When No One Was Looking: A Bookish Dreamscape

When no one was looking, she found herself sitting on a stone bench beneath a cherry blossom tree, a book resting in her lap. Her face broke into a smile. 

‘Ve Din’ by Nirmal Verma. 

It was an old copy. She opened the book and ran her palm across the page, feeling the texture and the traces of a handwritten message:

‘उनके लिए जिन्हें शब्दों की जादूगरी पर यक़ीन है…’

(For those who believe in the magic of words.)

She leafed through the pages and paused on a paragraph.

‘—पुरानी लिखी हुई कॉपी के बीच एक अनलिखा, कोरे पन्ने सा सफ़ेद और विस्मयकारी। वह सपने सा लगता। ट्रॉली बस की तारों पर पक्षियों की काली कतार लग जाती―धूप में अपने पंख सेकती हुई। हम इन्हें झूठे बसंत के दिन कहा करते थे।’

A soft breeze caressed her face, and she looked up. A wispy cherry blossom waltzed down and brushed her cheek as it fell on the book. A faint fragrance lingered in the air.

And then, as the place came into her full view, her breath caught in ecstatic surprise. A cobblestone boulevard, lined with flowering trees in various colours, stretched ahead, opening towards a cerulean lake. It looked as though all four seasons had merged. 

The sunlight was soft, hanging like a transparent curtain. ‘I have this book; can't wait to dive into it!’ She put the book on the bench and rose to her feet. 

Books —lots of books, were tucked into charming little shelves built along the roadside. Lovely pink carts laden with volumes, and an old blue jeep, half hidden among the fluttering wildflowers in the velvety meadows to the left—all unattended as though waiting for anyone who loved to read. On cue, a faint scent of old paper drifted through. 

It was a mesmerizing dream, so vivid that it felt lucid. A giddy sensation filled her as she sauntered ahead, taking in the dreamscape. A man was turning the pages of a book, leaning against a moon shaped bookshelf. 

She could see the cover. ‘From Scratch’ by Tembi Locke.

‘Oh, I really want to read this book!’ She blurted in delight. 

The man turned to look at her. Enchanting eyes behind golden framed spectacles. He smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ve watched the series,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes! It was so heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time.’

The man stretched out his hand, the same lopsided smile on his face. ‘Here, take it. You won't be able to decide whether the series is more beautiful or the book.’

She took the book hesitantly and kept it close to her heart. ‘Really?!’

‘Absolutely really.’ He laughed and looked around. ‘You can take any of these books. No worries at all.’

She turned to find a small cottage style bookshop across the road, close to the lake. Turquoise panels, glass windows, nestled beneath a large Jacaranda tree, purple blooms hugging the red tiled rooftop of the shop. Bookshop Sirimiri. She gasped and the man, busy with another book, chuckled.

She opened ‘From Scratch' as she sprinted towards the library. 

‘…a memoir of love, Sicily, and finding home’

As she stepped into the bookshop, a woody scent mingled with the faint aroma of coffee and cinnamon greeted her. A book seemed to be smiling at her from the reception desk —‘Boy, Unloved’ by Damodar Mauzo, translated by one of her favourites: Jerry Pinto.

An adorable elderly woman looked up, smiled and said, ‘We have many lovely reading corners. Read whatever you like, as much as you want.’

A strange calm whispered through the space. She made her way towards her reading nook, reading a paragraph from the book:

‘Like scars, these memories will stay with me for a lifetime. What age was I when the windows and doors of the house last stood open? When Daddy and Ma sat and actually talked to each other, discussed things? When someone said a word of praise to me?’

She slipped into a comfortable chair resting beside a white wooden table; a wall-sized window overlooked the same cerulean lake that ran alongside. 

And then someone placed another book on the table and drifted away.

‘Lonely People Meet’ by Sayantan Ghosh. She picked up the copy and read a paragraph: 

‘He didn’t feel the instant desire of puppy love which convinces people to seek immediate companionship. Instead, he wished this to be like catching a slow-moving train. One that’s about to leave the station, the whistle has been blown, but there’s enough time to jog alongside before finally grabbing the handle and taking the leap.’

She set both the books on the table. There was something about the titles and the passages. A soft melancholy settled over her. She sighed and looked out the window. It had started to drizzle. Sirimiri. 

This post is part of BlogchatterHalfMarathon

For Bookish League hosted by Ritu.

Book Review: There Was No One At The Bus Stop by Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay, Translated by Arunava Sinha

Book: There Was No One at the Bus Stop

Author: Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay

Translator: Arunava Sinha

Pages: 121

Price: INR 120 (Kindle version, paperback available @ 171)

'It was one thing to be alone by oneself, but quite another thing altogether to feel lonely even in the company of others.'

Debashish, a widower and father of a six year old boy Robi, falls in love with Trina. Trina, a married woman with two teenage children, reciprocates this feeling. But, the consequence of this forbidden relationship is harsh: she is shunned by her family, and in her own house, she lives like a stranger.

Debashsish, haunted by the suicide of his wife, avoids being in his own flat. Apart from Trina, the only comfort in his life is his son, Robi, who constantly misses his mother.

What’s the point of living like this when you don’t exist for your family, thinks Trina, and she finally decides to leave everything for good, and go to Debashish, who would be waiting for her at the bus stop.

But it’s a strange, strange day!

Is it so easy to cut all the ties? Would she be able to leave her life and live in the house of the man she loves?

There Was No One At The Bus Stop is a story that doesn’t really have many twists and turns, yet it keeps you engaged. It portrays loneliness so beautifully that you almost feel it; you don’t want to blame Trina or Debashish or Trina’s husband,  Sachin (who knows everything), or their children for what they are doing. To be honest, many times, I found myself feeling emotional - how Trina feels when she visits her children’s room after a long time, her moments with her son or husband. The emptiness Debashish feels when his son, Robi, isn’t around.

Reba, Trina’s daughter, seemed too mature and rude for a twelve years old girl, though. 

The narrative is a slow paced soliloquy, which I found deeply soothing. It’s an account of just one day, like any other day, but too intense for Trina and Debashish.

The book is translated by Arunava Sinha, one of my favourite translators. There’s something about his writing; it instantly pulls me in. The writing creates such beautiful imagery. 

The whole story unfolds in just one day, and I felt as though I was walking alongside the characters wherever they went. It was like nothing else existed except for them and that scorching afternoon and the quiet moonlit night.

It’s not a book that you finish quickly, even though it’s just 120 pages long; it’s something you savour slowly. I am very fond of Bengali stories and anything written by Arunava Sinha, so, not surprisingly, I loved this one too.. Also, I'd like to read more stories by Srishendu Mukhopadhyay. 

My only problem: there are no quotation marks for dialogues, which I generally find very disturbing.

If you enjoy reading slow paced, contemplative stories about human emotions and relationships, No One At The Bus Stop is definitely worth reading. 

I won this book as a prize for my entry in Bookish League blog hop, hosted by Ritu Bindra.

You can read my entry - 'The Classics Swap'.

When No One Was Looking: Whispering Shadows

             

             

                      📸: Pinterest 

When no one was looking, the afternoon sun shifted and the Palash tree, laden with crimson flowers, cast its enchanting shadows on the pale yellow wall, the paint chipped from several spots. At the same time, its fluttering leaves and swaying branches made purplish patterns on the deserted coal tar road that wound and vanished after a few meters.  

You pause to reflect, and some distant memory rushed back. 

You've always been inexplicably fascinated by the interplay of the light and shadows. In your childhood home, in that small room that stood at the corner of the courtyard, right under the guava tree, its branches resting on the tiled roof of the room, as you looked out the small window in the middle of the night, you caught the full moon peeking through the foliage. The moonbeam filtered through the checkered grill and fell on the hard floor creating black and white patterns. They seemed to coalesce into fleeting shapes, murmuring half-forgotten stories.

The whispering shadows seem to be talking, tugging at an unknown memory, churning some unexplainable emotions, tucked somewhere. They evoke a bizarre feeling, transporting you somewhere faraway, and you envision yourself somewhere ethereal —a place totally unknown yet so dearly familiar, like you have been to that place before, as though you know it like every corner of your being. 

A sparrow fluttered its wings and alighted at the windowsill, its neck making spasmodic motions, and just like that, you were snapped back to present.

You sigh and get up from the window. You have chores to do. But yet again, a memory was relived; your attention, for a change, steady for an unusually long time, your mobile phone quietly forgotten. 

The sunlight would move again tomorrow, just as quietly, just as unnoticed. And maybe, like today, you’ll again stop for a second to see it, or maybe you won’t. Either way, it will keep moving, whispering a secret, and you will keep breathing in the spaces between. 

Book Review: A Temple of No Gods by Manav Kaul, Translated by Sayari Debnath

Book: A Temple of No Gods

(Original Hindi: Shirt Ka Teesra Button)

Author: Manav Kaul

Translator: Sayari Debnath

Page: 277

Publisher: Penguin Books

Price: ₹ 319 (on Amazon)

I was travelling on a train when I started reading the book and it instantly brought a smile to my face because, interestingly, the book opens with an intriguing scene where a boy named Ateet (which means 'the past') is traveling on a train where he meets a girl (whom he refers to as tragedy) who is reading Chitralekha. 

The book tells the story of Rajil, a 12 year boy (studying in the 6th grade), and his two best friends Choti and Radhe, and several other characters in his life. Rajil lives with his single mother and Nani. His life takes a turn when his grandmother dies and his estranged grandfather suddenly appears and starts to live with them. Rajil's mother, Asha, avoids him but Rajil slowly forms a bond with him. 

Frankly, there’s no conventional plot, it reads more like a slow-paced, memoir-style prose, which seems to be the author's style. Multiple stories and secrets enclosed in a beautifully-written account of a bundle of emotions, dilemma and curiosity. I could feel a quiet poignancy and sorrowfulness running through this meandering yet evocative storytelling.

Manav Kaul's writing is very metaphoric. And the translator, Sayari, has captured the essence so well that it doesn't feel like a translated work, so full marks to the translator. 

'I could see the shadow of sadness getting closer ―I kept running yet I could not reach the front door. Just then, the shadow extended its long arms and shook me thoroughly. The inexplicable happiness fell out of my shirt pocket and shattered into pieces.’

I loved Rajil's bonding with his friends Choti (Arman) and Radhe. That's the most engaging and significant part of the book. The terrace of Choti's house, shrouded by a thick foliage, where three friends sit and chat, and secretly observe the passersby, including a girl called Jharna who always looks up and smiles at them. 

Rajil's moments with Radhe's father are so intriguing when he makes two cups of tea to engage Radhe's father so that he could sit with him for a while and answer all his questions. Radhe's father leaves the moment he takes the final sip of the tea. 

His restrained fondness for his estranged grandfather is also very interesting. Their conversations about Nani and various places on the world map, and their silences, uncomfortable for Rajil, as they sit under the majestic banyan tree on the broken steps of the ghat, whose roots reach the river. 

The author's reference to Chitralekha by Bhagwati Charan Verma and Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky —especially the imagined letters exchanged between Chitralekha and Raskolnikov to express the emotions is quite unique. However, it feels overdone at times, and could be confusing if you haven't read these books. 

One thing that felt like a rude and uncomfortable break in this smooth and soulful journey was Rajil’s interaction with Ghazal. The content felt far too mature for sixth graders, which seemed unnecessary and out of place in the otherwise tender narrative. It disrupted the emotional tone for me. 

Overall, it was a very good read. Not really a light, fast-paced, entertaining book that you devour in one sitting but one you prefer to savour slowly. 

This is part of the Blogchatter Review Program.

The Classics Swap

 

 Image source: Pinterest (AI modified)

Ananya opened the wooden gate, framed with bougainvillaea, and entered the beautiful garden where poppy, jasmine, dahlia, aparajita and guldaudi fluttered in full bloom. She turned right to a separate cottage-like room where her Dadi Ma lived. 

Dadi Ma sat in her room, engrossed in a book - ‘Saket’ by Maithilisharan Gupta that Ananya had bought for her from a very popular bookshop - Granthalaya - in the main market of the town. She’d brought another bag of books today —Rashmirathi by Ramdhari Singh Dinkar and Chitralekha by Bhagwati Charan Verma… the kind Dadi Ma devoured like sweets. Two months ago it was 'Vayam Rakshamah' and 'Jaidrath Vadh'. 

As she entered the room, Dadi Ma looked towards her and her beautiful, wrinkled face broke into a bright, affectionate smile. 

‘Anu, you know I recognize your footfalls.’ Dadi Ma often said and Ananya absolutely believed her.

‘Ah, I knew it. Come beta, I have a box full of pedas for you,’ Dadi Ma said, as she bookmarked the book and put it on the bed. 

‘And I have two new books for you! Tantanaan...’ Ananya offered the packet dramatically.

Dadi Ma’s face lit up at the mere mention of the books. ‘The bookkeeper must be thinking that there’s an old spiritual soul trapped in this young, tomboyish girl,' Dadi said and began to open the packet. Ananya laughed as she stuffed a peda into her mouth. ‘Ha! Only if he knew that I have no patience to read such fat novels. How come you are so addicted to reading?’

‘Don’t call it an addiction. And even if it is, it's a beautiful one.’

‘Well, I have no interest.’

‘You have no interest because you haven’t found the right book yet.' Dadi Ma smiled but her smile disappeared as she looked at the new books that emerged from the packet. 'Shukra Grah Par Dhava?' She said.

‘Shukra Grah Par Dhava? What do you mean?' Ananya asked, her eyebrows furrowed. Dadi Ma didn’t say anything, just handed her three slim books. Ananya stared at the cover. 'Samay Ke Swami'? What on earth…?’

‘And Antariksh Ke Hatyare. All written by some Professor Diwakar! I haven't even heard of this author. They seem like science fiction,' Dadi Ma said.

Ananya took out her mobile phone from her jeans pockets and called the bookseller, as she pushed back her spectacles. 

‘What book have you given me?’ She chided as soon as the bookseller picked up the call. 

‘Someone else just called me saying the exact same words. Sorry about the inconvenience but could you please come over with those books? The other person is also coming to the shop and then you guys can exchange?’

After half an hour or so, Ananya entered the shop and found a young man anxiously waiting along with the bookseller. He was tall and handsome with a serious look but kind eyes. His hair was ruffled, and a one-day stubble shadowed his jaw.

‘Thank God!’ he said as he almost snatched the paperbag from her hands.

‘Thank God!’ Ananya mimicked. ‘I got my precious classics back.’

‘Excuse me! These are classics too,’ the man said.

‘Yes, classics that nobody has heard of.’

‘That’s sadly true, but these are really good and expensive and rare. I have paid four thousand for these books.’ He looked at those books with such longing.

‘Are you serious? Four thousand for these three little books?’ Ananya asked, flabbergasted.

‘Yes, you would know if you read them. I wish I could lend them to you but you know –’

‘No, thank you. I am not interested.’ Ananya cut him short.

‘But, I am really thankful that you brought them back. I’d like to buy a book for you as a thank you.’

‘No need because I don't read novels.’

The man looked incredulous. 'Well, that’s because you haven’t found the right book yet.’

‘Hey, that’s exactly what my Dadi Ma said!’

‘How sweet. And these classics are for your Dadi Ma, I guess.’

‘Yes. Anyway, bye and thank you.’ Ananya turned to go when he called, ‘I insist.’

Ananya turned back. ‘Insist?’

He smiled and held out a paperback with a uniquely beautiful cover. ‘I mean I have this book.’ 

‘Love Virtually by Daniel Glattauer.’ Ananya mumbled.

‘Yes. You can borrow. If you don't like it, return, but if you like it, then you will come back for its sequel, ‘Every Seventh Wave’.' He flashed another book. 'And then you will finally find the right book for you,' he said, his eyes glinting with excitement. His love for reading mirrored her Dadi Ma's. 

There was something about the title of the sequel. Every Seventh Wave. 

He was still looking at her, the book hovering like a pause in their conversation, a sweet smile playing on his lips. 'And then, I'll buy you a book. Deal?' Ananya said. 

He chuckled. ‘An offer I can't refuse. So yeah, deal!’

Written for: Bookish League hosted by Ritu.

Shared with Blogchatter 

Book Review: The Memory Collectors By Dete Meserve

Book: The Memory Collectors 

Author: Dete Meserve 

Genre: Sci-fi/time travel/mystery 

Publisher: Crooked Lane Books

Source: ARC from Netgalley.

The joy of reading an unputdownable book! There's something so intriguing and fascinating and kind of uplifting about time travel stories. 

‘When you know how easily things can be taken away from you, you appreciate them more.’

‘The Memory Collectors’ follows four strangers who are chosen for a rare opportunity — a time travel trip to the past for one hour.

Elizabeth yearns for some precious hour with her son, who died in an accident. She never knew why he, a newly appointed astronomy teacher, was at that place, at that time, with a drug dealer. Andy, a bestselling author is desperate to find his first love, Kate, a beautiful pianist who suddenly vanished after a whirlwind romance — the day after he professed his love for her. Logan craves the experience of walking, mountain climbing, or surfing once again, after a mishap landed him in a wheelchair. Brooke, after serving 900 days in jail, seeks an hour of relief from a haunting guilt of an unforgivable mistake by going back to a time when she wasn't tagged a criminal.

Strangely enough, their one hour time extends, as time travel scientists are seemingly unable to extract them from the past. As they spend more time in the same city, in the same timeline, their paths cross. And as they search for answers, they discover that their lives are interconnected.

‘We all think we know what other people should do. But I see now that each of us is going on roads only we can see.’

This unique story of love, grief, hope, and second chances is beautifully written and intelligently executed.

‘The details take my breath away. We’re at a wooden table in a courtyard. Mounds of red and purple bougainvillea spill over its stone walls. Rose-fingered sunlight drifts through the leaves of a guava tree which fashions a canopy over our table. I draw in a slow, soothing breath of salty air. The ocean is nearby. It feels so damn real.’

The book is full of surprises, secrets, twists, and turns that keep you hooked until the end (well, almost — we’ll talk about that later). The chapters are short and end with cliffhangers, making it difficult to put down.

The characters are well-defined; their emotions, regrets, doubts, and dilemmas are skillfully expressed. My favourite was Elizabeth. Her moments with Sam are so beautiful — full of love, hope, and emotion. Even a brief scene in the past with her husband Mark is lovely. Andy’s past with Kate is intriguing and mysterious. Brooke’s part felt okay but was essential, as she plays a significant role. 

Now about keeping me hooked till the end —it did manage to do that, however in the final chapters, when they all come back to the present, the story starts to lose steam a bit and meanders. 

Logan — I felt his character and backstory were not as compelling. In fact, I personally think the story could have been tighter without him. 

I understand this is an advance review copy, but there were editing errors, which I hope will be fixed by the time of publication.

Overall, a very intriguing, mysterious, and engrossing story. A must-read if you particularly enjoy time travel tales.

The Compartment

 

            Image source: Freepik

It was a cold, foggy night, a stunned silence stretched across the deserted railway station. The only working yellow light seemed like a stain in the air. There was no hint of life except a black dog that just lumbered past as though it sniffed some danger. 

No, wait! There was a dainty figure sitting on a bench. A girl bundled in a black shawl. And then a shadow emerged from the darkness. He stopped, as he spotted the girl. He approached her, hovered around her. 

‘Hey!’ The man said and settled beside her.

‘Want to have some fun, huh?’

The girl looked up, clearly uncomfortable. She squirmed and shifted a little.

‘What say? Let’s go somewhere? Maybe inside the train? Nobody will arrive until 4 in the morning. We have time.’ A lecherous smile played on his lips.

The girl rose to her feet and started walking hastily. The man, relentless, followed her with long strides. He caught her with a swift motion. Gripping her elbow, he muttered, ‘I’ll give you money if you want.’

‘No! Please let me go!’ The girl yelled.

‘Oh, come on!’ He pulled her elbow, and the girl’s dainty figure stumbled. Her shrill voice faded in the air.

He almost dragged her to the nearest isolated compartment and pushed her on a seat. The man began to unbutton his shirt, his movements urgent and frantic. His hands barely touched his belt when something shifted in the girl’s body.

The look in her eyes changed, ferocity replacing fear.

She levered herself up with a fluid motion. The man tried to push her again, but something unexpected left him dazed.

The girl clutched his throat, her fingers tightening with brutal force. His eyes protruded as her grip tightened. He tried to remove her hands, but she pushed him on the hard floor with a powerful thrust.

After a few moments, the girl emerged from the compartment, picked up her shawl from the platform, and walked away, leaving the battered body of the man writhing and whimpering on the cold, hard floor of the train. 

The Slow Imprint Books by Neelesh Misra: A Fresh Path to the Art of Storytelling

Listening to Yaadon Ka Idiot Box stories had been a part of my life, but at that time, I never imagined I would one day be writing for the show—mainly because I didn’t write Hindi stories back then.

It’s been exactly two years since I became part of Mandali—the wonderful YKIB writers’ team that has allowed me to grow as a writer. We discuss stories and find every possible way to enhance them. It’s always a joy to attend those meetings.

I’m happy to share that Neelesh Sir finally stepped into the world of publishing, amplifying fresh and powerful voices (which I had always expected)—The Slow Imprint, in association with Eka by Westland Books. 

There was a wonderful book launch event yesterday (18th November). While I couldn’t attend the launch, I’m delighted about this new initiative. Happy to share the details.

The Books are on Pre-Orders.

And look at the lovely covers!

Gaon Se Bees Postcards by Shri Shiv Balak Misra,

the father of Neelesh Misra.

He is a geologist, and it’s a fascinating collection of his essays, experiences, and anecdotes.

Main Aksar Sochta Hoon by Neelesh Misra.

I’m sure you know that, apart from being a storyteller, Neelesh Sir is also a Bollywood lyricist with many popular songs to his credit. This book is a collection of poems written by him.

Junglee Phoolon Si Ladki by Anulata Raj Nair

The creative head and producer of YKIB, Anulata Ji writes lyrical and evocative stories across various genres. It’s a collection of her lovely, lovely stories.

Magic Box: A Collection of Children’s Stories

My son is particularly looking forward to this book. It features stories by Anulata Raj Nair, Deepak Rangnathan, Anita Sethi, and Deeksha Chaudhary.

Kaaljayi: Stories from the Vedas and Puranas

It’s a collection of imaginative spiritual tales by Chhavi Nigam, Anulata Raj Nair, Hrushali Jain, Shikha Dwedi, and Anulata Raj Nair.

So here are a variety of stories, and I’m really looking forward to reading them. I hope you find them interesting!

Also, if you enjoy a tale with an unexpected twist, you can pick my Free short story, The Accident, published by Juggernaut Books. 

Sharing with Bookish Leaguehosted by Ritu Bindra

And Blogchatter

If We Were Having Tea: Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay

 

I’m not sure where it came from but I suddenly imagine myself in a Bengali household. It’s an old fashioned Bengali home with a large verandah and a small courtyard where a huge neem tree stands tall. This room I stand in has a high ceiling, lined with heavy beams. There are two large windows with green shutters. A big, wooden almirah is tucked at the far corner; its glass doors flaunt nicely stacked books. Old books. I walk towards it and the first book I see is probably Datta, as my very limited knowledge of Bengali tells me. I have read the Hindi translation of this book.

I walk back and sit on a chair by the window from where I can have two views —inside there is a long corridor which leads to a couple of closed doors. Outside, there’s a narrow, quiet alley. The purplish grey sky waits for the dawn to break.

At this eerily early hour, the still sleepy house is breathing a pin drop silence. 

A gust of wind makes the white curtain hanging from the door frame flutter and I glance towards it. Suddenly you appear from nowhere, clad in a crisp white dhoti-kurta, a sombre expression on your face, and my childhood comes rushing towards me. My heart skips several beats as I cannot believe I am actually seeing you. Is it a dream, I wonder. It feels like I have time travelled. And now I feel what if you sit across from me and we have a little chat with a cup of tea? I can almost smell adrak-elaichi waali chai brewing somewhere. 

If we were having tea, I would simply tell you how much I have adored you all these years. 

I don't remember how I got introduced and drawn towards your books. Maybe it was after I found Mannu Bhandari’s ‘Swami’ in the small library of our home. You may not know about it so I’d tell you that it was a modified version of your book Swami. It remains my favourite till date. 

Or maybe it was after I read your poignant short story ‘Ram Ki Sumati’. 

I could see a flicker of a smile on your face and I’d quickly add, with a hint of pride, that we share our native land. I would tell you that I had even crossed  your school in the town where you used to study as a young boy. It was Durga Charan High School, right? This thought fascinates me so much that it's indescribable.

If we were having tea, I would tell you that I read your books in Hindi without even realizing that I was reading translations. I feel so lucky to have access to your books because of beautiful translations. I would gladly inform you that I have become a translator, something I had never thought I would do. But now that I am a translator, it gives me a different kind of feeling thinking of your books. 

If we were having tea, I would tell you that your books have been adapted into many beautiful movies like Khushboo, Swami, Parineeta and many more. I would see a flicker of surprise in your eyes. You shouldn't be surprised though because I have heard that you were on the sets when Devdas was being made. 

I was at my Maa’s friend's place when I found Devdas first. It peeked through the glass doors of an old, dusty bookshelf and I shamelessly borrowed it from her. 

I’d tell you that we have at least fifteen other Devdas movies, and I’m sure it would make you laugh. 

If we were having tea, I’d tell you that I had requested someone to buy your books from Calcutta and she brought me a big fat book — a collection of your novellas — Grihdaah, Chandranath, Parineeta, Srikant, Brahman Ki Beti, Path Ke Davedar, Charitraheen, Biraj Bahu. 

Sometimes I wish I could read Bengali.

 

If we were having tea, we would talk about writing and good storytelling. How could we not? How could I miss this chance? I would tell you how I felt that your stories were way ahead of time. Would you teach me a few (a lot of, actually) things about storytelling and creating memorable characters? Particularly strong female protagonists.

I am sure I would see a content smile playing on your lips. 

If we were having tea, I’d tell you that I dug out your book Panditmashai (Pandit Ji in Hindi) after 17-18 years and am currently reading it.

As we continue to talk, the dawn breaks into a golden, gleeful morning. Streaks of sunshine make a crisscross pattern on the table. A voice comes from somewhere. The sunshine turns bright, so bright that it blurs your presence, as though it's emanating from you. It feels like you are disappearing and my heart sinks. I don’t want this rendezvous to end. I want to talk more. 

‘I have to go. It was lovely talking to you,’ you say with a soft smile and my heart melts. You get up and walk towards the same door you came from. The brightness subsides and I see you fade into the length of the corridor. 

(It is Saratchandra's birthday today)

Written for Bookish League hosted by Ritu Bindra

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