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.

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. 

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.

Rainy Day Daydream

Morning did not arrive with the usual chirping of birds, the whistle of the garbage collector or someone in the neighborhood blowing their conch shell. The rain has been relentless and has muted every other sound since late last evening. After days of looking skywards and asking, ‘when will it rain?’, the rain Gods have responded generously with the downpour now even settling into a bit of a rhythm.

My mind goes back to last evening when I spent nearly four hours sitting outdoors listening to the sheets on rain washing over our complex, the acrylic panels that cover the windows of neighboring homes and the leafy overgrown foliage that falls lazily over our compound wall. At peace and reading my Joel Rosenberg novel to nature’s background score could be what ‘bliss’ feels like, I think to myself.

Engrossed by the characters I have been reading about, a strange realization punctuates my thoughts – I think we are the stories we tell ourselves; a little bit of fact, a whole lot of fiction to feel good and even a bit of fantasy to escape from reality. We see ourselves like characters don’t we, ever trying to fine tune the plot, the narration, the reality. I’ve seen some villains and monsters in my life, leaders, and visionaries too and a few jesters here and there. They’re all the protagonist in their own tales. I am too, in mine.

Do seasons have an unsettling impact on you, year after year? It’s not always the disturbing kind of effect, rather some inexplicable transition in the overall mood and essence of living. It might not happen to everyone, but I’d like to believe that seasons and climates stir and muddle a lot of emotions in me as evidenced by this very stream of consciousness reflection.

We are already more than halfway through 2021 and I have experienced two seasons – the extreme summer of the Emirates and the monsoon in Calcutta. I’d love to spend the autumn somewhere in Europe and the winter in the UK with endless opportunities to admire nature’s beauty.

As I type this, my dog sniffs at my ankles, he’s letting me know his water bowl needs to be refilled and that reality doesn’t care about my daydreams. I may never have that European autumn experience or Christmas on a snow lined Oxford Street, but luxuriating in just the though of it was a perfect start to my day.

Monsoon Musings

“All can hear, but only the sensitive can understand the song of the rain”, according to poet Kahlil Gibran. However, you don’t need a very sensitive mind to enjoy a monsoon holiday in Kolkata. A little love for rains, even a slight passion for wondering, an eye for beauty, a camera for photography and a few greedy taste buds will do wonders during your Kolkata monsoon. 

But the monsoons have been elusive again, I am told. ‘Not like in previous years’, Pa tells me as he sips his tea and stares out at the charcoal cloud-cover that has just settled over Urbana. These days, dark skies and swollen clouds bring relief that is only short-lived. The earth around us seems parched and people look like they have had enough of the extended sultry summer.

But ever so suddenly the air does become still, and the trees go silent. If you listen closely, you can hear laughter from the neighbor’s terrace where children are playing with wild abandon.

A bicycle bell sounds in the street below, reminding me of the Red Hero I had as a child. Then the wind returns, bringing with it the smell of wet soil and the sound of distant church bells as Parishioners make their way for evening mass.

As I linger and watch, a pair of crows swoop down to take shelter in the lower branches of a nearby supari tree where they suddenly become shadows. And then… finally… drops of evening rain descend like a wispy lace curtain.

Everything is damp, everything is cool again and windows are flung open as an entire community reaches out to receive the elusive monsoon rain.

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.

Finding Peace

We can never obtain peace with the outer world until we make peace with ourselves – Dalai Lama

Friday morning was foggy. The air seemed ominous as I made my way around the Reram community, enjoying birdsong, the absence of people and basically just appreciating the deeper sort of beauty in the bleak.

On that lazy stroll, I came across a leaf dangling from a branch above the cobbled walking trail. As light tried to break through the fog, my eyes fixated on the suspended foliage that seemed to be hanging by an invisible thread crafted by an equally invisible spider. With just the right angle of light I saw the glistening strand of silk draped from tree to tree. The architect insect was not in sight, thankfully.

Recalling the experience later in the day made me also think about how many of us seem to be ‘hanging by a thread’ while navigating this strange year of viruses, political freak shows, financial uncertainties, civil unrest, the list goes on, doesn’t it? For some, hanging on to this new normal is a full-time task while others carry-on without too much difficulty.

Regardless of one’s situation in life, all of us are affected by this period of uncertainty. It’s been almost two years since I have seen my dad or travelled back home, it has been a whole year since I have seen mum or travelled on an airplane to distant lands that call me by name. But I know these are still small struggles when compared to the things others are experiencing. I suppose we could take solace in the fact that blessings delayed, are not blessings denied. However, on some days, this truth doesn’t bring much comfort.

What should provide some consolation is knowing that these gray days will pass, as they always do. Waiting is difficult but peace can be sought in many places and in many ways. I find mine through faith in an Omniscient and Omnipotent power, trough worship music when I am alone in my office at 7:00 am. I find peace in long video calls with family and in the pages of the latest book I am reading, in those dependable Bible verses from mum each morning or the silliest things my brother forwards to me. This morning I was filled with a sense of gratitude as I drove into a lemon drop sunrise that painted the city in a dazzling hue. I find my peace in the little things, It’s not so hard, if you try.

I hope you find your peace too.

Morning Meditation

As I stepped into the morning I was greeted by a foggy glow behind the trees that made me smile at the little reward for getting up early. My real reward, though, is the quiet. The time alone. Time to think. Time to write.

For the past thirteen years, my weekend routines have been all about enjoying *my time*. Even this morning I sat beside the lake (and at a safe distance from the frolicking fowl) to enjoy the solitude and write.

Writing slows me down to really notice my world and focus in on a small details of my life. This morning I wrote about a stray memory of a camping trip, I wrote about friendship, about who I am and who I used to be.

This dedicated time for reflection grounds me. Early mornings wake me up and give me the space to reflect. So I write. I take a deep breath and allow the morning to fill my lungs and my spirit.

In time, I sense more morning enthusiasts walking through the fog like ghostly shadows – but to me, that’s all they are – shadows. All of the lake, the swaying palms and the invisible singers chirping above me, are mine alone and for me to enjoy, at least for the next thirty minutes.

29.10.2020

This morning I woke up to grainy fog hanging over the deserted streets of my neighborhood. The usual morning traffic frenzy was replaced by a delectable lull. Behind closed windows and curtains drawn tightly together to keep the light out, people are still asleep, oblivious to the Muezzin’s voice, as the last notes from his call to prayer reverberate on a gentle October breeze. Hazy sunlight streams into my apartment and onto a money plant I have been neglecting all week. I fill the glass bowl with water and return it to its shelf in a cooler, darker part of the room.

As I sit down with a cup of ginger tea and my laptop I realize that I haven’t written in a while and decide to take a moment to acknowledge the good that has happened in what has been a devastating year for most. As my fingers hack away at the keyboard, I am conscious that I am typing this from a position of extreme gratitude.

From the outside, it looks like big things happen swiftly, quietly, almost without fanfare. Within me, the difference feels loud and sometimes deafening. The tectonic plates of my inner universe have shifted, and I find it almost surreal. I still wake up some days thinking, How? What? When?

My Kitchen calendar is still stuck on July, and yet the days fly by in a flurry of Zoom and TEAMS calls, planning, brainstorming, and discussing things. It has been manic, fulfilling, stressful some times but I have no complaints, except that I rarely finish my coffee warm these days.

The other day, I remembered that I had not paid for my electricity and water bills in two months. Then I stopped to muse at how at a point, the thought of this — paying bills and rent, working, and supporting myself in a foreign country — all these seemed like milestones. These are hilariously mundane things that no one in their right mind would consider ‘milestones’ — but they were for me; so I stopped to simultaneously appreciate and laugh at myself.

This time last year, I was in a different city, a completely different frame of mind, planning a visit to Singapore and waiting for mum to come visit me in the Emirates. I had a plan for what 2020 would be like and absolutely no idea (like most of us) that the world, our world, my world – was going to change.

*takes a break to brew another cup of tea*

I rarely have a leisurely morning all to myself and though I woke up with ambitious plans, I can feel sleep calling. The soothing ginger tea is doing what it is meant to and so I give in – to a deliberately vocal yawn and to the sandman.

2020 has been a rollercoaster and there are obviously many more uncertainties and challenges ahead. But for now, I stop, breathe, and take in the moment. I wonder where life will take me next year but today, I am cautiously optimistic, cautiously joyous, and very, very, thankful. To infinity, and beyond – but first, a few more hours of sleep.

Help

My eyes opened at 6:00 am, just as my phone’s alarm was reaching its crescendo. As I lay in bed in that half-asleep, half-awake limbo, I noticed that I had 40 unread messages on WhatsApp. New morning. Old routine. And so the arduous task began…

Message Series 1

Horrible images from the wreckage of the flight in Kerala with links to news articles I already read last evening. What is worse, every person on the group feels it is their obligation to respond with ‘RIP’ or insert an appropriate emoji into the ever-expanding list of replies. The tragedy moved me deeply, the robotic responses did not and so I scroll, ignore, and move on.

Message Series 2

Funny cartoon image accompanied with #justsharing, multiply by 20 responses and now some memes in response to the first image!

Message 3

Silly video of a cow wearing Covid PPE. (Comments added for a personal touch)

(I wonder who had time to edit this video? I mean…)

Message 4

A friend from another continent asking me if I watch Indian Matchmaking. I don’t and even responded with a thumb down emoji before going to bed last night. The message clearly did not register, for here on my screen are 17 quotes from someone named Sima. I roll my eyes, look beyond the sexist comments and pick out the flaws in her grammar before I roll out of bed and add an extra spoon of coffee to my percolator.

Unpopular Opinion Alert: If WhatsApp did not give me the convenience of communicating with my family on the go, I would probably choose not to use it. Sure, it is a useful application but it also offers a constant tirade of beeps and flashing lights; a constant stream of throwaway comments and thoughts that I must keep track of, read and (*shudder*) respond to!

I sip my coffee as I get back under the duvet and turn to my laptop to quickly read through the remaining messages. Beside me is the overturned novel I have been ignoring. I have not been able to turn past page 44 of the David Mitchel book by my bedside in the last three days; and this is not the first time I have laboured through a novel over the last few years. But where is the time for reading uninterrupted? Mitchel doesn’t stand a chance in this day and age and I will probably only manage a few pages after an extended period of blissful boredom one of these nights.

I am a lover of words, I study them, I collect them and store them away to be used when the right opportunity arises, words gives wings to my thoughts and so the irony is not lost on me. Words on WhatsApp have quite the opposite effect on most days. These words are fleeting. Momentary. Forgettable. Silly. Gone. Banished above the ‘load more comments’ button and lost into the ether. While the benefits of the application far outweigh the downsides, I am forced to question how much of the proverbial price I am willing to pay.

As I type this, I realize that I do not really have anything profound to share and this has turned out to be an early morning rant instead. Just then another beep interrupts my thoughts. It is a message from a former student studying medicine in Eastern Europe, I click on her name and read…

What’s the opposite of ‘Dominoes’???

 Tired of thinking???

Well the answer is ‘Domi doesn’t know’

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is too much, ‘You’re better than this!’ I scold her, ‘this is what you send me, when you message after months of no contact?’

‘Chill!, she responds, ‘You sound like my dad!’.

I ignore the cheeky jibe and we chat for a few minutes before both of us realize we need to carry on with the day. Saturdays are for catch-up and my day goes by as planned. Chores done. E-mails sent. Checklist…checked. Coffee had. Plans with my brother finalized. Just as I sit down with my lunch and to watch some Hell’s Kitchen re-runs, another beep.

A message from another contact, in another part of the world.

What’s the opposite of ‘Dominoes’???

Tired of thinking???

Mind.  Blown.

***I cannot believe this***

***You have got to be kidding me***

***Slams phone***

***Bangs head***

Feels like an episode of Hell’s Kitchen alright.

I am (of course) exaggerating, but you get my drift. What are some of the ways you cope without offending your contacts? I could *really* do with some advice.