Deepam Chatterjee is a retired Indian Army captain. He took up film-making after a debilitating spinal injury compelled him to leave the army. It was during this period that he spent time with various spiritual teachers, including the Dalai Lama. Later, he trained under Sri Sri Ravi Shankar and taught the Art of Living courses before embarking on a journey of self-exploration.
A keen researcher as well as chronicler of oral narratives, Deepam writes and lectures on Hindu thought, meditation, spirituality, mysticism, mythology and wellness. He has translated a significant body of Sanskrit works into accessible English for young readers and mainstream audiences. His work appears regularly in newspapers and periodicals across the country.
What is written well is so because we have been taught by great teachers. They instilled in me a sense of wonder and the joy of reading. My childhood memories are filled with books. From the classics to mysteries and tales of adventure, I wanted to read everything. And I read really fast, retaining almost everything, which I thought was normal for everyone. From Enid Blyton to Isaac Asimov, Carl Sagan, Erich von Däniken and Arthur Conan Doyle, I had read them all before I turned twelve. The first book that I remember being gifted on my birthday and this (gifting me books) became a norm until very recently, after over 3000 books that I cannot begin to part with-was A Tale of Two Cities.
When my mother took us to Arera Colony, Bhopal, to her parental home, I had a fascinating time exploring the large house. It had a huge terrace, with a small storeroom on one side. Half of the rest of the terrace was covered with a roof made of translucent green plastic sheets, and there was a room with an ancient Remington typewriter that intrigued me. My grandfather was a great botanist and wrote, or rather typed, his books and papers in there.
One day, when my panic-stricken family couldn't find me for hours, a search party went around the colony, frantically looking for me. Finally, my grandmother, a feisty lady, found me in the terrace storeroom, sitting on top of a cement shelf, high above the floor, a few feet below the roof, rummaging through old books in both Hindi and English. How I had climbed up, and not slipped and fallen down, I really do not know.
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