It’s a Chakras thing

 

7-chakras-beginners

“It’s a Chakra thing,” she said, her calm and serene smile making her look like one of the Mother Mary statuettes placed in various niches of the Catholic school Mama had sent me to as a child.

Our own goddesses looked fierce and had “Don’t mess with me” written all over them.  I wish I had the spunk of the goddesses.  With great effort I brought myself to the present, but tears filled my eyes.  I seemed to weep all the time lately, even into the dough I’d knead for our meals.  The first born kept getting into fights.  The baby tried to wipe my tears away, and failing that, he would sing to me or cuddle.  Just the other day, he had wept with me, scared and confused.  I had to snap out of it, for ther sakes.  This guru was my only hope.  I had heard she was good, but it wasn’t working.  She had told me “I can only help you if you want to be helped.”

Damn her!

“We are all creatures of energy.  We need to find our connection to the primal force, and once we establish the connection, we will shine. We will possess inexhaustible energy.”

I blinked and cast a surreptitious glance at the others sitting cross-legged next to me in our class, trying to visualize them as shiny round bubbles of something bright and pulsating, may be light bulbs on electricity.  Nah!  Too far-fetched.

That fat auntyjee looked like Pillsbury doughboy.  The old fella looked like a  candle with a dull yellow flame, bent, weepy and spent.

Here I was, age 28, mother of two kids, single and jobless.  And I had sold the last gold chain I owned to pay for this very expensive meditation course.  I had to make it work, or else.

“There are seven energy centers in our body. We have to keep them clean, powerful and pure.  They correspond with the seven colours of the rainbow.  They respond to external stimuli like music, simple music, wood sound, string sound.”

“I’m tone deaf “ my mind declared, rebellious and angry.

She continued, “Simple music puts us in a state of harmony, of peace.  Then we can meditate on the colours.  We will start with Red, the colour of the root chakra, and slowly progress upwards to violet, the top of the head.  Breathe deeply, inhale …. Exhale”

My mind was fixated on the colour red …. The colour of a bride’s sari.  Was it because she was stepping into a bloody minefield?  Was it because she was being sacrificed that she was wrapped in the colour of blood?  It was as though a dam had burst, I wept silent gasping sobs.

Somewhere music played, the simple soothing notes of a santoor.

Muscles of my back, neck and shoulders relaxed, the red lightened up, turned into orange, and then faded into yellow, transformed into green, the heart chakra.  I felt love, boundless love, joy, a connectedness.  The universe and I.

I was not alone, I had never been alone, I could never be alone.

The santoor kept weaving its magic.

Blue – communication.  The truth.  If we are brave to hear it, we can be truly free.  Free to understand the wind, the rustle of the leaves, even the blade of grass has a story to tell.

Purple and then Violet

Joy.

I smiled after being in a funk for almost a year.

I was reborn.  My life had begun.

Written for Indiblogeshwari’s That Tuesday Thingy

 

 

 

The book launch

The book launch was a grand affair.  Three books were being launched

1. In Pursuit of the Woman by Rajbir Gill

2. Kaashi by an American author, Terin Miller

and of course

3. Chakra, Chonicles of the Witch Way by moi, Ritu Lalit.

And Maharani Preneet Kaur, Minister of state for External Affairs, Government of India was to do the honours.  Oh it was grand.  And for once luck was on our side … the boys and I reached the venue for the book launch, Patiala Aviation Club before the royal highness did.  Phew!

We made it with fifteen minutes to spare!  Wow

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Among the planes

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Kunal and I, waiting for the Queen.

Preeti Singh, fellow author who made it to the function despite a fractured foot

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And then our chief guest, Maharani Preneet Kaur arrived, without any fanfare.  And I had an awkward moment.  Here I was all dressed up and stuff and the lady was simplicity and elegance personified.

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The Maharani is so “normal” … gracious and warm, I was floored. Hum dilli vaasi hain, here snobbery and political clout of far flung relatives also makes people obnoxious. This lady was gracious and approachable.

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Chakra was launched on Mother’s Day and who would be better to unwrap the book than my own son, a trained pilot, an author and blogger himself, and one of the two men I love to death, the other being his brother.

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And the chief guest departs …

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My thanks to Commander Rajbir Gill, his graceful daughter who emceed the programme and to each and every one who attended the function.

And of course, Kunal Marathe for the hectic backstage arrangements for the book launch.

And the beer and chicken party he hosted for us once we returned to the hotel, making us miss our train

But that is another story altogether 😛

For the entire story, follow these links

From Delhi to Chandigarh for the Book Launch of Chakra

Last moment preparations to get to the book launch of Chakra on time

From Delhi to Chandigarh, for the book launch

Nothing in our lives happens without drama, not even a simple trip to Patiala.  I think Peter wrote his principle “Anything that has to go wrong, shall and will go wrong” by observing families like us.

We love each other to bits, and would actually blow each other into bits and love each and every bit fiercely and with equal intensity.  That is us …

The trip to Patiala happened thanks to the extremely young and dynamic publisher, Mr. Kunal Marathe of Authors Empire.  He assured me when he took my manuscript that he would be a publisher with a difference.  He would go out of his way to treat his authors well.  My initial reaction was “Yeah right!”

I mean, this is India, and publishers are doing us, the underpaid imaginative breed called authors a huge favour by printing our books right?  All authors know that!

And then he did the unthinkable.  He announced that he was LAUNCHING my book with huge fanfare.  It was unexpected, this is my third book out in the market and never has such an offer of a book launch been made to me.  I mean, which publisher has offered to launch my book?  For free?  And made all the arrangements for a book launch?

And I refused.

Yeah that’s me, perverse, impulsive and without a grain of common sense in my brain.  The reason for refusing was that I was to go for a vacation to Kufri with other bloggers like Hitchy, Monika, Shail and so many others.  I am a blogger at heart, I love the immediacy of blogging.  I can say stuff and get reactions immediately.  I love interacting with other bloggers on Facebook.  I love being politically incorrect, and stating what I feel.  That is what blogging is to me – and the blog world has opened its heart out to me in all these years.  And one writes and gets comments immediately.  And of course I love bloggers meets.

So I said NO.  Hitchy you may please take a bow and feel flattered 😛

Ishaan my first born and often my worst critic pointed out that I was being insane.  He’s a fine one to talk, the header of his blog says he loves weird aliens.  But he dinned sense into my head.  So I ate humble pie and rang up Mr. Kunal Marathe and said  that I have cancelled my vacation to be part of the launch.  Mercifully Mr. Kunal Marathe thinks I am old and therefore wise and gives me respect.  So he kept his opinions about my initial reaction to himself.

And then second born Kartik decided to act up.  He declared that he could not get chutti.  I bravely resisted the urge to put him across my knees and spank him.  I wanted to but he is 5’10” and still growing and I am 5’1″ in my socks, so I regretfully shelved the idea.  The thought did cross my mind …

Vaise he can take chuttis for parties, for after party recuperation, for other things.  But not for my book launch.  Ahem.  I let it slide, reminding myself that they were grown sons and had lives of their own.  See – I am not alwayj thinking of myself only!

Then he condescended to tell me that he would take a half day so I had to book the journey in the evening.  So I booked us by Kalka Shatabdi.

On given day I get up bright eyed and bushy tailed to find junior has taken chutti.  Ahem!

And he has also taken my car and gone to get himself dented and painted.  Wow!  I needed denting and painting myself, but had to grit teeth and make do with a home self done manicure and pedicure.  And various other things to make myself presentable.  After all, the publisher had told me that I was to meet the royalty.  Age shows you know … and you have to make the extra effort – no, not to look young, but just presentable.

He came back at 12 and I perked up … to no avail.  He took older son and left and both of them resurfaced just in time for lunch and general exit to railway station.

Merey Do Anmol Ratan

the two boys

See – I am not alwayj thinking of myself only!

We, like total Delhi snobs, citified and spoilt to the core, first stopped at Starbucks, picked up coffee and snacks.  After all we were leaving Delhi for two days!  And then landed up at the station – in time.  And tackled the massive flight of stairs.  Why oh why dont they have escalators?  I just managed that huge flight of stairs thanks to the caffeine in the Starbucks coffee and then passed out – literally passed out in the train.

No, boys,  I am not alwayj thinking of myself only!  I am old and need to be taken as such!

Yeh drama nahin hai

Whateva …

And we travelled to Chandigarh.

The sons did me proud.  Someone came and requested them to give up their seats because his wife was just going back home after a chemo session.  They got up immedately and gave up their seats – just like that.  I protested

Yup, that one time I waj thinking of myself only

I was washed out, my heart was pumping fit to burst (I need more cardio in my work out) and felt insecure.  They scolded me and shut me up.  Proud of the two of you idjuts.I regret not being able to talk to our fellow travellers, there was a story there – a story of courage, of ordinary heroism, of human spirit.  But I felt too tired to talk to them and get to know it.

And then what did the boys do?  They hung around me, sitting on the armrest of my chair and talking to each other.  They slowly made me feel better and more comfortable.

Just like that …

Until we reached Chandigarh

To know what happened next, read these posts …

Get Me to the Book Launch in time

The book launch of Chakra, Chronicles of the Witch Way

The Princess of Nonsense

“Oh but she was a tiresome child, I did not mind that at all, but let’s face it dearie, she was huge!”

Sir Mouse cleaned his spectacles and peered at the princess who was fanning herself with a bunch of forget-me-nots.

“And she kept disappearing and leaving only a grin. D’ye know how creepy it is to just have a grin staring at you?” The princess shuddered delicately.

“Erm, I think you are mixing up Alice and the Cheshire Cat.”

She looked apologetically at her long suffering courtier and said, “Sorry Sir Mouse. I am a bit mixed up today. Ever since you told me about a man who leaped out of a bath tub and ran naked in the town yelling something, my nerves are shot.”

“That was Archemedis and he was yelling Eureka. He discovered some formula.”

“Humph, he shouldn’t have lost them in the first place. Careless bloke. He possibly lost his towel too. If you ever take a bath, please check if the water is right. The only reason to leap out of a bath is if the water is hot. Then, in my opinion, you should yell “watersshot watersshot” and not Eureka Eureka.”

Sir Mouse kept his opinion to himself and said “Yes your Majesty”

“Now Sir Mouse, you may go. I am bored with you and the school work. Send me my waiting ladies.”

Sir Mouse gathered his papers and left barely concealing his relief. The wizard had to be given a scold. Those forget-me-nots were not helping. The princess was getting more nonsensical by the minute!

The princess flung the bunch of flowers into the waste paper basket and stomped a petulant foot as she scolded her waiting ladies, “The satin dress is way to tight. I hate scarlet, it makes me look so pale. Go and call all cloth merchants. I need a dress done up in linen and gauze, yes it should be rose colored. I hate these dresses. Go, now!”

The poor women rushed out. She threw the offending dresses after them and slammed the door shut.

A man laughed as he came out from behind the curtains, “Excellently done my love.”

She sighed, smiled naughtily and said, “The things I have to do to just spend some time with you.”

The path of royal love is always devious

Deja Vu

Deja Vu

It was our honeymoon, I a naïve girl, newly introduced to the pleasures of sex, could not keep my hands off Navin, my husband for the past six days. He was strutting around like a proud peacock, my arm around his waist.

Mall Road, Simla

Life was perfect wasn’t it?

I stole a glance at his face, the angular lines of his cheek bones, the broad forehead topped by a mop of curly hair that I longed to run my fingers through. Yummy.

“What?” he asked, his voice laced with laughter.

“You look good enough to eat.”

“Should we go back to the hotel?” he asked, his eyes alit with desire.

“What’s the hurry?” I asked. I did not know much, but I knew this – a little bit of anticipation improves the outcome of passion. Ours was an arranged marriage, where parents decided on our spouses, and we found nothing wrong in it. He was seven years older, and I knew I needed someone older, more mature. I was just a silly girl … he would look after me.

Lost in each other, we walked exchanging sweet nothings. It started drizzling and we snuggled closer, ignoring it. It always rains in Simla, and we loved the rains. But it soon developed into a downpour. Somehow we took a wrong turn and got into the non-touristy area of the town. We looked around for a tea stall, a restaurant, anything to escape the downpour.

He looked pale, upset. I was silly enough to think that it was something to do with me. I withdrew slightly, noting the tension in his body, the restless fingers that ran through his hair, brushing the drenched hair, the nervous way he cleared his throat.

“I feel as though I know this place,” he muttered.

“Deja vu?” I teased, but got no answering smile.

We walked or rather, he led and I followed, he seemed to know where to go.

He stopped in front of a small cottage, no different from the others in the lane and whispered, “I think we can spend our time on this porch.”

It was a small wooden porch, nothing remarkably different from others we had crossed. Shivering, I followed him to the porch, staring at him as the world around me wept.

An old man opened the door, peered at us and asked, “Kaun Hai?” (Who is this?)

My husband looked at him and then as if compelled he brushed past the astonished home owner into the small living room.

An old woman was lying on the couch, she opened her eyes and tried to raise her head on her elbow. But she was sick and weakened.

“Tara,” he said in a hoarse voice, choked with emotion.

“Tara!”

Those eyes smiled slowly, possessively. “Vivek” she whispered softly.

And then they fluttered slightly and fell shut.

He turned and ran out, he fled without a backward glance. For that moment, I think he forgot me, he forgot himself, he even forgot that he had never been in India ever … in this life.

I did not stop either. Scared out of my tiny sheltered mind, I ran after him. My eyes wept and the rain water washed away the tears

Peace

When I saw the topic PEACE on GBE2 I wondered what it meant

Peace can be of many sorts you know, inner peace, outer peace, emotional, mental, or even the elusive peace Tai Lung searches for in Kung Fu Panda or the flaky peace Oogway seems to have.

Peace could be sitting and watching waves break on the shore while you sip a cup of hot coffee pondering on the truths of life.

But that may be true for me, in another person, it may lead to depression.

I know of one person whose peace is completely dependent of the availability of the brand of cigarettes he smokes and yet another to whom peace comes in the middle of an extremely violent fight.

I think it is safe to assume that peace is an entirely subjective thing.  It is an entirely internal matter, depending on how the brain and emotions cope with the situations the person lives through.

Which actually means that peace depends on the person

I have always maintained that it is my responsibility to be happy, it is something I have to do for myself.  And no, I am not a Polyanna.  I am one of the most pessimistic and bitter persons when I first encounter a hostile situation.  But I slowly talk myself into a more positive frame of mind.

It is the same with peace.

This says it well

Fever

“You have fever” he said it calmly, a statement of fact.

Do I?

I thought that meditation heals us by boosting the immune system.  I pick up the thermometer and read it.  “No I don’t.”  He waggles his brows at me and says, “I am off to work.  Make yourself some chicken soup and stay in bed.  If you feel the same in the evening, I’ll take you to the doctor.”

I smile dutifully.  I know I should not feel irritated, but he infantilizes me.  I am not a baby.

Sigh … he is a good man!

I hear the door slam shut as my benign despot goes to work.  My body hurts, my throat feels sore.  I put the thermometer into my mouth again.  No fever.

Getting out of bed, I undress.  No, nothing should cover me as I meditate.  I sit down on the floor mat and start breathing deeply, trying to get to the root of the problem.

His face flashes in front of me, angry bitter contemptuous.  Nothing I did or achieved was ever good for him.  Surprising, considering he was a big zero in life.  What did he ever do, apart from torment me, pile on his huge burden of expectations on me?

Would it ever be over?

I recall the relief, joy even, as I flew out of the city, feeling miles pile up between me and his vice like grip on my life, my happiness.

Breathe deeply ….

Forgive yourself ….

The fever burns away, burning away the anger, the hurt, the recrimination, the burden of crippling expectations.

I sweat

I come to terms with myself, I am the simplest of beings.  I want to live this life with simplicity.  I want to be kind, loving.  I want honesty, tolerance and humor.  I want to be simple.

My throat hurts.  I want to not be dependent, yes even on my benevolent despot.  That path leads to frustration, makes one manipulative.

But most of all, I want to forgive myself.

Meditation done.

Sighing I pick up my phone, still unclothed and punch his number.

“Yes Daddy.  My husband is in office.  I will speak to him in the evening.”

I don’t want to go visit him ….

Forgive him, forgive myself.

I wash away the regret, the remorse.

I walk into the balcony with my cup of tea and look around, aware of the  obstacles of  perceived misperceptions, of self-awareness which inhibit,  serotonin shortage or more likely the unfortunate consequence of having an ego– at once striving and reconciling.  The desire to love a parent, unreservedly but knowing, as an adult, that he is flawed.

I watch a two year old girl cling to her father’s leg, until he laughs and buys her the ice cream she wants.

I smile.  Put down my mug and call.

“Darling, Daddy rang up.  He’s had another stroke.  I will be flying down tonight.  No I don’t want you to come with me, I want to do this alone.”

“How is your fever?” he asks.

“No fever” I reply.

It burnt away, leaving a kind of forgiveness …

For me

For Daddy

The Story Cabin prompt Fever

Gallant and Brave

Gallant and Brave

I am  running, and they are gaining on me.  The snow covered hill slope felels like slippery glass.  My anklets jangle and my ear rings get caught up in my hair.  Ignoring the pain, I wrench my hair away.  My breath comes in  gasps as I hear their footsteps, a dull thudding sound of clompety clomp coming closer. 

Now I can hear the snow break, the familiar scrunchy sound.  I try to breathe noiselessly as I take a desperate leap and slid down the icy slopes, something cuts into my side through my woollen tunic and I stifle a scream.

I shake my head.  I will not cry.  I have to see where I am going.  But it is hard.

I brush my eyes and peer into the darkness.  I had to be carefull otherwise I would hit some of the fir that dotted the slopes.  If my brother Omar was alive …

Omar, was like the brave heroes we read about and hear stories about.  He was handsome, gallant and so protective.  He would have never allowed those soldiers to do what they did.

Omar always said, “I will marry Nafisa off into the most noble of Kashmiri families, just you wait and see, Abba.”  Abba smiled proudly.  But Omar is dead.

They came tonight, and told Abba and Ammi that Omar was dead, shot along with other terrorists.  Omar, a terrorist?  Ammi had screamed, “No, all lies”.  Abba had stood there, stunned.and Ammi had wept and tried to slap one of them.  Two shots and they fall.  Nafisa acts fast.  She pushed Saif, “Run, little brother, before they kill you.  Run hurry.”  When he hesitates, she slaps him.  Nafisa, my sister, two years older than me.

I stand there staring at Ammi and Abba, the blood comes out of them in spurts.  They drag Nafisa to the shed behind the house.  I hear the slaps and the screams.  But even in the horror, the pain, she screams “Shayla run.”

I  run at once, her scream shaking me out of my stupor.  I am such a coward.  But I am a girl, a timid fourteen year old girl, how can I be strong and gallant?  But once this madness was over, I will return, for Nafisa, for Saif.  They are  family, my family.

I have reached the end of the slope.  Limping across the road I jump to slide down another slope.  Somewhere shots ring out.  I hope it is at some other house, there are many such homes in the valley.  Please God let it be someone else’s house.  Please God let Nafisa be alive.  I quickly stuff my mouth with snow; it will help me swallow the lump that is growing in my throat.

I hit a fir and lose consciousness.

I wake up with a headache.  I sit up to see Saif sitting next to me.  “Where is Nafisa?”

“She is looking for food.  She told me to sit here and watch over you.”

I stir painfully.  “Our Omar could never be a terrorist.  He is brave, gallant.  With Abbu gone, who will look after us?”

Saif looks at me with bitter eyes and looks away.”Omar was a spoilt punk.  We did not deserve this.”

Ignoring him, I started praying for Ammi, Abbu and Omar.  He looks away stony faced.

Nafisa comes back, pale a few hours later, her face swollen and bruised.  There is a bite mark near her chest.  She is carrying something bundled up in her shawl.  I stare at her face, bruised with dark circles under her eyes.  She opens the shawl, and shows us apples, dried figs and dates. 

“We have to eat, be strong.  We have a long way to walk.”

I start crying.

I had always thought that only men could be gallant, heroic.

Thursday Word Prompt by Story Cabin, Word Gallant … its synonyms and antonyms

Of writers and readers

As a writer, it goes with the territory that there will be readers.  But sometimes some readers can demand a bit too much.

When one writes a book, one mentally gears self to go out in the public, smile, shake hands and be nice to readers.  I mean that is what I thought I would do.  Am not strictly the social kind.

I am blunt, honest, not at all inclined to put up with shit.  But still, that did not stop me from telling self that I would ace it.  I am a good person and I do like humanity in general.

I totally blew it today.

Sigh!!!  Why me?

There was a time when an author wrote a novel, sent it to the publisher and then went about living his or her life.  The publisher marketed the book, dealt with queries and such stuff.

Now we have to aggressively market our books, and also encounter human beings of varied hues and attitudes. The writers and readers conundrum.

I recently met a dude on chat … and he thought I owed him!

Excerpts from the chat ….

Chat dude

  • hi ritu hw r u

11 minutes ago

Ritu Lalit (I don’t know this guy but have a book to sell so be polite okay)

  • fine, how r u?

11 minutes ago

Chat dude

  • me fine too…tell me wats up

11 minutes ago

Ritu Lalit (Time waster!)

  • I wont chat … am too busy

10 minutes ago

  • ks no issue just when ever free drop me smthng onurbook

10 minutes ago

Ritu Lalit (Behaving like a grammar nazi)

  • I dont understand
  • what do I drop you on my book?

9 minutes ago

Chat dude

  • hey i said wat is this new book abt …can i read a preface

9 minutes ago

Ritu Lalit (Losing already tenuous grasp on temper and snapping)

  • No preface
  • I dont believe in them

9 minutes ago

Chat dude

  • ok
  • so wat is it all abt hw can 1 get to know wat is store inside

8 minutes ago

Ritu Lalit (Practising mental yoga for calmness)

  • read the book
  • please …
  • I am not going to first work on the book and then explain it on chat

8 minutes ago

Chat dude

  • u must’ve smthng which will be a apetiser kind of thng which will attract the reader

8 minutes ago

Ritu Lalit (Making mental note to self to keep self invisible on chat)

  • No

8 minutes ago

Chat dude

  • hey don;t take it o’wise
  • itsurwish

7 minutes ago

Ritu Lalit (Against better judgement but not being able to resist snapping )

  • u cant disturb authors and say such things
  • either you buy and read
  • or forget it

3 minutes ago

Chat dude

  • totaly but according to me as a reader u shd have smthng on the cover
  • ne ways forget it
  • i’m nt going to disturb authors like this but readers shd not b taken for granted dear

2 minutes ago

Ritu Lalit (Yeah, you own a piece of my ass just becos I wrote a book!  Hello, I don’t think you’ve bought it as yet!)

  • the script on the back cover is what is given as description on Flipkart
  • Neither should authors be taken for granted
  • I have never encountered a reader who tells me I should explain the book on chat

2 minutes ago

Chat dude

  • true very true they’re the CREATIVE lot ne ways
  • i’m nt asking u to explain the book on chat but advertise effectively so that it attracts max readership
DREAM ON DUDE
THIS AUTHOR HAS LEFT THE BUILDING
Uff Kya zamaana aa gaya hai!
Does this happen to others I wonder, or only me?
Still recovering from this!

 

 

 

 

 

 

HILAWI

 

Flipkart link to Hilawi 

I belong to the pre internet era, the ancient time when summer vacation meant travelling over great distances to grand parental abode, instead of summer camps and play schools and what nots that are the norm these days.  It had its pluses and its minuses.  Well make that one minus, one had to leave one’s friends back and bond with extended family.  Not too much of a hardship!

The pluses were that Ma would be more concerned about her siblings and I would not have her breathing down my neck.  Ahhhh bliss!  Raiding the larder for pickles and mathri( a salty savory to eat with mango pickle).  Imagine my sorrow when I found out that my grandmother actually stocked those mathris and mango pickle in the larder for us to steal and eat.  And those lovely atta laddus …  And of course this huge gang of cousins to play with.  In the night, our grandmother used to tell us tales from our mythology … not the politically correct ones, but the absolutely politically incorrect ones, about how Krishna bit Pootna Dai’s breast and thus killed her. “She was going to nurse him with her poisoned choochi”, she would tell us, pausing  for dramatic emphasis.  “Krishna knew, and he bit her so hard that the poison mixed with her blood and she died!”

Serves Pootna right for trying to poison the baby by applying poison on her breasts, we would think, and burst into enthusiastic cheers.

Now I can feel a slight bit of sympathy for poor Pootna .. what a way to die!

A huge favorite with us was the Samudra Manthan or the Churning of the Ocean of Milk.  This story appears in the Bhagvad Purana, the Mahabharata and the Vishnu Purana.

Stories like these are rich and as a writer I would love to tap them, play with them and see what I can make out of them.  My latest novel Hilawi is just one such attempt.

And its a learning curve.  This fascinating story about gods and demons forming an uneasy alliance to churn magical objects out of the ocean is ours…. but not ours alone, as I realized during the course of writing HILAWI

A rather stylized painting of the churning of the ocean by the devatas and the danavs (gods and demons) from our mythology.

The image below is the centerpiece at the Suvarnabhoomi Airport at Bangkok

 

So this is a story we share with our neighbours in Asia.

And this story forms the crux of my novel HILAWI.  Here is the book trailer

 

Here is the book trailer

 

 The Flipkart link to the book