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Meet the characters from the historical epic Asoca

Asoca-often spelled Ashoka-was hailed as Ashoka the Great, the emperor who ruled most of the Indian Subcontinent and was pivotal in the spread of Buddhism from India to other parts of Asia in the third century BC. But his life as emperor was not always led by non-violence. History has it that he masterminded one of the biggest and deadliest wars ever fought, and it was the insurmountable grief he experienced at the sight of the people dying and dead on the battleground that made him turn to Buddhism and take a vow of ahimsa.

 

Who was the man, and who was the king? What were his demons, and what gave him strength? Asoca: A Sutra,  drawn from research and portrayed with energy and complexity, transports the reader to the era of the Mauryan dynasty with atmospheric vividness and insight.

 

Here are 5 memorable characters from Irwin Allen Sealy’s historical novel

 

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Asoca FC
Asoca||Irwin Allen Sealy

Asoca – The nonconformist, mighty emperor of the Mauryan empire. A contrarian by nature, he is stubborn but thoughtful. He may not the most good-looking man, but for his mother he is her ‘little rhizome.’

 

‘From early childhood words were a game, and the pleasures of this game were those of reshaping the world… Rule your speech and you rule the world. My voice owed a little to every person and place I had known and admired, but the mix was mine alone.’

 

‘The hardest part, I found, was sitting there at all once all your factotums had left: alone with empire, imagining the extent of it off to one side and then the other way and then forward and backward on every side till you felt yourself positively abandoned.’

‘Every kingdom needs an honest, fearless man…to show up both the charlatan who seizes power and the incumbent who has lost his way.’

 

Uncle K –  The shrewd strategist of Mauryan legacy, the creator of the immense Arthashastra, Asoca’s Uncle K is always by the King’s side. The King’s chief advisor, Uncle K talks like a book and his eyes, ears and mind are everywhere.

 

“Crooked as his name portends, bent in every part, twisted from hairpiece to toenails, this aged crow makes blackness look grey. Guile is younger—the hills are younger—than Kautilya, maker and keeper of kings.”

 

“The arch-monarchist for whom the kingdom was more important than his tenure as prime minister, than his own position as kingmaker, than life itself.”

 

Bindusara, the Dotted – He is the handsome Mauryan King, the man of virtues who prefers reconciliation to war. He grew up to rule—and to rue the day he was born.

‘My father Bindusara was a handsome man. Good looks were important to him, and they reappeared in his firstborn like vindication. Susima was a mirror in which he saw his chief virtue displayed, and father and son took it less as a gift of nature than as a divine right: it was a mark of approval, even, you would think, accomplishment.’

‘Father, whose sword leapt from its scabbard in the course of every rousing speech, whose lusty verses were applauded in the gardens at the annual festival, and whose concubines lived in terror of a visit on any given night, this man was crying.’

 

Madhumitta – Her name implies nectar of the gods. She is Asoca’s Queen Bee, his anchor, the woman he loved and desired.

‘The look in her eye said she would serve the truth. Such assurance burns in the elect; it is what creates disciples. Her determination awed me. Service was to me an abstract concept, a secular, almost departmental thing. For Madhumitta it was an article of faith.’

‘Madhumitta, dear wife, I cannot believe you have forgotten me in your nunnery. I have forgotten nothing, not the tender abstraction on your forehead, not the soft broom in your gentle hand of a morning, not the silent reproof to an erring child or errant husband, not the loving kindness you spread through that house you ruled.’

 

Susima – The eldest son of Bindusara, heir apparent of the empire. The apple of everyone’s eyes, he become Asoca’s arch-rival in his quest for the throne.

‘He [Susima] was, truth be told, the noblest of us all. He didnt lie or cheat or push and shove and scramble. But then, he didnt have to. He carried himself as if the crown were a settled thing.’

‘Susima, ultimate theoretician, wrapped in birchbark scroll for armour. He was still the master of the cool shot, born of meditation and intellect; I was the poor guerilla. A Susiman universe was the opposite of mine.’

**

Asoca: A Sutra leaves the reader breathless with the full-bodied richness of Sealys prose, his trademark whimsy and his imaginative modern reconstruction of that enigmatic and brilliant ruler of the Indian subcontinent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love or lust?

In The Lovers of Rampore, Ashok Chopra delves into the many mysterious forms of love thus introducing a mystic quality to the everyday lives of his characters. From the thrills of lust to the joys and fears of genuine commitment, to the exploration of desire and dispassion that exist in all relationships, this is the story of love in all its different manifestations.

Ashok Chopra weaves a contemporary Bayeux tapestry of richly detailed stories which are mature, slow-burning and strum with a quiet passion that cuts across class, gender, and age, fundamentally altering the way we perceive love. In doing so, he also challenges society’s archaic understanding of the bonding between people.

Here’s a peek into this book that boasts all the glory of a royal romance in a modern day setting that hits much closer to home.

~

 

The Lovers of Rampore||Ashok Chopra

From the day after her birthday, Tina waited for Vikram to contact her. To ring her up or at least message her, not that he had ever done that before. As each day went by, with no call from him, her desire to meet him, to be with him, increased. She toyed with the idea of calling him. Should she think of some excuse or the other and send him a text message? She couldn’t think of any. Should she land up at his home again? No, she dare not repeat that trick, as she had no excuse to do so this time. And even if she had one, he may realize that the first time, too, was a ploy.

Why did she want to be with him so much? Shouldn’t she, first of all, try and make up with Neeraj? She tried to honestly answer that question, but she couldn’t. Then one night she found it in her sleep. She dreamt that Vikram had come to her room. Quickly, without a preamble, he took off his clothes and came to where she sat. His body, in the nude, was exquisite. She felt the excitement throbbing in her temples and her face became flushed. He helped her undo her nightdress and then together,  naked on the bed, they made love. It was pure rapture. Absolute bliss. She thought that she would die of ecstasy. But she wouldn’t mind dying in his arms. In bed, he was a fabulous lover, so much better than Neeraj had ever been.

In the morning, she reviewed the entire sequence of her lovemaking with Vikram, without any feeling of guilt or embarrassment. She finally admitted to herself that she found him very attractive—with a fine, sensitive, well-chiselled face, the dimple in the chin and the lithe and perfectly balanced body, which exuded strength and power. All this, and much more, had often filled her with the yearning to be close to him, to reach out and touch him, to hold him close. Her dream merely reaffirmed this feeling. She knew that she desired him, that she really enjoyed making love to him. But, though also important, there was more to her feelings for Vikram than a mere sexual attraction. What it was she could not put her finger on.

The last of the roses that he had brought for her birthday languished, but she did not want to throw them away. Finally, she had to because they were all dead and the water had become contaminated. As she poured the water from the vase into the sink, she knew she had to see him, come what may. Damn the reasons and analyses, she told herself. She was desperate to see him, to be with him, to see his face, hear his voice and to put her lips on his.

As luck would have it, she got a call from Mahtab amma.

Perveen Mistry can’t rest until she sees justice done

November 1921. Edward VIII, Prince of Wales and future ruler of India, is arriving in Bombay to begin a fourmonth tour. The Indian subcontinent is chafing under British rule, and Bombay solicitor Perveen Mistry isn’t surprised when local unrest over the royal arrival spirals into riots. But she’s horrified by the death of Freny Cuttingmaster, an eighteen-year-old female Parsi student, who falls from a second-floor gallery just as the prince’s grand procession is passing by her college.

When Freny’s death appears suspicious, Perveen knows she can’t rest until she sees justice done. But Bombay is erupting: as armed British secret service march the streets, rioters attack anyone with perceived British connections and desperate shopkeepers destroy their own wares so they will not be targets of racial violence. Can Perveen help a suffering family when her own is in danger?

Here is an excerpt from Sujata Massey’s new book, The Bombay Prince that talks about Freny’s death.

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The Bombay Prince: Perveen Mistry Investigates || Sujata Massey

“Miss Mistry, come down here,” Miss Daboo beseeched. Perveen knelt down and, feeling queasy, reached out to touch Freny’s wrist. It was still warm, yet the veins on the inside of her wrist seemed deflated. She could not detect a pulse. Perveen’s mother, Camellia, and sister-in-law, Gulnaz, were the kind of women brave enough to volunteer in hospitals. They might know another spot to look for a pulse. All Perveen could think of was the heartbeat.
Freny had fallen on her right side, so it was possible for Perveen to slide her hand under the khadi cloth and over the left side of Freny’s white cotton blouse.

“Don’t be obscene!” Miss Daboo muttered in Gujarati, and Perveen belatedly realized there were men watching her. Having felt no sign of life, she pulled back her hand.

“We must pray. God can work miracles.” Another Englishman had appeared. He looked to be in his fifties, with a long face made even paler by its contrast with his black robe. Right behind him was a breathless Principal Atherton.

The principal and the college chaplain had taken long enough to arrive at a scene of crucial emergency. But perhaps the police had occupied Principal Atherton’s time getting details about Dinesh Apte. And why weren’t they with him now?

The answer came: The college’s leadership didn’t know Freny was dead. Only she and Miss Daboo knew the truth. Or maybe— Lalita also did. Surely she would have tried to help her friend sit up. Surely

Mr. Atherton spoke between gasps. “I’ve just heard—about the accident—from the reverend.” Two more breaths. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Freny Cuttingmaster,” Alice said. “She’s a second-year student.”

“And what about you? Are you a nurse?” Mr. Atherton’s face was reddened, no doubt from agitation and heat.

“Sorry, I am not.” Perveen looked away from him and back at Freny. She thought of saying she was a lawyer, but it didn’t seem the right place.

“Miss Perveen Mistry, my old friend from Oxford, is here at my invitation,” Alice said quickly. “Miss Mistry, this is Mr. Ath- erton, our principal, and our chaplain, Reverend Sullivan.”

Principal Atherton pressed his lips together disapprovingly. “I am not—entertaining interviews for women faculty. This is an emergency—”

“I’m not a teacher; I’m a solicitor with a practice nearby.” Having honestly admitted her field, Perveen didn’t know how long the college administrator would allow her to linger.

“Miss Acharya, is it correct that you were first on the scene?” Atherton had turned his attention to the student, who was clutching Alice.

“Yes. I was a few yards ahead of the others,” Lalita said in a choked voice. “Miss Daboo was with me as well.”

Atherton’s eyebrows drew together. “And where was Miss Cuttingmaster during the procession?”

“Actually, we realized midway through the proceedings she wasn’t in the stands with us.” Lalita’s voice was hesitant, as if she didn’t want to admit she’d known all along the girl hadn’t showed up.

“Yes. She must have had her accident while we were turned watching the prince!” Miss Daboo said.

The excitement of the parade could have masked any cries, even though the college and its garden were just a few dozen yards behind the viewing stand.

“Maybe she fell down. I only hope . . .” Lalita’s voice trailed off.

“What is it you are hoping, my dear?” Reverend Sullivan prompted.

“I hope she’s going to wake up.” Lalita was clenching and unclenching her hands. “Why can’t the nurse come from the infirmary? Didn’t anyone call for her?”

“Leave the response to faculty,” said the reverend.

“I think someone should fetch the police.” As Perveen said it, she couldn’t believe the words had even come from her mouth. The police! The men who’d so recently challenged her were needed to secure the scene and take note of details.

“The police?” Mr. Atherton’s voice faltered. “But Miss Daboo says this is an accident.” He shook his head as he looked at the smooth path and neat green lawn. “I wonder what caused her to fall?”

“It could be that she jumped. This was going to be a day of protest for some.” Reverend Sullivan turned to grimace at the mass of students standing a respectful distance behind. “I know some of you are in the resistance club. If you were aware that she was planning self-destruction, you must tell us now.”

Did the chaplain understand Freny’s life was gone? Perveen looked at his stern, unmoving face until he glared at her.

One of the boys in a Gandhi cap raised a hand and spoke when the chaplain acknowledged him. “Reverend, nobody heard any such talk in the Student Union meetings.”

A blond man in his twenties, who had a shaken expression, put a hand on the shoulder of the student who’d spoken. “That is my impression as well. Arjun, thank you for coming forward.”

“I’ll go for the police,” a student voice said from within the crowd, and three boys took off through the gate.

*

What really happened? And what is going to happen next?

Get a copy of Sujata Massey’s The Bombay Prince to find out!

Ode to an Indian childhood’s favourite friend, Subhadra Sen Gupta

Covid might have taken away one of our most beloved authors, Subhadra Sen Gupta this year, but when schools reopen and children are back to their libraries, we could meet her again. In every children’s library in India, there’ll always be a corner that would sound like the shrieky excitement and the giggly wonder of kids and it would forever belong to the writer who said she wrote stories for the best readers in the world – children.

 

Since decades now, she is one of the ‘most issued’ authors in our school libraries along with J.K. Rowling and Roald Dahl. Her books were the first few that introduced children of India to literature that was based in the environment they belonged to. Her characters had names like ours, lived in cities like ours and had a life that we could relate to, unlike the western culture that had been dominating children’s and adult literature in India. Most importantly, Sen Gupta made history interesting for so many of us!

 

She took us through historical times with stories of unknown and unsung characters like a young maid of a princess during the Mauryan period or a dhobi who learnt to sing from Tansen under the reign of Akbar. The author introduced a literary culture that revolutionized writing in the day! Inculcating the thought that every story matters, whether it is the tale of a king or a pawn, interweaving genres together so children can learn about history through interactive storytelling or to make the habit of reading genuinely fun- Sen Gupta did it all!

 

While some of her most recounted stories are The Story of the World’s Worst Cook, Goodbye Pasha Begum and Mystery of the House of Pigeons, she went on to do something quite remarkable and extraordinary. She wrote The Constitution of India for Children and created a handbook in a fun and digestible format, explaining the most important document of our nation and even addressed issues like the participation of women in the drafting of the constitution.

 

Unfortunately, the literary icon passed away in May of this year due to Covid-19, at the age of 68, with probably more interesting stories and books inside her, waiting to be inked on paper.

However, we do have one last gift from her to the world and we’d love to share it with you! Told through the portraits of children growing up in the villages, towns and courts of our country, Let’s Go Time Travelling Again is Subhadra Sen Gupta’s sequel to the series and a vivid glimpse into our past.

 

Let’s Go Time Travelling Again || Subhadra Sen Gupta

How did Indian mulmuls make it into Cleopatra’s wardrobe? Who popularized the Mahabharata in households across the country? Did our ancestors really identify Jupiter and Saturn without even a telescope?

Find the answers to these and many other unusual questions about the India of yesterday. Go time travelling through the alleys of history and explore the many occupations that have existed through time – from dancers and playwrights to farmers and doctors. Sift through snapshots of the rich life led by ordinary Indians and discover unexpected titbits about language, food and culture.

This last book by our beloved author is replete with fascinating stories, information, and trivia about our ancient civilizations, kingdoms, and people.

 

A lesson to become a great leader

Your education teaches a lot, but it doesn’t quite prepare you for the larger game of life. Does it? Prakash Iyer’s How Come No One Told Me That? is a cornucopia of stories that can help you lead a life of purpose and significance. The small and seemingly unimportant experiences of your life can teach you many valuable lessons and Iyer’s book is a collection of such anecdotes and everyday events.

Here’s an excerpt from the book about the white handkerchief of the chairman of Hindustan Unilever. It’s a story that’s been retold to successive generations of young managers at the company. It’s a reminder for all to fix a problem when they see it.

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How Come No One Told Me That?
How Come No One Told Me That? || Prakash Iyer

The chairman of Hindustan Unilever was on a market visit in a small town in Kerala. At one store, he noticed a tin of Dalda (a popular brand of vanaspati at that time) on a corner shelf. As he reached out to take a closer look at the tin, he was horrified to see a thick layer of dust on the lid. There were sheepish looks on the faces of the folks accompanying the chairman. It wasn’t something they wanted the chairman to see. The sales team’s routine included cleaning stocks on the shelf—with particular attention to food products. This was a bad miss.

And what did the chairman do? Scream and shout? Threaten to sack someone? Talk about the need for better execution? Nope.

He put his hand into his trouser pocket, pulled out a clean, white handkerchief and proceeded to wipe the Dalda tin clean. That was it. He did what any foot soldier of the company might have done. It was about getting a job done, rather than worrying about whose job it was.

The sales team got the message, of course. Far better than they might have had the chairman shown anger and disappointment. The retailer’s respect for the company went up a few notches in that instant too. All those present that day got a masterclass in leadership. And as the story got retold over the years, young managers began to understand what a leader’s work ethic ought to be. And what great leadership looks like.

I was reminded of the Dalda and the handkerchief story once again several decades later. I was in a meeting with the managing director of a large auto ancillary company. With him was his head of Learning and Development. We sat around a little roundtable at their guesthouse. As the L&D head began the discussion, I saw the managing director get up and go into the kitchen. And he was back in a jiffy, with a cleaning cloth in his hand. He then went on to wipe the table clean. And as he saw the look of surprise on our faces, he said that when he put his diary on the table, he figured the table was dusty, and so he decided to clean it.

Now this is such a rare sight, I thought to myself. When was the last time you saw the managing director of a company actually take a mop out and clean a table—in front of a group of other people?

Think about it. He could have so easily done something else. He could have called out to the attendant, who at that stage was busy making some tea and coffee for us, and said, ‘Come, I want you to clean the table right now!’ Or he could have shouted at him for not having maintained a clean table. Or he could have complained about the world we live in and said, ‘Look, there’s so much dust around us!’ He didn’t do any of those, for he was a man who had seen a problem (which none of us had actually noticed) and then decided, ‘Hey, let me do something about it!’ He went out, got a cloth and cleaned the table.

Great leaders are like that.

It is the kind of leadership that’s becoming so rare to find in our world today. And it’s also the kind of leadership that we all need to see more of. And show more of.

The chairman did it. The managing director did it. What’s stopping you? What’s your excuse? The next time you see a problem—when you see dust on the table or on your company’s products—which nobody else has noticed, don’t leave it there. Don’t shout. Don’t ask someone to set it right. Take a cloth and clean it!

Not only will you have a clean table—and clean products—but you’ll also become a role model for others, exemplifying what great leadership looks like.

And, many years later, they will still be telling your story.

**

Read How Come No One Told Me That? to think clearly, take better decisions, learn lessons, become a better leader and a better person in life.

 

Dreamers Series: Stories of Teejan Bai and Satyajit Ray

The vividly illustrated stories of Teejan Bai and Satyajit Ray in Lavanya Karthik’s Dreamers Series are inspiring for young kids. Karthik’s stories and artworks are perfectly synced with the high and low notes of Teejan Bai’s life and have captured the most significant shots of Satyajit Ray’s life. Both of them are acknowledged and appreciated for their unique talents.

Get your children hooked to the pages of Dreamers Series and let them get inspired to hone their skills. Here’s a glimpse of the younger selves of Teejan Bai and Satyajit Ray.

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The Girl Who Loved To Sing: Teejan Bai
The Girl Who Loved To Sing: Teejan Bai
The Girl Who Loved To Sing: Teejan Bai || Lavanya Karthik

Once again, Teejan sneaks out after her chores for lessons with her grandfather.

Brijlal gives her her first tanpura.

‘Become your characters! Become your story!’

‘Feel the music!

‘Feel the story!

‘Feel it come alive!’

Teejan sings!

‘Don’t just sing—become the song!

‘Become the characters in it!’

Teejan cannot eat, she cannot sleep! All she can think of is song.

She forgets her chores; she ignores her siblings, until one day,

Ma catches her singing . . .

Teejan runs away.

 

The Boy Who Played with Light: Satyajit Ray
The Boy Who Played with Light: Satyajit Ray
The Boy Who Played with Light: Satyajit Ray || Lavanya Karthik

There was light in the new home we made.

In the eyes of the family that welcomed us.

In the stories that Ma told me every night.

In the notebooks I filled with drawings, just like Baba once did.

But . . .

The shadows were always there.

They loomed in corners, watching me.

They crouched under tables, muttering and hissing.

I tried to describe them to my family.

My cousins chuckled. ‘Manik will be a writer like his baba!’

The shadows lurked in doorways.

They followed me through the house.

I thought my drawings might help.

‘What an imagination!’ Ma smiled. ‘Manik will be an artist like his baba!’

I raced through the house, up the stairs, down the corridors. The shadows followed!

‘Manik!’ my aunt called out, through the haze of the afternoon heat. ‘Play quietly! We’re trying to sleep!’

I dodged!

I dived!

I ducked!

The shadows kept pace!

Until . . .  An open door!

. . .

They were stories, waiting for me to notice them.

 

**

Read The Girl Who Loved To Sing: Teejan Bai and The Boy Who Played with Light: Satyajit Ray from Lavanya Karthik’s ‘Dreamers Series’ to know what happens in the lives of these two great personalities and how did they become as the world knows them today.

Scientists, Mary, and topi rocket from Thumba

In this book about the launch of a rocket from Thumba, Menaka Raman’s story and characters are sure to tap on the creative nerves of young kids. The first time when Mary heard that a rocket will be a launched from Thumba, her excitement knew no bounds. She was bitten by an inquisitive bug and had a list of questions to find the answers of. She waited and hoped to see the rocket go up in Space every day.

Here’s an extract for those who, like Mary, are eager to know about India’s first ever rocket launch.

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Topi Rockets from Thumba
Topi Rockets from Thumba || Menaka Raman

January 1963

Every morning, a rickety old bus would arrive in Thumba from Trivandrum and drop off a group of men.

Everyone would come out of their homes and shops, wondering what was inside the many boxes the men carried into the church, watching them as they cycled from here to there or walked together in pairs.

Mary watched too, but her friends at school did not care.

‘So what?’ said George Thomas.

‘Big deal!’ dismissed Thomas George.

‘Who cares?’ shrugged Shoshakutty.

‘I can launch a rocket all by myself!’ boasted Chacko.

‘Why does Dr Sarabhai need so many people to launch just one rocket then?’ Mary wondered.

One day, Mary and her amma were on their way to the market when she saw a car pulling up outside the church. She caught sight of a tall man unfolding himself from the back seat, and knew immediately who it was.

Mary ran right up to him once again.

‘Dr Sarabhai! When is the rocket going to be ready? Why is it taking so long? My friend Chacko can launch a rocket all by himself. Why do you need so many people?’

Dr Sarabhai’s eyes lit up.

‘Mary, you remind me of myself when I was your age. Always asking questions! Let me try and answer yours.’

It’s taking time because India’s friends from around the world are sending us things we need for the rocket launch. We have to wait for them to arrive and only then can we start to put things together. And I need the help of hundreds and hundreds of hands and minds to do it.

The National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) of the United States is sending us a NIKE APACHE ROCKET. They are also training our scientists at their centres in America.

March 1963

Days, weeks and months came and went. Mary turned ten. Ouso made her ayala fry, Amma stitched her a new dress and her brother gifted her his old bicycle.

Some days, Mary would cycle by the church to see if she could catch sight of the rocket.

But there was no rocket.

Mary studied hard for her exams, praying they would not launch the rocket while she was writing her maths paper.

They didn’t.

She spent the summer holidays learning swimming in the lazy blue sea.

Nothing.

Mary celebrated Palm Sunday, Easter Friday and Onam.

Mary was disappointed.

But her friends at school were not.

Sometimes, Mary wished she was one of the pigeons that sat on the rafters high up on the ceiling of the church so that she could see what was happening inside.

 

September 1963

By now, Mary knew some of the serious men who worked in the church. She knew where they were from and what they ate for breakfast. She discovered they were not so serious after all. And since Dr Sarabhai wasn’t always there to answer her questions, she had started asking them instead.

Mary: What are the parts of a rocket?

Scientist 1: A rocket has four main parts: the nose cone, fins, rocket body and engine. The nose cone carries the main cargo or payload of the rocket.

Mary: How do you launch a rocket?

Scientist 2: Rockets burn fuel in the engine and this creates exhaust. The hot exhaust comes out very fast in one direction pushing the rocket in the opposite direction! WHOOSH!

**

To know the answers to Mary’s numerous questions about Space and rockets, read Topi Rockets from Thumba.

A hundred beautiful forms

Sarasvati is the feminine force worshipped as the goddess of learning, yet we barely know much about this goddess. In Sarasvati’s Gift, Kavita Kané brings to light Sarasvati’s story. The goddess of art, music and knowledge – told in the voices of nameless celestials, powerful gods and lesser mortals. Through the passage below, you can get a glimpse of an extraordinary woman and her remarkable life.

~

Sarasvati’s Gift || Kavita Kane

Brahmalok looked warmer in the daylight. The mist had thinned, and from her palace window, Sarasvati could glimpse the five peaks of the golden Mount Meru on whose summit lay the vast city of Brahmalok, encircled by a river, the Akash Ganga.

Her palace stood halfway down a steep hill and from her window, she could glimpse a narrow strip of the sea below and, opposite, the city of Brahmalok.

Sarasvati had not ventured outside the palace yet, but she intended to scour the capital city as well as the other eight cities that surrounded it. One was supposed to be of Indra, and the other seven of the other devas like Surya, Chandra and Agni.

Perhaps they were more populated than Brahmalok: this city was unusually isolated, she frowned as she absently strung at the veena, thoughtfully placed in her chamber. In a vague way, she realized that this was all for her benefit. Even the lake outside her window turned obligingly to a deep wine colour in the evenings, with the ivory swans loitering delightfully at her windowsill. It was a privileged paradise, this white little palace on the water, surrounded by woods in which she was free to do what she liked because . . . she was Sarasvati.

She was surrounded by beautiful things that breathed of taste and refinement. If you live in an atmosphere of luxury, luxury is yours whether it is yours or another’s, Sarasvati decided. She would rather treat it like an educational institution.

Likewise, since the past week, the palace had kept her busy: it was well-stocked with enough books for her to stay put. She had barely browsed through half of the enormous library downstairs, and she was yet to explore the music room. Brahma was as generous as he was thoughtful; she pursed her lips, pondering.

Brahma. He was a strange person; a person of few words, and almost no presence. She had met him a few times since that first day and from what she could gather, he seemed to be a loner, or rather an intellectual hermit, always deep in work and thought. Everyone revered him, with less fear and more awe. He mixed very rarely, very little with people. In the mornings, she occasionally spotted him in the distance, strolling by the seashore, lost in his thoughts and then retiring to his palace for the day, often disappearing for weeks. He was seldom invited anywhere, as people found him daunting. Besides, he seldom accepted the invitation.

Just as she did; she preferred her own company. She vaguely strung the instrument again. She had to do something, she sighed.

‘Look up,’ she heard a voice command her. She turned around with a start to see Brahma standing at the doorway.

He walked in slowly, his gait guarded and careful. ‘When you play music, always look up,’ he said to her, pointing to the sky with his long, muscled arm. ‘Look up at the sky! Even the tiniest stars are all worlds! And you are creating an entire new world yourself with the music you make—how significant you are compared to the universe!’

She was surprised to hear the vehemence in his voice, so dissimilar to his otherwise stony demeanour.

‘A modest speck!’ She beamed her brilliant smile, gesturing with a wide wave of her hands. ‘This palace is a trove, a museum of sorts, and I haven’t gone through even half of it.’

‘As is Brahmalok,’ he remarked, his lips pursed thin. ‘You will take some time to get used to it. It’s not very . . . lively, more on the quieter side. Because it is a planet composed entirely of Brahman—the highest thought.’

Sarasvati gave a knowing nod. ‘The land of the abstract Supreme Soul, greater even than Svarga, or Heaven: sated with eternity, knowledge and bliss.’

As always, her words pleased him more than he thought could affect him. Brahma watched her as she gracefully stood up to greet him, her hair delectably tousled, flowing free down her shoulders, below her waist, her sari creased as she attempted to smoothen the wrinkles at the waist. Yet she looked heavenly.

And as he looked at her, he felt a thickness in his throat.

‘There is no hurry, you can take all your time to study, to explore,’ he said unevenly, his tone slipping to slight hesitancy.

He cleared his throat, his face an expressionless mask again.

‘Er, I would not have interrupted you from your pursuits but for a reason. A certain urgency . . .’ he faltered. ‘I come here today, asking for a favour . . .’

‘Favour?’ she frowned, tilting her head sideways, appraising him with her steady stare. He flushed, feeling the heat climbing up his neck.

‘Am I supposed to run some errand?’ she asked bluntly.

Some could term her forthrightness rude, but he found it strangely exhilarating. He looked at her, hoping he was not staring. He saw her face turned at an angle and at the same time he was again struck by that strange thing about her which excited him. He swallowed convulsively, the thickness tight in his throat. She was oddly disconcerting.

He struggled. ‘I created you as a woman so as to aid me in my work of creation. Shatarupa, a female deity in many forms . . .’ he said, not moving a muscle except to speak.

She widened her eyes. ‘Am I supposed to be her?’

She had this charming way of framing her views as a question, as opinionated as herself. Brahma found himself relaxing in such talks, enthralling his mind and his heart.

He raised his brows again and nodded.

His brows seem more vocal than his words, she thought irreverently.

His baritone had gone husky. ‘Like your presence, your origin holds great importance in the balance and creation of the world. After creating the universe, I checked what was made and realized it was utterly lacking in concept. To help me with this monumental task of creating a form, I created you to help me out . . .’

Savarkar’s scepticism about Nehru’s China policy

After the success of the first part, Vikram Sampath now unveils the concluding volume of the Savarkar series, the exploration of the life and works of one of the most contentious political thinkers and leaders of the twentieth century, Vinayak Damodar Savarkar.

Here is an exclusive and intriguing excerpt from the book where the author talks about Savarkar’s scepticism towards Nehru’s policy towards China and other matters of international relations:

 

Savarkar (Part 2) A Contested Legacy, 1924-1966 || Vikram Sampath

With the restrictions on his political activities ceasing, Savarkar began to be more vocal on various aspects of national and foreign policy and governance. He was particularly sceptical and critical of Nehru’s policy towards China. On 29 April 1954, India signed the Panchsheel or the Five Principles of Peaceful Coexistence with China. Four years earlier, China had invaded and occupied Tibet and India had remained silent. Writing about these in the Kesari on 26 January 1954, Savarkar said:

When China, without even consulting India, invaded the buffer state of Tibet, India should at once have protested and demanded the fulfilment of rights and privileges as per her agreements and pacts entered into with Tibet. But our Indian Government was not able to do any such thing. We closed our eyes in the name of world peace and co-existence and did not even raise a finger against this invasion of Tibet. Neither did we help this buffer state of Tibet when her very existence was at stake. Why? The only reason that I visualize is our unpreparedness for such an eventuality and/or war . . . That is the reason why after swallowing the whole of Tibet the strong armies of China and Russia are now standing right on our borders in a state of complete preparedness and on the strength of the above, China is today openly playing the game of liquidating the remaining buffer states of Nepal and Bhutan . . . We have not been able to put before her an army which can match the strength of her armies on these borders of ours even today. This is precisely the reason why China dares come forward with such an unabashed claim on our territories . . . China completely overran Tibet and destroyed the only buffer state so as to strengthen her vast borders. By this act of hers, China had with one stroke come right on our borders by force and prepared the way for an open aggression against India whenever she felt like it. Britain, when she was ruling over India, had by careful planning, pacts, treaties and agreements created a chain of buffer states like Tibet, Nepal and Bhutan in order to strengthen the borders of India and to safeguard it from China and Russia. Afghanistan also acted like a buffer state on the other side. Britain had on behalf of the Government of India, directly or indirectly taken upon herself by various pacts, charters and agreements even the guarantee of continued existence of these buffer states. Immediately on attainment of independence all these rights were transferred to the independent sovereign Republic of India. But in the very six years that we criminally wasted, China has equipped her whole nation with most modern and up-to-date arms, and without in the least caring for the feelings and sentiments of India had completely overrun Tibet and destroyed the only buffer state so as to strengthen her vast borders. 15

 

Savarkar asked India to emulate the example of Israel that came into existence in May 1948 after almost a two-thousand-year struggle by the Jews for a homeland of their own. Israel, he said, ‘is besieged by their staunch enemies Arab nations. But this tiny nation has given military education to its men and women, procured weapons from Britain and U.S.A., established arm [sic] factories in their own nation, intelligently signed treaties and with foreign nations and raised its own strategic power to that extent that their enemy Arab nations would never dare to invade them.’ 16

He claimed that it was still not too late for India to wake up from its slumber and similarly increase her military and strategic strength as the world recognizes only that. The Chinese prime minister Zhou Enlai was accorded a warm welcome in New Delhi on 26 June 1954 and Nehru coined his favourite phrase ‘Hindi Chini Bhai Bhai’. In an interview on this India–China diplomacy in the Kesari on 4 July 1954, Savarkar welcomed this bonhomie with a sense of cautious optimism. He said:

‘In politics the enemy of our enemy is our best friend. Enlightened self-interest is the only touchstone on which friendship in political dealings could be tested, since there is no such thing as real and selfless friendship in the political arena. If the meeting between Chou En-Lai and Nehru angered the U.S.A., Indians should not pay attention to it because the U.S.A. too did not care to pause and think about India’s sensitivities if America entered into a military pact with Pakistan. All the policies of

India must be dependent on what was good or bad for India herself. If it was advantageous to India she should not in the least worry or care whether anyone felt enraged, insulted or irritated . . . The general principles that are being propagated as fundamental in this visit are very good and sound, so far as their language is concerned. Nothing is lost in proclaiming wishes for world peace, prosperity and brotherhood. But so long as India does not have any effective practical remedy or measures to check the transgressions, such visits have no more than a formal status. While crying from the roof tops about these principles it was worth noting that China, by swallowing Tibet, had ruthlessly trampled those very principles of world peace, brotherhood and peaceful co-existence. That was the funniest part of the whole deal, and it at once raised doubts in Indian minds about the bona fides of China and Chou En-Lai. There was at that time a political party in Tibet aiming at independence.

 

It was curious and in a way most astonishing that after preying on and swallowing the mouse of Tibet the Chinese cat was talking of going on a pilgrimage. That was exactly the role that the Chinese Premier Chou En-Lai and President Mao Tse-tung were playing. 17

In the same piece Savarkar also emphasized on the fundamental theory of foreign policy, which was permanent national interests and not merely high-sounding, one-sided moral principles. He hoped that the Panchsheel did not run this risk.

 

He said:

China, Russia, Britain and even the recently established Pakistan all are talking of high-sounding principles, but they do so as a step towards diplomatic measures to achieve their own ends, and for the success of their own political objectives. In the present state of human relationship it should be just so; but of all the countries India alone has for long been in the habit of preaching sermons of high principles to others and unilaterally bringing them into practice, which ultimately proves disastrous to the interests of India. I only hope that this does not happen in this case of the Panchsheel. What I feel is that if at all China uses India as a springboard to push forward her own territorial aims and interests, India should also primarily safeguard her own interests and if these moves do not go against her interests then alone take part in it. So long as China is looking to further her interests alone, India should also follow the same and use the good wishes of China only in so far as they help to push the interests of India forward. We should believe in their good faith and good intentions as much as and as long as they believe in ours. One fact must be made clear here and it is that [the] U.K., U.S.A., U.S.S.R. and China can force India to bring into practice all these principles because they hold the upper hand, being in possession of atomic and nuclear weapons of warfare. But can India do the same? Can India force these nations to see that they follow the principles that they profess to preach? This is the most important question. It is no use having political or diplomatic friendship alone with either China or Russia. We must immediately undertake to see that military potential and preparedness of the Indian armed forces with modern and most upto-date weapons of warfare is not being neglected and that we too can produce atomic and nuclear weapons just as these nations can. If China can erect plants and factories for the manufacture of atomic weapons of warfare in Sinkiang and other places we should also be able to do so. There is nothing difficult in it. Our scientists and laboratories might be able to invent and manufacture such weapons in a year or two or they might invent even more destructive ones . . . But so long a weak and impotent Government at the Centre does not take even one step to achieve these objectives it is no use talking of high principles and running after the mirage of world peace, peaceful co-existence, world brotherhood and prosperity, and nothing good can come out of such so-called good-will visits. High principles must have a robust armed strength behind them to see that they are brought into practice by those who wax eloquent about it. Taking all these things into consideration I feel that the time has come now when the Central Government must immediately take steps to increase the armed might and the military potential of India. 18

A lot of what Savarkar wrote about and cautioned was to turn prophetically true in the decades to come as far as India’s strategic, military and foreign relations were concerned.

*

Read Vikram Sampath’s Savarkar (Part 2) A Contested Legacy, 1924-1966 to know more about the opinions and works of Savarkar.

Immerse yourself in the prismatic wonders of a 19th century royal festival

The Incomparable Festival (Musaddas Tahniyat-e-Jashn-e-Benazir) by Mir Yar Ali (whose pen name was Jan Sahib) is a little-known but sumptuous masterpiece of Indo-Islamic literary culture, presented here for the first time in English translation. This extended poem celebrates the royal festival popularly called jashn-e-benazir(the incomparable festival), inaugurated in 1866 by the Nawab Kalb-e-Ali Khan (r. 1865-87) with the aim of promoting art, culture and trade in his kingdom at Rampur in northern India. The task of commemorating the sights and wonders of the festival was given to the hugely popular writer of rekhti verse, that tart and playful sub-genre of the ghazal, reflecting popular women’s speech, of which Jan Sahib was one of the last practitioners.

The poem is a world album depicting various classes on the cusp of social upheaval ranging across legendary khayal singers, percussionists, and instrumentalists, courtesans, boy-dancers, poets, storytellers (dastango) and reciters of elegies (marsiyago). It brings to light their culinary tastes, artisanal products, religious rituals and beliefs, and savoury idioms, delineating identities of caste and gender in early modern society.

Read on to step into another, more colourful world from the past and immerse yourself in the chaotic, prismatic brilliance of the jashn-e-benazir.

 

A wine-girl from Aminabad, to Rampur have I come.

I am the only one whom his presence considers

welcome.

As for the others, on my appearance their allure has

become—

The difference between hellfire and light, O sweet

kingdom!

May he shower me with bounty every year and always!

The nameworthy Nawab may he survive always!

 

[31]

 

The train of us wine-girls will always be the rarest.

To the seat in the royal crimson pavilion we are nearest.

With hookahs made of gold and silver are we blest.

Sending blessings upon the rich, puff away the humblest.

We charge two gold coins for one fill of the hookah.

They come here to smoke, from the rajah to the fellah.

 

[32]

 

How well their stalls the moneychangers have decorated!

Gold and silver ornaments on sheets lie uncounted.

Without a fear of thieves, they are happily exhibited.

Heaps of rupee and gold coins lie everywhere deposited.

They are eager to raise loans of pice and cowries.

‘Come!’ they holler if you want to change your monies.

 

[33]

 

There the jewellers’ shops are, about which here’s the

statement:

Weighing precious stones, Mr Ruby-Pearls makes an

assessment.

Two brokers he has but their partnership causes some

bafflement:

Emerald says to diamond, about our value how can

there be agreement?

Madams Nose-Ring and Ruby some jewels have they

bought.

With the munificence of His Highness, gratis have they

got.

 

 

[34]

 

The drapers have their shops so well-carpeted,

That the satin sky observing them is impressed.

Such pieces of brocades and damask are on display

spread!

And bundles of golden lace lie about unwrapped.

All the fairgoers, whether from near or far, declare:

Pieces of muslin embroidery spread around a glare.

 

[35]

 

The status of each retailer is told by his ware.

All his ware from home is brought here to the fair.

At throwaway rates, a fixed price is tagged nowhere.

He doesn’t have to ask: how many would you care?

Well, when the nameworthy Nawab is recompensing,

What shopkeeper would not make a killing!

 

[36]

 

Abundance at no price is the fair’s condition.

A player beg for alms? That is out of the question.

With a smile on their face, each player shows perfection.

The prince is a connoisseur and they’re sure of his

appreciation.

The wheel of heaven stops with their magical tricks,

Turning a hide into a cat, and other feather-into-a-

pigeon tricks.

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