Exploring Eastward – Navigating Japanese and Indian Literature this Summer

In the quiet corners of my home, amidst the sun-kissed pages of my novels or my well used iPad Screen, I find solace and embark on wondrous journeys through time and space. Over the years my summer reading habit has blossomed into a cherished ritual, a delightful escape from the everyday humdrum, and this year, my literary wanderings have taken me to the enchanting land of Japan, where I have savored the works of remarkable Japanese authors. Three weeks into my summer break, like a stream finding its way, I have enrolled in a course offered by the University of Tokyo, seeking to immerse myself further in the captivating tapestry of the ‘Visual and Literary Culture of 19th-century Japan.’

As I sit in my room captured by the stories that grace my shelves,I am transported to a world where the ordinary intertwines with the extraordinary. The delicate brushstrokes of Japanese literature find resonance with my thoughts and beliefs

In the tapestry of my mind, the vibrancy of familiar Indian writers i read earlier this year, intertwines effortlessly with the evocative artistry of Japanese storytellers. Just as the scent of spices dances through the air, mingling with the fragrance of cherry blossoms, so do the narratives of two diverse cultures merge within my imagination. The words of Murakami and Mishima blend with those of Lahiri and Rushdie, creating a symphony of emotions and experiences that transcends borders.

As I delve into the 19th-century visual and literary culture of Japan, I am struck by the profound connection I feel. The delicate brushwork of ukiyo-e prints mirrors the intricate descriptions found in the works of Indian authors. The gardens and landscapes depicted in these art forms, meticulously crafted with delicate strokes, evoke the same sense of serenity as the tranquil verses of Mulk Raj Anand, Naidu or Tagore.

Through my summer reading, I have come to appreciate the boundless beauty of diverse cultures and the transformative power of literature. Each page turned is an invitation to explore, to expand my horizons, and to savor the wonders of the human imagination. My reading habit  has become a gateway to understanding, a vessel that carries me across time and space.

In the gentle embrace of my favorite white reading chair, with a cup of chai in hand, I find myself immersed in a world where cultures converge, where words paint vivid landscapes, and where the joys of discovery never cease. This summer, as I embark on my journey with the University cohort, I know that my heart will be filled with a profound appreciation for the power of learning and storytelling, a gift that transcends physical distance and connects kindred spirits.

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  

The Sounds of Home

Yesterday’s newspaper bore the gut-wrenching headline, “Monsoons delayed by a week to nine days”, … but they’re wrong, as usual. Morning’s sunny skies are long gone, and above us, the heavens are painted in an apocalyptic palette as voluminous charcoal clouds glide gently overhead threatening imminent torrential release.

Picture taken by my father at 5:45 pm, 7.7.2022.

Around me, housewives scurry to bring in their laundry from balconies, rooftops and makeshift hangers, tarpaulin curtains are being strung by shopkeepers, and little children are screaming out to each other from windows and rooftops, as paper kites in freefall land on random terraces around the neighbourhood.

The scene around me has changed in a matter of moments. As thunder begins to rumble in the heavenly corridors overhead, July breezes carry the sounds of the city into every open casement.

A nearby temple has come alive with the blowing of the conch shell. The bells from the church behind my home seem to be ringing in unison as the strong updrafts rock the clappers from side to side. Bells from the anklets of young women tinkle and cyclists announce their approach as they all scurry to find cover.

Returning home is always an assault on the senses. Calcutta is teeming with life, it’s townships dense with people, buildings, flower markets and vendors. The city smells of camphor, dried leaves burning, pungent smog and delectable street food. And since the sights and scents are so compelling, I realise that I’ve rarely ever stopped to listen to and reminisce over the soundtrack of my formative years.

An airplane flying overhead punctuates my reverie and I lean over my terrace to listen to the sounds emanating from the street below. I hear crows hailing the coming deluge , the tinkling from a passing cycle rickshaw, a satsang of ladies in the distance and a damaru player in one desperate attempt to sell his remaining ware – but all of these seem to harmonise spontaneously and add to the lively soundscape of my home.

While I live and work abroad and watch the world whizz by me, ever changing, ever evolving, returning home is to come face to face with a city ageing gracefully and choosing to remain unchanged, immortal even. The sights don’t necessarily make for picture perfect memories if you’re looking for those, but there’s a warmth in the city  not to be found in many modern day Shangri-la’s beyond her borders.  And despite the plethora of reverberations, there is still a charming unison in the tsunami of sounds.

This is not a cacophony of disjointed melodies but a blend  of sound bytes etched permanently in my memory, in fact they are memories in and of themselves that fill my heart with nostalgia and the “bliss of solitude”. These are the sounds of home.

Sounds of Christmas Day

There’s a satsang happening somewhere on our street this evening. Scattered minds united by music and meditation are singing rhythmically and only stopping occasionally between bhajans.

I imagine them sitting on the floor of someone’s apartment, catching up on unfinished conversations or swallowing cups of cardamom tea between verses and reverberations, as the host makes trips to and from the kitchen; her lips only joining in on the beginning and ending of the verses.

Inside my home the scene is quite different. The lights from our six foot Christmas tree have bathed our living room in a soft peach glow. Pa’s Spotify is playing an Elvis styled remix of the traditional “Born in Bethlehm”, and my dog Skippy, has been wandering around the house, looking for a spot to lie down away from footfall of the four serial huggers he shares his space with. He just needs a vantage point that works for him, but also allows him to watch everyone else surreptitiously.

Today is Christmas.

I could reflect on the theology of what Christmas signifies.  But brighter minds than mine have tried to demystify the concept of God, a higher power, a presence that unites all life.  They have read the sacred scriptures of their faiths, written books, and given sermons inspired by what they found. 

But the whole idea of believing in something beyond what our five senses tell us, is because we *know deep within* that it’s right, not because we can prove it.

People of good will, of many faiths, or of no particular faith, feel something different at this time of year. Incomplete as it is by itself, out of the much bigger context in which it belongs, Christmas nevertheless offers us one succinct and valuable insight. It’s humility made human.

Someone much greater than us humbled himself to become like us, for the purpose of showing us how to be happy. He lived and taught us that we should recognize the worth of other people, and not insist on our own greatness. In that way, we can transcend the limits placed on us by our five senses – and touch the eternal.

So today, whether you’re sitting in a Satsang, unwrapping gifts at the foot of your tree, riding an uber to the hottest party in your city or sipping on mulled wine at home with family, Christmas is for you. If you choose love, humility and to belive that He came, so we could live in Hope, you’re celebrating Christmas the way it’s meant to be celebrated.

That’s it. Merry Christmas and a happy, humble New Year to you and your loved ones.

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

Burnt Sugar by Avni Doshi

After three long weeks, I finally managed to complete reading Avni Doshi’s ‘Burnt Sugar’. The novel’s Man Booker nod and Doshi being a Dubai resident, created quite a buzz around the book and I struggled for a while to get my hands on a copy. Halfway into the novel, I realized I was not going to be a fan. I also suspect I read ‘Burnt Sugar’ at a bad time and that I would  have appreciated it more had the circumstances around my reading been different. Readers will know what I mean.

203 pages later and I’m still quite unsure what to make of this book. While stylistically speaking, it is beautifully written, it is also needlessly intense, borderline disturbing, unsettling and lacks focus. I was never quite sure if Doshi’s intent was to explore the lasting impact of child neglect, a toxic mother-daughter relationship, a woman’s search for her sense of self or just a deep dive into the unstable psyche of two very troubled women. in fact the narrative touches on all of those themes but rarely goes beneath the surface. To misquote a line from the narrative –  (the book) halts and sputters but doesn’t reverse, and that is why the sense of incoherence in the themes left me trying to navigate my way through very, very distractedly.

Tara and Antara exert almost this opposing yet undeniable pull for one another, each trying to escape the clutches of the other and yet in some twisted way always seek the other out. Tara is suffering from early onset dementia; people, identity and actions slowly slipping away like colours fading from old photographs. Antara’s turbulent childhood has obviously had an impact on her, but alongside her unpleasant personality, Doshi presents Antara’s convoluted thoughts with such aloofness, such casual cruelty, it almost jolts you out of the book. How can a daughter, any daughter, be like this? And to be fair, the mother’s character is never given as much time and space for us to fully appreciate Antara’s emotional bankruptcy. So many sections felt laborious and unnecessary, almost as if she were trying to shock the reader with her subversive feelings. Whilst there is an overall plot arc, it digresses much too often, spiraling into incidents that don’t add to the story but rather subtract from it. I thought.

The process of typing this post, however random, made me realize I didn’t like this book very much. Aside from the writing, some sentences genuinely glittering in its finesse, there was not much I could appreciate. Do not let the abstract lavender cover with aloe vera mislead you into thinking this is some breezy read. It is deeply visceral, intense, unnerving and personally for me, one I could have done without. Look, nothign I have ever written or could possibly write will make it to the Man Booker list, so I will say this, there is certainly a good book in here somewhere, but it and the characters needed more time in the oven. In the end, I realize my criticisms are entirely a matter of personal taste, but I would have pared this back to the key relationships and taken out the malodorous wadding.

As it stands this ended up being all rather unnecessarily exhausting and a head-scratching inclusion on a Booker list and in my 2020 reading of course. On to the next one.