Some Sundays I wake up with intense pain and I know the day will be difficult
Other Sundays are made difficult by others; words and actions that pain the heart
Or simply the day’s plan go awry and things don’t work and everything is loud and ostentatious!
But some Sundays are perfect
I wake up at the right hour, not too early that makes it seem like any other day, nor too late, that the day has simply passed me by.
I drink a cup of filtered coffee or two
Then spend hours, reading the essays and articles I never have time for
My sister sits by me in companionable silence, reading Walt Whitman and watching the clouds and airplanes chase one another through the large bay windows
At some point we have a decadent breakfast of golden pancakes, subtly flavoured in butter and honey, with some eggs
Edward Poynter (1836–1919), In a Garden (1891), further details not known. Wikimedia Commons.
My sister and I then talk for a while, reminiscing about the past, planning for the future
She then goes off to cook a delicious meal of Chicken in Mushroom Sauce and a mashed sweet potatoes
The afternoon is spent reading an old favourite and slumber
The evening brings some chats with neighbours over tea and fritters or a drive around the river, while the sun slowly sets, lighting up the endless sky with crimson reds, pinks and deep purples
The Cup of Tea by Mary Cassat; Date: ca. 1880–8. From the Collection of James Stillman, Gift of Dr. Ernest G. Stillman, 1922
As this orange dusk melts into the deep navy coloured night, my sister and I plan for the new week while listening to our kind of music, western classics and Hindustani vocals, 70’s rock and a dash of Bollywood
The Dinner is a no fuss affair, some soup and grilled fish or a comforting plate of “Kichdi” tasty but easy, for Sundays are meant to be leisurely
And then we settle down for the night; I watch the new K-Series or read the old favourite, before drifting off to slumber hoping to dream of more perfect Sundays to come!
And suddenly just like that July is over. I cannot profess to regret this constant flow of time; I believe in being present and appreciative of the moment we are in but at the same time, there is no merit in trying to stop what is inherently transient, i.e. time. There is value in this continuous change and though we may not always see it, the best kind of life is one where we keep moving forward, while retaining the memories of the past that is worthy of it.
July was not a soft month, but it was a useful month filled, with self-reflection and self realization; of intense work hours that were eventually broken by days spent near the sea. In July, after several months of being away from writing, I ended my-self imposed exile and started writing and blogging again. Putting words on paper brought back clarity of deep quiet thoughts and ideas that brings a sense of incredible fulfilment. I reconnected with many of blogging pals, folks who had known me for decades and despite having never met in person, have been some of my truest and staunchest cheerleaders through all life upheaval. Talking to them again, about books, garden, life was one of the best memories of the past month.
July was also a good reading month; I shifted from my usual genres of Classics, Crime Fiction & History to thrillers that entertain and enthral as work became extremely hectic & I felt the need for some fun.
Gothic Tales by Elizabeth Gaskell was a great book to start off the reading month. This was a re-read and I thoroughly enjoyed the plot and characters of all the stories. What stood out for me besides the true Gothic nature of the collection was Ms. Gaskell’s sense of justice, equality and sense of humanity, are even more relevant today. She is the only author who could write such entertaining fiction and still convey important messages about kindness and respect.
A Pale View of the Hills by Kazuo Ishiguro was a thoughtful page turner. This was Ishiguro’s first novel and I could see the foundations of the kind of writing that would culminated in books like Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go. Memorable characters and a storyline that can be considered complete in itself or open to interpretation based on the readers discretion, this was one of my best reads of the month.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Galaxy by Douglas Adams was another re-read for the month. Some books seem funnier when you re-read them and this was my experience with this novel. I enjoyed it when I first read it as a 19 year old, but absolutely loved the absurdities this time around. It was a perfect read for the time when I was in severe pain and needed a distraction. Following the crazy adventures without any logic is a very good antidote for sick days.
A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle was a joyful book that documented the first year of the author’s and his wife’s life in Provence. Filled with wit, beautiful descriptions of the land, eccentric characters & gastronomic delights, it also reminds the reader of the value of a simple life, a slow life, a contented life; the message being as relevant today if not more so as it was in 1989.
Leonard and Hungry Paul by Ronan Hession is my most favourite book of the month and one of the best that I had read in this year. The only thing I can say about this book is it is one of the most heart warming, life affirming novel I have ever read; it defies genre and I will not say another word, except read it! Read it or know that you missed on something rare!
Death in the Stocks and Why Shoot a Butler by Georgette Heyer were two solidly plotted whoddunits. Written with believable characters, hard to guess murderer, interesting twist and lots of wit, brilliant reads as always from the inimitable Ms. Heyer.
The Housemaid by Frieda Mcfadden was an fun thrillers. I did guess the why but the how was very well done. Not something I would re-read but during the very long work days, it did a very good service of providing amusement and distraction.
My Sister, The Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite left me with mixed feelings. The book was easy to read and the storyline flowed along with an authentic voice. But I was not fully convinced about the choices made by the protagonist or the end.
The Reckoning by John Grisham, sigh! What could have been a powerful and intriguing narrative was turned into a drivel of history of World War II, a wannabe murder mystery and a very pointless attempt at being philosophical about life. Badly written, boring and depressing. The only reason I still gave two stars to this book, was because of the history of the Battle of Bataan and the heroic US-Philippines guerrilla war effort after the US surrendered to Japan in 1942 . In a white washed world, it was heartening and important to read about the valiant war efforts by other countries out of the US-England-France narrative, especially ones that would turn out to be a crucial turning point in the war
I have no series or films to share because I did not watch any. I was too well entertained by the books, busy organizing a puja ( a Hindu prayer service for peace and well being ) at home and planning a vacation to the Beach with my sister. The puja is an annual event, that we have hosted since moving into this apartment last year and it was a wonderful day spent being grateful and sharing food and chatter with friends and family. Sharing some pictures below.
I called in the end of the month by the blue seas with my elder sister, in Goa, a beautiful lush green slightly hilly state in the western part of India, with miles and miles of beaches. Unlike other vacations, we did not spend time “doing things” – we did not visit too many places to eat, we never shop when traveling and this time round, there were no Forts or Galleries visiting. Instead, my sister and I spent days and evenings walking on the beach, swimming for hours by a quite secluded pool, reading whatever we wanted or felt like, eating some deliciously cooked local cuisine in the two hotel restaurants, sleeping whenever we wanted and soaking in the bright green lushness around us. It was a pause I needed from the never ending work treadmill and gave me time to reflect more deeply from my life as the first wave of changes from moving cities settled down. It helped me take back control of my life and peace again, which lately due to events at work was slipping away. In short, the vacation fulfilled it’s purpose completely. I therefore leave you with some sights and sounds that made this happen!
Here’s to a better, healthier and more tranquil bookish August.
There was a time when I read Classics and many other genres – historical fiction, literary, mysteries, romance etc etc. I still read those genres, with a one strong caveat, that they are not written by new age authors, modern living authors. This is true for most except for a few exceptions like Olga Tokarczuk, Louise Erdrich, Bonnie Garmus and to a very limited extent Richard Osman who still understand the value of a good story instead of a bestseller!
And herein I think lies the problem of modern storytelling. The modern storytelling does very little storytelling. I do realise that there is only limited number of innovative stories one can tell, but Madam Bovary is very different from Anna Karenina and both these books are very different from The Awakening. All three books were written within the span of same 50 years, with the common themes of infidelity, death and destruction of the home and hearth and yet, not one reader, will say if you have read one, you have read all for these three novels. I dislike the unidimensional narrative of women trapped in “loveless marriage”, giving into the charms of a younger man only to commit suicide will be the first to acknowledge that the approach, language and the characters add nuanced layer to each of the three novels, distinguishing each from the other, making readers prefer one over the other. I personally think of think of Anna Karenina as one of the best classics ever, though cannot abide by either Madame Bovary or The Awakening. The core plot is not the problem, it is everything else.
Lately when going through another of my re-reading Georgette Heyer’s Regency romance phases, with a mind and mood open to romance novels, I found a post on of the Bookstagrammer about a modern author and her romance books. This particular bookstagrammer was someone whom I trusted, who had read and reviewed many classics and always shared insightful thoughts about them. A true book reader instead of the thousands who congest our social media with zero idea about books or reading and put out rubbish everyday based on Chat GPT summary and the book blurb. She wrote a glowing recommendation about Book Lovers my Emily Henry, emphasising the core of the book as the relationship between the two sister, convincing me to attempt to read a new author. I am sure there are many readers who swear by Ms. Henry’s work and derive immense joy out of them, but to me she seemed to write books straight out of Harlequin Romances, only worse. Her Book Lovers was clichéd in the worst sense; protagonists who dislike each other before turning to lovers is old as hill, Shakespeare used it, Jane Austen used it & turned into a cult classic and Ms. Heyer’s books are littered with such leads. The plot again is not the problem; the problem is the lack of imagination in presenting it, the beaten to death dialogues and the unnecessary 350+ pages to tell a story that could have said just as much in 200 pages. There is a sister and there an effort to display their but it was clearly written to emphasise the “poor little heroine syndrome” – the tough independent girl, who actually needs to be taken care off by the strong, silent type – the male lead. Also the sister relationship, was shallow, without any spark of real emotional connection and at some level seemed toxic instead of heart tugging.
But this is not just about Ms. Henry or her Book. Books which claim to be literary are filled with gratuitous violence that is expected to showcase the trauma of the protagonists, but are purely sensational without any humane insight. If the equal amount of space given to violence was given to the emotions and the transformations within the heart and mind of the characters, that would be a powerful narrative if nothing else; but the focus somehow is always on violence. Hurricane Season by Fernanda Melchor is an example of exactly this. It has been cried up as a modern classic , but her novel is nothing but a long litany of violence and abusive language. I understand that her novel is set among the poorest of poor South America, folks with little or no life chances and such stories are uncomfortable but very important read. But frankly this work seemed to be written for the shock value alone with a very flat portrayal of every possible stereotype. Her attempt at writing the novel without any page breaks or paragraphs seemed gimmicky, again pointing towards the value of bestseller over best writing. For reference, I would like to mention the beautiful, lyrical and deeply emotional trilogy, The Songs of the Road by Bibhutibushan Bandyopadhyay, especially Book 1. Mr. Bandyopadhyay wrote nearly 100 years before Ms. Melchor of back breaking, soul crushing poverty, narrated from the point of view of two siblings capturing every deprivation, pain and suffering that comes in the wake of destitution. But his narrative is not only about poverty, but about people, circumstances and choices, where like life everything is multi-layered and complex. Not once however, is there any abusive language, any contrivance and no pointless, exhaustively descriptive violence, that consume page after page.
Even books with immense promise and beauty, like The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois by Honoree Fanonne Jeffers, which I loved with its multigenerational narrative and strong nuanced characters gives into the more popular conventions. This novel had so many things that it got right – the very powerful plot that interwove with it the history of the Indigenous people and African American people, their repression, their struggle, strength and grief. Then the absolutely magnificent prose that seared through the pages into the reader’s heart and near perfect research added another layer to this book. And yet despite its very original narrative, the book spiralled into the usual drugs-sex-death triangle in the end. Again this is a reality, but this book was already conveying the powerful reality of race, identity and oppression that it had no need to use the triage of drugs, sex and death in our present world to make the point. Why did she do it? Maybe she thought that the present is the result of the past which it is, but I also feel, some of those “cutting edge” themes are what sells the books.
Today every book written by a contemporary author has a cover blazing with such items like Sunday Times Bestseller, The New York Times Best Seller, the selection of the month for Resse Whiterspoon Book club or Oprah Book club or some other such announcement to convince the reader, that this book is the book. Every review talks about how this is the story of our times, capturing whatever genre it is supposed to capture, making it the most important read of the month/year/decade. This is followed by unaccountable number book signing events, media appearances and social media influencers raving about a book that may not really merit so much of hype. It’s a capitalist circus, like everything else, churn out more, churn out fast and churn out what is trending. No plots, no contemplations, no truths and of course no thoughtful prose; just whatever is in and trending and can be rehashed again and again.
The irony or rather the tragedy is despite such bad writing, book publishing remains one of the most profitable industries as people keep buying these books. I am not a book snob, I think reading is deeply personal and how I read something is very different from someone else. I do not judge if you read a John Grisham or a Sidney Sheldon or any other author not considered classic or literary. I am all for reading for pure entertainment and hence my Richard Osman preferences. But I am not sure if most of these books are entertaining ; they are just repetitive, swap the names and locations and it is all the same. There is no attempt to portray something honest and purposeful or let along a clean good plot; just some sensational, gimmicky phrases or settings that attempt to grab the book buyer’s attention without any authenticity. But clearly these very low standards are working and money is pouring in for everyone involved.
I am all for writers and artists being rich and living a good life – good art needs money to sustain itself and I can think of a worthier cause besides education and health where funds should be liberally directed. But this money needs to reach the good art instead of the immensely forgettable ones on display everywhere. I am sure that there are honest authors out there, writing with grit and imagination, trying to tell a good story; who are not playing special guest to some random chat show to promote the book or customising their story to sign the next Hollywood deal. But how does the focus get directed to these rare mortals and their brilliant creations among the cacophony of marketing blitz and the hyping of sub-par books through money and media. In the end, the choice I feel lies with the reader – what do we reach for on the shelves of the bookstore and what do we review? At one end of the spectrum, there are transformative experiences which include both joyful entertainment or things that make one think, and at the other end, just something for the Instagram to get followers or add to the bookshelves at home for the aesthetics. What do we want from our books?
It’s been a while, actually it has been a long while. There is so much water under the bridge, that I don’t even know where to start or what is the right start. But I guess, wherever I start, is the start, and this then is the start!
My last post was in March 2024, where one day I rose above my chemo induced stupor to talk about the a book and then I drifted off in a self-imposed exile from all blogging and writing exercise, rarely if ever posting on my linked Cirtnecce Instagram account & just barely scrapping through my Candid Cancer Conversation Instagram account, despite it being a passion project. While many good things happened, somehow the self-sustaining, motivating life force in me seemed to be all spent. I felt no ambition or yearning to write, I was devoid of all joys of putting words on paper, irritated by scatter-brained tittle tattle that I saw on social media & generally feeling convinced that my writing days were a thing of the past. Opportunities to publish in journals landed uncalled for in my lap and I wavered, dithering between a positive no and can I actually do this. I read my old pieces with unceasing wonder at my articulation, coherent ideas and clean prose. That was me, I wrote all of that; but how did I? Cancer affects us in more ways than is obvious and in a recent chat with some fellow Cancer wizards, I realise that this is a far more common phenomenon than I realised. Painters did not find it in them to paint, sculptors swore off chisel and stone altogether and people like me gave up on words forever, because deep inside, our battles to just stay alive consumed all our passion and ate up all our creativity. After surviving each day of exploding minefields of body and mind, we are nothing but empty carcases oblivious to our callings or the joys that come with them. Everything after a point is rendered completely meaningless. Just memories of those pieces that we had built remain, tantalizingly inviting us to take up our tools again and plunge in and then float!
So I give in and take up the pen or rather the keyboard again. I have no ambitions or grand plans beyond completing this post and next week, next page will be, when it will be – there are no positive commitments once touched by the bony finger of this disease, only maybe an aspiration to do this again, one day, somehow.
In this one year, I unstuck my decades old life in Delhi, the city of my birth and adulthood, to move to the city of my parents, some 1800 kms to east, seeking a fresh start. It was an adhoc, on the spur decision and a year later, I must say, I am so glad that I did what I did. Kolkata was the first city in India built in European lines and has incredible natural beauty, amazing culture and perhaps some of the best food in the country. The canopy of wild untamed greens, the cornucopia of coconut, banyans and Gulmohars that surround many small water bodies around the city is kindness itself to the world-weary individual. The city lives out a life on its own – small food shacks stand next to upmarket artisanal cafes. The local folk artists display their ware with pride next to the more fashionable high end art galleries, the street hawkers and the malls vying for your attention with equal skill. But unlike the mega metropolises around India and the world, the city lives its life, slowly, almost in a dream, meandering, flowing at its own pace while the world heckles her and rushes by. But it is this very confident grace of this city, of dancing to its own rhythm, unbothered by others that I find comforting and which soothes all my angst about everyone having moved on in life except me, who seems to have completely lost the plot.
Last year without too much thought, I bought an apartment in this city, overlooking a wide green open space, dotted with some old cottages and a spectacular view of rolling blue sky, not marred with high rise buildings so high that one almost intrudes into the angels choir. My brilliant and artistic big sister, did up each room herself, scrounging market places for pieces that speak to us and of us, decrying everything that is clichéd and trending and focusing on items that would unite comfort and elegance. And despite being biased, I must say that she has created a beautiful, distinctive calm space, that we gratefully call home. Our days are spent working at our jobs, cooking (something I had completely forsaken in the last few years, along with writing ), reading and long conversations over tea. Over the weekend, we go exploring the city; because I do not have the energy to walk too much, we usually try some new eating places, the city has a profusion of quiet, delicious cafes. Or we attend concerts or spend time getting to know our neighbours over tea/dinner engagements. It is a very different life I led in Delhi, more reflective, more quiet and yet somehow busier. Time has become a thoughtful concept, that seems to work in contradiction of going with the flow and planning meticulously on the more disciplined options of life when things do go as planned. It has somehow become a more meditative life, joyful more than fun, more grown up but with a dash of innocent delights and pastimes.
I still have Cancer, I still undergo treatment and I have some very bad painful days. But those bad days are interspersed with cups of tea while the monsoon rains of Bengal washes everything and everyone anew. It has days of gorging on prawn cutlets that melt in your mouth, of deeply personal moments of watching the great Ganga river flowing by, inspiring beauty and awe; and of golden russet coloured sunsets assuring of day spent well and holding a promise of an even better one, tomorrow!
A few months ago, I had decided that I would completely give up reading new authors. They may be the “exciting new voice” or be a “true portrayal of the lonely existence in a digital age” or whatever their clarion call, I was done with them! I was done with hogwash of using sexuality to convey “raw emotions or brutal reality” and I completely abhorred the gratuitous and unnecessary violence. With a few rare exceptions like Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus and The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman, most of the modern writers left me feeling meh! Even the stunning The Love Songs of W.E.B. Dubois by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers went over the top with the details of the protagonist’s sexual history which added nothing to the actual narrative of Black Women and their history. But nothing beats the absolute filth of Hurricane Season by Fernanda Melcho. I am wary of using strong language when talking about somebody’s creation but 170 pages of unceasing violence and sex and filthy language cannot be called art, even when describing a poverty stricken community whom the world has forgotten. In the words of a GoodReads reader review, if this is the future of modern novels, then I give up on them. And with this determination, I went back to Dickens and Dumas and Puskin and Gaskell.
Last weekend, in-between having finished The Pickwick Papers and starting on The Count of Monte Cristo. I looked around for a quick easy short read and someone in Instagram had posted a story on a “heartwarming” Korean novel about a bookshop. I am also wary of tags like “heartwarming”. Also any story about bookshops are usually a let down with the bookshop being a mere backdrop without any literary significance. In addition my tryst with Korean Literature has not been anything to write home about. I am devoted to K Series and films and think the world of them but books have been a far more complicated affair. There was no reason for me to try to read this book and I was going to give it a miss except the phrase “slow living” beneath the “heartwarming” caught my attention. Forced as I am by this never ending Cancer saga to to adapt to a slow life, savoring the now and finding pleasure in everyday routines and learning that this style of life is actually very rewarding and entails more “living” than the usual hustle culture. I therefore naturally gravitate towards books or films on such theme and while not all of those adventures are rewarding, I am always on the outlook for more such material. And thus, I ended up reading Welcome to the Hyunam-dong Bookshop by Hawang Bo-Reum translated by Shanna Tan.
The novel starts with setting the stage of the Hynam-Dong Bookshop. Set in a quiet neighbourhood of Seoul, away from the main thoroughfares, the reader is introduced the bookshop and to Yeongju, the bookshop owner. She is a burnt out corporate wheeler dealer, attempting to rebuild her life through the bookshop and trying to keep her emotions and her business afloat somehow. There is Minjun, the bookshop’s Barista, an university educated young man in his 30s who exhausted by the fruitless search for jobs, settled to making coffee and doing the best he could. There are regulars in the cafe – like Jungsuh who spends her whole day at the bookshop crocheting and the teenage Mincheol who rebels against the existing system of school-university-job cycle as a purpose of life or his stressed out mother. As Yeongju rediscovers her confidence and her skills, she undertakes more activities for the bookshop with book clubs and blogs and author talks which brings her in touch with other individuals who help her overcome her past. As the bookshop evolves so does the life of the characters like Minjun who finds that making good coffee everyday helps him find a purpose and maybe even contentment and with this evolution, the bookshop and it’s people find both a closure and a future. The language of the novel is simple and the chapters at times jumps from the perspective of one character to another. There is no strong plot arch, but meanders and somehow manages to find a natural conclusion.
This is not a book for those looking for a thrilling page turner, though you do turn the page because you are enjoying the gentle tugs at your heartstrings that this book brings. The characters some may contend are flat but I believe that in today’s day of celebrating “grey” or “complex” characters, we under appreciate every day people like us who form the core of this narrative. There are no perfectly tied of explanations to the past nor riding in glory to the sunset, real life is rarely like that; but there is understanding of human fragilities, of disappointments and a hope of a tomorrow. There are several pages filled with reflection on life, humanity and what it means to live a life or be happy. The novel gently critiques the Korean and all of Asian and South Asian culture of the never ending treadmilling of schools-jobs-family and asks if following this path is truly the path to success or are there other paths we can explore? It is indeed a novel that tries to understand if slowing down and just being present may not be a good road to contentment? Finally the book is an ode to books and authors and bookstores. This is truly a book about books and the novel is replete with bookish reference and quotes. One of the Good Reads reviewers had mentioned that in Korea such novels are often referred to as Healing Books and I can quite understand why. As a convert to the slow life, books like these help us find more ways to enjoy our chosen path and for those still struggling to find a balance, it may nudge them towards a closure.
Definite recommend. Do you know any other such “Healing Books”?
India celebrated Teacher’s Day a few days back and in US everyone seems to celebrating the hint of fall ( in record breaking heat ) and the back to school-ness feeling of getting up, getting organized and starting off again. Such exuberance around the concept of school and teachers, especially in India, on September 5th when entire nation is sending sentiment laden maudlin messages with bad meter about that one teacher in Class 2 who drew a boat for you to color that helped you become Mechanical Engineer or whatever, forced, compelled and involuntarily brought forth the memories of my own “That One Teacher”.
Before I begin, an important disclaimer – I believe there are many good teachers in this world, who struggle valiantly to bring knowledge and generosity to their students. They work with limited resources, to mold young minds, give those hope, who have very little and open a whole world to young minds. Most of them never receive any thanks for their endless work and very little pay for all their diligence. They are many such superheroes without capes in this world and thank goodness for them! My own sister’s student years had been enriched by many such amazing teachers who had a strong role in helping her evolve into the strong, confident, kind and bookish woman that she is today. Viva for such great teachers, may you always teach what is right, may you be paid for it and may you always be honored for all that you!
However, not all teachers are created equal and mine belonged to a whole different category. I was sent to school in one of the premier Catholic Convent schools in this part of the geography ( Convent Schools being the epitome of education until International Baccalaureate certification took over country in 2010s) The Nuns and the teachers mostly were good if not invested and passionate about teaching young women and empowering them etc. There were a few goods ones, and few bad ones and mostly middling ones. They taught us well enough but with little to no interest in igniting our minds with curiosity or intellect. And in between selecting students carefully after a rigorous entrance exam and some good teachers, the results were always on the excellent side if not always outstanding. They taught us English very well and some branches of science like Biology and Geography brilliantly well. I was a reasonably good student from the onset and the inherent unbridled competitive streak in me made work hard and do well in exams. My ambitions changed every week, depending on the book that I was reading so I did not have a tunnel vision of one aim and certain kind of subjects that I wanted to specialize in which made me more or less uniformly perform well in all. That is until I reached Class 7.
In the 1990s the curriculum followed by my school was one of the most difficult ones across the country and the jump from Class 6 to Class 7 was a difficult one. I was a good student but I was also one of those who had to work very hard to become good. I began struggling from the beginning with syllabus and especially in Hindi. For those unversed, Hindi in Devanagari script and English are the official languages in India, which has another 22 different languages recognized by the Constitution that belong to different part of the country. My parents belonged from the East of India and spoke Bengali. They had moved to Delhi for work and though I was born in Delhi, my natural language was not Hindi ( the primary language of North India including Delhi ) but Bengali. Hindi was a language I had to learn outside of my natural conditioning just like English. But while the grammar of the latter was easier to me, the former with a gender based grammar, like French was far more difficult for me to imbibe. The fact that I was not exposed to Hindi literature at home unlike Bengali and English may have made it harder for me to relate to this language at that age. Regardless of the reasons, by Class 7, I was struggling and sinking in the miasma of Hindi and by most unfortunate luck, our class was assigned a legendry nasty teacher, Mrs. K to teach us the subject that year and the legend became my haunting reality. Every class and we had a Hindi class every day, every week, was her favorite time to lets make rude sarcastic comments on how incompetent I was, how worthless and how I would amount to nothing. She would make me read texts and then laugh at my inability to pronounce difficult words and threaten that until I made changes soon, I would live to regret it. How I could make the change, she never elaborated or shared. On Parents Teachers Meeting days, she would tell my mother while praising other students and their parents who did well, that my mother was a failure because she was a working woman ( my mom worked for a larger conglomerate as a senior executive when women were mostly secretaries) and apparently did not attend to her daughter. She would continue to insult my mom by saying that I should probably be married off as soon as I reach my adulthood because she did not know what else she could do with an idiot of a daughter like me. She guilt tripped my mother who was already had enough guilt into feeling miserable and angry at me and straining the mother daughter relationship further. I never knew why my Mum, always a strong woman, put up with all this; maybe she hoped the school certificate of such a prestigious school would somehow make my life and career easier; whatever be the reason, put up with it, she did. I however as a 10 year old had no tools to deal with the kind of indignation I was dealt with both at home and at school. Always a sensitive child, I began to believe that I was genuinely stupid and incapable of learning anything and my grades within year from being outstanding began to slide towards the bottom edge. I was convinced that I was truly an idiot and therefore saw no point in making any effort and instead, I gave myself up wholly to books and I read like one possessed. One of the rare good thing about our school was an extremely well stocked library and I used it liberally. My home was also filled with books so running out of reading material was never an issue. As my scores dipped, my Mum frustrated with the treatment that was meted out to her as a working mother and angry at a daughter who refused to change her ways, became more and more upset and many epic fights and scolds unfolded over the next few years. By Class 8 I had acquired the reputation of one of those awfully bad students and no teacher made any effort to understand why a girl who did not misbehave, loved books was so bad with her school work and such was the saga until Class 10. We had a new History teacher that year, Ms. V. Fresh off the boat so to speak; she had just finished her degree in Teacher’s Training college and had joined our school and was still learning the ropes around school and the background of the students. She did not teach history from the text books but from books in the library. She made things real and was truly interested in her subject and tried to impart that to her pupils. Her classes were interesting and I enjoyed them as any bookworm would when the past they had read about in the novels came alive through a teacher. She did not take any special interest in me or try to understand me, but she did deviate from the usual assignment style of Indian schools at that time , which was learning my rote and asked us to write an essay on The Great Depression. She expressly forbade us from writing anything from our textbooks and instead tasked us with find other sources and materials. I had by then read several novels about the great depression besides having several sets of encyclopedia’s and books at home which spoke about the event in detail, thanks to a scholarly father. This was one assignment that truly interested me and after a gap of several years, I made an effort to write an assignment. A few days later, the teacher handed out the graded essays to our class monitor to return them to us. I still distinctly remember her face as she handed me back my paper, the look of absolute surprise that passed in that one glance from the top of the page to my face, before handing it to me. I has been given an A+grade and from that moment onwards my academic narrative changed. I would go on to become an honors student, at the university and earn a Summa cum laude graduate degree. I would also remain excellent and proficient in all professional and personal commitment and become the by-word of self made success in my circle. All because a teacher who had no background into my academic past tested me on an assignment, that truly examined a student’s understanding of the past and it’s impact on modern economy and expected them to think and articulate their thoughts!
My experience in Class 7 did not leave me inspired to do great things or make me determined to do strive for excellence; but what it did was make me turn away and seek knowledge from other sources, making me realize that knowledge is very different from literacy. That habit of voracious reading that kept growing, would help me also get through to one of the premier Universities of the country in a course where they select only 45 students a year. She also taught me without ever intending to, what not to be – bitter, mean and ungenerous, to not laugh at someone weaker or without power, to not compare. The essay on Great Depression was a turning point; it was a validation of what I secretly always thought , that I was not stupid as my Hindi Teacher of Class 7 had made it out to be; in fact something deep inside me told me I was actually bright and knew more beyond school texts. It was my coming of age self confidence – my first foray into I know who I am and no one and nothing can change that. The only thing I ever regret is the not saving my Mum some of that unnecessary guilt trip and not stretching her already stretched patience. Otherwise, despite doing excellently in most of school years, the three years of interlude between Class 7 to Class 10, left me fraught and traumatized with painful memories, so much so, I refuse to attend any school reunions. It was not a happy place, my teachers did not make my school years memorable and I would never voluntarily go back there, ever! And to my Hindi Teacher, Mrs. K, please never attempt to take a job as a psychic, you would fail miserably.
This post was written in response to Suleika Jaoud’s The Isolation Journal weekly prompts. This week’s prompt was Write about a teacher, cataloging what you remember (good, bad, and otherwise) and how you saw them as a child. Then write about them as the student of life you are today.
Yet another prolonged hiatus from Blogging because, because, because. Cancer is truly a brutal disease and it’s incredibly hard to describe, how it takes over all your complete life, unless you are in it. My life for the past few months have been treatment, recovering from treatment and then treatment again. In between I somehow complete my professional obligations and then read if I can, at a snail’s pace because I cannot remember many things and have to go back and read and of course my ability to concentrate is laughable. This in a nutshell has been my life for the last few months, infact practically for this whole year. The other day I went to do a Instagram post on one of those 6 photos to describe your August type thing. I had no photos, not one, except one at the hospital. There were no photos of the books that I read, no photos of flowers, none of food. Not one thing, that adds value to my life. Where did the joy go? Oh! Yes, in trying to recover from excruciating pain. Cancer is a stupendously horrifying disease and to think I have been diagnosed as incurable and have to do this for rest of my life, is downright depressing. This is no life if I cannot LIVE it. So I am determined, that no matter how hard, how incredibly hard, I am going to make an attempt at LIVING once more; I may fall of the wagon, now and then, but I will get up again, and again, and again!
Moving on from the doom and gloom news, lets talk bookish. My sister has become a Kindle addict and a pro in finding lesser know but wonderfully well written books available through Kindle Unlimited . One of the books that I read, thanks to her and loved was Kamusari Tales Told in the Night by Shion Mura and translated by Julia Winter’s Carpenters. This is book 2 of the Forest series ( I am yet to read Book 1) but this volume can be read stand alone as well. It follows the adventures of the narrator, Yuki Hirano , a young woodsman as he explores the legends of the Kamusari Mountains in Japan and navigates his life in the village, with his friends and collogues and the love of life, Nao, the teacher at the local school. Filled with lovely descriptions of Japan and some wonderful folklore along with insights into a what a village community life means, this is perfect book when you are at reading odd ends. Not a classic but a definite delightful read. The other two stand out books that I read lately were Upstreams by Mary Oliver and Hotel Du Lac by Anita Bookner. What can I say about Ms. Oliver that has not been said already? She was an artist of highest order creating beautiful symphonies of words and nature. These collected essays are no different and every page made me want to walk in mountains or on the beach and spend the night staring at the sky. Anita Bookner’s book won the Booker Prize in 1983. Set in early 1950’s, it follows Edith Hope a romance author as she steps into Hotel Du Lac in Switzerland after an embarrassing incident in England. She meets many different characters in the hotels and receives an offer of marriage that will save her from everything she is anxious about but everything is not always as it seems. The book does feel dated if one reads it through the 2023 context but if we consider the time period when the book was set in or even published, it is revolutionary. In sparse prose and strongly etched out characters, Ms. Bookner wrote a masterpiece for ages. Currently I am reading Selected Essays of Wendell Berry, who is giving me a lot of food for thought and In a Land Far from Home by Syed Mujataba Ali, who is giving me a lot a laughs and also some very interesting insights into the 1920s Afghanistan, during the short lived rule of the modernist King Amanulla.
I have finally given into the social pressures and my closest friends going over to the other side, including my sister and Laurie and have taken up binge watching K Dramas. Their one hour plus episode length still kills me and the very thought heightens my fatigue. But what can I say, I love them! The productions are gorgeous but the plot line is wild ( I thought Bollywood was bad ) but they truly hook you on! I started with Crash Landing on You ( Actually I had started with Descendants of the Sun back in 2017 via Torrents, but that was a one off) and I really did find no fault in it; not even when things got too good to be true. And because I started with the good stuff, I am invariably watching everything, the good, the not so good and the weird!
In July, my sister and I made a trip to the home of our hearts, in the Himalayas – Mcleodganj. It was wonderful to get away from hustle of the City and breathe in the scent of pine trees, as the clouds danced on to top of the blue grey mountains top to the rhythm of the Buddhist monks chants from the Dalai Lama Temple. But it was in certain ways disappointing too; our usual hikes and trips across this hill town were all suspended because I had no strength. We could go out only one day, visiting some of our old haunts; the remaining were spent confined to the room, sometimes, even ordering room service because I was too weak to climb a flight of stairs that led to the hotel’s restaurant. It was not a completely joyful trip as many memories of the past crowded in my mind and reminding me constantly of things I no longer had the ability or stamina to do. But the view of the mountains did soothe many of the traumas and views like the one below can hardly allow one to feel sad for long. Thus, I leave you all with some pictures from the trip – most of them taken by my sister. I hope to post a little more frequently and hope to chatter about books and other things besides this beastly disease more.
Take for Granted – to value (something or someone) too lightly :to fail to properly notice or appreciate (someone or something that should be valued)
Merriam Webster Dictionary
As someone who had grown up in difficult circumstances, I was always and constantly conscious of the idiomatic phrase “take for granted”. When I started earning my own money, I was aware of the privilege of my world class education that allowed me to get a job with a financial conglomerate. The money itself I used as judiciously as possible, spending it mostly to take care of my very old parents and then living in a thrifty manner, assuming a frugal life is a good life. This was also true of my relationships; I invested all I had in making sure people around me knew that I valued them and I appreciated them and was grateful to have them in my life. I never passed up an opportunity to celebrate “my people” and every birthday, wedding or promotion was a hoopla, an event for rejoicing. Even my ruthless ambition was governed by this principle, which made me take up lost causes and a constant refusal to give into shortcuts, that cost me many promotions. I made every effort to not take anyone for granted or anything for granted, because I knew what it was to not have things, not have money, to not have friends. I had through sheer hard work and self-discipline mastered the art not taking anything lightly or not giving enough appreciation. This was one habit I was confident off and knew in my bones how not to overlook it, manage it all circumstances and mould it as per situations.
The thing about life is that there is really no knowing if you are good at something, until you are forced to tread through every possible situation that can test you. My real test came when I was diagnosed with Cancer 3 years ago and over these 36 months, I realised that I had barely scratched the surface of the habit of not taking anything/anyone for granted. The initial weeks after the surgery and especially the last 6 odd months since my metastasis was discovered have especially been crucial in learning and unlearning this habit and rediscovering what it truly means to not take for granted, those very important things in life, that we do not even know are important until we lose it.
My health and control of my body was the most important thing that I took for granted. I had always been healthy, not even a common cold seemed touch me. I could go on for hours moving from one activity to another – work for 15 hours, then cook for 4 hours and be a hostess for the evening party. I did long road trips with little or no sleep and could eat and digest just about everything. I read through long nights and then went to work and pulled of a dozen hours easy. Nothing bad was every going to happen to me physically until, something did. Cancer treatment kills the bad cells, but it also kills the good cells like the red blood cells, depletes muscle mass and bone density, plays havoc with your gut and completely destroys your immunity. These days walking from the bedroom to the dining table exhausts me. I have not left the house in the last 4 months except for 3 occasions. Taking a shower is an effort that requires hours of self-pep talk. Cooking is out of question and some work days I do the bare minimum before I can log out. Most days I cannot taste any food and someday, even talking is exhausting. Gone is my long red hair and my flawless complexion with even skin tones. Internally and externally, I am nothing but a hollow mess trying to get by one day at a time.
But because I am a hollow mess and am forced to live in a confined manner, I was forced to learn to not value the small things lightly and appreciate those every day routines, which earlier I dismissed without even stopping to see them. These days, the few foods that I can taste, are the meals that I cherish the most. Like a hot Toast with some butter or Jam; for me it equates to food worthy of Gods. Or the delicious pasta my sister makes using garlic, fresh tomatoes and some olive oil, perfection! Though I take a lot of time to take a shower, I love the sensation of the water hitting my skin and the feeling of cleanliness and rejuvenation. I love that hot cup of tea that is accompanied with long chats with my sister as the evening dusk turns into night while some jazz plays in the background. The sense of quiet bliss after you wake up in the early morning. Always a reader, these home-bound months have given me time to re-read many of the old favorite’s, rediscovering nuances I had missed and ah-ha moment when the title suddenly made sense. A care package of pickles and savories sent by my cousin 1800 Km away brings untold joy as does seeing my house plants shoot up new branches/flowers. And when I can, the little walks around the park watching the tress shake the leaves to the Windsong. And the small outings to a café, chosen carefully by a friend near the parking so that I do not have to walk too much.
These small gestures of kindness, these perfect moments in time, I have now learnt make up for most of human happiness, or atleast my happiness. Everything else is just fluff, immaterial and even pointless. There is this whole craze of “slow living” and for the first time I see the sense in it. It is only when I was forced to slow down and the road to recovery was/is long and arduous, only then I had to dig deep amongst the things around me to find true happiness and to appreciate the mundane, the everyday, the boring! I had missed years of these simple joys, not valuing them and instead trying to connect the dots of the bigger picture, without seeing what those dots were. I am not sure if I will ever regain my health, atleast the quality of health and body integrity I had before Cancer. That was one thing, that I took for granted that may never come back. But that will be the only thing; despite everything it is so good to be alive and to see, hear, feel, smell and touch all the small and big wonders that life brings with it and I am determined to appreciate all of them, live through all of them.
This post was written in response to a prompt from The Isolation Journals by Suleika Jaoud. This week’s prompt was contributed by – “Write about something you once took for granted, but no longer do“. You can read the full article on The Isolation Journal
In the second week of October 2021, just 3 months after my radical hysterectomy and a month after I started chemotherapy, one late night, my sister and I booked a cab and set off for a 12-hour journey to Dharamshala, a wonderous Himalayan town, the seat of the Tibetan Government in Exile and the home of my heart. It was the place where I found peace, rejuvenation and healing and this impromptu trip which was planned and executed under 3 hours was rooted in the deep need for healing from everything life had thrown at me over nearly two decades.
I never had it easy. I know many claim the copyright to similar sentences and feelings, but I truly did not. My very very rich parents became bankrupt when I was 13 and never recovered. My adolescent and teen years were spent in halfway houses, sometimes maybe with one meal a day and spending all hours listening to the threats and recriminations of debtors and relations alike. I left my academic ambitions to help my parents pay off their debts and just when things were starting to improve, they both died in quick succession leaving me rootless at a very young age. But the best was yet to come, the diagnosis of stage 3 Ovarian and Endometrial cancer, just when my career was starting to look bright, my life was stable and I was surrounded by some great friends, who replaced the need of relations who had disappeared very early.
The thing that I did not know about Cancer when I was initially diagnosed was how much more encompassing and destructive this disease was, and not just physically. My very successful career came to a grinding halt, because my then leader decided I was a lost cause and it was better to look after others than invest in a probable here today, gone tomorrow employee. This after 16 years of top tier performance. But this alone would not have broken me as the desertion of my so-called friends. People whom I thought of as family, never had time for me. They never visited, and never called. Taking me to the hospital became an onerous task, though the initial offer was made by them. After telling me I was family and not a friend, they always found reasons to not be around me. The ones who stuck around a little longer, turned out to be grief tourists, who would find “glamor” and “feel good” factors in their occasional visits/phone calls. But that October day it had been one too many – I host a Dinner every year, after Durga Puja. I had planned for this event this year as well and told everyone to keep that Sunday free, two months in advance. A week before this event I sent out reminder invites to 23 odd people. They were all who had acknowledged that they would be available and be free to join. And every single one of them refused – there was family visits, family events and lives to be led that did not include attending a Cancer patient’s dinner party.
I was emotionally exhausted, physically drained and I needed to go away, where I could lick my wounds in peace. To Dharamshala we would go. We checked into the town by mid-morning and were ensconced in our favorite room, at our favorite hotel by afternoon. Under shadow of snow peaked mountains with the gentle sounds of Buddhist monks chanting at the nearby temple, I felt my soul reviving, a calm settling, but the healing was not complete yet; the process of transformation was still not over.
Later in the day when I logged into work, (we were all work from home then and I worked evening supporting my US market clients) I discovered two pieces of news that spiraled me into ultimate breakdown. One of those deserting friends, had been given a promotion and called my sister to share the news, without asking once of how I was, had I recovered etc. The second was the promotion itself; I was a prime candidate for the role and I had not taken any off except the three weeks of surgery and was working through chemotherapy with best possible results and my leader had not bothered to tell about the role or recommend me, the leader whom I had thought the world off. There was too much of hurt, too much pain, too many excuses of why something could not happen.
The next day, my sister and I booked a car and went further north, deeper into the mountains. After a point, the road was inaccessible by car and we started walking. Neither my sister or I were sure how far I would be able to walk in my current physical condition. But I needed to get away from the crowd, to breathe easy and shake off my frustration and anger.
We started walking. It was hard, very hard, especially the initial distance. I was out of breath and there were too many people on the trail and selfie seekers and hawkers crowded the path. But after a point, my breathing adjusted and I started walking slowly to ease the discomfort of my back and legs. We made slow progress and had several pit stops, both for me to recover and for my sister to take pictures. But we kept walking and suddenly, we had outstripped the tourists and the hawkers and the more trafficked paths. The air became even more cleaner, crisper, and even sweeter. Coniferous trees swayed gently to the breeze, sometimes scattering pine cones on the path. The mountains around me grew larger, more magnificent with a mosaic of colors, each of a different hue. The grey merged into green and the green merged further into dark green, almost black like texture as only the mountains of Himalayas can.
As the sun reached it’s summit, the peaks glittered like diamonds atop huge canvases of colors. It was quiet, so very quiet; the only sound was the sound of our feet, hitting the trail and there was no one except, the blue sky, the huge mountains, the spirit of something larger than life and us. It was beautiful, it was tranquil and it was healing and I had reached the final stop. And the one thing that seemed to encompass that moment , was a poem by Mary Oliver.
Every day I see or hear something that more or less
kills me with delight, that leaves me like a needle
in the haystack of light. It was what I was born for -- to look, to listen,
to lose myself inside this soft world -- to instruct myself over and over
in joy, and acclamation. Nor am I talking about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful, the very extravagant -- but of the ordinary, the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations. Oh, good scholar, I say to myself, how can you help
but grow wise with such teachings as these -- the untrimmable light
of the world, the ocean's shine, the prayers that are made out of grass?
It was here, at this point, where I finally found calmness in the acceptance of the rage inside me for all the unfair things, I had been subjected too for all my life. I made peace with the fact that things change, and sometimes they change inevitably. But also, somethings did not; like the mountains did not, nor my own agency through which I could do, be and accomplish whatever I want, just like completing the hike. And I was free!
We returned to a grand meal at a restaurant back in the town and that night when I had logged in, I was transformed. I understood that for the final time the job that I had was what I do and not who I was. That I will find new companionships and learn to thrive in my own company. And that there was still so much beauty in life, poetry in life, and that made everything a joy. I would go back and start advocacy work for Cancer, I would write more, travel more. Cancer would come back to me again less than 6 months after I completed my chemo, and I would have to be put on chemo for the rest of my life. I would lose other promotions and more friends. But I would also find new friends, good projects at work with some great colleagues. I would fall down , but I also would pick up the pieces again and forge forward. And I did not forget , that I am what I choose to be and as long as there were mountains, books and my sister, life was as wonderful as it could be!
This post was written in response to a prompt from The Isolation Journals by Suleika Jaoud. This week’s prompt was contributed by Kate Bowler – “Think of a time when you felt especially unlucky. The opposite of #blessed—the “anti-blessing,” if you will—but then you noticed something beautiful, funny, anything that sparkled. Write about holding the tension of both the deep terrible and the fairy dust feeling“. You can read the full article on The Isolation Journal
Mockingbirds, Looking Glasses & Prejudices... 
