About The Book

Chirag was twelve when his father shot the woman he loved.
For twenty-five years, he believed she died there, on the cold marble courtyard. Then a photograph arrives, and three words in an old man’s hand undo everything he thought he knew: She survived, miraculously.
He leaves the crumbling family haveli by the river and travels north into the hills to find her. What he finds is more than one woman kept alive. He discovers a whole web of people bound to one another in ways he never imagined, and a house full of silences he was never meant to break. Beneath it all lies a secret no one ever told him: a debt paid, long ago, between two women who were meant to hate each other.
A Debt in the Rain is a story about the quiet arithmetic of human relationships. A wife and a mistress surviving on each other’s compassion. A brother and a sister who share a father and nothing else. An old servant who gave a great house everything and lost his own family to it. And the ordinary people who learn to stand, without flinching, between the perpetrator and the victim.
A Debt in the Rain is a haunting debut about family, atonement, and the long work of leaving a door open. Set in Bengal, this is a slow-burning literary novel about violence and its long shadow, about mercy and vengeance, the cost of silence, and the small, insufficient kindness that outlast them. It does not promise that any of it is enough. It offers something quieter, and harder to shake off.

About The Author

Ipsita grew up in a small town by a river, and every morning she crossed the water by train to reach the missionary school on the far bank. She learned to read and write under the strict discipline of nuns who preached that life should be simple before it could be beautiful.

She came to writing early, and by the longest way around. Her first job was as a feature writer for a leading English daily, chasing other people’s stories through busy streets and government offices in Kolkata. A Master’s in English Literature had taught her to love the language; the newsroom taught her to distrust anything that couldn’t earn its place on the page.

For more than twenty-five years, Ipsita has worked in the corporate world, in content and communications. Writing for others, in other voices, about other things. It was a good life, and a full one. But somewhere in it, a story of her own had been waiting, patiently, the way the important things wait.

She is past fifty-five now, the mother of a daughter who designs real houses out of brick and mortar while she builds imaginary ones out of words. A reporter who spent decades verifying what’s true, is now writing about what survival costs.

Ipsita lives in India, among its crowded mornings and long, slow evenings. She is still learning, every day, to find beauty in simple things.