Homecoming Symphony

These days I wake to the quiet embrace of unusual winter mornings in Kolkata. For the first time in years, the city is likely to bid a warm send-off to 2023 with the missing chill only slated to emerge with Janus’ grand return in 4 days from now. Despite the absence of north westerly winds, I find myself immersed in the symphony of homecoming. The air, still crisp and shrouded in fog, carries whispers of nostalgia that weave through the familiar streets I miss when I am away, and grumble about when I return.

At dawn, the first rays of the sun stream through mum’s white lace curtains, casting a patterned glow upon the familiar corners of our home. My father, a silhouette against the early light, rolls back the large brown sliding glass windows of our living room and tends to his Bougainvillea with a devotion that mirrors the roots he’s planted in soil. The kettle whistles, and the clinking of cutlery signals his initiation of the morning tea ritual—the first of many cups he’ll enjoy throughout the day. Maa’s movements begin to echo in the kitchen, accompanied by the faint backdrop of the Facebook reels they’re watching and the familiar acoustics of a city stretching and stirring back to life. These sounds reach me, nestled in bed in that dreamy half-awake, half-asleep state, as I absorb the soothing symphony of home.

I have a feeling that the sounds of maa’s kitchen are more intentional than coincidental. They serve as the day’s starting gun, akin to a flag unfurling at the beginning of a race—a subtle cue for my brother and me to rise and begin our day. Initially disregarded, the race master’s voice suddenly reverberates through the air, and in seconds, sleep dissipates as our feet hasten to kickstart morning chores and rituals. Maa’s hands move with a rhythm born out of years of practice. The clang of utensils, sizzling egg whites or spices in hot oil – each sound tells a story of comfort, of meals shared and traditions upheld. The aroma of masalas surrendering their scents and flavors, expertly tossed and blended by the hands of Maa (and occasionally Papa) delicately matching powders and pastes, will always bring me back to the warmth of home.

Papa’s Spotify plays an old Christmas hymn by The Imperials , a tune that has accompanied countless December mornings in the three homes we have all shared. Its nostalgic notes form a backdrop to the familiar sounds of a neighborhood in slow motion. Children’s voices, the calls of street vendors, and the intermittent honking of passing vehicles compose a cacophony of life that is uniquely Kolkata.

As I wash the breakfast dishes, the rhythmic flow of water turns into a kind of meditation. The clinking of plates and the running water create a calming melody that echoes the essence of home life. The wooden floor boards beneath my feet, cool to the touch, ground me in a reality that transcends borders and reminds me of the warmth of belonging. In the distance, the neighborhood church bells chime, and the syncopated chaos of another winter morning fills the air. In these quiet moments of housework and everyday life, Kolkata becomes more than a city; it is a living, breathing memoir of familial ties and the richness of relationships. I am reminded that for me the heart of Kolkata is not in her famous landmarks or culinary delights but in the everyday, the mundane, and my favorite – the satisfaction that comes from an ordinary day at home.

Can Thoughtful Writing Survive in the Modern Inbox?

I woke early this morning, tackled chores, brewed a cup of coffee, and settled in to check my emails. Anticipating the usual notifications from my bank, blog engagement data, or the weekly offers from Musafir or Emirates, I was caught off guard. Instead, I stumbled upon a digital relic—an authentic email, complete with structure, full sentences devoid of text abbreviations, proper syntax, and impeccable grammar. It was the whole shebang! Someone had actually written to me – instead of resorting to one of those impersonal Whatsapp messages that I usually read a day or two after they are sent! How cool, no?

Reading the email beckoned me to a time when the internet hummed at the pace of dial-up connections. A time when my communication with friends and family bore the weight of contemplation, when writing was an art, and was also my only way of connecting with friends from Mount Abu to Melbourne! (You know who you are)

As a student I was tethered to an hour of internet usage a day at home. Our egg white box computer sat on a Magenta table that was custom made to hide a printer, a bulky CPU, a noisy modem, and box speakers. We were all teched out in the early 2000s primarily thanks to my father’s foresight in recognizing the transformative impact of computers on the world; he wanted to ensure that we had the skills we would need in the future.

But one hour a day was never enough for me and so I found solace in cyber cafes, where for 10 rupees an hour I could navigate the fascinating virtual landscape, develop the grace of an Orkut maestro, stumble into strange chat rooms where people had even stranger user names and I would inevitably find myself hastily clicking the ‘x’ icon on a tab whenever a questionable advertisement or image popped up—usually just as the café owner was making his way down the aisle to ensure nobody was misusing the sacred machines. How times have changed, no?

Despite it all, nothing brought me more joy than spotting a familiar name in my inbox. Over the years, I transitioned from writing and sending letters to reading digital life updates, and both brought me immense joy. I have fond memories of walking to our neighborhood post office with grandma, queuing up to buy stamps, hunting for a glue stick and then finally slipping the envelopes into the slender mouths of big red letter boxes. Later, I made memories reading out emails to my folks, and printing out the ones I wanted to keep going back to after my time online was up. Email, once an art form, unfolded as a tapestry of my thoughts, meticulously woven in the quiet hum of a cyber café or against the background noise of a family of four in action.

Fast forward to the present, our corporate corridors reverberate with the staccato rhythm of mindless email culture, CCs, BCCs, instant messages, and WhatsApp pings—a cacophony that drowns the eloquence of artful communication. The digital realm, once my sanctuary for profound exchanges, now succumbs to the tyranny of brevity, FYIs, and is often used as a substitute for actual human to human communication.

In this era depth is sacrificed for immediacy and I yearn for a revival of the email’s grace. The corporate milieu, with its stilted language and curt directives, has eclipsed the nuanced beauty of written expression. People just don’t have the time to care for what they communicate.

If you’re reading this, I would ask you to reflect on the richness of what we’ve forsaken. The email, once a vessel for emotion and contemplation, has been long ignored. Can we not, in the midst of this digital deluge, salvage the sanctity of our written exchanges? As the festive season approaches with Christmas and New Year’s just around the bend, now is the ideal moment to delight someone with a heartfelt, personalized email message. Craft a note that goes beyond words, making them feel truly seen, warmly remembered, and genuinely cared for.

Can thoughtful writing survive in the modern inbox? I am going to try and reclaim the art of connection in the remaining ten days of 2023—one carefully crafted email at a time. Watch your inbox just in case you’re on my list.

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.

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!

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

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.