O n w a r d

It has been a couple of weeks since I returned from my grandparents' home in Himachal, not without a couple of heirlooms. Among them, some albums that my nani dug out from her big box bed because I asked if she had anything for the archives, convinced that she didn't, that I had already seen everything on my last trip seven years ago. Three albums emerged, black sheets alternating with fragile butter paper, two filled with monochrome square memories secured with tiny triangular corners. My mother said that had been my nana's role – or passion, perhaps? – arranging the photographs into narratives. I wonder how he managed it with his giant fingers that made it impossible for him to play the guitar, he'd complain, because he couldn't press down on just one string at a time. One album filled with photos he took of his wife, hand-coloured, sometimes a little too vivacious. As I perused the pages this week, I realised two things – I had never seen most of these photograph...

CAST OF CHARACTERS: Marina Keys, my great-aunt Patricia, her childhood friend My grandmother Mr. and Mrs. Keys, my great-grandparents Marlene, my (older) great-aunt Mother Dolores, a nun at Loreto Convent, Asansol On 22 October 2021, I received a very mysterious message through my website.    Patricia wrote that she spent her adult life trying to reconnect with her "very best school friend" and "soul mate", Marina Keys, who happened to be my great-aunt. They went to school at Loreto Convent, Asansol, and were "inseparable" – but lost touch when Patricia's family moved back to England.  I used to spend many weekends at the Keys' house. We would leave the convent, cross through Saint Patricks' boys' school, over the wall and into the Keys' garden. Many a time we would sit under the tamarind tree, eat lots of tamarind and then wonder why we would get [a] tummy ache. I have always lived with regret that we lost touch. I remember that when w...

We were both young When I first saw you I close my eyes and the flashback starts I'm sitting there At my computer in a wicker chair... I can't quite recall exactly how I first came upon Taylor Swift's music. I know I was in college, in Delhi, and it was either through watching Faith Hill on Oprah and finding the song Taylor named after her husband; or it was the collaboration " Breathe " with Colbie Caillat, whose songs I listened to rather a lot at the time. Either way, I was quickly enamoured by this young woman, a kindred spirit the same age as me, with the curls and dresses and boots, and the ability to tell entire stories in a single song.  She wrote of love and youth in words I thought I'd use if I were in a world like hers. " Love Story " and " Teardrops on My Guitar " were inescapable on MTV. But it was "Tim McGraw" that spent weeks in the sidebar of my blog, which was really as big an honour as being on any music chart. I...

CAST OF CHARACTERS: Elsie, my great-grandmother Patience, my nani (maternal grandmother) Suzanne Neve, actress, as Emma Carleton Hobbes, actor, as Sherlock Holmes In a letter to her daughter Patience dated 4 July 1970, my great-grandmother Elsie wrote about enjoying BBC plays on the radio: "Do you all hear the BBC plays on the transistor? Did you'll [sic] hear the 'Conquest' by Somerset Maugham the other day it is a lovely interesting play & acted so well really — BBC is tops & we hear all this on that small Phillips radio we bought from [?] for Rs 100 — we play our records on the other radio — we made the Gram elec. — the other radio we have to play on a battery — Batteries have become so expensive now eh!" I was dreaming of connecting with my great-grandparents by listening to the same things they once listened to, but... does W. Somerset Maugham even have a story called Conquest ? I tried researching more about the BBC Radio in India — most likely the p...

CAST OF CHARACTERS: My dada (paternal grandfather) My dadi (paternal grandmother) My nana (maternal grandfather) His younger brother A bookshop owner in Assam A bookshop owner in Ferozepur I was at a wedding in February when I learned something new about my dada – that he was a voracious reader, and a lover of arts and culture. I never got to meet him, so I was moved by this tidbit. What could I have learned from him? What could we have exchanged ideas about? Thus far I'd known of him as a dental surgeon, albeit one who had made a multi-generational family tree. This was a whole new world opening up.  As I stuffed my face with food, I also learned that my dadi , whom I've also never met, was a reader too, and encouraged this habit in her children. She took them out to watch a play every month. She insisted that they read or borrow at least one book in Hindi when they visited the Dilli Public Library opposite the old Delhi railway station. No wonder, then, that my dad and his s...

CAST OF CHARACTERS: Wild mushrooms My mother My nani (maternal grandmother) My nani's mother (my great-grandmother) My father My bua (father's sister) My dadi (paternal grandmother) My brother Me Did you inherit any weird tastes from your family? One of the oddest things "passed down" to me is an unhealthy suspicion of mushrooms. I didn't eat them growing up, and until recently, I thought my mother hadn't either. We asked my nani once if she liked mushrooms, and she said that she never knew what they were when she was younger (and no).  When my grandparents decided to build a house in the Himalayas in the late 1960s, there were wild mushrooms to contend with. These could be poisonous and risky, so my great-grandmother was naturally stressed about this particular dietary adventure that I presume was communicated to her.  In this letter from 1970, my great-grandmother writes, "I always feel nervous about you'll eating mushrooms anyway & more so now...

noun movement forwards or towards achieving something verb to become better; to develop (well) *** It has been two years since I (soft) launched my business.  In 2020, having finally paid off my loan and facing what seemed to be a changing, precarious work culture, I found myself thinking about progress. I knew I wanted to move on from my job at some point to something that fit me better, and where I could keep growing. But I wasn't optimistic about opportunities. At that time, I'd also been avidly listening to podcasts , and I seemed to attract those about living a different way of life – slower, more fulfilling, and not necessarily adhering to conventional work milestones.  It was then that I started – very hesitantly, but increasingly more and more – thinking about working for myself. This was distinct from freelancing, which I'd tried before; rather than pitching articles to publications, or being on a regular contract, I'd offer services and packages with r...

Care is such an interesting word. In our fast world of clicks and likes and 26-hour work days, I'm not sure whether that word actually has a significant place in our vocabulary. It feels too delicate, too intense. It implies time, a depth of feeling. In the last couple of years, we've talked about "care-givers", as most of us learned to nurse our loved ones. We've said "take care" at the end of every conversation, to the extent that it has lost all meaning and become just one of those platitudes that seem appropriate for the times without having to think too much about it. We send "care packages", and we advocate "self-care".  But handling something with care implies fragility. Most of us probably feel that way, especially now. But as we chase the "new" (or is it really just the old?) normal again, and thank goodness for it, have we left any space for fragility? For healing from an experience that left marks that won't g...