Our City That Year by Geetanjali Shree takes you into a city torn apart by faith and conflict, where chaos and violence are everywhere. Through the eyes of a writer and others caught in the middle, the story shows how people try to understand what’s happening around them. With Daisy Rockwell’s brilliant translation, this novel will stay with you long after you finish.
Read this excerpt to get a glimpse of a city on the edge and those trying to survive it.
Our City That Year || Geetanjali Shree, Daisy Rockwell
***
That year, in our city, Hindus abandoned their pacifism. We’ve run out of other cheeks to turn, they proclaimed. We’re helpless! they screamed. They climbed atop mosques and waved the flag of Devi affixed to their tridents proclaiming, What was done to us will be visited on them! Wrong shall be answered with wrong! Holy men abandoned their meditations, and angry cries echoed in place of prayers: They killed our progeny, dishonoured our daughters! Sons, are you cowards or men? O, descendants of the heroes Shivaji, Bhagat Singh, Rana Pratap; O, sons of Arjun and Bhima, rise! Transform the neighbourhoods of your enemies into graveyards! Enough with your gentlemanly behaviour! Even the deities rage when the crimes of demons are on the rise.
Arise. Awake. Save us.
And out poured gangs upon gangs to tear the mosques in our city down to their foundations and erect the idols of goddesses and gods in their place. The air in our city began to pulse. It echoed with their feelings of helplessness: boom boom. The gangs emerged with a clamour, raising clouds of ash which could turn to dust at any time and sting our eyes. They released fountains of Ganga water which could turn to blood at any time and splatter our eyes. It was like a rollicking festival. So many hues, it could have been Holi in a storm of coloured powder. They held sacrifices and threw into the flames the cowardice that had been nurtured in the name of dispassion. They marked their brows with a tilak of ashes, hurled sharp bits of metal at the sun, slicing it to ribbons, skewering the brilliant sun-scraps and waving them in the air as they fanned out into the streets, over the moon to discover in their clutches the joyous sun. We shivered when we saw how the sun danced in their hands.
* * *
‘Should I write from the perspective of a child?’ Shruti asks. Her hands drip red from peeling beets. ‘Of our unborn child? Who will see this, hear this, tell this?’
‘No,’ Hanif vetoes the idea at the outset. ‘For one,’ he says, ‘that narrative style is very old, it’s been going on since the time of the Mahabharata. For another . . .’ his voice is severe now, ‘we don’t even want a child. Who would want to inherit these times?’
Even the glancing thought of an unborn child’s testimony fills me with dread. But why?
If I just shadow them and keep copying, what do I have to fear.
* * *
‘Why should we be afraid? We live over here. Your friend has no right to spread the psychosis of fear. He enjoys it even,’ frets Shruti.
They sit in the flat upstairs. Dirty dishes piled before them. Sharad has just gone home, downstairs. Earlier, the three of them had been eating, drinking, gossiping, and I’d been standing nearby, wondering if I should listen, if I should copy everything down, if I should just ignore. The three diners had pushed bay leaves, cloves, cinnamon sticks, black cardamom pods to one side on their plates. Sharad’s final utterance still lingers in the air: ‘The city’s on fire, and you’re laughing?’
That’s where I’ll start, I resolve; that’s where I’ll begin to record.
‘You’re humourless.’ Hanif ribs Shruti. ‘Sharad was teasing you because he knows you’ll blow up.’
‘That wasn’t teasing at all. Your friend is the completely humourless son of an overly humourful father.’ Shruti was angry when she started to speak, but by the end she smiles at her own mention of Daddu.
‘But the fire’s been lit.’
‘But not here, over there,’ Shruti objects.
‘But the fire can’t burn us. Sati is still in practice, tenderhearted women watch as their own kind are set aflame, fingers burn daily turning chapatis on hearths: fire is our familiar! Why should we fear it burning us?’
‘Arre, are you waxing philosophical or just telling tasteless jokes like your friend?’
* * *
I am not omniscient. I write about wherever I am, whenever. I cannot weave things together. I wouldn’t know a warp from a woof. But I cannot escape writing. Will any witness survive this horrifying tongue that flickers about devouring our city? Because, who knows, tomorrow this tongue could find us . . . and you? And if we are no more . . .
And who knows if by some simple coincidence we survive, or you survive, then perhaps we’ll be able to understand something when we look back. Or preserve something.
But now, just write. Write without comprehension. And if not you, then I will write down whatever you say, write, see; whatever can be expressed in ink.
* * *
Get your copy of Our City That Year by Geetanjali Shree on Amazon or wherever books are sold.
Step into the captivating world of Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain lore with Sati Savitri by Devdutt Pattanaik where women rewrite the rules and redefine their destinies beyond patriarchal norms. From ancient scriptures to modern-day interpretations, Pattanaik offers a fresh perspective on liberation, revealing how patriarchy and feminism have coexisted throughout history.
Read this exclusive excerpt to dive into the feminist side of mythology like never before!
Sati Savitri || Devdutt Pattanaik
***
Images of Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge, are often placed in libraries, right next to the board that says, ‘silence please’. No one notices that the goddess always holds a musical instrument called veena (lute) in her hand. The irony is lost on many who look at sacred images without actually doing darshan.
Darshan is the act of seeing that generates insight and results in reflection. For example, the sight of the veena grants us some insight into the human ability to make music and musical instruments, and this makes us reflect on how music made by humans is different form the music made by birds. The music of birds is specific, to enable survival. It is designed to attract mates and draw attention of fellow birds to food or predators. Human music, on the other hand, is not necessary for survival. But it adds beauty to life and makes us wonder on the meaning of existence, by making us aware of various rhythms and emotions.
Unlike other goddesses, there are not many stories about Saraswati. She is more the embodiment of a concept.
Saraswati is draped in a white sari indicating she has distanced herself from the materialistic world, represented by colourful fabrics. While Lakshmi nourishes the body with food, Saraswati nourishes the mind with knowledge and the arts. Lakshmi’s wealth is contained in a pot; Saraswati’s knowledge is expressed through words, through songs, stories and music, dance and arts. In Jain art, the more austere Digambar monks compared Saraswati to a peacock while the white-clad Shwetambar monks compared her to a goose (hamsa). In Indian folklore, dancing peacocks attract rain clouds, while hamsas are able to separate milk from water, like fact from fiction.
▪️ The peacock links Saraswati to art, dance, music, theatre and entertainment.
▪️ The hamsa links Saraswati to ideas embodied within, and communicated through, sounds, songs, stories, songs, symbols and gestures: the knowledge of maths, science, literature and philosophy.
Saraswati is therefore linked to both, the peacock like courtesans as well as the swan-like philosophers. In modern society, the courtesan has been erased from history; her contributions to the world of art appropriated by men.
In popular Hindu mythology, Saraswati is called the wife of Brahma. But she is also called the daughter of Brahma. This can be confusing. The confusion comes from our failure to appreciate that mythology is metaphorical. Gods and goddesses are given supernatural forms so that we appreciate the idea, the symbol and do not take things literally. That Saraswati is shown with four hands, and Brahma with four heads, is the clue provided by the artist that these figures embody ideas, not entities.
Human ideas are complex. Words are often not enough to communicate an idea. We need grammar. We need sentences. We need punctuations. We shift from prose to poetry, we use music and melody, even gestures and symbols, to communicate subtle refined ideas. Language has metaphors where known words are used to explain and elaborate unknown ideas and inexpressible emotions. Still ideas resist transmission. What is conveyed by the source is not received by the destination.
To communicate Vedic ideas to people, the sages decided to compose stories. Ideas then become characters. The relationship between ideas is communicated through relationships among characters. Characters have gender, and so the relationship between ideas ends up being expressed in sexual terms. When the characters are gods, indicated by their supernatural form, they serve as metaphors. They are vehicles for ideas that resist simple communication.Veda, which means knowledge, pays a lot of attention to reality that is visible and reality that is not visible.
▪️ Food is a reality that is visible. It is visualized in female form as Lakshmi, the goddess of fortune. The name Lakshmi is derived from ‘laksha’ which means target.
▪️ Hunger is a reality that is invisible. It is visualized in male form as Indra, the master of paradise, where all fortune is cornered.
▪️ The name Indra is derived from ‘indriya’ which means sense.
▪️ Indra chasing Lakshmi is then a metaphor for hunger chasing food. Indra rides elephants. The aroused, excited, uncontrollable elephant in the state of masht is how the poets describe Madan, or Kama, the god of uncontrollable craving.
▪️ Shiva who burns Madan then embodies the mind who controls craving. Shiva also beheads Brahma’s fifth head that sprouts as he chases Saraswati. Here, Brahma views Saraswati as entertainment to be consumed, rather than knowledge that will help him evolve.
▪️ In wisdom, Brahma realises that the point of creation is to feed the other. Animals eat and are eaten, but humans need to feed and be fed. This applies to food, as well as power, as well as knowledge. Saraswati created must be given away. In the process we gain insight and reflection.
Male forms are consistently used to depict mental states:
1. Brahma for craving
2. Indra for insecurity
3. Vishnu for empathy
4.Shiva for indifference
5. Kartikeya for restraint
6. Ganesha for contentment
Female forms are consistently used to depict material states.
1. Kali for the wild
2. Gauri for the cultivated
3. Lakshmi for resources
4. Saraswati for communication
5. Durga for battle
6. Uma for household
7. Annapurna for kitchen
8. Chamundi for crematorium
Why are male forms used to depict the invisible reality of the mind and female forms for the visible reality of matter? The reason is relatively simple if one appreciates the male and female anatomy from the point of view of the artist and the storyteller, who carry the burden of communicating Vedic ideas.
***
Get your copy of Sati Savitri by Devdutt Pattanaik wherever books are sold.
Celebrate International Women’s Day by diving into stories that shine a spotlight on the strength and wisdom of women everywhere! From health journeys to everyday adventures, these stories paint a vibrant picture of resilience and empowerment. Join us in discovering the remarkable impact of women’s voices in shaping our world.
Happy International Women’s Day!
Heal your Gut, Mind and Emotions || Dimple Jangda
Did you know your physical, mental and emotional well-being depends on your gut health? The healthier your gut, the better you are!
With the gut as a central axis of vigour, health coach Dimple Jangda has helped people all over the world recover from chronic diseases through a powerful combination of ancient Ayurvedic science, modern research and nutrition with a special emphasis on food chemistry.
In this comprehensive book, she shares the tools that shaped her life and advises on how you can use food to preserve your health and reverse diseases. She outlines a five-step process that will help you unlock the huge potentials of the gut and improve your gut–brain axis so it can share critical information with you on what the body truly needs.
Dimple’s goal is to empower people to use nutrition to prevent disease, and through this accessible, exhaustive book, shows you just how you can do that.
Common Yet Uncommon || Sudha Murthy
Meet these people: Bundle Bindu, so named because he likes his truth with a little embellishment, Jayant the shopkeeper who doesn’t make any profit, and Lunchbox Nalini, Sudha Murty herself, who brings her empty lunchbox-to be filled with food-wherever she goes!
Written in Sudha Murty’s inimitable style, Common Yet Uncommon is a heartwarming picture of everyday life and the foibles and quirks of ordinary people. In the fourteen tales that make up the collection, Sudha Murty delves into memories of childhood, life in her hometown and the people she’s crossed paths with. These and the other characters who populate the pages of this book do not possess wealth or fame. They are unpolished and outspoken, transparent and magnanimous.
Their stories are tales of unvarnished humans, with faults and big hearts.
Testament to the unique parlance of a small town, Common Yet Uncommon speaks a universal language of what it means to be human.
Roman Stories || Jhumpa Lahiri
In ‘The Boundary’, one family vacations in the Roman countryside, though we see their lives through the eyes of the caretaker’s daughter, who nurses a wound from her family’s immigrant past. In ‘P’s Parties’, a Roman couple, now empty nesters, finds comfort and community with foreigners at their friend’s yearly birthday gathering-until the husband crosses a line.
And in ‘The Steps’, on a public staircase that connects two neighbourhoods and the residents who climb up and down it, we see Italy’s capital in all of its social and cultural variegations, filled with the tensions of a changing city: visibility and invisibility, random acts of aggression, the challenge of straddling worlds and cultures, and the meaning of home.
These are splendid, searching stories, written in Jhumpa Lahiri’s adopted language of Italian and seamlessly translated by the author and by Knopf editor Todd Portnowitz.
Buddha in Love || Geetanjali Pandit
Geetanjali’s quest for happiness in relationships . . . failed. Time and again. A short-lived abusive marriage and its subsequent emotional, mental and social fallout forced her to question all her assumptions about romance and relationships. Buddha in Love distils all she learnt. We are not born relationship-ready. A loving partnership takes effort, and, contrary to what you might expect, to achieve it you have to work on yourself. What does it take to be in a successful relationship? Do all relationships look the same? Does a relationship equate to happiness? Why and when should you marry?
The Parents I Met || Mansi Zaveri
The one question that always comes with being a parent is, ‘Am I doing this right?’. Yet, the love we feel for our child is irrevocable. Parenting is probably the only relationship we’ll never walk out of. We are in it forever.
But today, somewhere in the rigmarole of life and material achievements, we forget these precious moments and start chasing that first place on the victory stand for our kids.
Featuring interviews conducted by Mansi Zaveri, the founder of the award-winning parenting platform Kidsstoppress.com, The Parents I Met is an anthology of her authentic conversations with parents of successful individuals who made it big against all odds. What was it that they did right while raising their kids to create the person their child is today? This is what she set out to find.
The challenges faced by each new generation may be unique, but the fundamental principles to overcome them remain the same. We hope that in these stories, you will find answers, advice or simply validation.
The Gallery || Manju Kapur
HE GALLERY pursues the question of what it takes for a woman to stand up for herself, through the intertwined lives of Minal and Ellora Sahni, wife and daughter of a successful New Delhi lawyer, and Maitrye and Tashi, wife
and daughter of the office peon at the Sahni law practice. In her new novel, Manju Kapur brings together themes of independence, identity and womanhood by focusing on a set of principal characters who are connected through work and physical proximity, yet separated by class and power.
All He Left Me Was a Recipe || Shenaz Treasury
Part fact, part fiction, All He Left Me Was a Recipe is a never-ending pursuit of love, a quest for the ever-elusive ‘Mr Right,’ all while kissing the ‘Mr Maybes’. It’s a rollercoaster ride through the fabulous and often hilariously complicated world of modern dating where love, lust and culinary metaphors are on the menu.
From ‘a-ha’ moments to giggles and even some epic heartbreaks with a fair share of tear-shedding, this book is a VIP pass to Shenaz Treasury’s heart in all its shapes and forms over the years. Every story wraps up with
a recipe—a memento from each of these unforgettable encounters—along with some timeless life lessons.
So, pour a glass of wine, get comfy and dive into a world that’ll make you laugh, shed a tear or two, and who knows, you might just find yourself along the way.
Move Better || Shikha Puri Arora
Have you woken up one day and noticed that your knee is suddenly hurting? Do you go through days managing spasms and sprains that you can’t really explain? All of this, even though you exercise regularly and have a fitness schedule?
The problem might be in how you move or how you sit, says popular rehab and movement coach, Shikha Puri Arora. In this practical and timely book, the Mumbai-based expert argues that the way we move, sit, stand, walk and carry ourselves reveals a lot about the quality of our health.
However, one doesn’t have to tolerate this discomfort anymore. This book—with its specially formulated Move Better course—offers easy, tried and tested solutions that are designed to make you pain-free in ten days.
Living at the peak of our well-being is the birthright of every individual. So, what are we waiting for? It’s time to move better.
iParent || Neha J Hiranandani
Born into a digital wonderland, our children are practically mini hackers right from the crib! Most of them were handed a device before they could walk, they clicked before they took their first bite and scrolled before they said their first words. But living online is a giant uncontrolled experiment. Cyberbullying, Internet addiction, body dysmorphia and other digital villains lurk in the shadows. How can parents ensure their kids navigate the digital world safely when there’s no rulebook?
Neha J Hiranandani’s iParent comes to the rescue! This book decodes India’s app generation and elevates the discussion beyond ‘these kids and their phones!’ Based on research, candid conversations and personal reflection, this timely book is a witty meditation on parenting in a digital world. Hilarious and informative in equal measure, iParent empowers you to connect with the new generation and guide them to cyber-safety without being a helicopter parent. No judgement, no preaching.
Fool Me Twice || Nona Uppal
Set in New Delhi, Fool Me Twice is an unconventional story that will stump readers expecting a good, old romance trope. We meet and fall in love with a young couple planning their futures together when life rudely hijacks the steering wheel. Exploring the ways a twenty-year-old navigates grief and life after a loss that shatters most fifty-year-olds, Fool Me Twice looks at the complexity of falling in love ‘again’ at an age where most are falling for the first time, and what it feels like to move on from mourning one great love to make room for another.
Lilliput Land || Rama Bijapurkar
India is already the world’s fifth-largest economy. Unlike most markets of its size, India is, and for a long time will be, driven by lots and lots of small consumers earning and spending just a little bit each, which adds up to an enormous amount. On the supply side, these consumers are served by numerous small, agile suppliers who challenge large companies by innovating to satisfy their price-performance demands. India’s vibrant digital revolution now offers the keys to cracking open this infamously tricky market. Digital business models will be the future of competition as they harness the power of the small and create large-scale businesses in the years to come. Lilliput Land provides a ‘people lens’ to understand the paradoxes and challenges that dot India’s market opportunity, and discusses the drivers and shapers of its future. A comprehensive three-part framework of structure-behaviour-supply discusses the present and future of India’s mega consumption story, the most exciting in the world, with over half of its GDP accounted for by domestic consumption. Consumer India is ripe and waiting.
Treasures of Lakshmi || Namita Gokhale
Treasures of Lakshmi is the culmination of the much-loved goddess series, brilliantly curated and edited by Namita Gokhale and Malashri Lal. This trilogy, which began with In Search of Sita and continued with Finding Radha, examines the mystical realms of Hindu thought and practice, celebrating the essence of the sacred feminine. Whether it is Lakshmi’s 108 names or a sahasranama of a thousand appellations, her blessings are multidimensional and eternal. as the third and final instalment of this remarkable trilogy, Treasures of Lakshmi takes readers on a unique journey of exploration, unravelling the compelling narrative of ‘the goddess who gives’.
The Nepal Cookbook || Rohini Rana
Rohini Rana, food connoisseur and the author of The Rana Cookbook, has travelled the length and breadth of Nepal interacting with different ethnic communities and recording in painstaking detail their recipes and knowledge of food and nutrition. The result is this remarkable book featuring a carefully curated selection of 108 recipes, each accompanied by stunning photographs. Its purpose is to offer readers a glimpse into the kaleidoscope that is Nepali cuisine. From the delicious rikikur (potato pancake) and the NewariHaans Ko Choela (barbecued tempered duck) to the lip-smacking momos, this book takes you on a captivating journey across Nepal—a journey that nourishes both your belly and your soul.
Burning Roses in My Garden || Taslima Nasrin
‘Have I not, having kept a man for years, learnt that it’s/ like raising a snake?/ So many animals on this earth, why keep a man of all things?’ writes one of the world’s most celebrated writers, Taslima Nasrin, in her first-ever comprehensive collection of poetry translated from the original Bangla into English. The poems get to the heart of being the other in exile, justifying one’s place in a terrifying world. They praise the comfort and critique the cruelty of a loved one. In these are loneliness, sorrow, and at times, exaltation. Relying almost entirely upon the free verse form, these poems carry a diction which is at once both gentle and fierce, revealing the experiences of one woman while defining the existence of so many generations of women throughout time, and around the world.
Tiger Season || Gargi Rawat
Sunaina Joshi is a reporter with a leading news channel.
Her day-to-day work involves reporting on urban-centric, health-related issues; myriad subjects that bore her, leaving her jaded. Her real passion is a life in the great outdoors, and reporting on wildlife and the environment, something she is unable to do as often as she would like. Unexpectedly, a fabulous opportunity falls into her lap when her channel is commissioned to run a campaign on tiger conservation, featuring a Bollywood star who is trying to resurrect his image and career following a drug scandal.
The shoot takes a dramatic turn when the television team finds itself in the middle of a local conflict and a heated incident involving a tiger attacking a forest guard. Controversy follows, with the decision to relocate the tiger to a zoo, leading to protests and fresh outrage over the action. To Sunaina’s dismay, she finds
herself becoming the epicentre of the converging controversies. Also complicating matters are the run-ins she has with the arrogant owner of the resort. But is her aggravation with him turning to attraction? Can she keep her wits about her while remaining professional about the things she loves?
Heart Tantrums || Aisha Sarwari
In this large and messy voice of a memoir, Heart Tantrums artfully describes the scatter of catastrophic losses-the loss of her father in early adolescence; leaving behind her family home in East Africa; and trying to fit into a completely different culture in Lahore after marriage. In 2017, when Aisha first held her husband Yasser Latif Hamdani’s brain MRI against the light, she began to also lose the man she loved to a personality-altering brain tumour.
Shadows at Noon || Joya Chatterji
Shadows at Noon is a bold, innovative and personal work that pushes back against standard narratives of ‘inherent’ differences between India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. Its purpose is to make contemporary South Asia intelligible to readers who are fascinated by the subcontinent’s cultural vibrancy and diversity but are often perplexed by its social and political make-up. And it illuminates the many aspects that its people have in common rather than what divides them.
The Empty Space || Geetanjali Shree
A bomb explodes in a university cafe, claiming the lives of nineteen students. The Empty Space begins with the identification of those nineteen dead. The mother who enters the cafe last to identify the nineteenth body brings home her dead eighteen-year-old son packed in a box, as well as the of the sole survivor blast, a three-year-old boy who, by a strange quirk of fate, is found lying in a small empty space, alive and breathing. The Empty Space chronicles the memories of the boy gone, the story of the boy brought home, and the
cataclysmic crossing of life and death.
I Hear You || Nidhi Upadhyay
Mahika is hoping that a baby will breathe new life into her dead marriage. But all her pregnancies meet the same fate, because no baby is perfect for Shivam, her genius geneticist husband. Until there is one. Rudra, the world’s first genetically altered foetus, is Shivam’s perfect creation and Mahika’s last hope.
The six-week-pregnant Mahika has just walked into her fertility clinic when she discovers an anonymous note that discloses the ugly truth behind her pregnancy. Before Mahika can come to terms with the fact that her husband’s quest for perfection has marked its territory in her womb, she finds herself locked in her own house. But then she discovers that her unborn son has extraordinary powers. As weeks pass by, Rudra calibrates and recalibrates his powers with one aim-Mahika’s freedom.
But Rudra needs more than his newly acquired powers to free his mother. He needs to betray his creator, his father. And he must do it before it’s too late.
Lab Hopping || Nandita Jayaraj, Aashima Dogra
From Bhopal to Bhubaneswar, from Bangalore to Jammu, Aashima Dogra and Nandita Jayaraj engage in thought-provoking conversations with renowned scientists like Gagandeep Kang, Rohini Godbole, Kiran Mazumdar-Shaw and Prajval Shastri, as well as researchers at earlier stages of their scientific careers. These dialogues about the triumphs and challenges faced by women offer fresh perspectives on the gender gap that continues to haunt Indian science today.
Our labs are brimming with inspiring stories of women scientists persisting in science despite facing apathy, stereotypes, and sexism to systemic and organizational challenges. Stories that reveal both a broken system and the attempts by extraordinary women working to fix it. By questioning whether India is doing enough to support its women in science and if western models of science and feminism can truly be applied in India, the authors not only offer a comprehensive examination of the state of women in science but also offer a roadmap for the way forward.
The Skincare Answer Book || Dr. Jaishree Sharad
As a leading celebrity dermatologist, Dr Jaishree Sharad gets inundated with skincare-related questions every day-be it at a public event, a party, in her magazine columns, or on her social media accounts. But knowing how to properly care for your skin can be very confusing, especially when there is so much advice and information out there.
Written in a Q&A format, The Skincare Answer Book helps you cut through the jargon by answering some of the most common skincare questions. From questions on skin types and skin routines to more specific topics like serums, acne, hyperpigmentation, sun allergies, hair loss, anti-aging, rosacea, layering of skin, common skin conditions like eczemas and skin infections, this book will arm you with all the information you need to care for your skin.
Praise for the book:’A book on skin care for all ages’ Amitabh Bachchan‘Numerous well-known clients on Dr Sharad’s long list attest to her reliability . . . May she achieve even more acclaim in the future’ Jaya Bachchan‘The best dermatologist I have known’ Dimple Kapadia‘One of the best skin doctors in the country’ Sanjay Dutt‘Doc is my one-point contact whenever my skin is under any kind of stress’ Alia Bhatt
Ever wondered what tales of resilience, courage, and empowerment lie within the lives of women worldwide? Dive into this handpicked selection of audiobooks, each offering a unique perspective and insight into the remarkable contributions of women from all walks of life. Let’s embark on a journey together to honor their strength and celebrate their stories this International Women’s Day!
Sita’s Ascent || Vayu Naidu
Sita has been sent to Valmiki’s ashram at Rama’s command never to return. This extraordinary novel is her story, she who as much as Rama, is at the heart of the Ramayana, one of the greatest living epics. It is also the story of Lakshmana, crushed by guilt on Sita’s abduction of Soorpanakka shocked at Ravana’s being struck by love, alien to the rakshasa’s code and of Rama’s turmoil when confronted by public gossip about Sita, his beloved wife. Through the remembrances of these and other characters, Sita comes alive as a figure of womanhood.
Inspired by myriad age old and culturally diverse retellings, Vayu Naidu creates a rich, deeply moving and original work of fiction. Sita’s ascent illuminates the physical and emotive landscape of a woman in exile, who crosses the desert of loss and ascends the abyss of abandonment with the power of love that transforms the narrators and the listeners.
The Force Behind the Forces || Swapnil Pandey
Who continues to pay the costs of war long after our soldiers are gone?
There are many stories of courageous heroes at the borders, but how much do we know about the women standing strong behind them?
The Force behind the Forces is a collection of seven true stories of eternal love, courage and sacrifice. Written by an army wife, Swapnil Pandey, this book brings to light moving stories of unimaginable valour in the face of broken dreams, lost hopes and shattered families. It proves that bullets and bombs can only pierce the bodies of our soldiers, for their stories will live on in the hearts of these brave women forever, women who have dedicated their lives to the nation, without even a uniform to call their own.
Common Yet Uncommon || Sudha Murty
Meet these people: Bundle Bindu, so named because he likes his truth with a little embellishment, Jayant the shopkeeper who doesn’t make any profit, and Lunchbox Nalini, Sudha Murty herself, who brings her empty lunchbox—to be filled with food—wherever she goes!
Written in Sudha Murty’s inimitable style, Common Yet Uncommon is a heartwarming picture of everyday life and the foibles and quirks of ordinary people. In the fourteen tales that make up the collection, Sudha Murty delves into memories of childhood, life in her hometown and the people she’s crossed paths with. These and the other characters who populate this book do not possess wealth or fame. They are unpolished and outspoken, transparent and magnanimous.
Their stories are tales of unvarnished humans, with faults and big hearts.
Testament to the unique parlance of a small town, Common Yet Uncommon speaks a universal language of what it means to be human.
Tomb of Sand || Geetanjali Shree
In northern India, an eighty-year-old woman slips into a deep depression after the death of her husband, and then resurfaces to gain a new lease on life. Her determination to fly in the face of convention–including striking up a friendship with a transgender person–confuses her bohemian daughter, who is used to thinking of herself as the more ‘modern’ of the two.
To her family’s consternation, Ma insists on travelling to Pakistan, simultaneously confronting the unresolved trauma of her teenage experiences of Partition, and re-evaluating what it means to be a mother, a daughter, a woman, a feminist.
Rather than respond to tragedy with seriousness, Geetanjali Shree’s playful tone and exuberant wordplay results in a book that is engaging, funny, and utterly original, at the same time as being an urgent and timely protest against the destructive impact of borders and boundaries, whether between religions, countries, or genders.
The Kargil Girl || Flt Lt Gunjan Saxena, Kiran Nirvan
In 1994, twenty-year-old Gunjan Saxena boards a train to Mysore to appear for the selection process of the fourth Short Service Commission (for women) pilot course. Seventy-four weeks of back-breaking training later, she passes out of the Air Force Academy in Dundigal as Pilot Officer Gunjan Saxena.
On 3 May 1999, local shepherds report a Pakistani intrusion in Kargil. By mid-May, thousands of Indian troops are engaged in fierce mountain warfare with the aim to flush out the intruders. The Indian Air Force launches Operation Safed Sagar, with all its pilots at its disposal. While female pilots are yet to be employed in a war zone, they are called in for medical evacuation, dropping of supplies and reconnaissance.
This is the time for Saxena to prove her mettle. From airdropping vital supplies to Indian troops in the Dras and Batalik regions and casualty evacuation from the midst of the ongoing battle, to meticulously informing her seniors of enemy positions and even narrowly escaping a Pakistani rocket missile during one of her sorties, Saxena fearlessly discharges her duties, earning herself the moniker ‘The Kargil Girl’. This is her inspiring story, in her words.
The JCB Prize for Literature has just unveiled its 2022 Longlist and we have three books in the run. Shortlist to be announced on 7th October 2022. Stay Tuned!
In northern India, an eighty-year-old woman slips into a deep depression after the death of her husband, and then resurfaces to gain a new lease on life. Her determination to fly in the face of convention – including striking up a friendship with a transgender person – confuses her bohemian daughter, who is used to thinking of herself as the more ‘modern’ of the two.
To her family’s consternation, Ma insists on travelling to Pakistan, simultaneously confronting the unresolved trauma of her teenage experiences of Partition, and re-evaluating what it means to be a mother, a daughter, a woman, a feminist.
Rather than respond to tragedy with seriousness, Geetanjali Shree’s playful tone and exuberant wordplay results in a book that is engaging, funny, and utterly original, at the same time as being an urgent and timely protest against the destructive impact of borders and boundaries, whether between religions, countries, or genders.
Can a life be like a jigsaw puzzle, pieces waiting to be conjoined? Like a game of hide-and-seek? Like playing statues? Can memories have colour? Can the sins of the father survive his descendants?
In a family – is it a family if they don’t know it? – that does not rely on the weakness of memory runs a strange register of names. The odd book of baby names has been custom-made on palace stationery for the patriarch, an eccentric king, one of the last kings of India, who dutifully records in it the name of his every offspring. As he bitterly draws his final breaths, eight of his one hundred rumoured children trace the savage lies of their father and reckon with the burdens of their lineage.
Layered with multiple perspectives and cadences, each tale recounted in sharp, tantalizing vignettes, this is a rich tapestry of narratives and a kaleidoscopic journey into the dysfunctional heart of the Indian family. Written with the lightness of comedy and the seriousness of tragedy, the playfulness of an inventive riddle and the intellectual heft of a philosophical undertaking, The Odd Book of Baby Names is Salim’s most ambitious novel yet.
Mumbai was almost submerged on the fatal noon of 26 July 2005, when the merciless downpour and cloudburst had spread utter darkness and horror in the heart of the city. River Mithi was inundated, and the sea was furious. At this hour of torturous gloom, Rohzin begins declaring in the first line that it was the last day in the life of two lovers, Asrar and Hina.
The arc of the novel studies various aspects of human emotions, especially love, longing and sexuality as sublime expressions. The emotions are examined, so is love as well as the absence of it, through a gamut of characters and their interrelated lives: Asrar’s relationship with his teacher, Ms Jamila, a prostitute named Shanti and, later, with Hina; Hina’s classmate Vidhi’s relations with her lover and others; Hina’s father Yusuf’s love for Aymal; Vanu’s indulgence in prostitutes.
Rohzin dwells on the plane of an imagination that takes readers on a unique journey across the city of Mumbai, a highly intriguing character in its own right.
“Women, they have minds, and they have souls, as well as just hearts. And they’ve got ambition, and they’ve got talent, as well as just beauty. I’m so sick of people saying that love is all a woman is fit for.”
Jo March’s words still resonate with women across the globe. This International Women’s Day, we’re here to help you understand their perspectives better with a handpicked selection of stories written by women!
Asha Devi is India’s youngest ever Prime Minister. She is twenty-nine years old, charismatic and driven. Elevated to power after the assassination of her father she must prove that she is more than just a dynasty.
As Asha struggles to retain her hold on power, defeat the terrorists, keep her family together, win over coalition partners and tackle the beast of 24×7 news TV, she never loses sight of one objective: She must track down the man who murdered her father.
Written in a cinematic, fast-moving style this book offers an insider’s view of how things move at the top echelons of government and gives us a rare peek into the underbelly of the TV news business. It also brings back Asha Devi, the much-admired heroine of Seema Goswami’s bestselling Race Course Road.
In the recent past, many writers have acquainted readers with the composite culture of Assam. Moushumi Kandali makes a similar attempt in The Black Magic Women, but with a stark difference. She brings her characters out of Assam and places them in the mainstream, capturing their struggle to retain their inherent ‘Assameseness’ as they try to assimilate into the larger society.
The stories makes one pause, think and debate issues that range from racial discrimination (‘The Fireflies Outside of the Frame’) to sexual harassment (‘The Hyenas and Coach Number One’, ‘Kalindi, Your Black Waters . . . ‘) to the existential and ideological dilemma induced by the state’s complex sociopolitical scenario (‘The Final Leap of the Salmon’). The title story is revealing of how mainstream India perceives Assamese women-as powered with the art of seduction and black magic-as a result of which they face social discrimination that can range from racial slurs to physical abuse.
The writer ventures into a surrealistic mode, using a generous sprinkle of fable, myth and metaphors to deliver a powerful punch. With all the shades of emotion these ten stories from the North-east evoke, the reader cannot remain a passive observer.
Gitanjali met Randeep Singh Taneja at a farm party in Delhi. He called himself ‘Randy’. He flirted with her; she resisted. She was a single mother, a divorcee, and Randy was five years younger. They became friends, went for walks in Lodhi Garden, had coffee in Khan Market, and he asked her hand in marriage. She refused, he beguiled her, they fell in love, and she said yes.
The couple moved to London and this is where the first signs of trouble began. Away from all that was familiar to her, Gitanjali began to notice that Randy was not all that declared to be. Random phone calls from women who claimed to either be his wife or his girlfriend, a child who called him ‘Papa’, photographs of Randy with other women, multiple cell phones…and for all this he had reasonable explanations that left her with no room for doubt.
Gitanjali thought she knew her husband. That is until she hadn’t opened his cell phone and found out about the many lives he was leading across the world.
This book is a dark and gripping story about a marriage gone wrong. It is a cautionary tale of how we may think we know someone when we really don’t.
This is an intimate account of the extraordinary life of Parukutty Nethyaramma, who went on to become one of the most powerful rulers of the Kingdom of Cochin.
At the tender age of fourteen, her marriage thrust her into a hostile world. Taking on her detractors, Parukutty stubbornly and fearlessly forged ahead to become a voice none could gainsay. Despite a seventeen-year age gap, she had built a special, unshakable bond with her husband. When he was crowned the sovereign ruler of Cochin, she vowed to support and protect his position throughout her life. Theirs was an enviable partnership of two incredible equals who together went on to break many traditional norms. At a time when women were relegated to the shadows, Parukutty travelled with her husband, participated in important discussions, and even went on to rule as his proxy. She became a force to be reckoned with in her own right.
Narrated by Parukutty’s own great-grandson and his wife, Raghu and Pushpa Palat, this deeply personal chronicle paints a vivid picture of a woefully understated icon from the twentieth century.
When Maneka Pataudi is arrested as the prime suspect for the murder of her ex-husband, she reveals a chilling tale of marital abuse and neglect.
But is her confession the truth or a lie? Is she telling the story as a victim or a perpetrator? And, is it better for women to kill for love or be killed for it?
Based on a true story (mostly), Boys Don’t Cry is a gripping, compelling and courageous novel that takes you behind the closed doors of a modern Indian marriage.
Humankind’s unrelenting mistreatment of our planet has finally led to a seemingly futile awareness of our acute shortage of time. What separates us from an oblivion preceded by excruciating pain and strife? The characters of this unique book, inspired by legends from lore and literature alike, pursue paths they believe are best for them and for their world. They are unaware of the flaws that distort their dreams. Divided into three parts, Suniti Namjoshi’s Dangerous Pursuits turns righteousness and virtue upon their heads, making for an irreverent and ruminative exploration of the beginning of the end of the world.
Usha Uthup, India’s undisputed icon of pop music, has enthralled an entire generation of listeners with her unforgettable voice and continues to do so. Completing fifty years as a professional singer in 2020 was just another milestone in her fabled career.
In this vivid biography, which was originally written in Hindi, Vikas Kumar Jha captures the entire arc of Uthup’s career in music. From her childhood days in Mumbai and her first gigs singing with jazz bands in Chennai’s glitzy nightclubs to her meteoric rise as India’s musical sensation and her philanthropic work, Jha covers it all and manages to weave a narrative that is colourful, inspiring and bound to keep any reader engrossed till the end.
This pitch-perfect English translation, by Srishti Jha, offers the reader a front-row seat to the life and times of the inimitable Usha Uthup.
The blind matriarch, Matangi-Ma, lives on the topmost floor of an old house with many stories. From her eyrie, she hovers unseeingly over the lives of her family. Her long-time companion Lali is her emissary to the world. Her three children are by turn overprotective and dismissive of her. Her grandchildren are coming to terms with old secrets and growing pains. Life goes on this way until one day the world comes to a standstill-and they all begin to look inward.
As certainties dissolve, endings lead to new beginnings. Structured with the warp of memory and the weft of conjoined lives, the narrative follows middle India, even as it records the struggles for individual growth, with successive generations trying to break out of the stranglehold of the all-encompassing Indian family.
Ebbing and flowing like the waves of a pandemic, the novel is a clear-eyed chronicle of the tragedies of India’s encounter with the Coronavirus, the cynicism and despair that accompanied it, and the resilience and strength of the human spirit.
Called ‘Noah’s Ark’ by an Oxford University scientist, SAI Sanctuary is an example of how Nature exists in a delicate balance. You cannot destroy Nature, and you cannot rearrange it without serious consequences to your existence.
Coming from two rich wisdom cultures, one Native American and one Indian, Pamela and Anil Malhotra made it their mission to salvage what they could in Kodagu, Karnataka, where years of illegal logging and poaching had ravaged the land and decimated the wildlife. Today, with the forests and the ecosystem restored, and the wildlife protected, this sanctuary is a treasure trove of a rich variety of indigenous trees and plants, and a refuge for numerous rare and threatened species of animals, some found nowhere else on the planet.
In this deeply fascinating and inspiring personal narrative, Pamela recounts how she connected and communicated with animals and trees at both physical and spiritual levels, and how the only way to save humanity is through understanding and preserving Nature.
Women of Influence is a compilation of the untold stories of ten women IAS officers who have walked the extra mile and made a difference despite facing major pressures in governance. Having worked in the civil services for thirty-seven years, Rajni Sekhri Sibal has been in a unique position to see things at close quarters, which is why she is able to present narratives that provide an insight into the challenges of being a woman IAS officer, and also highlight episodes where the protagonist displays immense courage and commitment during the most difficult of times.
The book relates accounts of how different protagonists responded to threats of violence post-death in police custody, to illegal mining by a sand mafia and to resistance to the introduction of technology in a government organization. Strategies adopted for making India Polio-free in 2011 and interventions to deal with the scrouge of human trafficking also provide interesting insights in the book. The narratives are inspiring tales of ten strong and efficient women of substance, and their extraordinary careers wherein they made a difference.
Sita, the beloved princess of Mithila, is one of the most revered women in Indian history; so well known, yet probably the least understood. At every crossroad of her life, she chose acceptance and grace over self-pity. Her life was filled with sacrifice yet wherever she was, there was abundance. It was as if she was carved out of intense longing for Rama, yet she had infinite patience. In every situation, she reflected his light and he reflected her love.
In her, we find someone who is so divine yet so human.
In this poignant narration, Bhanumathi shows us the world through the eyes of Sita. We think what Sita thinks, we feel what she feels, and for these few special moments, we become a part of her. And perhaps, through this perspective, and Sita’s immortal story, we will discover the true strength of a woman.
We hope you enjoyed this exclusive list curated to bring out the views and perspectives of women and their diverse voices.
Exuberance and dread, attachment and estrangement: in this novel, Jhumpa Lahiri stretches her themes to the limit. The woman at the center wavers between stasis and movement, between the need to belong and the refusal to form lasting ties. The city she calls home, an engaging backdrop to her days, acts as a confidant: the sidewalks around her house, parks, bridges, piazzas, streets, stores, coffee bars. We follow her to the pool she frequents and to the train station that sometimes leads her to her mother, mired in a desperate solitude after her father’s untimely death. In addition to colleagues at work, where she never quite feels at ease, she has girl friends, guy friends, and “him,” a shadow who both consoles and unsettles her. But in the arc of a year, as one season gives way to the next, transformation awaits. One day at the sea, both overwhelmed and replenished by the sun’s vital heat, her perspective will change. This is the first novel she has written in Italian and translated into English. It brims with the impulse to cross barriers. By grafting herself onto a new literary language, Lahiri has pushed herself to a new level of artistic achievement.
Here is an excerpt from the book Whereabouts by Jhumpa Lahiri:
The city doesn’t beckon or lend me a shoulder today. Maybe it knows I’m about to leave. The sun’s dull disk defeats me; the dense sky is the same one that will carry me away. That vast and vaporous territory, lacking precise pathways, is all that binds us together now. But it never preserves our tracks. The sky, unlike the sea, never holds on to the people that pass through it. The sky contains nothing of our spirit, it doesn’t care. Always shifting, altering its aspect from one moment to the next, it can’t be defined.
Whereabouts| Jhumpa Lahiri
This morning I’m scared. I’m afraid to leave this house, this neighborhood, this urban cocoon. But I’ve already got one foot out the door. The suitcases, purchased at my former stationery store, are already packed. I just need to lock them now. I’ve given the key to my subletter and I’ve told her how often she needs to water the plants, and how the handle of the door to the balcony sometimes sticks. I’ve emptied out one closet and locked another, inside of which I’ve amassed everything I consider important. It’s not much in the end: notebooks, letters, some photos and papers, my diligent agendas. As for the rest, I don’t really care, though it does occur to me that for the first time someone else will be using my cups, dishes, forks, and napkins on a daily basis.
Last night at dinner, at a friend’s house, everyone wished me well, telling me to have a wonderful time. They hugged me and said, Good luck! He wasn’t there, he had other plans. I had a nice time anyway, we lingered at the table, still talking after midnight.
I tell myself: A new sky awaits me, even though it’s the same as this one. In some ways it will be quite grand. For an entire year, for example, I won’t have to shop for food, or cook, or do the dishes. I’ll never have to eat dinner by myself.
I might have said no, I might have just stayed put. But something’s telling me to push past the barrier of my life, just like the dog that pulled me along the paths of the villa. And so I heed my call, having come to know the guts and soul of this place a little too well. It’s just that today, feeling slothful, I’m prey to those embedded fears that don’t dissipate.
When Rohini married Ranjith and moved to the ‘big city’, they had already planned the next five years of their life: job, home, and then child. After three years of marriage and amidst increasing pressure from family, they decided to seek medical help to conceive. But they weren’t prepared for what came next-not only in terms of the invasive, gruelling and deeply uncomfortable nature of infertility treatment but also the financial and emotional strain it would put on their marriage, and the gnawing shame and feeling of inadequacy that she would experience as a woman unable to bear a child.
What’s a Lemon Squeezer Doing in My Vagina? is a witty, moving and intensely personal retelling of Rohini’s five-year-long battle with infertility, capturing the indignities of medical procedures, the sting of prying questions from friends and strangers, the disproportionate burden of treatment on the woman, the everyday anxieties about wayward hormones, follicles and embryos and the overarching anxiety about the outcome of the treatment. It offers a no-holds-barred view of her circuitous and highly bumpy road to motherhood.It was 8 a.m. on a Saturday and the reception area was already packed with couples at various stages of treatment. As first-time visitors, we paid the registration fee and went into a consultation room. A bespectacled, presumably junior consultant motioned us to sit down and began inquiring into our condition, reading out queries from a four-page data sheet in her hand and filling it in as the Q&A progressed.
There were questions on our medical history, the nature of my menstrual cycle, our lifestyle, hereditary diseases and, of course, the most critical query: how long we had been trying to conceive. That probably did not tick all the boxes, so what followed was a point-by-point probing of our sex life.
‘How often do you have intercourse?’
‘Once or twice a week.’
‘When was the last time you had intercourse?’
‘Last Sunday.’
‘Have you experienced any sexual dysfunction?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any history of sexually transmitted diseases?’
‘No.’
Our tone was flat and deadpan, betraying none of the unease we felt, as if it were routine to discuss the schedule and specifications of our sex life. Of course, only I spoke.
Ranjith leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and uttered a syllable or two when a question was specifically directed at him. He had come there only for me.
Once the patient history form was filled up the doctor said she would have to examine me and pointed to a bed in the same room. I knew what was coming and didn’t look forward to it, but agreed obediently. Removing my shoes, I stepped on a two-rung stool and climbed onto the steel examination table while she drew a curtain around it.
‘Please remove your pyjamas,’ she ordered.
I loosened the knot of my salwar, pulled it down along with my underwear and lay down on my back. She wore her gloves, dipped her index and middle fingers in jelly and inserted them inside my vagina, feeling the contours of my insides in rough, rapid moves. I held my breath, interlocked my fingers tightly and focused unblinkingly on the ceiling.
What’s Lemon Squeezer Doing In My Vagina | Rohini S. Rajagopal
After a few seconds she noted, ‘There is nothing anatomically wrong with your body.’
‘Hmm,’ I exhaled. The only thing I cared for was the departure of the groping fingers and restoration
of dignity to my half-naked self.
Back at the table, she handed us a printout that laid down the next steps. ‘Please come back once you finish all the tests on this sheet,’ she said. We nodded dutifully and stepped out of the room, our to-do list in hand. We chose the diagnostics lab first. There were twenty odd tests to strike off the list—from HIV to blood sugar to the various hormones that govern reproduction. The phlebotomist1 indicated a student chair and asked me to place my extended arm on the foldable writing pad. He drained several millilitres of my blood into colour-coded vials. I did not fear needles and breathed easily through the prick of skin and tightness of strap. It was certainly easier than offering access to the inner recesses of my vagina.
Once I was done, Ranjith sat on the same chair and went through the same motions. Next was sperm collection. A male technician handed Ranjith a small plastic container with a white label on it. He asked him to make use of a room at the opposite end of the corridor with the sign ‘Sample Collection’ outside. Ranjith hid the cup in his closed fist and walked into the room. As the door closed I caught a fleeting glimpse of its interiors—peeling walls and a broken chair. I sat on the bench, facing the closed door, trying to block all thoughts. After fifteen minutes he emerged.
The final stop was ultrasound. I was led into a room overpowered by medical equipment and asked to lie down on a long, narrow bed. My salwar and underwear rested on hooks in the bathroom. A chirpy radiologist photographed the insides of my uterus with the transducer, noting down measurements of my ovaries on paper. Once or twice she yelped in delight at the images that appeared on the screen.
‘Excellent. A triple lining!’ she said. I maintained my breathless silence, again fixated only on when the ultrasound probe would be withdrawn from my vagina.
As soon as Ranjith and I stepped into the clinic, it was as if an invisible wall had emerged to separate us—husband and wife—snapping the lines and wires of marital communication. We walked around the clinic like zombies, taking instructions, undoing zippers, lowering underwear, offering arms for needles . . . It was like a spontaneous, self-imposed blockade. We resisted processing the happenings around us. We resisted conversation. We resisted each other’s eyes even, each feeling sickeningly guilty that the other had been dragged into such a distasteful setting.
We had come in expecting the privacy and safety of a cosy consultation room, but the fertility clinic turned out to be an open parade in which our self-respect and dignity were systematically poked, squeezed and drained out. It was only about one and a half hours later, when the stripping and skinning were complete, that we were ushered into the cabin of the doctor we had come to meet in the first place.
Impetuous Women is about women who step across the Lakshman Rekha, whose transgressions fly in the face of the establishment, the patriarchy, often their own families and loved ones. From two housewives who play a potentially lethal game of keeping up to an expert baker who serves revenge with chocolate sprinkles on top; from a stern hostel warden who examines her relationship with the teenagers she must surveil to a grouchy widow shuts out the world; from a couple madly in love and desperate for a bit of privacy to a tender bond between a husband and wife, these stories create an unforgettable portrait of modern-day India and the experiential realities of being impetuous, of being women.
Here’s an excerpt from the book, Impetuous Women:
I could have moved at that very instant, if I wanted to. I’m a verb after all. But I decided to wait for the right moment. Having been inert for so long, I wanted to savour it. I mean really savour it. So, here I am, narrating the events of the last poetry meeting She-poet ever attended. If I had fingers, I’d rub them in glee! Someone had dropped me during a meeting. Thereafter, unnoticed, I slipped and slid around the table at the centre of the grey conference room, until I finally found a crack in the wood. I remained there, half-buried by a sticky blanket of grey-black erased words, each wrapped tightly in its casing of rubber. I was, for once, watching things unfold around me instead of being in the thick of it. The conference room was inside a squat grey building, which was a cultural centre and library.
There was also an auditorium. The other rooms were full of books and magazines, and soft piped music. Bulletins about cultural activities and happenings in the city were tacked on to felt- covered notice boards in the main hall. Everything inside was grey. The walls were grey. The tables were grey. The chairs were tubular steel with grey foam seats. Even the floor was a greasy grey colour. The conference room had a glossy calendar with a blood red arty print. It was the only bright thing in the room. But it was so arty that it failed to make things cheery.
It is a funny thing. I must have been in that room dozens of times, before my involuntary and sudden
imprisonment within the table, but I had never bothered to look around properly. I had never truly seen the room and its inhabitants. I had never breathed in its atmosphere, so to speak. But once I was bundled up in the crack, I began to observe people closely. Perhaps that is why I was able to understand her the way others in the grey room never would.
She-poet was one among the two-dozen odd poets who gathered in the grey room every fortnight to read
the poems they had written according to a theme chosen in the previous meeting. They assembled at six on the dot in the evening, which was close to dinner time for some of them. I watched them squirm when their stomachs grumbled, and cough to cover up for the sound. The others ignored these un-poetic sounds, and continued with the reading, discussing the merits and demerits of the poems, in soft cultured voices, careful not to irk one another, at least not too much. They reminded me of student ballet dancers doing pirouettes in front of a distinguished surprise-visitor at school.
Each poet brought a sheaf of poem-bearing papers. These were distributed to the members present, and extras were put away on one side of the table for latecomers. Some were habitually late. She-poet was one of them. She was late not because she was tardy by nature, but because she hated the city. The language was strange to her, even though they were all from the same country, and the locals treated her as if she was an unwanted foreigner. You could tell by the way she blundered in that she had not come out of her house until it was nearly time for the poetry reading to begin. She was relatively, but only relatively, new to the city. She had lived in a cleaner, quieter place before, another country. She was used to wide expanses of greenery between her and other people. Some water had flowed under the bridge since, so now the ‘being used to’ bit was more of a mind thing than what being used to really meant.
Nevertheless, She-poet remained faithfully wistful about her past expatriate status.
Impetuous Women | Shikandin
She had spent many years away, and after her return, felt overwhelmed by the blatant consumerism that had mushroomed all over her homeland. The country was now dirtier and more chaotic. She could not bear the sloppiness, the lack of civic sense in her fellow countrymen. It seemed to her that the new-found wealth had taught them nothing good; if anything, the sudden money was making everyone behave worse than ever.
She-poet found it difficult to come to terms with those who were less impressed by foreign things, and had travelled to more places in the world than she, without ever having been an expatriate. She was dismayed too, by the poverty on the pavements outside glittering hotels and malls, festering like the weeping sores of lepers. She-poet had many complaints. And though she took care not to voice them openly, her secret privations remained unresolved. And unknown to her, she was observed by others with pursed lips. ‘I remember a land that was poor but genteel,’ she once told the poets, after they had reacted blandly to one of her sugary patriotic poems.
A professor of English, sporting a French-cut beard and a thick provincial accent, held up the paper which contained her poem and said, ‘So, according to you, that is the patrimony we deserve after being colonized?’ Before She-poet could think of a suitable retort, a member giggled and said that perhaps she was disappointed because they had progressed so much during the years she had lived abroad. There was a mocking silence as She-poet struggled to reply. The words were half-formed inside her head, but her tongue was too slow to lob them. A silver-haired lady with spectacles so thick that they looked like glass blinkers, and who was the de facto convener of the meetings, looked around owlishly for two or three seconds before reciting an absentee member’s poem loudly. She-poet lost her chance, and inwardly fumed for the rest of the session.
Another time, another professor-poet, who, despite having a doctorate in English and being the principal
of a suburban college, could barely write grammatically correct English, annoyed her so much that she didn’t attend many sessions after that. He called himself a poet, wrote poetry and got it published. It was another matter that the books were shabbily printed by an obscure vanity press. Some gossiped that it was his own publishing house, set up to make money off desperate poets. Barely- literate-professor-poet also enjoyed bashing the erstwhile colonizers in his poetry and lectures. Nothing the ex- rulers did was good. But he had taken pains to get his degrees in English literature, albeit from questionable institutes, and had got his first job as a lecturer of English through much palm-greasing and bum-kissing. He was ingratiatingly nice to the other academics in the group. He seemed desperate to cling to a group of poets writing in the English language. The others knew that he had succeeded over the years because of his ability to hobnob with people with political clout, people who could fund and sanction arts grants and awards.
