Book Excerpt: The Ocean is Her Title By Manjima Misra

"Manjima Misra masterfully crafts a novella that tugs at the heartstrings while offering a thought-provoking exploration of the challenges women face in modern society. It is a must-read for anyone seeking a gripping story of resilience, family, and the pursuit of one's dreams amidst the trials of life. It is a testament to the strength of the human spirit and a reminder that, even in the most unexpected circumstances, one can find the courage to chart their own course," says Jitendra Dixit, Journalist and Author

Here's an excerpt from The Ocean Is Her Title

“It was one of those shiny mornings when the grey of the Delhi Winter haze made the glare of sunshine a little less. The pavements, the walls, the dust – all were shades of grey, while I frantically searched for the sunlight. And the sunlight always corresponded with my favourite sunflower emoticon as well as my favourite, yellow-striped winter sweatshirt. 

It was time to move on from the yellow obsession though. Blue and silver-shaded watches and jewelleries laughed at me mockingly from my window shopping endeavours. I have to run fast.

What was I running from, you may ask? It’s the wheels of fate. The lingering smoke of an apocalypse. But I could not blame you. My birth started with watching Titanic and Jaws. Lovers and sharks were the ever-reigning rulers of my apocalypse. 

But no sooner than I could be called a child, I fell in love with the challenges of the apocalypse, those who could even rule destiny. They were given the title of Gods by some, warriors by others, and in the kids’ language – superheroes or super-Heroines? Well, I was certainly glued to those cartoons, until fantasy movies happened.

Beneath all the yellow obsession, a dark blue, or if you prefer, royal blue ocean reigned. Yet, I was unaware of the darkness that rests at the bottom of all oceans. For oceans may be water reservoirs, but are they habitable?

And that is when I was reminded of the sharks. That is when I was reminded of Jack who froze to death for Rose. 

There could be green grass here and there, providing me respite from the apocalyptic ocean that gave birth to me. And so, I decided to transition from oceans to grasses, beaches to forests, searching for that elusive “pure”. Yet, the pure did not exist. And at that moment, I was no longer myself. 

Krish and Trisha wrapped me under those white blankets, heaved a sigh of relief, that I will automatically, while asleep, breathe my last breath. Some black freckles of hair here and there, however, might have made me look like a Zebra. And they were confused.

Was she a prisoner or a saint? They looked at the white marble floor on which my bed rested. She was ill indeed, they probably thought. I looked across the window, some sunlight was finally pouring in again. Some potted Tulsi plant was kept on a nearby wall. It painted my room with the green hue and as the abode of the holy. It was cheerfully whispering to me “Don’t you worry”. And although the winds ruffled, the crimson leaves lay still instantly in the very next moment.  

Perhaps, more than anything that is what they wanted from me. For the fallen Tulsi leaves to lay still on the cemented lanes until they get withered and die on their own. But as I listened more carefully, and looked further beyond, some yellow autumn leaves were pretending to pay homage to a greenish blue car.

Now, these greenish blue cars are oceans in and themselves. Except, that they are the oceans belonging to the material world of politics and business. I was interested in the ocean of the soul, and could not match it with the grey, black, and white cars. It also reminded me of grey, black and white shirts of corporate sector men. I glanced to my right, paused, and looked up straight at a tree. It was trying to tell me something. But I will come to that later.

For now, let us return to the mundane business of grey, black, and white cars. Did I exert my writer autonomy, or did I violate your reader autonomy?

So, it’s this complex question of autonomy that lay at the heart of the apocalypse. When I talked of being asleep, I was essentially talking of being unconscious.

Extracted with permission from The Ocean Is Her Title by Manjima Misra

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