Publish with Us

Follow Penguin

Follow Penguinsters

Follow Penguin Swadesh

© 2020 Penguin India

Category: Excerpts

A Talib’s Tale – An Excerpt

Posted on by Penguin India

 

John Butt came to Swat in 1970 as a young man in search of an education he couldn’t get from his birthplace in England. He travels around the region, first only with friends from his home country, but as he befriends the locals and starts to learn about their culture and life, he soon finds his heart turning irrevocably Pashtoon.

Containing anecdotes from his life both before and since he shifted to Afghanistan, and with a keen and optimistic attitude towards becoming the best version of himself, John Butt tells a wonderful and heartfelt tale of a man who finds a home in the most unexpected place.

 

Read an excerpt from the book below:

 

I owe a lot to Maulana Khan Afzal, but two things in particular. For one, he instilled in me a love of India. Secondly, he showed me practically that one should always work for one’s living.
When I said to Samar Gul in Bara that I was going to the Afridi heartland of Tirah Maidan, he immediately mentioned Khan Afzal. Laiq’s family had some land in Tirah, and he and I had decided to move there for the summer. : ‘That is great,’ Samar Gul said, ‘you will be able to study with Maulana Khan Afzal.’ Like the Sarkai maulvi sahib, Maulana Khan Afzal was an eminent scholar, but at the time he did not have any students residing with him. He was able to devote all his time to tutoring me. I believe it was largely because Tirah was so inaccessible that there were no other students studying with the maulana. Later on, in the late nineties when I visited Maulana Khan Afzal again, he had a good ten to twelve students studying with him. He had become a focal point for talibs, as the Sarkai maulvi sahib had been in the 1970s.
Every day, with my books under my arm, I would make the forty-five-minute walk from Saddar Khel, where Laiq lived, to Landi Kas. Tirah Maidan is a huge, expansive plateau, the like of which there are many in Afghanistan—the Gardez and Logar plateaus are two that spring to mind. The difference with Tirah Maidan is that it is surrounded by richly forested hills, while the hills that surround other Afghan plateaus are mostly bare. Two tributaries of the Bara river meet at the centre of Tirah Maidan, the Malik-Din Khel Bagh. It is the natural capital of Tirah Maidan. The land dips towards that point, as do the streams and the people. From the eastern side, the tribes of Zakha Khel and the Lower Qambar Khels, known as Shalobaris, from the western side the huge swathe of Malik-Din Khel territory, and beyond that the Upper Qambar Khels. From Saddar Khel, I would walk down towards the Malik-Din Khel Bagh, then fork right towards Landi Kas, tucked in a hillside between Bagh and Dunga in Sholobar territory.
I had been studying a Sufi type of collection of Hadith, entitled Riyadh’as-Saliheen—the Path of the Righteous. I say it was Sufi oriented since it was mostly organized according to the virtues that Sufis strive to attain—repentance, patience, sincerity, trust in Allah, steadfastness. It is very spiritually oriented. I am glad I began my study of Hadith with this book. It has remained my favourite collection of Hadith—extremely cleansing and refreshing. However, Khan Afzal switched me to the more mainstream and standard Mishkat’al-Masabih. Mishkat is arranged more conventionally, according to the various strands of jurisprudence: prayer, fasting and the other forms of worship or ibadat—one’s interaction with Allah—followed by muamilat—one’s dealings with other human beings. In the entire Islamic canon, there is this distinction between the rights of Allah—huqooq’Allah—and the rights of one’s fellow beings, indeed of all Allah’s creatures—huqooq’al-ibad. While in Hadith study Khan Afzal went for the more orthodox Mishkat, in jurisprudence, his choice of book for my study was distinctly unorthodox. His preference was Taaleem’al-Islam, written in Urdu by his own teacher, Mufti Kefayatullah of Delhi. ‘Along with learning Islamic jurisprudence—fiqh—you will learn Urdu,’ he recommended. For Taaleem’al-Islam I went outside with his elder son Abdul Hakeem, then a teenager. I guess Abdul Hakeem felt more comfortable teaching me with his father not immediately on hand. We sat on the verge of the field, had a laugh and chatted a lot, while at the same time also reading Taaleem’al-Islam.
In encouraging me to learn Urdu, it was as though the maulana had a premonition or was goading me in the direction of study in India. It had not been that long, maybe twenty or twenty-five years, since he had returned from studying in the Aminiya madrasa in Delhi. India had rubbed off on him to a considerable degree, in a way making him an unusual Afridi. He even continued to wear a lungi—a skirt-like garment favoured by Muslims of India—at home. Pashtoons generally consider this garment effeminate. Even the maulana would not be seen in that garment outside the home. I have replicated Maulana Khan Afzal in this regard. Even when I am in Afghanistan, I wear a lungi in my place of residence; when I am in north India, I wear my lungi a little further afield, as far as the local shops; when I am in south India, I wear a lungi pretty much all the time. At the time when I was studying with the maulana, I used to ask him a lot about India. In a memorable phrase, he once told me that ‘even the dogs of India have manly virtues’—’da Hindustan spi ham saritob laree.’ ‘What’s Delhi like, compared to Peshawar?’ I once asked. ‘What is Hangu like compared to Peshawar?’ he asked rhetorically, referring to a town in the Frontier province, where buses set out towards Tirah. I answered that it was just a tiny town by comparison to Peshawar. ‘Well, so is Peshawar tiny compared to Delhi.’
Yet at the same time the maulana was the most staunchly Afridi of all the Panjpiris. He absolutely loved his native Tirah. I am getting ahead of myself here, but when he was expelled from Tirah along with other Panjpiris and resided for a while in Peshawar, he pined for his motherland so much that he used to console himself by reciting poems written by muhajirs—those who had emigrated from Mecca to Medina at the time of the Holy Prophet—expressing their homesickness for Mecca. He was also invariably cordial with his fellow Afridis, irrespective of whether they subscribed to his Panjpiri views or not. I never saw him take issue or argue with anyone about matters of dogma. He would enact his duties as the pre-eminent Islamic scholar in Tirah Maidan, in the course of which he would explain how important it was to believe in the oneness of Allah and to follow the Sunna of the Holy Prophet. These two things—Tauhid and Sunna—are the twin pillars on which Panjpiri dogma is founded. But he would never become aggressive towards those who did not subscribe to Panjpiri beliefs.

 

 

A Talib’s Tale –The Life and Times of a Pashtoon Englishman is available now (also as an e-book)!

 

Should You Dance When You’re Pregnant? – An Excerpt from ‘Amma Mia’

Posted on by Penguin India

Is my baby not well?

When can I introduce my baby to solid foods?

Becoming a new mother can be an exciting yet overwhelming time. No matter how prepared you are, there will always be many confusing moments, opinions and a whole lot of drama! And just like any other new mom, Esha Deol Takhtani was faced with many such questions soon after the birth of her two daughters-Radhya and Miraya.

Packed with advice, tips, stories and easy and delicious recipes for toddlers, Amma Mia reflects the personal journey of one woman’s transformation into a mother. Informative and easy to follow, this book will help new mothers navigate the ups and downs of raising a healthy toddler and make their child fall in love with food.

Read an excerpt from the book below:

 

When she[Hema Malini] was five months pregnant, my mother was shooting for two films—Satte Pe Satta and Razia Sultan. In the song, ‘Dukki Pe Dukki Ho’, you can clearly see her bump. That’s me in there! And for Razia Sultan, she had to ride a horse while pregnant. She tells me that I’m restless and energetic because she was physically active during her nine months. She also danced onstage during her pregnancy. You must remember that she was doing this during the 1980s, when it was radical for a woman to be so active while pregnant.

 

My mother is a superwoman like that, who has always broken the rules and stereotypes of what women should be like. She has always inspired me to push the limits. In fact, I will never forget what she told me when I was pregnant. She said, ‘You’re not sick that you need to rest all the time. You’re simply pregnant. After delivery, your body is at its most elastic and flexible. You can mould it into any shape you want.’

 

And so I followed her advice unconditionally. I performed the dance ballet, Ramayana, on stage; I worked on a short film called Cakewalk; I wrote this book during my second pregnancy; and I had many other projects in the pipeline.

 

Channelling your inner creativity is a great way to enrich your nine months because the energy and positivity will most certainly be transferred to your child. That being said, no two pregnancies are alike. If you have complications or have been advised rest by your gynaecologist, do so. Be cautious. Don’t be silly or impulsive. From the day you know you’re pregnant, you must be careful. There will be many people with all sorts of advice during this time but pay heed to only one person: your gynaecologist.

For more tips and tricks, check out Amma Mia by Esha Deol Takhtani.

The Play of Dolls- An Excerpt

Posted on by Penguin India

Kunwar Narain’s unusual short stories broke new ground and rejuvenated the genre when they appeared on the Indian literary landscape in 1971. Half a century later, in vivid English translation for the first time, they seem just as far-reaching: sometimes in the novelty of their insight, sometimes in their transcendence, sometimes in the world views they together uncover.

Read an excerpt from the short story ‘The Court of Public Opinion’ below:

—

Sadiq Miyan managed to keep his motives in check at first, but then they went awry. A completely new bicycle, stood completely unclaimed—without even a lock to guard it! He glanced around once, then ran his hand over the bike’s glittering handle, as if caressing the mane of a magnificent Arabian horse. He couldn’t hold back any longer, and jumped on the bike. No one objected, nor noticed; and, well, what could the poor bike say either? He pushed down on the pedal lightly. The youthful cycle was ready to take off with him right away. The people nearby came and went by as usual, just as before.

Sadiq Miyan spurred the bicycle on, and it began to fly like the wind. It was his now.

But, alas, what an awful stroke of bad luck! An endless herd of buffaloes came along, straying right into the middle of the road. Sadiq Miyan lost control and collided with one of the stoutest in the bunch—head-on. What could he do, the poor guy? He hit the ground—his own injury less, the cycle’s, more. Bent and broken, the wheel went from being hoop-shaped to heap-like. The handle, twisted backwards, gazed at the seat, and the mudguard took on a look as if it were not a part of the bike but of the buffalo. The buffalo stood in stunned silence; Sadiq Miyan glanced nervously at the crippled bike. What could he do? He’d really landed himself in a strange sort of trouble. It crossed his mind to abandon the bike and make a run for it. After all, it was only the bike that was broken—nothing wrong with his legs!

But in the meantime, a crowd began to gather all around him, as was only natural. Running just then would have meant getting himself in more trouble. Two, four, six . . .dozens of women, men and children began surrounding him. In the middle lay the mangled bike; with the buffalo, chewing cud, on one side, and Sadiq Miyan, head reeling, on the other.

At first, the people pitied the bike that was now a mess, then their hearts were kindled with compassion for Sadiq Miyan, and finally, they got angry at the buffalo. Because there was clear evidence before them of what happens when one locks horns with a buffalo, they decided to tackle the herdboy instead. It was because of him that the hazard of something like a buffalo had sprung up in the middle of the road, and someone upright like a Sadiq Miyan had become the victim of that hazard.

By consensus, it was decided that they should fix the herdboy properly, right then and there. But Sadiq Miyan objected: in his view, it was more important to fix the bicycle first—and the herdboy should be made to do that. Everyone agreed.

The crowd lifted the bike tenderly and delivered it to a nearby cycle hospital with great care, where its wounds were treated for a cost of ten rupees. But when the herdboy was told to cough up the money, he expressed his inability to do so, and asked how on earth was he supposed to come up with ten rupees when he hadn’t even ten paise to his name then?

Confronted by this new problem, an extraordinary debate took place among the ordinary folk assembled there; so many arguments all at once that it was practically impossible to make out any argument clearly. Nevertheless, one solution somehow seemed to survive intact: whatever the herdboy was wearing should be sold to cover the penalty cost of the repairs.

This too was easier said than done, because the herdboy had nothing but a dhoti around his waist and a lathi in his hand. Even if both these items were taken, it wouldn’t be enough.

Anyhow, after the cycle had recovered, it was agreed that Sadiq Miyan and the cycle should be considered free from the whole dust-up. This was deemed incontestable not only in the eyes of the public, but also in the eyes of the luckless bicycle mechanic, who now, having taken the entire burden of Sadiq Miyan’s ten-rupee misadventure on his own head, was an eager prosecutor of the blameworthy herdboy. As for the public, it was surely commendable that not a single person there was willing to step back until final justice had been delivered, no matter what.

Some wise guy then repeated the suggestion that, if it satisfied the cycle mechanic, the herdboy could also be handily fixed, with a flogging worth ten rupees! But nobody paid much mind to this idiocy, though the herdboy was entirely willing to go along. Everyone’s attention was stuck on the intricate problem at hand: how could they wring ten rupees from the herdboy in his present condition?

One gentleman, who had perhaps trained as a lawyer, or was capable of being a lawyer, came up with a novel proposal: by selling that same buffalo which had given rise to all this mess, the cost of the fine could be recovered. The idea wasn’t unreasonable, and his submission was accepted.

The buffalo again became the centre of attention. For five minutes, the people waited. But where would they find a ready buyer for a thing as big as a buffalo? A buffalo isn’t some wad of paan, a bidi or a cigarette that can be purchased along the road, tucked in one’s pocket, and hung along with the pocket on a peg on some wall back home. It was a matter of responsibility, which could go as far as spelling fortune or disaster for one’s offspring. Second, who had the cash on hand worth a buffalo at this time? As a result, this attempt at justice proved unsuccessful as well.

Around now, everyone was sorely feeling the need for some kind of mastermind in the crowd. A few sights fell on one particular gentleman, and remained on him. He certainly looked like a wiseacre—though some others pegged him as a daydreaming wiseass. They held a vote; and it was decided that he was indeed a wiseacre, not a wiseass, though he himself kept claiming to be nothing less than a prophet.

What will happen next? You’ll have to read The Play of Dolls to find out!

An Insight into the Life of The Lone Empress, Jayalalithaa

Posted on by Penguin India

The Lone Empress is the journey of a proud Ammu to an indefatigable Rossappu Amma. Despite her immense popularity, she felt lonely and vulnerable in personal life after her mother – Veda (popularly known as Sandhya) and her mentor – MGR, passed away. The book tells the story of how a charismatic and talented woman steered through a male-dominated film industry, developed a loyal political fan base without the support of her party seniors, and stood her ground even when sentenced to four years in jail.

Here are a few excerpts that reveal some of the characteristics of her fiery personality.

She was an honour roll student

‘Look closer, you will find J. Jayalalithaa’s name printed in bold white letters, on the annual roll of honour, as the recipient of the Best Outgoing Student Rolling Shield for the year 1964. The school’s Centenary Celebrations (2009) special souvenir carries a photo of a young Jayalalithaa in her school uniform proudly posing with the shield.’ 

She was more than a pretty face

‘The AIADMK’s party conference was being organised on a huge scale and the town people thronged to hear the star speaker who to give her maiden political speech, one that she herself had prepared. MGR was present, too, drawing hordes of men and women, most of them film fans. The town square was a sea of humanity and the theme of Jayalalithaa’s speech was, “Pennin perumai” (woman’s greatness). The public, expecting only to see a pretty face, were in for a big surprise. Jayalalithaa’s speech was fiery and impressive, an instant success. She had arrived, barely having left, as it were, the starting the block.’ 

She honoured MGR at his death ceremony in her own way

‘Jayalalithaa did not shed a tear. She did not wail. She stunned the onlookers and mourners by standing in vigil for two days – thirteen long hours on the first day and eight hours on the second. Because of her enormous will power, she was not exhausted physically, but she experienced the mental and physical torture from other sources. Several women from Janaki’s side stood near her and began stamping on her feet and pinching her to drive her away. But she stood undaunted, swallowing the humiliation, her pride keeping her firmly where she has taken position.’ 

Jail changed her

‘She was in jail for twenty-eight days; and on coming out she appeared to have been hardened rather than chastened. It must have been a traumatic period for her, proud and used to sophistication, like a queen whose feet had never touched the earth and whose head had never felt the heat of the blazing sun. But the jail wardens were struck and deeply touched by the dignity with which she had conducted herself. She hardly spoke to any of them. She spent her time reading books. She later described in graphic detail how she had suffered in the bandicoot-infested jail.’ 

Victory was her goal

‘As long as she lived, victory was her goal. “V” was her symbol. “Naalai namathe”, tomorrow is ours, was her mantra. Now, there is no tomorrow. The Supreme Court waited till her death to release the verdict. She remained “not guilty” till her last breath, innocent, fully acquitted of all charges. She dies in office as the chief minister. She was the victor even in death.’ 

Grab a copy of The Lone Empress to read the dramatic turn of events and the struggles that made Jayalalithaa such a controversial figure.

Reach for the Stars! – An excerpt from ‘Fearless’

Posted on by Penguin India

Inspirational women from all over the world have held their own in the face of discrimination, inequality and injustice. These women have been politicians, lawyers, activists, artists and more – with the common goal of raising their voices and fighting for the greater good no matter their nationality, race or religion.

Fearless explores this notion by collating a variety of stories focused on the inspirational women of Pakistan and the strength they have displayed in their own lives.

You can read an example of one such story, about the life astronaut Namira Salim below:

Namira Salim was a quiet, meditative child whose head was quite literally in the stars. It was her dream to become an astronaut but for a little girl from Pakistan, this seemed an impossible fantasy.

Namira was obsessed with the night sky and never asked for her parents for anything— except to be sent into space! ‘I was literally born with the dream of going to space. And the unshaken belief that I would.’

Her parents caved and got Namira her first telescope at the age of 14—she never looked down again as her sights were firmly set on her goal! She was part of the pioneering astronomy society in Pakistan and would spend hours gazing at the stars. Her family moved to the UAE and Namira eagerly participated in star-gazing parties in the desert. She met David McNaughton, one of the first people in the world to go into space, here and became his mentee.

As a college student studying International Relations and later as a resident of Monaco, Namira continued to be deeply absorbed by and involved in space-related activities, even launching a range of ‘space true’ jewelry under a private artistic label called A Soul Affair.

A recognized polar explorer, Namira was the first Pakistani to reach the North Pole in April 2007 and the South Pole in January 2008. She is also the first Asian to skydive (tandem) over Mount Everest in 2008 and the only Pakistani in Virgin’s Galactic commercial space liner, an opportunity he was shortlisted for as a future astronaut out of 1,44,000 applications to travel into space.

However, Namira wasn’t about to just sit around waiting for the first commercial flight to take off! She decided to get qualified officially by completing her training in the US and became the first Pakistani to do so. She also founded Space Trust, a non-profit initiative that promotes space as the New Frontier for Peace, via novel peace initiatives to inspire change and encourage dialogue.

You can read more about Namira and other stories about inspirational and incredible women like her in Fearless – grab your copy today!

What are Stereotypes about Pakistan among Indians?

Posted on by Penguin India

Many of us have concluded Pakistan as an economically, culturally, socially and ideologically regressive country. Most of us have dropped the idea of exploring the picturesque landscape of Pakistan due to a dangerously false perception of it being a terrorism inflicted country. That is why when a journalist – Sameer Arshad Khatlani, decided to attend the World Punjabi Conference in Lahore, his family felt extremely anxious about his decision.

The Other Side of the Divide is a journalist’s reflective travelogue that bares the complexities of culture and class in Pakistan. Khatlani’s adventurous journey to the heart of Pakistan reveals the connecting thread between two nations through stories that fail to reach the masses in India.

Here are some excerpts that render all commonly held stereotypes about Pakistan as false:

 

  1. Stereotype: Pakistan is a land that breeds hostility

‘The immigration clearances were prompt. I had never seen a more cheerful immigration official than the one who stamped my passport. the atmosphere was not even remotely as hostile as what it used to be a decade ago. […] I did not find any hostility. Far from it…’

  1. Stereotype: Pakistan is full of only Muslims

‘Everything across the border looked as if harmonized with the Indian side. […] An artificial line drawn through the heart of Punjab cannot be deep enough to change the shared language, culture, customs, idioms and attitudes shaped over centuries. Sikh men in their beautiful and colorful turbans in eastern (Indian) Punjab and ubiquitous Urdu in western (Pakistani) Punjab are perhaps the only outliers on the surface. Punjabi is the language of the people on the street.’ 

  1. Stereotype: Pakistan rejects everything that is Indian

‘The market was abuzz despite the cold. it could have been easily mistaken for a market in Indian Punjab had not it been for Urdu signages. Virtually every shop sold artificial jewellery, Indian beauty products and prominently displayed Amul Macho undergarments packs with pictures of Bollywood stars Saif Ali Khan and Akshay Kumar.’

 

  1. Stereotype: Cities in Pakistan aren’t as developed as India

‘The Pak Heritage is a budget hotel particularly popular with Sikh pilgrims. it is located on the busy and mostly gridlocked Davis road with many similarities with Delhi’s Daryaganj. […] In Lahore, posh, leafy and well-maintained areas like the Mall are located just a few kilometers away, south of Davis road. Daryaganj, likewise, is a five-minute drive from the heart of tree-shaded Lutyens’s Delhi, distinguished by its colonial-era bungalows and wide avenues.’ 

  1. Stereotype: Bollywood doesn’t have Pakistani fans

‘… one of Pakistan’s best-known newspapers, Dawn, gushed about Madhuri’s ‘dazzling and disarming smile’, which she ‘quite literally patented’ and honed ‘into an art form’. […] In Lahore, and indeed across Pakistan, Bollywood is ubiquitous and gets prime slots on TV news channels, sometimes at the cost of more pressing issues.’ 

  1. Stereotype: Pakistan has an extremely orthodox culture

‘No one disappeared after the screening. A party-like atmosphere continued outside the hall well past midnight. Television crews surrounded filmmakers and socialites for sound bites about the film. Camera flashlights brightened the dimly lit waiting area. Some spoke to at least half a dozen camera crews about the film and performances of the lead actors, Aamir Khan and Katrina Kaif.’ 

  1. Stereotype: Pakistan has an Urdu speaking community

‘Punjabi, along with its variants, still remains the mother tongue of an overwhelming number—close to 60 per cent—of Pakistanis. Beyond the urban upper-class pockets of Lahore and other bigger cities, it remains the colourful language of choice for the masses…Urdu-speakers have accounted for roughly 10 per cent of Pakistan’s population.’ 

To understand how the common people of Pakistan have often challenged the dehumanizing discourse about their country, there may be no better place to begin than The Other Side of the Divide.

The Complete Story – Warts and All

Posted on by Penguin India

In Shashi Tharoor’s words: ‘Alistair Shearer’s The Story of Yoga offers an absorbing chronicle of the rise of yoga, tracing its evolution through history to its rapid global proliferation today, with insights into the challenges ahead.’

Alistair Shearer himself calls it a “how come” book rather than a “how to” one. For the first time, The Story of Yoga presents a narrative setting out a comprehensive and accessible history of yoga in its global cultural context.

Find a glimpse of the expansive global outreach and popularity of yoga in an excerpt below:

 

WAY BACK WHEN…?

It’s a typical Friday evening in downtown America. A group of youthful practitioners, mostly women kitted out in fashionable sportswear and carrying plastic water bottles, arrives at a large, well-lit gym. Tanned and toned, they have come to relax after a hard day at the office, tighten up their abs and flabs, reduce their blood pressure and cholesterol. During the session there is a lot of talk of anatomical details amidst a pervasive atmosphere of ‘no pain no gain’; the stretching and relaxing may involve blocks, ropes and other appliances, but there is a determined energy exerted in most of the postures. Everything takes place in front of the wall-to-wall mirrors and the ethos is one of goal-directed accomplishment. Everyone is getting somewhere, burning off fat and sweating out stress, improving themselves. At the end of the session, recharged and clear-headed, people chat while quickly changing back into street gear. Some are advocating the benefits of the latest detox programmes and high-energy diets, while almost all are checking their phones and consulting their upcoming schedules.

Not far away on the other side of town, another group is meeting. Its members are older than the gym-goers but, again, almost exclusively female. Here the lighting is dimmer, sitar music is playing softly in the background and the scent of sandalwood wafts from an incense stick smouldering in front of an image of the Dancing Shiva. The session, led by a Western teacher with an Indian name who is just back from a three-month stay at an ashram in Rishikesh, begins with mispronounced chanting from a sacred Hindu text, followed by some mantras that the group repeats after her. Sanskrit terminology is used to describe the postures, which are performed slowly and gently. The session is brought to a gentle close with a guided meditation, and then, after some relaxed socializing and prolonged hugging, people drift away into their various weekends.

***

The understanding of yoga typified by the first group above will be dealt with later in this book, but for the moment, let us focus on the second. As do millions of others, its members would see their practice as being in some way connected to the nourishing well-spring of Indian wisdom. However vaguely the connection may be articulated, practitioners and teachers take for granted that this yoga is the subcontinent’s practical and perennial spiritual gift to the rest of the world. One of the most popular English translations of Patanjali’s classic Yoga Sutra is How to Know God, a poetic collaboration between the California-based Indian guru Swami Prabhavananda and the English writer Christopher Isherwood. First published in 1953, this version is still the Vedanta Press’ best-selling book, and has remained so respected over the years that until very recently the official governing body of yoga in the UK, The British Wheel of Yoga, chose it as the recommended text for its teacher training courses. In the opening paragraph of their introduction, the authors tell us: ‘the yoga doctrine may be said to have been handed down from prehistoric times’. Such an impressive pedigree might perhaps be proved one day, but in fact there is currently no hard evidence to support such a claim, and certainly not as regards body-yoga. Much water has flowed under the scholastic bridge in the almost seventy years since this translation was first published, and such broad statements rarely go unchallenged today. Indeed, as we shall see, a great deal of what is practised as yoga in the twenty-first century actually has very little in common with what we now know of ancient India, in terms of both its socio-cultural norms and its spiritual aims.

**

Shearer’s book boasts of a colourful cast of characters, past and present, who tell an engaging tale of scholars, scandal, science and spirit, wisdom and waywardness. This is a definitively untold story of yoga – warts and all.

Bholanath and Khudabaksh Discover German Mushrooms

Posted on by Penguin India

Bholanath and Khudabaksh are two soldiers in the British Indian Army, sent off to Europe to fight in World War I. One happens to be Hindu and the other happens to be Muslim, but that doesn’t keep them from being the best of friends.

When a mission in a surveillance balloon goes awry, these two gentle soldiers-along with an exceptionally ill-tempered squirrel-are set adrift high above the Western Front.

Intrigued? Read an excerpt from Soar:

—

 

The two soldiers kept searching the forest for food. The only thing they found, and this only when Bholanath stubbed his toe and punctured a hollow, half-rotted log, was a clutch of gray mushrooms. They began hunting in such dark hideaways for more mushrooms, and eventually had collected whole pocketsfull of them, dirt-speckled and with droopy caps of various dun colors. Only one variety was orange. Bholanath blew the dirt off it.

“These may be good for breakfast, seeing as we have no fruit.”

They took their harvest back to the stream, where they dunked each mushroom and let the current rinse it, rubbing the more stubborn dirt stains with their thumbs. The orange caps proved even brighter after the washing. He handed Khudabaksh a few and kept a few for himself. They savored each one and chased this meal, such as it was, with more water. They were still hungry, and it was hard not to eat the rest of the mushrooms on their way back to the balloon.

They were still walking when Khudabaksh turned to Bholanath and saw his friend’s temples form little spuds. The calf’s stubs lengthened all the way to proud, S-shaped horns. His pupils dilated and kept dilating until they filled his eyes, which had no whites left. Bholanath’s nostrils flared and kept flaring until a rough, off-pink tongue slithered out of his mouth and licked them. At this point, Bholanath mooed outright, terrifying Khudabaksh, who stumbled away with one hand and one wrist-stump thrust out at Bholanath. Backing away, he tripped over a log; he knocked his ankle and steadied himself, but fell onto his rear. “Ah!” he cried. When he sat up, he was straddling the log.

This black log, in Bholanath’s eyes, immediately sprang onto four feet, a small black horse. Khudabaksh’s hand held a burning book in it, obviously, from the way his Mussalmaan companion had shouted “Allah!”, the Qur’an. A pink gauze-strip dangling from his wrist lengthened and hardened into a blood-stained Mughal dagger with a mother-of-pearl hilt. Bholanath raised his own right arm out of reflex, to protect himself, and where his wrist-stump was, Khudabaksh saw a hoof. They both shouted, Khudabaksh for Allah’s help, Bholanath for Mahadev’s, and this only redoubled their terror of one another. For several minutes, they cowered behind oak trees fifty feet apart. Finally, they called across the distance.

“Khudabaksh?”

“Bhola?”

“Put that bloody dagger away, or I won’t talk to you!”

“First you put those horns back in your head!”

“Horns? What horns?”

Khudabaksh stuck his finger in his ear and toggled it smartly, eyes squinched. “Talk Gujarati, you shapeshifting Hindu! Stop that mooing!”

Bholanath looked around the tree and gasped. “First you whistle your Arabian over! He’s still glaring at me with his—with those eyes of his!”

“My Arabian?”

“The horse, you crazed old Mussalmaan!”

“Where?”

“Right there!”

“That’s a log, Bholanath!”

Bholanath put his fists to his eyes, rubbed hard, and looked again. “No, it’s definitely a horse. And now it’s lifting its tail and shitting fire. Take a look yourself if you don’t believe me.”

He retreated behind his oak and hugged his knees for warmth. To his surprise, his own knees had grown nipples that poked suggestively through the khaki. He stared, not particularly aroused, but mesmerized. The attempted dialogue stopped here for the next several minutes. On his end, Khudabaksh watched the mushroom-caps in his pocket inflate and subside rhythmically, like jellyfish breathing themselves along. Finally, when they exhaled for the last time, he checked back.

“Bholanath? Oy Bholanath!”

Bholanath peeked tentatively around his oak.

“See? I can talk to you now that you’ve put those horns back in your head.”

“Thanks for calling off your horse. What did you do with your Qur’an?”

“It’s in my pocket.”

“I mean the one that was on fire.”

“Who would dare burn a Qur’an? In a forest no less!”

Bholanath glimpsed the dangling gauze strip and rubbed his eyes again. No, it definitely wasn’t a dagger.

The two soldiers emerged tentatively, in their own shapes, no longer demonically transformed. They felt each other’s faces like blind friends meeting after a long time apart, and, satisfied, returned to the balloon together.

What happens next? You’ll have to read Soar to find out!

Of Love, Home, and the Outside

Posted on by Penguin India

Loya is twenty-five, solitary and with restless stirrings in her heart. In an unexpected move, she sets off on an unexpected journey, away from her mother, Rukmini, and her home in Bengaluru, to distant, misty Assam. She seeks her grandfather, Torun Ram Goswami, someone she has never met before.

Twenty-five years ago, Rukmini had been cast out of the family home by her mother, the formidable and charismatic Usha, while Torun had watched silently. Loya now seeks answers, both from him and the place her mother once called home.

In the excerpt below, find a glimpse of the fateful wedding day in 1983, which ends up defining Loya’s exploration of home and family.

 

The Wedding

3 December 1983

 

Despite her father’s enormous love for her and her brother’s steady affection, she had been consigned to the margins of life in the Yellow House by Usha. Well, Rukmini found she did not feel so negligible any more. In a glad inversion of the way Usha diminished her, with Alex Rukmini was enhanced; she felt more of herself.

The world would alter again this morning, Rukmini thought as she walked up the path towards Alex. In a few hours, she would be a wife and Alex, her husband. She shivered again and, as if sensing her fear, Arun turned and linked his arm with hers.

At the veranda, Arun released Rukmini’s arm and she walked, instead, beside Alex, into Robin Khura’s small drawing room. It was a humble room, with its old wooden threepiece sofa set and a couple of cane armchairs. That it lacked a woman’s touch was obvious. But Jitu and Robin, with the aid of the woman hired to help around the house, had done their best to smarten it up. The cushion covers were freshly washed and ironed. There were vases of clumsily arranged flowers on the bookshelves, one tall arrangement of fragrant rajnigandha and other of red roses, overblown and already shedding petals.

‘Sit, sit!’ Robin Khura ushered the couple into the twoseater sofa. ‘The magistrate will be here any minute.’

Rukmini sat down beside Alex. Her hand resting on the seat of the sofa was alarmingly close to Alex’s. She hoped he would not reach across and take her hand. She did not know how things were done in his family down in Bangalore but here it was taboo to touch even your spouse in public view. In fact, it was bad form to express any affection or love between a wife and a husband at all. This was not a society that believed in a hug or embrace outside the bedroom.

‘Tea, anyone?’ Jitu asked.

Rukmini spoke quickly, maybe too soon, and regretting her haste. ‘Not now, later, maybe.’ She could not possibly eat or drink anything now. When would the magistrate arrive? She wanted to be done with it all as soon as she could.

‘Easy, sweetheart,’ Alex said and Rukmini felt herself flush. She was embarrassed at Alex’s use of this endearment before the assembled.

There was just the five of them this morning. There would have been more had it not been for the bandh. All eight of their study circle group and many more of their batch mates—Alex after all was a favourite with many. Some of her friends too, from school, may have shown up. The bandh had kept them all indoors. No family either, though Arun and she had three cousins—all in Jorhat. There were none they were particularly close to.

But what of Alex?

Rukmini realized she had not given any thought to Alex’s family, who were absent. His father had died two years ago, but what of his mother and sister, Rose? When asked, he had said that it was too far for them to travel and they would be going down to Bangalore the next day anyway. There, he said, there would a big reception at Bangalore Club. She had not thought it odd then, but now sitting in the still drawing room, suffocated by the cloying scent of the rajnigandhas, Rukmini was struck by how very strange it all was.

The magistrate arrived, half an hour late. At ten minutes past ten, Rukmini put down the pen she had signed her name with and allowed Alex to gather her up in a quick embrace, before bursting into tears.

 

Undertow presents a delicate and poignant portrait of family and all that it contains. Through Rukmini’s and Loya’s journeys, Jahnavi Barua crafts a complex exploration of home and the outside world, and the ever-evolving nature of love itself.

 

The Girl Who Disappeared- An Excerpt

Posted on by Penguin India

Nisha opens her eyes when the car jerks suddenly. She thinks she had been asleep and dreaming about an incident that hadn’t happened. But reality soon sinks in and she feels her throat constrict. The screeching sound of the brakes seems sinister to her. And when she sees what is in front of the car, she freezes. She looks at Rishi in horror.

 

Rishi shrugs. ‘The cat just jumped in front of the car from nowhere!’

 

‘You realize what this means?’

 

‘Nothing,’ Rishi replies. ‘It means nothing. Don’t make a big deal out of this.’

 

‘It’s a bad omen.’

 

Nisha glances at the black cat that has now wandered towards her side. The cat gazes back at Nisha. She doesn’t like the cat’s deep yellow eyes. Its stare is intimidating. Nisha swears there is malice in the eyes. Bile rises in her throat.

 

Finally, she has to drop her gaze as the cat doesn’t concede.

 

Rishi puts the engine in first gear and drives away.

 

‘Something bad is going to happen,’ Nisha whispers. ‘I feel it. Something bad is going to happen on this trip.’

error: Content is protected !!