KEN SPILLMAN

ADVAITATHE WRITER

6 ADVAITA THE WRITER 7

D-dayAdvaita awoke in darkness and watched dawn breakthrough the apartment window. Meher slept on, a sheetcast lightly over her small frame. Already, New Delhi’svast ensemble of horns was tuning up, the instruments ofTata and Maruti Suzuki preparing for yet another dayunder the baton of a nutty conductor.

A myna fluttered briefly on the windowledge before raising a gecko in its beak.

The early bird gets the gecko, thought Advaita.She watched the unfortunate lizard become

breakfast before picking up a book beside her bed.Although she had started reading it only two nightsbefore, she was almost finished.

8 ADVAITA THE WRITER 9

Amma had always insisted onswitching the light off at nine o’clock—for Meher’s sake, if not to preserve

Advaita’s eyes for the pile of studythat inevitably awaited her at Dunham

Girls’ School. Advaita, however, kept a torch inher pillowslip and it rarely went unused. Meher oftenpointed out that Advaita wasn’t doing her eyes anyfavours by sharing the end of each day with a smallcircle of illuminated words, but their parents seemedwilling to turn one blind eye as long as the other couldsee Distinctions.

Now, even with the benefit of morning light,Advaita couldn’t concentrate. The open suitcase besideher bed served as an unwelcome reminder that todaywas D-day.

D for Departure.D for Dehradun, far, far from Delhi.Departure for Dunham had weighed heavily on

Advaita all March. Neatly folded cardigans, blouses, skirtsand jeans were arranged at the top of a still-open suitcasecontaining shoes, polish and brushes. Underclothes andsocks filled gaps like mortar.

Meher woke up with a start. How many times haveI seen her do that? Advaita wondered. For as long as shecould remember, Meher had slept soundly and wokenabruptly. It was as if a fire alarm sounded in her headand she slid down a pole into instant consciousness.

“So,” Meher said, “what time is your train leaving?”

D-day

She rolled over and stretched her waif-like arms towardthe ceiling.

“As if you’ve forgotten,” replied Advaita. “I knowyou’ve been planning to do up the room your way forweeks.”

“Actually, yes...” said Meher. “The Shatabdi Express,6.50 a.m. I’ll miss you so much… A room to myself, awhole cupboard, double the number of drawers, no moreannoying page-turning when I’m trying to sleep, andnone of your sniffing whenever you read something sad.”

Advaita rolled her eyes and mimed a sarcastic ‘ha-ha’.

Undeterred, Meher continued. “From this day on,the only sniffing will be mine. I will weep all night, justbecause I miss my dearest darling Sis. If I get even onewink of sleep it will be a miracle — a miracle, I tell you— and I need at least forty.”

On any other day, Advaita might have fired back.Now she held her tongue, knowing that she would soonbe far from home, living in Dehradun with the hubbub ofDelhi out of earshot and her friends and family out ofreach. Meher’s talent for annoying her would languishunexercised and enter a period of dormancy.

Advaita returned to her novel, determined to finishit because she had chosen another for the train. The flowof words comforted her, yet barely madea trickle of sense.

10 ADVAITA THE WRITER 11

porter past jute sacks bulging with clothes and linen,stands packed with colourfully packaged snacks, andgroups of people standing around baggage. Passing anews-stand, Advaita caught sight of some cellophane-wrapped novels and grabbed at her father’s hand.

“Baba! Books!”Her father shook his head and raised a finger. “You

already have a book for the journey, don’t you? And atDunham, I tell you, there will be a great library for youto explore. A very great library, indeed. It will be seventhheaven for you, Advaita.”

As they walked on, Advaita couldn’t help wonderingwhat her first six heavens had been. Perhaps she haddozed off and missed them — or perhaps they were the

Ribbons of Silver

Ribbons of SilverThe New Delhi railway station bustled withan accumulation of individual purposes.Taxis, autos and cycle-rickshas depositedpassengers at the entrance. Driversmilked the crowd for another fare beforemaking off. Visitors to the city moved

with uncertainty, dwelling on signage andattempting to negotiate payments with porters. Portersconveyed their knowledge of platforms and timetables,ignoring suitcase wheels by hoisting dead weight ontotheir heads.

Advaita walked beside her father, with Ammaholding Meher’s hand behind them. They followed their

12 ADVAITA THE WRITER 13Ribbons of Silver

above such behaviour. Although Advaita was the beststudent in her class, joining their ranks had seemed nomore likely than sprouting wings.

Now, the sight of the waiting train unleashed a floodof tears. Advaita didn’t care that Dunham was reputedto be the best girls’ school in Asia, and wouldn’t havecared if it was the finest school in the universe.

She was leaving home.“There’s no need for tears,” Baba said softly,

sounding less than convinced. “Surely you’ll be glad to berid of us?”

Behind them, Amma was crying too. Advaita flungherself into her arms and slipped her a tightly foldednote. The note read:

If Dunham sends a ransom note, pay up!Love always, A

Meher’s face was wet with tears. She buried itinto Advaita’s shoulder and laughed a little at heruncharacteristic display.

“Thanks for giving me a room to myself,” she said.Advaita heard the final goodbyes of her family, but

words wouldn’t form in her mouth. There had been toomany of them, and then too few. Finally there were noneat all.

When she boarded the train, Advaita pressedher face against the window and felt the coolof the glass enter her heart.

best six books she’d ever read. Which six were they?How could she decide?

Her eyes drifted to the railway tracks below. Laidupon grimy stone, now strewn with litter, they shonelike ribbons of silver. Advaita imagined them runningsteadily toward the mountains, the Yamuna in reverse.In around six hours, she would emerge from transit atDehradun and begin a five-year immersion at Dunham.

Almost a year had passed since Amma had given hera glossy school brochure, and Advaita had kept it in her

bedside drawer.“It has cost us a fortune only to register

interest,” Amma had said. “There will be anentrance examination here in Delhi inNovember.”

Advaita had studied the brochure’spictures of whitewashed buildings andstately trees. Girls draped in white and a

touch of blue seemingly floated along pathslined by low hedges. Other photos showed students folkdancing, in karate poses, playing sitar and hockey, andvying for honours in a footrace. There was an air ofgrace and dignity about them all — even as they kickedout in karate.

Advaita knew that she could never be like those girls,and expected that failure in the entrance examinationwould confirm it. She felt no ambition to be like them,either. With her own friends, she could squeal and laughand say the silliest things, but the Dunham girls appeared

When Advaita leaves Delhi for boarding school inDehradun, she is lonely and unhappy. Even if DunhamGirls’ School is supposed to be the best in Asia. Even if,

as her father had promised, it has a fabulous library.But the library soon becomes her haven, andAdvaita loses herself in books as a shieldagainst her deepening homesickness. Then one

day she hears that the writer Ruskin Bond,whose books she devours, stays less than an hour

away. Could it be true that the famous author isa real, living person, breathing the same Uttarakhandair as herself? Could she, Advaita, also become awriter? Advaita emerges out of her cocoon intoa world fresh with ideas and inspiring possibilities.

Unfolding gently and sensitively with the pace ofAdvaita’s changing emotions, this is a story about thelove of books, the power of the imagination, ofliterary heroes, and of the birth of dreams.

KEN SPILLMAN is the author of approximately 30 booksappearing in more than a dozen countries and inlanguages as diverse as French, Farsi and Vietnamese.Originally from Australia, he spends around half of histime travelling and has a special fondness for India.Ken has received a fellowship from the Australia-

India Council, is a member of the board of theAsian Festival of Children’s Content, and

chairs the judging panel for Singapore’sfirst major award for children’s literature.

For more about the author, please visitwww.kenspillman.com.

` 100 / Age 10+