Bookshops and Healing

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.

By Claude Monet – EwHxeymQQnprMg — Google Arts & Culture, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22174454

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”?

That One Teacher

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!

A School for Boys and Girls by Jan Steele , 1670.
Source/Photographer –
gQE0-8lJSrXjoQ at Google Cultural Institute 

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.

What Have I Been Upto Lately …..

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.

The Everyday Grantings….

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

Every Three Weeks…..

Every 3 weeks, my body tries to kill itself, so that I can live

Every 3 weeks, infusions flow through me, and I lose my hair, my body and my will

Every 3 weeks as toxins rage through my nerves, it becomes harder and harder to remember everyday things

Every 3 weeks as pain sears my body and my mind in half, I hear senseless sermons on gratitude and positivity

Every 3 weeks I put on my cap and make the journey through the hallowed halls of life giving, losing a little more of what my life used to be

Every 3 weeks as I lose my appetite and no longer enjoy food that brought me joy, I receive compliments on my weight loss

Every 3 weeks, as I struggle to breathe and hold my body together, I am asked to share my story as an inspiration

Every 3 weeks, I die slowly, so that I can live a little!

Childe Hassam (1859-1935) ~ Women At The Windows

The “Anti Blessing”

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

The Latest in the Life & Times of Me

It’s been difficult to talk books lately, though they continue to do an incredible job in helping me retain my sense of sanity and balance; but life keeps throwing out unexpected challenges and this one time I am just exhausted. Exhausted to do what seems normal, when nothing, not one element in my life is normal. I do love life and want to live it every minute, but I do want to ask the Universe, why am I denied a boring albeit peaceful life. For those seeking excitement and action, tired of their everyday jobs and other social responsibility, know that there are others who who would trade that simple everyday life in a heartbeat. Why is boring a bad thing? It is a worthy existence and much better that the constant curve balls that comes your way. Maybe boring is what we all need to aspire for instead of wealth and adventure. There is such joy in everyday routine; in the small tasks that bring comfort and add to the overall well being of our existence.

But boring is one adjective that I am denied, since I was 13. If there is a problem, life will make sure it hits me in the face and in case I still refuse to see, rub my face on it, till, I get the point. For instance, back in late August, I was set for a wonderful vacation with my sister and cousin to the southern most state of India, Kerala, a magical land of culture, beach, mountain , wildlife, all together. This was a my first full length vacation since my diagnosis last year and the north star of my life for the last few months. Physically I was feeling much better than I had in months ( re – my last post ), the chemotherapy side effects were finally in control and I was leading as a normal life as possible.

I went for my routine follow up that happens every three months with my oncologist. My blood tests were all clean and as a standard medical protocol, she advised an MRI. I went for the MRI but something kept bothering me – the what if scenario. I tried dismissing them, believing that my mind always sought out the worst, after years of trauma. But there may be science to such things like “gut instinct” etc, because turns out they were correct. In subsequent tests that followed, it was discovered that my endometrial cancer has metastasized (spread) and I have lesions in my lungs and lymph nodes. The cancer is back ( or maybe it never gone away, just hid somewhere until the chemotherapy stopped ) in less than 7 months after I finished my treatment. My second round of chemotherapy started as of September 30th and this time we really do not know much; how many rounds, how long and if it needs to be combined with such advanced medicine like immunotherapy. It’s living from one session to another, dependent on test results, that may or may not say something.

This second round of battle is making me very unwell. Far more than I was the first time, as the dosage is stronger and also my immunity is already compromised from the first session that ended last year. I am tired of the never ending triage of doctors, tests and medicines. And I want nothing more than a boring life where I do my work, read some books , write about them and go traveling every now and then. I have no ambitions of conquering the Corporate world or finding the one true love of my or being “inspiring” . I just want to be left alone to lead a simple life, but there I guess I ask too much and am being totally brazen in my greed !

However I am determined to grasp whatever I can get of my life. After my biopsy, I did take the vacation with my sister and cousin. And now prepare for another beach holiday in November. I will continue reading as much as I can and am planning to enroll for a second masters next year. I will continue raising awareness about Cancer in a society that pretends that this illness does not exist (see https://www.instagram.com/candidcancerconversation/ ). And in my own small sphere try and be as “boring” as possible, finding joy in everyday routines and tasks that enrich life – the smell of woodfire as the autumn turns to spring, a well cooked meal ( very important as most things taste like mud to me these days ) buying new books, an afternoon spent chatting with an old friend, 18000 kms away about everything and nothing and just breathing, one moment in time.

Sharing some pictures from the Kerala Vacation. It’s gorgeous country with nature and history and I am so glad I did this journey, cancer or no cancer.

July End Notes….

Well it’s August finally and I am glad that the end of the year is finally here. As most of my old readers are aware, I always have an affinity for the Autumn – Winter part of the year than the Spring – Summer months! Onwards, I say!

July was a much more productive month than most. The month infact saw two whole weeks of being chemo side effect free and I was able to get a lot more reading and writing done as well as socializing as always!

The reading this month was very good after some of the dry spells, the previous months. White Spines was an amazing read that only bookworms can appreciate; the joy of collecting and finding small treasures within the pages, especially if they are bought second hand. Greenwood made me think a lot, about the environment and you can read my thoughts here. Tomb of Sand blew me away; 3 weeks after having finished the book, I am still processing it to be able to write a full length review. Animal Farm is always a thought provoking book to read, as relevant today as when it was originally published. All in all a great reading month; I have a few reading in progress that is spilling over in August; Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino, On Writing by Margaret Atwood and Conversations on Love by Natasha Lunn. I am also excited about doing an in depth reading of Persuasions and Mansfield Park as part of Austen in August , hosted by Adam Burgess.

There was a lot of eating and merry making this month as well long walks in the evenings and here are some glimpses of all the fun that was had!

July finally saw the onset of the monsoons in this part of the world. I wrote a post about it on my Insta page, and I cannot help but duplicate some of that here, considering how vital this season is to the Indian sub continent. Monsoon brings many things to people of the Indian subcontinent besides of course relief from unceasing heat, that storms down from the heaven and rises from the earth, suffocating all living things in-between! It has many socio economic benefits – it is one the primary source of fresh water. It has a major impact on the crop cycle which in turn has a major impacts on the economy of an agricultural intensive country like India. And naturally Indian culture is replete with songs, poems and prose about this natural gift. Raag Malhar is a collections of Raags that is supposed to induce rains. Meghdoot, meaning the cloud messenger is the play of plays written by Kalidas in 5th century AD where a banished nature spirit asks a cloud to take his message to his wife. Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore has written profusely about rains and monsoons in this region. Bollywood has films after films that showcased the importance of these rains in the life of an Indian farmer, besides of several rain song numbers. Every home in the region has a special menu associated with Monsoons, fried fritters, tea and many local delicacies. Monsoons are not simply a season in the subcontinent, it is an emotion, it is an expression and it is integral to the identity of this region and her people.

I spent most of July listening to Jazz and more Jazz . I love the old Jazz classics and rediscovered my love for Glenn Miller and have been playing his albums in loop these past few weeks.

July then was truly a wonderous month, but I am so glad its August. I leave you with a poem for August called August by Mary Oliver – 

When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend

all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking

of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body

accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among

the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.

How was your July? Do you have any special plans for August?

Those Green Trees…

Reading contemporary literature, especially fiction is a tricky thing. There is either some frivolous angst related plot for characters who have no reason to be angst, or they try and say profound things, which all just gets articulated as someone trying very hard to be stream of consciousness or they are written solely to propagate an ism; regardless of the narrative arc etc. No wonder like my friend Cleo says, one feels the constant urge to stick to classics. But sometimes you do have to venture out to the modern world and find out what are the current going ons.

I have been reading some very good reviews about Greenwood by Michael Christie; the plot appealed to me; it was a an interesting mix of historical fiction with some futuristic apocalyptic overtones. But mostly, what really intrigued me was the personality of the author. Mr. Christie seemed to be a very hands on environmentalist. He is a former carpenter and a social worker and now lives in Galiano Island, with his family in a timber house he built for himself. Mr. Christie seemed to know about tress and I had a feeling if nothing else I will learn about trees.

The book begins in 2034 in an apocalyptic world where all trees have died out due to an event called The Withering, a fungal infestation, that has killed all plants and green things. Most of the population is reduced to living in slums with extreme pollution and air filled with noxious gas and other poisonous substances. This causes various illness and diseases including a cough that kills children’s by breaking their ribcage and has shattered the global economy. However the rich continue to be rich and live in huge climate controlled buildings and take vacations to some of last remaining forests and clusters of green acres with fresh air. Jake Greenwood is a guides in one the last bastions of nature, a small island in British Columbia. She has Ph.D but the Withering has wiped out her future as a probable professor of Botany along with her savings, leaving her riddles with a student debt and a pitiful existence. The fact that she shares her last name with the island name is nothing but a coincidence. Until an ex-boyfriend, arrives with a fantastic tale of a timber tycoon Grandfather, who once owned this land and a story of a family, that started a tryst with wood and forests that went back generations.

This is not a perfect book. Some of characters and their actions seemed to have no correlation whatsoever. The plot at times, was slow and I had thoughts of abandoning it. While not a linear narrative, some of the threads did not always tie in very clearly. Having said all of that, it is an important book and a must be read. It made me think deeply about trees and our environment much more deeply than I had ever thought, though I am someone who is very conscious about sustainability and the quality of life of our planet. It made me more than ever appreciate the green planet that we had the privilege to be born into and are now wantonly destroying! It made me uncomfortable about my present and worry about the future. It is that kind of powerful book! There are many good things about the novel from a purely work of fiction perspective as well. While I could not understand the motivation of some of the key characters, others like that of Temple and Liam Feeney, left me moved and touched and amazed at the ability of human kindness and honor, both qualities in short supply in real life! The plot did drag a bit and then suddenly it picked up midway and had me running through the pages as fast as I could. Finally the prose is beautiful and Mr. Christie has an absolutely awe inspiring ability to write about tress without being poetic in the traditional sense. The book is filled with, as I expected, a lot information about trees, but it never reads like dry history and in fact brings humans closer to these marvelous giving creatures, whom we have destroyed with a vengeance. And while the main theme is our environment, there is beautiful sub theme of what it means to be a family, of relations through blood or otherwise and loyalty. This aspect of the book especially resonated with me and added a complex and enriching layer to narrative . I strongly recommend this book, both for its storytelling and the message it tries to drive home. A wonderful wonderful book.

June End Notes

And just like that, 6 months of 2022 are over! I am quite undecided if I like the fact that I am moving forward in time or I regret the passing of time. The pre 2021 me, would have loved the fact that Summers were finally receding and soon Autumn will be here. The post 2021 me also is really excited about Autumn and Winters as always; but since being diagnosed with Cancer, I know that every additional day, a day when I am healthy , as in not Cancer sick, is a gift. And I want to hold this time in my hand and stretch it out as long as possible, because I still have so much to do and so many things to experience and I want to do it all.

Speaking of doing it all, June was a tad bit more managed despite 2 solid weeks of being Chemo sick. I got a lot more done – read more, wrote more and worked on Insta page a lot more. Also managed to socialize and get a huge work project off the ground. Getting things done has always been a thing with me and with all the sickness and low energy that comes from all the funky medicines, I feel especially chuffed for the months, when I am able to get more than my new usual done!

I completed 4 books in June and started off on a few others which I hope to complete in July. My TBR lists keeps growing, but that’s not new and let’s be honest – there is something infinitely joyous in speculating about what book to read next. It’s like being served all the best desserts in a platter and then you pick and choose per your mood and taste! Absolute bonanza!

Reading in June was very rewarding! Re-reading The Book Thief is always such a perfect joy! I really enjoyed the very cleverly crafted murder mystery of The Appeal. And non fiction reading for the the month was beyond brilliant with the travel memoirs of Dervla Murphy and her daughter spending the Winter of 1972 in the desolate mountains deserts of Baltistan in Himalayas. The Scared Geography was a very well written scholarly book on Hindu mythology and the history and culture of pilgrimage of India and how this forms the core identity of India, well before British imposed a western concept. The reading good fortune continues early in July and am in-between several good books with a few more planned over the next few weeks!

June was a also a month of a LOT of socializing. There were book buying expeditions, birthdays of friends and then I was very fortunate to be invited for a book launch of an author, who has since become a friend and whose book I reviewed in my last post.

June was primarily very very hot (it is every year but this was exceptionally so) but I survived thanks to a drink called Aam Panna. Its a cooling drink made out of raw mangoes that are roasted and then the pulp mixed with water and spices. My sister and aunt also cooked a lot of typical Bengali delicacies over the month. My sister cooked what is called Dry mutton and my aunt cooked Egg Devils, which are very different from the Scottish version and made out of eggs and potatoes stuffing and deep fried. ( Yes, once in a while its ok! ) So the eating this month was especially GOOD!

The month was busy and there was of course constant illness to deal with; but despite all the sickness and all the petty annoyances as I near my 1 year anniversary since the diagnosis and surgery, I can say from the very bottom of my heart, that I am supremely grateful to have made it here! And I leave you with these July thoughts – 

This is the place that I love the best,
A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest,
Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.

The tenderest light that ever was seen
Sifts through the vine-made window screen--
Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls
On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

All through June the west wind free
The breath of clover brings to me.
All through the languid July day
I catch the scent of new-mown hay.

The morning-glories and scarlet vine
Over the doorway twist and twine;
And every day, when the house is still,
The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

In the cunningest chamber under the sun
I sink to sleep when the day is done;
And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,
By a singing bird on the roof o'erhead.

Better than treasures brought from Rome,
Are the living pictures I see at home--
My aged father, with frosted hair,
And mother's face, like a painting rare.

Far from the city's dust and heat,
I get but sounds and odors sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay,
Week after week, here hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best--
This little brown house like a ground-bird's nest?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox