Deborshi Barat takes readers across the untamed landscapes of East Africa, where heartbreak gives way to unexpected romance, fractured friendships and life-altering choices
What if losing everything was the beginning of finding yourself?
In Safari – A Love Story (Om Books), Deborshi Barat takes readers across the untamed landscapes of East Africa, where heartbreak gives way to unexpected romance, fractured friendships and life-altering choices.
Blending sensual storytelling with themes of love, betrayal, identity and freedom, the novel explores the courage it takes to break free from societal expectations and embrace the unknown.
Through Niharika’s journey, Barat reflects on how moments of personal upheaval can challenge our deepest assumptions and reveal who we truly are. Set against the breath-taking wilderness of Africa, the novel reminds us that sometimes, the most transformative journey isn’t across the wilderness—it’s within.
Book Excerpt – Page 67-70
Tell me your story,” Niharika says, sipping from a cup.
A cup of tea, mildly warm.
Srin plucks the dew from under his camera.
“When did you migrate to Africa, for instance?”
“Turn of the last century.”
“Come now, you can’t be that old,” she says wryly.
Srin wipes his hand with a cloth and puts his camera inside.
“Along with thousands of labourers, my family came to work on the Kenya–Uganda railway. After the railways were built, a number of Indians chose to stay back. My family shuttled between Nairobi and the east coast.”
In the silence of the night, his voice sounds different.
“Back then, Nairobi was a white town… Sorry, am I boring you?”
Niharika stifles a yawn. Goddamn it. She should’ve ordered more tea. “I’m worried about Vania,” she replies, drawing her legs out.
Almost touching the end of his pants. One more step, her foot will be planted on his. Stroking his ankle, skin against skin.
He whistles at intervals, distracting the genets. A strange high-pitched sound, making the animals stop and turn. As if they might respond. She notices the little hairs on his feet, rising with his voice. Cupping his mouth with both hands.
She wants to tickle his foot, her heel extended, until the abrasion tortures him.
Frantically, the animals scan the windows below.
Srin looks into the distance, among objects at the watering hole. Late at night, elephants come to drink, a man informed them. Buffalos, leopards, wild hogs, and hyenas, too; the big game of Africa.
She follows his gaze to the black luminous salt lick, now coated with phosphorus and moss. “My great-grandfather joined politics,” he continues. “He wrote for a newspaper, but he grew rich trading glass. Later, he bargained with the government.”
His voice is thick, creamy. Like chocolate, sticking to the neck of a Hershey’s jar. A long-forgotten teacher, with a grey textbook and chalk dust. Mr Sinha, from Class 8. Her first love, the earliest man in her life, other than Baba. Teaching her history, and here he is, trapped in the voice of Srinivas Rajan, fourteen years later. Niharika would sit in the first row, letting his murmurs wash over the classroom, over her. A man with a neat moustache, a checked half-sleeved shirt, and matching sandals. Not the style icon she wanted, but in class eight, she didn’t want everything.
“By the end of the Second World War, things changed. There was racial tension, violence. After independence, many immigrants were asked to leave. My father was young. They decided to settle in the UK because they had British passports. That’s where he met my…his wife.”
Srin calls out to the genets again. This time, they leave the meat and scurry down. Their ash-grey bodies are agile, with brown spots and black stripes, fast-moving balls of muscle.
“Please don’t do that,” Niharika cries. “Please don’t call them. They’re coming here!”
Smiling, he whistles once more. His voice ricochets off a curtain of trees, over the waters of the salt lick. Confused, the animals stare at the expansive water and back, unable to track the owner of the lonesome voice.
“Now stop!” she chides him. “No more animal sounds.”
The night has grown chilly. Perhaps she should rub her legs to keep warm. The strain of being next to Srin is overwhelming now, clamming up her head. A drowsy potion, of hemlock and crushed weed. She doesn’t want to sleep. Yet, her legs are weak, the vagaries of high heels, the strain of overcoming Andrea.
Once again, she yawns. Dammit.
Nature is sabotaging her when she needs it the most.
She can smell him clearly. The strong masculine scent of his jaw, bergamot, cinnamon, and pepper, the five-ounce emulsion he uses. His hair is tousled, moist with solutions. She wants to sink her teeth into his stubble, digging deep into it, unearthing his features one by one…
This isn’t a good sign.
Disturbing, this wail of hormones.
A battle between fantasy and truth.
Suddenly, a creature rushes past their window. Something dark and bushy. Looking up, she realizes it isn’t the genets; they’ve moved away, having cleaned out the meat between them.
Confused, Niharika looks outside.
And then, across the railing, it reappears.
A fast-moving ball of fur.
Its face is hideous. With frightening eyes.
“O ma goh!”
Screaming, Niharika tumbles backwards. Unmoved, Srin remains in his seat. When Niharika jumps, he pulls her towards him.
As if it’s the moment they have both been waiting for.
Bundled in his arms, she crashes into his chest. Her heart pounding heavily, looking beyond the railing. In case it comes back, the hideous ball of fur.
He makes her sit, drawing her to the incisions on his body.
“Relax, it’s a mongoose,” he whispers. “A black mongoose.”
“Are…are they dangerous?”
“It’s just scared.”
“I’m scared too,” she whimpers. “It fucking terrified me.”
“I won’t call out to this one. I promise.”
A couple of minutes lapse into silence. She can hear his breaths, one by one. Rising steadily with the wind. Her ears are against his chest; his heart beats through the blue tabbed t-shirt.
These are Srin’s heartbeats.
This isn’t a dream.
This is real.
