Shon Mehta

Kushta stands at the center of a grand, mythical spectacle in Jivavarta, illustrating the power of a well-told story to reshape public perception. In a quiet village in Jivavarta tucked between the hills, there lived two men who could not bear the sight of one another. Abrak was strong-hearted and wore his honour like armour. Kushta was silver-tongued and wore his lies like silk. Their hatred ran so deep that even the wind, they said, dared not flow between them. One day, fate offered Abrak an opportunity. Kushta stood at the edge of a cliff, unaware that Abrak was behind him. All it would take was a single push. No one would have questioned it. No one would have mourned Kushta. But something stirred in Abrak's heart. He stepped back. Mercy, not vengeance guided his hand. The villagers praised his restraint. They called him noble. But the story didn’t spread far. A silent, high-stakes moment on the cliffs of Jivavarta captures a single act of mercy that will ultimately test the wei...

It is a strange thing, to be abandoned by someone who never existed.— Shon Mehta  There are moments after completing a story or novel when I feel an odd sadness—an emptiness I cannot quite explain. I realize that my characters —those strange people I once believed I controlled have quietly departed. As they should; and yet, what is unsettling is that I miss them. I feel abandoned. It is a strange thing, to be abandoned by someone who never existed. During the act of creation, these characters trouble me greatly. Some exhaust my patience, others hurt my conscience, a few even frighten me with the truths they reveal. But once they fall silent, I miss them as one misses acquaintances who, despite their faults, once filled the rooms of one's life with noise and meaning. Let me talk about a few I remember the most. The first is Jaskar Dharman. Writing him felt like remembering something I was not aware I knew; he did not simply arrive—he was there, and I just recognized him. He is a fig...

A desolate intersection in Vakshi where a shadowless tree stands as a silent witness to the choices of the weary. Along the road to Vakshi, where the ground starts showing cracks like some old pottery, at a crossroad, stands what remains of a tree. The tree had thrived once, and had given shade to weary travelers. Now it was all dried up and shadowless, but it was still popular since in a forest covered with thorny bushes it was the only tree that stood in a clearing. Beneath the tree sat four travelers: the Enjoyer, who mistook stimulation for meaning; the Fearful, who mistook caution for wisdom; the Observer, who mistook detachment for virtue; and The Shy One, who mistook belonging for safety. They were bound by habit, not by heart. They had been walking since dawn, but they were not tired. They were bored, and boredom is a predator. It devours the mind even when the stomach is full. For some, silence is rarely peaceful. It is usually an invitation to speak. "There is nothing he...