There are interviews that emerge after weeks of emails, phone calls and carefully scheduled appointments. And then there are those that arrive unexpectedly, carrying a tiny Yorkshire Terrier under one arm.

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This interview began at Bahrison's. The beloved Chandigarh bookstore, with its adjoining coffee shop and comforting atmosphere of books, conversation and freshly brewed coffee, seems, in retrospect, the perfect setting for literary serendipity. I was there one morning when I noticed a woman waiting to meet the proprietor. Nearby was a poster announcing the forthcoming launch of Awakening with Nanak. Tucked securely under her arm was the tiniest Yorkshire Terrier imaginable.

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Being incapable of resisting dogs, and Yorkies in particular, thanks to my sister’s own adorable, if somewhat temperamental, companion, I turned to her.

“May I pet her?”

“Of course,” she replied warmly. “She loves people.”

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As every dog lover knows, conversations with dogs are conducted in an entirely different language.

“Who’s the cutie?” I asked as she licked my hand. “Where do you come from, sweetheart?”

The dog’s owner answered naturally on her behalf, exactly as devoted dog mothers do.

“Her name is Bailee, as in the Punjabi yaar-bailee, meaning friend. She’s from America.”

America?

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I looked at the diminutive creature in disbelief.

“How on earth did you bring a dog all the way from America to Chandigarh?”

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That question opened the door to a longer conversation.

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The woman was Kamla K. Kapur: poet, playwright, novelist, essayist, teacher and spiritual seeker. She had come to Chandigarh to organise the launch of Awakening with Nanak, published by HarperCollins India. As she discussed her coffee order with the barista, I did what writers inevitably do when curiosity takes hold. I looked her up.

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Within minutes, I was reading about a literary career spanning more than six decades. Kapur had taught literature in India and the United States, written award-winning plays, and published an impressive body of poetry, fiction and spiritual literature. Her books, from Radha Sings: Erotic Love Poems and The Gift of Grief to The Singing Guru, Into the Great Heart and The Privilege of Aging, reveal a writer continually exploring mythology, spirituality, loss and the possibilities of inner transformation.

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Yet it was her energy, rather than the bibliography, that caught my attention. In her seventies, she radiated enthusiasm. There was nothing remotely retiring about her. The spirited Yorkie seemed a fitting companion.

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A few days later, readers gathered at Bahrison’s for the launch of Awakening with Nanak. Written during a period of severe illness, the book transforms a personal ordeal into spiritual inquiry. Part memoir, part meditation and part dialogue with Guru Nanak, its twenty-one essays explore atam tirath, the inward pilgrimage.

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In the opening chapter, “My Friend, Guru Nanak”, Kapur describes the Guru as her “555-year-old friend”. The phrase encapsulates the spirit of the book. Nanak appears not as a remote historical figure placed on a pedestal but as a companion whose wisdom steadied her through one of the most difficult periods of her life. Kapur also hopes to bring his philosophy closer to contemporary readers, particularly those who may feel distant from conventional religious language while remaining deeply interested in questions of meaning and purpose.

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That afternoon, I sat down with her to discuss the path that led to Awakening with Nanak, the literary life behind it, and the insights gathered over six decades of writing.

 

You have written poetry, novels, plays, essays and retellings of sacred stories. Which form is closest to your heart?

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Poetry. I love all forms of writing, but poetry remains my deepest home. It reaches places that prose sometimes struggles to touch. A poem can hold multiple meanings simultaneously. It accommodates silence as naturally as language.

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I wrote my first poem at sixteen. It felt like the beginning of an inner dialogue that has never really ended.

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Many readers associate your poetry with grief, particularly after the suicide of your first husband in 1993. Did writing save you?

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I believe it did. Without poetry, I might have become trapped inside grief. Writing allowed me to enter sorrow honestly without being consumed by it. As I wrote in Rumi: Tales of the Spirit, “Suffering’s transformative power applies not just to the big events of our lives but even to our daily vicissitudes: the broken cup teaches us to let go, an illness to rest and take care of ourselves, a loss teaches the transience of all existence.

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Poetry offered more than emotional release. Tears can do that. Art demands honesty, patience and discipline. It asks us to remain with what has wounded us long enough to understand it.

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The act of shaping grief into language altered my relationship with it. The sorrow remained real, but it no longer occupied the entire horizon. The poems helped me discover who I was beyond loss.

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Would you say despair fuels creativity?

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Only partially. Despair can generate powerful writing, but so can wonder, curiosity, love, beauty, longing, joy and mystery. The impulse to create comes from a desire to understand ourselves more fully. Pain may sharpen that impulse, but it does not own it.

 

Your new book has resonated strongly with readers. Why did Awakening with Nanak arrive at this particular stage of your life?

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Books arrive when they are ready. This one certainly did not emerge out of comfort or convenience. I was dealing with serious health conditions that radically altered the rhythm of my days.

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During that period, I kept returning to Guru Nanak’s teachings. They were not abstract propositions or intellectual exercises. They spoke directly to vulnerability, uncertainty and the human tendency to believe we are in control of far more than we actually are.I began copying passages by hand and reflecting upon them. Gradually, the book took shape. In an unexpected way, illness gave me time. It forced me to slow down and pay attention to what was happening within me.

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You describe Nanak’s wisdom as a “map and compass”. What do you mean by that?

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A map reveals the terrain; a compass helps us find our way through it. Nanak does not impose rigid answers, but he offers orientation. He speaks of ego, attachment, greed, compassion and service. The historical circumstances may have changed, but these impulses remain recognisable. His words continue to resonate because they address enduring aspects of human nature.

 

 

Did serious illness transform your understanding of spirituality?

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It certainly deepened it. When we are healthy, spirituality can remain an interesting idea. Illness tests whether our beliefs can accompany us into difficult territory. It strips away the illusion of mastery. At first, we resist. We want circumstances to change. We object to the reality before us. Eventually, however, resistance itself becomes exhausting.

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Nanak helped me understand the difference between acceptance and resignation. Acceptance is not passive surrender. It is the clear recognition of what exists, followed by a conscious response. Resignation, on the other hand, abandons engagement altogether.

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Was there ever a point when you felt overwhelmed?

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Of course! Anyone who speaks honestly about suffering must admit vulnerability. There were frightening moments. There still are. Spirituality does not remove fear. What it offers is a way of relating to it without allowing it to dominate every aspect of one’s experience.

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I also became aware of how readily the mind creates stories about what should have happened or what might happen next. Returning repeatedly to the present moment helped loosen their grip.

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You divide your time between California and the Kullu Valley. What role do the Himalayas play in your writing?

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A significant one, though perhaps not in the way people imagine.

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The mountains have shaped me more than any particular book. The Kullu Valley offers silence, clarity and room for contemplation. Cities generate a certain restlessness. We become accustomed to noise, urgency and distraction without fully recognising their effect upon us. In the mountains, one notices the changing light, weather, birds, rivers and seasons. The slower rhythm encourages attentiveness.

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That said, I do not believe creativity depends entirely upon geography. A writer ultimately carries her landscape within. Solitude matters more than location.

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What has living between India and America taught you?

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Moving between two cultures has taught me to create a sense of belonging wherever I happen to be. Distance has also deepened my relationship with India. Returning year after year allows me to see the country afresh, with both affection and curiosity. Many of my books have drawn nourishment from that dual perspective. The arrangement has imposed discipline as well. When your year is divided between continents, you become acutely conscious of time.

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Although, to be perfectly honest, after weeks of interviews, events and promoting Awakening with Nanak, I cannot wait to return to America and resume my happily antisocial existence. (Laughs.)

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Guru Nanak spoke of interconnectedness and community. Having lived for decades in India and America, do you find that the two cultures approach these values differently?

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Yes, though one must be careful about broad generalisations. Family continues to occupy an important place in Indian society. The individual is often understood as part of a wider network of relationships and responsibilities. That structure can provide intimacy, continuity and support. Western societies tend to place greater emphasis on personal autonomy. This can be enormously liberating because people are encouraged to define themselves and choose their own paths. Yet freedom can also carry a certain loneliness.

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Neither model is perfect. Every culture solves one set of problems and creates another. As a writer, I am fascinated by the tension between connection and independence. Most people seek both, although finding the right balance is rarely simple.

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Many first-generation immigrants struggle with these competing values. Do such tensions enter your fiction?

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Very much so. Many of my characters inhabit more than one world. They contend with displacement, divided loyalties and differing notions of home. Geography is only part of the story. The deeper challenge is discovering how to remain rooted without surrendering one’s individuality.

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Books such as Classic Tales from Mystic India revisit myths for contemporary readers. Why is myth so important to you? Do mythology and spirituality intersect in your work?

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Because myths are not really about the past. They are maps of human consciousness. Their characters may be gods, heroes or sages, but the emotions they embody remain familiar: love, jealousy, courage, anxiety, sacrifice and attachment. That is why myths deserve to be retold rather than preserved behind glass. Every generation should be able to enter them anew and discover their relevance.

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For me, mythology and spirituality are deeply connected. Myth expresses inner realities through story, while spirituality explores those same realities through lived experience. I have always been interested in the place where those two paths converge, where narrative becomes a means of understanding ourselves and our relationship with the world.

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In your seventies, you remain astonishingly productive. How do you view ageing?

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As a privilege. Not everyone is granted the opportunity to grow old. Once we understand that, gratitude follows naturally. Youth brings energy and ambition. Age brings perspective and, if we are fortunate, wisdom. I am less interested now in proving anything to anyone. That is liberating. The concerns have become simpler. Can I be useful? Can I remain receptive? (Smiles.)

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How do you define success today?

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Success is not fame, money or recognition. It is being able to respect the manner in which you have lived and the person you have become. It means accepting both joy and sorrow, recognising our interconnectedness and cultivating compassion. The mind can become a prison, but it can also become a doorway to freedom. Our task is to refine the lens through which we see the world. The clearer the lens, the richer the experience.

 

As our conversation ends, Bailee, the little Yorkie responsible for bringing us together, nudges Kamla insistently. It is time to leave. Kapur gathers her companion and prepares to depart. Watching them walk away, I am struck by the harmony between the woman and her work.

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There is no spiritual grandiosity. No claim to certainty. Instead, there is curiosity, humility and a willingness to remain open to new understanding. Perhaps that is the insight that lingers after reading Awakening with Nanak. Awakening is neither an achievement nor a permanent state. It resides in attention, humility and the willingness to keep learning.

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In an age increasingly distracted by noise, that may be wisdom worth carrying with us.