reflections 2
a snake and a stalker, Howrah and Calcutta, ferries and fear, sweets and serendipity, last chance to buy signed copies of my book, 8 years of On My Canvas, and my best reads
Dear Reader,
Thank you for being here.
Essential housekeeping: This email may end up in the Promotions tab of your inbox, or worse, spam. Please move the email to your Primary inbox. Looking Inwards letter will be there from then on.
Today’s letter is a continuation of the last letter, Reflections.
If you haven’t read the first part, I recommend you read it to enjoy this one.
Here’s a brief summary of the first part: I am still in Calcutta (on the east coast of India), and I had a groggy start to the day as I couldn’t sleep well. I exercise, finish a few house chores, work, eat lunch, thinking of my partner, Sagar, who is visiting his parents, and set out on an adventure. I take a bus and a metro, and I walk to arrive in Eden Gardens, the cricket stadium of Calcutta. It was once a huge park, and it still houses the Eden Gardens public park. I am inside the park, looking at the trees, walking by the lakes, and watching the fish frolic.
Next to a lake, on whose bank stood a giant palm, was also a big banyan tree, bent over the water, as if wanting to dip in. Birds chirped in the trees. A barbet was perched on a tree branch, openly in my view, and unlike most barbets that I have seen in my short life, this one didn’t fly away. Isn’t she shy? Nope.
And that was when I saw them. My mouth opened, and my eyes widened. I was amazed.
In a wild tree up ahead were big birds. Something fired in my brain. GREEN PIGEONS. SO MANY!
When I told my father over the phone later that I saw green pigeons, he had exclaimed, too, “GREEN PIGEONS! What is that?”
My reaction was similar. Except that I knew about green pigeons. I was sure I had seen one in Muthanga Wildlife Sanctuary in Kerala, but not clearly, as they are shy. And a pigeon couple in the Himalayan village I have stayed in twice. They were in the pomegranate or apple tree, perfectly camouflaged and out of my view. I stood on the terrace of the house, and they flew in from behind and were up ahead on the hill next to the host’s house. Why did I think they were green pigeons? First, I wanted to see green pigeons. Second, they looked green, were pigeon-sized, and I have a gut feeling about these things.
In the Eden Gardens, those birds were now flying to another tree from the big one they were on as I stood underneath it, my neck craned upwards, my eyes big, and my mouth open. They were surely the green pigeons I have dreamt of seeing. Bird by bird, the whole flock soared above me onto the other, more dense tree. Not a bird was left on this one. I looked down only once or twice to make sure no one was watching me, thinking of me as some lunatic. What is she looking at? All the couples were taking their pictures on the swing or making out. Nothing seen, no harm done.
I was overwhelmed, my pulse racing, a joy spread through me, and if you had seen me, you would have noticed the smugness on my face.
Grinning, I walked. Crossing shallow lakes on bridges, I walked into more and more trees. I was in Disneyland. The park was vast, and it never seemed to end. My neck was hurting now. The birds around the water were calling for attention, too. Herons, cormorants, waterfowls, coots, kingfishers, and egrets, all of them were there. Where there is water, the water birds make their home. Whether the water is dirty or clean, they live. Quite amazing!
Now I was suddenly at a shrine. Yes, definitely. But what kind of shrine? A Shinto shrine, a Japanese shrine, as Juju (my friend) had told me? No, that was someplace else. This shrine had a tiered roof, red in color with intricate gold borders. It was guarded on four corners by semi-human and semi-animal figures common to Asian shrines. Until I read a Calcutta boy’s blog* on the Eden Gardens shrine, I didn’t know this was a Buddhist pagoda made in Burma in 1852 and shifted to Calcutta by the orders of Mr. Dalhousie in 1854. The pagoda was dismantled and brought on a ship on the river Hooghly, on whose bank Calcutta sits.
The pagoda, in the middle of the garden, was beautiful. I felt that it had come from another era. I am disappointed to discover that during the fireworks after a cricket match, the pagoda had burned, and now a replica stands in the original’s place. Ouch!
Water bodies, shallow lakes, whatever you can call them, flagged me on both sides. I stopped on one of the tiny toy-like bridges and looked at the weed-covered water below me, and there it was. Water, snakes, and I are related somehow. Or just snakes and me. They love me. Wherever I go, they come. Of course, to me, they are the most beautiful creatures in the world. I adore them.
Snakes are a marvel of science and evolution. An animal that moves by sliding, is found in all colors and shapes and habitats, can’t hear so well, can’t see so well, has for its defense venom, a liquid it forms inside it, feels with its tongue, and has inspired millions of stories and legends and scares the living hell out of people. The first thing this snake does when it is aware of my presence is slither away into the thick weeds. We are scared of snakes, they are terrified of us!
Every park, jungle, forest, and garden I visit, I find snakes. Two hundred percent chance that I’d spot one, or often a few, snakes in water. Once I was waiting on the bank of a river in Vietnam for a small ferry that would take me from the national park to the other side, to our cabin. Suddenly, I saw this small snake swimming in the river, very close to the shore, and within a few seconds, it was gone. My ferry was right behind the snake, and I was aboard soon. All of this happened within a few minutes. My partner, Sagar, who was with me on the trip, but not at the moment, missed it.
I am sure if someone hands me a pot of water, a snake will lift its head out of it, and say, “Hello. I didn’t want to disappoint you!”
For the first time I am trying to insert a video here. Hopefully you can see the snake well. I shot this with my Google Pixel, with not the intention of sharing it.
Anyways. I watched this one for a while. Slipping in and out of the weeds gracefully, the local snake got accustomed to me.
Other wildlife was busy putting on a show, too. A huge kite was perched above on a tree, its prey clutched underneath its claw, waiting for some quiet to devour it. When I looked at it the second time, the kite was tearing apart its red prey. All the birds were singing so loudly I couldn’t hear much else, like on most mornings in Calcutta.
From the only kiosk in the park, I bought a cup of machine-made tea. Sipping tea on a bench in a park is my dream every day. Not much peace was let me because within minutes, two men, probably an uncle and nephew (by their conversation), walked towards me, and the older directed the younger one to sit a while on the other bench, and he sat down next to me. Argh!
The solitude of nature, with one’s feet on the grass, a warm teacup in hand, and only the birdsong and one’s own breath in her ears, is special, sacred, but not many understand that. Many empty benches were shining in the sun further ahead. I didn’t want to embarrass the man, so I kept sitting. The previous occupant of the nephew’s bench shifted, though.
I couldn’t believe that someone would come and sit by me, but it had happened. As my mother said once, “Humans can do absolutely anything no matter how unimaginable it is until it happens.”
I walked out of the park from another exit. From the park, I followed the direction towards the East, towards the river Hooghly, to one of its shores called Babu Ghat. On the steps to the river, people were praying. Hooghly is another name for Ganga, and I forget this every day. I didn’t go down the steps; a lot of garbage was thrown around everywhere. Further ahead, signs for ferry tickets started popping up. Of course, the ferry! I had heard from my friends about ferries a few times. Until then they were things I had yet to explore in Calcutta. But that was going to change.
First, I crossed ahead. Let me see what lies beyond this, and I will return to the ferry later. Probably I should come back with Sagar here. Sagar has a major fear of missing out, and I knew that if I went on the Calcutta ferry for the first time on my own, I would hear his wails deep through the phone, into the night and the next morning. After a few steps through the crowded pavement lined with shops, walkers, kiosks, food stalls, and ferry ticket signs, I had had enough. All I do is walk on busy streets. Let’s get onto the river. I returned, enquired about the tickets, and from the two options, chose the ferry to Howrah.
Those who are familiar with Howrah would be surprised to hear that I often forget that Howrah is a railway station. I think I forget this detail as Howrah is a lot more things, too.
Howrah is a bridge. The Howrah Bridge is the sixth longest cantilever bridge in the world, third at the time of construction in 1942. Cantilever is a fancy word for me, so let me say that the Howrah Bridge is a floating bridge, with support only on its two ends. Every time I see the Howrah Bridge, I am amazed at how far we have come.
My research first told me that the floating bridge was constructed so it could be safe from the Japanese bombing during the Second World War. But a deeper research suggests that multiple kinds of bridges were considered before the floating bridge was chosen. Due to World War 2, the 2300 tons of steel that were to come from Europe didn’t come; it was utilized within Europe itself for war efforts. Tata Steel had then developed a kind of steel needed for the bridge and supplied it in time. The new bridge connected the city of Calcutta to the Howrah Railway Station that lies on the opposite bank of the river Ganga. Before the bridge, passengers used to take steamers to the railway station.
Another bridge stood in place of the Howrah Bridge once, but that was moved when the present, and stronger, bridge was put in. I had no idea that Howrah Bridge was renamed to Rabindra Setu, in honor of my favorite writer, Rabindranath Tagore, but the name Howrah Bridge has stuck.
I lost track of time while reading about Howrah Bridge, and so I want to share its Wikipedia page here. Not that you can’t find it on your own.
Well, I wouldn’t say passengers take steamers now, but on my ferry, couples, families, and friends with huge bags were definitely in a hurry to reach Howrah Station. Howrah is also a Howrah Station, as you can tell now. The long Howrah Station building is iconic and was constructed in the early 1900s by the British. Howrah Railway Station is where Sagar and I had arrived more than three months ago on a train from Chennai, another city on the east coast but way further down on our map.
Psst: I put a photo of me at the Howrah Station in the new article today. Hope you see it there :)
Much has happened since then. Now Calcutta feels like home, at least a little bit. I live in a small apartment, happy to not be running between guesthouses. There are many adventures to be had here. I can always go to the Victoria Gardens, Eden Gardens, and Rabindra Sarobar and see a snake or two and feel myself again. But my mind is turning its wheels again, my feet are restless, and my backpack is demanding to be dusted. This year, I devoted myself to the marketing and distribution of my first book, my baby, Journeys Beyond and Within…(would love for you to read it, if you haven’t.) While my feet has been itching to step out of India, I have stayed put here to be available to distributors, bookstores, and so on. But the next year, no one would be able to stop me.
I digress. Howrah is also the city on the other side of the Hooghly, across the bridge. But in my mind, all of the vicinity of the bridge and that old side of the city appears as Howrah, and so be it.
At Babu Ghat, I got onto the wooden walkway platform to the ferry. I was hungry. A hawker was selling peanuts, black chickpeas (chana), and other bits from his basket. I opted for chana. He mixed them with onion and some other things and handed me my paper envelope. Too salty and spicy, but it would do.
Hundreds of people filled the ferry. I had sat down on the wooden bench (eating is easier while sitting). But soon the river called me, and I went to stand by the side. I had thought that we wouldn’t be allowed to stand for safety reasons. On a ferry in Mangalore in the South of India, not only were we asked to sit, but men were asked to sit with men, and women with women. You couldn’t take photos. That ferry marred my experience, but it was so long ago.
On this Calcutta ferry, everything was allowed. The river was grey and glistening in the afternoon sun. Water smelled like water. I was happy I had bought chana otherwise my stomach would have grumbled harder than the engine. The ferry was a joy ride. It bobbed a little, and its rhythmic motion is always soothing. Both while boarding and alighting, the man next to me showed his hand to gesture that I could go ahead of them. Such politeness! I took their offer. I was so happy I skipped a few steps on the floating platform.
The ferry had cost me six rupees, and it was a short one. By the time I ate the packet of chana, the glorious long red Howrah station building appeared in front of us. The sun had set, and the station was brightly lit. I liked it.
Outside the ferry area, the pavement was lined up with endless food stalls, dhabas, and so on for the weary traveler. They all wanted me to sit and eat, but I walked on, head high, eyes on the building. It was already evening, and I didn’t want to be in such a crowd. Everyone was rushing, and I had no reason to be there.
I was back at the ferry ticket centre. Amongst the two options, I went back to Babu Ghat. I stood on the ferry all the way, watching the river go by and the moon play hide and seek from behind the clouds. This time, the monolith of the SBI bank building on the shore was lit up, and so was the Howrah bridge. A floating hotel on the Ganga shone brightly, as if celebrating Diwali. A glowing arched bridge above Babu Ghat got my attention, too.
Previously, I had wanted to explore a long staircase leading from the road to the river shore below, but I hadn’t found a way to it. As I walked onto the arched bridge, I realized it was much better than the staircase for a good view of the river.
And that was where it happened.
When I stopped, a man stood very close to me on that walkover bridge. I noticed him in a way that you notice someone too up close but don’t bother about it because the other person is just existing. Under the bridge, a dhoti-clad man filled buckets from the river. I started walking again. As I looked around, the thick, stout man was now walking by me, perhaps at two hands’ distance. People were taking pictures on the bridge. I took out my phone too and turned around to walk over the bridge again. He turned around, too, and that was when my feeling of creepiness was confirmed.
I shot a few pictures, and in the selfie camera, saw him behind me, looking at me. I didn’t want selfies but wanted to see what he was up to without letting him know.
Oh my! What does he want?
I was scared though I was in a public space with many people over the bridge. It was not stupid, but just how it was. My heart thumped against my chest. I stopped and leaned against the railing. The man passed by, looking at me. I filled my eyes with menace and stared at him hard to let him know that if he wanted to tell me that he had been seeing me and I wasn’t just another someone on the road, then he wasn’t just another someone either, but someone who was following me. And it was unacceptable.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t reach out to anyone. I pulled out my phone and looked at nearby cafes and restaurants to eat at. I hadn’t eaten out in a long time. I was surprised to realize that I didn’t have the courage to look up and see if he was looking at me or if he was gone. I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression that I was seeking him out or something.
I walked again but didn’t turn around to see if he was still there. I got off the bridge. At the foot of the bridge was a tiny, dark park that I hadn’t explored. I went to the road, hoping it wouldn’t be empty. It was a bus street, and giant buses ran everywhere from there. The street wasn’t very brightly lit, but hundreds of people thronged on it. I still didn’t turn around. I didn’t want him to feel that I was scared. And, of course, I was afraid of giving him the wrong impression that I was turning around to find him. This might sound stupid, but if I had to write down how many times my gestures of kindness, courtesy, and friendliness have been taken as a welcome to flirt with me, corner me, or stare at me, then I might run out of paper.
Only when I came near a peanut cart I stopped and turned towards the direction I had been coming from. The man wasn’t there.
I was not convinced. I walked on, unsure what to do, my heart banging on my chest and my throat tight. He might be somewhere hiding from view with I don’t know what intention! I was afraid of running into him in a desolate place. And I thought he might know about just that stretch and could be waiting for me there.
Well, this rush definitely killed my appetite. I marched on the road but soon turned around to return to the Esplanade area, where I had arrived hours ago by metro. I would have to reach Esplanade to catch a bus home! I retraced my steps, thinking either I would eat somewhere or go home. The traffic police cops now looked like my best friends. I wanted one in my vicinity forever.
I arrived at a traffic junction which, again, was poorly lit. No pedestrians, and the only traffic cop soon disappeared. Either I could go towards Esplanade or to this cafe I had found. But the cafe was a half-hour walk. I watched the one or two men who had been walking to the junction closely. Hopefully, he wouldn’t show up suddenly! These were just some men, not the desperate man who had scared me. But the damage was done. My pace was quick, my pulse high, and my gaze flitted around. A nervousness had grasped me.
Ditch cafe. A half-hour walk would delay getting home. And I don’t feel like it anymore. I was tired, too. I took a bus from Esplanade that wasn’t going home but was headed in my direction. I would get another bus from where it would drop me. I again missed two 3C buses, the one that goes directly to my house, and it seemed to be my fate to always miss them.
Finally, on the bus, all the fear was gone, and I thought about dinner. Should I buy something or cook? As the bus sped on the busy road, I added items to an online grocery delivery app. The thin lady next to me gave me enough space, and I was thankful to her. At the bus dropping point, it took me some time to figure out that the bus had dropped me across from where I needed to be. Then I took an air-conditioned bus, rare in Calcutta.
This one dropped me ten minutes further up from where he should have. From inside the busy bus, I couldn’t tell where to get off.
“Haven’t we come a bit ahead?” I had asked the bus conductor.
“No, no, it is right,” He had replied.
Alright. Just want to get home. I will walk.
It was worth it, for I found two shops that had what I needed. One was a sweet shop right across from the junction where I got off. I had added ghee to my cart. This shop had the local Bengali ghee I had been wanting to try, and another local woman was buying it, giving me confidence. They also had all their sweets made from nolen gur, the date palm jaggery, the one I had been dying to try. I bought two Nolen jaggery sweets and 250 grams of ghee.
Of course, I had to call my mother because just that morning on the call (about which I have written in the first part) she was telling me I should eat a spoonful of ghee every day, it’s essential for bones, and I was telling her how I don’t have it, and I have been wanting to try a local one. And then she had said, “You are going out. Buy on your return.”
I called her and told her, “What a coincidence!”
Then I ran into another shop that had my favorite thing from Bengal: banana flower chops, or fritters. I love them and can’t understand why the whole world doesn’t make these absolutely delicious patties with banana flowers. Just the previous day, I had been adding them to my cart on the food delivery app. I hadn’t wanted to go out just for banana chops, and I didn’t even know a shop closeby that had good banana chops. I hadn’t ordered, though. One chop cost a hundred and fifty rupees online (a little less than $2), and I knew it was outrageous. Here, at the shop, the chop was fifteen rupees, one-tenth of the price. The place also had mishti doi, the sweetened yoghurt, which is also a local delicacy and which I love and had been craving for a while. I bought half a kilo of it, and it came, like always, in an earthen pot. I couldn’t believe my luck!
As if the universe really wanted me to get down there and enjoy those things and show me that what I had been searching for was five minutes from home.
I don’t buy many things online. My intention to always buy things from the market was strengthened that day. The best part is that you can choose what you like rather than having to go with the options presented by the app and trusting them.
Online orders can make life comfortable. But the ability to receive food at home has discouraged us from stepping out. Going out is about so much more than just getting a meal, yoghurt, or a chop.
The date palm jaggery shop guy was right. “The bus did a good thing otherwise we wouldn’t have the fortune to serve you,” He had said when I had told him the bus dropped me further ahead. The fortune was mine.
I discovered things ten minutes away from me, thanks to an irresponsible bus conductor.
For dinner, I had the leftover pasta, banana flower chops, persimmon, grapes, banana, an orange, and sweets. Phew!
Sometimes when I am alone, I run into problems. Some men think a lone, smiling woman, enjoying herself, taking pictures, unabashedly looking around, turning her head at everything, curious, excited, is not a self-sufficient, happy-with-her-company lone woman, but she would like his company.
I am cautious. But I am deliciously surprised by Calcutta. Every step forward makes me smile. I am chuckling often. I check myself quickly, though. No. Don’t smile. The woman ahead will think you are crazy. The man ahead might take it as an invitation to come speak with you.
I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling. Sometimes I can’t help it so I look down. Or I look up at the skies and the trees. Then something makes me laugh or wonder again. Maybe a memory or a cat right in front of me, trying one of its millions of tricks it seems to have right up its tail.
That evening, that afternoon, I was free. I was trying to be as free as I used to feel in a few foreign countries, mainly in South America. You know, walking freely, dressed in your best clothes without thinking if it was too short or tight, laughing aloud, with a spring in your step. The clothes part I have noticed is noticed in Calcutta too, precisely not the tight or short part, but you will have eyes on you if you are dressed well, and you look good. I wasn’t laughing aloud, unless I was alone, and I was wearing red trousers and a top.
I am sure that man had started following me from the ferry. I was my free self on that return ferry. I took photographs, I admired the night lights on the shore with a wide grin, and my face was that of a joyful puppy, tongue out, the wind in my hair, and cheeks lifted from a grin. That was enough to attract a stalker.
So what do I do now? Nothing. A little fear, dread, and anticipation are part of traveling. Not only when you are solo, but when you are visiting a place with someone, too. No one can be with us all the time. And no one can protect us all the time. I am careful, I stay in busy areas, and regardless of how scared I might be, I never let it show, especially not to the person whom I am scared of.
These methods have worked well for me so far. Am I chiding myself for not being more restrictive and controlled? Not really. I needed a break. I also like to laugh freely, and let the perpetual wonder in my heart show on my face, for a change. And I wouldn’t be sorry for that. I know how to protect myself, and I will. That’s all the promise I make.
This is half a day of a nomadic writer’s life in India. Hope you enjoyed the letter.
*You can read the informative Calcutta blog here.
Thank you for reading! I wish you happy holidays, a Merry Christmas, and a happy new year. I will see you on other side now, in 2026. Stay well and smile!
Do you let yourself be?
My 1st book, a travel memoir, Journeys Beyond and Within… is available in all bookstores in India and on Amazon globally. I’d love for you to read the book and tell me what I did right, or wrong. Journeys is not only a travel memoir, it’s a true account of me making my own path despite all the odds.
Sikkim Express: “Simple, free-flowing, but immensely evocative.”
The Telegraph Online: “An introspective as well as an adventurous read.”
Hope you enjoy the 59-second book trailer below.
All Amazon links are here. Or search for the title on Amazon.
Here are some links for easy access,
Amazon India — Amazon USA — Amazon UK
Amazon Germany — Amazon Australia — Amazon Canada
**
These two independent bookshops ship the book pan-India and internationally:
Pune’s Pagdandi Book Shop and Cafe and The Midland Store in Delhi
**
I’m sending signed copies within India and outside through our beloved post offices. Please note: I won’t be sending signed copies in the next year. So please order yours if you have been thinking of getting one from me. Reply to this email :-)
Pssst: There’s a special gift story, too. Email me your order details to claim it!
Or, read a Chapter first. Claim your free first chapter here.
For this week’s letter,
Some of my writing,
quotes I love,
things to read,
and
things to watch.
Articles of the Week
8 Exquisite Eccentricities of 8 Years of On My Canvas
What it means to be blogging for eight years, how I have been doing it while living nomadically, and how I’m handling the guilt of devoting the past years to my first book, Journeys Beyond and Within…, and not to the blog.
Blogging has changed me, and I capture a bit of the essence in “eight” eccentricities.
Thank you for reading all these years and for being here with me.
Grab the article now. Or Pocket it for the week.
On What’s Important – With The Little Prince of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
A simple piece I wrote a few years ago on the important things in life, inspired by the book, The Little Prince. I love the book, reach out to it often for clarity and ease, and this small inspiration might have come from a less practiced pen, but it came straight from the heart. I hope you walk away from the piece more content.
Find the narrative now. Or Pocket it for later.
Quotes I Love
“We don't have to circle the world in order to find beauty and fulfilment. After all, most of living has to happen in the mind. And, to quote one anonymous sage from my trivet, "The world is only the size of each man's head."
Ruskin Bond
“None of us can ever know the value of our lives, or how our separate and silent scribbling may add to the amenity of the world, if only by how radically it changes us, one and by one.”
Mary Karr
I pretend so unconsciously that I don’t know I am doing it. I tell others what they want to hear, hoping to be able to say the truth. But does the truth matters or their feelings? My truth is my feelings, too. I wish they choose me above their truths. Hah! No one wins or loses.
Yours Truly
What I’ve Been Reading
I’ve been reading short stories, books, articles, and so much more. I can’t possibly list all what I have read in the past weeks so I’m putting down the things I found most relevant and worthwhile.
My Mother’s Memory Loss, and Mine by Anna Holmes: For those who worry about losing memory. But probably for all of us to see how we over-worry sometimes, how we can’t predict or change the future, and that it’s really not that bad. (On New Yorker. The story is behind a paywall; you might have to subscribe. I resubscribed recently, paying $1 per week for the first year. A good deal, given New Yorker is a treasure trove of stories, essays, and interviews.)
Lara’s Theme by Madhuri Vijay (again on New Yorker): It’s a good, entertaining, and intriguing short story. It is not the kind of a story that makes you laugh but you want to keep reading, to see what happens. A great mirror to adult life.
The Joys and Challenges of My Life as a Blogger, Author, and Travel Nomad- Author Interview with Book Torch: A budding website for books and Author interviews, Book Torch, asked me for an interview, and I said, "Yes, let's do it." I'm always eager to share my journey of switching careers, quitting job, traveling, writing, and now publishing a book. And this is all what they wanted to know about.
I also share advice for new authors and writers, how I balance nomadic life and work and finances, how have I been managing society's expectations, how I choose between leisure and work, advice for those who want to live fully and not just do a nine to five for the sake of it, and what's success to me.
Expect brutally honest answers. But if you are up to it no one can stop you.A little poem by Agatha Christie
I like living.
I have sometimes been wildly,
despairingly, acutely miserable,
racked with sorrow; but
through it all I still know quite
certainly that just to be alive is
A grand thing.
I’ve been meaning to share this poem for a long time now. It was in my notes to be picked up later. Life is wonderful, and I’m amazed every second.
I finally read the much acclaimed book, Days at the Morisaki Bookshop by Satoshi Yagisawa (Author), Eric Ozawa (Translator) — It is a quiet, gentle read that I enjoyed. It is not one of the books that I will re-read. Days at the Morisaki Bookshop was a pleasant fiction, reemphasizing the goodness of humans, books, warmth of homes, friendships, trust, and of moving slowly at one’s pace. Patience can be a way to one’s way home. Sometimes, we need to step out of home to be ever able to come back.
The Woman in the Cabin by Becca Day — The Woman in the Cabin caught my eye on Amazon, and I thought I would just read a page. What harm can be done? The book has so many good reviews! The next thing I knew I was turning the last page a few hours later, glued to my chair. It’s not one of those books from which you take life lessons or remember it long after. I mean you might remember this thriller long after but not because it has changed your life. The story is a gripping ride for a few hours, shows us what humans are capable of, and is kind of impossible to put down. So be careful when you pick it up!
Now I Become Myself by May Sarton — A poem I’ve waited far too long to share. Beautiful, real, and wild.
Harvard’s New Health Bombshell: It’s Not Sleep Loss or No Exercise—It’s These 15 Daily Habits Silently Destroying You by Thomas Blake— I’ve written a lot about healthy habits on the blog. This article is a short reminder of why we need to take care of us every day, especially in the smallest decisions, and how seemingly harmless things might be aggregating against us. The points are all logical. Such as, not drinking water until we feel thirsty means we are already dehydrated. I know this intuitively. I often try to not get parched. Harvard’s study has reconfirmed my hunch and has reminded me to be careful. Simple things.
What I’ve Been Watching/Listening
that’s worth mentioning
Katha: Katha is a national award winning 1983 Hindi film that is available to watch for free on Youtube. I mean, yesterday I paid a dollar and a half to watch the movie, Something’s Gotta Give, and I can’t believe that I wasted one and a half hour on that movie. Katha is a hilarious story, and as funny and real it is, the movie is about the simplest things of life. One of the protagonists lives by principle and the other one, well, not so much. The beginning casting sequence is so innovative and fun that it’s worth to pick up the movie just for that. Recommended!
And for all adventure lovers!
Sorry no photos today as there are many above, and any longer, this letter will grow into a book.
Oh, just one.
Tales from the balconies of Calcutta!
I’ve shared many tales from the balconies of Calcutta before. Here is another one that I shared on social media this week.
So there's a guy who comes to our street in Calcutta and yells that he can fix old harmonium, battery, computer, monitor, phone, watch, mobile, inverter, geyser, mixer, stove, pressure cooker,.. and some more things I can't grasp.
I never knew someone could be so multitalented.
Here we are happy screwing unscrewing a Mac, or fixing the odd button on the coat.
I'm put to shame every time he shows up.
I wonder if he is so hands-on why doesn't he work at a shop? His skills would be underutilized, though.
Thank you for reading! I wish you happy holidays, a Merry Christmas, and a happy new year. I will see you on other side now, in 2026. Stay well and smile!
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Priyanka
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Loved it as usual. The scary part superbly captured your harrowing experience. I read it with bated breath. I had to read the whole piece all over again because I forgot many details due to the stalker incident. Pls take care! Thanks a lot for the extra long piece on my favourite city. Browsing the links at the end remains, which I will do at leisure. I hope the new yorker story is free to read. Bye, and take care, again