ABOUT THE BOOK
At eighteen, Ravi leaves his small town in Bihar for Delhi University, convinced that education will change his life. Instead, he finds himself living in a cramped room above a foul-smelling gutter in Khajoori Khas, a migrant-dominated neighbourhood in North-East Delhi, where the mysterious sound of anklets echoes through the night.
As Ravi grapples with poverty, insecurity, ambition and the weight of family expectations, three women leave an indelible imprint on his life: Alka, the unattainable dream; Priya, whose quiet affection transforms him; and Kasturi, the enigmatic woman across the street. When Kasturi is found dead, Ravi is forced to leave the lane, but the room remains both his refuge and his haunting.
Spanning nearly a decade, Ravi’s journey—from working in a Xerox shop to joining the Indian Administrative Service—forces him to confront difficult choices and question the true meaning of power, success, belonging and home.
Tender, evocative and deeply atmospheric, The Room Above the Gutter is a compelling coming-of-age novel about love, loss, resilience and redemption.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Swati Chandra Shivki is a bilingual writer who writes in both English and Hindi. A recipient of the 2026 Himalayan Literature Festival Poet Fellowship Award, her poetry has appeared in several anthologies, and she has performed at literary festivals and other cultural events.
She has contributed columns to newspapers and magazines on education, society and culture. Dr Swati Chandra teaches English at the Faculty of Arts and Design, South Asian University, New Delhi, and previously taught at the University of Delhi for more than a decade.
EXCERPTS
Ravi did not want to begin his morning thinking of his father. He looked around at the yet-to-wake-up Khajoori Khas, one of the pockets of the suburban North East Delhi, or Yamuna Paar. The air was still, and the sun had not yet risen. Like the sleepy folk around, it seemed in no hurry, delaying its ascent before the heat of duty would force him out of the much-cherished slumber. And this is no exaggeration. Sleep, indeed, is too important for all—so much so that last night Lucky, tired after a long day, was all set to hit the bed when Mishraji, her husband, asked for tea. She pretended not to hear. Giving him tea would mean he would be up for another hour, watching TV on high volume, disturbing not only her sleep but also the neighbours’, who wouldn’t delay a second to put up the final fight of the day, all for a peaceful night. Neither she nor the neighbours would like that. But as ordained, before she could give a second thought to it, Anil Mishra caught hold of the saucepan and banged it on the floor, ‘Pi liyo ab chai kal se.’ The pan was bent out of shape, some of its screws scattered on the ground. Lucky was enraged not only for her disturbed sleep but also because of the realisation that she might need a new pan. Understanding the situation there might worsen, Ravi decided to slip away and get to his own room.
Lucky loved her morning tea too much to prepare it in a misshapen container. In her disorderly life, there were certain things that she required to be perfect, like the morning tea which she used to make only for herself, with extra milk and sugar, when the world was yet to open its eyes. For her, the world was that locality she lived in, extending up to the lal batti and few other places she knew of. She would sit with that big glass of hot tonic on the stairs of the terrace, wondering whether there were any stairs in the world that would take her up—no, not so up, not to heaven as yet but in that middle-ground where she would wake up in her own house, have tea made of only milk, sitting in the little terrace garden all by herself. In her dreams, she was always alone. He was never in it nor were her sons. And suddenly she would feel embarrassed, either because of the selfishness of her dream or the loftiness of it, she didn’t know.
Ravi was still surveying the sight before his blurry eyes. It seemed the whole of Khajoori Khas slept on the terrace. Every rooftop had numerous patches of sleeping areas. Someone could be seen adjusting his lungi gone berserk in sleep, some would be seen swatting mosquitoes to be able to go back to sleep. The girls were generally up early, not just because an array of work was awaiting them but also because they could not risk exposing themselves to the intruding eyes of all in broad daylight as they stayed asleep. So, they were seen folding their sleeping mats before the others could get up. Some with careless mothers still lay with their chunnis over their heads. A man there was innocently spreading his underwear clad thighs wide apart as now there was more space, with his wife having vacated her sleeping spot next to him. Few lads could be seen climbing down from the water tanks they slept on. Ravi was sadly amused as he thought, will this be the first view he would wake up to every day?
