Author & POET
Devjani is an author, a poet and a teacher. She lives in Warwickshire with her family and is currently working on her second novel. She enjoys reading a range of different genres, including historical fiction, graphic novels and picture books. She is greatly influenced by her Bengali heritage and believes inspiration can be found everywhere.
Publisher : Fawn Press
‘For the daughters brought here on the hips of their mothers‘ attempts to bear witness to the stories of women throughout generations who find themselves balancing on a winding timeline from the 1960s to the present day, spanning from India to Britain.
Through stunning poetic craft and storytelling, Devjani documents the past and the ways in which it leaves its bruise on the present. Although fading, the evidence of injury and loss remains, and will remain, for generations to come.
Publisher: Holland House
A letter from a mother to her daughter reveals a life changing secret…Thousands of miles away, a woman is trapped in a loveless marriage…
Shika has lived in the shadow of her sister’s ghost all her life. The death of her father compels her to search for the answers to questions she had buried long ago. Determined to recover a scattered past and make sense of herself, Shika undertakes a journey which leads her across the world, to the heart of Kolkata.
Mirrors is a story of identity, truth, and uncovering who we truly are.
Paper Boats – My upcoming Childrens Book from Parakeet Books
Aadi flies to visit his sparkle-eyed Nanamma, but it’s raining. A LOT. And Aadi is bored bored bored! Debut children’s author Devjani Bodepudi spins a waterlogged yarn of grandmothers with tricks up their sleeves and clouds with angry kings in their linings!
Your house is filled with plants.
Spidery leaves fall in spiky abandon
strings of hearts and pearls hang languorously upon every spare surface
but all you want is a red hibiscus.
Because in your garden, before you left
you grew the vermillion trumpet cups
that caught the water when it rained
and you could fold the flower behind your ear and be beautiful.
And the large green arrowheads that reflect the lights and quaint Christmas cacti like children with old men’s faces
taunt you with their sharpness.
We are all you deserve here they say.
The pink flowers, like the colour of
playing at being a grown-up,
are stale and sickly
and cannot be compared to the shade of a red hibiscus.
Then one day, you find one
and now your house is filled with flowers
generations of them clipped and transplanted into separate pots
that match the colour of your memories
red and green
blood and bile.
From The Daughters Carried Here on the Hips of Their Mothers, Fawn Press 2023