Born in Mumbai to an illustrious Sindhi family, Mrinalini Harchandrai started writing poetry in her school and later in college. Even after getting her verses published, she finds it odd to call herself a poet. ‘Even after my poetry book got published I still find it hard to apply the term poet to myself. I guess I think of myself as a writer, an umbrella term under which poet falls’. She was happy to learn that her book ‘A Bombay in My Heart’ received laudatory reviews and was warmly received. After earning laurels on his poetry, she switched to fiction and is busy giving final touches to her novel. So what suits her best? ‘Both suit me very well for different reasons. Poetry can be vast and sweeping or capture a miniscule moment. It lets me yoke concepts in fantastic ways and play with the essence of the language. Fiction, especially, novel allows me to roll out ideas architecturally, so that I can scale all aspects of a theme. I love the challenge it presents as well as the insights on the journey’. These days she is trying to find a suitable publisher for her upcoming novel that will be a ‘historical fiction with a coming of age story at its heart’.
In her literary journey she got influenced by a bevy of writers and that’s why she finds it difficult to name them all. However, recently she enjoyed the poetry of Tushar Jain and Medha Singh and the novels of Anuradha Singh, Anosh Irani and V.J James also kept her engaged. There is every likelihood that the novel will be something different and she seems destined to carve out her distinct path vis a vis her poetry and fiction. Additionally, she is going to dazzle with her poetry as well as fiction in the days to come.
Here is a poem from her book which will help readers to grasp the talent of Mrinalini Harchandrai. The poem graphically captures the agonies of the generations who had to leave their homes during the cataclysmic events of 1947.
Blood Ties with the Foes
History’s sense of humour
is a double helix in a twist
There is a border
created by gods
and gunfire
family stories, packed
with last-minute trunks
and earth-kissing farewells.
We will never see the rooms
in which our grandparents
played with tickling sunlight
orchards marked with footprints
from which they walked away.
Who knew if those who stayed
had our ancestors
lurking about their flesh.
Todays newspapers narrate
Stories of them and us
and grow enemies
out of our own roots.