Rajat Chaudhuri’s latest novel sees a motley bunch of hotel guests sharing stories of which they are observer, star, and occasional victim.
Uttarkashi isn’t likely to make the top ten lists of many tourists. It doesn’t offer much in the way of museums or ancient ruins or souvenirs.
It was a row of circling flames along the riverbank at dusk, illuminating clouds of incense and chanting pilgrims. For a moment, the postcards came to life.
When the river rises, the platform is submerged and Shiva rides the current, swells of water lapping against his thighs.
What must have begun as golden pinpricks had turned into monstrous orange tongues, cutting down giant trees like they were brittle winter twigs.
Ganga, borne aloft, wound her way towards her white marble temple where a million iridescent triangles danced wildly.
Ten minutes later we were out cold, long before we realised that the rushing lullaby outside our windows was the river flowing just feet away.
