In a Sonipat classroom in 2025, a group of students majoring in everything from Computer Science to Economics found themselves collectively enchanted by a quiet Hindi novel from 1997. The book was Vinod Kumar Shukla's celebrated work, Deewar Mein Ek Khidki Rahti Thhi (A Window Lived in the Wall), which had won the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1999. For author and assistant professor Devapriya Roy, teaching this text as part of a "Great Books" course at Ashoka University became a profound lesson in the enduring power of storytelling.
A Portal to Another World
The viewing of Achal Mishra's documentary, Chaar Phool Hain Aur Duniya Hai, offered the class a glimpse into the world of the author. They watched the then octogenarian Shukla, his white hair lit by the sun, narrate a characteristically simple yet profound anecdote about a caller from Bihar who dialled his number just to see if he was still alive. The laughter that followed in the documentary echoed in the classroom, bridging the gap between the creator and his readers.
Roy's diverse class, with mother tongues ranging from Kashmiri and Tamil to Marathi and Meitei, was initially puzzled by the novel's gentle pace. Set in a small town in central India, it follows Raghuvar Prasad, a mathematics lecturer living on a modest salary, and his wife Sonsi. The story's magic lies in moments like Raghuvar commuting home on an elephant or the couple climbing out of their window into a lush, private world invisible to others.
The Fever of Discovery
Despite initial grumpiness, a shift occurred. The class became collectively obsessed with Window. They debated its pull amidst their readings of other great writers. "It's the slowness," said one student. "It's the window," said another. Others pointed to the language, its resonance with folktales, or the symbolic elephant. One student even asked, "Professor, I don't fully get magic realism. Is the elephant real?"—a question that cut to the heart of Shukla's craft of blending the mundane with the mystical.
Roy reflects that the peculiar pleasure of such a novel is its ability to arrest time and alter space, allowing another's perception to become our lens. This experience felt particularly vital in 2025, a time when AI has reshaped how we read and write, and debates rage about whether artificial intelligence could one day produce great novels. Shukla's work, autobiographical and deeply local yet universal, stood as a testament to a uniquely human genius.
The Thread That Binds
Shukla's genius, often noted in obituaries, was his lifelong dedication to turning the hyper-local into a universal tapestry. Like the shiny zari thread in the yellow sari Sonsi wears—a detail Roy highlights—everything about human life is woven into his writing. The knowledge that great authors grow old and die is woven into the fabric of their work, Roy told herself upon hearing of Shukla's passing. It is a truth, a glimmer of gold in certain light, that AI can only pretend to know.
For a non-traditional literature classroom in a modern "education city," Shukla's window opened onto enduring truths about love, imagination, and the quiet transformation that great books facilitate. The novel's feverish hold on the students proved that even in a rapidly changing world, the intimate, abstract magic of a master storyteller retains an irresistible call.
