Cellphone Portraits

By Shakti Bhatt

Self-Portrait as Ghost

Self-Portrait as Sleeping Ghost

Self-Portrait on Delhi Street

Self-Portrait on Holi

Dotted Line

The Crotch of My Jeans

Cellphone Portraits

By Shakti Bhatt

Blue Cross

Delhi Airport, 3 A.M.

Reader On a Train

The Book of Imaginary Birds

Cellphone Portraits

by Shakti Bhatt

Self-portrait with pencil, New Delhi, 2007

Market Cafe, New Delhi, 2007

Airport, New Delhi, 2006

Bellagio

Shakti, Lake Como, 2006

Cellphone Portraits

by Shakti Bhatt

Shoes, Bellagio, 2006

Subway, Frankfurt, 2006

Self-portrait with books, New Delhi, 2007

Self-portrait with headboard, New Delhi, 2007

Self-portrait in pink, Frankfurt, 2006

Bellagio

Shakti, Bellagio, 2006

A list for Shakti

by Jitender Shambi

The smile of a goddess
The face of an urchin
Dancing with arms open to the sky
Laughing from lips to fingertips
Boots black
Lips lilac
Eyes open widely
Hands smothered in pink leather gloves
Warmth from the glitter of a silver jumper
Height from the heel of a well loved shoe

Navigator without direction
Hula girl without shame

Hands that moved like a Delhiwallah
Feet that walked like a New Yorker
Funnily shy
Wildly graceful
Hungry
Poised
Seductive
A mind
A heart
A voice

Insanely in love
Alive for life

She called me 'pretty girl'
And I called her 'lovely lady'…..

Shakti, my friend, I miss you.

For Shakti

by Alice Cicolini

I wanted to add something on behalf of everyone who came into contact with Shakti at the British Council during the process of running the Young Publisher of the Year project.

My colleague Debanjan in Kolkata wrote, “I am so shocked to hear the news. Shakti was brilliant at the Indian IYPY awards final and the very soul of the party that followed. I dropped her off at her relation’s place at the end of that evening and we spoke about her enormously talented husband Jeet, whom I knew from my college years. We discussed Jeet’s first book of poems, Apocalypso, which I had reviewed very warmly for The Telegraph. She was very interested in Graham Greene – not exactly the most popular author – and we even discussed the possibility of having a Greene festival in India (the kind of inspirational discussions one tends to have after a few drinks). I just can’t believe the news...”

Debanjan’s sentiments were echoed by the judges who said of her that “Shakti looks at the author as the primary creative source while emphasising young India. We were very impressed with her passionate commitment to the quality of editorial input.” It sounds a bit dry looking at it on the page, but I suppose what they were trying to capture was her total commitment to quality and innovation both in the work and in how it was communicated.

I’ve attached some shots of her at the final; looking at them now it seems so impossible to believe that this poised and beautiful woman isn’t here anymore.

Strangely, on a more personal note, I have seen her so many times in my dreams in the last week, and in those fleeting moments when the mind just begins to drift from the task in hand. And not I alone; one of my colleagues said that the night before she heard the news, Shakti had appeared in her dreams. It’s quite extraordinary how it feels when it happens too; it’s so light, almost like the brush of a feather as her image flickers in and out, like she’s trying to let us know something, but gently . . .

Finalists, after a hard day's work

Shakti

by Samit Basu

Meghna just sent me this pic a few minutes ago; this is in my flat, on my birthday, last December. Rehan and Shakti hadn't met before, but they got along like a house on fire. Given who they both were, no one was at all surprised. I remember them running around, him sitting on her head, pulling her hair and looking completely delighted.
My nephew turns one in two days. Shakti isn't here any more. But they met that one evening and I'm so glad they did. Glad there's a chance some of her warmth, her laughter, her grace, her immense coolness rubbed off on him. May there be other people in his life as wonderful as she was.
Miss you, Shakti.

Originally published here.

For Shakti

by Nilanjana S Roy

I met Shakti at a boring Delhi party over two years ago; she and Jeet had just moved back to Delhi from New York, and Shakti was doing what she did best—making friends. We chatted for a bit; she told me I needed sexier shoes (I still do, Shakti, you had the jump on me on that one), slipped a friendly hand into mine and asked when she could come over and meet my cats.

Over the next few months, Jeet and Shakti became part of our lives as though they'd always been there. Shakti joined Random House as an editor, and when we discussed books, I was struck by her openness to new ideas, her enthusiasm about authors. Samit Basu did a reading shortly after that; it coincided with his birthday. I was supposed to be in conversation with Samit; Shakti came up to me before the discussion started and told me she would put her hand up right at the end to ask a very special question, so could I make sure she was the last speaker? I said, of course.

Her question was simple. Would we all sing happy birthday to Samit, and cut the birthday cake she had thoughtfully smuggled in? We did; it's the only book launch I can remember that ended with the audience bellowing Happy Birthday to You at the author. It was a typical Shakti moment.

People gravitated to Shakti because she made us believe that anything was possible. She was curious about photography; she started to take her own pictures, and was planning to make a wall of memories, a record of their first years in Delhi. At Jeet's poetry readings, Shakti was the one handling the digital video camera; she had an instinct for when to zoom in on Jeet's face, when to capture the audience's reactions.

She shifted from Random House to start up Bracket Books, and she sparked with ideas for her brand-new imprint. She had also started writing herself, and she had an astonishing voice, a very distinctive style. One of my friends calls it handwriting, this business of a writer's signature, and says that it can't be taught—either you have your own handwriting or you don't. Shakti did.

At a Caferati evening where she, Jeet and I had been invited to discuss writing with Caferati's members, Shakti spoke with honesty about the challenges facing new authors, about the need for publishers to create what she called welcoming spaces for writers who were starting to find their own voices. She wanted to be one of those publishers; she wanted Bracket to reflect her own credo of openness and encouragement.

Jeet and Shakti had one of the most open houses in a city that takes hospitality seriously. Shakti was always at the heart of those evenings, the one who encouraged us to try to use a hula hoop, to do zany writing experiments, to read serious poetry in a seriously unserious manner. She believed in the importance of silliness, and in her company, I found myself letting go, letting my hair down, relaxing into the moment.

It seems so wrong that someone as vibrant as Shakti should be gone. It seems obscene to be writing what amounts to an obituary for someone who was so alive. But maybe it's one way to hold on to all the things that Shakti meant to us. In just two years, she brought so much joy into our lives; I believe she would have been an amazing writer, a kind and wise publisher. My thoughts are with Jeet, with their families.

Originally published here.

good bye, sweet friend

by Lesley Esteves

shakti. our excitable, beautiful, always hungry, never-to-be-forgotten friend. this is how i'll remember you — laughing under the himalayan sun. goa sausage will never taste the same again. miss you.

Originally published here.