Aryabhatta Clan by Sudipto Das : Book Review


Name of the book: Aryabhatta Clan.

Author: Sudipto Das.

Rating: 4.5

Sudipto Das always makes it challenging for me to review his books. Having known the characters for the last 4 years, having worked with a few of them( yes, ‘WORKED’) and being one of the beta readers of the book, I try my best, to give a very unbiased review. However, my readers should also take this fact into consideration because if the author and his books can form a personal bonding, that speaks a lot more than the reviews written.


(1) Theme:

(a) A gripping thriller, the theme points out an exigency of our time. While I do not agree with the author’s version of the incident of JNU, I cannot and will not question him. It’s his version of the story and that’s the beauty of fiction. My schooling in Comparative Literature has taught me to respect each and every text irrespective of ideological differences and this is what I am doing here. It does take a lot of courage to write against Islamic fundamentalism and the author took risks for which he deserves a round of applause.

(b) What I love so much about the author and his books are the motifs and here again, too, Sudipto Das didn’t fail to enrich his readers with such an engrossing tales of carpets and numbers and what not! The book opens a world of its own and like a time machine teleports us to long-forgotten past which encompasses the South –Asian countries and speaks volumes about their shared socio-political-cultural history.

(c) Through the portrayal of Kubha, the girl who escapes after facing repeated gang-rape, her mother Afsar who maintains her calm knowing how her daughter is tortured, the author shows how the victims of rape and their families can deal with the situation and face the society breaking all the stereotypical notions. These strong female characters instigate every human being to live; they teach us to conquer our emotions, our fears and face the situation with realistic, logical approaches. It’s this journey that gets us hooked to the story, it’s the characters who become our inspirations.

(2) Narration:

Being an author myself, I know how difficult it is to pen down such a heavy book. Sudipto Das, however, has become quite an expert in this category. Nowhere did I feel lost.

(3) Other significant characteristics:

(a) I have written it before and I am writing it now: one of the things I love about the author is the extensive research he does for his books. Aryabhatta Clan is of no exception either. Just flip through the references and you will find how much effort he has given to churn out this brilliant tale.

(b) With such a strong historical background, the characterization too has been taken care of pretty well.

Even if the novel looks like a pro-right wing novel,  I wouldn’t technically categorize it as a political novel because of the historical backdrop and the presence of strong Muslim characters. Rather, the novel draws heavily upon the socio-cultural history of the Indian sub-continent and our beloved Kubha emerges out as a representative of that undivided India raped by political goons.  Aryabhatta Clan demands immense attention and one needs to give it a lot of time to help it bloom into a magnum opus; it’s definitely not a book one would pick up for a light read.

I would love to congratulate the author for gifting us this enthralling read and wish him all the very best for his upcoming novels.

The Aryabhata Clan, available at:


To know more about the author, follow him at


Your Language

(Image Source: Google)

Your esoteric words tamed me,
A script fashioned like sketches
I couldn’t see, I couldn’t read
Like the blood of my womb,
Giving shape to my emotion,
A prodigal epic.
I often leave blank verses
in between.

Distance jumps into the act–
The God, the Fate, the Destiny.
So I picked up the remnants
Of Lucifer.
I tell my eyes– “think!”
I start learning the unknown.
Alphabets I draw
Like the first word of the epic.
I become the bard
And the distance paints my character,
Dropped in a well of coins,
Thwarting, challenging–
My body is tied.
So, I help my mind escape,
Feeding it hopes,
Just lame hopes
Who know well how to swindle.

I make a mistake;
A diacritic misplaced;
Just like me– my resort,
The strangeness,
Where perhaps I shouldn’t be
There at all.
The distance laughs in satisfaction.

I close my eyes,
Scared to look at my own face.
Tears tearing my skin.
Bullets fired—
Yet I hear my heart breathing,
Taken over by someone.

Words stitching my torn body,
You know exactly
Where you need to penetrate.
I rest as you peruse,
And inject the saline of grammar.
The distance feeds on my pain.
But soon, I shall
Talk to you in your language;
In the journey of a repetitive ‘How long?’
I shall move a little bit closer
In your mother tongue.

#NaPoWriMo #day30;  #Poem 30

Waiting for the Rain

(Image Source: Google)

My hands starve as I embrace the pain,
Poem consoles my restless heart,
Counting its beats for the rain.
My charred nerves move
Like a dolphin,
When the shooting star
Broke fire in the ocean.

I giggle as they tell me,
How across the western shore,
You gifted your cognizance;
Across the meadows, across the forest,
On the wheels always,
Among the people, you rest.

My heart lost count of the outbursts,
Tears burn my aching eyes;
Then I feel the clouds
Of chapters you wrote;
The vapor creates oxygen;
Moments desire to be set free;
They pick up your quotes
And torment the pain.
Thunder writes the bleeding dream.
Rain! Rain!
Oh Beloved!!
I wait to live in the rain.

But you are summoned elsewhere,
Where very few people
Know the alphabets
That write smile
On faces in need.
It’s a pride, I cherish
In those wee hours ,
When the darkness fills my room,
Reeking uncertainty,
Trying to incarcerate my hopes.

I smell the rain as my hand
Crawls up to the pain;
A word with you,
In an hour or two,
You put the pain to hallucination,
The wait tells me,
Stories of its enigmatic charm.
Oh Beloved,
I listen,
To the promise of rain,
Oh Beloved,
I wait,
Staring at the western sky,
My arms wide open
To embrace the rain.

#Day29 ; #Poem29

To your Voice

(Image Source: Google)

The rusts of broken sleep
and the sweet candor of sleeplessness—
I saw the eyelashes spreading
Their wings;
Across the meadow of another day.
Structures brimming with positive leaves;
The students need justice ,
And the stray dog sniffs
For his daily food.
The care contradicts his experiences.
There’s a man filled with guilt;
He needs an ear to dump
His insecurities.

I hear the eyelashes yawning,
With the voice,
Childish yet sharp,
Ready to put on your role—
The savior.
I found the scent of slumber,
A desire to stay back for a few moments;
Perhaps feel the pampering,
Not emerging out of the smile,
But pouring in,
Greasing the lazy beard;
You shrug off with your ‘have to’s;
And wash your hands
With exigencies and pending proposals;
Your voice talks with me;
The voice delivered in juvenile secrets,
A little bit of care
For the self,
Stealing seconds from the hours in need;
I hear the voice,
Half-asleep, yet conscious;
I hear your voice,
Telling me a story,
People rarely know.

Day 28; Poem 28


To your Utterance

(Image Source: Google)

Language is my space ship,
Where our orbits clashed
like your utterance;
Oh how delicately you tamed your tongue,
Without any inkling,
With the flouroscence of the Dravidian script,
I skipped into fantasy.
Distance lost its memory.

An instant souvenir,
Another on insistence —
Those Bangla syllables you embraced,
Like the jasmine and the petrichor.
Somewhere in some parallel universe,
The states merged– west and the east,
I felt the tremor!!
And it happened–
I heard a flower bloom
and a star shine,
The moment you uttered those words,
In a language I considered only mine.
Those delicate pronunciations and your silence,
Minute tales colouring your eyes,
Oh, how can I even dare to ask for more?
For this, in the zeitgeist of the new year!!

#NaPoWriMo #Day 27 #Poem 27

We played with Words

(Image Source: Google)


We. played with words

Like roasted clouds
Lighting up the stars;
Your eyes– radiant
as you picked up the letters
In a gossamer delight;
They had picked up the little girl
Diffident and scared,
Fulfilling their paedophilic duties.

You took your Ace,
Vying the protocol.
‘Trump,’ you said,
Is not a name
But our creation.

You took my script
And initiated me into
Your world
Where solecism fails to breach
Your woods,
Leading me to indulgence,
I feared to afford.

‘Look,’ I wail, ‘ the chemicals,
They scathe my flesh!’
A drop of blood falls.
A child dies.

Your smile generates the storm,
A propulsive doctrine
As you place your hands
Upon my heaving flesh,
I forgot the name.
I sense the burning in my womb;
We make words
As I fall asleep
In the lull.
Wake me up,
When the words are
Churned enough,
To bleed!!

#NaPoWriMo #Day26 #Poem26

The Feast of the Drain



The drain cooked

Red, hot boiling stories,

Garnished with perjury

And we relished our

Anniversary siesta.


The saprophyte comes alive;

I increase the temperature;

Time moans under your hair;

You set the tables

Sprinkling pawns all over

My eyelashes.


The drain cooked,

Stories, now arrested

For enticing us

Towards your vanity.

The egregious water

Smoked the time of chaos

When we tamed the fire

And returned to our Dalit nests,

Growing acid in our tongue,

To taste our anniversary delicacy.


#NaPoWriMo #Day25 #Poem25