Memoir | Jaya's blog

Interview with historian and editor Chandana Dey

For Moneycontrol, I interviewed Chandana Dey on publishing her Russian/Lithuanian Jewish grandmother’s memoir — Kotia to Ketaki: At Home Away from Home. It is published by Writers Workshop.

Interview with historian and editor Chandana Dey

Chandana Dey studied Modern Indian History at the Jawaharlal Nehru University, Delhi and
International Affairs at the School of International Studies (SAIS), Washington D.C. She has recently published her Russian/Lithuanian Jewish grandmother’s memoir — Kotia to Ketaki: At Home Away from Home. It is published by Writers Workshop India. In fact, Chandana Dey more or less, co-authored the publication by adding a substantial afterword to the original memoir entitled My Life. Ketaki Sarkar was born Kotia Jonas to a middle-class family in Moscow in 1907. She lived through the Russian Revolution, famine and the civil war. The family moved to Switzerland in 1921. Kotya met her husband, Nitai De Sarkar, a medical student. They married in 1930 and came to India in 1934. Kotia learnt Bengali, always wore a sari and made India her home. On one of their visits to Santiniketan, Rabindranath Tagore bestowed the name, Ketaki, on Kotia Jonas. This is the name she retained for the rest of her life. Ketaki made Santiniketan her home and died at the age of ninety-one. Kotia to Ketaki is a slim book but packed with detail – by both grandmother and granddaughter, stretching across time. Truly worth reading!

Here is the interview conducted with Chandana Dey conducted via email.

When and why did your grandmother, Ketaki Sarkar nee Kotia Jonas write this Memoir? Was it all from memory or did she consult any living relatives at the time?

My grandmother has dated the memoir as 1972. My mother typed the manuscript on her portable typewriter. I would imagine that my Dida got the time for reflection and thought after 1971. She retired from the Alliance Francaise and came to live in Santiniketan, in her home, ‘Akanda’ permanently. Before this, she used to visit Santiniketan only on holidays or occasional weekends. My family members who had heard stories of her childhood in Russia kept urging Dida to write her memoir. I don’t think she consulted any family members, although she was in regular touch with her sister, Tina. When I started the research for the book, no one in the extended family knew that such a document existed. The only people who had read the memoir were people in Santiniketan whom my grandmother was close to — among these were Kshitis Ray, (Teacher of English in Patha Bhavan and Tagore researcher), Rani Chanda (artist and Freedom Fighter) and Uma Das Gupta (foremost scholar of the history of Santiniketan and Sriniketan). Part of the reason for not passing around the Memoir much was partly my grandmother’s own diffidence and the fact that the Jonas family members were not comfortable in English. This discomfort with English also affected many potential readers in Santiniketan in my grandmother’s circle.

The memoir reads swimmingly well for a modern reader, even if a little sparse on the historical details. Did you print it in its entirety or is this an abridged version?

It has recently come to my attention that there may have been an original version of the memoir that was written in French. I have never seen such a document. From the 1970s, family members heard of the memoir and each family member was given a typed copy of My Life. This is the entire text that I was given by my mother. I put it and the photographs my mother gave me in a small black suitcase. I think the genesis of Kotia to Ketaki was in my mind for the past 40 years. However, as all precious things are stored away, so was the black bag! When I went to retrieve the contents, I found the black bag empty. My late aunt came to my rescue. As my cousin and I went through her things, we found the copy of My Life. I immediately scanned the single copy and sent a copy to each living family member.

Unfortunately, the memoir ends in 1946. I think we did not pester my grandmother sufficiently to compel her to write about her remaining life history. It was a fascinating one. She was the sole breadwinner of the family. She worked in multiple jobs and made enough money to send my mother to Europe for her higher studies. She also built three houses. I really regret not recording her life and bringing out a companion volume. I also regret not asking her about the memoir in sufficient detail.

Your grandmother was a Lithuanian Jew who had been born and brought up in Russia before and after the Russian Revolution and in parts in Switzerland and France. Her memoir observes a smoothish transition for her to living in British India, especially in Shantiniketan; to the extent she learned Bengali so as to speak to family members. How did she assimilate in the Bengali Bhadra society? Did she have to forego her Judaism?

My grandmother spoke Bangla fluently. She did not manage to learn the language to be able to read or write in Bangla. But she used to listen to poetry, would attend all the functions in the Ashrama. Both my uncle and mother studied in Patha Bhavan and Bengali was spoken at home. My grandparents, however, spoke in French with each other. Perhaps it was my grandfather’s support that enabled such a smooth transition into Bengali society. The story goes thus: once they were settled in Calcutta, Dadu said to Dida, ‘Come, let me take you somewhere you will feel at home’- and this was Santiniketan — where there were many Bengalis married to foreigners. Besides, Rabindranth Tagore was almost singlehandedly responsible for trying to turn Santiniketan into a cosmopolitan place, while retaining its fundamentally Bengali ethos. Yet, it continues to be a mystery as to how Dida adjusted so well to Dadu’s family — a joint family that was extremely hierarchical and patriarchal. My grandmother’s mother-in-law was known to be a stern figure and extremely harsh with her daughters in law. My grandmother became her favourite daughter-in-law — and was given privileges, unheard of at that time. This remains a mystery to me and to everyone else.

A word on the Judaism is required here: my grandmother never had any Jewish artefacts in her home. Not even a menorah. The first menorah was one that my mother’s Jewish friend presented to her during their stay in the US. Nor did my grandmother ever step into a synagogue. Yet, the idea of Israel was very important to her since she felt that the Jews deserved a homeland after the Holocaust. This was a reason for perpetual strife in the family since my late brother was a vehement supporter of the Palestinian cause. The ‘Russianness’ revealed itself through a love of literature, music, language. She never taught Russian but never forgot the language. It was a great help to me when I started learning languages. I think I chose French and Russian so as to be able to speak to Dida.

Depending on the audience they are addressing, women tend to bifurcate their narratives for private or public consumption. You knew Ketaki Sarkar. Do you think her memoir is true to her personality, the person you knew, or did she skip information in writing that she may have told you verbally.

Interesting question. The memoir was written originally for her children — Maya and Nandan. In fact the memoir is addressed to them. Once written, my uncle and my mother persuaded my grandmother that it should be published. Initially reluctant, my grandmother acceded to their wishes. Dida was always very conscious of the lack of educational foundation in her growing years. She felt that she was self-taught to a large degree. In Santiniketan, she was surrounded by literati. But I think she held her own even in these circles. ‘Kotia Mashi’ was much sought after and she remained close to her friends and their children and grandchildren. Santiniketan is still a very small place where most people know each other. It would be natural therefore for Dida to eschew anything critical about the people she met. When she wrote the memoir, the characters in the narrative were all living. Besides, the memoir is a narrative where she looks back forty years. (She is writing in 1970 about what happened in 1930.). She is taking a look at her previous self.

Why did your grandmother’s family move to Switzerland? Were conditions conducive for a Russian/Lithuanian Jewish family to relocate to the fairly newly established country, Switzerland (established 1874)? Did the internal passport issued by the Lithuanian authorities play a key role or was it linked to the Bolshevik Revolution and the ‘threat of communism’?

My great grandfather, David Jonas, had purchased a piece of land in a place called Richielien, near the Lac Leman. Doctors in Moscow had suggested he go and take rest somewhere and since the family traveled widely, he chose Switzerland. This was around 1912. By 1914, the Swiss doctors gave David a clean bill of health and the family returned to Moscow. After the Russian Revolution, famine and civil war, David was keen to leave Russia. This was only possible because of the internal passport, issued by the Ober-Ost government. A large part of Lithuania was then under German rule. If David had been born in Moscow, it would have been impossible for the family to leave Russia after the Revolution. David’s sister, Sonya, lived in Lithuania. Sonya and her husband, Dr Frumkin, helped David get the Lithuanian passports. During my research, a Lithuanian researcher, Elena Borik, found proof of my grandmother’s family’s passports in the Lithuanian archives. My grandmother has written about the large Russian émigré community in Switzerland at the time the Jonas family lived there.

What was your Bengali grandfather doing in Geneva when he met Ketaki at a student dance before they moved to Orsieres as a married couple? Or to put it another way, was Geneva a regular landing spot for Indian/Bengali students going overseas to study and work?

My grandfather was studying medicine at the University of Geneva. He had first tried his luck in Paris (where there were more Indian students) and then moved to Geneva. He studied French and even wrote his thesis in French. Some Swiss friends located his thesis in the University of Geneva archives. This Swiss degree was not really recognized as a proper degree when my grandfather returned to India. He struggled to land a proper job and did not manage to have a very successful practice either. My grandfather came from the Amrita Bazar family. The family consisted of staunch nationalists. My grandfather did not want to go and study in a colonial setting. He therefore chose France, then Switzerland. There were many Indian students in Britain. This was the most popular choice and there was no need to learn a foreign language here.

Your grandmother and you make references to the Yonas family being related to Eliezer Ben Yehuda (ne Perlman), the founder of the modern Hebrew language. How did you verify your grandmother’s account?

My grandmother spoke often of Eliezer Ben Yehuda. When my parents visited Israel (my father was then in the World Bank, therefore travel was possible), they met Dola BenYehuda, Eliezer’s daughter by his second marriage. (Eliezer Ben Yehuda would marry two of the Jonas sisters, first the eldest Devorah, then the youngest, Pola). Dola presented my mother with a copy of Robert St. John’s book, The Tongue of the Prophets: the Story of Eliezer Ben Yehuda. The Ben Yehuda family considered this the authoritative account of their illustrious forefather. I corroborated the account by delving further into the Ben Yehuda family. The genealogical website revealed a lot of information. I cross-checked this with writing to family members and asking them for more information. I watched films on Eliezer Ben Yehuda and read what he had written. I consulted my friend Dr Brenda McSweeney who taught in Brandeis University and asked her to suggest any colleague who might have worked on the role of women in early nineteenth century Palestine. She suggested the name of Margaret Shilo and I read her work and corresponded with her also. I tried all manner of ways to get information on the Jonas children. The two most interesting remain the most undocumented — Boris and Penina. Of course, the person who wrote the most was Eliezer’s second wife —Pola — who took on the name of Hemda. By all accounts, she had a terrific personality. However, I tried to stay clear of hagiographic accounts as much as possible. It was Hemda who stayed in touch with the entire Jonas clan.

Your afterword is packed with historical context to Ketaki Sarkar’s memoir. Why did you feel the need to write this detailed account? Why did you decide to write a separate section, rather than heavily annotate Ketaki’s text?

My mother tried hard to get the memoir published. Everyone she spoke to said it was too short and could not be a standalone volume. Early on, I thought a short historical background was important to buttress the memoir. While working at the Social Science Press as an editor, I had approached Esha Beteille with the idea of the manuscript. She showed great enthusiasm, as did her daughter, Radha. I wrote a first draft but Radha found that the historical part should be more detailed and Esha di felt that something should be written on my grandmother’s siblings as well. I realized this would mean much more secondary research. Eventually, a chance meeting with Anada and Swati Lal at their iconic home at Lake Gardens allowed me to raise the matter with Ananda. He accepted the manuscript without question. I shortened the text to make it more reader-friendly and budget-friendly. Ananda did meticulous editing and this took time also. I started the research in 2017. My father passed away in 2018. My brother passed away earlier this year. I kept urging my brother to look at the various manuscripts, but he said he would wait to read the final book. This did not happen.

What was your research methodology? When did you realise you had sufficient material to put into this book?

I had thought, originally, of writing a very short background to the memoir. I felt that most people knew about Russia’s history, certainly about the Indian National Movement, the Bengal Renaissance and the genesis of Santiniketan. On rereading the memoir after many years, I just had so many questions on the veracity of my grandmother’s story. Surely my great-grandmother could not have ridden on horseback from Siberia to Moscow? I remember seeing her photographs and hearing stories about her. This was just one example. Another question in my mind and one that caused me sleepless nights was —what exactly were my great-grandparents’ political affiliations? Were they card-carrying Bolsheviks? My grandmother did not mention this anywhere. But I know they supported the Revolution. Were they Anarchists? I did not think so. So I went to consult Prof. Hari Vasudevan and he confirmed every single doubt I had. He gave me solid historical evidence to validate my grandmother’s memoir. Prof. Vasudevan passed away from the first round of Covid, leaving me and countless others bereft. I think that the ‘introduction’ developed into a ‘book’ when I found documentary evidence of the burgeoning Jewish ex-mercantilist, educated bourgeoisie and the wealth of secondary material on the Pale of Settlement, the Haskalah (Jewish religious reform movement) and the extent of education for Jewish girls in Russia. When I read about the Haskalah, I thought I was reading about the Brahmo Samaj and the Bengal Renaissance; when I turned to girls’ schools in Palestine or Russia, my thoughts turned to education for girls and women in nineteenth century Bengal. There were so many commonalities that could not be discounted as coincidence. And oh, the wealth of secondary material in English, French and Bengali! A veritable treasure trove. My one regret was that I had completely forgotten my Russian. As I read more and more, sitting in the India International Centre Library, New Delhi, I realized that there was material for a book, and this would be interesting for readers, if I could tie up the history with the narrative covered in the memoir.

What did it mean to you to delve into this history and discover details about your lineage? More importantly, make visible linkages in global movements of the early twentieth century that would have remained hidden from view, but probably continue to have ramifications today.

Global events such as the terrible treatment of migrants and refugees were the constant backdrop to researching and writing this book. I kept asking myself — were the barriers between countries really insignificant in the early twentieth century? It was indeed possible for my Russian grandmother to meet and marry my Bengali grandfather, live and work in Switzerland, and then come back and live in India. Would this story ever happen today? I have tried meeting and corresponding with Jonas/Frumkin/Ben Yehuda family members. It is astonishing how well we seem to ‘commune’, although I have to say that my fluency in French helps immensely. The global movements you speak of became visible during the research. But I think that more needs to be written on the commonalities of different historical events and movements. We should be linked by our common faith in humanity. I think Rabindranath Tagore thought deeply about so many issues and problems of the twentieth century. His answer was establishing Visva-Bharati — the world in one nest. But we who live and breathe Santiniketan have not been successful in taking his message of peace and brotherhood far enough.

7 Nov 2025

“The Cost of a Promised Afterlife: My Escape from a Controversial Religious Cult in India” by Priyamvada Mehra

23 10 , 2025 No Comments

For Moneycontrol, I interviewed Priyamvada Mehra on her recently published memoir The Cost of a Promised Afterlife: My Escape from a Controversial Religious Cult in India. It is published by Simon & Schuster India. I am ever so grateful that Priyamvada replied in the detail that she did as this is not an easy past to revisit. Later, she very kindly wrote, “Thank you for the gentleness and care you’ve put into this interview process, I really appreciate it.”

Here is the interview.

Priyamvada Mehra’s memoir, The Cost of a Promised Afterlife, has been published by Simon & Schuster India. At the age of nine, she was led into the fold of Rampal, a self-proclaimed godman who promised miracle cures and salvation in exchange for submission. What began as her parents’ desperate attempt to save her mother’s life from a brain tumour soon became something far more sinister—a world where faith became a cage, obedience a virtue and control, absolute. By thirteen, Priyamvada was a devoted follower. In 2006, she was inside his ashram, used as a human shield during a deadly clash between Rampal’s followers and a rival sect. Questioning was forbidden, loyalty was everything and defiance came at a cost. She endured heartbreaking losses and grew up with a twisted logic of miracles, bans on medical treatment, and violent sermons.

She witnessed her family fall to pieces under the weight of indoctrination and diseases. For two decades, she stumbled between two treacherous worlds, one ruled by cultic control, and both shaped by patriarchy, caste and class, and the systemic violence they breed.

In The Cost of a Promised Afterlife, Priyamvada Mehra finally tells her story. The memoir exposes how cults take root in a nation of 1.4 billion, and how godmen wield unchecked power. In India, godmen are everywhere. They exist. Their photos hang on walls, their voices fill television screens and their names are spoken in both prayers and scandals. But the word ‘cult’ is rarely used. It stays unspoken until another scandal breaks out, only to be buried under silence again. This silence allows blind faith to thrive and logic to crumble. Deeply intersectional in its lens, it lays bare the psychological and physical toll of being led into blind faith as a girl and the long journey of dissenting as a woman in a ‘man’s world’.

While reading it, I had to put it down many times and take a break. When an individual narrates a traumatic incident, a self-defence mechanism automatically kicks in, and the person recounts the incident(s) in the third person. It is delivered in a deadpan style. It is a self-preservation act to prevent themselves from any further harm while recollecting. This is evident in oral and written narratives. So, to read this memoir that is written in the first person but in a manner that it hammers the reader’s head with a nonstop single dull beat is quite unusual. Read the memoir for yourself and judge. In Sept 2025, Rampal was granted bail, but remains in Tihar Jail as he is considered a “risk to public order” by the Hissar district court.

This interview with Priyamvada Mehra was conducted via email. She now lives between India and Amsterdam, delicately exploring the idea of home and identity.

1. What was the genesis of this memoir? Why did you feel the need to document this story?

After moving to Europe in 2022, I found myself unable to adapt or function as what you’d call a “normal adult”. That failure pushed me to look inward, and that introspection led me straight back to my past, something I thought I had long left behind. To make sense of what I was feeling, I began reading everything I could: books, memoirs, research papers, anything that could bring me closer to understanding my own experiences and help me name them.

Somewhere in that process, I also began pouring my memories out onto paper. It felt like a flash flood. It was overwhelming, intense, and unstoppable. Before I knew it, I was staring at a few hundred pages of what I called “angry notes.” That’s when it struck me, maybe this was a story. So, the memoir wasn’t planned; it was born out of an excruciating process of introspection, a journey I was forced to take in order to move forward in my life.

2. What did it entail to write about your experiences? Did you require your family’s consent to include them in the story?

I tried finding people in India with similar experiences but couldn’t find much that resonated, or any literature on it, barring some investigative work. The only memoirs or academic writings on cults I came across were mostly by Westerners, especially Americans. The first book I read while coming to terms with my reality was Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships by Janja Lalich and Madeleine Tobias. It gave me a language I didn’t have. It laid out the anatomy of a cult, the profile of a cult leader, and the long-term psychological damage caused by indoctrination and abusive relationships. It was a revelation. I hadn’t known I’d grown up in one. I hadn’t realised the relationships I was still chasing were rooted in abuse. That book cracked something open. No one had ever educated me about cults. No one used that word, even in a country like India, supposedly the world’s spiritual centre, where hundreds of thousands of self-proclaimed godmen and godwomen command the devotion of desperate millions. It forced me to see the desperation we lived with; how broken people cling to anything that promises certainty, even if that certainty comes from a ten-year-old boy in saffron robes calling himself a divine messenger when he should be in school, or from gurus protected by politicians, global celebrities, and power.

I returned to that book again and again. From there, I kept reading: memoirs, survivor accounts, research papers, anything that brought me closer to understanding my own experiences. I studied cults and their generational impact, the quiet struggles of those with disabilities and illnesses, and the heavy toll of caregiving. I uncovered the deep scars of caste and class, and traced the violence born of gender and patriarchy. Through that process, I finally found the vocabulary to articulate my own experience, and that’s how the writing began.

Unfortunately, consent wasn’t possible or practical, because my family remains deeply under the sway of the very cult I escaped from.

3. When and how did you ﬁnd your voice to write this memoir/ your testimony? Recalling these facts could not have been easy.

The long process of introspection and reflection out of which my memoir was born took me through all five stages of grief, perhaps even more. First came the shock and disbelief that this was actually my life, that my entire family, our opportunities, our very existence, had been systematically eroded by a godman who, even while incarcerated, continues to exert control. The realisation that I was the only one who had made it to the other side of that religious dogma, the only one seeing things critically, was both liberating and devastating.

Then came another truth. The realisation that I had been at the receiving end of abuse and violence based on gender and caste. It sucked the soul out of my body. Abuse had been so thoroughly normalised for me for years that it took time to even recognise it for what it was. Then came anger. Each memory ignited such a seething fury within me that I wanted to claw my way back through time to throw the punches I never got to land. That’s when I began purging it all out on paper. All my traumas surfaced in ways I hadn’t expected.

I sought therapy for the first time in my life and was soon diagnosed with Complex-PTSD (please note: I was orally diagnosed and wasn’t prescribed any tests for diagnosis).

I continued to confuse scraps for love, to look for empathy in the wrong places, in the wrong people, hoping they would understand my pain, not realising they were, unfortunately, the source of it. It took immense emotional labour, therapy, and both physical and psychological safety before I could finally see clearly and muster the strength to break free from the chains of fear that had bound me for so long.

It’s hard to put into words how excruciating the entire process was. There were times I felt I was losing my mind. But I learned to take pauses when my mind and body signalled me to. I would return after a week, or a month, or more, whenever my gut told me I was ready again.

4. Writing is cathartic. Even for PTSD survivors. Did revisiting old traumas heal you?

If I had the choice, I would probably have preferred to just enjoy my new life in Europe, the travel, the nature, the quality of life. But I simply couldn’t. Even while exploring, even while trying to distract myself, I couldn’t shake off the emotional and psychological ache. My body kept giving me sensations that made me feel unsafe at all times. It was as if I were constantly confronted by a wild animal, even though, in reality, I was safe and loved.

I didn’t have the option but to try and figure out why I was feeling that way. My sole intention was to feel and act like a “normal,” functioning adult. I hadn’t thought of catharsis at that point because I didn’t even know what was wrong in the first place. When I eventually was able to put a name to my experiences, I still didn’t attach myself to the idea of catharsis or closure, because there was no guarantee it would give me that. So, I wrote, free from the expectation that it would heal me.

Writing or purging my past onto paper had always been my way of confronting difficult times when I had no one to talk to, no one to help me make sense of the dysfunction around me. This time too, I turned to writing without knowing how it would help. Only now, holding the book in my hands, do I feel proud of having stood up for my younger self. I feel deeply satisfied that I was able to find my voice, my identity. It has given me immense hope for the future, and a belief that I can slowly undo the harm.

Revisiting old traumas, again, wasn’t a choice I made. The traumas revealed themselves in their full force and I had no option but to confront them.

The process was painful, excruciating. It drained me, left me low and uncertain the whole time. But now that it’s out, now that it’s tangible, each cell in my body feels as though life has been injected back into it. Holding my book gives me a true sense of catharsis. It’s an acceptance of the reality of my loss: the loss of my family, my childhood, my time. And at the same time, I feel a deep, boundless hope, not just for myself, but for others who may find themselves in similar situations in their own lives.

5. In what manner did you learn to distance yourself from the cult’s teachings and by extension your family? You document some of the friction in the memoir, but please elaborate.

The process of distancing myself from the cult’s teachings was gradual and continuous. It began early in my life, around 2010, when my mother left home. But I couldn’t fully distance myself, because my family remained deeply consumed by the dogma, and I lived with them until 2020.

While reading Terror, Love and Brainwashing by Alexandra Stein, I underlined a line that has stayed with me: “Almost anyone, given the right set of circumstances, can be radically manipulated into otherwise incomprehensible and often dangerous acts.” It’s true. The timing was cruel. My parents found the cult when they were at their most vulnerable. Only then did I begin to fully understand how religious extremism had shaped my family and by extension, me.

It wasn’t just about belief. It was tied to my parents’ disabilities, their chronic illnesses, the weight of caste and class, the pressures of marriage, and the desperation of parenting in scarcity. None of these struggles existed in isolation; they fed into one another, creating the perfect storm. And in that storm, a godman found his grip.

Throughout my childhood and beyond, I inherited their fears, their traumas, and their hopes for salvation. They passed it on unknowingly. And I carried the cost. It’s only now that I truly realise the weight of that inheritance.

In writing this book, I made a sincere effort to portray my once beautiful, fun-loving family with both empathy and honesty, to acknowledge the complexity of human beings and their choices, while not softening the harsh realities of the abuse and oppression I endured. Even though they see themselves as “the chosen ones,” I see them as victims of larger manipulative systems.

If I could make one wish today, it would be to free my family from years of religious thought reform and place them back in time, when they accepted their reality, imperfect and flawed. When they didn’t chase idealised, problem-free lives, but embraced life with authenticity, navigating it as best they could. When they refused anyone selling them the illusion of certainty. When they were adults with autonomy, critical thinking, and the ability to question authority. That’s what the cult robbed them of.

6. How much of your objectivity on this past life of living in Rampal’s cult was honed by travelling/living abroad?

Objectivity was always there, that’s probably why I could start asking questions quite early on. But the way it sharpened after I moved to Europe was incomparable. Living abroad brought a massive shift in my perspective, about identity, self-worth, race, gender, caste, the politics of everything.

In India, I never really felt like I was having it the worst. Every day I saw poverty, homelessness, hunger, disease. I saw potholes, road rage, accidents, the daily evidence of systemic failure, and it all felt normal. That social failure had been accepted and normalised; chaos had become culture.

When I moved to Europe, I was suddenly surrounded by people from all over the world who were openly talking about racism, gender, colonial history, power. I saw Black people reclaiming their power, queer people living with pride, women walking safely on streets. These were things I had never experienced before. There was a sense of accountability, of questioning authority, especially in Amsterdam, and I felt that deeply.

In India, I had always been trying to fit into a narrative created by the upper caste, the rich and elite. I was ashamed, never fully confident, always evading questions about my caste, where my parents came from, all those markers of social hierarchy. But living abroad helped me shed that shame that society had forced upon me. I began to remove shame from my caste identity, from gender-based violence, from my experience in the cult, from everything that made me feel small or unsure of myself, all of which had never been my fault.

The more I looked around and heard people’s stories, the more I realised just how abnormal my own life had been. I don’t think I would have been able to write this memoir had I not gone through that cultural shock. In a way, it became a blessing in disguise.

7. Your mother left the family to live in the ashram. Apart from her being sicklier upon her return, were there any fundamental differences that you noted in her as being a woman who had lived in a community governed by a patriarchal authoritarian ﬁgure?

Her being sicklier upon her return wasn’t just physical, it was deeply mental. It was terrifying to have my mother back, not only with a broken body but also with a fractured mind. Alongside her treatment for Pott’s spine, she also had to undergo psychiatric care. Watching that was one of the most painful experiences of my life.

She had returned completely consumed by her devotion to Rampal. Her cognitive abilities had deteriorated, and her demeanour had become almost childlike, especially in the presence of visitors. She was the textbook example of someone whose identity and agency had been completely eroded by a religious cult. Post her return, she was delusional, disconnected from reality, and incapable of functioning as an autonomous adult.

Her transformation was the outcome of years of systematic thought reform, compounded by her ill health, an illness that the cult, I believe, deliberately sustained to keep her dependent and submissive. Emotionally and psychologically, she had become unrecognisable. The mother I once knew was gone. What remained was a helpless, fearful child in an adult’s body.

When we were instructed to bring her home from the ashram, she was paralysed neck down at that point, she reportedly didn’t even want to return. She still believed that Rampal was her only saviour, that he alone could deliver her from her suffering. That’s how deeply the indoctrination ran.

What’s even more heartbreaking is that no one in the family, neither my father nor my brother, questioned her condition, or how she had ended up that way. It was just accepted as divine will. We had been so thoroughly conditioned to never question the cult leader, to never question him.

The cult left her incapable of living in society as an independent person. It robbed her not just of her health, but of her sense of self.

On being a woman who had lived in a community governed by a patriarchal authoritarian figure, it wasn’t much different. Her life was still governed by patriarchy even before the cult. The place of the husband was taken by the guru.

8. Rampal had a rule that to criticize him was strictly forbidden/ (The 15^th Rule out of 23 rules). He also said that “any alternative ideology or religious teaching was framed as corrupt, further isolating them from outside perspectives”. How is this any different from any other evangelical leader or a patriarch?

Perhaps it isn’t very different at all. Cults, after all, come in many forms and names — eastern or western, religious or political, family-based or corporate. What defines them is not their label, but the methods they use to control, manipulate, and isolate people. Rampal’s system, like many others, followed the classic anatomy of a cult.

Here are some defining characteristics of a religious cult that can help identify whether an individual, group, or organisation fits that description. These have been compiled based on well-established authoritative sources in cult psychology and sociology research.:

Charismatic Leadership – The cult revolves around a self-proclaimed guru, baba, or spiritual figure who demands absolute loyalty and obedience.
Blind Devotion and Control – Followers must surrender entirely to the leader’s authority, often cutting ties with family, education, or mainstream faith.
Exclusive Teachings – The leader claims to possess a unique path to salvation or truth, unavailable anywhere else.
Exploitation – Financial, emotional, and sometimes sexual exploitation is common. Followers may be forced to donate money, perform unpaid labour, or endure abuse disguised as devotion.
Fear and Doomsday Narratives – Members are taught that leaving or questioning the leader will bring divine punishment or disaster.
Isolation from Society – Followers are encouraged to live in communes or ashrams, severing connections with the outside world.
Political or Criminal Ties – Many cults build protection networks through political or financial influence, sometimes operating like criminal enterprises.

Cults use classic psychological manipulation techniques to recruit and retain followers:

Love bombing: overwhelming new recruits with affection and belonging.
Fear and guilt: convincing them that leaving means ruin or death.
Thought reform: constant repetition of teachings to erase critical thinking.
Us vs. Them mentality: portraying outsiders as corrupt or impure.
Gradual commitment: small acts of devotion that escalate into total control.
Public confession and humiliation: used to enforce obedience and shame

So, to answer the question, there isn’t much difference between cult leaders like Rampal, or other leaders who weaponize faith for control, or patriarchs who demand submission. They all thrive on power, fear, and dependence. The only difference lies in the language and setting, the ideology changes, but the mechanics of control remain strikingly similar.

9. With hindsight, what did you lose, what did you gain (if at all!) by spending fourteen formative years in a religious cult from the age of nine? Years later, does the incarcerated Rampal and his cult teachings still have a hold on you?

It took me two decades to realise that I was a victim of a religious cult in India. I continue to lose my family to one, and nothing hurts more. It also took me years to understand that I was a victim of patriarchy, of casteism, and of the violence that these structures of oppression breed, all of it without any fault of my own. Unfortunately, that is what we call our “culture”. The time I lost isn’t coming back. The family I lost isn’t coming back. The long-term psychological and physiological harm cannot be undone. I’ve had to rebuild my life around that loss.

If I’m honest, I don’t think I gained anything, I only lost. The deepest wound has been losing my family to this cult and its relentless thought reform. I wouldn’t wish that on any child. I want parents, especially in India, to understand this, because our culture gives parents immense control over their children’s lives. There’s rarely any real separation, even after eighteen. Their lives are intertwined, but when parents, out of fear or misplaced faith, make decisions that deny their children autonomy, it becomes selfish and irresponsible. Their intentions may be good, but intention often translates into control and fear and that harms a child’s physical, psychological, and emotional wellbeing.

As for Rampal, I feel nothing for him now. But his teachings, the sermons, the rules, the consequences that were drilled into my young mind, have left their residue. They disrupted my relationship with the idea of spirituality itself. Years of indoctrination instilled an irrational fear that something bad would happen to me because I am a “traitor.” That fear is faint now, almost negligible, and it diminishes with each passing day.

Today, I have built a life that is beautiful, authentic, and free. A life that feels completely my own. And in that, I feel very far removed from the world I was once part of.

My story, I believe, can raise awareness about religious cults in India. It can help girls and women truly stand up for themselves and create the beautiful lives they have never stopped dreaming of. My story can help start a dialogue about the rot of caste and patriarchy, in our own minds, in our families, in our homes, and in our society. My memoir offers a deep look into the social issues we remain wilfully naive or ignorant about in India. It takes you through an excruciating journey of my escape from a religious cult, but it is equally a story of hope, possibility, freedom, power, and the beauty of a girl’s rebellion. I have written this book for my nine-year-old self, whose wings were clipped before they had a chance to form. I wrote it for my sixteen-year-old self, who had only known how to exist in crippling fear. I wrote it for my twenty-four-year-old self, who was doing her best just to survive. And then, I thought of the millions of girls who are nine, sixteen, and twenty-four today, in India and elsewhere, abused, helpless, subservient, scared, yet still dreaming. I decided to take them along with me on this journey. And so, I wrote it for them too. Readers will take away inspiration, to take a deep look within, and an even deeper look around. This book will open people’s eyes to their own truths and realities, and how they wish to navigate through them. What they choose to uphold, what they choose to change, and what they choose to let go.

Jaya Bhattacharji Rose

“A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy a Memoir of Sorts” by Nigel Slater

15 10 , 2025 No Comments

Oh, this book is purely delicious. Its his love for food and all things nice. Its evocative. Every page is infused with his love for the sensuous and tactile. He knows colours, food, observes precisely and has the ability to transport a reader with a short essay into a different world..sometimes his experiences are uber-luxurious and wow! He shares them with so much grace and panache.

15 Oct 2025

Manish Gaekwad: “Nautch Boy: A memoir of my life in the Kothas” and “The Last Courtesan: Writing My Mother’s Memoir”

09 09 , 2025 No Comments

Manish Gaekwad was the only child of a courtesan, so he grew up in the kothas or a brothel. Courtesans would be defined as prostitutes but usually one man (patron) took care of her and her children. The evening festivies inevitably began with a mujra or a performance. It included singing and dancing by the courtesan (s), accompanied by their musicians, and watched by an audience consisting of their patrons. Manish Gaekwad was sent by his mother to the hills to study where he acquired an education in English. His mother did her best to ensure that he did not get stuck in poverty and on the margins of society.

Writing two memoirs in quick succession, one about his mother and the other about himself, is quite a feat. There is plenty of linguistic play in his storytelling, with loads of Hindi that is also made available in English but it is almost as if both languages have equal status in his mind. Memoirs inevitably are selective storytelling about a person’s life and sometimes of their community, their context. In Manish Gaekwad’s books, there is a continuity of narrative but at the same time many incidents seem episodic. As if they had to be written down and shared. There is also this emphasis on telling his mother’s story, making her life visible, a woman who lives in the shadow of society, but her son gives her a voice, a character. In his own story, it is not necessarily a coming-of-age story but it is certainly a juxtaposition of the public and private worlds in which the idea of masculinity is explored. In the public spaces, the men and boys linked to the courtesans are encouraged to figure out their relationships and if need be, have the necessary scuffle to assert their dominance. In the shadows of the kotha, it is predatory and seeing a young boy/man like Manish, they prey upon him and sexually assault him more than once. Both these texts are seeped in violence — whether the energy required by the fittest to survive or the violent “love” and its multiple shades. Ultimately, these books attempt to share unique experiences but one cannot help but think of it also as performance art. But, then isn’t most storytelling?

Manish Gaekwad is a journalist and author. He has reported for Scroll and Mid-Day, and has contributed to The Hindu and other publications as a freelancer. His literary works include the novel Lean Days and The Last Courtesan, a memoir of his mother. He co-wrote the Netflix series She with Imtiaz Ali, script-consulted on Badhaai Do and served as a senior script creative at Red Chillies Entertainment.

Both books have been published by HarperCollins India.

9 Sept 2025

“One In a Billion: Becoming India’s First Master of Wine” by Sonal C. Holland

27 07 , 2025 No Comments

Who would have guessed that it is possible for an Indian woman to defy all odds to become India’s first master of wine. One in a Billion is an account of how Sonal C. Holland did just that. It is a smoothly written memoir, straddling the space of motivational and narrative non fiction books. There are interesting nuggets of information shared, such as:

p. 173 It’s no secret that Indians love to drink! India is the third largest alcobev market by volume in the world, next only to the United States and China. Every year, Indians guzzle six billion litres of alcohol, over half the world’s whisky ( a staggering 1.5 billion litres) and double the amount of beer. We imported 219 million bottles of whisky in 2023, which was up by 60 per cent from 2011.

A double-digit growth consistently over the past decade makes wine the fastest-growing beverage in the country. Indians are becoming exposed to the wine lifestyle on account of their social networks, international travel, rising disposable incomes and aspirational living. As the demand for luxury products and more spending drives premiumisation across sectors, wine and other alcoholic beverages are the direct beneficiaries of this upward moving trend. Premium vodka, rum, gin and sake, alongside high-quality wines and craft beers, have grown popular too.

Consumers perceive wine to be healthy, see it as a symbol of success and sophistication, and it is socially the most acceptable drink. No other alcoholic beverage enjoys this trilogy of appeal, and it has worked in the favour of wine remarkably.

….

Women represent an important demographic for wine consumption in India as they are choosing wine for being a softer, healthier option as well as for its aura of elegance. Research shows that women, in general, feel less inhibited and face less criticism when drinking wine in front of their family members. In a soceity that has traditionally lived in joint families and encouraged only male drinking, women drinking wine at restaurants, bars and at home is a huge opportunity and a real game changer for the industry. In a way, wine has democraticised drinking for women in India, allowing them to join their male counterparts in enjoying a drink. This movement is now reaching smaller cities; with the exposure to urban culture and the arrival of luxury dining options, women finally have the liberty to experience wine regularly.

A book that is far too smoothly written, almost as if ghost written, and not a firsthand lived experience. There is something very sanitised, without granularity in the prose. Definitely has interesting nuggets of information about Sonal Holland’s life and the wine sector in India, but it is almost as if this book is fulfilling the desire to be a calling card of the subject. After all, Indians (possibly globally too), once you have a book to your name, your respectability rises manifold.

Good luck to Sonal on her wine journey.

27 July 2025

” A Man of Two Faces: A Memoir, A History, A Memorial” by Viet Thanh Nguyen

26 05 , 2025 No Comments

Viet Thanh Nguyen’s novel The Sympathizer won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and was turned into an HBO limited series. The recipient of fellowships from the Guggenheim and MacArthur Foundations, his most recent books are A Man of Two Faces: A Memoir, A History, A Memorial; To Save and to Destroy: Writing as an Other; and the edited volume The Cleaving: Vietnamese Writers in the Diaspora. All of them have been published by Hachette India.

How do you even begin to describe a book that is gut wrenching, relevant, and absorbing to read? I read it more or less in one fell swoop, despite many false starts. It took a while to read the first few pages and get my bearing. But once I had figured it out, I just read and read and read. A Man with Two Faces is very moving, very thought-provoking and it truly helps decontstruct the concep of America as everyone seems to think that they know. It is told from the point of view of a Vietnamese refugee whose parents flee at the time of the Vietnam war. Viet Thanh Nguyen is fours-year-old. But he seems to carry within him the experience of being a Vietnamese and a successful American. He has broken many barriers by being accepted for who he is, his views, his writing, and his opinion pieces. He has been true to his identity and not allowed anyone to tell him otherwise. All the while he also recognises the intense sacrifices his parents made for the sake of their two sons. Both of whom ended up living the American dream, but at what cost. Their mother quite literally had had to be institutionalised not once, but twice, and finally passed away a woman trapped within herself. It is a heartbreaking account of her downward spiral. Yet, what is extraordinary is that her younger son, the writer, recognises with acute sensitivity what it takes for a woman to live many lives in one. He refers to her marriage at the age of seventeen as the first time she was a refugee when Vietnam was split into two and then the second time, when she fled Vietnam for the USA. Throughout the text, he is able to draw comparisons between the freedom she had in Vietnam, including earning her livelihood and being able to drive a car, but in the USA, she was handicapped by language and ultimately, her existence was circumscribed by the provision store that she ran with her husband and her domestic chores. It broke her, piece by piece.

There is much else in A Man of Two Faces. It is a combination of sophisticated criticism and a witnessing to modern events in the USA. Also, what it takes to be an immigrant.

The writing style at first is peculiar to engage with. But as one proceeds through the book it becomes fairly obvious that these were previously published essays that are now interspersed with present day commentaries and observations by the author. It makes for an interesting visual arrangement on the page, almost like literary art. At the same it, it is like the reader is privileged to be privy to a dialogue. Ultimately, it illustrates the very title of the book wherein the two faces of the author — the public and the private are in constant engagement with each other in the prose format. Fascinating!

Read an extract from the book published on Moneycontrol to coincide with the fifty years of the conclusion of the Vietnam War on 30 April 2025.

Here is the TOI Bookmark conversation on Spotify:

Read it and you wil not regret it.

26 May 2025

“Chhaunk on Food, Economics and Society” by Abhijit Bannerjee

23 05 , 2025 No Comments

Chhaunk, oil infused with different spices, lies at the heart of Indian cooking. It is just a few teaspoons, but it finishes a dish and gives it its particular piquancy. The pieces in this delightful book can be seen as a literary chhaunk – a sprinkling of ideas and arguments around the social sciences, which imparts its own distinct flavour.

Part memoir, part cookbook, Chhaunk playfully uses food to talk about economics, society and India, and makes unexpected connections, say, between savings and shami kebab or between women’s liberation and the Bengali vegetable dish of ghanto. It is published by Juggernaut Books.

Abhijit Banerjee, economist and Nobel laureate, loves to cook and feed people, and misses India all the time. This delicious collection of essays – light in style and big on ideas – is his attempt to string the many parts of his eclectic existence together.

Fourteen-year-old Sarah Rose was very fortunate to have met the Nobel Laureate and illustrator at Bahrisons, Khan Market in December 2024. It was an unexpected but a pleasurable event. Abhijit Bannerjee did say that he usually does not give his consent to be photographed with others but he was willing to make a concession for a teenager who is interested in reading and cooking. Thank you, Sir!

L-R: Cheyenne Olivier, Abhijit Bannerjee, and Sarah Rose

The author was gracious enough to autograph it for Sarah too.

23 May 2025

“The Years”, Annie Ernaux

24 02 , 2023 No Comments

We reflected on our lives as women. We realized that We’d missed our share of freedom — sexual, creative, or any other kind enjoyed by men. We were as shattrteded by the suicide of Gabrielle Russier as by that of a long lost sister, and were enraged by the guile of Pompidou, who quoted a verse by Eluard that nobody understood to avoid saying what he really thought of the case. The Women’s Liberation Movement had arrived in the provinces. “La Torchon Brule” was on the newsstands. We read “The Female Eunuch” by Germaine Greer, “Sexual Politics” by Kate Millet, “Stifled Creation” by Suzanne Horer and Jeanne Socquet with the mkngled excitement and powerlessness one feels on discovering a truth about oneself in a book. Awakened from conjugal torpor, we sat on the ground beneath a poster that read “A woman without a man is like fish without a bicycle” and went back over our lives. We felt capable of cutting ourselves loose from husband and kids, and writing crudely. Once we were home again, our determination faded. Guilt welled up. We could no longer see how to liberate ourselves, how to go about it, or why we should. We convinced ourselves that our man was neither a phallocrat nor a macho. We were torn between discourses, between those that advocated equal rights for the sexes and attacked patriarchy, and those that promoted everything feminjne: periods, breast-feeding, and the making of leek soup. But for the first time, we envisaged our lives as a march towards freedom, which changes a great many things. A feeling common to women was in its way out, that of natural inferiority.

The Years by Annie Ernaux, translated by Tanya Leslie ( Fitzcarraldo Editions)

24 Feb 2023

Farah Bashir’s “Rumours of Spring: A Girlhood in Kashmir”

20 02 , 2022 No Comments

Farah Bashir’s memoir Rumours of Spring: A Girlhood in Kashmir ( Harper Collins India) is an extraordinary book. While keeping vigil by her grandmother’s body, the older Farah Bashir recounts her childhood memories of living under siege in Kashmir. These events are interspersed with stories that her grandmother told the young Farah.

I read Rumours of Spring a long time ago but there are some books that make it impossible to write about immediately. This is one of them. This book brought back memories of my trips to Kashmir. I was able to travel to the state with my father as he was a Customs & Central Excise officer and his beat included Jammu & Kashmir when he was posted as Chief Commissioner, Customs, Amritsar. We visited places in the state that were mostly inaccessible. Those trips were unforgettable. The stunning beauty of Kashmir are of course talked about but what really struck me in those trips were to see signs of conflict everywhere. For instance, the empty bottles and tin cans that were strung at regular intervals on barbed wire fencing. These could be around fields or properties or simply rolled up wire being used as barricades. The idea being that if anyone tried crossing these wires, there would be a clatter and a bang and the security forces on patrol would be alerted. The normalisation of this constant state of alert was unsettling. We would only visit the state for a few days at a time but I could never get over the fact that this was the way the locals lived 24×7. There have been many firsthand accounts of living under siege in Kashmir. It never fails to disturb. Farah Bashir’s book is a fine addition to the list. It is particularly unnerving to read it as she recounts much of what is in our living memory. At the same time, it brings back memories of other similar situations. For me, for example, it is witnessing the riots of 1984 in Delhi, after the assassination of the prime minister Indira Gandhi. Recalling the anxiety of my grandparents who had lived through Independence and the subsequent riots. So the moment, news broke, my grandmother sent my brother and me to buy provisions and stock up. My grandfather, N.K. Mukarji, who was a young ( and the last) ICS officer of the Punjab cadre in 1947, helping government teams manage the division of Punjab, was suddenly remembering incidents of 1947 that were eerily similar to 1984. Later, we were staying with our father in Shillong and we witnessed the flag marches the Army carried out and how society was brought to a standstill. Buying basic provisions became a feat to achieve. Much later, I recall watching the demolition of Babri Masjid on television on 6 Dec 1992, followed by the maha artis in Maharashtra and the rising communal tension in Delhi. Then of course, we have had many more incidents of violence that are too horrific to recount. Reading Farah Bashir’s book during the pandemic brought it all back in flurry. But it also made apparent the parallels between our pandemic way of living with that of life in a conflict zone. Without sounding callous, the difficulties in trying to manage daily life while constantly living with uncertainty and never too sure when systems will be brought to a grinding halt, makes the individual anxious. Yet, there are even more chilling parallels between what Farah Bashir witnessed as a child in Kashmir with Nazi Germany. For instance, security forces pulling out men from their home and making them assemble in large fields in an attempt to identify “militants”.

It was during one winter morning in 1990. Ramzan Kaak had gone out to buy bread but was sent back by the troops even before the announcement was made. The announcement, usually made twice, in Urdu and in sometimes Kashmiri, sounded more like a threat: ‘Apne gharoon se baahar niklaliyey. Koi aadmi ghar pe na paaya jaaye.’

Mother, Bobeh and I huddled in our living room, while Ramzan Kaak and Father left the house to be assembled in a large ground of a public school nearby, alongside all the other men from the neighbourhood. The morning passed in a daze, punctuated with the abrupt thuds of doors being slammed and the sound of steel utensils being flung about. Later, of course, these would become the all too familiar ‘crackdown noises’.

That morning we felt completely numb, unable to move around; we didn’t get any work done, nor speak to each other. ‘The trepidation of our turn being next induced a sickness. I felt completely nauseous. Towards afternoon, the troops walked into our courtyard. Mother and Bobeh turned paler upon seeing them. I too must have looked like them. I do remember feeling dizzy and light-headed.

Suddenly, the appearance of our frail neighbour, Ghaffur, added some confusion to the already tense situation. Why was he with them? Both Mother and Bobeh wore a quizzical expression upon seeing him.I too was thoroughly puzzled to see Ghaffur with the troops. But I didn’t dare to ask anyone anything. The expression on his face was unforgettable. He looked almost dead, like a body that was breathing. His face had ashedned, and his lips were taut and white.

After the troops walked nitou our kitchen wearing muddy boots, soiling everything, they flung open the cabinets. Upon discovering the trapdoor on the floor –the voggeh — they went berserk! They ran amok with suspicion, as if they’d unearthed a tunner to the other side of Kashmir, in Pakistan. Quickly, they broke into two batches: one group cordoned off the house from the outside in the courtyard and the other lot disappeared into the voggeh, into what they seemed to assume to be an imaginary escape tunnel. They did not expect it to be an ordinary floor of an ordinary home with ordinary things. They ventured into the ground floor vehemently, and because they couldn’t find anything there, they ransacked the gaan. Suspecting militants to be in hiding behind the gunny sacks, they poked the bayonets of their rifles into them. They slashed upon the large rice bags, callously unleashing rivers of grains on to the part-stone, part-mud storeroom floor. They scattered chunks of coal that were hoarded in large tin drums by overturning them. Perhaps it was the adrenaline from discovering the mysterious door that led them nowhere, or their hurt pride and disappointment for not having recovered any arms, ammunition or even militants from our home. When they left, they left behind nothing but misery that was pasted on to the floors and walls of our house. A misery that couldn’t be wiped away.

Since that first time, Mother remained stoic when the troops searched our house. Soon after they’d leave, she’d take stock of the destruction and then, break down. That afternoon, however, seeing our storage room turned upside-down, we succumbed to a deep despair after. To clean up after the crackdown wasn’t easy. While the scattered wooden logs could be picked up and stacked back into tall columns, the task of separing bits of coal from rice grains brought me to tears of helplessness and frustration.

….

That day in 1990, when Father and Ramzan Kaak returned in the evening, we heaved a sigh of relief. Father didn’t speak much. Ramzan Kaak told us how the men were paraded in front of a Gypsy that had an informer sitting inside, whose job was to identify militants and militant suspects. The latter could be anybody. All of this would be routine in a few month. That day, as Father locked the house, he remarked onthe uselessness of bolts and doors. Even I had understood by then that their safety was by no means guaranteed and that just because the men had been assembled, there was no assurance that they’d return together or return at all.

Each time a house was searched and found ‘clean’ — that is, no arms or ammunition was recovered — a date was inscribed on the facade of the house, usually near the main gate. Our house, being in the heart of downtown, had accumulated nine such dates in less than four months.
(p.96-99)

There are many more passages that I can quote but this long extract is sufficient. It gives a sense of the violence that Farah Bashir and rest of Kashmir faced on a daily basis. The disruption to normal life. Living in constant fear. Living in constant anxiety. Living with uncertainy; not knowing what will come next. Feeling nauseous. This is a neverending cycle that has not as yet come to an end. Decades later, on 29 Jan 2022, Farah Bashir said in a conversation organised by the Hyderabad Literature Festival that for the first time, the various aches and pains she had been experiencing were greatly reduced. The trauma of constantly living in fear had had its physical impact on the child and later adult but writing this book was therapeutic. It had literally helped ease some of her pain. Small mercies in otherwise bleak times.

Read Farah Bashir’s Rumours of Spring. It is unforgettable.

20 Jan 2022

“Tender Bar” and reading

16 01 , 2022 No Comments

Tender Bar that is currently streaming on Amazon Prime is a wonderful adaptation of award-winning author, J. R. Moehringer’s memoir (2005) of the same name. It has been directed by George Clooney and has Ben Affleck acting in it. It is a wonderful film that shows the tender relationship between an uncle and a nephew, but also of the immediate clan and close circle of his uncle’s friends. Somehow the writer manages the fine balancing act between masculinity and tenderness without it becoming toxic. J. R. Moehringer’s mother is a single parent who returns to live with her parents and her brother. It is a full house at home. The mother is restless and despite living many years in it finds it hard to call it home whereas her son has no difficulty in doing so.

There are many scenes in the film that are worth discussing but my favourite scene is when the uncle, played brilliantly by Ben Affleck, recognises the talent his nephew has for writing. Uncle encourages nephew to read and does so by throwing open the cupboard that houses his book collection and simply says, “Read”. At no point does the uncle ever say to his nephew that this is inappropriate for you or is not at your reading level. Incredibly liberating! The reading/writing bug big bit the nephew. Ultimately, he got a place at full-sponsored seat at Yale University.

It is not a mushy film. Just about right in its tenor. No wonder Ben Affleck has been shortlisted for some awards such as the Screen Actors Guild. He has been nominated in the category: “Outstanding Performance by a Male Actor in a Supporting Role”.

J. R. Moehringer won the Pulitzer Prize (2000; shortlisted in 1998) for journalism and subsequently co-authored tennis star, Andre Agassi’s “Open: An Autobiography” ( 2009). He also ghostwrote Nike co-founder, Phil Knight’s “Shoe Dog” (2015). He has now been asked by Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex, to collaborate on the Duke’s forthcoming memoir that is to be published in late 2022.

Watch Tender Bar

16 Jan 2022

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