Exploring Eastward – Navigating Japanese and Indian Literature this Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Tale of Two Homes

It’s that time of year again.

As the summer sun casts its golden glow over Dubai, my heart has begun to yearn for the distant monsoon-laden skies of my beloved home, Calcutta. Having spent fifteen years in Dubai, my vibrant desert city, I have grown to appreciate its grandeur and cosmopolitan charm. Yet, there remains an indescribable longing that draws me back to the city of my roots, where memories intertwine with rain-soaked streets and the nostalgia and familiar comforts of home.

Dubai, continues to captivate my heart and imagination. The city thrives on the relentless pulse of ambition, each day bustling with a mosaic of cultures and dreams. A symphony of languages fills the air, blending seamlessly with the rhythmic hum of motor vehicles and the occasional calls to prayer. In Dubai, life is a fusion of the past and future, a glittering tapestry woven with dreams and aspirations.

Yet, as the summer holidays beckon, my thoughts drift across the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea to Calcutta, where, as I type this, the monsoon is transforming the landscape into a canvas of verdant hues and swirling mists. The raindrops, breathe life into the earth, unveiling a mystical beauty amidst the sense of decay, that only the rains can evoke. In Calcutta, history permeates every corner, leaving a mark on the city’s spirit. Narrow lanes wind through neighborhoods, revealing crumbling colonial buildings adorned with intricate ironwork balconies. The aroma of street food wafts through the air, mingling with the heady scent of damp earth. The Howrah Bridge, a behemoth of steel, stands proudly, connecting the pulse of the city across the mighty Ganges.

Despite its many drawbacks, I find solace and simplicity at home, in the warmth of family and the familiarity of tradition. The monsoon becomes a symphony of emotions, streets come alive with children splashing in rain-filled puddles, their laughter echoing through the narrow alleyways up to my room on the fourth floor. In the streets, sarees drenched in rainwater create a vibrant kaleidoscope of colors, reflecting the resilience and beauty of the city’s people.

As I prepare to embark on another summer journey back to Kolkata, I am torn between two homes, two worlds that have shaped me in unique ways. Dubai, with its modernity and ambition, offers endless opportunities for growth and adventure. Kolkata, with its nostalgic charm and monsoon-drenched soul, reminds me of the simplicity and profound beauty of life. I hate leaving Dubai, and when the time comes, I will hate to leave Calcutta too.

In this clash of cultures and landscapes, I find myself suspended, belonging to both cities yet truly belonging to neither. It is in this liminal space that I discover the true essence of my identity—a confluence of two homes, two cities that will forever resonate within my being.

In a few days, my plane will soar above the desert dunes, I will close my eyes and savor the anticipation of Kolkata’s embrace and in this interplay of memories and aspirations, I find solace. For I carry within me the spirit of two homes, forever intertwined like the threads of a vibrant tapestry.

This Day, That Year ❤

1st July, 2017

We have left Paris behind us and have now crossed over into Germany. Ahead of us the Black Forest region of Triberg beckons and I still can’t believe I’m here.

Travel allows for sitting meditation. The mind luxuriates in the kind of tranquility that only an open road can bring. The soul too finds its opportunity to breathe. It inhales deeply and exhales slowly as it releases months, sometimes years of bottled feelings. Some, just simple emotions, others complex, with jagged edges.

As the countryside swooshes by in swirls of green the mind relaxes. There are no thoughts today, no worries, no plans, no tasks to be completed, no words to be spoken, nothing. Clear. Like the highway itself. There’s only a sense of profound appreciation for the moment.

It’s a funny paradox, every minute advances you further towards journey’s end and yet, the feeling is that of calm and stillness. Almost like an out of body experience, the real you floats above in the ether watching the physical you make your way from point to point on a map, stopping intermittently for little bursts of reality before you retreat again.

I wonder why we need a periodic escape to feel alive like this. Why does it take a visa to a strange city or verdant wilderness to rediscover sides of you that you don’t see enough. Why does one feel more at home exploring far flung places, than when at home itself?

The company of friends though valuable sometimes pales in comparison to the company of strangers. There are no expectations here, no masks, just you, enjoying the intimacy of a fleeting moment shared. It’s kind of incredible how potent an encounter can be. Words spoken, experiences shared, all of them live on with you. Like keepsakes they remind you of something special, you feel alive again, you imagine that moment over and sometimes you break out into smile. When you least expect it, the sounds of a familiar tune or the mention of a city will brighten up your day.

Everything you experience becomes a part of who you are. Like a patchwork quilt you begin to add bits and pieces till you’re left with a fabric of mismatched colors. There’s no uniform patter in the stitches, it looks ragged and lacking the finesse that comes from the hands of an expert. But the stitches are special to you, each one carefully done, holding together the myriad memories. There is love in every detail, special nuances that only catch your eye.

You think your patchwork is a thing of beauty, so you display it proudly like a fine tapestry. While everyone else examines, and speculates and conjectures, you listen, amused. You chuckle sometimes, you smile even when a random comment touches a nerve. You know what the quilt represents. Only you know.

Travel experiences are beautiful, spiritual even, they entertain, nourish and heal. Plans are great, but sometimes not knowing can be exhilarating too. You miss the ones you love but you carry them with you wherever you go. Home, afterall is no longer a physical space. Home is a feeling.

When you travel you leave parts of you in all the places you go but you carry with you so much more than you realize. All of it becomes part of who you are, it stays with you and suddenly everywhere begins to feel like 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.

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!

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