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.

A Tale of Two Homes

It’s that time of year again.

As the summer sun casts its golden glow over Dubai, my heart has begun to yearn for the distant monsoon-laden skies of my beloved home, Calcutta. Having spent fifteen years in Dubai, my vibrant desert city, I have grown to appreciate its grandeur and cosmopolitan charm. Yet, there remains an indescribable longing that draws me back to the city of my roots, where memories intertwine with rain-soaked streets and the nostalgia and familiar comforts of home.

Dubai, continues to captivate my heart and imagination. The city thrives on the relentless pulse of ambition, each day bustling with a mosaic of cultures and dreams. A symphony of languages fills the air, blending seamlessly with the rhythmic hum of motor vehicles and the occasional calls to prayer. In Dubai, life is a fusion of the past and future, a glittering tapestry woven with dreams and aspirations.

Yet, as the summer holidays beckon, my thoughts drift across the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea to Calcutta, where, as I type this, the monsoon is transforming the landscape into a canvas of verdant hues and swirling mists. The raindrops, breathe life into the earth, unveiling a mystical beauty amidst the sense of decay, that only the rains can evoke. In Calcutta, history permeates every corner, leaving a mark on the city’s spirit. Narrow lanes wind through neighborhoods, revealing crumbling colonial buildings adorned with intricate ironwork balconies. The aroma of street food wafts through the air, mingling with the heady scent of damp earth. The Howrah Bridge, a behemoth of steel, stands proudly, connecting the pulse of the city across the mighty Ganges.

Despite its many drawbacks, I find solace and simplicity at home, in the warmth of family and the familiarity of tradition. The monsoon becomes a symphony of emotions, streets come alive with children splashing in rain-filled puddles, their laughter echoing through the narrow alleyways up to my room on the fourth floor. In the streets, sarees drenched in rainwater create a vibrant kaleidoscope of colors, reflecting the resilience and beauty of the city’s people.

As I prepare to embark on another summer journey back to Kolkata, I am torn between two homes, two worlds that have shaped me in unique ways. Dubai, with its modernity and ambition, offers endless opportunities for growth and adventure. Kolkata, with its nostalgic charm and monsoon-drenched soul, reminds me of the simplicity and profound beauty of life. I hate leaving Dubai, and when the time comes, I will hate to leave Calcutta too.

In this clash of cultures and landscapes, I find myself suspended, belonging to both cities yet truly belonging to neither. It is in this liminal space that I discover the true essence of my identity—a confluence of two homes, two cities that will forever resonate within my being.

In a few days, my plane will soar above the desert dunes, I will close my eyes and savor the anticipation of Kolkata’s embrace and in this interplay of memories and aspirations, I find solace. For I carry within me the spirit of two homes, forever intertwined like the threads of a vibrant tapestry.

A Mirror to Our Times

I am currently watching “Queen Charlotte,” the Netflix series, which in my opinion is a triumph in its portrayal of power, identity, and the complexity of human relationships. From the very first episode, I was immediately drawn into the rich tapestry of themes that the show expertly weaves. The struggle for power, the exploration of identity, and the battle against societal norms all intertwine to create a mesmerizing narrative that holds me in its grip. Additionally, with the struggles of monarchy and political machinations represented in the series, the show fearlessly confronts the complexities of its time.

The layers and messaging within “Queen Charlotte” are remarkable. As has become synonymous with Shondaland, the writers and creators delve into the depths of societal constraints, highlighting the oppressive norms and expectations placed upon individuals, particularly women and people of color. The characters are multifaceted, each grappling with their own desires and ambitions in a world that seeks to confine them.

But what truly sets “Queen Charlotte” apart is its forward-thinking approach. It fearlessly addresses pertinent social issues and challenges outdated ideologies, urging audiences to question established norms. The show’s ability to spark conversations about race, gender, and power dynamics is commendable.

One of my favorite things about the show is its use of contemporary music and pop culture references which add a refreshing touch to the series. In doing so, it creates a bridge between the historical setting and the present, making the show relatable and engaging for a diverse audience. The integration of modern elements injects a vibrant energy into the narrative, ensuring that viewers stay captivated throughout.

Shonda Rhimes, the creator of “Queen Charlotte,” has repeatedly demonstrated her exceptional talent for conveying relevant social issues through her shows. Her ability to intertwine compelling storytelling with timely social commentary is commendable. She consistently pushes boundaries, challenges norms, and advocates for inclusivity in her work. Her knack for creating diverse and complex characters allows her shows to resonate with a wide range of viewers, making her a true trailblazer in the television industry.

Now, back to episode 5.

To You

There’s a certain serendipity in our collective experiences, isn’t there? The wombs that carry us, the blood that flows in our veins, the walls that protect us or break us down; everything seems designed to make us different from each other. And yet, like divergent short stories whose plot lines intersect seamlessly, the pages that form our lives seem to be written by the same hand.
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Truths we divulge cautiously, fly like paper planes fluttering through uncertain updrafts. Some land in safe hands, others disappear into the ether, never to be uttered again. Conversations over red wine and cigarettes lead to revelations that shift the plates that steady our relationships.
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There seems to be some invisible thread connecting the humanity of our shared experiences. I may have lived a life far removed from yours and yet I wil understand the rise and fall of your chest for what it is. I will be able to tell from the timber of your voice when someone’s toxic words left the sides of your heart with jagged edges. Your eyes will betray you as I peer against your will, into that moment when your boss humiliated you or you found out about an unfaithful lover.
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You see, we’re more alike than different. My skin, eyes and wavy hair are just totems of that same grand lottery that makes princes of some folk and paupers of others. At our core you and I are same. You and I were meant to be each other’s.
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So when you lie down at night and stare at your ceiling, remember these words. I may have lived a life far removed from yours and *yet* I wil understand the rise and fall of your chest for what it is. I *will* be able to tell from the timber of your voice when someone’s toxic words left the sides of your heart with jagged edges.
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You are not alone. I see you.
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And for all you know, I too could be lying down somewhere, staring at my ceiling; alone in a room bathed in moonlight, hoping that someone, somewhere sees me too.

P.V Sindhu – Building a Legacy

P.V Sindhu has been a winner for the better part of her life and 2022 seems like a point of inflection. Last month I had the opportunity to chat with badminton’s poster girl. Her journey is one of Indian sport’s greatest and her determination to become and remain number 1 was palpable all through our conversation.

Read more, as Sindhu speaks candidly to me on sacrifice, sexism and the future of Indian Sport in GRAZIA’s September cover story.

Click on the link to read the article Interview with P.V Sindhu  

An Interview with MTV India’s Coolest VJ

Earlier this month I had the distinct pleasure to interview Malaika Arora for GRAZIA Magazine’s May 2022 Cover Story. Our meeting was riddled with technical difficulties exacerbated by poor WiFi, where Arora was spending a lazy Sunday afternoon with family. Although interrupted by staccato phrasing over a Zoom call, when we finally met, she was calm, cheerful, and generous with her time and responses.

Click on the link to read the interview. Interview with Malaika Arora

Cover of GRAZIA Magazine – May 2022

1.1.2021

^{I tested positive for Covid-19 on New Year’s Day. For almost four weeks in early 2021 I went through a roller coaster of health, emotions, and utter exhaustion. Although not hospitalized, it was a tiresome and long road to recovery, as I continued to test positive long after the 10 day isolation. The illness ebbs and flows and is slow to go away. When it did, “post-Covid fatigue syndrome”—set in and stayed with me well into March. For a month, I looked and lived like Tom Hanks in Castaway. On my good days, I was real good, the bad days were a struggle. Throughout those weeks, I toyed with the idea of blogging about my experiences – on one hand, writing was helping me keep my emotions in check and on the other, I was so afraid that I would overshare. I wanted to get well before I told my parents what I had gone through. The news in early 21 was bleak and media alerts from WhatsApp University were only making matters worse, globally. I am now finally ready to share bits and pieces of my experience. As I type this, India is seeing her worst wave of Covid. The news is bleak, my insides hurt from having to be away from home, and the headlines all spell doomsday. The aim of this series is to get a message out: for some people the illness goes on for a few weeks. Symptoms come and go and they can be strange and frightening. The exhaustion is severe, real, and part of the illness. But having Covid19 allows you to recalibrate too. You are given time. Your body is set to restart mode and as it boots back up, things do get better. If you are going through what so many of us have been through, hang in there. Find the light. Seek it out. Fix your eyes on it. It will see you through. Here’s to Hope and Healing}

I tested Positive for COVID-19 today. What a way to begin the New Year!

After an entire year of social distancing, staying indoors, sanitizing, not traveling and basically just re-adjusting my rhythm, the darn virus got me. The news was not shocking or overwhelming, like some might imagine it to be, because to be honest, I knew how I was feeling, and I understood what my body was telling me way before the SMS arrived with the confirmation.

I spent the day cleaning the apartment like I normally do – I find household chores therapeutic. I did laundry, I caught up with my emails and went about my day as normally as I could. I even managed to make it through ten pages of Avni Doshi’s ‘Burnt Sugar’, uninterrupted. It is ironic that despite the lockdown, the oppressive amounts of free time at the beginning of the year and basically putting my social life on hold – my reading habits have ebbed and flowed, with procrastination preventing me from getting though all the books I had on my ‘to-read’ list for 2020.

There is a slight heaviness in my head and an itch in my throat. I feel like dad’s old Navy-Blue Vespa, spluttering and gurgling each time I feel a cough rising in my chest. My hands seek out Kleenex and a face mask, my eyes search for the faithful ‘Aquafina’ positioned beside my bedside table and my eyes look to the London Tyler clock as I make a mental note about how long it has been since I last coughed. A scene from FRIENDS punctuates my thoughts; Janice timing the gaps between her contractions, the two situations are in no way the same, obviously. But I snigger anyway. Such a random recollection to have right now… must be the fever!

Friends who tested positive have started a + Support Group on WhatsApp. By evening I am added to the group and reading the gentle advice of a doctor in the UK. I make a mental checklist as I scroll through the conversation –signs to look out for – how to position myself when I sleep – red flags to be aware of – there is so much information that I do not have, despite the copious amounts of reading that took place when the Pandemic first broke. I tap on my Samsung and within minutes strips of Vitamin C supplements, a thermometer and some other medicinal knickknacks are delivered to my door. I catch myself toying with the thermometer absentmindedly in the fluorescent light of my kitchenette; it is the first time in thirteen years of living in the UAE that I have had to buy one.

As the curtains come down on first day of the New Year, I am oddly amused. As I try to find a comfortable spot on my memory foam pillow, I wonder out loud how the rest of the year will pan out. What other surprises are in store? When will all of this end? When will I get to go home and hug mum and dad? There are no answers of course, just silence, interrupted by the ticking hands of my clock – reminding me that despite the inconvenience, the Universe has given me an opportunity to reset. And so, I shall.

Temperature 36.3 C

How to Talk to Children About Racism

A journalist friend recently reached out to talk to me about an incident at her son’s school. A conversation about race and how to talk to children about racism ensued. This evenings National Newspaper has me looking at conversations about race through an educators lens for @TheNationalNews.

https://www.thenationalnews.com/lifestyle/family/how-to-talk-to-children-about-racism-start-early-often-and-in-an-age-appropriate-way-1.1157526

Joy in the Journey

For my last weekend in Al Ain I could think of nothing more fitting than a drive up to Jebel Hafeet. Over the last two-and-a-half years, escaping to the top of the limestone range has been my favorite pastime. I even chose my apartment because of its mountain view and I will always remember standing out on my balcony on winter mornings waiting for cloud-cover to rise and reveal the city’s iconic peak.

The view from the top of Jebel Hafeet can often be hazy, maybe as a consequence of the quarrying and cement factories that dot the area. But for me, the beauty has always been in the serpentine journey through hairpin turns, as I play hide and seek with the sun.

In November of 2017, I moved to the Garden City reluctantly as my head and heart continued to combat each other, trying to figure out how to coexist in unison. But the slower pace of life, small town vibes and simple routines grew on me sooner than I thought they would. My rhythm adjusted and the people I met solidified my feelings for my temporary home. Each person had a feel of calm and deep investment in making quiet connections…some private and some to share.

As we drove up to the top this morning, I could not help but marvel at how life plays out, pushing us in the directions that lead us to where we need to be. Thirty minutes into the journey we were making our way to the over-priced café and hoping to catch the sunrise one last time. God’s early morning, egg-yolk exposition did not disappoint.

I hope to return and see the sweeping views of Oman and Al Ain again someday but for me the drive and the anticipation of making it to the top will always be what makes this journey a beautiful experience. It is never about the destination but the journey itself. Just like life.