Shon Mehta

The Sthaviras Long before the people of Jarodha learned about tides, long before their children slept to the breathing of the sea, they were not islanders at all. They were the Sthaviras, the Masters of the Earth. They lived on the coastal plains of Yashantika, where the soil was rich and there was peace and prosperity all around. Sthaviras worshipped the mighty Sarvabhu, but they worshipped other gods as well. Sarvabhu saw Sthaviras praying to the earth and the water, and offering sacrifices to the fire. He did not like this -- he was the great benefactor who had given them fertile lands and eternal happiness, and yet they divided their devotion. Sarvabhu was enraged at this disrespect, and decided to teach Sthaviras a lesson. The Night of the Broken Land The elders say it was not an earthquake. An earthquake is indifferent, but this was deliberate. On a night when the moon was full and the earth was dark, the ground slithered like an old serpent and then, suddenly, it tore open. ...

The cave was not an ending; it was a pause for perspective. Three men   were escorting an elderly scholar to another town. The road was through a deep jungle. When they were in the middle of the jungle, the weather changed  suddenly and a storm descended on them. They took shelter in a cave.  They waited and waited. The storm lasted for three days. When the weather came back to the normal, one man from the group got up and went to check the condition outside.  After sometime, he came back. "What did you see?" asked the elderly scholar of the group. "The storm has passed, but it has done heavy damage. The bridge on the river, which we have to cross to go to next town, has broken. We can't proceed," replied the man. A second man got up. “Let me check again if we can go back to our hometown." Saying this the second man left the cave. After a while, he came back, dejected. “No, we can't go back. A giant tree has fallen in our path back home," said the ...

Shon Mehta, creator of the Jivavarta universe and the author of the 'Rough Hewn' series. When you write you only think of writing, you do not think anything else.  Only afterward does the dilemma appears should I keep it hidden, folded inside yourself like a letter never sent, or to expose it to the world. Then family intervenes saying it should be seen, that others might feel what you felt, that your characters might find other hearts to stay.    You listen. So you show it to the world. Not asking for money. You place it there like water left outside for thirsty birds during summer days. Then one day you learn that it is not one thought, nor two, but all of them. Every feeling you offered has been taken. Repeated….Paraded and Called someone else’s insight, ancient wisdom, or most painful of all anonymous. As if feelings could exist without the suffering behind it. It crushes you because every line you wrote    was not literature but memory.  You ...

There was a garden filled with beautiful flowers and rare birds. One day a king passed by. Enchanted by the birds, he ordered his men to set a deep pit-trap, hidden by fine silk and seeds. The servants obeyed. The King enchanted by the birds—a moment of curiosity that set a tragic chain of events in motion? The next morning the trap held no birds, but the king’s favorite elephant lay dead inside it. Disturbed, the king demanded to know how an elephant could die in a trap meant for birds. The servants returned with a troubling story. When the trap was laid, many rare birds were caught. A little girl saw this and felt pity. She freed the birds, but in doing so, she fell into the pit and became trapped herself. Each act of love locally was right, but collectively they led to a systemic tragedy. Her mother saw her daughter struggling. She rushed to save her. The child was freed—but the mother took her place. The woman’s husband saw this. He freed his wife, but became trapped in her stead. ...

People often ask me how my most famous line was born. The truth is, I just wrote it down. It was as if the character spoke it to me. My characters are real to me. I have never felt that I create them. They arrive already breathing. They look at me from within myself, yet they are not me. Many times, I have to keep changing their names until one finally suits them. When the world of  Jivavarta  was still forming, half-thought and half-dream, I found myself face to face with  Tasvak , the one you now call the protagonist of  The Timingila . He arrived one day just like that. He had a face I had never seen and a presence I did not yet understand. There was something intense about him, something that unsettled me at once, as if he had already endured more than he should have. I did not know whether he had come as a savior or a warning. So I spoke to him. I asked, “Are you the hero of my story?” He met my gaze and answered with words that would eventually travel the world...