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.

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.

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. 

May 2022

Over a weekend game of scrabble I mentioned to a friend that lately I have been feeling like I have not accomplished enough this year, and it’s already May! At work, personally, travel wise, the number of books read this year, everything seems to be in a state of inertia.
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The nagging feeling that I haven’t done enough, could be related to a number things like the pressure I sometimes place on myself, high expectations or even a general lack of purpose.
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My friend though, was not in the mood for my whining. She simply turned to me and said, “that’s an extremely vague and self-defeating statement, instead of grumbling, get specific about what is making you feel this way and fix it.”
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Shifting focus is so important. I’m going to bed tonight focusing on the outcomes I want and not how I’ve been  feeling. I often say that I am my own cheerleader and toughest critic. But my internal monologue has been too self-stigmatizing for a few weeks now and it has to stop.
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The words we tell ourselves matter. Tomorrow I will make a list. I’m going to replace all my “I haven’t” thoughts with some “I will” ones, and I’m already feeling so much more at ease.
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Side note, it is a truth universally acknowledged that the #Scrabble bag doles out the worst possible letters at random and I made such a low score today. But I did end up with this 8 point option, how serendipitous 

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.

White Noise

It’s been a while since I blogged.

It’s been a while since I went to the beach on a Friday morning.

It’s been a while since I last made myself coffee using the percolator or my mocha pot.

It’s been a while since I journaled about travel memories.

It’s been a while since I wrote some micropoetry.

It’s been a while since I posted something on social media.

It’s been a while since I read a whole book.

It has actually been quite a while since I indulged in everyday routines that would otherwise bring me peace and tranquility but, it’s not like I haven’t tried.

I have tried to blog, but I usually end up grimacing at my patchwork phrases and deleting wasted words.

I’ve set my alarm for 5:00 am on a Friday, but when it rings, I just cannot will myself to leave the bed.

I make instant coffee these days and gulp it down without a thought for flavor, texture, aroma, or mouthfeel.

I haven’t looked at old photographs of faraway places and tried to relive that feeling of being so safe and happy in a strange continent or country.

Interesting things don’t seem to catch my eye as regularly these days and my leather-bound parchments haven’t seen the light of day.

Social media feeds have begun to feel like pretentious humdrum.

And books … sigh, let’s just say ‘Tsundoku’ is now a way of life.

I recently read a quote from John Green, the author of ‘The Fault in Our Stars’, that perfectly encapsulates what reading means to me. He wrote, “Reading forces you to be quiet in a world that no longer makes place for that.”

Unfortunately, I have a very noisy brain, one that doesn’t stop chattering no matter how nicely I ask it to stop. Things like mindful breathing and meditation are a nightmare. But place a book in my hands, and I can sit quietly for hours while the rest of the world falls away. Or so I used to think.

Last year I read 40 books. I used every available opportunity to squeeze in a few pages because reading is my primary form of self-care, the thing I turn to just as much when I’m happy as when I’m not. Just last month I purchased and piled three books by my bedside table, sadly I haven’t even read one.

Do you ever feel like life gets too loud sometimes? There seems to be constant white noise, never ending mental chatter and an over-powering fatigue that comes from keeping up with this over-stimulated way of living. This is a live-out-loud world. Nothing is done quietly anymore. There are such a few opportunities to be in solitude and silence, and when there are some, we find ourselves bombarded by stimuli or exhausted from high-decibel living and working.

I think the world needs to learn how to turn the volume down, turn the background music off and take all the extraneous noise and mute it for a while. No notifications, no pings from emails and instant messages, nothing.

I used to be a master of tuning everything out and making time for things I loved, but lately not so much. I have promised myself to get back to my everyday routines, even if it is a simple act of taking seven minutes to brew my coffee in a mocha pot and listening to the gurgling liquid coming through.

I don’t know if it will work or if I will be able to sustain some of these mindful practices. But at least I can try, no?

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.

The Last Sunrise

The last sunrise of 2020 was lighting up the sky when I awoke this morning. Outside my window, is a blue sky – clear blue with not a wisp of a cloud. The sun is shining bright and a gentle breeze is blowing as the day begins to warm. It is going to be a lovely day here in Dubai. One of many I have been enjoying this winter.

As the sunrays bounce off the glass panes of skyscrapers and surrounding buildings, they paint my neighborhood in shades of orange, blush and rose gold – an ideal fusion of a true and daily paradise. Ironically, this year has been anything but that.

The streets were empty this year, painted by a deafening silence amidst the uncertainty. The rules of human interactions were altered, thanks to the virus, and words like social distancing, self-quarantine and sanitize have imposed and embedded themselves in our vocabulary.

If you are feeling a little bit weary at the end of this very, very, long year, you are not alone. Chances are, as you look back on the last twelve months, you feel a bag of mixed emotions about it. Gratitude you made it through. Sadness for those who did not. Relief that it is nearly over. 

Undoubtedly 2021 will hold new challenges for us all. This is not bad. It is life. Yet like those we have faced before, what matters most is not the problems themselves, but how well we respond to them and how we apply their lessons to grow and thrive. I cannot say for sure that 2021 will be a better year, but I am cautiously optimistic that in a year from now, we’ll be able to look back and say that 2021 was an improvement on 2020. The improvement may not be enormous, but it will be noticeable, measurable steps forward for people around the world, and for us as individuals – if we try.

There is one more sunset to go this year, it will paint our world in charcoal, black and grey, but the Sun will rise tomorrow, hope will dawn, and life will go on.

I pray you have a safe and healthy 2021, Happy New Year.

“In the dead of a long, black night it is hard to imagine a sunrise on the horizon extending its vibrant and warming rays, but that is how you hold out hope. Have faith that the morning you dream of will eventually come.” ― Richelle E. Goodrich, Motivations for Every Day of the Year.

Christmas 2020

If you’re feeling anything like I am, there seems to be a cloud hanging over Christmas 2020, doesn’t it? How strange to have awoken on Christmas Day for the first time in 36 years without any feeling of anticipation or to my Pa, playing carols as we make our way through breakfast and our annual gift exchange. It was always going to be a strange Christmas anyway, but it does feel weird being in a totally different place (in space and mind) than usual.

2020 and the #Pandemic we are all living through has been scary, tough and life-changing in so many ways. Here’s hoping that everyone can still find the courage, hope and inspiration to make the day meaningful despite the challenges.

I teamed up with Jonathan my childhood friend (Check out his page) and my younger brother, to remind whoever is reading this, to ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ just like Judy Garland wanted us to. No matter the circumstances, He, Emmanuel – is with us, and that is worth celebrating today, and every other day through the year.

What does happiness look like?

Though it may come in different forms for different people, most human beings are in pursuit of the same thing: happiness. I try to recollect the moments I have felt truly happy, when there was no doubt in mind that, what I was experiencing was indeed a happy moment – everything that happy is meant to feel like.

I close my eyes and I can see myself sitting in my living room, the soft glow from Christmas tree lights filling the room. My parents are going about their chores humming softly in the background to an Anne Murray Holiday number we have been listening to for as far back as I can remember. My brother is somewhere strumming his guitar, while our dog is curled up on an extra shaggy IKEA carpet, we hauled back on one of our trips home.

My mind wanders, I am now running my fingers along the spines of ancient books at the Shakespeare and Co. in Paris. I am in awe of the place, guilty for having stepped over Rumi’s poetry and yet so glad that I did, because upstairs is even more magical than the rooms below. My friend who lives in Paris, shows me around, here’s a sofa that Edith Piaf sat on while she was in the shop, there’s Sylvia Whitman’s two Persian cats lounging in a gleam of sunlight on the stairs of the fire escape, as a poster of ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof’ sways above them, dancing ironically in a whimsy July breeze. I feel like I am in something of a literary utopia, where the outside world vanishes and generations of writers—Allen Ginsberg, Gandhi, Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin among others who have found a Paris home, take centerstage.

Sometimes when I am driving to or from work and I catch a glimpse of the sun lighting up the sky, or going to bed behind the horizon, it fills my soul with a sense of ….I really don’t know what to call the emotion….or mix of emotions that I experience when that happens. I am just grateful for the moment. I am just so thankful. I wish I had a personal photographer, someone who would follow me everywhere, taking candid snapshots at poignant moments for me to look back on and think about – to see what happiness looks like on me.

I wonder if the experiences I have or the ones I seek out contribute to how happy I feel. I wonder if all of that were to e stripped away, what would I tap into for a refill?

*takes a ten minute break to find a strip of beef jerky and pour a glass of Coke*

It struck me while writing this post that perhaps I have been looking for the wrong signs, perhaps happiness can’t be found in the tangible indications. I realize that the the things I write about, are indeed the ways I know that I am happy.

• I have harmonious relationships with family and friends. Not too many, but by no means insufficient.
• I live in the moment, I drink life greedily and allow it’s flavors to tantalize my senses. I am fully awake to my experiences and will re-live them over and over.
• I live with integrity, and yet, I don’t take life too seriously at all.
• I love my work, but I am not afraid of change, of challenge, of being wrong.
• I love all the places I have been, where I am now and even where life will take me next.

My deadpan expressions might sometimes betray me. I live in my thoughts, argue with the voices in my head and choose to hibernate with a book and soft yellow bedroom lighting when everyone else wants me to be part of the crowd.

Happy people I realize, are not the ones who are seemingly immune from life’s hardships. They go through rough waters like everyone else does. However, happy people know when to reach out and ask for help. They know when they see grey clouds rolling in that they will get through the bad weather. And if they don’t, happy people know when to recognize they’re sinking and ask for a helping hand.

Like most people, I periodically check in on my wellbeing.

Am I happy? Do I like my life? What, if anything, would I change? Here is what I reminded myself of this evening.

Happiness does not look like rainbows, flowers, and sunshine always. Happiness is not about having a Louis Armstrong track playing on a loop like the soundtrack to my existence. True happiness is in my control and no one person or thing should ever determine whether I am truly happy. And with that idea, comes lightness across the rest of my life.

Happiness comes in waves. It’ll come looking for you again, let it find you.