Venice—
the winter, 2006.
When the sun sank
over the ocean’s edge,
the wind became frigid.
The beach—
dark and deserted.

The dreads, incense, crystals—
just mimicry of people you dream of being.

Peace Frog—
Live at a boardwalk bar.
A Doors cover band
costumed as characters,
staging someone else’s rebellion,
we teens walked out—
vowing never to return.

Yesterday, I revisited that sensation—
leaving your stairwell.

Poet’s Bio: Born and raised in Los Angeles, Michael Roque began writing poetry and prose while studying at Pasadena City College. He has been based in Tel Aviv since 2013. He is the author of Writing to a Raid Siren (Pomegranate Press). His work has appeared in literary journals including North Dakota Quarterly, The Queen’s Review, The Roanoke Rambler, Poetry Super Highway, and BlazeVOX. 

Some novels tell a story. Others create an emotional space that readers inhabit long after they have turned the final page. Based on the excerpts available, Eighteen Inches Apart by Sonia Bahl belongs to the latter category. It is a novel that appears less concerned with dramatic plot twists and more interested in the emotional architecture of relationships—the invisible bonds that connect people across differences in class, circumstance, geography, and grief.

At its core, the book seems to ask a deceptively simple question: What truly brings people together? Through the lives of Leela, Zain, Neel, and Mira, Sonia Bahl explores friendship, ambition, family, romance, heartbreak, and healing with remarkable sensitivity. The result is a story that feels deeply personal while remaining universally relatable.

A Novel About People More Than Events

One of the first things that stands out from the excerpts is the author’s commitment to character-driven storytelling. The narrative does not appear to rely on shocking revelations or fast-paced drama. Instead, its strength lies in the careful development of its characters and the emotional authenticity of their journeys.

The novel alternates between different perspectives, allowing readers to understand the world through multiple lenses. This structure enriches the narrative because each character brings a unique worldview shaped by their background, experiences, and aspirations.

Rather than creating heroes and villains, Sonia Bahl seems interested in creating human beings: flawed, vulnerable, hopeful, and often uncertain.

Leela: The Observer Who Sees Beyond the Surface

Leela emerges as one of the most compelling voices in the novel. Her perspective is marked by curiosity, introspection, and emotional intelligence. As a photographer, she pays attention to details that others might overlook, and this trait extends beyond her art into the way she understands people.

A particularly memorable passage reveals her preference for photographing ordinary yet meaningful moments rather than famous landmarks. This detail encapsulates her character perfectly. Leela is drawn not to spectacle but to humanity. She finds beauty in fleeting expressions, quiet interactions, and the stories hidden beneath appearances.

Her voice is reflective without becoming self-indulgent. She possesses a natural sensitivity that allows readers to connect with her immediately. Whether she is reminiscing about childhood memories or navigating complex emotions, her perspective feels authentic and emotionally grounded.

Perhaps most importantly, Leela’s chapters suggest a woman trying to reconcile the expectations placed upon her with her own desires. This internal tension gives her character depth and makes her journey particularly engaging.

Zain: Ambition, Resilience, and Quiet Strength

If Leela is the observer, Zain appears to be the dreamer.

His story is rooted in ambition, determination, and a profound love for automobiles. Raised around his father’s garage, Zain develops an early fascination with engineering and mechanics. Yet his passion is never presented as merely technical. For him, cars represent possibility, freedom, and a future beyond the limitations of circumstance.

The excerpts describing his dream of studying automotive engineering reveal a character driven by purpose. Unlike many fictional protagonists whose ambitions feel abstract, Zain’s goals are tangible and deeply personal. Readers understand not only what he wants but why he wants it.

What makes him particularly appealing is his emotional maturity. He faces challenges without self-pity and responds to prejudice or condescension with dignity rather than bitterness. There is a quiet confidence about him that commands respect.

His friendship and eventual romantic connection with Leela appear to form one of the emotional pillars of the novel. The transition from childhood companionship to something deeper is handled with subtlety, allowing readers to appreciate the complexity of their bond.

Neel: Privilege, Grief, and the Search for Meaning

Neel represents a fascinating contrast to Zain.

While Zain struggles to achieve his dreams, Neel has seemingly been handed every advantage. He is wealthy, educated, and secure. Yet beneath that privilege lies profound dissatisfaction and emotional uncertainty.

His chapters introduce themes of grief, loneliness, and identity. The death of his mother casts a long shadow over his life, influencing the choices he makes and the relationships he forms. Despite living comfortably, he remains emotionally adrift.

The “Belgravia Boy” sections are especially effective because they challenge assumptions about privilege. Sonia Bahl avoids simplistic characterizations. Neel is neither spoiled nor self-destructive. Instead, he is a man trying to understand what gives life meaning when material concerns have already been solved.

His journey feels less like a quest for success and more like a search for purpose.

This distinction makes his storyline particularly compelling.

Mira: Quiet Grace and Emotional Wisdom

Although Mira receives less narrative space in the excerpts, she leaves a lasting impression.

She is introduced through Neel’s perspective, yet quickly establishes herself as a fully realized character. Working in a flower shop, she possesses a calm presence that seems to draw people toward her.

What makes Mira interesting is her understated nature. She does not dominate scenes through dramatic declarations or larger-than-life personality traits. Instead, she influences those around her through kindness, patience, and attentiveness.

The early interactions between Mira and Neel are among the novel’s most charming moments. Their conversations are awkward, funny, and refreshingly believable. Rather than relying on instant attraction, Sonia Bahl allows their connection to develop through shared experiences and mutual understanding.

This gradual approach gives the romance a sense of authenticity often missing from contemporary fiction.

Romance Rooted in Emotional Intimacy

Many modern romances focus primarily on attraction. Eighteen Inches Apart appears more interested in emotional intimacy.

The relationships in the novel grow through conversations, memories, vulnerability, and trust. Readers witness not just people falling in love but people learning to truly see one another.

The relationship between Leela and Zain seems particularly powerful because it evolves from years of friendship. Their connection is built on shared history, making every romantic development feel meaningful.

Similarly, Neel and Mira’s relationship develops through ordinary moments—a conversation about flowers, visits during recovery, shared lunches, and small acts of care. These seemingly insignificant interactions accumulate emotional weight over time.

The novel understands that love is often found in everyday gestures rather than grand declarations.

Class, Identity, and Social Expectations

Beyond its romantic elements, the book appears deeply interested in social dynamics.

Leela and Zain come from different worlds. She belongs to a wealthy, privileged environment, while he is rooted in a working-class background shaped by hard work and practical realities.

The novel explores these differences without reducing them to stereotypes. Wealth is neither glorified nor condemned. Likewise, hardship is not romanticized.

Instead, Sonia Bahl examines how class influences opportunity, confidence, expectations, and relationships. This nuanced approach adds complexity to the story and prevents it from becoming a conventional romance.

Neel’s storyline further reinforces this theme by demonstrating that privilege does not guarantee happiness or fulfillment.

The result is a thoughtful exploration of how social circumstances shape—but do not define—individual lives.

The Importance of Family

Family relationships play a significant role throughout the excerpts.

Parents influence the characters in visible and invisible ways. They provide support, impose expectations, leave emotional scars, and shape personal identity.

Zain’s relationship with his father is especially moving. The garage where his father works becomes both a physical space and a symbol of inherited passion. Through these scenes, Sonia Bahl highlights the quiet sacrifices parents make for their children.

Neel’s family dynamic is more complicated. His grief over his mother’s death and his strained relationship with his father contribute significantly to his emotional struggles.

Meanwhile, Leela’s family background helps explain her worldview and social position.

These family relationships add depth to the narrative, ensuring that the characters feel connected to larger emotional histories rather than existing in isolation.

Writing That Finds Beauty in Everyday Life

Perhaps the novel’s greatest strength is its prose.

Sonia Bahl writes with elegance and clarity, creating passages that are vivid without becoming overly ornate. Her descriptions are precise, her metaphors feel natural, and her dialogue flows effortlessly.

What distinguishes her writing is the ability to transform ordinary experiences into meaningful moments.

A hospital visit becomes a turning point in a relationship.

A discussion about flowers becomes an exploration of vulnerability.

A childhood memory becomes a reflection on identity.

The prose consistently emphasizes emotional truth over stylistic excess.

Humor also plays an important role. Characters tease one another, make awkward remarks, and reveal their insecurities through conversation. These lighter moments provide balance and prevent the story from becoming overly sentimental.

Symbolism and Recurring Motifs

The excerpts reveal several recurring symbols that enrich the narrative.

Photography functions as a metaphor for perception and memory. Through Leela’s camera, readers are reminded that what we choose to notice often defines who we are.

Automobiles represent ambition, movement, and possibility. For Zain, they symbolize both personal identity and future aspirations.

Flowers carry obvious romantic associations but also represent care, growth, and emotional openness. Mira’s profession reinforces these themes throughout her storyline.

Most importantly, the concept of distance appears repeatedly. Characters are separated by geography, class, grief, misunderstanding, and circumstance. Yet the novel continually suggests that genuine connection can bridge these divides.

This idea is beautifully encapsulated in the title itself.

Conclusion

Eighteen Inches Apart is far more than a conventional romance. It is an emotionally intelligent novel about the relationships that shape our lives and the invisible distances we must cross to reach one another.

Sonia Bahl demonstrates a strong understanding of human emotion, creating characters who feel authentic and multidimensional. The narrative balances romance with themes of ambition, family, grief, friendship, and personal growth, resulting in a story that feels rich and layered.

What ultimately distinguishes the novel is its sincerity. The emotions never feel manufactured, the relationships never feel rushed, and the characters never feel like stereotypes. Instead, readers are invited into a world where love develops gradually, healing takes time, and meaningful connections emerge through everyday acts of kindness and understanding.

For readers who appreciate character-driven fiction, emotionally resonant romance, and beautifully observed human relationships, Eighteen Inches Apart appears to be a rewarding and memorable read; one that lingers in the mind long after the final chapter ends.

Published by Rupa Publications, 2026 | 184 pages

In Folktales, Myths and Legends from the Deccan, Nitin Kushalappa assembles an engaging collection of folk narratives, myths and oral epics drawn from the vast cultural landscape of South India and the Deccan region. Bringing together traditions rooted in Kannada, Tulu, Kodava, Tamil, Telugu and Malayalam cultures, the book serves both as a compelling anthology and a meaningful preservation of regional storytelling traditions. Instead of reshaping these tales into glossy modern mythological fiction, Kushalappa retains their rawness, spiritual texture and oral storytelling cadence.

The anthology begins with “The Epic of Junjappa,” a powerful folk tale from Karnataka centred around a cowherd hero who eventually becomes a revered deity. The narrative moves through prophecies, miracles, family conflict and social tensions while remaining firmly grounded in local customs and belief systems. Junjappa’s transformation from mortal to divine figure reflects the way communities immortalize folk heroes through collective memory and devotion.

Equally memorable is “The Warrior Who Mastered Magic,” inspired by the Kodava legend of Kalyat Ponnappa. Combining elements of heroism, mysticism and political conflict, the story unfolds like a tragic ballad. Kushalappa paints Kodagu vividly through descriptions of its warrior clans, forests, spiritual traditions and martial culture. The result is a narrative that feels epic in scale yet emotionally intimate in its portrayal of sacrifice and destiny.

“Myths were told to explain the origins of gods, communities, certain social customs or natural phenomena.” 

Pic Credit: Rupa Publications

A vibrant collection of oral traditions

The true strength of the book lies in the range of stories and perspectives it presents. From the celebrated Tulu folk heroes Koti and Chennayya to philosophical tales from the Nilgiris and romantic legends from Chhattisgarh, the collection explores themes that continue to resonate deeply—love, caste, faith, betrayal, grief, honour and resistance.

Notably, the stories retain their darker and more complex aspects. Kushalappa does not dilute the violence, superstition or social inequalities embedded within these traditions. This honesty lends authenticity to the narratives and highlights how folklore often acted as a voice for marginalized communities and collective social memory.

“The stories revolve around themes that are both timeless and universal: family; love—romantic, tragic and forbidden; death—mortality and grief; faith—hope and religion; power—its strength, fragility and misuse.” 

Accessible scholarship and storytelling

The author’s note offers useful context for readers unfamiliar with Indian folk traditions. Kushalappa explains the distinctions between myths, legends and folktales in a simple and approachable manner while also outlining the historical and cultural background of the regions represented in the anthology.

His prose remains deliberately straightforward throughout the collection. Rather than relying on decorative language, he focuses on recreating the rhythm and immediacy of oral narration. Although some passages may feel abrupt because of this simplicity, the storytelling never loses its authenticity or emotional force.

An important act of cultural preservation

At a time when many oral storytelling traditions are fading or being overshadowed by homogenized popular mythology, Folktales, Myths and Legends from the Deccan stands out as an important cultural document. The book preserves not just stories, but also the rituals, beliefs and social histories connected to them.

More than a collection of entertaining tales, the anthology becomes a reminder of the extraordinary diversity of India’s regional cultures and narrative traditions. Readers interested in folklore, mythology, oral history and cultural studies will find the book insightful and deeply rewarding.

Verdict

Folktales, Myths and Legends from the Deccan is a thoughtful and richly layered anthology that successfully captures the spirit of South India’s oral storytelling heritage. Through tales of warriors, deified heroes, lovers, spirits and rebels, Nitin Kushalappa revives traditions that continue to shape regional identities and cultural memory. The book is both an enjoyable read and a valuable contribution to the preservation of Indian folklore.

Mad Math and Witchery

I met my best friend when I was six. Fell irrevocably in love with him at sixteen. Married him at twenty. Became a mother of two at twenty-two. And a widow at twenty‑nine.

When I was born, my father was fifty-five and my mother was forty-nine. No assisted birth techniques were employed in my creation; I was simply a mistake and a miracle. It also set the precedent for me to defy the math. Family folklore has it that my parents tried for years to extend their lineage before giving up all hope. Then destiny intervened and kicked logic and statistics out of the room. Without really trying, my parents defied the odds and obstetrics, and my mother gave birth to a healthy (borderline obese) nine-pounder, who arrived protesting like a professional mourner.

I always thought the algebra of me was unnecessarily complex. My paternal great-grandfather was British. He couldn’t take his unwavering blue-green eyes off a Punjabi girl from Pakistan, whom he married forty-eight hours after a chance meeting. The next generation kept the Punjabi bloodline straight and narrow until it came to my father. whose heart swerved and crash-landed for a Parsi girl. The result of that portmanteau was me—befuddlingly fair-skinned with a deeply embedded plumpness gene—the kind of kid that people find irresistibly cute, for all the wrong reasons. Needless to say, both my parents would have viewed me as a sonnet-worthy angelic cherub even if I had looked like “Rosemary’s Baby.” They were hopelessly blinded by love and gratitude and were mostly just scrambling to make up for lost time. When I turned five, they turned fifty-four and sixty. If they’d been granted one wish, they would have stilled the clocks of time on themselves and set mine to an accelerated pace, just for the pleasure of walking beside me longer. Stronger.

You can have everything, as my parents pretty much did, but you can’t slow-melt real time the way Dali did so effortlessly on canvas. If, like me, you prefer to ignore the rules, the best you can do is snafu the timeline. It helps when you have a reputation for willing things to happen. For seeing things before they happen. For talking like you know what’s going to happen. My Dadi (my father’s mother), straight-talking and mentally tougher than a pugilist, labeled me a witch very early on. Not in any denigrating manner, more as a robust confirmation of my mostly self-proclaimed powers. To be clear, I didn’t exactly spend my childhood reciting incantations to the beat of the dhol. I did, however, have vivid dreams, sometimes sinister, sometimes wondrous, which I shared promiscuously with those who cared to listen. I’ve always seen dreams as messages from someplace we don’t know yet. Like notes across planets. Wasn’t everyone   receiving them? How else did I sometimes know what someone was about to say before they said it? Or anticipate something perfectly ordinary—like the cook in the kitchen dropping a plate and me sensing the shatter—before it could be heard outside. Call it nothing, or something, or the sharpening of an instinct, but I began to develop a sense of knowingness about people and events, as if I was already familiar with them. It urged me to run full pelt toward my destiny, convinced it was mine, often well before it had a chance to come my way.

And yet, when it mattered most, my witchy prescience gave me no warning that everything precious was  about to crash and burn.

Excerpted with permission from Eighteen Inches Apart by Sonia Bahl. Excerpt permission obtained via author Sonia Bahl.

NAW: Floating Worlds offers an intimate portrait of Ruby Khanna’s inner world. What inspired you to delve into the psyche of a woman grappling with emotional detachment and existential unease?

Ruby’s journey was inspired by my own mid-life crisis and that of other women around me. I realized that as women reach their forties, something inherently starts changing in them. If they were comfortable with defined roles and patriarchal systems earlier, suddenly they find themselves questioning everything that makes up their identity. This is a difficult transition period for women, and some deal with it by rejecting outdated roles, while others respond by going deeper within themselves to find out what is it that they really want. This is not akin to saying that it doesn’t happen to women at other ages, but I wanted to write about a middle-aged woman who is stereotypically supposed to be grounded and balanced, but is in the midst of utter chaos and the only way she knows how to deal with it without destroying her family in the process, is by detaching herself from her reality and creating a new one. 

NAW:The narrative moves fluidly through memory, dreams, and reflection rather than following a linear structure. How did you craft this dreamlike form while maintaining narrative coherence?

Since I was attempting to write in the stream of consciousness style, at least in the first half of the book, I had to map the fantasy elements (dream, memory etc.) and weave them into the linear narrative. This was done by interplaying the storyline with corresponding triggers that help us understand the protagonist’s thought process better. The idea was to pick up major events from her life that give us a sense of her development over the years and follow that up with something happening in real time. I like to think of it as a ‘literary’ montage; it is similar to a technique used in films to add symbolism that might seem incongruous at first, but is actually there to give the reader additional insight.  For example, the chapter where her aunt confesses to Ruby that she had an affair is followed by the flashback chapter where Ruby puts in her papers at work to focus on her family life. Here she explains to Kashish, her subordinate that what makes a character unforgettable is their relatability and their ability to make mistakes. The next chapter is back in the present, where she meets Riyaz, who serves as a reminder to Ruby that she is allowed to make mistakes. In a way, the audience is watching Ruby understand herself better. 

NAW: Ruby seems to inhabit two parallel world; her outward life of duties and her deeply immersive inner reality. Do you see her interior world as an escape, or as a truer expression of self?

I don’t think of the word ‘escape’ as something negative. It is our rich, inner minds that truly make us who we are, not the roles we play or the image we build so that people might respect us. I don’t even think our inner worlds are a true indicator of our real selves. I think all humans vacillate between both worlds on a daily basis. If you ask someone what they are really thinking, chances are most people will never be completely honest with you. It is okay to balance the two, with one foot in reality and the other in our thoughts. It helps regulate our emotions, so that human beings live in a society devoid of utter chaos because we are living out our fantasies in our mind. I see a lot of reviews of the book where they talk about fantasy as if it is a form of escape and call out Ruby’s character as disturbed or living in her imagination. I find it amusing, because it reiterates how much people are scared to admit that they do the same as well. Well, in a way the book is normalizing what is in fact normal, but not spoken about that much.

NAW: The dynamic between Ruby and Shiv is nuanced, shaped by longing, restraint, and ethical tension. What were you hoping to explore about love beyond traditional romantic constructs through their relationship?

I was trying to understand the kind of mystic love that you read about in Sufism, where love is a form of worship and surrender, a bridge that brings you closer to Divinity and dissolves the Ego. Ruby tells Shiv time and again, that she does not want anything from him, because in her mind she already has him. It is a sort of metaphysical and transformative love that helps you become a more evolved version of yourself. It does not demand recognition or labels, because it exists in a realm where there is no judgement, only acceptance. In the end, it is irrelevant if they are friends or lovers, if they stay together or have parted. All that matters is if they have understood each other. 

NAW: Ruby’s marriage to Kabir is defined more by silence than overt conflict. How central was the idea of emotional distance in your portrayal of contemporary relationships?

I wanted the reader to sympathize with Kabir and yet not hate Ruby for drifting away. The idea of marriage by itself has become redundant when you have the whole world to connect with thanks to your phone. Emotional distance is a choice, because sometimes couples really have nothing in common. You find most couples sitting separately on their phones, never being truly honest with each other, while the only thing holding them back from leaving, is a child. In Ruby’s case, the child is grown up and gone, and even when the child was young, her partner never understood what she was going through. Ruby chooses to be emotionally distant because of incompatibility and fear of being judged. She is not distant with Shiv or Riyaz, only with Kabir as she does not feel safe to open up with him. Silence is an indication that you don’t trust the other person at all, but conflict is healthy if approached respectfully.

NAW: Through Raghu, the narrative engages with philosophical and spiritual questions. How did you balance these contemplative elements with the emotional realism of the story?

The book to be described in a nutshell, is about healing. So, spirituality was a major theme I wanted to explore in the book. When you start healing, the first thing you do is ask questions. Then you figure out what works for you and what doesn’t. Raghu is merely acting as a mirror for Ruby’s unhealed self. He is here to be a friend to the reader as well. When the reader is exhausted by Ruby’s endless questions, Raghu serves as a temporary relief and answers those questions. He is patient, grounded and curious to learn, something we know Ruby aspires to be as well. The emotional heaviness in the book needed an anchor to hold the weight, and Raghu was created to do that.

NAW: The novel frequently revisits Ruby’s childhood. How do you view the role of early emotional experiences in shaping one’s inclination toward imagination and inner retreat?

Our fears, triggers, idea of safety and emotional acceptance stem from our early childhood. Our parents are our first role models and we learn how to regulate our emotions by emulating them. We also unknowingly carry their trauma, because even though children don’t understand much, they are always observing their parents. Someone like Ruby who experienced her personal boundaries being violated by incest and sexual abuse as a child, is bound to create a parallel reality where she is in control of everything and where she can feel safe. If you have parents who are creative and encourage imagination in the form of free play, Art or storytelling, the child will end up as an adult with a rich inner world, as opposed to a child who is chastised for being imaginative and asked to stick to pure logic. 

NAW: The recurring presence of the tiger in Ruby’s dreams is both vivid and unsettling. What does this symbol signify, and how does it relate to her deeper anxieties?

I think this part is explained in the book itself when Ruby has a dream where the tiger is old and finally seems powerless. Since these nightmares started when Ruby was just a child, the tiger symbolizes something that holds power over her, something that makes here feel scared and helpless. It is usually men, first the ones who molest her, then Kabir who she feels is tracking her down and eventually her own self that she is conflict with. When she starts accepting her reality and stops fleeing from it, the dreams change and the tiger is no longer a threat.

NAW: Name five of your favourite writers.

Jack Kerouac, Haruki Murakami, Ernest Hemingway, Milan Kundera, T.S. Eliot, The Bronte sisters, Margaret Atwood, Erica Jong. There are more, but I’ve already crossed five!

NAW: What are you reading currently? What do you do apart from writing?

I’m reading a great book written by my college friend, Beneath Divided Skies by Natasha Sharma. I’m also reading a book on Chinese medicine. Apart from writing, I raise two boys, run a household, travel and most importantly, dream. That’s the main thing in life, to keep dreaming. 

NAW- The Tree, the Well & the Drag Queen moves between folklore, horror, magical realism, and queer coming-of-age fiction. What was the first image or emotion that sparked this story?

First of all, thank you very much for the review of The Tree, the Well & the Drag Queen in New Asian Writing. The review captured the essence of the book. 

The story started from a feeling of entrapment. It was in 2020, during the second COVID lockdown. Though I was thankful for the privilege of staying home safe during COVID, after a few weeks of confinement, I felt trapped. I found myself daydreaming about open spaces, book stores, forests and beaches. ‘Is our sense of freedom just an illusion?’ ‘Is anyone in the world really free?’ Questions bothered me. Then, a character came to my mind: a grown-up person who was stuck in their ancestral home with their parents. It was an interesting premise, as there was a lot of scope for conflict. The story actually started as a very realistic one, but then, I thought, ‘What’s the point of writing about someone stuck at home, while the whole world is stuck at their homes? What is fresh about it?’ But then, this character refused to leave my head.

I tried different points of view, narrative voices, but nothing seemed to work for this story. Then, one day, I wrote a dream sequence of this character, the person dreaming that they’re stuck inside a jackfruit. Those who have read the book will remember the dream sequence that starts like, “I was trapped inside an enormous jackfruit…” Suddenly, I had an ‘Aha!’ moment. It was so fun to write, and I decided to abandon the ‘realistic’ story and kept building upon that fantasy dream sequence. You had mentioned in your review that the book develops through dream-like sequences, maybe it’s because the story started as a dream. Like many of my stories, this was an experiment, and I had no idea where it would go, but then, as I kept on writing, it became interesting; it also gave me a sense of relief and freedom during the dim phase of the COVID lockdown.

NAW- The tree and the well function almost like living entities — both nurturing and destructive. What do these symbols represent for you personally?

When I had the first glimpses of the story in my mind, the tree and the well were a regular tree and a well. But then, when the story took a turn towards fantasy, suddenly there was scope to give these ordinary objects a personality. The tree in the story is controlling and manipulative, whereas the well is mysterious and scary. I have certain symbolism for the tree and the well in my mind, but I feel explaining them would bias the readers to see these entities in a restricted way. I would rather let the reader decide what the tree and well symbolize for them.

NAW- The drag queen’s journey feels deeply interior — less about spectacle and more about self-recognition. How did you approach writing gender fluidity without reducing it to explanation?

When I wrote the drag queen’s character, I didn’t look at them through the lens of gender. Sometimes, developing a character is like bringing up a child; you see the child as a whole, a beautiful human being. You enjoy watching the child grow up with a sense of pride and bewilderment, rather than thinking about individual aspects of their personality.

The Tree, the Well & the Drag Queen is a coming-of-age story that portrays the protagonist’s life starting from a very young age: a child who loved to sing, dance, wear makeup, and have fun. Through my writing, I witnessed this child’s journey into adolescence and then adulthood. It helped me look at the protagonist as a real person, a wholesome yet vulnerable, brave yet insecure person who goes through excruciating experiences in their quest for freedom and authenticity. So, for me, this character is more than what their gender represents, they’re a real person, with happiness, sorrows, dreams and hopes — a person who worries about missing a train, complains about their boss and wonders what shade of lipstick to wear. Maybe that approach helped me focus on the whole person rather than defining the character only by their gender.

NAW- How do you balance mythic storytelling with contemporary social realities without allowing one to overshadow the other?

Be it ancient or contemporary times, human instincts and flaws remain the same. Traits that control human beings, like love, hatred, greed and curiosity, have remained unchanged over millennia, even though humans have evolved socially and technologically. It’s quite interesting to draw parallels between myths and modern realities based on these common human traits. A search for treasure in the ancient world can be compared to a race for a coveted promotion in the corporate world. Isn’t keeping a princess in a high castle for her safety the same as parents forbidding their daughters to step out of the house after dark? 

Drawing these kinds of parallels has helped me balance the mythical and contemporary aspects of the story. When you find commonalities between myth and reality, jumping from one to another becomes smoother, and the real world becomes an extension of the myth.

NAW- How do you see Indian English fiction evolving in its engagement with queer narratives today?

Indian English writers, mainly writers from the queer community, are taking the initiative to bring queer narratives to the mainstream. Publishers are also taking an interest in realistic queer narratives. For example, Seagull Books has The Pride List, a series of books spotlighting LGBTQIA+ narratives. They encourage translations from other languages to English. One of the amazing books in this series is Unlove Story by Sudipto Pal, translated from Bengali to English by Arunava Sinha. Members of the LGBTQIA+ community have long been stereotyped by popular Indian media. There have been many caricatural portrayals of queer characters in Indian cinema. The queer narratives written or translated by LGBTQIA+ writers are indeed a breath of fresh air. These books will help readers view the LGBTQIA+ community from the community’s perspective.

NAW- What was the most difficult part of writing this novella — structurally, emotionally, or thematically?

The toughest challenge was portraying a non-binary, gender non-conforming protagonist. As I mentioned in the previous answer, I am acutely aware of how the Indian media has stereotyped queer characters for a long time. So, for me, it was of prime importance to portray a queer character as realistically as possible. Doing so within the framework of a fantasy story was an added challenge. It’s not that I consciously chose a queer protagonist for my novella. When I first conceptualized this thread as a short story, I started writing a narrative from the protagonist’s first-person point of view. I didn’t think about the gender of the protagonist. All I knew was that the protagonist was an artist, someone who loves everything loud and colorful, someone who loves to sing and dance.

But after some time, as the plot expanded, I had to think about the protagonist’s gender, and I couldn’t decide if the protagonist was a man or a woman. And then, I asked myself, “Why are you so adamant that this character should be a man or a woman? What if they aren’t a man or a woman?” It was like an epiphany, and I couldn’t ignore that question. Thus started my journey of understanding gender non-conformity and non-binary gender identity. 

It wasn’t an easy journey. To my embarrassment, I realized that I didn’t know much about gender nonconformity. So, I started learning. The more I read, the more I got confused. Slowly, a path opened up. I came across some amazing books, especially Beyond the Gender Binary by Alok Vaid-Menon. It was a steep learning curve, and I realized with some pain that, as a cisgender person, I might not be fully able to internalize the idea of non-binary gender identity. However, I read and watched a lot of videos where people from the queer community shared their experiences and perspectives. They were so generous and open. 

Also, as a cisgender person writing a queer protagonist, I was worried about whether I had the right to write such a book. The fear often paralyzed my writing to the extent that I thought of abandoning the book many times. However, the protagonist, the drag queen, was so persistent in my mind that I felt like they were taking the story where they wanted to. It’s a magical experience when a character takes over a story from the writer. 

Also, my editor at Red River Story, Sucharita Dutta-Asane, asked me questions and insisted that I should get clarity on the gender identity of the protagonist. Her encouragement and confidence in my manuscript eased my worries to some extent. The thought of abandoning the drag queen’s character felt like abandoning someone I love and care for, so I have tried my best to portray them with honesty and care. I am still learning.

NAW- The book subtly critiques rigid masculinity and societal conformity. Was this political dimension deliberate, or did it emerge naturally from character?

No, it wasn’t deliberate. In my mind, all stories start with a character. In this story, it was an artist stuck in their ancestral home. I wasn’t thinking about any broader themes or political dimensions at that point. But I believe that every person is political, be it a character or a writer. As the character’s journey progressed, more characters appeared in the story, bringing in their beliefs and politics into the plot. My job as a writer is to portray the ideological conflict between these characters. While there are abusive male characters in the novella, there are also kind and sensitive male characters. Again, this was also not a conscious balancing. I was just focused on the characters, their personalities and behaviors. Since they’re political beings, the book couldn’t be apolitical, but the politics emerged naturally from these characters. As a woman writer, I have been disturbed by the glorification of rigid masculinity in popular culture, it could’ve influenced me subconsciously. But, as a writer, I am very careful not to pass judgment on any persons or genders; my job is to simply observe and report.

NAW- Are you interested in continuing to explore myth-queer intersections in future work?

I am a spontaneous and slow writer. Naïve as it may sound, I have no roadmap of what I want to write next or what genres I want to pursue. I do a variety of things, writing, editing, translation, whatever I feel invested in at the moment. My next book is a children’s book, a very light-hearted story, which is so different from my novella. While the idea of myth-queer intersection sounds amazing, I can’t say I will explore it until the next idea strikes.

NAW- Please name five favourite writers—writers who shaped your writing.

Oh, I love this question, even though the answer is not easy. My list of favorite writers is so long, but I will try to pick five in no particular order. I grew up reading two amazing Malayalam writers, Vaikom Muhammad Basheer and Kamala Das. These were legendary writers who created new paths when there were none. Basheer is famous for his unpretentious writing and the lightness of his prose, even when dealing with extremely serious issues. I think I developed a taste for humour from Basheer’s writings. In my childhood, I tried hard to imitate his style, and even published a Malayalam story in Basheer’s style. Kamala Das showed me, at a very young age, that a writer needs to have courage. You can’t write fiction if you’re worried about what people will think. Another writer I totally adore is Perumal Murugan, whose short stories skillfully merge myths with realities, and his prose slips easily into magical realism. I also respect him for his courage in tackling dangerous subjects and his integrity in standing by his work. I have learned a great deal about emotional depth from Anuradha Roy’s novel, The Atlas of Impossible Longing. Hemingway’s minimalistic style has also influenced me, especially in writing dialogue.

NAW- What are you reading currently? What do you do apart from writing?

I am reading a series of Paris Review Art of Fiction interviews. Since I am in the book marketing phase, I find it difficult to fully immerse myself in reading. I enjoy reading the interviews from the 1950s, and I can’t believe how deeply I relate to the experiences and feelings of writers from another generation! Other than writing… I have to think about it. Honestly, my whole life revolves around writing and reading. I edit a quarterly fiction magazine, Mean Pepper Vine and translate children’s books from English to Malayalam. Even when I am watching movies, I am trying to learn craft. The one thing that I do very differently from writing must be playing violin. I am learning to play violin, and it has been going so badly so far!

Life is a mosaic of misery and meaningfulness—it offers both rainstorms and rainbows. While it tests us with setbacks, turbulence, loss, and trauma, it also blesses us with the gift of resilience. Often, when fear, chaos, and despair take over, we forget to invoke this inherent capacity to rise. Dr Neena Verma, a seasoned practitioner, coach, and educator in leadership, resilience, wellbeing, grief, post-traumatic growth, and therapeutic writing, redefines resilience beyond the clichéd notion of ‘bouncing back’. She guides readers to explore the deep, restorative, generative, supple, and expansive dimensions of resilience.

The book introduces two original constructs—‘resilience mindset’ and ‘deep resilience’—derived from Neena’s extensive practice, research, and lived wisdom. It serves as a comprehensive guide to recognizing, kindling, cultivating, practising, embodying, and nourishing your inner resilience. Welcome to RISE: The ‘Deep Resilience’ Way. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dr Neena Verma is a lifelong seeker, practitioner and facilitator of deep resilience. She brings a multi-disciplinary background across organizational behaviour, appreciative inquiry, grief psychology, depth psychology, compassionate mind, and therapeutic writing. A scholarly practitioner and educator, and ICF credentialled PCC level coach, Neena specializes in leadership, resilience, wellbeing, grief, compassion, and systemic positive change. She is a prize-winning alumna of University of Delhi, with several international accreditations, including notably being the first from India to be certified in appreciative inquiry and meaning-focused grief therapy. Neena is also an NTL Professional Member and TAOS Associate. Her last book Grief …Growth … Grace: A Sacred Pilgrimage is arguably the first by an Indian author on the complex topic of grief. Neena also runs an independent library endeavour in the service of children from underserved backgrounds.

Restorative Adaptation

I am life that wills to live in the
midst of life that wills to live.
—Albert Schweitzer

A happy, bright, skinny new teen, Paul pooled his savings with his older brother’s to buy a bench-press so they could work out. Soon Paul noticed some changes that made him happy. He ran excitedly to show his mother who was aghast to see what the young boy had mistaken as muscles. Investigations soon revealed a substantial tumour under Paul’s arm. It was a form of cancer called Hodgkin’s disease.

The next couple of months were wrapped in pain, fear, worry, sorrow and anguish. Paul coiled through the maze of biopsies, surgeries, and prolonged hospitalization. While his family did their best to hold him warm and strong during the brief visiting-hours, Paul’s horrifying encounter with trauma filled his long lonely days in the children’s ward. He had no one but himself to take care of his mental wellbeing in the
midst of fellow patients’ disturbing howls. Yet all that Paul felt for them was compassion. One day a stranger walked up to him. A cancer survivor himself, he said things that made Paul feel as if a ‘bringer of hope’ had visited him. Decades later, this experience inspired Paul to title his book—intended to help those struggling with cancer—‘Don’t Bring Lasagna’. Bring hope instead.

Finally, Paul was discharged from the hospital and reached home feeling relieved. Turns out, more suffering was waiting around the corner. The six-week long radiation that followed ‘blasted’ Paul completely. Yet you hear him emphasize with gratitude, ‘radiation killed the cancer and saved my life.’
His graceful silence hides the reality that radiation also left him with a horde of lasting issues that wrecked his body forever. If only the fall of 1979 could be erased from the chronicles of time. Instead, a new traumatizing phase unfolded. Returning to school with a cancer-treatment-scarred appearance, the
14-years-young Paul got christened as the ‘cancer kid’. Called a ‘weirdo’, Paul was teased, shamed and made to feel embarrassed of the very visible effects of his cancer treatment. He had become an ‘outcast’. Being a naturally appreciative person though, Paul chose to focus his attention on those few
‘awesome kids’ who reached out with acceptance and warmth. He didn’t want anyone’s pity or sadness. He ‘just wanted to be Paul’. It was decades later that he realized what it meant to be Paul. Life kept flowing. And so did Paul. He built friendships, including—importantly—with Jackie, who later became his
lifelong soulmate and most determined warrior in the much more fierce battle that was yet to unfold.

Radiation had left Paul with traumatizing ramifications. Eyes, teeth, hair, neck, back, shoulders, skin, heart valves, bones—his body bore multiple lasting painful effects. Even more agonizing was the abiding fear of cancer making a comeback. And sure enough, it did. A happily married man, father of two lovely children and a successful professional, 46-year-old Paul was hit by cancer once again. Familiarity, yes.
But how could that wipe the emotional trauma that someone diagnosed with full-blown stage IV cancer would feel? More stark and scary than before. But his gritty wife Jackie wouldn’t take the battle lying low. She ‘fought it out much more fiercely’ than Paul himself, as he says with love, pride and gratitude.

By now Paul knew ‘cancer doesn’t hurt, cancer treatment does.’ This time the treatment was chemotherapy—eight rounds, each eight-hours long, with untellable misery in-between and after. It was hard-hitting for Paul to realize that the highly hazardous stuff (chemo drug) that the attending staff (shielded in full-body protective gear themselves) wouldn’t even touch, was going to be injected into his body. For days after each round, he would be engulfed in nausea, exhaustion, weakness and pain. He acknowledged his hard feelings and allowed them their due space. He didn’t mask positivity but he also
didn’t let himself slip into victimhood. He was falling. But not failing. He kept gathering himself up, with dignity and grit.

Paul met life with the will to say YES. To restore and keep an eye on his blessings without hiding or negating his misery. Once, when he was writhing in pain, Paul’s mother nudged him to see his illness as an opportunity. Not amused, he listened on nonetheless to what she had to say—‘From their youngest days, you have taught your kids to walk, talk, study, live with good values and work ethic. They need to learn so much more about life. Someday they are going to be dealing with their own struggles, pain, suffering, despair. And right now, they are watching you. They are learning how to face and endure suffering, and still stay resilient with courage and grace.’ What a perspective! This brought about a fundamental shift—a turning point—for Paul who lapped up the gift of perspective with open heart and mind. His wife Jackie’s generative conversations inspired him to polish it further.

Dark impulses were nonetheless regular visitors. At one point, just before entering the chemo room, Paul felt the urge to ‘just run away’—into the woods, anywhere, maybe another life. Looking back, he light-heartedly calls it stupid. I find it natural. Who would not harbour resentment when locked in the ring of fire life had thrust him into for a second time? Not Paul. He had, what I named, his waffle eye. Once, while in terrible nausea, he felt a craving for a waffle. Jackie quickly got him one, warm and dripping with butter and syrup. Paul goes quiet with emotion, trying to put in words the gratitude he felt in that moment, savouring something ‘as ordinary as a waffle’. The joy was extraordinary. You can’t miss it in his eyes and smile. Paul decided he was going to see life as if it were a waffle—through storm or sunshine. Behold his child-like smile and you would see a rainbow dancing in the thunderous skies of his abiding trials. He has found—and become—the Paul he wanted to be at 14 years of age—a happy, content, gracefully resilient man who lives life with meaning and believes, deep in his heart, that he is ‘blessed’.

Paul, dear reader, has been cancer-free for over 14 years now. Doctors rate his chances of getting it again to be the same as anyone else in the population. Deep inside though, Paul knows what, who and how he will be if, God forbid, a life-storm comes visiting again. How does one say YES to the trials and trauma triggered by life-threatening cancer? Twice! How does one muster the will and strength to endure the terrible lasting after-effects and debilitating pain that cancer treatment brings along? How does one re-will life, keeping faith and hope, when all reasons for it disappear? How does one restore and adapt with such grit and grace as Paul did? How does one keep the tryst with trauma and turn it into a love affair with life? Just how! The answer lies in the affirmative phenomenon of restorative adaptation—the
first aspect and restorative phase of deep resilience that I briefly introduced in Chapter 4.

Excerpted with permission from RISE: The ‘Deep Resilience’ Way by Neena Verma. Excerpt permission obtained via publisher.

Alpa Arora’s Floating Worlds is a deeply introspective novel that explores the fragile boundary between reality and imagination, love and longing, sanity and self-discovery. Through the psychological journey of its protagonist Ruby Khanna, the novel examines themes of identity, emotional isolation, motherhood, spirituality, and the human tendency to create alternate inner worlds when reality becomes overwhelming.

Rather than following a traditional linear plot, Floating Worlds unfolds as a series of reflective episodes that move fluidly between memory, dreams, philosophical conversations, and present-day events. The result is a narrative that feels less like a conventional story and more like a psychological landscape; one where the reader inhabits Ruby’s mind as she tries to make sense of her life.

The author is clearly well read, as the very first page opens with a quote from Anais Nin. In today’s social media driven literary world which is often overrun by references to Kafka and Dostoevsky largely; any writer who draws on Anais Nin deserves a readership.

A Story Rooted in Inner Conflict

Ruby Khanna is the emotional centre of the novel. From the very opening chapter, where she sits by the Ganges in Rishikesh observing the river at night, it becomes clear that Ruby is a woman burdened with deep internal conflict. Her thoughts drift constantly between present reality and introspective questioning.

She is married to Kabir and is the mother of a son, Trilok. Yet the life she inhabits feels strangely distant to her. She performs the roles expected of her i.e. wife, mother, member of society, but internally she remains detached, almost like an observer of her own existence.

Ruby often describes feeling disconnected from the world around her. Everyday interactions seem to lack meaning, while her mind wanders toward philosophical questions about existence, identity, and the nature of the self. The novel captures this sense of dissociation with remarkable nuance.

Her mental landscape is filled with memories, dreams, and imagined conversations that blur the boundary between what is real and what is not. In many ways, Ruby appears to inhabit two worlds simultaneously: the external world of family and responsibility, and the internal world where her true emotions unfold.

The Complexity of Love and Desire

One of the most powerful emotional threads in the novel is Ruby’s relationship with Shiv. Their connection is complicated, unresolved, and emotionally charged. Shiv represents something Ruby feels she has lost—or perhaps never fully experienced—in her marriage.

However, their relationship is not portrayed as a simple romantic escape. Shiv is married, and Ruby understands the moral and emotional implications of their bond. What she feels for him is deeply conflicted: a mixture of desire, longing, admiration, and guilt.

Their conversations often revolve around existential questions rather than romantic declarations. For Ruby, Shiv becomes a mirror reflecting parts of herself that she struggles to understand. He represents both emotional intimacy and unattainable possibility.

The novel portrays this emotional tension with restraint. Rather than dramatizing the relationship, Arora allows it to unfold through subtle moments of reflection, memory, and dialogue.

Marriage, Silence, and Emotional Distance

Ruby’s marriage to Kabir forms an important counterpoint to her feelings for Shiv. Kabir is not depicted as cruel or abusive; instead, he represents the ordinary stability of domestic life.

Yet this stability feels suffocating to Ruby. The two communicate through long stretches of silence that speak louder than words. Kabir suspects that something is wrong with his wife but struggles to understand her inner world.

The tension between them reflects a broader theme in the novel: the difficulty of truly knowing another person. Even after years of marriage, Kabir and Ruby remain strangers in many ways.

Kabir’s frustration grows as Ruby begins to drift further away emotionally. He worries that she is losing touch with reality, while Ruby insists that she is simply choosing a different way of seeing the world.

This conflict highlights one of the novel’s central questions: is Ruby escaping reality, or is she simply refusing to accept the narrow version of reality that society offers her?

Childhood, Memory, and the Formation of Identity

The novel frequently returns to Ruby’s childhood memories, which reveal important clues about her personality. As a child, Ruby was imaginative and emotionally sensitive. She cared deeply about animals and vulnerable people, often showing empathy beyond her years.

Her childhood experiences also suggest a tendency to retreat into imagination. When reality felt painful or confusing, she would create alternate narratives in her mind.

These patterns continue into adulthood. Ruby’s vivid inner life allows her to cope with emotional stress but also distances her from the world around her. The reader gradually understands that Ruby’s “floating worlds” are both a refuge and a trap.

The Symbolism of Water and the Sea

Water appears repeatedly throughout the novel as a powerful symbol. From the Ganges in Rishikesh to the beaches of Goa, bodies of water become spaces where Ruby confronts her thoughts and emotions.

The sea, in particular, carries philosophical significance. In one conversation, Ruby reflects on the endlessness of the ocean and compares it to the continuity of the soul. The sea becomes a metaphor for existence itself—vast, mysterious, and interconnected.

These moments reveal Ruby’s fascination with metaphysical questions. She constantly searches for meaning beyond the surface of everyday life.

Spiritual Inquiry and Self-Understanding

Another major influence in Ruby’s life is Raghu, a spiritual guide who encourages her to explore deeper philosophical ideas. Raghu does not present himself as a traditional guru; instead, he positions himself as a fellow traveler in the search for understanding.

Through their conversations, the novel explores concepts such as the ego, consciousness, and the nature of reality. Raghu challenges Ruby to question her assumptions and examine the fears that shape her identity.

These discussions add a contemplative dimension to the narrative. The novel becomes not only a psychological story but also a meditation on spirituality and self-awareness.

Dreams, Fear, and Symbolic Imagery

Dream sequences play an important role in Floating Worlds. Ruby often experiences vivid dreams that feel almost as real as waking life. These dreams frequently contain unsettling imagery, including recurring encounters with animals such as tigers.

The tiger becomes a symbolic representation of fear, danger, and suppressed emotion. In Ruby’s dreams, the tiger stalks her relentlessly, reflecting the internal anxieties she cannot fully confront in her waking life.

These surreal moments add a layer of psychological depth to the novel. They reveal how Ruby’s subconscious mind processes the emotional pressures she faces.

The Fragility of Reality

One of the most intriguing aspects of the novel is its exploration of how reality itself can become unstable. Ruby frequently questions whether the experiences she remembers actually happened or whether they are products of her imagination.

This ambiguity forces the reader to engage actively with the narrative. Rather than offering clear answers, the novel invites the reader to inhabit Ruby’s uncertainty.

In many ways, this uncertainty mirrors the human experience itself. Memory, perception, and emotion constantly reshape our understanding of reality.

Writing Style and Narrative Voice

Alpa Arora’s prose is reflective and atmospheric. The language is often poetic, filled with sensory details that capture Ruby’s emotional state.

The narrative voice shifts between external observation and intimate inner monologue. This technique allows the reader to move seamlessly between Ruby’s actions and her thoughts.

While the novel contains moments of dialogue and external events, its primary focus remains psychological exploration. The pacing is slow and contemplative, encouraging readers to pause and reflect on the ideas presented.

Strengths of the Novel

One of the book’s greatest strengths is its psychological authenticity. Ruby feels like a fully realized character whose thoughts and emotions are deeply believable.

The novel also excels in its exploration of philosophical themes. Rather than presenting abstract ideas in a detached way, it integrates them naturally into Ruby’s personal journey.

Additionally, the recurring symbolism, particularly the sea and the tiger seems to add emotional resonance to the story.

Limitations

Because of its introspective nature, Floating Worlds may feel slow for readers who prefer plot-driven narratives. Much of the novel unfolds through reflection rather than action.

At times, the transitions between memory, dream, and present reality can feel disorienting. However, this stylistic choice also reinforces the psychological themes of the book.

Conclusion

Floating Worlds is a thoughtful and emotionally layered novel that explores the complexities of identity, love, and self-awareness. Through Ruby’s journey, Alpa Arora examines how individuals navigate the tension between societal expectations and their inner truths.

The novel suggests that everyone carries hidden worlds within themselves; places shaped by memory, imagination, and longing. Ruby’s struggle is not simply about finding happiness or resolving a romantic dilemma; it is about understanding who she truly is beneath the roles she plays.

For readers who appreciate introspective fiction that blends psychology, philosophy, and emotional depth, Floating Worlds offers a compelling and reflective reading experience.

An award-winning BBC producer, reporter and presenter, Paul most recently worked on the BBC World Service’s In The Studio. He co-hosts the acclaimed We’d Like A Word books podcast, shortlisted for Books Podcast of the Year 2020. He is UK Director of the Khushwant Singh Literary Festival London and co-founded the Chiltern Kills crime writing festival.

Raised in Belfast during the Troubles, Paul has reported globally for the BBC in the past.

NAW: Murder in Moonlit Square is set in the tightly packed centuries old lanes of Chandni Chowk. What drew you to this particular part of Delhi as the emotional and narrative heart of the story? 

There were two reasons. As a writer, you want authenticity — but you also want vividness. Real life, but with the volume, colour, and contrast turned up a notch. Chandni Chowk already feels like real life intensified. It’s noisier, smellier, busier — so many people, pressed together in such a small space.

When I first came to India, I was warned not to go there. So naturally, I went immediately.

It also gave me the title. Murder in Moonlit Square is essentially murder in Chandni Chowk. “Chandni” means moonlit, and “Chowk” means square — so the title emerged organically. It simply felt like the perfect setting.

NAW: Your two central investigators — Irish nun Sister Agatha Murphy and Delhi hotelier Avtar Mehta — are unlikely partners. How did they take shape in your imagination? What do they represent to you?

I’ll confess — I cheated a little. They’re inspired by real people.

Avtar Mehta is loosely based on a friend of mine who runs a hotel in Delhi. Sister Agatha, meanwhile, draws from a real-life relative — more of a cousin — who was a nun in Ireland. Her mother hoped she would remain close to home, but the Mother Superior reportedly said, “The walls of Gortnor Abbey are not high enough to hold Sister Agatha.” So she was sent to India.

She taught in several parts of the country and eventually became the principal of Jesus and Mary College in Delhi, which she helped expand significantly.

The idea to write a novel set in India actually came from my wife, who is from Delhi. I was hesitant at first — I’m not Indian, after all. But then we discovered something extraordinary. My aunt’s first posting in India was in Pune. My wife’s late mother had studied in Pune. When we made some calls, we discovered that my aunt had taught my wife’s mother. That coincidence felt like a bridge — almost a form of permission — to tell this story.

Of course, the real Sister Agatha didn’t smoke, get into mischief, or spar with the police. 

Those details are purely fictional.

NAW: The novel plays with ideas of perceived threats from across the border. What interested you about exploring how suspicion and geopolitics seep into everyday life in places like Old Delhi?

One of the reasons I love Chandni Chowk is its diversity. You’ll find mosques, temples, gurdwaras, Jain centres, and churches of various denominations all within walking distance. It’s layered and complex.

A friend in the Delhi hotel industry once told me about a group of pilgrims from Pakistan staying at his hotel. One of them went missing, and the authorities came down heavily on him. He kept saying, “I run a hotel, not a prison.” But when tensions rise, someone has to be blamed.

That story stayed with me.

On a personal level, both sides of my wife’s family originally came from what is now Pakistan. They can’t easily return to the places where they were born. There’s sadness in that — perhaps anger too — but there’s also nostalgia. My father-in-law loves meeting Pakistanis from his birthplace. He’ll ask taxi drivers in England about Sargodha. There’s longing there.

I wanted to explore that complicated mix of loss, sadness, wistfulness — and the question of belonging. If you were born somewhere but had to leave as a child, do you still get to call it home? It’s a question without an easy answer.

NAW: The book involves murder, intelligence agencies, and cross-border tension, yet you frame it as a cosy, light-hearted mystery with Irish satirical elements. Why take that approach instead of writing a traditional thriller?

Because the world already feels overwhelming. There’s so much crime, war, environmental crisis — it can all feel relentless.

I wanted to offer readers something lighter. Yes, there’s murder — cosy crime does require a body or two — but the tone is intentionally warm and humorous. Striking that balance between genuine jeopardy and lightness can be tricky, but the presence of an Irish character helped. There’s something about Irish satire that allows you to look at dark things without being consumed by them.

NAW: Sister Agatha raises questions about forgiveness, feminism, and moral courage. Were you consciously writing her as a counterpoint to the harshness around her?

I don’t think religious people have a monopoly on goodness or ethical behaviour. Morality isn’t confined to belief systems.

But I do like writing about good people — or at least people trying to be good.

Crime fiction often leans into the trope of the morally compromised detective: hard-drinking, cynical, flawed. That’s compelling, of course. But I wondered what would happen if ordinary people were drawn into extraordinary circumstances and still tried to hold onto their moral compass.

In this story, several characters — not just Sister Agatha — are trying to do the right thing. The challenge, of course, is that it’s often difficult to know what the “right thing” actually is.

NAW: You’ve had many professional lives — taxi driver, cook, banker, journalist, broadcaster. Which experience most shaped your storytelling?

Journalism, without question.

It taught me to observe closely, listen carefully, and ask questions. I’m naturally curious — perhaps nosey — and journalism sharpened that instinct.

But it also created a challenge. As a journalist, I was trained to tell other people’s stories and keep myself out of it. Fiction requires the opposite. You have to let your personality, humour, opinions — even your prejudices — surface on the page.

At first, I found that difficult. I’d spent years suppressing that instinct. But once you allow yourself that freedom, it’s incredibly liberating.

NAW: Name five of your favourite writers.

That’s a difficult question — I like so many! But here are five:

Amitav Ghosh — I admire both his fiction and his non-fiction. The Great Derangement felt urgent and important, and the Ibis Trilogy is remarkable.

Will Dean — He writes crime fiction set in Sweden featuring Tuva Moodyson, a deaf local newspaper reporter. Very satisfying storytelling.

Eoin McNamee — His work captures the claustrophobia of the Troubles in Northern Ireland, which I grew up during.

Sipho Sepamla — A Ride on the Whirlwind powerfully explores the intimacy of political struggle and violence.

Belinda Bauer — Her crime novels are unusual, humane, and emotionally intelligent.

NAW: What are you reading at the moment?

I always have a few books on the go. Recently, I’ve been reading:

• The Dismantling of India’s Democracy
• Clown Town
• Mafia Queens of Mumbai
• Indian detective fiction anthologies
• Salil Desai’s work

I like to keep my reading varied — fiction, politics, crime, literary work — it all feeds into the writing in different ways.

Introduction

Salini Vineeth’s The Tree, the Well & the Drag Queen is a lyrical, genre-blending novel that moves between folklore and contemporary realism to explore gender identity, shame, inheritance, and the cost of silence. Set against the vivid landscape of a Kerala village and later the glittering but fragile world of drag performance, the novel interweaves myth and memory in a way that feels both intimate and epic.

Through the story of a child struggling against rigid expectations of masculinity and an ancestral legend about a cursed tree and a buried secret, Vineeth crafts a narrative that is haunting, political, and deeply humane.

Summary of the Narrative

The novel opens with a lush folktale-like prologue: centuries ago, a prosperous village thrives in abundance until greed awakens an ancient force — Karivalli Chathan, a demigod whose anger becomes buried in a golden chest beneath a well. The legend of the Tree, the Seed, and the Well forms the mythic spine of the novel.

Running parallel to this ancestral narrative is the story of a sensitive boy growing up in a conservative village. From childhood, he feels more at home with the girls — dancing, singing, applying makeup — only to face humiliation and violence from his father, who insists, “You’re a boy. Stop acting like a girl.” The village playground becomes a battlefield of ridicule and the home- a space of fear.

A recurring jackfruit dream — visceral and suffocating — becomes symbolic of inherited shame and entrapment. The Tree in the dream speaks, alternately taunting and commanding. The myth begins to blur with reality.

The protagonist eventually flees to the city and reinvents himself in the world of drag performance. At Sashay Studio, under stage lights and applause, he finds a version of himself that feels true. Yet even as he builds a new life, the ancestral village, Amma’s silence, Appa’s cruelty, and the Tree’s prophecy haunt him.

When he returns home years later, the past has not loosened its grip. The factory, the farmland, the well — everything feels suspended in time. Amma, hardened by survival. Appa, still obsessed with “strength.” The Tree still watching.

The novel moves toward a reckoning: between myth and modernity, inheritance and selfhood, obedience and defiance. The question lingers — can one break free of a curse that is both cultural and familial?

The format is more novella like rather than a full novel so the characters have not been developed much. Much of the theme is outlined in a rather abstract form like an undercurrent silently flowing beneath a mighty river above. This is something very few authors can achieve and most veteran writes would play it safe and tend to rely on strong characterisation to bring out the story. However, Vineeth relies on her dream like sequences and contrasts it with the other major story that runs parallel. You have got to read it to believe that this sort of writing can actually work. A rather bold step indeed but works very well for this book because it could have gone horribly wrong and messed up the entire text quite easily too.

Strengths of the Book

A Powerful Interweaving of Folklore and Identity

One of the novel’s greatest achievements is its seamless blending of village mythology with contemporary gender politics. The legend of Karivalli Chathan and the buried chest mirrors the protagonist’s buried self. The Tree becomes more than symbol — it is history, patriarchy, and collective memory embodied.

The mythic passages are lush, almost oral in cadence, evoking ancient storytelling traditions. Yet they never feel ornamental; they deepen the emotional stakes of the present-day narrative.

Unflinching Portrayal of Gendered Violence

The scenes of childhood humiliation — being told not to sing, not to dance, not to “act like a girl” — are rendered with painful clarity. The father’s obsession with masculinity is not caricatured but shown as inherited fear. The cruelty is systemic, generational.

Moments such as the workplace humiliation over painted nails or the playground taunts are quietly devastating. Vineeth does not sensationalize trauma; she lets it accumulate in small, suffocating ways — much like the jackfruit dream itself.

Sensory, Evocative Writing

The prose is rich with texture: red sand dunes, green domes of leaves, sticky jackfruit sap, the smell of makeup rooms, cicadas at night. The writing carries both lyricism and immediacy.

Particularly striking is the recurring jackfruit imagery — sticky, sweet, choking — transforming an everyday fruit into a metaphor for inheritance, shame, and transformation.

The Drag World as Liberation

The drag performance scenes pulse with energy. Under stage lights, the protagonist feels whole. The makeup, sequined gowns, and applause contrast sharply with the suffocating village.

The city does not erase trauma, but it offers space — space to breathe, to perform, to exist without apology. These sections shimmer with possibility.

Limitations

Dense Mythological Segments

At times, the extended folklore passages — particularly the detailed origin of the Tree and the golden chest — may slow the pacing for readers more invested in the contemporary narrative. The myth requires patience.

Emotional Weight

The novel carries sustained emotional intensity. The repeated scenes of shame, fear, and confrontation may feel heavy for some readers. There are few moments of levity to offset the darkness.

However, this weight also feels intentional — reflecting the protagonist’s lived reality.

Conclusion

The Tree, the Well & the Drag Queen is a bold and layered novel about becoming — about shedding skins, defying inherited scripts, and confronting the gods we are told to fear. The only downside is that it is short. Such works deserve to be a bit longer. But maybe the writer had said all that had to be said.

It asks urgent questions:

Who decides what strength looks like?
What is buried in the wells of our families?
And what happens when the “moth” refuses to return to the flame?

Salini Vineeth has written a story that is at once intimate and mythic, political and poetic. It lingers like the scent of jackfruit in summer air — sweet, sticky, and impossible to ignore.

The Tree, the Well & the Drag Queen is a compelling and courageous read that deserves wide attention.

1.

The heavy May heat had settled downwards as night arrived, like a suffocating blanket that offered dull acceptance rather than relief. Each breath, languorous and slow; in and out, relying on a disappointing routine for survival. The walkway next to the hotel in Rishikesh had enough visitors, even though it was located right at the end of the river’s bank. Children ran and jumped, stopping to peer at the quiet Ganges, occasionally dropping leaves and pebbles in the darkness.

From here, the water glowed softly, yellow-crimson reflections like a Van Gogh painting swirling in the far-off distance, where the pathway met the city. A man and a woman, walked past her, as she held her gaze down. Ruby did not want to smile at anyone. She was aware that her mouth was unwilling to cooperate. Sometimes, she thought endlessly of smiling, practising in front of a mirror. Two tiny dents appeared at the sides of her mouth, the left one quivering like a shaky finger. Weak muscles or middle age? 

She got up from the bench and walked towards the water. Somewhere in these shallow currents, lay some sort of life. City-bred fish, gills breathing remains of fume-filled air; smells of blackened corn and Maggi noodles swimming inside, making them question this environment. Maybe the fish felt alienated too, just like her. Nobody knew how to belong anywhere, not even the fish.

She walked on towards the opposite side. She was done with the stalls selling cheap bracelets, balls made of bright green plastic, fridge magnets and tight T shirts that only 10-year-old girls could fit into. After pausing for a moment, she turned towards the right. The crowds dwindled as she reached the end of the walkway. Only one couple stood here, watching the darkness, his hand around her waist. She stood next to them, looking at the forest ahead. 

Nostalgia enveloped her as her eyes adjusted to the outline of the trees ahead. Train journeys at night, sitting near the iron grilled window. As a child, she was fascinated by the inexplicable darkness. What lay there, in the vastness outside where sight could not comprehend itself? The overwhelming need to halt the train, and run out into fields, bushes, canals – the unknown with its eyes of light, imaginary creatures forming shapes out of shadows.

Now she was transported to a station in the middle of winter. Signal, fog, where, when? There were two men, standing next to her. Smell of rust, icy cold door handle. Where was it, somewhere after Mathura? When? Now. She was there. The fog beckoned her with long fingers. Come, dance with me. A jerk. The train moved; she was stuck inside. Once again, lost her chance to find out what lay in the big bad world outside. The men smelt of urine and cigarettes. She huddled under the beige blanket on the top berth and cried. The fog was left behind, now she would never know.

The sound was coming from her tote bag. She knew this song. It used to be her favourite song when she was thirteen. Fumbling, she pulled away at the zipper to tear it open. Kabir. Kabir. No, she did not want to talk to anyone. But he must be worried. She was his wife. She must answer.

Kabir asking where she was, was she enjoying herself, what did she eat, words coming to her head, gnawing at her ears, hurting her head. 

“The river here looks red, Kabir. Do you think a river bleeds? If all the fish were to die, would there be enough blood?”

Kabir was gone. Her son on the line now. Her darling boy. “No, no, nothing to worry about. I’m fine, my darling.” 

You know how Mamma thinks too much. You are just like me. You understand, don’t you?

My darling, my only thread tying me down. 

Only 2 years old when I slapped you. I’m sorry. I love you.

“Yes, I will call you again tomorrow morning, Tikloo. Stop worrying about me so much. Let me enjoy my holiday.”

Yes, yes, okay, alright. Silence. The couple was gone. Alone again. Silence. It was time. Time to explore, time to live.

Picking up her skirt to her knees, feet over the steel railing meant to restrict trespassers. So warm. The mud was squishy, her sandals sinking in. Just a little further ahead. Where the trees began, up on that slope. I’m coming, I am not afraid. Not afraid. Stumbling in the darkness endlessly, just far enough to be alone.

She lay on the grass, her skirt wet and brown. Only stars, no lights on the river. Only stars.

She closed her eyes for a minute. Then she felt a heavy presence, hovering around her head. She smiled to herself. You came, I knew you would.

She heard his wings flapping and finally it stopped. He sat down next to her, watching her lying down with her eyes closed. Then he touched her hair with his long fingers, feather tickles over her forehead, then her cheeks and lips. He lay down beside her and kissed her. 

She found herself crying. First quietly, then sobbing and then a gasping, breathless scream.

“Don’t cry, Ruby. I’m always here with you. Am I not?” 

She calmed down and turned to look into his eyes. Yes, he was right. She was never really alone. There was always someone there, giving her company. A soft breeze blew from the river. It was pitch dark where she lay, but far away, the lights of civilisation kept her safe. What was there to fear in this forest – leopards, wolves, elephants? That was a dramatic assumption. The wildlife reserve began after two kilometres and was protected by a tall fence. There was nothing here except snakes. Besides, she had him now. He would always keep his promise. Whenever she called, he would come.

“Make love to me Nayan. Right here, on the grass.”

“Ruby, can I ask you something?”

“Yes, my love.”

“Why do you always call me Nayan? I’ve come to you in so many forms, with so many different faces and yet, it’s always the same name. Why Nayan?”

“Because each time you came, I recognised you by your eyes. Your eyes were always the same. That is why you are Nayan. You are not him, not my Shiv. I know the difference.”

“My darling Ruby. Come closer. Keep your hand on my heart. See, it beats the same as yours.”

She took her right hand and kept it on her chest. She sighed in acceptance, closing her eyes.

“Yes, it does.”

The loud singing woke her up. I fell in love with San Pedro…

Excerpted with permission from Floating Worlds by Alpa Arora. Excerpt permission obtained via author Alpa Arora.

Poet, translator, editor and publisher, Kiriti Sengupta dons many hats. Poetry, for him, “…does not change anything, nor does it initiate a change either … Poetry makes you think … makes you revisit your concerns”. Recipient of the 2018 Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize and 2024 Nilim Kumar National Honour, Sengupta’s poetic flair has drawn the attention of the world. In Selected Poems Dustin Pickering presents carefully chosen pieces from Sengupta’s published works spanning over twelve years (2013 to 2025). Why write poetry?  Sengupta feels that poetry helps him to reflect, contemplate. That is the most refreshing aspect of his art. The reader sees the world as it is, without the veneer of exoticism or nostalgia. It does not seek out a world beneath or beyond but perceives the romanticism of life in its all its bare agony, finds colour in its insipidity. His art is “..the regular leftovers of grim humours” aware that “…every moon has its share of nightmares” (‘Anyday’). His contemporary take on traditional themes, pensive flights into the world of the old with childlike wonder that interrogates blind faith, provides “food for life” (‘Promising Griefs’). He is not uncritical of customs, but life has taught him that they “…are like meditation— / Worthy of unhurried contemplation” (‘Tradition’).

The sensuousness of life, the sap that runs through the plant, “…the shoot is long and thick / Smoother skin palpating beneath/No study of the plants but humans….”  is the crux of Sengupta’s poetic strain. Mingled with a deep sense of sanctity “…the body temple”, the poet unfolds to the reader, the unheard music of the senses, “…in all works imperishable / I listen to the unheard” (‘Reversal-Reverse All’). Seeking the esoteric in the negligible, the silver streak of peace in the pathos life, Sengupta’s poetry has to be read and re-read for the subtler sounds to ease into our inner ear, “Crucifixion is Christ-filled. / As I remember, / my mind turns candle-lit” (‘Namesake’). 

Though most of the poems reveal Sengupta’s sensitive and sensual explorations into human consciousness permeated with a sense of Coleridge-an wonder, one could argue too about the evolution of the poet, such as an inward turn with a spiritual flavour since the publication of Healing Waters Floating Lamps. The water of the Ganges in Varanasi does not extinguish the fire of man’s prayers. The lamps remain afloat transporting the ephemeral human aspiration to the eternal divine, 

Terse, always in motion yet still at its heart, his verses describe a tactile world that plunge us into the depth of silence, “My lips are thin with no traces of colour, but water” (‘Fish-Lip’). The imagery of water as of the earth and vegetation are prominent themes that merge the individual with the vastness of cosmic existence. ‘Kajal-Deeghi’ describes a leisurely evening by the pond, “…water here didn’t look black, nor would I call it green. / The lake seemed deep”. The poet’s mind associates the ambiguity of the scenery with the mystery of Banalata Sen, Jibananda Das’s evocative feminine figure which epitomises the surreal existential crises of the individual vis-a-vis the unknown, “Those eyes — the water in the lake — / they house, and reflect.” 

The best lines of Sengupta’s collection are those that evoke this mysterious quality of human experience, scattered through the blank verses, as well as the prose poems. While describing the immersion of the idol of Goddess Durga in the Ganges and mirrored in the water of the household pot (a ritual in Bengal), the poet is left in awe of life, of good and evil, “Immersion via the mirror — goodbye to the goddess, but the lion keeps awake with closed eyes. His eyes are terrific — mesmerizing, or giving all as I surrender.” (‘Clues to Name’).

The prose poems begin to appear from the 2016 collection The Earthen Flute where the poet appears more mature, sure of his art. ‘Time and Tide’ unfolds like a short story, poetry is hidden in the sleight of an eye. Only one initiated into the cultural nuances of Bengal would understand the poetic injustice of life. The perfect cook fails to make a simple omelette, for widows in Bengal were forbidden from touching non-vegetarian food. The poet, like the cook, is still a creature of customs, shaped by life. Can art be far behind?

Irony and satire reveal the paradoxical nature of the Indian consumer. At once imbued in the sanctity of customs, the consumerist society has given a twist to tradition, “Not a gimmick, but Yoga is now / at its creative best. / Patanjali must be happier / I bet” (‘Cryptic Idioms’). Sengupta’s humour can be piquant and poetry is not only about contemplation of the world beyond or within, but also having a laugh at the everyday banality of life. By juxtaposing the sacrosanct, the idealised figures of history with the quirky chaos of present-day life, Sengupta interrogates the relation of today’s reality with the past, “In Radha’s name, your love has condensed. The peacock’s tail leaves a mark on Radha’s forehead. Will you blame the traffic every time you arrive late?” (‘Seventh Heaven’). 

Along with references to his Bengali literary heritage (Tagore, Jibanananda Das and others) as well as the flavours of local cuisine (‘Masala Muri’), festivals (‘Game’), Sengupta’s creation is also nurtured by the pan-Indian culture of the Gita, the epics (‘Urvashi’, ‘Padmavati’), and does not flinch to decry the cruelties committed in the name of faith (‘Violence’, ‘Orison’, or ‘Fellowship’).  The poet is also a product of history, a certain faith and culture and Sengupta embraces his identity and moves beyond it. In The Earthen Flute, ‘Let the Flowers Bloom’ recounts the story of a Bangladeshi Muslim boy orphaned at an early age, renamed as “Robi” (a Hindu).  A magical tabeez (prayer-filled amulet) gifted by a fakir (a mendicant) transforms his life. “No magic, just pure trust soaked in innocence” feels the poet, changes the little boy’s sorrowful life into “…the hut…flooded with sunlight streaming through the broken roof ”. It is the lack of trust that has pauperised us, divided a nation from another. 

Situated in the mechanised world of the “now”, his verses constantly remind us that the lenses of our photographic imagination can only capture one aspect of a gigantic palpitating civilisation. Thus, with the crispness of a modernist regard which bares reality to the bone, his poetry takes flight into realms of the symbolic. The best poems are metaphoric, the poems of revolt (‘Fellowship’). The ones where ideological concerns prevail over felt experiences such as ‘Y-Gene’, ‘When God is Woman’, ‘Womb’, ‘Demonstration’, weigh down the poetic quality of the collection. 

As this book makes the reader travel between poems ranging over a decade, Dustin Pickering’s choice and the chronological sequence help trace the evolution of the poet. The aspiration and the agony of the creator are scattered through the series. The most inspired verses that etch their colour and music into our hearts, “Tiny droplets envelop my feet/ and permeate the toes” or “No sorrows, nor a hint of delight; a wonderful world opens up deep inside”, echo in the crevices of our solitude which longs for poetry. Mundane objects of the physical world become symbolic milestones of an inner journey. In ‘Unravel’ the classroom becomes the playfield of creation. The Master, is also the Lord of the inner world, ‘Reach the void and see the cage’ says he to the pupil poet unravelling the true path of knowledge. Even in a bird, the poet perceives a “yogi” (‘Eyes of a Yogi’), the smell of ghee prepared by the mother uplifts the poet to both piety and playfulness associated with Lord Krishna (‘Clarity’). Water is also the amniotic fluid where life germinates and by which it is sustained (‘Namesake’). The throes of birth and death, fleeting signs of love and the lavish beauty of life that surrounds us: “flowers nestle the landscape / springtide” (‘haiku’), constitute the very fabric of this collection. 

Sengupta refuses to categorise and thus reduce the wholeness of feelings, thoughts, sensations to a single name, “Tiny droplets envelop my feet / and permeate the toes. / I don’t call it a feeling, / I will name it / my experience” (‘Experience Personified’). Most of the pieces in this collection are to be read thus — as an experience. What the reader confronts is a myriad-hued immersion in life that cannot be named or reduced to specific themes but are to be rather “experienced” in their wholeness.