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Shanta Gokhale’s Literary Memoir

Book Review by Bhaskar Parichha

Title: Of Ancestors and Friends: A Life with Books

Author: Shanta Gokhale

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books 

Shanta Gokhale’s Of Ancestors and Friends: A Life with Books is an unusual kind of literary memoir. It is neither a conventional autobiography nor a conventional work of criticism. Instead, it occupies an intimate space between the two, tracing a life’s intellectual and emotional history through books. For Gokhale, reading is not merely a habit or a professional necessity; it is a way of living, thinking, and making sense of the world. The result is a book that is at once personal, erudite, playful and deeply reflective.

Gokhale begins with a simple but revealing confession: reading has been the strongest and longest thread running through her eighty-five years. She began reading at seven, reading seriously at twelve, and over the decades discovered, as she puts it, “ancestors and friends”. The distinction is important.

Some books become intellectual ancestors, shaping how we think and see; others become friends, returning at different stages of life and revealing something new each time. The Covid lockdown, which provided her with the time and solitude to reread many of these works, becomes the immediate occasion for this literary journey.

Gokhale brings together criticism and memory. She writes about writers as diverse as Jean-Paul Sartre, Jane Austen, Naguib Mahfouz, Salman Rushdie and Kazuo Ishiguro, alongside major Indian writers such as Shri Na. Pendse, Kiran Nagarkar, U.R. Ananthamurthy and Alka Saraogi. Yet these are not detached academic exercises. Gokhale approaches literature as a living experience. She asks what these books mean to her now, what they meant when she first encountered them, and what they reveal about society, politics, human relationships and the changing world.

Her perspective as an Indian reader gives the discussions an additional dimension. Familiar works are viewed from a location that is neither wholly Western nor narrowly Indian. This enables her to make connections across cultures and literary traditions without reducing one to the other. Her reading is comparative, but never mechanical. The books are allowed to speak in their own voices while being placed within the larger questions of history and contemporary life.

Translation and the craft of writing form another important strand of the memoir. Gokhale’s reflections on the translator’s responsibility demonstrate her sensitivity to language, context, and cultural nuance. Translation, in her understanding, is not simply the transfer of words from one language to another. It involves interpretation, empathy and difficult choices about voice and meaning. Her experience as a writer, critic and translator gives these observations the authority of practice rather than theory.

What makes Of Ancestors and Friends particularly engaging is its refusal to behave like a conventional critical book. Gokhale deliberately calls it a “ramble”. She announces that she does not want to hear the “sound of those shackles” of deadlines, word counts and imposed structures that have accompanied her sixty years of writing. She wants to digress, follow anecdotes, abandon order when necessary and write simply for the pleasure of writing. That freedom becomes part of the book’s charm.

The anecdotes about her reading life are among its most delightful passages. The excitement of finding a long-sought book in a dusty second-hand bookstore, the mystery contained in inscriptions in old books, and the affectionate possessiveness of a true bibliophile are described with wit and warmth.

Her encounters with writers and playwrights from Maharashtra bring another personal dimension to the narrative. These episodes prevent the book from becoming overly cerebral and remind us that literature is ultimately connected with people, places, friendships and lived experience.

There is also an implicit philosophy of reading here. Gokhale demonstrates that rereading is not repetition. We change, and therefore the books change with us. A novel encountered in youth may acquire an entirely different significance in old age. Characters once admired may become troubling; passages once overlooked may suddenly appear profound. In this sense, it  is as much about the changing reader as it is about the books being read.

The book’s intellectual richness never entirely overwhelms its humaneness. Gokhale writes with the confidence of a seasoned literary practitioner but also with the curiosity of someone who has never lost the pleasure of discovering a book. Her prose combines critical sharpness with humour, anecdote with analysis, and scholarship with accessibility.

The book, in a nutshell, is a celebration of the life of the mind—and of the enduring companionship that books can offer. It reminds us that reading is not an escape from life but one of the ways in which life becomes more intelligible. Gokhale’s literary ancestors have shaped her, her fictional friends have accompanied her, and rereading has allowed her to meet them again. In sharing those encounters, she invites readers to look back at their own bookshelves and remember the books that, in one way or another, made them who they are.

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Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.

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Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assam 

Title: Her Hajj Story: Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assam 

Author: Teresa Rehman

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Trudging along the long, crammed alley, lit up by the radiant shops, I searched hard for Hajj memoirs written by women. The shopkeepers looked on vaguely, and were bewildered when I asked them for one. One of them told me that he had had copies of one such memoir but it was sold out now. I was dismayed; would there be second editions of such books, I wondered. And if so, who could these women who wrote them be? A shopkeeper, dressed in a fancy t-shirt and a crochet skull cap, tried to cheer me up. ‘We have a couple of books on Hajj written by men in case you are interested,’ he said ebulliently. I dismissed him with a smirk.

Having been unsuccessful in my first attempt, I changed my tactic. Instead of shops and publishers, I began raiding homes in the lanes of the old Muslim localities. I scavenged through forgotten trunks, dull, dreary cupboards, secret nooks and crannies. Some memoirs were lost forever, some unexpectedly tumbled out of curio collections of a few punctilious family members, who refused to junk old stuff. Sons and daughters revisited their mother’s memory through her Hajj memoir. For some, it was a matter of pride that somebody in their family had written a book, while some had hazy memories of a ragged lost book that they couldn’t seem to trace anywhere.

Begging, borrowing, (almost stealing), I managed to retrieve an exhaustive collection of women-written Hajj memoirs, some dating back to the time when flights were not available and one had to undertake the arduous journey by ship from Mumbai. Most houses only had a single copy, and the families begrudgingly gave me a photostat copy instead.

It is a unique tradition among Muslim women, especially in Assam and Meghalaya (then Assam) to write a memoir about their Hajj experience. Written mostly in their native language (Assamese; one was in Bangla) these memoirs were meant mostly for private circulation among family and friends. Most of these women painstakingly wrote in longhand, got it typeset manually and then sent to the printing presses. These were popularly dubbed as Hajj yatras or Hajj kathas, and instead of being dull notes, they were a series of insightful stories of a rather regimented travel through a strange and breathtaking land.

It was not that every memoir I came across was a literary masterpiece. While some were undoubtedly remarkably well-crafted, others read more like collections of rambling thoughts. The educational credentials of these women also ranged from middle school to a doctorate. Yet, whatever their background, these women were articulate enough to reflect on their experiences, gather their thoughts, and celebrate a collective human experience. For some, the pilgrimage had been life-changing, and they focused solely on the spiritual aspect of Hajj. Others explored and observed the people and places with a more touristy eye. Together, these memoirs add to the richness and diversity of literature written by women.

A prospective pilgrim, therefore, found these Hajj memoirs accessible, and an uncomplicated and easy-to-understand handbook, especially since they were written in their mother tongue. They also became spaces for women to speak their minds and challenge societal taboos, such as discussing menstruation during Hajj. Furthermore, the authors were able to carve out a sisterhood—an emotional connection and a supportive circle among family members, distant relatives, acquaintances and friends. Meant mostly for private circulation, the memoirs created a space within the spheres of domesticity and familiarity, without attracting public glare or media attention. For many families, they were a part of their heirloom.

The contents of these memoirs ranged across a variety of real-life concerns, practical advice, reflections and emotions. They were also a way for women to reclaim agency in storytelling and expand our understanding of the human experience. Their narratives were never entirely spiritual—at one had they spoke boldly of their anxiety about the Hajj rituals and whether they would be able to perform them correctly, on the other, there were more worldly and practical discussions about the unbearable desert heat, the fear of losing oneself or a dear one in the overwhelming crowd, menstruation, the lack of adequate toilets, luggage, food, sanitation, and hygiene. They also talked about souvenirs and memories they had carried back with them. Some of these books even had an ISBN number and a sprinkling of Arabic, Urdu and Persian words here and there, which is part of the daily usage of the community.

It is often seen that religious narratives are appropriated by men. Throughout history, male dominance has shaped religious institutions and social mores. Men often appropriate religious narratives by acting as the principal interpreters and gatekeepers of doctrine. However, women’s voices come through in these memoirs when they talk about taboo topics like purity and impurity during menstruation, while on the sacred journey. A woman is made to realise that she is physically not pure enough while she is menstruating. Lack of reprieve from certain perceived duties and existing rituals put the onus of shame on the woman. The memoirs become complete because they talk freely about these taboo topics as they were meant for private circulation among their female relatives. They were uninhibited about their experiences as they had an audience in mind. Instinctively, maybe they did not expect men to read them or use them as guidebooks.

(Extracted from Her Hajj Story: Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assam by Teresa Rehman. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2026.)

ABOUT THE BOOK

What does Hajj look like through the eyes of women?

In Her Hajj Story, award-winning journalist Teresa Rehman uncovers a remarkable yet forgotten tradition of Hajj memoirs written by women from Assam. A widow completes the pilgrimage after her husband dies and is buried in Medina. A single woman struggles to find a mehram, a suitable male family member as companion, before setting out. A poet stands on the deck of a ship, mesmerised by the moonlit Red Sea. A botanist searches for the deeper fragrance of faith beyond ritual. A social worker carries the prayers of an old-age home to the holy cities. Through eleven compelling narratives— translated from Assamese and Bengali, and interwoven with historical insight—these voices reveal journeys of faith, endurance, grief, wonder, and transformation.

Rich in cultural detail and deeply human, these forgotten memoirs emerge as far more than accounts of pilgrimage. They reveal an extraordinary literary tradition in which ordinary women became chroniclers of history, preserving family memories, practical wisdom and deeply personal encounters with the sacred. Blending travel writing, oral history, ethnography and literary recovery, Her Hajj Story is both a celebration of an overlooked tradition of Muslim women’s writing from Northeast India and a moving testament to faith, resilience and the enduring power of women’s voices.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Teresa Rehman is an award-winning journalist based in Northeast India. For years, she has brought the region’s diversity and distinct ethos to mainstream media through her work with India Today, The Telegraph, and Tehelka, before founding and editing Thumbprint Northeast Magazine. Her books include The Mothers of Manipur (Zubaan Books) and Bulletproof (Penguin Random House India).

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Homecoming

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: Homecoming

Author: Omair Ahmad

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

 From the title of this novella, Homecoming, one can guess that a particular place becomes the focal point in the unravelling of the story, and that place is none other than Lucknow, seeping in past history, a promise of grace that the city was famed for, and a unique brand of Nawabi culture. The novel opens with a ‘Prologue’ where we are told that Hassan’s wife Samina has decided to leave Lucknow after she discovered that a small monument with a grave had been destroyed and the calligraphy over it had been vandalised. From that vantage point, Omair Ahmad, an eminent novelist, tactfully gives us the entire history through rendition given by three characters – Hassan, Ahmed Sahib and Sam or Samina narrate the story in four independent segments.

 Hassan originally belonged to a Reddy family in Hyderabad and was of mixed parentage with a father steeped in communist ideology. His father married a Muslim lady from Patna. After several years, when they quarreled and fell apart, Hassan, a dentist by profession, left for Lucknow in search of a stable job. That became his home for almost twenty-five years. After years of trying to belong to Lucknow, once a city of poetry and grace where he had hoped to find something of the father he had lost, Hassan meets a kindred spirit—Ahmed sahib, an elderly man of quiet warmth and dignity, although diminished in circumstance. Unable to pay his professional fees, Ahmed sahib accepts Hassan’s proposal to show him around the city of Lucknow with the hope that it would become his home and gives him the gift of unspoken friendship. He believed that the city was too close to him. Sometimes, he thought, everything had changed, and sometimes he thought nothing had. In the company of this man, the city opened itself to him, parting ever so slightly, slowly making him its own in a way he had not felt in all the years he had lived there.

Ahmed sahib himself was an abandoned son, had no siblings, no wife or child, but was still connected to a wider family. It was through his connections with an extended family that the novelist depicts the lifestyle and stories of old Lucknow with its begums, kothas, tawaifs, courtesans, old havelis[1], music being practiced by so many great artists, intricacies of inheritance etc.  

The third and the most significant protagonist is Sam or Samina, who was born in Lucknow, though she didn’t know that, and as an orphan went to live and grow up in London with her aunt and uncle. In college she fell in love with Urdu calligraphy and the Lucknawi style, and she managed to receive a fellowship from the Royal Historical Society to go to Lucknow to study calligraphy on the tombs of the noblewomen there.

Her aunt used to receive a letter once every six months from Badinani in Lucknow, from a great aunt called Begum Waheed, who briefed regularly about the myriad people she still thought of as her family, even if she hadn’t met most of them. At first Sam was afraid because she felt she was entering a world where everybody was an aunt or uncle, or a great-aunt or great-uncle. But gradually she becomes slightly more stable.  

Hassan and Samina meet and gradually fall in love with the machinations of Ahmed sahib. When Ahmed sahib dies, the two of them felt orphaned once more. Hassan concludes his narrative by telling us that he was no longer the man he had been before he met Ahmed sahib, before he learned of all he was to so many people. It had taken a year after his death for him and Samina to discover each other, and when she offered him her name, he knew he could never let her go. The concluding lines of the novella are striking:

“I will let Samina rescue me from Lucknow, as her parents were once rescued by exile, and go haunt another land. I think Ahmed sahib would forgive me, I think he would even approve.”

Spare, nostalgic and moving, Omair Ahmad’s new novella is a meditation on love, lost and gained, dwelling on ideas of family, home and belonging. A wonderful read and the novelist should be congratulated for it.

[1] Kothas– brothels; Tawaifs– courtesans; Havelis– old palatial houses

Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.

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The Forest of Snow

Title: The Forest of Snow

Author: Swami Ramananda Bharati

Translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

There is a shelter called ‘Hoti’ almost half a mile above from here. This place was exactly below Hoti Pass. We stayed at Kalajabar, but several of our companions went and put up at Hoti. It was also called ‘Chor Hoti’ and was 15,000 feet above the sea level.

Today is the 13th of Asharh and we will have to cross Hoti Pass today. This pass was the confluence of life and death. The road was inaccessible and covered with snow. The highest peak in this pass was 18,300 feet above the sea level. The locals call these high peaks ‘katha’. If wind arose while crossing this katha, it would blow away any rider. If there was a cloud, the rider would be buried in the snow and there would be no sign of the carrier, the ox or the goats. Again, excessive cold would also give rise to tribulation. If the humans or the animals stumbled and fell, there would be no trace of their bodies. This was the condition of the road and if one didn’t walk for nine miles today, there wouldn’t be any place to take a rest. So, everyone woke up at 4 a.m. to start the journey. Our leader Kedar Singh shouted and woke everyone up, ‘Get up, today we will have to cross the katha.’

Everyone got up from their beds and came outside. After finishing the morning rituals, they started preparing for the journey. The jhabbu was prepared for me to climb on. My servants came and told me, ‘Today you will have to wear pajamas and laam.’

In Tibetan, shoes were known as ‘laam’. They were made of fur and looked somewhat like hunting boots. It served both the purpose of shoes and socks. I wore the laam and pajamas and didn’t forget to wear the other woolen clothes… I covered my head and ears with a warm cap. After that I tied the turban very strongly on top of it. In this manner, I wore a strange attire and climbed on the jhabbu’s back. My servant handed me some pepper and palm candy and said, ‘If you feel cold, put these in your mouth.’ I said, ‘Thank you’, and accepted them.

On other days everyone was in a jovial mood when they commenced their journey, and they walked with enthusiasm. Today however, everyone’s face was dry, and their movement wasn’t encouraging at all. In this way all of us started travelling in a single file. The bridle of my jhabbu was in Kharga Singh’s hands, who moved ahead of me. Vishnu Singh moved behind us, beating the jhabbu to keep it in motion. After that, several jhabbus, five or six yaks and four or five horses followed us. Each of these animals had a carrier upon its back. Again, behind them many people followed in a serial manner. Kedar Singh and five or six others moved very slowly ahead of me. This road was so narrow that two people or two animals couldn’t move side by side. No one spoke a word; everyone was cautious about his movement. The sun rose; the wonderful Himalayan scenery was in front of us; but who would watch it? Everyone was too occupied in seeing where they were stepping and chanting holy prayers in their mind.

I was quite all right all this while, but now my hands and feet felt like freezing and my breathing turned very slow. I couldn’t sit any further on the jhabbu’s back, but there wasn’t any other way. There was no place to alight from the jhabbu’s back, when suddenly, the bull stopped its movement. Finding no other option, my servants pulled me down from the animal’s back; I stood there perplexed. What I saw in front of me was awful. The path in front had subsided with snowfall. Seeing that my carrier had stopped in his tracks. After getting rid of my weight, it started climbing the mountain straight up. The other carriers also followed suit. The travellers also moved in that direction.

I could not move and I kept standing there like a zombie. My servants pulled both my arms and said, ‘What are you trying to do? Come on, this place is not suitable for taking a rest. It will be dangerous as the day advances; if clouds assemble or there is a strong wind, none of us will survive.’ They pulled both my arms and ushered me upwards. Just as an antelope climbs up a tree with its front paws, I too kept on walking with the help of my two assistants and managed to climb the mountain. After walking in this manner for about an hour, we came to a comparatively better path. Now, I was able to walk without support from others. After walking for some time, I looked in front and saw a mountain peak and plenty of fog below. We would have to cross this snowy stretch and reach the top of the peak. It would not only be very difficult but dangerous too.

We continued walking in a queue, one person following the other. No one was sitting upon their animals’ backs anymore. The animals were also following us. After walking for a while, we came close to the snow. There was no sign of any path here; all the land had disappeared under blankets of snow and moreover, the place was very slippery. From here we would have to walk in this snow for about a mile until we found signs of the pathway once again.

Kedar Singh said, ‘The jhabbus and the yaks will go before us, and we will follow them. The goats and sheep will come behind us because the jhabbus and the yaks know the way. They would be able to select the safe route. Also, we will step on the footprints left by the jhabbus and the yaks and cross this dangerous place safely.’

That was exactly how things took place. By following the jhabbus and their footprints, we crossed the snow safely and came to the path. Now it wasn’t so fearful anymore. We spoke to each other comfortably and arrived at the top of the mountain at around 11 a.m. This place was 18,300 feet above the sea level. Smiles returned upon everyone’s faces. Overwhelmed with joy, they cheered to their individual gods and said, ‘There is no more fear. We have crossed the katha.’

The natural beauty of this place was unimaginable even by a poet. The high snow-white Himalayan peaks stood like pillars on all four sides; the blue sky spread like a canopy on top of it, as if it had been decorated to offer shelter to the fatigued travellers. One could imagine the wide stones to be seats in the middle of the pavilion; from a distance the pleasant and soothing sound of the mountain river seemed to be asking about the whereabouts of the fatigued travellers, and different species of mountain birds were welcoming them with their very sweet voice. I was a fatigued traveller. I couldn’t resist the warm welcome of nature and therefore sat down there. My companions also sat there to take a rest. Now the cold had been reduced with the heat of the sunrays and there wasn’t any trace of clouds in the sky. With the rays of the sun, the mountains all around seemed golden, and the clear blue sky seemed to be opening up its breast and embracing the huge, snowy mountain peaks.

Seeing this eternal scenery of the Himalayas, I lost myself. I wanted to stay here forever but my companions were impatient. One of them pulled my hand and lifted me. ‘You cannot sit here any longer. This mountain has no wood, grass, or water. We won’t get firewood unless we walk another four miles ahead, and so even tea cannot be prepared. We will die if we don’t drink tea or have food. Come on, now we must move downhill, and today’s descent is even more difficult than the ascent.’

I got up. They walked in front of me, and I kept on following them.

After we had travelled for a while, I realised why the descent was more difficult than the ascent. It was as if I had to climb down from the sky to the underworld. The yaks, horses, sheep, and goats had already gone far ahead. Many of the travellers had also gone before us, and they looked like a row of ants. I started descending very slowly. There was a dangerous path in between and it was only discernible because of the footprints of the men and animals. The unfathomable mountains were in the south and on the left were the uneven mountains covered with snow. This place was so sloping and slippery that one couldn’t walk without the help of others. I held a long staff in my left hand which I planted in the snow and walked slowly with its support.

After going a little further, I found my feet sinking in the snow; it was like the difficulty we faced   when our feet would get stuck while trying to walk in the mud in our desh, our homeland.  Walking in the snow had turned my feet numb and I couldn’t lift them up. At such a moment I saw a horse slip on its feet and slide down below. Its breeder was also going with it and within a second both disappeared! After that I didn’t get any news of them. Witnessing this scene created a great fear in my mind. I thought I would lose my life here today itself. Even then I didn’t lose the hope of life and kept on walking slowly. Just then I stumbled and fell but one of my fellow travellers immediately pulled me up by holding my hands. My carrier had also tumbled, but it too was saved on this occasion.

All of us crossed that snowy region and arrived at a safe place approximately around noon. Now the hope of living returned once again. But hunger and thirst had made us so exhausted that there wasn’t the strength to take even another step. There was plenty of water in front of us, but it was so cold that it was impossible to drink it. This mountain didn’t have any sign of firewood so we couldn’t prepare tea and quench our thirst. Firewood wouldn’t be available unless we went further for two more miles. I was forced to climb up on the back of the jhabbu. Every Hindu would understand how difficult and heart-wrenching it was for him to get up on a cow’s back. But according to the saying, ‘Follow the rules applicable in each country,’ I abided by the words of the Shastras and climbed on the animal’s back.

I went for one mile in this manner. There were so many ascents and descents within this one mile, and it was followed by a steep descent that forced me to climb down from the animal’s back once again. Excessive strain, hunger and thirst exhausted me so much that I couldn’t move my feet. But the hard heart didn’t ever blow out. So, with a lot of difficulty, I kept on walking just to keep myself alive.

After going a little further, I found a few traders sitting by the roadside. I went and sat near them. Among them an old man very politely gave me a mat to sit on and immediately offered some warm tea to drink. Later he also gave me barley flour and molasses to eat. After eating and drinking, I regained my strength. After resting for a while and talking to them, I found out that they were also travelling to Tibet. They had come here the day before. They would rest here today and would go to Dwapa via Hoti tomorrow early morning. We would stop at Jhonghing, half a mile away from here. My companions had already proceeded towards that place. One of my servants had also gone forward with my belongings; the other one was with me. I took his help and after a lot of effort reached Jhonghing at around 2 p.m.

We would stay there that day. Our camp was inside a small cave. There was a river about a mile from this cave. Sufficient grass and firewood were available on both its banks. My servant had prepared food and tea for me even before I reached my den and had also let free the animals which were carrying our load to graze. I arrived at my den, had my meal and laid down. I didn’t have the strength to rise. About eight or ten tents were pitched and they contained about a hundred people. Also, there were many people outside the tents. These people had more than two hundred goats and sheep to carry their luggage and a few yaks, jhabbus, and horses.

About the Book:

In 1898, the wandering saint Swami Ramananda Bharati set out from the Garhwal Himalayas towards one of the most remote and revered destinations in the world: Mount Kailash and Manas Sarovar in Tibet. Travelling through perilous mountain passes, glacial valleys and isolated border villages, Bharati journeyed not merely as a pilgrim in search of divine grace, but as an observant traveller deeply attentive to the people, landscapes and contradictions of the Himalayan world.

The Forest of Snow chronicles this extraordinary expedition across the high Himalayas—through Joshimath, Niti, Hoti Pass and beyond—capturing the majesty of snowbound peaks, roaring rivers and sacred shrines, alongside the hardships of life at the edge of empire.

Bharati writes vividly of Bhutia traders preparing for their annual caravans into Tibet, highland communities who migrate with the changing seasons, weather-beaten caves sheltering pilgrims, mountain food that consists only of tea, butter and barley flour, and the tense borderlands shaped by colonial surveillance and Tibetan restrictions. Along the way he encounters an unforgettable cast of companions and strangers: clever interpreters, eccentric lamas, drunken villagers, Tibetans suspicious of English spies, and even dacoits.

Blending spiritual reflection with sharp ethnographic observation, Bharati’s narrative moves beyond conventional pilgrimage writing to offer one of the earliest modern Bengali accounts of travel into Tibet. First serialised in 1901 as Himaranya, and later recovered from incomplete manuscripts, The Forest of Snow stands today as a rare and compelling record of Himalayan travel at the turn of the twentieth century.

About the Author:

Ramananda Bharati (1836–1901) was a Bengali scholar, reformer, ascetic, and travel writer who moved between orthodox Hinduism, Brahmo reformism, and monastic spirituality. Trained in Sanskrit and honoured with the title ‘Vidyaratna’, he taught at Calcutta’s Wesleyan Mission School, where his engagement with Christian missionaries led him towards monotheism and the Brahmo Samaj. Following the deaths of his wife and son, heartbroken, he entered the Dasnami monastic order and became a paribrajak sadhu (traveller-saint), visiting pilgrimage sites across India and even to Tibet.

About the Translator:

Somdatta Mandal is Former Professor of English and Chairperson at the Department of English & Other Modern European Languages, Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan. Somdatta has a keen interest in translation and travel writing.

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The Sunday Book Bazaar at Daryaganj

Title: The Sunday Book Bazaar: Daryaganj and the Making of a Reading Public in Delhi 

Author: Kanupriya Dhingra

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

PROLOGUE

“Faiz Nahar Jaari Hai”

It is six in the morning in Old Delhi. A footpath that bends into an L has already begun its weekly transformation. A bazaar assembles near Delhi Gate, out of almost nothing. Cardboard and iron boxes arrive—carried, wheeled, hauled from nearby godowns in auto-rickshaws—and are set down along the footpath with the precision of long habit. Tambu and tarred canvas sheets follow, spread across the designated six-by-four-foot patches of ground that each seller has claimed, in practice if not always in law, over years and sometimes decades of Sunday repetition. Books emerge: stacked, sorted, and arranged by some private logic visible only to those who have done this a thousand times before. By the time the first chai of the morning arrives at the stall, carried in a small paper cup from the nearby chai-wallah, the bazaar has already begun to announce itself. By nine, it is a different place entirely.

This is Daryaganj Sunday Patri Kitab Bazaar: a bazaar of books, and only books. And this—this weekly conjuring, this seemingly serendipitous Sunday ritual—is what this book is about.

Every Sunday morning, the same stretch of pavement sheds its weekday skin. By mid-morning, the pavement fills entirely. Pedestrians who had no intention of stopping find themselves stopped by a spine, a title, a cover half-remembered from childhood. A student crouches over a pile of guidebooks, cross-checking prices on her phone. Two men argue cheerfully over a pulp fiction title. A child drags her father toward a stack of comics. The sellers watch patiently. They know that browsing is not wasting time. It is, in fact, the whole point.

What makes this bazaar remarkable is not only what it sells but what it refuses to be. It has no fixed address in the way a bookshop does, no permanent threshold, no air-conditioning, no MRP sticker that goes unchallenged. Every week, it must be built from scratch, for the crowd that somehow always finds its way back. There is nothing accidental about this. Daryaganj Sunday Patri Kitab Bazaar has survived municipal raids, court orders, evictions, relocations, and sixty years of official indifference. It has outlasted the shops behind it, the cinema halls that frame it, and every prediction of its disappearance. It keeps returning, as things in Delhi tend to do, in a slightly different form but with the same insistence.

In the mid-fourteenth century, sixteen years before he became the Sultan of Delhi, Firoz Shah Tughlaq undertook a grand endeavour: the construction of the Faiz Nahar, a seventy-five-mile canal created with the noble intention of bringing welfare to the people. Over time, the canal evolved under the watchful eye of Shah Jahan, stretching further and transforming the landscape around it. Its banks were adorned with lush neem and peepul trees; its waters flowed through the heart of Chandni Chowk, with one branch entering the majestic Red Fort as part of the Nahar-e-Bahisht. The other arm, known as Nahar Saadat Khan, meandered through the bustling streets of Daryaganj before merging with Jamuna, the river Yamuna. Along this vibrant waterway, a lively array of shops flourished, from jewellers and fruit sellers to sweet makers and fabric merchants, creating a corridor of commerce and conversation.

With time, however, the canal fell into disrepair. Hope was rekindled in 1820, when Sir David Ochterlony initiated its restoration. Poet Shah Nasir immortalised the event in verse, celebrating Ochterlony—affectionately referred to as ‘Looni Akhtar’—and the canal’s revival. For the people of Delhi, the return of the Faiz Nahar was more than an engineering triumph; it restored an old rhythm, reaffirming the city’s enduring bond with its waterways.

In the enchanting tales of Sangin Beg’s Sair-ul-Manazil, we encounter vivid scenes of Shahjahanabad and its many moods. His walks lead him to the joyous sight of the Faiz Nahar, inspiring the delightful refrain, ‘Faiz nahar jaari hai’. Faiz canal persists.

Centuries later, in modern Delhi, the spirit of the Faiz Nahar continues—not through water, but through the steady, determined passage of books that animates the streets of Daryaganj every Sunday.

Delhi endures by outgrowing versions of itself. What disappears returns in altered form, what is uprooted finds another ground, and what seems final rarely is. Here, destruction is never quite the end, and reconstruction never a clean beginning. In this ongoing conversation between erasure and perseverance, Old Delhi’s Sunday Book Bazaar has carved out its own fragile space. Its history is folded into the city’s larger habit of rebuilding what has been displaced. Daryaganj Sunday Book Market is not an exception to Delhi’s rhythms but a continuation of them—a marketplace that survives by starting over every Sunday.

My own journey into this parallel world began out of necessity and slowly transformed into something else entirely. I arrived as a researcher and became an accidental shauqeen buyer, lingering over pavement piles, returning week after week, slowly forming bonds with sellers who had long mastered the art of reading their readers. Through these chaotic streets and animated exchanges, I discovered the heart of Delhi’s readership. In their company, I began to understand how this city continues to breathe through its stories, how the joy of encountering books persists, even in the most uncertain times.

Faiz Nahar is gone. But every Sunday in Daryaganj, something of it still persists.

Extracted from The Sunday Book Bazaar: Daryaganj and the Making of a Reading Public in Delhi by Kanupriya Dhingra. Published by Speaking Tiger Books.

About the Book

Every Sunday, in the heart of Old Delhi, a footpath became a bookshop.

For decades, the Daryaganj Sunday Book Bazaar drew students, collectors, families, tourists and lifelong shauqeen to its pavement piles: textbooks, comics, rare editions, pirated bestsellers, forgotten magazines, discarded libraries, and books that seemed to find their readers by accident. Built by migrant booksellers, sustained by bargain-hunters and bibliophiles, and shaped by the rhythms of the street, the bazaar became one of Delhi’s most beloved cultural institutions.

In The Sunday Book Bazaar, Kanupriya Dhingra traces the life of this remarkable market—from its roots in the book cultures of Shahjahanabad and Daryaganj to its rise as a second-hand book paradise, and from its legal battles and evictions to its relocation in Mahila Haat.

Combining urban history, fieldwork, memoir and literary affection, she follows the books, booksellers and readers who made the bazaar a parallel world of print: informal, unpredictable, deeply democratic, and impossible to replace.

At once urban history, ethnography, memoir, and a love letter to second-hand books, The Sunday Book Bazaar asks what makes a market more than a place of commerce. Who gets to read? Who gets to sell? Who gets to occupy public space? And what does a city lose when it tidies away the unruly, democratic spaces where its readers first learn to browse, bargain, linger and belong?

About the Author

Dr Kanupriya Dhingra researches book history, print cultures, oral history, and urban studies, with a special focus on Delhi’s parallel book markets. Her doctoral work at SOAS, University of London, supported by the Felix Scholarship and the SOAS Fieldwork Grant, examined Daryaganj’s book culture through extensive interviews with booksellers and readers. She has written for Comparative Critical Studies, The Caravan, Seminar, Scroll, and Himal SouthAsian, and has spoken at institutions including Oxford, the British Library, Jadavpur University, Jamia Millia Islamia, and the University of Delhi. She also writes and translates poetry and fiction from Hindi, Punjabi, and Urdu.

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Review

Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title:  Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons from the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond

Author: Ruskin Bond

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Recently Ruskin Bond turned ninety-two and from the various interviews he has been giving, one finds a single word that recurs in different forms in his interaction with his interviewers and that is ‘solitude.’ The recently published non-fiction book titled Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond, captures this solitude and his deep, lifelong love for the Himalayas. It is a gentle, meditative reflection on the changing seasons, nature, and the quiet rhythms of daily life in Landour and Mussoorie, a place that he himself states to be his home for the last sixty-one years.  He had moved to Mussoorie in the early 1960s to write full time. In the ‘Introduction’ he tells us about how he moved into a cottage called Maplewood Lodge after renting a room from a lady called Ms. Bean and settled for good in these hills. The old and isolated cottage was tucked away in the shadow of a hill, but it brought him close to nature and helped him develop a rapport with it in all seasons. The open window of the small living room exposed him to the forest outside that seemed full of possibilities and the birdsong.

The book is not a novel or a continuous narrative; rather, it is a collection of vignettes, journal entries, and remembered moments.  It allows readers to experience the mountains exactly as Bond does, observing the nuances of the landscape over the course of five distinct seasons. Most of the entries are very brief, the lengthier ones are hardly more than a page in length, but through them Bond manages to give his readers his very close observations of the place as he experiences it through the five different seasons of the year. He divides the book into six parts, and the last part is called ‘The Eternal Season’. Each section begins with a suitable prologue borrowed from the Australian traveller John Lang’s mid-nineteenth century travelogue Wanderings in India (1869), a book which Bond had retrieved from oblivion and edited for the benefit of future readers.

Bond organises his observations into a seasonal framework, detailing the subtle shifts in his environment. In the first section ‘Spring’ we get detailed description of how the first tender leaves appear, bringing a sense of tentative warmth and new beginnings. Through his very perceptive and minute observations, we get visual images of the small birds that arrive to bathe and drink in the little pool beneath the walnut tree, water beetles and tiny fish that lurk in the shallows of the pool. The different varieties of birds that he has observed include two delicate little willow warblers, the whistling thrush, the wild ducks, eagles that fly high on the mountain, the cheeky mynah birds meeting under the eaves of the roof, and sparrows that flutter in and out of the room at will. Spring comes with its varieties of flowers with splashes of colour and Bond rightly describes how “the infection of spring spread simultaneously through the world of nature, and made them one”. The honeybees and butterflies also add to the beauty of the place and as he rightfully states, they do not recognise any “man-made border”.

The vignettes of summer have details of long, insect-filled, sun-drenched days that invite slow walks and quiet afternoons. Summer for Bond “was never entirely solitary”. As he sat in the window seat in his cottage and spent his mornings turning out stories, poems, essays, children’s tales and anything that came to his mind, he looked out upon a sociable gathering of trees that provided a recreation ground for different kinds of birds too. Very evocative descriptions of the mangoes, lichis as the fruits of summer and also the ice cream are drawn from his memories. He writes how as a boy he was engulfed in loneliness, and as a man in solitude. On some mornings when he carried his small table, chair and typewriter outside on to the knoll below one of the oaks, the different birds helped him with his punctuation. For his reflective and descriptive writing, he looked into the distance, at the purple hills merging with the azure sky; or examined a fallen leaf as it spiralled down from the tree and settled on the typewriter keys. The summer sun bathes everything with clear, warm light and the camera-eye of the narrator records everything to the minutest detail. He tells us about other prolific writers who were busy writing their books during this period while he produced not so much as a paragraph.

The monsoon is a defining feature of the hills, bringing mist, heavy downpours, and the lush abundance of the forest. “The first monsoon rain always felt like a beginning,” writes Bond and how this season is one of the most beautiful times of the year in the Himalayas. As the forest dripped and it rang with birdsong, Bond found it always worthwhile tramping through the forest above the stream to feast his eyes on the foliage that sprang up in tropical profusion. He tells us how the rains also heralded some seasonal visitors like leopards and several thousand leeches, and snakes as well as insects like grasshoppers, crickets and cicadas who produced different kinds of music.

When autumn arrives, burnished light, ripening fruit, and a golden hue take over the landscape and according to Bond it is the best time of the year in the hills. Now more than any other time of the year, the wildflowers come into their own and it is the best time for taking long walks. An atmosphere of peace and harmony descends on the hillside, and Bond watches the spectacular sunset as its faint glow spreads across the whitewashed walls of the ageing cottage, as though a part of that spectacular sunset has been left behind only for them. This season also occasionally brings in bears who come to the village to eat pumpkins, flying foxes sweeping across the roads and leopards circling the houses along with dogs. The cool, uplifting autumn breeze always stirred him to the marrow and Bond thought it to be the best aphrodisiac in the world.

Winter brings with it old silences, snow-laden trees, and the beauty of the serene Himalayan peaks against a clear blue sky. During Christmas when it was bitterly cold outside, the blazing wood fire in an old-fashioned fireplace made him enjoy the experience. Again, one day, after being cooped up in his room for several days, he set out for an enjoyable tramp outside in the snow-covered countryside with hardly anyone on the way. He also reminiscences about his school days when he took the train ride from his boarding school in Shimla to come to Dehradun and find occasional snowfall there. He also remembered the first time it snowed in Maplewood. From the windows he could see, up at the top of the hill, the deodars clothed in a mantle of white. “It was a fairyland: everything still and silent.”

The eight selected entries for the last section titled ‘The Eternal Season’ describe the quiet renewal that begins where all endings meet. Here Bond reflects on renewal and the passage of time across sixty years of living in the mountains, examining how the landscape remains wondrous despite changing times. All through his life he says he had been plodding along, singing his song, telling his tales in his own unhurried way and it didn’t matter if he hadn’t managed to get to the top of the mountain. He had lived his life at his own gentle pace and his long walk had brought its own sweet rewards; buttercups and butterflies along the way. He had been observing the natural world—along forest paths, during walks, storms, solitary afternoons, and shared silences.

Thoughtful, attentive and reflective, he offers the seasons not as events to be marked, but as a way of living in time.  In the penultimate entry he states: “In spite of all indications to the contrary, I have survived – as a writer, as an individual, as a breadwinner, as a lover of beauty. So many failure and setbacks along the way; but I suppose my inner stubbornness saw me through… And here I am, ninety-one, my own person, determined to live and love till my last breath.”

This aesthetically produced hard-bound book is not to be read chronologically from beginning to end but can be opened by the reader at leisure from whichever page or season he feels like, and he can go back to it again and again. It is a collector’s delight and also one to be gifted and recommended for anyone who loves to read about Ruskin Bond’s deep and lifelong love for the Himalayas. Bond’s poetic prose can hardly be imitated and some of the spontaneous poems that abound in the collection speak immensely of his ability to cross over genres of prose and poetry with utmost ease. The black and white interior illustrations that abound in the book also add extra charm and help the less-perceptive reader gain better understanding of the particular image or scenery that Bond talks about. One is also fascinated by his exquisite sense of subtle humour, that includes the ability to even laugh at oneself.

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Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a retired Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.

Click here to read the book excerpt.

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Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Excerpt

Scenes from the Magic Mountain by Ruskin Bond

 

Title: Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond

Author: Ruskin Bond

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Introduction

Sixty-one years ago, almost to the month, I made the highland of Mussoorie in the Garhwal foothills my home. It was a sunny afternoon, and by my side was a gentle-faced elderly lady—a bit of a loner by circumstance, like me. I had mentioned in passing that I wanted to shift from Delhi, where I had been living somewhat unhappily for a couple of years, and she was showing me the vacant upper floor of her home—an old, isolated cottage at the edge of a forest of oak and maple, green, red and gold. You couldn’t see the Himalayas, or the Doon Valley below, for the cottage was tucked away in the shadow of a hill. But it was spring and when I opened the window of the small living room, the forest seemed to rush upon me, as if in welcome. And from the deep ravine rose the sweet, haunting call of the Himalayan whistling thrush. That decided it for me—the forest, which seemed full of possibilities, and the birdsong. I moved into the cottage—it was called Maplewood Lodge—and settled for good in these hills.

I was still young, and in my romantic frame of mind, I was susceptible to magic casements opening wide. I decided I would make a window-seat and lie there on a summer’s day, writing lyric poetry…But long before that could happen I was opening tins of sardines and sharing them with Miss Bean, the elderly lady who continued to live in the rooms below me. It was a solidarity of the indigent! I went away from the hills at times, but returned as soon as possible, and when I had to leave Maplewood, I rented other homes, each one old and modest, but always with a view.

Once you have lived with the mountains, you can never leave. You belong to them.

Sometimes it is hard to believe that I have been up here all these years—sixty summers and monsoons and winters, and the short autumns and even shorter Himalayan springs (there is no real spring in the plains). When I look back, it seems like yesterday when I first came up with my meagre belongings and a head full of dreams. I like to think that I have become a part of this Magic Mountain; that by living here for so long, I can claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, even the rocks that are an integral part of this landscape. I am too old now to walk among the noble oaks and deodars and the ancient pines, but I feel their presence at all times. The wind brings me their words of wisdom and encouragement when my spirits are low, and their benediction when I give of myself freely in love and friendship. They have seen these hills change and yet remain the same through countless seasons—renewing and healing themselves and all the life that lives upon and within them.

p. 52-53

Maplewood Lodge, Mussoorie.

The summer of 1963.

The forest is still silent, until the cicadas start tuning up for their performance. On cue, like a conductor, a bird perched high in the branches of a spruce tree begins its chant. Umeew—umeew!

The forest begins to pulse with the hypnotic buzzing of the cicadas.

Big white ox-eye daisies grow on the hillside. The sorrel—almora grass—has turned red. I sit in my garden, contemplating my old Olympia typewriter. Still writing stories, still trying to sell them.

As a boy, loneliness. As a man, solitude.

And loneliness was not of my seeking. The solitude I sought. And found.

I am to spend many summers in this cottage. Mornings in the sun, evenings in the shadows.

Some mornings, I carry my small table, chair and typewriter out on to the knoll below one of the oaks and take a little help from the babblers and bulbuls that flit in and out of the canopies of leaves. White-hooded babblers; yellow-bottomed bulbuls. Never still for a moment, they help me with my punctuation.

For dialogue I depend more on the crickets, cicadas and grasshoppers who keep up a regular exchange, debating the issues of the day. But for reflective and descriptive writing I look into the distance, at the purple hills merging with the azure sky; or I examine a fallen leaf as it spirals down from the tree and settles on the typewriter keys. The summer sun bathes everything with clear, warm light. Somewhere high up on the hills, cows are grazing. I don’t see them, but I hear the bells tied around their neck.

I write in leisure. There is no hurry.

p. 125

Maplewood. Early October, and the hill slopes are showing off their post-monsoon foliage in a variety of hues: dahlias gone wild in shades of mauve, magenta and startling red; tall cosmos swaying in the breeze; wild geranium tucked away among the ferns; asters flourishing on retaining walls; and bronzed chrysanthemums vying for attention with massive marigolds. On the knoll, the grass is just beginning to turn October yellow. The first clouds approaching winter cover the sky. The trees are very still. The birds are silent. Only a cricket keeps singing on the oak tree. Gardens both natural and man-made are at their best in the brief autumn before Diwali.

The sun goes down with a lot of fuss. First a fiery red, and then in waves of pink and orange as it slides beneath the small clouds that wander about on the horizon. The brief Autumn twilight of northern India passes like a shadow over the hills, and dusk gives way to darkness. Sometimes, I’ll step outside to watch the sunset, and to see a lamp came on in Miss Bean’s sitting room below mine, followed by the veranda light. An atmosphere of peace and harmony descends on the hillside.

Click here to read the review of the book.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Ruskin Bond has spent a lifetime paying attention to the seasons of the hills—watching their arrivals and departures, their repetitions and small variations, the ways in which they shape both landscape and daily life. He’s written of spring’s first leaves and tentative warmth; the long, insect-filled days of summer; the monsoon’s rain, mist, and abundance; autumn’s burnished light and ripening fruit; winter’s cold silences and snow-laden trees; and finally, the eternal season—the quiet renewal that begins where all endings meet.

In Scenes from the Magic Mountain, he gathers his writings and remembered moments across these six seasons, observing the natural world—along forest paths, during walks, storms, solitary afternoons, and shared silences. Birds and trees, rain and light, houses, animals, neighbours, and memories pass through these pages without hurry.

Thoughtful, attentive and reflective, Scenes from the Magic Mountain offers the seasons not as events to be marked, but as a way of living in time. A companion for slow reading, this is a book to return to across the year, as the seasons turn and return again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ruskin Bond was born in Kasauli in 1934, and grew up in Jamnagar, Dehradun, Delhi and Shimla. He is the author of over a hundred books of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Among them are The Room on the Roof, A Flight of Pigeons, The Blue Umbrella, A Book of Simple Living, Friends in Wild Places and Lone Fox Dancing. He received the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize in 1956, the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1993, the Padma Shri in 1999 and the Padma Bhushan in 2014.

He lives in Landour, Mussoorie with his adopted family.

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Excerpt

Snowed Under

Title: Snowed Under

Author: Nirmala Thomas

Translated from Malyalam by Radhika P Menon

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

When the meeting finally got over, instead of staying back for small talk as was usual, Ashwini excused herself and returned to her office. Closing the door, she called her doctor. Her clinic opened at nine in the morning. It must be really crowded by now. The five minutes that Ashwini had to spend while on hold, listening to pharmaceutical advertisements on the phone, felt like a couple of hours. Eventually Melissa, the doctor’s secretary, came on the line.

‘Why do you need the appointment?’

Though she knew the question was not asked merely as a courtesy – the secretary needed to know the reason in order to decide when she might be accommodated in the doctor’s schedule – Ashwini felt a flicker of irritation.

‘Let the doctor take a look, Ashwini, and decide the rest after examining the lump,’ Melissa said. ‘We are closed on Wednesdays and Fridays. Can you be here on Thursday at 10 am? Otherwise, we can see you next week.’

The Swedish clients had come for a week. Ashwini had to go along with them to the site on Thursday. The city officials and the engineer from the electricity department too would be present. The electricity department had to assess the project’s feasibility and determine its requirements. Once that was cleared, the city would grant a permit for the construction of the building. The time of the site visit had been fixed in advance; the visit had to be made with the client present.

Ashwini glanced at the calendar on her phone and asked, ‘Can you give me an appointment for next Tuesday? In the afternoon?’

The secretary she could.

Ashwini was never flippant when it came to taking leave. She could not allow her leave to come in the way of meeting the requirements of clients from abroad. A lot of care had to be paid to the project in the initial stages. Both the clients’ demands and the company’s terms had to be firmed up without any ambiguity. Everything had to be recorded; all the documents prepared and sent to the lawyer’s office. Only after the sponsors of both sides and their lawyers signed the contract could the project be handed over to the workers. Once that was done, all it required was supervision, to ensure everything was done as per the signed agreements. The slightest mistake in the contract could cause her company a loss of millions of dollars. The bosses had no time to go through the fine print or to separate the wheat from the chaff. Ashwini had to be their eyes, ears and brain. That was where her victory lay.

‘Meticulous… Very detail-oriented.’

Ashwini knew this description in the performance review was both a forewarning and a precondition. The contracts that Ashwini drew up with utmost care had no room for mistakes. She reviewed every sentence and every word, scrutinized them from every conceivable angle and made copious notes. That was why whenever contracts for major projects had to be prepared, the Director and the Vice President called Ashwini. The managers could handle the execution of ordinary projects.

Ashwini had to review, analyse and explain many things to Octavian and Rick before they left on Friday. Compromises were best struck at face-to-face meetings. Only after every loophole had been identified and plugged could the work formally commence. There were tasks to be completed in summer. The business people from Sweden demanded that a grand inauguration be organized in October. For the key to be handed over at the scheduled time, everything had to be in place by then.

But the winter season was unpredictable. With no clear sense of how much snow would fall or how cold the air would grow, it was difficult to plan the exterior work. Work on interior could begin only when the walls were in place. And amid the blueprints of the building and the careful plans of the project, an unanticipated grain of rice had arisen to disturb her design.

Octavian spoke with a thick Swedish accent. His sentences were peppered with the ‘a’ sound.

‘You can…a…bring the draft…a…a…in the…a…’

The ladies at the office found it very amusing. They lisped romantically. When he said the word ‘confrontation’ with a rounded ‘o’ sound, they mimicked him. They were charmed by the blue eyes and twenty-four-carat golden hair.

‘We need details of the entrance area…’

Ashwini spoke at the next meeting of the day in order to show that she was not inattentive. All eyes were focused on her. Each and every brick, rebar and even dollar had to go strictly by her project plan. But the dead words remained suspended in the air.

Octavian stared into Ashwini’s eyes. The lady did not smile or show coyness or fall for his golden hair, blue eyes and peculiar English. Was it possible to see her hidden intelligence through her eyes? Could the Director have been wrong? Hard to think so! Does she have an ace up her sleeve or will she sink without a trace?

The ladies in the office were not very impressed by Rick who accompanied Octavian. With his black hair and brown eyes, he seemed American. There were no giggles, no chuckles, no ‘Tee-hee’ for a man with an ordinary name like ‘Rick’.

The rosewood table in the conference room stood on its four legs, enduring instructions, discussions, negotiations, sorting-out, firming-up, agreements and compromises. Without revealing any feelings, it suffered all that weight, and concealed all the secrets.

Ashwini tried to yell at and send away the cat that was rubbing against her legs under the table.

I’ve never liked cats.

Need a holiday, sir.

Granting my sorrows a holiday, I hired a room in heaven.

Not to hold converse with alcohol.

That’s not a bad idea though.

I have fixed an appointment. An appointment with my problems.

At exactly five in the evening, Ashwini left her office. Ever since Keerthana moved to her university residence, Ashwini had never felt compelled to be home at a regular hour.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Ashwini Ram is a successful engineer in Canada. She has a good job, a loving husband and daughter, and a carefully planned life. Then, one snow-choked winter day, she discovers a tiny lump in her right breast.

What follows is a journey she never expected to take: doctor’s visits, tests, the shock of diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation. Her body changes. Her moods change. Her husband retreats into a silence she cannot reach, her daughter grows distant in the demands of her medical studies, and even friends who once couldn’t do without her now appear to be keeping their distance. Ashwini’s thoughts spiral in directions she cannot always control as fear, anger, denial, loneliness, imaginary friends and dark humour take turns shaping her empty days.

Set against the cold landscapes of Canada and the quiet routines of immigrant life, Snowed Under captures the emotional reality of living with cancer—the waiting, the medical procedures, the stigma that surrounds the illness and the strain it places on the closest relationships.

First published as Manjil Oruval, this is not just a story about disease, but about the mind under pressure, the body under siege, and the complicated—some­times fragile—will to live. Radhika P. Menon’s sensitive English translation brings this powerful and unusual Malayalam novel to a wider readership.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nirmala Thomas is the most widely read Malayalam writer based in Canada. In 2011, she received the ‘Best Short Story Collection’ award for writers living outside India from the Government of Kerala. She has been a member of the Toronto Film Festival, the Writers’ Union of Canada, GritLit Canada, the Hamilton Media Advisory Council and the Advisory Committee for Immigrants and Refugees.

ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

Radhika P. Menon is an award-winning translator who has translated several works from Malayalam to English, including K. Madhavan’s On the Banks of the Tejaswini, Devaki Nilayangode’s Antharjanam, S.K. Pottekkatt’s Tales of Athiranippadam, and K.K. Kochu’s Dalithan.

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Review

My Shackled Life by Sushila Takbhaure: A Story of Reslience

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: My Shackled Life

Author: Sushila Takbhaure

Translators: Deeba Zafir and Preeti Dewan

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Ever since Dalit writing has caught the fancy of academics, researchers and social scientists in a big way, we are coming across several new titles almost every other day and are getting to read them in translation, often published by established and reputed publishing houses. The present volume under review falls exactly into this category.  First published in Hindi in 2011 as Shikanje ka Dard, this is an autobiography of a Dalit woman called Sushila Takbhaure who belongs to a poor Dalit Valmiki family in Seoni in Madhya Pradesh. Divided into three sections, it tells us the story of how the author rose through determination and her mother’s support to pursue higher education, teach in school and college, build a wide-ranging literary career and become part of the Babasaheb Ambedkar movement to bring social awareness and changes in the lives of the Dalits and the downtrodden in society.

Writing from childhood, she went on to publish poems, stories, novels, plays, criticism and her books are now even taught in university courses. In the pan-Indian surge of feminist consciousness and assertion of Dalit women in the 1990, Sushila Takbhaure is a name to reckon with.

Coming to this autobiography we find how the narrative chronicles the extremely protracted and tortuous process by which a timid and vulnerable Dalit girl fashions herself into an assertive and empowered woman by exercising her agency and single-minded pursuit of education. But the path was definitely not easy. The first section of the narrative entitled ‘Early Years’ gives us details of a society that is dominated by the savarnas or upper caste Hindus, and lays bare the truthful accounts of the disgraceful practices of this casteist order. Like many other Dalit families of the time, Sushila’s story is no different. Discrimination based on caste was widespread, and untouchability was deeply entrenched everywhere. The thatched mud huts of the untouchable Bhangi-Harijans stood outside the village, far from the landowner’s houses.

Raised like the child of any poor untouchable family with a life full of deprivation, Sushila was nurtured by her Ma (mother) and Nani (grandmother) and grew up eating, crying and playing. In spite of working as a scavenger and midwife, Nani protected her daughter from hardship and Ma too sheltered and nurtured her children by giving them an education. With society placing many restrictions on girls, however hard they worked, they enjoyed neither equal rights nor independence. Women lacked awareness and confidence, and the lack of education, knowledge, and foresight crushed the potential of many who had the ability to rise as all unethical behaviour was seen as natural and commonplace.

Sushila fought all odds and continued her studies till she managed to appear for her BA final exams. In a patriarchal society, women are always considered inferior to men though there were some women who through their talent, initiative, intelligence and courage managed to surpass men in every field. But society had conditioned them in such a manner that they could not come out of the shackles imposed by rigid casteist norms. The first section of the narrative ends with Sushila’s Ma continuing to look for a good match for her and she too often dreamt of a loving, caring husband meant just for her.

The second section of the autobiography ‘Marriage and After’ is the most distressing part of the entire narrative. Married to a man much older than her, Sushila finds that things are worse in all respects in her in-law’s place. As it is the atmosphere in the city of Nagpur was different from her village life, but her husband, who is always reverentially mentioned as ‘Takbhaureji’, acts as the typical patriarchal figure, often physically abusing her. The practice didn’t stop even after several children were born to her. He made his wife work at home and like all male chauvinists took away all the salary she earned as a teacher. One often wonders why Sushila went on enduring all the humiliation and never retaliated.  

Maybe if she had received love, care, and companionship instead of constant torment, she might have developed the strength to assert herself in public life, but that never happened. The atmosphere at home only deepened her sense of powerlessness and since she lived in constant fear, wrongs were committed against her without hesitation. It is amazing to learn that despite conflict and physical abuse becoming a regular part of her life and filling her with humiliation and pain, she managed to complete her PhD and start teaching in a college. Her married life, as she states, went with all its ups and downs.

The final section ‘Writer Activist’ narrates her rise to become the voice of resistance for her people. Her fury started finding its voice in poetry. She wanted to write about being a Dalit and that became the central theme of her writing. Enduring social humiliation and fighting against the deprivations and oppression born of caste prejudice, she moved forward, slowly but steadily.

Once the various Dalit organizations in Maharashtra involved in the movement to address the problems faced by Dalit women in their homes and society came to know her, they began inviting her to travel with them to distance places to participate in their programmes. Even then her husband went on taking sadistic pleasure in hurting her. His real motive was clear: to prevent her from pursuing writing and publishing, and to keep her confined to the simple life of a working woman who managed both her job and household. But after living in Nagpur, Maharashtra gradually became an empowering experience for her. As a Dalit activist fighting for the ideals of Babasaheb Ambedkar across the country, she began travelling alone to far-off places within India and places abroad like Sri Lanka, Britain, and Dubai.

She could do all this because she had finally begun to feel confident of herself. At times, she received support from people within her community, while at other times, she faced opposition. Her goal was to carry Ambedkar’s ideology and knowledge of Dalit literature to others, and she succeeded in doing so. Although her travels abroad brought her immense joy, they unfortunately did not change her social condition. She remained what she had always been – an untouchable outcast.

This searing autobiography of Sushila Takbhaure, a Dalit woman whose life story reveals not only the brutal machinery of caste but also the intimate cruelty of patriarchy, is a must read for everyone irrespective of class and gender. Though the narrative drags a bit towards the end, one sees its importance too. Having embraced Phule-Ambedkarite ideology and taken part in the movement for social change, Sushila Takbhaure’s writing has gained a clear direction and is vital not only for herself but for her community too. As she states towards the end of her narrative, writing had given her the strength, and it was both a source of joy and a way to give back to society what it had meted out to her. After reading the autobiography, one must sincerely offer kudos to a deprived woman who succeeded in life in spite of all unsurmountable odds.

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Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a retired Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.

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Review

Along a River from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: River Traveller: Journeys on the TSANPO-BRAHMAPUTRA from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal

Author: Sanjoy Hazarika

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Sanjoy Hazarika, a former reporter for the New York Times, dons many hats, combining roles as researcher, columnist, mentor and practitioner. Over decades this veteran journalist has travelled extensively across the Northeast and its neighbourhood. His interests include developments in Myanmar, Bhutan, Tibet (PRC), Bangladesh and Nepal and he has produced over a dozen documentaries including on the Brahmaputra, dolphins, governance, conflict, and rights.

River Traveller tells the story of a great river, as powerful as it is mysterious. The Brahmaputra rises in Tibet, travels through three countries and, after travelling over 2,900 kms, flows into the Bay of Bengal. But the most interesting part is that this river is known by many names: Yarlung Tsangpo and Po Tsangpo in Tibet, Siang in Arunachal Pradesh, Brahmaputra in Assam, the Jamuna in Bangladesh, merging with the Ganga at Arichar Ghat, to form the vast Padma on its unending flow to the Bay of Bengal and its quest for union with the sea.

This book has come together over decades of travels on this braided river (including on the boat clinics that he launched in 2005 in Assam) where Hazarika had seen its beauty and faced its wrath, been stuck on sandbanks and swept out to sea. He listened to those who plied the boats, the pilots, drivers, fishermen and their families, the sick and the ailing, women and children, Buddhist and Hindu monks, Sikh and Muslim priests, officials, politicians, students and scientists. He has listened to poets, singers, writers and artists, and to businessfolk and daily wage earners, boat builders, contractors, tea planters and workers. The writer amalgamated all their stories which were a mix of sadness, a determination to survive, an acceptance of fate and joy. Therefore, his traveller’s tales span not just his own journeys but the stories of those who had gone before him. Like the river, the region and its neighbourhood “never cease to delight, surprise, inspire, sadden and confound.”

Of course, the most ostentatious reason for Hazarika’s travels is the filming of documentaries on the river at different points of time.  His first travel was for the film A River’s Story, the Quest for the Brahmaputra that he scripted and produced with Jahnu Barua as the director, Sudheer Palsane as cinematographer, Sanjoy Roy and Jugal Debta as audiographers as well as many others. The thrust area was to study the stories of the river and its people, from its beginnings in the Tibetan Plateau to the end in the Bay of Bengal. It wasn’t about science and theory, or politics and the environment, or climate change, but about the river and its moods, and especially its people and their relationship with each other, through history and changing geography, culture, faith, peace and poverty.

In the second venture, Gautam Bora was director and cinematographer of Brahmaputra, a six-part series for Doordarshan, shot in Arunachal Pradesh and Assam. In his third venture, he was involved in the making of Children of the River, the Xihus of Assam, which was directed and filmed by Maulee Senapati and where he learned much about dolphins.

Divided into three parts, the book is as exhaustive a study on the river as can be imagined. The Brahmaputra is one of the world’s longest and widest rivers—sustaining entire civilizations and agrarian systems. It has fascinated cartographers, lured adventurers, attracted kings and dynasts, and has supported life and ways of living by its banks. Before beginning with the actual travel in Part One that includes his sojourns in Tibet and Arunachal Pradesh, Hazarika goes back to history of the thirteenth century when in about 1215 AD, the Tai-Ahom prince Siu-ka-pha left his native land now on the China-Myanmar border and undertook a long march before settling down in Charaideo, his capital, with its surrounding flat plains, rich red soil, streams and the vast Brahmaputra nearby. After that for centuries, traders, smugglers, fighters, fugitives, goods, cuisines, languages and ideas as well as religions and religious people have travelled in either direction on the Siu-ka-pha trail.

Hazarika begins his yatra in Tibet and narrates how the challenges relating to it were not new. He describes a Tibet that was trying to hold on to its cultural legacy in the face of Chinese rule and the land’s exploitation for its resources. He recounts stories of explorers, spymasters and mapmakers, especially a motley crowd of intrepid men in the service of the East India Company and the Survey of India, who discovered the route of the river especially when it’s source was hidden in the most inhospitable terrain on earth. They finally solved the puzzle of the vanishing river and established that the Brahmaputra and the Tsangpo were the same river.

In Arunachal Pradesh, Hazarika views the river from a helicopter and to him it resembled a great, brown meandering serpent, moving in huge loops, with many channels; at times, a stream or two which joined the flow backed down on themselves, creating elegant oxbow lakes. At Gelling, the first village on the Indian side, the turbulent Tsangpo churns its way through a narrow valley after a cascading drop from Tibet. Here for the first time the Tsangpo changes its name and is known as the Siang or Dibang for the next 200 kilometers before it enters Assam. At a place called Kobo, the Lohit meets the Dibang, Noa Dihing, Tengapani and Siang and develops the immense power that is mirrored in the Brahmaputra in full flow.

Part Two comprising of nine chapters focuses on Assam. After the earthquake of 1950, water ‘blockades’ happened not just on the Siang but also on several other rivers flowing into the Assam Valley and as a result the river changed its course, lifted the riverbed, flattened the banks and land, and braided it in many places far more than ever before. As a result, many towns like Rohmoria, Sadiya simply vanished after being embraced by flood waters, and places like Barpeta, Goalpara and Dhubri underwent demographic changes.

In separate chapters we learn about the tea gardens of Assam, the influence of Srimanta Sankaradeva and his satras[1], about the great river island Majuli, the singer Bhupen Hazarika, the presence of dolphins in the Brahmaputra, the thousands of islands known as the chars and saporis, which are permanent in their impermanence, where the Muslim residents are known as Miyas, the large number of migrants that inhabit the place, the sand bars and sandbanks that dot the riverscape from Upper Assam and how the collection of sand and its sale and distribution has changed the lives of many along the river to the point where it enters Bangladesh. He also gives us details about the ferry system, the boat clinics on the river that represent both a dream and a reality, as annually, nearly three lakh people are treated in these mobile structures.

The third part of the narrative obviously ends with four chapters on Bangladesh. We are told how to move from a slow riverine economy to a bustling one is quite challenging. This section includes fear of being hunted by pirates on an open sea, the faith in the navigators, ‘drivers’, pilots and other crew members who can read the mind of the river, the trip to the confluence of the Ganga and the Brahmaputra along with a Bangladeshi singer called Maqsoodul Haque or Mac. Both these rivers have different names in Bangladesh. The Ganga is the Padma while the Brahmaputra is the Jamuna. We are told about the story of the island known to Indians as New Moore Island and to the Bangladeshis as Sandwip island that appeared and disappeared, causing a diplomatic furore. The Brahmaputra’s role in shaping the destiny of low-lying Bangladesh is well-established and we are told of the connectedness of the people to the river, on either side of the human-made border. There are many places where the turbulent river refuses to accept human markers and controls and the border just remains an imaginary line snaking across shifting sands.

After reading about the multifarious experiences of Hazarika, it is needless to state that this book of non-fiction mesmerizes the readers to such a great extent that one hankers for more information. It is best to conclude the review by quoting from the poetic way Hazarika himself speaks at the end of the book about the interconnectedness that lies even in a grain of sand:

“I have traversed the river, shared my secrets with it and laid my fears and troubles to rest there. It too has spoken to me and has been kind and generous, in the midst of its vastness and power, to someone who could not swim.

“River Traveller is deeply personal and piloted by my life and learnings on the river, failings, shortcomings, understanding. It’s about shared stories, loves gained and lost, inspiration and sadness. Autobiographical in parts, it navigates history and crosses borders.

“Many travels beckon, for the river still calls.“

 From extremism to environmental responsibility, politics to ethnography, River Traveller touches on a multitude of subjects, and is an enduring study of human life and natural history. It is a rich and memorable portrait of one of the mightiest rivers on our planet. The colour photographs that are included in the middle of the narrative add extra charm to the narration. A volume worth possessing and reading and rereading repeatedly.

[1] Specialised Vaishnavi monasteries in Assam serving as socio-religious, cultural and educational centres since the fifteenth century.

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Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati University, Santiniketan, India.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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