Book Excerpt: Beyond our Births by Antara Mukherjee

An exclusive excerpt from Beyond our Births by Antara Mukherjee (Bloomsbury India, 2026)

In the empty streets outside, stray dogs barked and broke into group fights. The bright streetlamp outside Godhuli Nibas was making it impossible for her to shut her eyes. It was all her fault and she decided to apologize, first thing in the morning.

‘This is your class.’ The words snipped her heart, tender as a new leaf. What was this class they spoke of, so sticky, so visible? Her family was lost, her home was left behind, her clothes had become worn, but her class seemed to have followed her. But didn’t they tell her, time and again, that she had no class?

She wondered if someone her class was still awake at that hour, whispering prayers in her name. Was there someone who sighed so deep that it could come caressing her as a gust of wind? Or did they already scatter her name in a few rice grains before starting on a meal as they did to remember the dead?

When she had arrived five years back, she was tormented by a constant urge to see her mother. She didn’t know how or what she could do to get her back. The urge to see her was so intense, so immediate, that she had taken to chewing rubber bands to calm her gnawing desire. She obsessed over the home she had left behind and her unfinished games with her two sisters – all the while grinding a mouthful of rubberbands. The stretchy cud between her teeth helped her bear the pain. Over time, her suffering acquired a rubbery smell and a powdery-bitter taste that felt satisfying.

A drop in the temperature told her it was well past midnight, and she drew her blanket closer to her chest. What if Bina Ma was really angry and sent her to an orphanage? She sprang up, alert and empty. Her foot peeped out and a rush of cool mud came oozing through the gaps between her toes. It was the feel of her mother’s skin, bare above her petticoat. And that gentle rub of coconut oil on her scalp, the tinkle of her bangles in every corner of their home, and the pecks on her cheeks that smelled of fennel seeds. A gush of air embraced and abandoned her face, as she sat swinging from a mango tree in that distant afternoon. She wanted to reach that thatched hut where the children played tag barefoot, the tubewell clanked, and the glow-worms glittered in the dark as they slept – swarmed together, breathing each other’s breaths, dreaming the same dream.

Once again, she was craving rubber bands. What was to become of her? Where was she headed? Who was she? The turmeric stain on the fingernails she chewed summoned a cold, colourless memory. Panta bhaat. A cool morsel of fermented rice in which she had sprinkled a pinch of turmeric powder. A mistake, a terrible one that had emerged pale on her mother’s face – struck by a hairy hand. ‘Turmeric in panta bhaat! Bodjaat.’ Then came the warnings of a storm, thundering over acres and acres of farmland drowned by the downpour. And the kitchen utensils floated in their yard, with the fish. When the water came down, it also drained months of happiness from their broken homes. First the goats were sold, then the gold. The dead fish stared at her just like those unflinching eyes in the hospital corridor. Then it all came back. Tired feet rustled through thickets, infants held in bosoms cried for milk, men in boots stomped around, gunshots, women wailed in groups, as Nimki sat alone under a tree smelling the first rain. As for her mother, what she remembered was the first day of her absence from her life. If in some eternity she ever met her again, she wanted to ask her one thing: Why? Why could she never bring herself to utter the word ‘Maa’, even in the dead of the night?

Her arm ached from all that stirring she had had to do to cook the mutton for dinner. She had also grated an entire coconut in the morning. She twisted her arm and pressed the tender points to loosen the stiffness. Upstairs, Bagha scampered the length of the terrace. Their days frayed at the ends, glowed at night with their bright wounds. Every night lying on her mattress, she could hear his nails scrape the terrace floor above, his plaintive wails craving for someone long lost. Or did they both throb with a desire to be set free? In those dark hours, they found each other. Bagha’s prancing, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, gradually lulled her to sleep.

Excerpted with permissions from the author and the publishers of Beyond our Births by Antara Mukherjee (Bloomsbury India, 2026)

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About the Book

A powerful coming-of-age novel about identity, belonging, family and the search for a place to call home.

Abandoned at the age of five near the India–Bangladesh border, Nimki is taken in by the Sengupta family in Kolkata, who offer her shelter in exchange for helping with household chores. But while they provide a roof over her head, true belonging remains painfully out of reach.

Nimki longs for the love and acceptance of Bina Ma, yet she always finds herself in the shadow of Ira, the family’s cherished daughter. As she grows up navigating the uncertainties of displacement, class and identity, she struggles to understand where she truly belongs and what it means to build a life beyond the circumstances of her birth.

Spanning nearly a decade and crossing the landscapes of India and the Bangladesh borderlands, Beyond Our Births is a moving literary coming-of-age novel (bildungsroman) that challenges conventional ideas of borders, nationhood, family and kinship. With remarkable emotional depth and lyrical storytelling, it explores the enduring human desire for love, dignity, acceptance and self-discovery.

A stunning literary debut, this unforgettable novel examines themes of identity, migration, displacement, adoption, belonging, womanhood, resilience and the meaning of home. It reminds us that our lives are shaped not only by where we begin, but by the choices we make and the people we become along the way.

Perfect for readers of literary fiction, contemporary Indian fiction, South Asian literature, feminist fiction, coming-of-age stories, family sagas, migration narratives and emotionally rich character-driven novels, Beyond Our Births is a deeply compassionate exploration of what it truly means to find yourself.

A beautifully written literary debut about identity, belonging and self-discovery.
Explores themes of migration, displacement, borders, family, class and resilience.
A compelling bildungsroman set across Kolkata and the India–Bangladesh borderlands.
Ideal for readers of literary fiction, South Asian literature and emotionally resonant coming-of-age novels.

About the Author

Antara Mukherjee is a writer based in Mumbai. Her work has appeared in Kitaab, Muse India, Sahitya Akademi, The Chakkar, Usawa Literary Review, The Alipore Post, Pine Cone Review, Madras Courier, Borderless Journal, and Yearbook of Indian Poetry (2021), among others. Her short story has been longlisted for the 2026 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. She’s an alumna of the Kolam Writer’s Workshop, the Himalayan Emerging Writers Residency Program and has received mentorship from the Asian Women Writers’ programme. Beyond Our Births is her first novel. You can find her on X @antarawrites.