Shon Mehta's Blog

In one of the islands of Vidari there lived a tanner, whose name the villagers rarely bothered to remember. His life was simple. Day after day he worked by the river, soaking, scraping, and curing. He sold his cured hides in a nearby village. Although his labor fed his family, his heart remained restless.

Whenever he carried his hides to the market of Trishala, only the poor came to him. They would touch his leather, haggle, and buy, while the wealthy passed by with a glance of mild contempt, as ...

Since childhood, Kekala had been a stranger to her own desires. She wanted to rest when the mist thickened, but she had to dance. She wanted to forget the sound of the drums, but she had to move to their rhythm.
The drums began before dusk. They always did, from the heart of the city, where the stone temple stood like a scar that never faded.
The drumbeat was not music, but a law -- an invisible decree that said: You will dance, no matter what. For it was known that as long as the drums played and...

Origins Of Mihika Nagari

Once when the world was young, and the oceans held secrets, there lived a goddess of the deep waters named Varavani. She was grand and terrifying, and her domain was the silence beneath the waves. She ruled from a majestic temple city, carved from stone and lit only by the cold, strange glow of the deep.

But other sea gods became jealous of Varavani. She was cast out, and banished from the sea that was her home.

When Varavani was banished, her heart turned to stone. Her ent...

A veteran of past battles, even as a child soldier, Isaku carries the deep scars of violence not just on his body, but in his memory and worldview.

He does not speak of the glory of war. Instead, he speaks of the hunger, death  and sorrow that war causes. He does not speak of leaders who win, but of people who lose. “What glory?” he asks. “None for the commoner. None for the fool who dies for a cause. What he gets by fighting in war is only death and silence.”

Isaku does not believe in heroes or v...

When you are young, they tell you life will give you wounds and that time heals everything. Time does not heal; it only teaches you to look at the wound without flinching.

Then you grow older and you start noticing. It is then you see how people who once had happy, laughing personalities—the kind of people you thought were world conquerors—begin to change.

Something small at first: a subtle sadness in their laughter, a vacant gaze that wasn’t there before. You realize that they have been broken li...

Rough-Hewn are my unpolished thoughts. I did not write them; I felt them. While writing The Uncharted Mind, my mind is calm, while writing Rough-hewn, it is a storm.

This collection will be published as a complete book at a later date.

Currently, I am writing my next novel. Every time I start writing a new book, it feels like hacking through a deep  jungle. There is no road, each step forward uncovers something both familiar and new. Today, finally, after cutting through thick vines of confusion, the full story has shown its face.

 ― Shon Mehta, The Uncharted Mind

First Draft

Today I finished the first draft of my next book.

When I wrote the first draft of my first book, I thought I had won something great — perhaps not the whole ...

“Because I’m bald, right?”

She nodded hesitantly, trying not to hurt him,

Silence did the rest.

Bald = unloved. Simple math.

He fought it.

Creams. Pills. Surgery.

A year of becoming someone else.

The hair came back. Self worth didn't.

He knocked again.

“I'm not bald anymore.”

She looked at him, he’d missed the point.

“It wasn’t the hair,” she said, gently.

She took a step closer.

Just the truth standing between them.

"I almost loved you," her voice barely a whisper,

"But you did not."

He didn’t know what cut de...

“The hope that good old days will come back never goes away. They come back sometimes – but then we are so focused on good old days that we fail to recognise good present days.”
 ― Shon Mehta, The Uncharted Mind

 

 

Verogai was fast asleep but her ten year old elder brother Golat, lying still on his bed, was wide awake.
"Are you feeling cold, Golat?" asked their father.

Golat had heard this question many times, but today he didn't feel like answering. He could hear his father's steps, as he approached the bed and put a blanket on him. The blanket, made of yak hide, gave Golat much needed warmth.

Through the blanket, Golat could feel his father's eyes looking at him.

"Are you sleeping, Golat?" his father asked,...