was soon bathed in different hues. Not to be left behind, the animals too began walking around their territories, marking, urinating on every pole, tree and bush. The farmers too began making a beeline on the snake-like thin track to their respective fields. Their farming tools hung from their shoulders like weapons saddled on the shoulders of soldiers enroute to the battlefield. Nature in its full glory was like a beacon of peace, love and tranquility all round.
Gargling and spitting the water out, Ranjit Singh accepted from his wife an old piece of cloth that was once a garment, re-stitched to serve as a face napkin. While handing it back to Amrita, he looked at her inquiringly, ‘Where’s Gobind?’
‘Oh, he has already left for the fields. Says he will come back in three hours and go to school afterwards,’ she replied.
The cloth napkin slipped out of Ranjit’s hand and fell on the wet floor between them.
‘Which fields?’ he asked, his face filled with shock and surprise.
‘To work in Bihari Lal’s field. Before leaving home, he told me that he wished to earn while he studied. I couldn’t stop him. He just left without discussing it further.’
Ranjit was speechless. His young, school-going teenage son had taken a decision to work part-time, without even consulting his father.
‘I don’t know what to make of all this. Working part time isn’t wrong. In fact, I am happy for this will inculcate discipline in him. But all of a sudden? I will ask Bihari ji what’s he up to.’
Amrita bent down to pick the cloth from the floor. Then, flapping it in the air repeatedly, she tried to remove the excess water it had absorbed from the wet floor and flung it on the clothesline to dry. She turned towards her husband and looked straight into his eyes. ‘Maybe we should leave him alone. Let him discover himself. He didn’t sleep well. He even sat up on the cot in the middle of night to say his prayers. He was unsettled last night after your stern talk. But he looked different this morning and very charged up when I met him, before he left quickly. There’s this visible change in him that I have never seen before. I am happy and worried.’
‘Prayer? Gobind? And how do you know he has changed?’ Ranjit’s face was now filled with confusion.
‘Because I am his mother.’
Ranjit’s eyes followed Amrita as she went inside the room. Then, wiping his hands on the cloth napkin that Amrita had just hung, he turned his attention outside. He lifted himself up on his toes and looked in the direction of the large haveli with vast green fields where his son was supposed to be working. His eyes scanned the horizon but couldn’t see Gobind. Turning back, he walked inside to find Amrita standing at the entrance, watching her husband.
‘Please stop worrying. You’ll get late for work. Get ready; I will get your breakfast. Your tiffin is also ready. Please don’t forget to take it along.’
Amrita’s affection-filled instructions relaxed Ranjit to some extent. Stepping into the room, he sat down on the floor while Amrita served him breakfast. It was the same food that he had eaten last night. He ate in silence. But his mind was racing in many directions while Amrita rotated the hand-held fan on its swivel. Before leaving home for work, he stood before the lord’s picture hung on the wall, joined his palms and murmured so softly that even his own ears couldn’t hear his own words.
‘With your permission, dear lord, I wish to go to work. It’s a new day, an amazing one at that. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. Only you, dear Guru Gobind, can help my son, Gobind.’
***
Vichhoda || Harinder Sikka
In 1950, after three years of Partition, the prime ministers of the two warring nations, Liaquat Ali Khan and Jawaharlal Nehru, signed a treaty which gave freedom to the women of both countries to return home. Bibi opted to stay back in Pakistan as her world revolved around her two beautiful children and doting husband. But destiny had something else in store for her. Even though Bibi had mostly confined herself to the four walls of her home, word of her mesmerizing and breathtaking sharp features had spread in the region. Given her marital status and the enormous respect her husband commanded, no one had dared cast an evil eye on her. Yet, there were men who never missed an opportunity to look at her discreetly and sigh lustfully.
Following the government’s directives, the station house officer (SHO) of the district issued orders to all villages, directing the women of Indian origin to confirm in writing their decision—live in Sadali as Pakistani citizens or return to India. Sakhiullah was away on a business tour for a few days. Bibi read the circular and signed the documents, confirming Muzaffarabad in Pakistan as her choice of residence. The havildar, who came to collect the document, was awestruck by Bibi’s beauty—her sharp but delicate features, porcelain skin and petite figure. He found it difficult to take his eyes off her and was filled with desire. Sensing his intention, she picked up her children and rushed inside. Her behaviour rebuffed him for the time being. However, the havildar couldn’t stop thinking about her. Back in the police station, he recounted the incident to his colleagues.
Unknown to the havildar, the SHO, Irfan Chaudhary, was eavesdropping on his poetic description of Bibi’s exquisite features. He was so intrigued by what he heard that he felt compelled to see her. The next day he drove all the way to Bibi’s home and knocked at her door. Bibi opened the door—her head covered, her nine-month old son resting in her lap. Their eyes met. He had not seen anyone quite as pretty, elegant and desirable as Bibi. Recovering somewhat, he managed to ask for her residential status. By now, Bibi had sensed something in his reaction as well. She responded uncomfortably, ‘My husband is coming home tonight. He will personally come to your office tomorrow and complete all the formalities.
The SHO smiled shamelessly, enjoying the many shades of pink that were appearing on Bibi’s face in quick succession. ‘No, no,’ he replied with an intention to extend the dialogue. ‘I don’t want to bother your husband. This is just a small formality, yet it must be completed at the earliest. There’s a police chowki in this village itself. You can come and sign the documents and be done with it. That will close the matter once and for all. Now that you are legally married to a Pakistani national and have two sons, the formalities won’t take much time,’ he added slyly.
Bibi was perplexed. She tried to think and then looked at the SHO’s face, who smiled hopefully and repeated, ‘It has to be done today, Bibi, otherwise I wouldn’t have troubled you. Please have mercy on me. There are many more homes to go to.’
Bibi couldn’t think of a suitable excuse. She had no choice but to go to the police chowki within the next hour. The SHO left, smiling cunningly.
Bibi hurriedly finished her daily chores and discussed the matter with the elderly women in her locality. Given the circumstances, she felt it was best to consult others as well. At their advice, she requested her next-door neighbour to babysit for her. However, another neighbour decided to accompany her to the police station. Bibi felt relieved that she wasn’t going alone. A local tonga was hired and the two burqa-clad women reached the police chowki, which was located on the outskirts of the village. To their surprise, they found a policeman eagerly waiting for Bibi’s arrival. However, seeing an elderly woman accompanying her, he stopped them at the entrance and went inside the small, makeshift chowki. They waited. A short while later, the policeman came out again. He walked towards the duo and asked the elderly lady to wait outside while he took Bibi inside to sign the papers
This seemed reasonable enough, so Bibi went in. She found the SHO sitting across a table—his eyes glued on Bibi, as if trying to pierce through the black veil. A bunch of papers and an inkpot with two wooden pens dipped in the holder were lying on the right side of the large wooden desk. Bibi sensed his intentions and grew uncomfortable. The SHO quickly removed one of the pens from the inkpot and placed it in front of Bibi. She hurriedly signed the documents without even reading them. Then she stood up in a hurry and was about to leave when the SHO rushed to the door and bolted it from inside.
Bibi,’ he said, looking at her lustfully. ‘What you have just signed is sufficient for me to send you back to Hindustan. It says that you’re not interested in living in Pakistan and would like to go back to your country. But if you do wish to live here, then spend the next hour with me . . . I’ll make sure you stay here with your sons and their father, or else . . .’ he looked straight at her. ‘It’s up to you. Decide quickly.’
***
Calling Sehmat || Harinder Sikka
Sehmat was the only child of Tejashwari Singh and Hidayat Khan, a successful and rich Kashmiri businessman settled in the Valley for many decades. Tej, as Tejashwari was fondly called, belonged to a rich Delhi-based Punjabi Hindu family.
Hidayat and Tej fell in love during her visit to Srinagar. On a cold winter afternoon Tej was walking around the serene surroundings of the Himalayan paradise and, on an impulse, entered one of the boutiques selling pashmina shawls. The beauty of the designs was such that they pulled her towards themselves and soon she was looking through the many that were displayed inside the shop. Tej was wondering what to take back to Delhi for her friends, when a pleasant voice drew her attention from behind.
‘May I help you?’
Turning around, Tej found herself looking into the light brown eyes of a stranger. He was tall, about an inch or two above six feet and wore an off-white Pathani suit. She was struck by his openness and simplicity.
Smiling, Tej asked him about the famed Kashmiri shawls on display. The man moved about the shop with a quiet authority, which made Tej believe that he was the owner of the sprawling emporium. After selecting a few delicately woven pashminas, Tej made for the cash counter to settle her bills.
‘Are you visiting Kashmir for the first time, Ma’am?’ His voice was now soft and inquiring.
She stopped to respond.
‘No, I have come here before and it is always peaceful and soothing,’ Tej replied, a slight smile playing on her lips. Wanting to hear more of his rich voice, Tej went on to tell him about her holiday and how she loved the Valley.
Conversation between the two flowed easily. Soon, they introduced themselves to each other. ‘I’m Hidayat,’ he said.
‘And I am Tejashwari. My friends call me Tej,’ she responded.
‘Can I call you Tej?’ he was quick to ask.
‘Please do,’ she replied, clutching her packet of shawls and moving towards the payment counter. She glanced at the bill, looked at it again, and then at Hidayat questioningly.
‘Can’t make profit from friends, can I? Hence the discount,’ he responded smiling.
Hesitantly, Tej paid the money, thanked her host and headed for the large door of the emporium. A slow warmth filled her heart as she walked out. Somewhere deep inside, she was surprised that a brief meeting with a complete stranger could arouse such strong feelings in her. With a sinking heart, Tej realized that this could be the last time she would see him or hear his alluring voice.
Hidayat stood at the door of his shop with a bemused expression on his face. He could not hold himself back.
He addressed her again, the door chime tinkling in the background. ‘Can we meet in the evening? I could take you to some interesting shops to select souvenirs to take back home.’
Tej found her voice caught in her throat.
So this was not the last time she would meet him?
Silently, she nodded. Her heart was wildly beating as she walked away. There was a strange excitement in her heart and a desire to meet him again. She walked some distance, then stopped and turned back to look at the boutique, only to find Hidayat still standing at the entrance, waving at her. She lifted her hand in acknowledgement and moved on. The melodious door chime was still ringing in her ears when she entered her hotel.
That evening, Hidayat rushed through his daily chores of balancing the shop accounts and locking up the emporium. He arrived at the hotel well before sundown and found Tej reading a magazine in the plush hotel lobby. That she was surprised to see him at the hotel was visible on her face. Knowing that her parents would not take kindly to a stranger taking their daughter on a guided tour, she hurriedly went up to him and asked him to wait while she convinced her parents about a short trip to the marketplace by herself. She was able to do that and in a few minutes Tej was back in the lobby, her face slightly flushed.
Slowly the two made their way to the marketplace. They took a leisurely walk around the lake, dodging tourists. Their slow-paced walk was often interrupted by locals who greeted Hidayat, some even asking him for his advice on investing in business and personal matters. It seemed strange to Tej that a man so young was so sought after by not only those his age, but by older people as well. Tej realized that Hidayat was not only respected but also loved by the folks in the city.
Ever wondered what politics looked like in India during the 1970s and 1980s? The Politician Redux by Devesh Verma has all the answers. Join Ram Mohan’s journey as he lands on the UP Public Service Commission, having been denied a cabinet position. Against the backdrop of the JP movement shaking up the Congress regime, Ram Mohan’s story unfolds amidst significant changes in Indian history.
Read this excerpt to experience the political intrigue, societal upheaval, and relentless pursuit of power in this thrilling sequel to The Politician.
The Politician Redux || Devesh Verma
***
There had been signs of popular unrest and political turmoil across an enormous chunk of India, and the way it came to grow in scope and intensity was staggering. Ram Mohan was thankful to Saansadji, the Chief Minister, for sending him to the Commission. Handpicked by Indira Gandhi, no Congress CM had the resources of his own to handle a crisis of this nature. It had all begun in the state of Gujarat, this flaring up of popular rage at inflation, where, incensed at their increased mess bill, students at an engineering college assaulted a college official, and put the canteen to the torch, following it up with another bout of destruction of college property. The trouble metastasized to other educational institutions Students were baying for the sacking of the state government led by one of the most corrupt Congress leaders, Chimanbhai Patel, who had procured massive funds for the party through questionable means. That inflamed the situation on the price rise front. Then, Jayprakash Narayan, an esteemed socialist figure, decided to lend his support to the agitation in Gujarat. Having been associated with the freedom struggle, he had once been invited by Nehru to join his cabinet. He had declined and quietly settled down in his home state, Bihar, emerging now and again from his retirement to pick up odd causes. Soon to be known as JP, he hailed the Gujarat students’ angst, seeing it as a force that could bring about the redemption of the country from corruption infesting the Indian polity.
With the students’ anger winning public endorsement, the situation in Gujarat became one of pandemonium. Violence and vandalism were rampant. The opposition latched on to the agitation, and Indira Gandhi had had to remove the Chief Minister placing the state under President’s rule while the opposition clamoured for the dissolution of the assembly and fresh polls. She was unwilling. Forcing her hand was a fast unto death to which her old foe Desai, the tallest leader of Gujarat, had resorted. Meanwhile, students in the lawless Bihar had put together their own movement with the opposition in tow, the grievances being the same as in Gujarat: corruption, price rise unemployment.
With rioting, arson vandalism becoming the order of the day, Bihar was thrown into anarchy. There was also this strike by railway workers when hundreds of thousands of them stopped work, demanding pay parity with other government employees. A little prior to this twenty-day-long, debilitating strike that had to be broken up by the government, JP had agreed to take up the reins of the Movement. Sensing general discontent, he resurrected his old idea of ‘total revolution’ and, with the opposition rooting for him, took the Movement beyond his home state, appealing to people, chiefly the youth, to rise against the misrule of Indira Gandhi. In the meantime, Saansad-ji’s reputation took a knock when the Congress lost a by-election for Allahabad, the parliamentary seat from which he had resigned to become member of the state legislature.
It was against this backdrop of growing bitterness of the Congress rule that Ram Mohan went to see Saansad-ji in Lucknow. He wanted to thank him for the Commission that had inaugurated a delightful chapter in his life ‘This was the best I could do in the circumstances and take my word, it’s one of the most coveted non-political positions. As Member Public Service Commission, you’ll have a term of sixyears during which nobody can touch you, whereas no political
office can be immune to instability.’ ‘Yes, I have a large family to provide for. I need stability. But whenever I’m needed in active politics, you’ll find me standing right behind you.’ Saansad-ji laughed. A listless laugh. His heart wasn’t in it.
You’d remember that within four months of my taking over as CM, Jayprakash ji came to UP to campaign for his total revolution. I didn’t try to stop him. I declared him our state’s guest, arguing that not only was he a renowned freedom fighter but a crusader for the good of the common man. This, I did, to restrain the rabble-rouser in him. Look at the response he’s getting wherever he goes! But Indira-ji listens to Shukla-ji’s wily Uncle Uma Kant Shukla and the like. These two things the way Congress was licked in Allahabad by-poll and the welcome extended to JP by my government didn’t go down well with her. There’s something else. She hasn’t taken kindly to my style of functioning . . . No Congress CM is supposed to govern in a manner that casts him as a leader under his own steam. Your only objective as minister or chief minister should be to keep the masses glued to the thought of her person,’ Saansad-ji paused to sip his tea. ‘JP is heading a movement out to undermine the Congress regime, and my action was nothing but a calculated move, a gambit. That’s what I tried to explain to her coterie. Some agreed. What I should worry about most, Ram Mohan, is the misgiving she might have about my motive. That’s why somebody advised me to avoid the trap of going after personal popularity.’
***
Get your copy of The Politician Redux by Devesh Verma wherever books are sold.
Step right into the hilariously messy world of Funny Story by Emily Henry, where love lives next door to awkwardness. Imagine this: Daphne’s ex-fiancé is now dating her childhood friend, Petra. And guess who’s her new roommate? Yep, it’s Petra’s ex, Miles.
Read this exclusive excerpt to experience the comedy and chaos firsthand.
Funny Story || Emily Henry
***
Everyone around Peter Collins and Petra Comer knew their history: How they’d met in third grade when forced into alphabetical seating, bonding over a shared love of Pokémon. How, soon after, their mothers became friends while chaperoning an aquarium field trip, with their fathers to follow suit.
For the last quarter of a century, the Collinses and the Comers vacationed together. They celebrated birthdays, ate Christmas brunches, decorated their homes with handmade picture frames from which Peter’s and Petra’s faces beamed out beneath some iteration of the phrase BEST FRIENDS FOREVER.
This, Peter told me, made him and the most gorgeous woman I’d ever met more like cousins than friends.
As a librarian, I really should’ve taken a moment to think about Mansfield Park or Wuthering Heights, all those love stories and twisted Gothics wherein two protagonists, raised side by side, reach adulthood and proclaim their undying love for each other.
But I didn’t.
So now here I am, sitting in a tiny apartment, scrolling through Petra’s public social media, seeing every detail of her new courtship with my ex‑fiancé.
From the next room, Jamie O’Neal’s rendition of “All By Myself” plays loudly enough to make the coffee table shiver. My next‑door neighbor, Mr. Dorner, pounds on the wall.
I barely hear it, because I’ve just reached a picture of Peter and Petra, sandwiched between both sets of their parents, on the shore of Lake Michigan, six abnormally attractive people smiling abnormally white smiles over the caption, The best things in life are worth waiting for.
As if on cue, the music ratchets up.
I slam my computer shut and peel myself off the sofa. This apartment was built pre–global warming, when Northern Michiganders had no need for air‑conditioning, but it’s only May first and already the apartment turns into a brick oven around midday.
I cross to the bedroom hallway and knock on Miles’s door. He doesn’t hear me over Jamie. I escalate to pounding.
The music stops.
Footsteps shuffle closer. The door swings open, and a weed fog wafts out.
My roommate’s dark brown eyes are ringed in pink, and he’s in nothing but a pair of boxers and a funky knitted afghan wrapped around his shoulders like a very sad cape. Considering the overall climate of our hotbox apartment, I can only assume this is for modesty’s sake. Seems like overkill for a man who, just last night, forgot I lived with him long enough to take a whole‑ass shower with the door wide open.
His chocolate‑brown hair sticks up in every direction. His matching beard is pure chaos. He clears his throat. “What’s up.”
“Everything okay?” I ask, because while I’m used to a disheveled Miles, I’m less used to hearing him blast the saddest song in the world.
“Yep,” he says. “All good.”
“Could you turn the music down,” I say.
“I’m not listening to music,” he says, dead serious.
“Well, you paused it,” I say, in case he really is simply too high to remember more than three seconds back. “But it’s really loud.”
He scratches one eyebrow with the back of his knuckle, frowning. “I’m watching a movie,” he says. “But I can turn it down. Sorry.”
Without even meaning to, I’m peering over his shoulder to get a better look.
His TV, though, is what catches my eye. Onscreen is the image of a thirty‑year‑old Renée Zellweger, sporting red pajamas and belting a song into a rolled‑up magazine.
“Oh my god, Miles,” I say.
“What!” he cries, a little defensive.
“You’re watching Bridget Jones’s Diary?”
“It’s a good movie,” he says.
“It’s a great movie,” I say, “but this scene is, like, one minute long.”
He sniffs. “So?”
“So why has it been playing for at least”—I check my phone— “the last eight minutes?”
His dark brows knit together. “Did you need something, Daphne?”
“Could you just turn it down?” I say. “All the plates are rattling in the cabinets and Mr. Dorner’s trying to bust down the living room wall.”
Another sniff. “You want to watch?” he offers.
In there?
Too big of a tetanus risk. An ungenerous thought, sure, but I have recently tapped out my supply of generosity. That’s what happens when your life partner leaves you for the nicest, sunniest, prettiest woman in the state of Michigan.
“I’m good,” I tell Miles.
We both just stand there. This is as much as we ever interact. I’m about to break the record. My throat tickles. My eyes burn. I add, “And could you please not smoke inside?”
I would’ve asked sooner, except that, technically, the apartment is his. He did me a huge favor letting me move in.
Then again, it’s not like he had many options. His girlfriend had just moved out.
Into my apartment.
With my fiancé.
***
Get your copy of Funny Story by Emily Henry wherever books are sold.
