A devotee of Sai Baba of Shirdi, Ruzbeh N. Bharucha is one of the most influential spiritual writers of our times. His new book, ‘ICE with Very Unusual Spirits’ is about Irashaw Cawas Engineer (Ice), a world-renowned painter of Divinity, who turns his back on his Master and spirituality after the death of his young children. The book is derived from the sages and is about the wisdom of life and living, and understanding, accepting and seeking a higher purpose.
Here’s an excerpt from the book.
Why is he called Ice?’ his wife asked.
‘Apparently, at the boarding school where he studied, children had to write their initials on all their possessions—bags, clothes, etc.—to avoid misplacing them. His real name is Irashaw Cawas Engineer, thus I.C.E. Since then, he’s known by his initials. He signs off on his paintings as ICE too.’
‘What is he doing here? Wasn’t he in New York or somewhere abroad? I have a bad feeling, Ashish. It’s not going to be good with him living next door, you mark my words. This man brings doom with him.’
‘Don’t say this, Maya. It was this man’s painting of Lords Ganesh, Krishna, Jesus, and Hanumanji and Sai Baba playing together as kids with a small baby girl that helped you get through your pregnancy. You yourself told me that if it weren’t for that painting, you would never have wanted to be a mother and undergone eight months of bed rest . . .’
‘Bed imprisonment, Ashish! All you men are dogs . . . ’
‘Breathe, sweetheart. Yes, bed imprisonment . . . and you used to bless Ice every day. Remember, when you went into depression after hearing about the accident and the death of his kids?’
‘I know, but he was a different man back then. This man here is a ghost of him. Trust me, Ashish, he walks with death itself. Why the hell did you help him get this flat adjacent to ours?’
‘What did you want me to do? Imran called me up saying Ice wanted to shift here. I couldn’t refuse him. He has stood by me through thick and thin.’
‘Imran I understand, but why do you feel so much for Ice?’
Ashish looked at his wife. By God, she was beautiful. He could never understand why she had agreed to marry him; she had every affluent man waiting in line to marry her. During those days he had no money, not much of a career, in fact nothing going for him. It had taken them years to get settled. But Maya had never complained. The only thing missing in their marriage was physical intimacy. Fortunately, he wasn’t too keen on getting into the sack himself and often thought that his disinterest in sex was probably the reason why she had married him. But she loved him and took care of him and their child, and yes, she had her issues and she could drive him up the wall, but he loved her in spite of everything.
‘Okay, I am going to tell you something I haven’t shared with you. Remember, how much I wanted to be a father? For whatever reason, you weren’t keen on getting pregnant. I know you love me, but there are certain areas in your life that you don’t share with me. Anyway, nine years ago, I had met Imran at his house for dinner and we had drunk a bit too much and during our conversation, I had mentioned that it would be a miracle if you ever agreed to become a mother. Ten days later, he came home and gifted you that painting. You fell in love with it and then slowly, over time, decided to be a mother.’
‘So?’
‘It seems Imran told Ice about our conversation and a week later, Ice presented him the painting to be given to “that neurotic woman and her daft husband who want a kid”. Do you know how expensive this painting is now? All our savings, investments and gold put together won’t be worth as much. If we were to sell it today, we would be able to buy this or any other house like this in the city. Ice gave it to us because he wanted his friend’s friend to be at peace. Come on, Maya, who would do such a thing for strangers? People don’t even help their families nowadays and here is a man who gifted us a painting that could have fetched him enough to live lavishly for a long time. Ice used to be a workaholic back then but he still took time to paint the portrait for us. Even now, whenever Ice has an exhibition, his paintings are sold out even before they are displayed. I am indebted to Ice for life. He had as much a role in Ayesha’s birth as you and I. And haven’t you noticed one thing? Look at the girl in the painting. Doesn’t Ayesha look like her?’
Maya looked at the painting. There was no doubt that the girl in the painting was a spitting image of Ayesha. Nobody could deny the similarity. It was as though Ayesha had posed for the painting herself. Damn that Ice! She looked down from the drawing room window. Ice was standing with a cigarette between his lips. He had lost a lot of weight. A huge black dog with tan stripes lay next to him. Both needed a haircut. Ice was wearing a pair of jeans and a light-blue T-shirt, both of which were soiled with paint. People stared at him. Passers-by turned around to get a better look. They recognized him but didn’t dare approach him for an autograph. He was temperamental, to put it politely. On good days, Ice would chat and laugh for a long time; on the not-so-good days, it was rumoured that he had broken many a journalist’s camera and phone. Even now, he didn’t pay attention to anybody. He just stood there and smoked. After a while, he looked up, straight at her, and Maya felt her blood turn cold. This man was trouble. She just knew it.
What happens next? Find out in ‘ICE With Very Unusual Spirits.’
Tag: fiction
‘This is no ordinary cat’: The Nine Lives of Montezuma — An Excerpt
As the famous saying in English tells us every cat has nine lives, Michael Morpurgo’s The Nine Lives of Motenzuma proves that cats indeed are survivors in this big, bad world.
Montezuma, a ginger cat, is anything but your ordinary furry friend. As soon as he is discovered, the characters in the story realise that this cat is not a normal alley cat but a creature with magical powers, much like its namesake, the survivor King of the Aztec.
Here’s a short excerpt from the book.
He found Montezuma crouching at the end of a long tapering branch that hung out over the pond. The branch looked thick enough and safe enough near the trunk, but the further away it stretched the more fragile it looked. Matthew stood in the fork of the tree and considered all the alternatives, trying to ignore the warnings and advice from below. He could not climb out along the branch to Monty – the branch would not take his weight. He needed a net to throw out over the cat, but there was no-one who could bring a net up to him – neither his father nor his mother could climb trees – at least he had never seen them. He would have to talk the kitten back to safety, that was the only way.
‘Monty,’ he said in as soothing a tone as he could manage. ‘It’s me, Monty. You can’t stay out there all day. You’ll be all right now. I’ll take you down. Come on then, come on. I won’t hurt you.’
But the kitten crouched low, glued to the branch like lichen. He blinked back at Matthew, swallowing hard and mewing weakly every so often. Matthew talked on in a consoling, sympathetic tone; but he received no encouragement from Montezuma who never moved a muscle.
From down below his father was shouting up to him. ‘Can’t you get him down?’ A question which Matthew didn’t feel he could answer politely.
‘Fire Brigade,’ his mother shouted up. ‘What about the Fire Brigade?’ They looked so small down there in the yard. Matthew felt his parents had been getting smaller in recent years, but he had never seen them this small.
‘Not yet,’ Matthew shouted back. ‘Not yet. I’ll try one more thing.’
‘Do be careful, dear. Do be careful.’ His mother’s voice sounded hysterical, but then it always did whenever she shouted.
Matthew held onto the branch above him and edged out onto Montezuma’s branch, stepping sideways like a cautious crab. The two branches ran parallel for a few yards and then the upper one that Matthew was holding onto came to an abrupt halt. Matthew went as far as he could and then released the upper branch. For a moment he stood balancing with nothing to hold onto. The branch swayed underneath him and he lowered himself carefully until he was sitting astride the branch, his hands clasping it firmly in front of him. Like this he pulled himself along inch by inch until he knew he could go no further. The kitten was still well out of reach.
‘That’s far enough.’ His father’s shout was sharp. ‘No further. That’s far enough. The branch won’t take the weight. No further.’
Matthew knew he was right, but he was nearly there and it was only a few more feet. He lay now flat along the branch gripping behind with his feet, his hands holding on in front of him. ‘Come on Monty, come on down. Please, there’s a good kitten. Come on now.’ But as he released one hand to reach out towards the cat, he lost his balance and had to grab at the branch suddenly to retrieve himself. Alarmed, the kitten backed away, lost his grip and tumbled down through the air towards the pond. Matthew watched for the splash and saw his father running down across the yard towards the pond. The ducks evacuated the pond noisily, leaving Matthew’s father alone in the pond striding waist deep to the spot where Montezuma had fallen in. Matthew waited, closed his eyes and prayed. When he opened them his father was shouting up at him and laughing, holding up a dripping kitten. ‘Got him. He’s all right. The little divil’s still breathing.’
By the time Matthew had made the descent, his father was out of the pond and had pulled off his shoes. He was sitting on the ground taking his socks off and wringing out the water. ‘Your father will catch his death,’ said Matthew’s mother, who was holding on to Montezuma in a vice-like grip. ‘Here’s your Monty,’ she said. ‘You take him. And for God’s sake hang on to him. You worry me to death, you two. First you go climbing up trees and then he goes jumping into cold ponds – at his age. You should know better. Could have killed you both and all for what? For a kitten.’
‘For Monty,’ said Matthew, rubbing the kitten dry with the tail of his shirt. ‘This is no ordinary cat, you know. Can you imagine my Dad jumping into a pond to rescue any other cat? He’s dropped plenty of kittens into this pond, but this is the first one he’s ever pulled out and that’s a fact.’
‘And the last,’ said his father wriggling his wet toes. ‘Definitely the last.’
Find out which adventure Montezuma encounters next in this enchanting book by Michael Morpurgo!
In Conversation with Osama Siddique
Osama Siddique has been a Rhodes scholar at Oxford, a lawyer in New York and Lahore, a policy instructor in various countries. He is also a legal scholar, university teacher and reform consultant in Pakistan, and a successful doctoral candidate and visiting professor at Harvard Law School. His most recent book is an acclaimed and multiple award-winning critical legal history of postcolonial justice systems. We spoke to him about his debut novel Snuffing Out the Moon.
Below are the questions we asked him.
You are and have been a very successful lawyer and legal scholar. Why did you decide to write a novel?
There are many kinds of legal discourses of course that allow much room for critical expression. Quite apart from more conventional work, as a lawyer and an academic I have always been particularly intrigued by how law can be and is manipulated by the powerful against the disempowered. Regardless of which era we speak about what goes by the name of law has always been a strong weapon for those who can use it – for better or for worse. Indeed I have explored this theme in my legal scholarship. There are, however, certain limits on expression imposed by extant conventions of style, structure and methodology. Fiction on the other hand is a very vast, rich and multifarious terrain that provides tremendous flexibility and license to explore this and various additional themes that I dwell on in my novel – themes that I had always wanted to write about. Themes ranging, for instance, from ancient political landscapes to omens of impending evil to lives of petty criminality to literature as a weapon of protest to social media as a medium for hate mongering to environmental apartheids of the near future. Only fiction allows engagement with all this in one book. Such is its largesse. Hence the novel.
Why did you situate the book in these particular six epochs of time?
In large part because having blessed access to their archaeological sites and cultural artifacts I have been greatly fascinated by them since childhood. I continue to fondly visit them, read about them, live amidst them. Mohenjodaro also because it continues to be such an enticing enigma and unsolved mystery. The Gandharan civilization because it has left such an exquisite artistic and architectural imprint on the Pakistani landscape. Lahore – my beloved city – appears in three contiguous eras, which are all reflected in its hybrid culture and built heritage. And the near future is of course the source of tremendous curiosity and indeed concern to all of us – given the highly troubling times and the various political, environmental and civilizational crises that we currently face as humankind.
Somewhere in the book you say something like: “all eras are driven by the same hopes and fears and passions and we continue to make the same mistakes.” — Could you elaborate on this and also your concept of “time.”?
While one can surely detect evolution in various spheres of human endeavor – political structures, organized religion, modes of technology – it does occur to me that across the ages our fundamental aspirations and imperatives remain very closely aligned, if not identical. It is fascinating to think, for instance, how hope, fear, love, hate, dissent and the resulting conflicts drive people to act in such similar ways, regardless of whether we speak of today’s milieu or one of four thousand years ago, from whatever we know of that distant era. Naturally, it causes one to wonder whether we are caught up in a constant cycle of repetition. Civilizations come, flourish, decline and ultimately vanish. Whether time is linear or cyclical. Whether we are headed somewhere or will the wheel of time continue to turn and turn till one day our kind will simply be no more. That we will simply vanish. Without even a whimper, let alone a bang. Without any explanation, let alone an apology.
What are your thoughts on the concept of “evil”?
Evil is such a vital and fascinating concept in every religious and cultural tradition as well as manifest, however you define it, in so many human catastrophes through the ages. One of the most compelling questions remains whether evil is just another name for our baser instincts, distinct external influences that corrupt and corrode us and compel us to do abhorrable things, or an actual physical embodiment – a virtual devil. What causes us to indulge in devilry and why has humankind failed in putting a stop to murders, pogroms, genocides, travesties and wars. These questions provide a vital undercurrent to my overall narrative and evil manifests itself mysteriously and multifariously in the lives of the different characters. Quite apart from the more analytical dimensions there is also something very emotive, something very sinister and forbidding about the concept that impacts our senses in a remarkable manner. The fear and foreboding evoked by the concept of evil has been depicted so powerfully in many great pieces of literature and it has always been something that I also wanted to write about.
Your protagonists are non-conformists who dissent and then pay a price for it. Can you tell us more about choosing protagonists who are dissenters and the importance of dissent in human history?
Arguably, as critically as ever before in out history we face the challenges of curtailment and censorship of free thought and speech. What is also obvious is a globe-wide shift to harder governments, to despots, officially sanctioned histories, blind dogma and also now, alternative facts. The present epoch is as Orwellian as it can get. Meaningful dissent, therefore, is a precious but also much maligned virtue and hence all the more worthy of preservation. Mine is just one modest endeavor to underline how vital dissent is for societal sustenance and integrity. Even otherwise, dissenters make much more compelling and effective protagonists than conformists. Dissent has contributed tremendously to history and brought about significant turning points and breakthroughs in human thought and achievement. And yet the dissenters have often paid a tremendous personal price, which makes their entire endeavor all the more heroic. There is thus no way that I would have been tempted to choose protagonists who are not dissenters. Having said that those who habitually conform and capitulate are also curious in their own way. Perhaps in my next book if there is one.
Penguin Random House India is thrilled to announce the acquisition of The Sacred Sword by Hindol Sengupta
About the book:
The book is a riveting, first of its kind historical fiction based on the life, teachings and battles of Guru Gobind Singh, the 10th and last living guru of the Sikh faith. A poet, philosopher, theologian and legendary warrior, Gobind Singh redefined the landscape of India and transformed its history. This book, the first ever historical fiction written on him, is being published on the 350th birth anniversary of Guru Gobind Singh. This is also the first fiction from best-selling non-fiction writer Hindol Sengupta.
“Guru Gobind Singh is one of the most captivating figures of Indian history. The Game of Thrones seems like a petulant skirmish once you start to unravel Sikh history. This book is the beginning of my exploration into this history and I am thrilled to start with Guru Gobind Singh – he is a hero’s hero, an ascetic warrior, a monk king.” – Hindol Sengupta
“The Sacred Sword is an explosive and unputdownable historical fiction based on the king of kings, and the divinity of the enlightened teacher-Guru Gobind Singh.” – Priya Doraswamy, Lotus Lane Literary
“I am delighted to be publishing The Sacred Sword by Hindol Sengupta on the eve of Guru Gobind Singh’s 350th birth anniversary. Hindol is a prolific writer and this will be his first novel in which he will delve into Sikh history through the life of the legendary and brave warrior Guru Gobind Singh.” – Milee Ashwarya, Editor-in- Chief, Commercial and Business Books
About the author:
Hindol Sengupta is an award-winning writer, journalist, public speaker and social entrepreneur. He is the author of seven books. He is the youngest ever, and only Indian, to be nominated for the Hayek Prize given by the Manhattan Institute in memory of the Nobel laureate economist F. A. Hayek. He is the youngest winner of the PSF award for public service which has also been won, among others, by the late Indian President A. P. J. Abdul Kalam.
He is the founder of the not-for- profit Whypoll Trust. He was invited to present his research on Hinduism and technology at the XXI World Congress of the International Association for the History of Religion. An alumnus of the Australia-India Youth Dialogue (AIYD), he won the 2015 grant to write a people’s history of Indians in Australia and Australians in India. He was part of IdeaMensch’s 2012 list of 33 entrepreneurs who are making the world a better place to live in for his work on ideating India’s first women safety mobile app. He is Editor-at-Large for Fortune India where he writes on the political economy and entrepreneurship.