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.

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

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.

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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.

What Have I been Up to? April – May End Notes

It seems odd to write about April and May end notes when July is only 10 days away. But that means at the very least I will make an effort to put another post for June. So for now its April and June. Needless to say I have been supremely busy, work finally became crazy work and long hours again has become a norm. I am more than ever at it on my Cancer Advocacy page on Instagram. There are mentorships that I have been doing and writing some pieces on the side, include this one. Family has also been visiting as well as friends. And of course, it does not help that I keep getting sick ( overall well; chemo side effects continue ) and that takes away a lot of time in what is already a short pool of time. Even reading was limited for a while and blogging non existent. But I have been close to the edge of the other side and I must say that while I do regret blogging not enough and resolve to manage time better, I am very glad and supremely grateful to be living again and living a full life!

Now about reading, like I said, it has been slow and May was horrible. I seemed to have spent May being in the middle of many books and never finishing anything. And almost nothing seemed to hold my interest.

But I did immensely enjoy The Nectar in the Sieve about which I posted here; and I was absolutely enthralled by The Sentence by Louise Erdrich. The plot could have been a bit more cohesive and the character evolution was patchy in places, but the prose and the writing integrated the Native Indian history and inheritance was brilliant. It is a book I want to go back to and read again and soon!

April was the month when the Bengali ( Eastern India ) new year is celebrated, so instead of cooking, the family, my uncle, aunt, sister and moi, we went out for a grand dinner. The food was magnificent, as was the company and of course, new outfits for the occasion never harms!

And of course despite much promise and self discipline on spending, there were outings to the book store and some coffee shops.

Most importantly after much heartburns and anxiety and several days of dealing with self esteem issues, I finally have hair on my head. While it is short, it is still real and I cannot wait for it to grow long again!!!!

That was then my two months, spent in books, food and family, besides work and more! I end this post with two short poems for April and May!

The moon comes up o'er the deeps of the woods,
And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills,
Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds
Over the pools and the whimpering rills;

And with her the mists, like dryads that creep
From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs,
Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep,
With the wind on the hills their gay revellings.

Down on the marshlands with flicker and glow
Wanders Will-o'-the-Wisp through the night,
Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago
By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light.

The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear,
Akin to all eerie and elfin things,
Who weaves about us in meadow and mere
The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.
                         
                          An April Night by LM Montgomery 

There is May in books forever;
May will part from Spenser never;
May’s in Milton, May’s in Prior,
May’s in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
May’s in all the Italian books:—
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves,
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will,
May’s at home, and with me still;
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.

               May and the Poets by Leigh Hunt

And that is about it! What all have you all been up to, while I was away?

About Guilty Pleasures …..

When I was young, I used to choose books expressly based on whatever seemed to have a good story. From Enid Blytons ( Yes I know she is many ist things now ! ) and Anne of GG to all my Nancy Drews to so many other books that I cannot even recollect. The ultimate reason for picking up a book was to be told a good story, a yarn that would entertain me, take me away from the mundane and would allow me to fanaticize about time and places and people, that had no bearing on reality! I was the 4th friend with George and Bess with Nancy in River Heights or going on picnics with Ann of GG at King Edwards Island. Good stories and interesting characters were the mainstays of what I chose to read and it led me eventually as a young adult to To Kill a Mockingbird, Pride and Prejudice, East of Eden, War and Peace and Tagore’s novels. And they blew my mind away! I discovered Literature and life would never be the same; this is what art and writing was about – ideas and expressions and mankind! But I also discovered that which was not “Literature”, Sidney Sheldon, Harold Robins, James Hadley Chase and Jeffrey Archer! And oh! yes, Mills and Boon romances.

The Library (1905) by Elizabeth Shippen Green; Source https://www.librarything.com/pic/7275994

The reaction I often get when I mention the above line up is usually a wrinkled nose along with a very condescending “Really?” . That inevitable look of surprise on people’s faces when scanning my book shelves, where tucked among Charles Dickens and Umberto Eco, they discover a historical romance novel! The idea is if I read Elizabeth Gaskell and Fyodor Dostoyevsky, I cannot really read a Judith McNaught novel and vice versa. It’s almost as if I have some kind of reading disorder and cannot truly be a sensible reader. And this is where I have a problem. I make no superior claims of literature or ideas from these authors; but do we always have to read something superior? Yes, great literature elevates the soul, makes us sensitive and opens our minds to new thoughts! But do we need greatness constantly? Do we not need some fun, now and then? Is not greatness better appreciated when you take a break and come back to it, like all good things, that improve in some temporary absence? Don’t we love our classics a little more, after having read a popular or a modern fiction? And ideas? Is it something that exists in an exclusive commune, available only in certain kind of books by a certain type of author? I personally completely disagree with the thought that ideas can only be absorbed from the so called great works. Sidney Sheldon gave me the the first understanding about Jewish persecution (Bloodline); I was a 13 year old living in India, absorbed in Indian culture with a detour to everything English as part of the colonial hand me down. World War was taught in school and there were chapters on Holocausts, but it was a pulp fiction novel that made me realize what persecutions means in flesh and blood. The Spanish Civil War and the Cold War politics, both came home to me via again Sidney Sheldon novels, Sands of Time and Windmills of Gods respectively. I learnt about South American politics from Harold Robin’s The Adventurer and more facts about turn of the century America from Jeffrey Archer’s Kane and Abel than in my standard school textbooks, getting a regular A in history all through high school. I went on to get a Masters degree in one the most prestigious universities of Asia, that only admitted 40 students across the country every year for their International Politics course. All those pulp fiction novels laid the foundation for my interest in international affairs, introducing me to the larger world, beyond my regular ecosystem and set me up in a path of eventual academic excellence. Yes, I built upon those nascent concepts by reading many classics and thought provoking books, but the path, many a times was lit by such “light reads”. And this is not just about academic success; I first became acquainted with Bach’s music in a Mills and Boons novel, The Shadow Princess; and have been in love with it ever since. My parents were both very musical and Hindustani Classical and Indian popular music along with a lot of 60’s-70’s Pop and Jazz always played on in our home. But the whole world of Western Classical burst upon me , thanks again to my non highbrow reads. My life is infinitely richer because when I looked, I found great ideas in every book. Besides, who am I to judge what someone else reads and vice versa again! I think I can safely say I am literature connoisseur , but some books hailed as masterpieces, still do not make sense to me. (Gustav Flaubert’s Madam Bovary & Middlemarch by George Elliot! Sigh! ) Reading therefore, I firmly believe is a very personal affair between a reader and their book and what works for some, may not and will not work for others. And unless you read all kinds of books, how will you know, what works and does not work; and what entertains and what educates? Finally, at the cost of sounding cynical, in today’s day and age of digital blitz, I feel thrilled to simply see someone pick up a book and read it. Do we really need to make a case of reading casteism now? Is it not simply enough that you are reading a good story that entertains you even if it does nothing else? Is entertainment not important? Does it not refresh us and help us face life and its challenges better? Is it not a fact that many multimillion dollar industries of films and series thrive on the concept of entertainment? Then why do we look down on entertaining books? Why are they a guilty pleasure? A good story that delights you is a value in itself, even if does not add a single additional word to your vocabulary.

To end, read Voltaire, who was a far more erudite and learned man than yours truly and is a “great” writer and a defines classic literature, and you may believe him! He wrote “Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.” So let people read! Read even if it’s for the sake of amusement, it will not do any harm and by my experience, may end up in fact doing a lot of good!

This Day, That Year!

Oh! Joy! Oh! Celebrations!! Tis time to rejoice!!

And no, I couldn’t care less about Valentine’s Day and similar gobblegook shenanigans!

Today, 10 years ago, 14 February, 2012, I started this blog! And today we are all of 10 years old!

This is a huge milestone for at so many different levels. I made it past 10 years when I honestly had no idea what I would post the next day or next week or next year, when I began in 2012.

Bullfinch and Weeping Cherry Blossoms by Katsushika Hokusai, 1834, Public Domain. The bullfinch is used in ceremonies conducted at the New Year all over Japan to protect against misfortune in the coming year (Source – https://learnodo-newtonic.com/famous-flower-paintings )

10 years ago, I had very different expectations from life, most of which did not come through (though that is not necessarily a bad thing! ) What I did not expect was to see Mockingbird, Looking Glasses and Prejudice complete 10 grand years, gather a loyal following and help me learn and survive all the curve balls of life! But here we are and still going strong and I am so gleeful to have reached this moment! I should really do a thank you speech, but these days, I am always in a reflective mood, so instead am sharing some things that happened to me over the years thanks to this blog –

1. I learnt to read outside my comfort zone. And how!! Before I started this blog I stuck to English and maybe some Russian fiction and some travel writings. But since I started this page, I have read Non Fiction copiously and loved it; I have read poetry and developed a deep liking for it. I have read about all other countries of the world and learnt a bit more about this great community of Homo Sapiens and how we are all very same in so many different ways!
2. The blogging and the interactions with everyone has made me more aware and more curious about my own country and culture. Every time I did any event like AusReadingMonth or saw any posts on NordicFinds events, I grew curious about similar literature I had in my part of the world and I wondered at parallels and the inputs from everyone made me think more deeply about my own history. In a way, as I learnt about the world, I discovered more about my own world.
3. My mind opened to new ideas and I believe I became more compassionate and more tolerant. I do not agree with everybody on every book and everybody does not agree with me on my thoughts. But we all exchange our ideas freely and agree to disagree respectfully and share a laugh at the absurdities. This for me personally has been an important growth both emotionally and intellectually and I could not have done this without this blog.
4. This blog is my stress release zone, my safe place, my zone out corner. I have always had this piece of world to share my angst, my heartbreaks, my fears without any fear of judgement or wondering how it will be interpreted. I have often found my sanity, and my ability to face another day through this world.
5. My booklish blogging tribe, you are my biggest gift of this 10 year journey. You all live in different parts of the world, work in different places and have different lives, but every time I had a crisis, you found time to send me a kind word, share a sensible advice and a virtual hug. Thank You for sharing your personal histories, for the recipes and book recommendations and the virtual flowers! You have stood by me through my heartbreaks, my parent’s deaths and last year through my Cancer. You have cheered me on and lifted me up and did everything you could to make my world better. You all are part of one of the best things in my life and if for nothing else, these 10 years have been so worth it, because I have found you! Thank You Stefanie, Brona, Karen, Mudpuddle, Marian and Cleo! You all enrich my life everyday

I have read more, written more, became more aware; all thanks to this wonderful journey, started a decade ago! I have evolved in so many ways that I cannot even begin to articulate. This blog truly has been a gift that keeps giving! So here’s to 10 years and more! To new reading adventures and more writing expeditions. And to blogs, that unites us and holds us all together!

Update – Shout out to my another blogging friend and mentor Jane, who along with Stefanie, guided my initial blogging adventures. Jane is taking a break from Blogging world and I thought she may need some time out but she commented and I thought, I must atleast share with the world, how awesome she has been, supporting me through all my life adventures and introducing me to some of my favorite authors like Margaret Kennedy and Margery Sharp.

The Epic Other Women…..

Karen is always at the forefront of some amazing reading events and all of them have helped me read books out of my comfort zone, open my mind to new ideas and generally learn more. The #readindies event that she hosts along with Lizzy, every year with is one such event. Often in the media blitz of the bigger publishing houses and colossal corporates like Amazon, the Independent publishers and bookstores get lost and with them we lose on unique distinctive narratives that move away from mainstream or popular culture and speak of things not common. Reading fundamentally, more than just being one of the best entertainments, is about living many lives, exploring uncharted places and making you face things, away from your home ground. It is essential for an enriched soul and a thinking mind and a sensitive heart and these aims are fulfilled when we read what is popular but also what is different, and subaltern or alternative. And reading independent publishers who give voice to this section of the society, atleast in my part of world, therefore becomes even more critical.

This brings me to the independent publishing house of Westland Publications and I want to talk about them a bit before I get into the book I read. Westland Publications was one the first and premier Indian publishing houses of independent India wholly owned and run by Indians. It started way back in 1962 as distributer of books before branching into publishing garnering great reputation among Indian authors and Indian readers for several years. In 2013 it was bought by the Tata Group and in 2017 it was sold off to Amazon. While it became part of larger conglomerate, the spirit of being the voice of India continued unstintingly; they kept catering to what was often not part of the popular culture under the prolific and far sighted leadership of Gautam Padmanabhan, son of the founder, KS Padmanabhan, both icons of Indian literary world. However on Friday, February 1, Amazon announced it will be shutting down Westland Publications. I am sure Amazon can back up with data and numbers as to why it makes sense to shut down Westland, and I am sure they all make perfect business sense. But for Indian readers and authors and the literary world, this is a heavy blow. Westland was a unique agency of bringing forth the nascent world of Indian English literature and powering the publication of books in other native languages. While Penguin and other such giants continue to publish the bigger names of Indian authors, for the marginalized, a strong platform has disappeared taking along with it, many unheard voices and stories. I chose Westland because in essence it has always been #indie in every sense of the term and it’s recent ill fortunes make it even more important, that her books be read and her voice continues to be heard, whether they are physically available on shelves or not.

Now back to regular programing!

Ramayan along with Mahabharat are two of the epics of Indian subcontinent and East Asia. They are the Iliad and Odyssey of the East and every household has atleast one copy of each. They provide religious counsel, philosophy, political insight and entertainment. They have been translated in innumerable languages and been made into films and series and even animation. However what usually get’s narrated is the one of the standing theme of the epics, the battles, and often the other stories which actually give a far more comprehensive picture of the life and times and the philosophy of life, gets left out, providing a very skewed narrative. Ramayan is ostensibly a linear tale of a great virtuous Prince, Ram, who is exiled from his kingdom due to family politics; his stepmother wants her son to be the crown prince and the new ruler of Ayodhya. Ram goes into exile with his beautiful and loyal wife Sita and his youngest half brother Lakshman. In the jungle, a female “giant” becomes enamored of the two Princes and proposes to first Ram and when he spurns her, to Lakshman. Lakshman, the angry young man, is affronted at the audacity of this female giant in making such a suggestion, and chops off her eyes and ears ( A simple No would have sufficed!) The insulted woman, goes back to her brother, who is the King of the powerful state of Lanka, Ravan, who promises to seek revenge. He then plots to get Ram and Lakshman away from their cottage and kidnaps Sita. A battle ensures between the two forces and naturally the “good” forces , i.e. Ram and friends win and return to Ayodhya to take their rightful place. This is the broad outline of the mainstay of the epic , but there are several other associate stories that led to this final plot development, many other voices and several other characters, who were pivotal to this story. And this is what Anand Neelkantan tries to do, in his book Valmiki’s Women.

Valmiki was a dacoit and an anti social element, who had a change of heart and became a hermit. One day, he decided to write an epic that would become Ramayan. Mr. Neelkanthan’ first story reimagines the circumstances that led to Valmiki writing this epic, with the running themes of women, land and sacrifice. His next story explores the life of Shanta, the little known and often ignored older sister to Ram and his brothers. Their father King Dashratha is obsessed with the idea of having a son and in that quest, he ignores his only child, his daughter Shanta. The story traces Shanta’s life, highlighting her relationships with her father, her step mother Kaykei, who trains her to be a warrior princess and the final act of obedience, that she is called on to display, to help her father realize his ambitions. The second story focuses on the life of Manthara, lady in waiting to the second Queen of Ayodhya, Kaykei. It is said that it was the constant brain washing by Manthara, that led to Kaykei, demanding that King Dashratha keep his long given blank promised to her, to give her whatever she wants, that led to exile of Ram. In this re-telling, the reader gets an insight into the distressing circumstances Manthara was born into; she was a hunchback and that has traditionally been a subject of derision or suspicion alternatively. The story follows as Manathara is selected to become a governess cum lady in waiting for the young princess, Kaykei and her life as she follows the princess to her married home, the exile of Ram and her last years. The third story is told from the point of view of another “giant” Maricha, who narrates the story of his mother, Tataka, a “giant” princess who had married a man of the forest and with the advance of the Aryan or Ram’s civilization into the natural habitat of northern India, died protecting the flora and fauna. The story follows Maricha’s plan of avenging the death of his parents and how his “disguise” lured first Ram and the Lakshman from their cottage, leaving Sita alone to be kidnapped. The book closes with the final story of Meenakshi, the female “giant” who was besotted by Ram and had to pay the price by becoming disfigured. The story follows her life as she meets Sita who is now about to be exiled alone ( This is the epilogue of Ramayan; where local gossip imputes that Sita was not loyal to Ram when kidnapped, though it is beyond question that she has been so. Embarrassed Ram disowns her and sends her to exile where she bears him two sons and would ultimately be called back. Only she refuses and instead is “gives herself to be enfolded in the earth.”) This interaction between Meenakshi and Sita and a woman from one of Indian tribes closes the narrative, again bringing it back to the theme of land, women and sacrifice.

This is already a long post so I do not want to eulogies on how well written this book was. While there has been a recent trend of re-telling of Indian mythologies and epic, most are sensationalist without any real insight to offer. Mr. Neelkantan does a fabulous job in managing to narrate complex tales in lucid and sparse prose, while making it gripping and wholly absorbing. He is not afraid to break away from the mainstream narrative and give voices and provide perspectives to the marginalized and often demonized characters of the epic. He subtly makes the political point on how Aryans coming from North, i.e. Iran would have viewed the indigenous population of India and branded them as monsters and giants. (India had a flourishing civilization, called the Indus Valley Civilization circa. 5000 BCE. Aryans were actually Iranians came in hordes to India and settled here around 1500 BCE and from them emerged the two epics) He beautifully illustrates the conflict of two different civilizations, without losing his grip on the main story. Most importantly, his compassion for all the overlooked elements of the society, that continues to live on its fringes even in the present day, through the iteration of an age old epic, makes the reader aware of how much still needs to be done for their fellow humans. Simple yet gorgeous, this book is must for anyone interested in India.