Life Musings, Writing

Homecoming Symphony

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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.

Life Musings, Writing

Can Thoughtful Writing Survive in the Modern Inbox?

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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.

Books & Reading, Life Musings, Travelogues

Exploring Eastward – Navigating Japanese and Indian Literature this Summer

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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.

Life Musings, Writing

A Tale of Two Homes

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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.

Writing

A Mirror to Our Times

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I am currently watching “Queen Charlotte,” the Netflix series, which in my opinion is a triumph in its portrayal of power, identity, and the complexity of human relationships. From the very first episode, I was immediately drawn into the rich tapestry of themes that the show expertly weaves. The struggle for power, the exploration of identity, and the battle against societal norms all intertwine to create a mesmerizing narrative that holds me in its grip. Additionally, with the struggles of monarchy and political machinations represented in the series, the show fearlessly confronts the complexities of its time.

The layers and messaging within “Queen Charlotte” are remarkable. As has become synonymous with Shondaland, the writers and creators delve into the depths of societal constraints, highlighting the oppressive norms and expectations placed upon individuals, particularly women and people of color. The characters are multifaceted, each grappling with their own desires and ambitions in a world that seeks to confine them.

But what truly sets “Queen Charlotte” apart is its forward-thinking approach. It fearlessly addresses pertinent social issues and challenges outdated ideologies, urging audiences to question established norms. The show’s ability to spark conversations about race, gender, and power dynamics is commendable.

One of my favorite things about the show is its use of contemporary music and pop culture references which add a refreshing touch to the series. In doing so, it creates a bridge between the historical setting and the present, making the show relatable and engaging for a diverse audience. The integration of modern elements injects a vibrant energy into the narrative, ensuring that viewers stay captivated throughout.

Shonda Rhimes, the creator of “Queen Charlotte,” has repeatedly demonstrated her exceptional talent for conveying relevant social issues through her shows. Her ability to intertwine compelling storytelling with timely social commentary is commendable. She consistently pushes boundaries, challenges norms, and advocates for inclusivity in her work. Her knack for creating diverse and complex characters allows her shows to resonate with a wide range of viewers, making her a true trailblazer in the television industry.

Now, back to episode 5.

Life Musings

A Tale of Two Countries

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Living in Dubai offers me opportunities to engage with people from different nationalities and cultures. Growing up in India, I could never have imagined how my life and outlook would change as soon as I was exposed to people, places and culture. Over the last fifteen years I have met astonishing people with incredible stories, and just recently I was able to add one more such, to my list.

A few days ago, I sat at a roadside café with a friend and his colleague from Syria to enjoy one of the last few cool evenings before the summer sets in. During our conversation, the Syrian gentleman narrated his harrowing escape from the war-torn country four years prior and I was struck by the urgency with which he spoke about the importance of preserving Syria’s cultural heritage amidst the ongoing turmoil. The gentleman revealed that the Syrian government now requires him to pay a significant sum of money before he can re-enter to Syria and reunite with his loved ones and that he was desperate to return home and revel in life as he knew it. With a background in literature studies and after having worked as a translator in the UN, he was particularly struck by the devastation on education and culture.

As we delved deeper into the topic of Syria’s cultural heritage, I learned that the country has five UNESCO World Heritage sites, including the ancient city of Aleppo. Sadly, the ongoing war has inflicted substantial damage on these sites, and the Syrian government and opposition forces have been accused of looting and destroying ancient sites, such as the Roman ruins of Palmyra. The gentleman’s concern for the loss of Syria’s cultural heritage was palpable. He expressed that the country’s cultural heritage is not only a symbol of its identity and history but is also an essential part of humanity’s shared heritage. “It’s heartbreaking to see it destroyed,” he added.

The situation in Syria reminded me of a similar discussion I had with an Iraqi colleague who spoke of the importance of preserving Iraq’s cultural heritage despite the challenges and political turmoil the country has faced. The National Museum of Iraq, for instance, was looted during the Iraq War, and many precious artifacts were lost. Today there are efforts being made to revive the culture and intelligencia and take back from the years what it has robbed from the people.

According to UNESCO, the destruction of cultural heritage is a war crime. In essence, it represents an attack on humanity as a whole and the preservation of cultural heritage is critical, especially in times of conflict. It reminds us of our shared history and helps us appreciate diverse cultures and traditions.

As I thought about my conversations with the Syrian gentleman and my Iraqi colleague, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness for the countless individuals whose lives have been uprooted by conflict and war. However, I also felt inspired by the resilience and determination of those who continue to fight for the preservation of their cultural heritage.

The conversations reminded me of the importance of empathy and understanding towards those who have experienced loss and trauma. It’s crucial to remember and highlight the human aspect of war and the devastating impact it can have on individuals, families, and communities.

These conversations were powerful reminders of the human toll of war and the need for greater action to preserve cultural heritage. By working together, we can raise awareness, support initiatives, and advocate for the protection of our shared cultural heritage. We must strive to create a more peaceful and just world where cultural diversity is valued, respected, and protected.

Writing

To You

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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.

Writing

P.V Sindhu – Building a Legacy

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P.V Sindhu has been a winner for the better part of her life and 2022 seems like a point of inflection. Last month I had the opportunity to chat with badminton’s poster girl. Her journey is one of Indian sport’s greatest and her determination to become and remain number 1 was palpable all through our conversation.

Read more, as Sindhu speaks candidly to me on sacrifice, sexism and the future of Indian Sport in GRAZIA’s September cover story.

Click on the link to read the article Interview with P.V Sindhu  

Life Musings

Growing up Anglo-Indian

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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. 

Life Musings

The Sounds of Home

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Yesterday’s newspaper bore the gut-wrenching headline, “Monsoons delayed by a week to nine days”, … but they’re wrong, as usual. Morning’s sunny skies are long gone, and above us, the heavens are painted in an apocalyptic palette as voluminous charcoal clouds glide gently overhead threatening imminent torrential release.

Picture taken by my father at 5:45 pm, 7.7.2022.

Around me, housewives scurry to bring in their laundry from balconies, rooftops and makeshift hangers, tarpaulin curtains are being strung by shopkeepers, and little children are screaming out to each other from windows and rooftops, as paper kites in freefall land on random terraces around the neighbourhood.

The scene around me has changed in a matter of moments. As thunder begins to rumble in the heavenly corridors overhead, July breezes carry the sounds of the city into every open casement.

A nearby temple has come alive with the blowing of the conch shell. The bells from the church behind my home seem to be ringing in unison as the strong updrafts rock the clappers from side to side. Bells from the anklets of young women tinkle and cyclists announce their approach as they all scurry to find cover.

Returning home is always an assault on the senses. Calcutta is teeming with life, it’s townships dense with people, buildings, flower markets and vendors. The city smells of camphor, dried leaves burning, pungent smog and delectable street food. And since the sights and scents are so compelling, I realise that I’ve rarely ever stopped to listen to and reminisce over the soundtrack of my formative years.

An airplane flying overhead punctuates my reverie and I lean over my terrace to listen to the sounds emanating from the street below. I hear crows hailing the coming deluge , the tinkling from a passing cycle rickshaw, a satsang of ladies in the distance and a damaru player in one desperate attempt to sell his remaining ware – but all of these seem to harmonise spontaneously and add to the lively soundscape of my home.

While I live and work abroad and watch the world whizz by me, ever changing, ever evolving, returning home is to come face to face with a city ageing gracefully and choosing to remain unchanged, immortal even. The sights don’t necessarily make for picture perfect memories if you’re looking for those, but there’s a warmth in the city  not to be found in many modern day Shangri-la’s beyond her borders.  And despite the plethora of reverberations, there is still a charming unison in the tsunami of sounds.

This is not a cacophony of disjointed melodies but a blend  of sound bytes etched permanently in my memory, in fact they are memories in and of themselves that fill my heart with nostalgia and the “bliss of solitude”. These are the sounds of home.