I recently had a chance encounter with one of the most surprising ones that come my way, now and then, during my journey as a literary critic. Believe me, finding these unexpected gems by young Indian literary artists, or you may say, the novelists, gives me immense satisfaction and joy. Rita Chhetri, an emerging writer from Arunachal Pradesh, the beautiful landscapes adorning the North-eastern front of India, possesses credible fictional craft. Her novel, Boy with the Red Balloon, offers emotions conveyed through an intriguing story woven on the lines of the COVID-19 lockdown.
In Boy with the Red Balloon, Rita Chhetri has emerged as a newcomer novelist and a literary voice capable of navigating the fragile seams that bind memory, emotion, mystery, and silence. Her story is told not through dramatic flourishes, but with a quiet force that steadily builds into something unforgettable. What makes Chhetri’s writing so immersive is her deftness in holding the reader within the suspenseful arc of the narrative while allowing room for emotional introspection. It is not a novel that demands attention with noise; instead, it invites reflection through the undercurrents of soft, haunting resonance.
A significant marker of Chhetri’s narrative prowess is her ability to anchor the story’s emotional centre on Harun, a character whose past has been buried so deeply that even he is disconnected from it. The early chapters trace Harun as a boy wrapped in enigma, whose silence is not mere reticence but a shield against unremembered anguish. Chhetri does not rush to reveal the secrets of his past; instead, she lets the mystery unfold organically, making the emotional distance between Harun and his history an integral part of the suspense. This deliberate pacing encourages the reader to experience Harun’s journey, the unspoken trauma of forgetting, and the quiet terror of not knowing who you are.
The novel’s intrigue sharpens as Jayne, the female protagonist, begins to unearth pieces of Harun’s past. A pivotal moment arises when she discovers an old tale about a balloon man—a figure from Harun’s childhood. The connection is barely spoken aloud, yet it becomes a symbolic bridge between Harun’s forgotten identity and the fragile fragments of memory that begin to return. Jayne’s gradual discovery of this connection, without any sudden revelations or melodramatic confrontations, demonstrates Chhetri’s skill in making emotional realisations feel authentic and deeply personal. She understands that revelations do not always arrive like lightning—they emerge, quietly, through time, hesitation, and emotional courage.
Rita Chhetri’s landscape—Vijaynagar, tucked away in Arunachal Pradesh—is not merely a setting but a crucible of hidden affections and unvoiced regrets. One of the most poignant revelations in the novel occurs through Hendry, an understated character whose story of unrequited love in the village quietly devastates the reader. Through Hendry, Chhetri shows that not all heartbreak is dramatic; some is lived and endured silently. This thread of suppressed longing adds an emotional counterweight to the main plot and broadens the novel’s emotional spectrum.
But Chhetri’s most daring narrative turn arrives with a tragic incident during the group’s return journey—an event that reshapes Jayne’s understanding of love and loss. The author manages this moment with artistic precision. There is no attempt to sensationalise the tragedy; instead, the prose becomes sparse, careful, and deliberate, like grief. The emotional fallout is not externalised through wailing or grand gestures but is rendered through Jayne’s shifting internal landscape. This ability to render intense emotion through restraint is a rare talent in young writers that sets Chhetri apart.
The novel’s final act sees Jayne take on the role of an investigator, not in the genre sense of solving a crime, but in the more intimate understanding of searching for truth. Her search into Harun’s life after his absence is not motivated by curiosity alone, but by the need for emotional closure. Here, Chhetri’s writing reaches its philosophical core. What does it mean to know someone? Can one ever truly uncover another’s story? These questions are posed quietly, wrapped in Jayne’s persistence. The suspense never feels fabricated; it grows from the natural human urge to understand what has been lost, forgotten, or hidden.
Beyond the novel, Rita Chhetri’s life is a compelling testament to quiet excellence. Hailing from Vijaynagar, Arunachal Pradesh, she is not only a gold medallist in physics and a dedicated contributor to India’s nuclear industry, but also a devoted animal rescuer and storyteller. Her multifaceted life balances rigorous scientific pursuit with a deeply humane creative instinct. This unique duality—of numbers and narrative, logic and lyricism—infuses her writing with intellectual depth and emotional clarity. For young women in the North-East, she has become an emerging figure of inspiration. Her ability to chase higher studies, pursue technical excellence, and still carve out time to pen a deeply contemplative novel proves that the boundaries between science and literature, career and creativity, are more porous than one might imagine.
In conclusion, Rita Chhetri’s Boy with the Red Balloon is a literary debut marked by remarkable emotional intelligence, suspenseful control, and narrative restraint. She sustains intrigue not through twists alone, but through the gradual peeling back of the human heart. At a time when many debut works tend to cater to formulaic storytelling or fleeting trends, Chhetri’s novel stands apart in its quiet ambition. It invites readers not just to read, but to listen to silences, suppressed pain, and the inner voice of healing. And in doing so, it cements Rita Chhetri’s place as a singular voice not just from North-East India, but from the broader landscape of Indian English fiction.
You can get a copy of this novel from Amazon India – click here to get your copy now.
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