Mina Ikemoto Ghosh describes her novella, Numamushi, as a “fantasy of love,” but the story is far more than that. A striking blend of Japanese folklore and the harsh realities of post-World War II Japan, Numamushi delves into themes of identity, belonging, and the transformative power of words. In conversation with The Asian Cut, Ghosh shared about her inspirations, multicultural background, and the personal resonance behind her work.
As a British-Japanese writer and illustrator, Ghosh’s storytelling is embedded in her multicultural roots. Born to a Japanese mother and a mixed-heritage father, Ghosh grew up balancing two worlds. “At home, I had Japanese language books,” she recalls, “but outside, I was in the UK. I don’t look white, so no one ever asked me to conform. But I’ve seen others—people who looked white but grew up with Japanese culture—struggle with erasure.” Cultural identity and the tension between visibility and invisibility permeate her work, providing a foundation for the themes she explores.
Her creative journey began in childhood, shaped by a love of storytelling that blended imagery and words. For Ghosh, drawing and writing were two sides of the same coin, helping her navigate a world that didn’t always reflect her experiences. “I think the universality of folklore makes it such an effective tool for exploring identity,” she explains. “Folktales speak to our shared fears, hopes, and the desire to understand the world.” Her fascination with folklore began at a young age, nurtured by stories her family shared during trips to her grandmother’s home in rural Japan.
This dynamic manifests vividly in Numamushi, where the titular protagonist, a boy scarred by napalm, is raised by a river god, straddling the line between human and spirit. The story explores identity in a time of collective soul-searching, as Ghosh explains: “I’m mixed race, and writing directly about it feels too exposing. Folklore lets me approach it indirectly. It’s tied to place and people, and in post-war Japan—a period of identity renegotiation—it felt fitting to explore those themes through folklore.”
Numamushi is steeped in the details of a nation finding its footing, drawing heavily from Ghosh’s memories of her grandmother’s home. “There’s a river near her house,” she shares, “and every time I visit, there’s another empty house nearby. That sense of depopulation and decay influenced the story.” The landscape becomes a character pulsing with the tension between decay and renewal as Japan struggles to reshape its identity. “The house in Numamushi is based on my grandmother’s,” she adds. “But it’s more rundown in the book, almost gothic in its feel—like it carries the weight of its history.”
Tethered to this landscape is the river god, a protector and a mirror for a society caught in transition. In Ghosh’s hands, the river god symbolises the era’s contradictions, deeply rooted in past traditions while witnessing the transformation of the present. The haunting, almost otherworldly atmosphere of Numamushi allows Ghosh to explore generational trauma and reconciliation.
Mizukiyo, a war-weary stranger who befriends Numamushi, embodies the moral reckoning faced by many returnees in post-war Japan. “I read accounts of prison chaplains working with war criminals,” Ghosh explains. “These were the same people who had provided religious justification for the war. That contradiction—offering salvation to the same people they’d sent to war—fascinated me and shaped Mizukiyo’s character.” Mizukiyo and the river god weave a rich tapestry of guilt, redemption, and the search for belonging.
The novella’s treatment of words, identity, and otherness resonates deeply in the relationships it portrays. For Numamushi, raised by the river god, words become his bridge to the human world. “Words are water,” Mizukiyo tells him. “They’re precious and easily wasted.” For Ghosh, this metaphor encapsulates the power and fragility of language. “Words carry history and meaning,” she reflects. “They have the power to connect or harm. Writing is a way to explore that power.”
Underscoring Ghosh’s writing are stark, black-and-white illustrations scattered throughout the novel. “One of my favourite illustrations is Mizukiyo eating a frog,” she says. “It’s unsettling, but it captures the story’s strangeness. The illustrations set the mood and give the narrative breathing room.” This dedication to visual storytelling has earned Ghosh recognition; her art has been exhibited internationally and has garnered awards for its ability to merge traditional and contemporary techniques. “I use ink and paper for my lines,” she says. “It’s a sensory break from the digital world—the sound of the pen on paper, the feel of the ink. It connects me to the story.”
This tactile connection enhances the novella’s sincerity. “Writing from a child’s perspective allowed me to avoid cynicism,” Ghosh explains. “It’s a story about love in its purest form—unconditional and redemptive.” Numamushi’s innocence and loyalty make him an endearing character, as in the scene where he playfully offers to bite someone’s ankles to defend Mizukiyo. His perspective imbues the story with a sense of wonder, even as it confronts bitter realities.
Ghosh’s personal reflections also extend to the relationships in Numamushi. “The river god is an ideal parent,” she says. “He accepts Numamushi’s dual nature without hesitation. It’s a mixed-race kid’s fantasy—a parent who says, ‘You’re perfect as you are.’” This resonates with Ghosh’s own experience of her parents fostering a space where she could embrace her dual heritage. “My mother especially encouraged me to see my mixed heritage as a strength,” she shared, “and my father’s own experience gave me the confidence to navigate those intersections.” This contrasts with Mizukiyo, whose human upbringing was marked by suppression and shame. “It’s about finding a place where you can just be,” Ghosh adds. “The river god is loving and accepting, but he’s also grappling with his own failures as a parent figure. It’s his redemption arc, too.”
The novella also explores the monstrous, a recurring theme in Ghosh’s work. “I’ve always loved the Beast in Beauty and the Beast more than his human form,” she confesses. “There’s a romanticism in the monstrous—a way to explore what it means to be human.” This perspective permeates Numamushi, which blurs the lines between human and spirit, normal and monstrous. Ghosh’s unique ability to infuse her narratives with raw emotion reflects her admiration for stories that wear their hearts on their sleeves. “I’ve always gravitated toward tales like The Lord of the Rings,” she says, “stories that don’t shy away from grand emotions, where love, loss, and hope are central. That kind of sincerity inspired me.”
By creating a world that defies traditional boundaries, Ghosh invites readers to step into a gentler, more compassionate reality. “I wanted readers to accept this world on its own terms,” she explains. “It’s a story about love, forgiveness, and pain—raw, unfiltered pain. And with pain comes healing.” This irresistible mix of vulnerability and resilience defines Numamushi as a stand-out novella that is impossible to ignore.
Building on the themes and storytelling techniques that define Numamushi, Ghosh is already looking ahead to her next ventures. Among them are a sequel to her YA Japanese murder mystery, Hyo the Hellmaker, and a space-based novel inspired by Heian-era court poetry. “It’s all about the power of words,” she notes. “In Heian culture, poetry was like meme culture—layered with context and meaning. I’m excited to explore that.”
Her reflections on her artistic process and cultural influences underscore how personal storytelling can also be universal. “Numamushi is a fantasy of love,” she reiterates, “but it’s also about finding belonging and coming to terms with oneself. I hope readers come away feeling like they’ve been hugged—by a snake, maybe—but hugged nonetheless.” In her hands, even the monstrous can become a source of comfort.
