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.

Be at Rest, ‘Nana A’

Annette Doreen Gracias was my mother’s oldest sister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be at rest, nana Annette, I love you.

Sounds of Christmas Day

There’s a satsang happening somewhere on our street this evening. Scattered minds united by music and meditation are singing rhythmically and only stopping occasionally between bhajans.

I imagine them sitting on the floor of someone’s apartment, catching up on unfinished conversations or swallowing cups of cardamom tea between verses and reverberations, as the host makes trips to and from the kitchen; her lips only joining in on the beginning and ending of the verses.

Inside my home the scene is quite different. The lights from our six foot Christmas tree have bathed our living room in a soft peach glow. Pa’s Spotify is playing an Elvis styled remix of the traditional “Born in Bethlehm”, and my dog Skippy, has been wandering around the house, looking for a spot to lie down away from footfall of the four serial huggers he shares his space with. He just needs a vantage point that works for him, but also allows him to watch everyone else surreptitiously.

Today is Christmas.

I could reflect on the theology of what Christmas signifies.  But brighter minds than mine have tried to demystify the concept of God, a higher power, a presence that unites all life.  They have read the sacred scriptures of their faiths, written books, and given sermons inspired by what they found. 

But the whole idea of believing in something beyond what our five senses tell us, is because we *know deep within* that it’s right, not because we can prove it.

People of good will, of many faiths, or of no particular faith, feel something different at this time of year. Incomplete as it is by itself, out of the much bigger context in which it belongs, Christmas nevertheless offers us one succinct and valuable insight. It’s humility made human.

Someone much greater than us humbled himself to become like us, for the purpose of showing us how to be happy. He lived and taught us that we should recognize the worth of other people, and not insist on our own greatness. In that way, we can transcend the limits placed on us by our five senses – and touch the eternal.

So today, whether you’re sitting in a Satsang, unwrapping gifts at the foot of your tree, riding an uber to the hottest party in your city or sipping on mulled wine at home with family, Christmas is for you. If you choose love, humility and to belive that He came, so we could live in Hope, you’re celebrating Christmas the way it’s meant to be celebrated.

That’s it. Merry Christmas and a happy, humble New Year to you and your loved ones.

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?

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.

An Abundance Mindset

This whole week I have been forced by circumstances to think about the constant tug-of-war between abundance and insufficiency. My mind has been marinating in things I have heard, read and discussed with people and I learnt quickly that I was not alone, perhaps because of the climate of our times.

In most people’s minds, there is a battle between two perspectives: abundance and lack. These are almost like two roads that we have to walk but sometimes without a choice, each giving us vastly different experiences of life.

Abundance often correlates with positivity with the core belief that there’s enough out there for everyone. By carving our niche and claiming our little successes, we are happy to bask in the realm of possibility. On the other hand, when we think from a perspective of insufficiency, we could be filled with fear and questioning. We think pessimistically, are highly attuned to what we don’t have and what won’t work, as well as the deficiencies of our situation. Everything is either black or white.

Rhine Falls, Switzerland

While I have been questioning so many things lately, my predominant state is that of gratitude. Abundance doesn’t come from resources alone, abundance is a mentality, no? I am reminded of the majestic waterfalls across the world, some of which I have been so fortunate to see personally. It amazes me how that much water can continuously flow at such speeds, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, for thousands of years. To me, this is symbolic of a never ending abundance that can come only from a power greater than our little minds can imagine.

The natural world has a lot to teach us if we pay attention, no matter what the present circumstances feel like, it is alive and well and ongoing. My prayer for myself is that I would focus on the abundance instead of all the things that seem so far from reach. And, if you haven’t seen a waterfall, I’d like to share this one with you in the hope that it will remind you to live in an abundance mindset, no matter how difficult it might feel at the moment.

A Collector of What Ifs

Anybody who knows me, will probably describe me as ‘confident’ or ‘self-assured’ and that’s partially true. I project confidence when I need to, it takes a lot of preparation to get me there but when I’m there, I wing it well. I use the phrase ‘wing-it’ intentionally, because that’s often how I feel on the inside; as though I am an imposter feigning confidence and calm – the swan gliding over placid waters without causing a ripple but churning and chaotic below the surface.

Self-doubt is a special kind of hell. A small failure makes you question your abilities and the next thing you know, you feel like you aren’t good enough or smart enough to do anything. And that’s when you stop trying.

I believe that we all have that little inner voice that tells us what we want to be doing with our lives and who we want to be. Unfortunately, we push this inner voice aside because we start to think things like, “How am I going to do this?”, “What will people think of my decision?” and the worst one, “What if I fail?”. Herein lies the delicious irony of my life. Despite my self-doubt, I have ambition. For as far back as I can remember I have wanted for everything to be different with me. I thought I had the strength and mastery to make it and gradually I taught myself how. But the most terrible obstacles for me aren’t situational, they are in my own head.

If I could measure my life in moments of self-doubt, it would look like yardstick after yardstick of questioning my choices. Choose A and then obsess over the thought that I should have chosen B instead. Why do I always choose the wrong thing? Anyway, I ramble, it isn’t all doom and gloom. I go through cycles of self-doubt, the questions usually come in torrents and leave a million what-ifs like driftwood strewn along a shoreline. In time, the tide comes in and takes away the debris to where it came from, but till it does, my head and heart remain in constant conflict, each one fighting for a stronghold over my life and actions. Some days my head wins, on other days, my heart.

I guess, I’m putting this out there today just to acknowledge that I have days like today, weeks like this one has been. A truth-seeker is obligated to be truthful first, no? I am reminded of the fable of the Hare and Tortoise; how confident that little Hare was, so self-assured, so certain of getting to the finish line. In 35 years, I have never once felt like the Hare, just always the Tortoise. I stick my head out of my shell and take one step at a time, crawling at my own pace, hoping just to finish the race respectably while the Hare is taking his victory lap.

But we all know how the fable ends, an ending that promises both optimism and Hope, and if this post can do the same for even one of you reading this, then writing it would have been worth the effort.

“Just be yourself instead of trying to prove yourself. For if you do, the former will automatically take care of the latter.” ― Craig D. Lounsbrough