Homecoming Symphony

These days I wake to the quiet embrace of unusual winter mornings in Kolkata. For the first time in years, the city is likely to bid a warm send-off to 2023 with the missing chill only slated to emerge with Janus’ grand return in 4 days from now. Despite the absence of north westerly winds, I find myself immersed in the symphony of homecoming. The air, still crisp and shrouded in fog, carries whispers of nostalgia that weave through the familiar streets I miss when I am away, and grumble about when I return.

At dawn, the first rays of the sun stream through mum’s white lace curtains, casting a patterned glow upon the familiar corners of our home. My father, a silhouette against the early light, rolls back the large brown sliding glass windows of our living room and tends to his Bougainvillea with a devotion that mirrors the roots he’s planted in soil. The kettle whistles, and the clinking of cutlery signals his initiation of the morning tea ritual—the first of many cups he’ll enjoy throughout the day. Maa’s movements begin to echo in the kitchen, accompanied by the faint backdrop of the Facebook reels they’re watching and the familiar acoustics of a city stretching and stirring back to life. These sounds reach me, nestled in bed in that dreamy half-awake, half-asleep state, as I absorb the soothing symphony of home.

I have a feeling that the sounds of maa’s kitchen are more intentional than coincidental. They serve as the day’s starting gun, akin to a flag unfurling at the beginning of a race—a subtle cue for my brother and me to rise and begin our day. Initially disregarded, the race master’s voice suddenly reverberates through the air, and in seconds, sleep dissipates as our feet hasten to kickstart morning chores and rituals. Maa’s hands move with a rhythm born out of years of practice. The clang of utensils, sizzling egg whites or spices in hot oil – each sound tells a story of comfort, of meals shared and traditions upheld. The aroma of masalas surrendering their scents and flavors, expertly tossed and blended by the hands of Maa (and occasionally Papa) delicately matching powders and pastes, will always bring me back to the warmth of home.

Papa’s Spotify plays an old Christmas hymn by The Imperials , a tune that has accompanied countless December mornings in the three homes we have all shared. Its nostalgic notes form a backdrop to the familiar sounds of a neighborhood in slow motion. Children’s voices, the calls of street vendors, and the intermittent honking of passing vehicles compose a cacophony of life that is uniquely Kolkata.

As I wash the breakfast dishes, the rhythmic flow of water turns into a kind of meditation. The clinking of plates and the running water create a calming melody that echoes the essence of home life. The wooden floor boards beneath my feet, cool to the touch, ground me in a reality that transcends borders and reminds me of the warmth of belonging. In the distance, the neighborhood church bells chime, and the syncopated chaos of another winter morning fills the air. In these quiet moments of housework and everyday life, Kolkata becomes more than a city; it is a living, breathing memoir of familial ties and the richness of relationships. I am reminded that for me the heart of Kolkata is not in her famous landmarks or culinary delights but in the everyday, the mundane, and my favorite – the satisfaction that comes from an ordinary day at home.

Can Thoughtful Writing Survive in the Modern Inbox?

I woke early this morning, tackled chores, brewed a cup of coffee, and settled in to check my emails. Anticipating the usual notifications from my bank, blog engagement data, or the weekly offers from Musafir or Emirates, I was caught off guard. Instead, I stumbled upon a digital relic—an authentic email, complete with structure, full sentences devoid of text abbreviations, proper syntax, and impeccable grammar. It was the whole shebang! Someone had actually written to me – instead of resorting to one of those impersonal Whatsapp messages that I usually read a day or two after they are sent! How cool, no?

Reading the email beckoned me to a time when the internet hummed at the pace of dial-up connections. A time when my communication with friends and family bore the weight of contemplation, when writing was an art, and was also my only way of connecting with friends from Mount Abu to Melbourne! (You know who you are)

As a student I was tethered to an hour of internet usage a day at home. Our egg white box computer sat on a Magenta table that was custom made to hide a printer, a bulky CPU, a noisy modem, and box speakers. We were all teched out in the early 2000s primarily thanks to my father’s foresight in recognizing the transformative impact of computers on the world; he wanted to ensure that we had the skills we would need in the future.

But one hour a day was never enough for me and so I found solace in cyber cafes, where for 10 rupees an hour I could navigate the fascinating virtual landscape, develop the grace of an Orkut maestro, stumble into strange chat rooms where people had even stranger user names and I would inevitably find myself hastily clicking the ‘x’ icon on a tab whenever a questionable advertisement or image popped up—usually just as the café owner was making his way down the aisle to ensure nobody was misusing the sacred machines. How times have changed, no?

Despite it all, nothing brought me more joy than spotting a familiar name in my inbox. Over the years, I transitioned from writing and sending letters to reading digital life updates, and both brought me immense joy. I have fond memories of walking to our neighborhood post office with grandma, queuing up to buy stamps, hunting for a glue stick and then finally slipping the envelopes into the slender mouths of big red letter boxes. Later, I made memories reading out emails to my folks, and printing out the ones I wanted to keep going back to after my time online was up. Email, once an art form, unfolded as a tapestry of my thoughts, meticulously woven in the quiet hum of a cyber café or against the background noise of a family of four in action.

Fast forward to the present, our corporate corridors reverberate with the staccato rhythm of mindless email culture, CCs, BCCs, instant messages, and WhatsApp pings—a cacophony that drowns the eloquence of artful communication. The digital realm, once my sanctuary for profound exchanges, now succumbs to the tyranny of brevity, FYIs, and is often used as a substitute for actual human to human communication.

In this era depth is sacrificed for immediacy and I yearn for a revival of the email’s grace. The corporate milieu, with its stilted language and curt directives, has eclipsed the nuanced beauty of written expression. People just don’t have the time to care for what they communicate.

If you’re reading this, I would ask you to reflect on the richness of what we’ve forsaken. The email, once a vessel for emotion and contemplation, has been long ignored. Can we not, in the midst of this digital deluge, salvage the sanctity of our written exchanges? As the festive season approaches with Christmas and New Year’s just around the bend, now is the ideal moment to delight someone with a heartfelt, personalized email message. Craft a note that goes beyond words, making them feel truly seen, warmly remembered, and genuinely cared for.

Can thoughtful writing survive in the modern inbox? I am going to try and reclaim the art of connection in the remaining ten days of 2023—one carefully crafted email at a time. Watch your inbox just in case you’re on my list.