“When did you get home?” a friend asked me yesterday. “Last night,” I replied. “It must feel good to be back,” she said. The pause on the phone was long enough to be awkward. “Yes,” I said. I wanted the conversation to end. But what was home? That word has always been problematic for me. I …
My mother would have turned 82 today. I would have picked up the phone and called her. 011-91-33-2247-6600. I would have said: Ma! Happy Birthday. I would have asked her what she was doing to celebrate. She would have said that my pishi (aunt) was coming over for lunch. Nothing special was planned. I wold …
Last weekend, I went to a trunk show of jewelry crafted by my friend Anubha Jayaswal. She’s a friend from my hometown, Kolkata; her husband Vishal loves Bengali food more than I do. That’s true homage to the cuisine of my culture. Anubha works in the frenzied world of finance but when she has spare …
Kaka, standing on the balcony of the housein New Alipur in the 1950s. When I was a little girl, we lived in a house my grandfatherbuilt. It was common then for sons to remain in the house with their parentseven after they were married and had children. It was an extended family systemthat is dying …
Life on the streets of Kolkata can be an assault to the senses for someone unaccustomed. For me, it’s home. The vendors, the noise, the traffic, the smells, the sounds. Everything. I snapped photos with my iPhone when I was home in November and December. Of rickshaw wallahs, sweet shops, jewelry stalls, tea vendors and …
To borrow from Charles Dickens: WhetherI shall turn out to be the hero of my own life or whether that station will beheld by anyone else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning ofmy life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) onthe thirteenth day …
It’s done. The flat in the building called Balaka (which means swan in Bengali) at 68 B Ballygunj Circular Road is no longer my home. After nine-and-a half years of caring for it from across the globe, I completed the final act of an arduous sales process in Kolkata. I’ve posted a photo taken out …
The taxi refused to take the Eastern Bypass — too dangerous in the wee hours of the morning before the sun comes up and lights up the despair of Kolkata. Instead, we took the old route from the airport in the northeastern part of the city to the south. I had not taken these old …
This poem is written by one of my favourite Bengali poets, Joy Goswami. It loses in the translation, of course. And yet… In the evening sadness comes and stands by the door, his faceIs hidden, from the dying sun he took some colors and painted his body The sadness comes in the evening,I stretched my …
India has come a long way since my childhood. And not. This week’s headlines: Celsius rises, so does loadshedding. In American English, this means temperatures soaring above 100 degrees Fahrenheit and no electricity for hours and hours and hours. That’s the way it was when I was growing up in Kolkata. The only relief was …
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