There’s nothing quite like entering vacation mode with a suitcase to pack. However, that’s an art I seemed to have forgotten when I started. Two plus years of never boarding a plane had done its number on me and I was woefully unprepared for a trip outside the country. How many clothes to take? Shoes? Personal items? What to pack?? Added to this dilemma, there are new rules and regulations to follow now.

Our chosen destination Cuba beckoned! Hurry up, it seemed to say, we are waiting for you.

I don’t do well in heat and yet I loved Cuba. It was different over there because I wasn’t following a schedule. I had packed a notebook but never wrote. I had packed a book to read but didn’t go past the first short story. This was my third time in the beautiful, lush, island country – one in a chain of islands created millions of years ago - where the beaches are clean, the sand soft as powder, the waters so spectacular in their blue, green, turquoise fusion you might think your imagination is playing tricks.

We hired one of those classic 1950’s car, a Bel Air, and with the top down, drove with the wind whipping up a delight to the town of Varadero. Our driver, ever the courteous Cuban, took pictures for us. Then a horse and buggy ride through the town itself. Even here, the buggy driver pointed out places of interest and although, he spoke mostly Spanish we could make out what he said. We had booked a day tour to Havana which I was looking forward to since I have been there before and knew about the old colonial buildings and the really beautiful shops. However, it was heart rending to find most of the haunts I loved devoid of action – the after effects of the pandemic, I supposed, as I trudged along the cobbles stoned paths of old Havana. I tried looking up the cute boutique I had shopped at before, but couldn’t find it in the row of many shuttered doors. I had come here to recover from my own burnout but the devastation wreaked upon our global community by the pandemic is ever present. Each one of us bears a scar or two. 

Cuba does not import produce, unlike in the west, offering locally grown fruits and vegetables in season. This way one gets to enjoy the local cuisine. Tostones, that's pan fried green plantains, and rice and black beans, quickly became a favourtie. Breakfast was always a plate of juicy mango slices, guavas, watermelons and pineapples. Then there were the unforgettable smoothies made from mango, guava, papaya, watermelon or pineapple. Your choice. Cuban food is typically meat-centric bearing heavy influences from Africa and Spain because of the slave trade. The famous Ropa Vieja, meaning literally old clothes, is a dish of shredded beef cooked in tomatoes and served over fluffy white rice. The name comes from an old Cuban tale of a man who was too poor to buy meat. Instead, he shredded his clothes and cooked it praying it would turn to meat. Miraculously, it did.  The dish is a symbol of hope and resilience in Cuban culture. I fell in love with the Yuca, another word for Cassava root. Boiled or mashed, or cut up like French fries it was always present at the buffet. Cuban desserts with their combination of tropical flavours and warming spices are mouth watering to the extreme. You must have some, at the very least, if not a whole lot. The Arroz Con Leche or sweet rice pudding made with rice, milk, sugar, lemon zest and sometimes star anise, is sinfully delectable. Cuban shortbread cookies, the flan, and my personal favourite Dulche de Leche Cortada - milk and sugar cooked over a slow fire until thickened into a rich caramel milk curd and infused with cinnamon. We loved it because it tasted like gulab jamoon, a traditional Indian dessert. Similar to our Indian culture, in Cuba food is at the center of celebrations and everyday life.

 Driving through the countryside, I was constantly reminded of my hometown Hazaribagh. The same green hedges, banana and mango trees lining the roads, gated houses sporting pink tiled roofs with gardens along their sides, meadows and fields. Nostalgia running rampant.

Now that I have emerged from hibernation, I am filled with hopes for the future. We had been hearing a lot about airport line-ups and were somewhat nervous. However, everything went well, despite a last-minute fumble when the pilot announced they had forgotten an animal in the hold from the previous trip and the plane had to reverse, open the hold and let the poor thing out. That set us back about forty minutes but at least, the pet and its owners were re-united. Despite these hiccups, our arrival in Cuba and consequent vacation in a fabulous duplex that was a stone’s throw from the most beautiful beach I have ever seen, went without a hitch.

I inherited Ma’s Bou-Bhaat saree.
Loosely translated in English – bou = bride, bhaat = rice or food. This saree, I am wearing in the photo, belonged to my mother. She wore it on the day of her Bou-Bhaat.
After the bride has entered her husband’s home, soon to be her own, she stays indoors only to emerge the day of her Bow Bhaat – usually a few days after the wedding has taken place. This is because the bride would have travelled from another city or town. On the day of the Bou Bhaat the groom’s family invite family and friends to a banquet. The new bride is introduced and blessed by all; she will share in the meal. I have been told those older customs had neighbours bringing food for the bride and she would only eat from her husband’s house at the official banquet. I don’t believe this was the case with Ma as a new bride.
My hands are gentle as they take the saree out of the cupboard, unravel the many folds, and lay it out on the bed. Royal purple with silver embroidery running the length and breadth of this absolute gorgeous six yards of Banarasi silk tissue, woven with very fine silk threads that give the texture of tissue. Extremely delicate and absolutely divine. Handwoven from Banaras, city of mystics, where the holy river Ganga flows clothed in gold from the morning sun and jewelled plumes of thousand floating lamps during evening puja. Where weavers weave their magic into yards of Banarasi silk sarees.
I let my eyes rest on the saree and immediately a sense of peace floods over me. Time to showcase Ma’s saree, I tell myself firmly, and begin to drape it around me. I have only once worn it outside, to an event, and never after that. Afraid I might mess it up. Ma’s benediction rises; I feel the power of her strength of character, who she was and how she brought us up.
After her wedding, Ma would have left for her husband’s home – a journey of roughly four hundred miles. They must have taken the train. Who else was travelling with them? Our aunts, Baba’s sisters? Our grandmother and great-grandmother? I don’t know because I never asked. Something I regret to this day.
In India, during the time I was growing up, we never thought of asking our parents about their childhood or growing years. Why was this? Why did we not simply ask? Did we not ever imagine that, once upon a time, parents themselves had been children? In all fairness, I believe this had to do with respect for our elders. We thought it would be bad manners. We did not want to pry.
Ma did share some stories about her childhood – the time when the horse that drew their carriage turned ballistic and almost killed them; or the time when she leaned against the car door that had not been locked and fell out. The wound wasn’t too big, thank goodness, because the car was stationary at that moment.
Another time, Ma told us how she had been chastised by an aunt for exposing her ears and was made to rectify this breach of conduct before stepping out of the house. Females, at that time, had to wear their hair in a special way that their ears would not be exposed.
I decide to sit on top of the stairs for the photograph. Lighting isn’t the best, and there may be unwanted shadows. In my anxiety to not trip on the saree and ruin it, I forget to remove the picture from the back. Now, I can’t help but smile as I begin to type. I know Ma will understand.

#bengaliculture #amwriting #heritage #family #familystories #author #amreading #poetrycommunity
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"March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb." It's an old English proverb of unknown origin. In the west, this month can be cold and windy with sudden blizzards and snow-storms. It is also the harbinger of Spring. Growth happens - on trees, in bushes, shrubs and thickets. Creation uncurls, and steadying herself on a still-frozen ground takes stock of her situation. She is ready. A fitting month to celebrate women!

So, it was an honour to be invited to an interview by Ayesha Sardar of Public Allies Inc., a non-profit organization, and share the platform with local author Sutha Arulanantham on March 24th. Here's the link https://youtu.be/1Ss0-Qm0OY0

Kindness is like a warm shawl on a cold day.

A number of years back I was journeying to an appointment at a hospital that was quite a distance from home. Armed with the numbers and locations of the various trains, buses and/or streetcars I was supposed to take, I started on my way. But soon realized my meticulous preparations hadn’t prepared me for the mishmash of streetcar lines, bus stops, flashing lights, whizzing cars and hurrying feet.

Exhausted by the long journey and completely out of my depth in this part of the city, I took refuge in a bus shelter to review my situation. A quick glance at my watch confirmed my worst fear. I did not want to be late and must quickly find my way out and to my destination.

Soon a woman sauntered in. She was dressed in a pink jogging suit, and looked to be about 50 or 60. Stamping out the cigarette she had been smoking, she looked me over before saying in a gruff voice - good morning. I responded. She smiled. I did the same. She asked if I was okay. That’s when I almost broke down. But controlled myself.

She seemed to know her way around these parts and when a streetcar screeched to a halt where we stood, she ushered me up the steps; after speaking to the driver, she took a seat opposite me. Two stops later on the way out she told me that my stop would be coming up shortly but not to worry, because she had told the driver to make sure I got off safely. When the driver announced my stop, he pointed out the hospital. As I was getting off, he told me where to take the streetcar for the return journey to the train station. And then, he said, good luck. Possibly because I was going to the hospital.

I wonder where these people are now; how have they fared during these exhausting and sometimes frightening times; are they safe? Are they well? I will never know. However, I will never forget them and their kindness.

An act of kindness has the power to change one’s life – of the giver and the receiver. It can turn a freezing day into firelit warmth; give sadness chance to hope again; connect people. 
​

Book titles intrigue me. What makes an author choose a particular one? Why this and not the other? Of course, the story itself must have a link to the title; otherwise, it will make no sense. 

I have always had a fascination for the moon. Mysterious and cool; at times bewitching but always present promising yet another new day. We have a full moon. A waning moon. And who hasn't heard of the sickle moon. Each with its own secret power.

So, when some readers began to ask me why I chose the title of my novel Moonlight – The Journey Begins, I thought it was time to share my reasoning behind it.
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Chandni means moonlight in Bengali. The moon is rather special. She appears to be quiet staying in the background letting the sun get all the glory. There comes a time, however, when the moon will sweep aside all obstacles to achieve that for which she is created. I am speaking of the moon’s role in the life of the earth and seas – the gravitational pull which is the primary tidal force.
 
And so, we return to Chandni my heroine. Just like the unassuming moon, when the time comes Chandni will fight against all odds to claim and possess what's hers by right. 

Moonlight - The Journey Begins available in paperback, hardcover and e-book format at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kindle, itunes, Kobo, Nook, Indigo and FriesenPress Bookstore

Cold, clear, crisp, with a wind to match. Or, cool and sunny. Both with a blue sky above like a canopy of joy. Winter. Which one of the two do I like best? Since I have experienced both, I can say without a doubt - both.

Fields of snow, a gale-like wind, tall trees with heavy white-laden branches. Hands stuffed in the pockets of a down filled jacket, feet in fur-line boots, woolen hat pulled down to my eyes. I am determined to walk. Good stuff, they say. Don’t ask who ‘they” might be – they are there all the time. I agree exercise in the outdoors pumps up oxygen making the brain work. And, you do feel good after. We learned that in school. On cold mornings when all we wanted was huddle at our desks, one teacher, in particular, made us march and run. We hated it. But, now, I understand why she did it and thank her for her wisdom.
 
Mary Oliver says in her poem – White Eyes,
“In winter all the singing is in the tops of the trees…” where she imagines the life of a bird in winter, sleeping in his nest on the top of a pine tree.

I encourage you to read the complete poem – you will be drawn in immediately, as I was, into a world that surrounds us which we ignore. How many times have I missed the chirping of birds as I walk briskly in an effort to pack as many steps as I can? Many times, to be completely honest. Now, while walking, I hear the chirping of birds. They seem happy. I want to see where they are and look around the frozen landscape. Finding no flying creatures, I continue on my path. However, there are plenty of bushes; add good strong trees with long limbs, and it tells you there’s a whole world carrying on over there.  Such a delight!

It took me a while to come to terms with winter. This cold northerly one, so different from the soft, cool winters of my growing years. Although we did have cold rain in January. That didn’t put a damper on things. Youth doesn’t care if the air is moist, the floor damp, room cold. They are wired differently. At some point, we have all been there.
I have first-hand knowledge of the power of the lowly charcoal brazier. What warmth and comfort it brought us during our growing years! The dining room had an electric heater. We loved the charcoal brazier and plotted and planned to have it indoors all night. But our parents would have none of that and the container was banished outside before lights out. Upon reflection, I have to agree that the brazier with its combination of heat and comfort is perhaps one of my fondest memories of childhood. And why I love winter.

I remember having to climb up snowbanks piled high in front of the bus stop. This made it equally challenging for the driver to open the door to let in passengers. Streets were never cleaned well in those days. Things have changed - salt trucks are usually out before the onset of a snow-storm.

Winter is a time of waiting as the earth renews herself to the tune of drowsy lyrics sung by her companions also doing the same. For us, it can be a time to learn patience, tend to our inner selves, enjoy a slower pace. Rejuvenate our spirit.
Take care. Keep smiling.
​Purabi

In this photo, we are cooking rooti on the electric stove top. 

The kitchen in my childhood home had two doors opening out to two corresponding verandahs. A nice sized room with plenty of sunshine coming in during the two months of really chilly temperatures with the added luxury of turning into a shadowy haven during the summer months. This ideal set up was challenged by rains during monsoon. We thumbed our nose at pouring rain by carrying cooked food from the kitchen to the dining room located in the main house, crossing the courtyard under shelter of a large black umbrella.

My earliest recollection of our kitchen is of Ma sitting on a peera (low wooden stool) in front of the unun while our cook/ helper rinsed and washed, cut and sliced vegetables fresh from the market. The unun (Bengali term) or Chulha (Hindi term) was made of bricks and clay. Its U-shaped top was wide enough for the cooking vessel to fit snugly, while heat rose from the depths of the stove’s belly. Through a small opening in front and close to the floor, one was able to fan at the flames. Fire came from burning wood and coal, and sometimes charcoal. Ma used to say that in our great-grandmother’s time all food was cooked in earthenware pots which, I was told, made the dishes extra-flavourful. By the time we came along it was the iron karahi that reigned supreme. Ma supervised, taking up the spatula when some fine tuning to the vegetables or fish or mutton was required. Rice is a must in a Bengali meal which is why I have a weakness for it. We also ate rooti – whole wheat unleavened flat bread cooked on a flat tawa or pan, then puffed directly on the flames. The unun was later raised so meals could be cooked standing up. Sadly, I don’t have pictures of our kitchen.
Food has a way of weaving into our conversations, especially during these times.  Eating out is not an option for us now which makes home cooked meals just that more attractive. In this part of the world, we need to be mindful of the weather. During the darkest, deepest part of winter when going out is well-nigh impossible, hunting through the freezer section of the refrigerator will result in excellent finds - frozen vegetables, fruits and prepared meals - an essential part of our grocery shopping.  

How a family cooks has a lot to do with what’s come down from grandparents. Which is why the story behind a dish is so attractive. I would even venture to say this is what draws people to their family favourites. Sitting at a table with people to share a meal is not only satisfying to the stomach but also to the senses – you get to see, touch, smell and feel a setting that has been the mainstay of human growth.
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Ma’s pudding and custard were famous. In the absence of an oven, I think what Ma did was place the bowl with the mixed ingredients inside a large cooking pot that was half filled with water. And this pot went on top of the unun. I am sure it had to be cooked on medium heat which meant cooking it during that part of the day when lunch had been eaten and the evening meal yet to be prepared. Perfect timing because the coal ash was hot but the coals were not exactly burning bright. I have to really rack my brains to remember because I never took an interest in cooking those days. It wasn’t until Ma visited us here many years ago and baked pudding on top of the electric stove, that I paid attention.
Here we improvise – rootis cooked on stove top, croquettes made of fish from a can – to name just a few. I still don’t cook much but I do roll out the rootis.
Take care. Stay safe.

Thank you for being there for me. It is for you I get up every morning wanting to write more. You give me #hope, something we simply cannot do without. I went for a drive today and as the car swept around a bend, the #trees standing tall and strong in their winter darkness suddenly took on new meaning. They were waiting for the next season, #new #beginning. We can learn a thing or two from these majestic beings of the #forest.
If you have a #goal for #2022 pepper it with #positive energy. Like the trees, that positive energy will take you towards a fulfilling #life.
So, my friends, I wish all of you and your families the best of health and safety. Happy New Year.
#happynewyear2022

Delighted and honoured to be featured in this list of authors by Barbara Kyle.
Barbara Kyle is the author of the bestselling Thornleigh Saga series of historical novels and of acclaimed thrillers. Over half a million copies of her books have been sold worldwide.
Click on the link to read more https://mailchi.mp/barbarakyle.com/bravo-these-writers-did-it-so-can-you

When I sat down to pen a Christmas message my mind drew a blank. The computer screen waited for my fingers to fly over the keyboard; I tapped out a few words, deleted them, tapped some more. Nothing was working. I am so used to having multiple images jostling to get out of my mind that this new silence was frightening. This wasn’t writer’s block; a thing I have never believed in, anyway. So then what is it? I asked myself letting my eyes roam the length and breadth of the backyard through the glass pane of the patio door. A sudden gust of wind raced between the fences setting them shivering in the mid-morning sun while the dark furry tail of a lone squirrel vanished into the neighbour’s yard.

I gave myself a mental shake deciding to take the situation in hand. And this is what happened.

I began to count my blessings:

My family – their incredible capacity to turn even the dreariest situation into something valuable. Always ready to listen, laugh, joke, and cheer.

My friends – their wisdom, courage, love and care.  

My writing – as essential as breathing and just as demanding. Each day starts in anticipation of spinning thoughts into words and watch them transform into fantastic shapes and sizes. Somewhat like the old man in the market of my hometown who spun sugar into fantastical shapes and colour. How gorgeous is that world! And I too get to do it. That’s freedom. I am grumpy if I don’t write.

Creation - godly, everlasting, generous to a fault.

Reading – fiction, non-fiction, poetry, essays – you name it and I read it.
 
My books – the characters in my novel Moonlight – the Journey Begins are well-settled and hopefully residing in homes far and near. The next book will be out in the spring of 2022. I have lived between their pages for a very long time; it’s due to them I get this hankering to write even more.

My writing desk – just a small corner in the living room facing the backyard. Squirrels, their fur grown dark in winter, are fun to watch providing moments of hilarity with their daily antics even on the grimmest day. An overcast sky, fat clouds filled with water, or dark and threatening, presaging a storm, transport me to impossible highs. High treble of childish voices float across the sun-drenched air on a hot summer day.

Walking - in the hush of dawn when the sun waits behind giant trees before making a dramatic appearance and I pretend I am the only audience in nature’s auditorium.

Each day is a blessing. You are with me. I am blessed because of you.

The year is winding down, concerns over newer viruses keep growing, but we are gearing up to live our lives to the fullest, aided by technology. That’s something to be thankful for, I imagine.

We are on this road together and my prayers are with you and your family, now and always. Blessings and joy from our family to yours. Stay safe. Be well. Peace be upon you.
Happy Christmas.
Purabi

​#peace #joy #christmas2021 #amwriting #amreading #life