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.

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  

Growing up Anglo-Indian

Growing up Anglo-Indian, I always found it difficult to explain to friends why my mother tongue was not Hindi or Bengali.

‘’How can it be English?’’ They would ask incredulously. 

‘’It is’’, I would try to explain. ‘’I’m Anglo Indian’’.

“So you’re one of those half-castes?”

Not quite sure how to respond to their genuine questions that were often laced with deeply-ingrained prejudices and derogatory connotations, I would mumble something about being Anglo-Indian, and how I experienced life.

The history books record how most Anglo-Indian’s left India when the country gained independence. They probably identified more with the British, and so fled to other commonwealth nations. I understand that the Anglo’s were “anglicised” so to speak, and although they must have had positive relationships with everyone around them, there may have been such distinct cultural differences that it set them securely apart. It seems like over time, the community cherry picked the British and Indian ingredients it wanted and created its own cultural recipe. One that I inhertited from my parents and grandparents.

On reflection, I can see that cherry picking is a habit I have inherited too. I suppose that being raised by a parents who identified with a certain culture means that it has been passed down, and I have also plucked out, experiences, foods and stories that have kept the Anglo-Indian-ness alive within me. But my parents also ensured I had a very cosmopolitan childhood. None of my closest friends were from the community, we rarely attended those big parties and Christmas-eve events, I have never been to the Bow Barracks, I don’t jive, my taste in food is multicultural, I am a die-hard Bollywood fan, I scored a 92% in ICSE Hindi as opposed to 78% in English, and I have no distinct affinity for anything particularly Anglo, other than food.

So, am I just all Indian? Am I a heady mix of two cultures? How Anglo am I really? More importantly, does it matter? There are many who preserve the culture fiercely, I am not one of them. Many desperately hope that some day, they will be able to articulate the label they identify with. Again, I am not one of those people. Being Anglo hasn’t led to me having particularly better opportunities, support or guidance from the community. It’s not a badge of honour I wear on my lapel, and I understand that’s not a popular opinion to have. Growing up Anglo Indian was to actually grow up surrounded by questions about my identity, it was about being pricked by stereotypes regularly, and being judged for a perceived lack of aspirations and personal growth, none of which I enjoyed and actually worked so hard to shed.

This morning I listened intently to Barry O’Brien’s message to the community on the occasion of World Anglo Indian Day. O’Brien is articulate and has that deep baritone I enjoy listening to whenever he speaks. However, I couldn’t help but reflect on how his message was predominantly about the community’s history, heritage, it’s glorious heyday and even though there was an emotional appeal to adults to look after the youth, there was no mention of concrete plans to actually invest in the lives of younger Anglo-Indians who can make a difference to the community. To be fair to him, how much can you outline in eight minutes anyway?

Our leaders however, still quote successes like Englebert Humperdinck, Ben Kingsley, Freddy Mercury and Sir Cliff Richards as our own. But the list of icons ends there. The success stories don’t overflow into contemporary history. Despite a generous spattering of Whitney Houston lyrics, clichés and platitudes in O’Brien’s speechthis morning, there was no actual strategy or action plan outlined to preserve the culture or support younger members in achieving a better tomorrow not just for themselves, but for the community at large. Actually, there has never been any strategy and it doesn’t seem like there is one today when our national leaders have arbitrarily removed our representatives from the Lok Sabha citing horrendously inaccurate statistics from a census taken years ago. Then again, what exactly did our representatives do for us while they held those esteemed positions? There isn’t even an accurate and updated register for how many of us exist. How did they know who they were representing?

I suppose that’s why I struggle with feeling a deeper sense of belonging than I currently have. My community, has lived on its laurels for as long as I can remember. Its leaders have perpetuated the success stories of the past and glorified its legacy in the fields of medicine, education, and engineering. But the pride ends there, we’re so firmly rooted in our history that we forgot to think of and plan for the future. Today, Anglo Indian teachers and principals in our schools do little or nothing to nurture the young or support their dreams and goals and most of our initiatives lack the research or intellect that can provide the catalyst to preserve and cultivate the identity of a peripheral group in the way others have effectively done across the world.

I’m a fourth generation Anglo-Indian, and honestly I believe that our community is so well integrated into Indian culture now that very negligible borders or constraints exist. Perhaps the only difference one notices is when people hear my name for the first time, or when they comment on the quality of my spoken English.

India is a land of opportunity for those who can set aside petty communal issues, work hard and innovate despite the many challenges. The same goes for all Anglos today. We are so much more Indian and so much less Anglo, than we ever were before. As long as there is no concerted effort to rally the troops, device a stratagem, invest in people and work with a singular and progressive focus, the community will continue to disintegrate, and its numbers and unique culture will fray at the edges till a wonderful fabric is unrecognizable patchwork.

The youth are indeed the future of the community like O’Brien rightly reminded us this morning, but I wonder what our leaders are actually doing to equip, empower and inspire them to make a tangible difference in the years to come. 

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.

Be at Rest, ‘Nana A’

Annette Doreen Gracias was my mother’s oldest sister.

I paused after typing that to let the weight of the realization sink in. My aunty Annette, who I fondly called ‘Nana’ is no more. At 4:40 pm this evening, the chords of life and death snapped and in an instant Nana Annette was relegated to the past tense.

As is natural, I have spent the last few hours reviewing WhatsApp videos and images of aunty’s last weeks. She had been struggling. She was in pain. The light in her eyes was dimming. I certainly don’t want those to be my final recollections of her, so my mind has been trying to conjure up memories of past conversations; of us laughing together or sharing the latest Bollywood gossip.

Aunty Annette (top left) and her siblings;
Circa 1950

I think of her combing her greying hair almost religiously at 3:30 pm each day, before she could ask for her evening tea. I smile to myself as I remember her telling me about a long-forgotten boyfriend, her first time on his motorbike and how she remembered exactly what she was wearing on that eventful day in the 60s. And after I finish this reflection, I will search for those greying pictures of Nana Annette in her heyday, in her 60s street fashion, her afro, the bellbottom pants, her tent dress and the oversized glasses that concealed her fun and free spirit.

Immediately after her death, there were things that needed to be done — and members of my family did them all, faithfully.  In a bizarre yet familiar way, practicality now fills the ebb and flow of our staccato Zoom conversations and almost manages to drown out the quiver in my mother’s voice as she relays the facts to us over the miles. 

Grief is not linear. My cousins, my Ma and nana Annette’s other siblings will all grieve in different ways. Some days, the grief will lie dormant. Some days, it will be inflamed like emotional rheumatism. Perhaps at particular times of year, or during passing conversations a switch will flip and fond memories, nostalgia, and whatever else will bubble back up to the surface.

I have always been closely connected with most of my extended family.  All of us are after all, just small points on our lines of ancestry and knowing who I am and where I come from helps me understand my relevance in the world in which I live and breathe.

But tonight is not about reminiscing about her struggles, her heartaches, her health and her ultimate demise. Tonight is about the many wonderful memories I have of nana A, the lessons learnt from her characteristic ways, the time shared together and the values imbibed. Living away from home allows me the bizarre luxury of disconnecting from the practical to concentrate on the poignant. Nana’s life wasn’t always easy, but her faith was strong and stayed that way till her final days. It filled her frail frame with a strength, confidence and blessed-assurance that only a deep-rooted spiritual conviction can bring. She lived. She served. She loved. And now she is at rest.

As a family we’re tapping into that same reservoir of faith this evening, knowing that when we are no more, we will live on in the hearts of those we leave behind.

Be at rest, nana Annette, I love you.

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.

Legacy

Family faces are magic mirrors. Looking at people who belong to us, we see the past, present and future.

Gail Lumet Buckley

• 

  Marie Amelia Atkins (Age 17)

For the last few days, I’ve been staring at this photograph of my grandma from her wedding day. I wonder if she had any idea how simple, yet profoundly impactful her 82 years would be. I remember her stoking my early love of travel by telling me she was the first in our family to fly on an airplane, travelling from Burma to Bengal, where she met and married her husband at the age of 17!

The short answer is that I can’t quantify her life because her legacy is a living, breathing thing. It resides in her children, grandchildren, and even friends in modest places whom she considered family. Her legacy is alive in the things that we say, and the mannerisms with which we say them, and the glimmers of her physical appearance reflected on all our faces.

There are so many things that grandma taught me directly, and even more things that she has passed on to me indirectly by teaching Pa (who in turn taught me). Grandma at 17 was beautiful, grandma at 82 was picture of life lived bravely, faithfully and resolutely.

Reflecting on this picture of grandma I’m reminded that family is the greatest gift I have received, because from it, I’ve got values that bleed into everything I do. That to me is my grandma’s greatest legacy. Ten years after she left us, life goes on without her, but not a day passes without her far reaching impact touching someone else through us all.

Lights in the Distance

Each year I look forward to traveling back to Calcutta. I will confess, I cringe at the decaying buildings, I grumble until the gurgling carousel at the airport spits out my luggage after an eternity.  I sigh when I see that while I’ve changed, the city has not – she’s still stuck in that characteristic inertia. In spite of all this, the best part of making the journey home is the open arms of family (and snuggles from our fur baby). No other feeling comes close.

I haven’t been home since 2019 and the opening and closing of borders in a Covid world continue to fill me with anxiety and dread. What if…. I stop myself. I don’t even want to put the thought out into the ether.

This weekend the lights in the distance lit up the magnificent #Atlantis as I watched from the sidelines of The Pointe. They glistened and danced in the inky waters that reflected back their luminosity. What a spectacular sight, such a grand reminder of the Shangri-la they welcome us into.

I think it was Aristotle who said that it is during our darkest moments that we must focus on the light. Light belongs to the heart and spirit. It attracts people, it shows the way, and when we see it in the distance, we follow.

I’m not sure what you’re experiencing as you read this but my heart is 3367 kms away, at home. There’s no shame in feeling homesick, it means you come from a happy home and that while things and experiences change us, we begin and end with family.

Walking out of #ThePointe I thought about the future. And, I thought about the last two years, maybe the longest years of my life, maybe the worst. Going forward I guess faith and gratitude matter more. After all the madness, after all the loss, there is still more hope than despair. We’re still here, we’re safe and we’ve been given a new lease on life, literally. We are stronger, we went through a year like we had and somehow came out on the other side more or less, intact. We’ve changed, and we’ve been reminded of what is important. What really matters.

Light is precious in our dark times. No matter what you’re going through, look to the light and whenever it’s possible, be the light. God knows, we all need more of it!

Excerpts

5.1.21

It will get worse before it gets better. The exhaustion comes in waves. The aches and pains remind me of those first few years when I was diagnosed with juvenile rheumatism. Everything hurts.

Temperature 38.0 C

8.1.21

I have been reading about Covid-19 and how difficult it has been for millions of people. My experience on day 8, is quite different. I feel my cough subsiding already, though I am beginning to sound like a baritone. Only the headaches and the unexplained exhaustion serve as a reminders that the virus is still inside me.

Friends call all through the day, they all mean well. I am given medical advice, reminded of the brand of Zinc tablets and Vitamin C Supplements I should take, exercises I should do and breathing techniques that they know, worked for others. I listen appreciatively and promise them I will take care. The only thought running through my mind is about keeping this secret from my ma and pa. Them worried and feeling helpless is the last thing I need right now. There will be a time to spring the news on them, perhaps over dinner in the summer, like 12 years ago when I told them about the night that I had to spend in the CID holding room. 😊

Honestly, I think I am feeling better already, though I have been warned that the bug is deceptive and stealthy. I check my temperature twice a day – no red flags so far. I have been taking all my medication at the right time – no concerns there. I am eating all my meals and drinking lots of fluids too. I think I’ve got this. No?

I really do not know how to explain it, but there is an odd feeling of peace even though I am now part of pandemic statistics. Should I be more worried? Should I be doing things differently? When I read all the information online, I worry that maybe I am not doing enough to beat this disease. But the feeling of anxiety passes as suddenly as it emerges, and I am left with that feeling of peace again. The faith that everything is as it should be. That this too is part of His plan. As I key in this last sentence I am suddenly reminded of an often-quoted Bible verse.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

– Psalm 23:4

It is strange – a verse I have known and used all my life brings comfort in a brand-new way and context. I smile to myself. He is with me. HE has got this.

Sleep comes.

Temperature 35.7 C

14.1.21

I tested positive again. I was so certain this phase was behind me, but here I am, still a statistic. Still part of the tainted percentage. Colleagues are asking why my test still lights up in red, and I wish I had answers.

Temperature 35 C

21.1.21

Nostalgia is the ruling planet of the day. As I lie in bed and listen to the sounds outside my window I am suddenly yearning for the everyday things I am being forced to isolate from. I am not one to stay indoors; I love my strolls around the neighborhood, I love the opportunities that present themselves – to take photographs of everyday things, to write a micropoem inspired by a passing cloud, to smile and nod to the Nepalese security guy at the department store (I should ask him his name at least, he is always so polite) I love my routines – there’s so much happiness to be found in the humdrum.

Every day is like an advent calendar, little surprises, something new. A heavy head, acutely painful calves, upset stomach, pins and needles on my palms, aches all over.

The internet described recovery times of about two weeks for people that had not been hospitalized. I had not had it severe, yet here I am after past three weeks still on the road to full recovery.

Temperature: Normal

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