A Symphony in the Storm: An Evening with Eldo at Champaca

Saturday it stopped raining after a spell of ten days. Bangalore had the shine back on its dust again. As the afternoon progressed into the molten silvery-golden evening we found ourselves nestled in the warm embrace of Champaca—our footsteps familiar on the narrow flight of stairs leading to its home above an old bungalow, discreetly tucked in the quiet cul-de-sac off Edward Road.

Champaca is not a place you stumble upon. It’s a destination of intent. Parking is a perennial ordeal, yet, as if by ritualistic luck, we found that elusive final spot—again.

We were there for the launch of Eldo, a book I hadn’t yet read, nor did I know its creators—Pankaj and Athulya. But I had read Yangdol, their first work, a year ago. That gentle tale of Yangdol in the valleys of Ladakh and her journey - a memory had clung to my heart, its rhythm quiet and stirring. It was Yangdol that brought me back.

We were early and post devouring their decadent chocolate cake and blueberry tea cake we took our seats. I leafed through my freshly purchased copy of Eldo, and before the event began, the book had already undone me. It struck a quiet blow—its simplicity cloaking a haunting urgency.

Soon, Pankaj, Athulya, and Ramya (the moderator) took their seats. The conversation began slowly, unfolding the roots of Eldo. Pankaj shared how Eldo was born from the urge of a return gift to a friend, a letter that transformed into a conversation, and finally, into this co-created world. There was something deeply moving in this beginning—as if Eldo wasn’t written but excavated.

As Pankaj unveiled the very first sketches of Eldo and what became a series of conversations between him and Athulya, it became more and more clear to me how we are all pulled to what messes our heads the most.

The room also seemed to lean in. We were no longer attendees; we were witnesses to a confession of art. The darkness within Eldo—its pages soaked in shadows, its protagonist trembling with fear—was not distant. It was intimate. Recognizable. The darkness that is so beautifully painted and visualized through the art and words of Eldo is a darkness that lies in all of us and how we try to step out of it, to own it in our own ways.

Athulya recalled her own brush with fear—a storm off the coast of Alleppey, in the belly of a fisherman’s boat. The fisherman had asked if she knew how rain felt like. She was irked by the query. And then the stormiest of the storms emerged and the rain poured down and she saw it, heard it and felt it all. Next day she was so sore from the rain, as if she could feel each rain drop on her body. She captured that storm in her illustrations for Eldo. In another trip, she remembers the fear of the pitch-black darkness, the feeling of not even being able to find her own limbs, the disorientation she felt in a cave ten feet under. She brought it out in the swirls of indigo, the smothering purples—these were not merely pigments but remnants of her own fear. Pankaj’s words then danced with those visuals, and what emerged was not fear, but transformation.

They didn’t leave Eldo trembling. They taught him music. The darkness became his instrument. He learned its notes, mastered its chords, and rose with it—to a crescendo that felt both victorious and deeply human.

When asked about the book’s minimalist white cover, Athulya explained it was deliberate—a blankness masking the storm within. That moment landed like a truth I hadn’t realized I was waiting to hear. Don’t we all wear white covers? Don’t we all carry storms?

The evening was more than a launch—it was a witnessing of alchemy. Of how friendship can become a crucible for creation. Of how storytelling is sometimes the only way to make peace with what disturbs us most.

The evening turned even more beautiful when I found the person sitting next to me had sketched and written a beautiful poetry while immersed in the journey of Eldo.

During our discussions, what gently emerged was the quiet but profound role that shared spaces—like bookstores—play in the life of a city. Pankaj shared how, with Athulya’s gentle coaxing, he came to truly understand the essence of picture books—not just in theory, but through the tangible experience of holding, reading, and feeling them at Champaca. Initially, his vision for Yangdol was simple: to create digital copies and make them freely accessible. But as the journey unfolded, both Pankaj and Athulya expressed deep gratitude to the Champaca community—a space and a people who consistently nudged them forward, encouraging them to self-publish and share their work with the world. Eldo, too, carries the imprint of this place, having been written and completed on the very tables of Champaca.

Before we left, Pankaj and Athulya shared a glimpse into their next project—a tale about befriending trees. In their eyes, laughter, and quiet camaraderie, there was a kind of certainty. Whatever they create next, it will not just be read; it will be felt.

If you haven’t yet, find your way to Champaca. Yangdol and Eldo await on their quiet shelves, in limited self-published prints. They don’t scream for attention—but they do whisper, and their whispers echo long after you’ve turned the final page.