When a book has a map, family tree, and glossary – I am truly appreciative. I understand the amount of time and energy the author has invested in putting them together.

In October 2022, I watched a YouTube presentation by Philippa Gregory, at The Honourable Society of Lincoln’s Inn in London, where she spoke about this book. 

​I love anything to do with history – any country will do – and listening to the author explain how in 1685 there was a threat of renewed civil war against the Stuart kings, background of Dawnlands, her latest book, piqued my interest.

It was Christmas 2022. Among the many gifts under our Christmas tree, there was Dawnlands. A gift from my son. I held the book in my hands, turned it over, ran my fingers over the beautifully designed cover, and opened it - to find two maps and a family tree.

If not for the Family Tree, I would have been at a complete loss to understand the relationship between the characters of Dawnlands, having never read the first two books in this trilogy.

My novel Moonlight – The Journey Begins (https://www.amazon.ca/Moonlight-Journey-Purabi-Sinha-Das/dp/1039103162/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1628814640&sr=1-1) has a glossary of the Bengali words in the book with their meaning in English. I had done this on purpose. Recently my book was picked up by a Book Club. I was invited to one of the meetings. It was a lively discussion with many questions about my writing process, whether I was writing a sequel, and best of all - how helpful the glossary had been.

Connecting with my readers is a beautiful experience because then I get to know their insights, as well as, expectations. What they loved, vs, what they liked. What they want to read more of. This way I can continue to hone my craft for I must always remember – I write for my readers; not just for myself. 

We celebrated Valentine's Day ahead of time.

Does it matter? I don’t think so. 

An opportunity came up and we travelled to Niagara Falls on the first day of February. The day was sunny, without a pesky wind to ruffle your hair or send chills down the spine; I had given myself permission to take the day off. I do love what I do, that is - write, but even I need to get away from my desk sometimes. My excitement knew no bounds at the prospect of seeing Niagara Falls in the middle of winter.

Gazing out of the window, I was suddenly reminded of my first visit to this iconic wonder of the world. That was in the month of September, the time between summer and autumn when hot days are followed by cool nights. A beautiful time of year in Canada. I had arrived in this country the previous month. That was a long, long time ago.

This time, however, we were travelling during the period when cold days are followed by even colder nights; a frozen earth bears brown trees, snowdrifts all over the countryside, and the scenery heartachingly beautiful.

We dined at the famous Skylon Tower’s revolving dining room in Niagara Falls.  The slow rotation of the room is unique; from a height of 775 feet, we took in the spectacular views of the Falls and river from every possible angle you can think of. To be able to relax in the elegant and peaceful atmosphere while enjoying a delicious meal, was special. And, then the pianist began to play the piano. I couldn’t have asked for more.

The Winter Festival of Lights, Canada's largest free outdoor light festival presented by Niagara Falls Tourism is yet another bonus during this time. Festival theme this year is "energy" along an 8-km route where you get to walk (bundle up) or drive taking in spectacular displays at the Queen Victoria Park, Table Rock Centre, Dufferin Islands, Floral Showhouse and Niagara Parks Power Station.

Pictures I take will never do justice to this breathtaking display, I concluded, quietly slipping my phone camera back into my pocket. 

Aashi, I say gathering my purse and other paraphernalia, and unbuckling the seat belt clamber out of the car. I wave, mouth aashi, once more at the departing vehicle, thankful of the ride on this snowy, winter afternoon. I am meeting a friend for lunch at the mall.
 
In the Bengali tradition we are taught, from an early age, never to say goodbye. We say instead, aashi. Although technically, aashi means coming. So then, why say coming when we are actually about to leave?

Is it because we hope to meet again, and have trained our minds to think it.

But then what about saying goodbye to a stranger? Someone I met, chatted with, will never see again.
In that case, I will say bhalo thakben/ keep well, as I take my leave.
 
Here’s another interesting aspect about Bengali culture.

The word aashi is also used when answering a call. That is, when someone calls me, I respond by saying aashi, wherever I am at that moment, and appear before the person.

We are taught never to respond to a call by saying kee/what? Instead, aashi is the norm. In this context, aashi has a sense of urgency, a willingness to pause and pay attention to another.
​
In this photo, on a visit to my place of birth in October 2018, I am taking leave silently – whispering aashi to ancient trees lining the road. How was I to know that would be my last visit to India? The pandemic swooped down, and I haven’t had a chance to return.

Hope you liked this tiny peek into the Bengali culture and traditions. Do share yours.

Albert Camus wrote – “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer…”

Somewhat how I feel in these days of deep winter, snow lying heavy on the ground muffling noise, and when the sun shines it’s dazzlingly bright.

Some days are dark, dismal, steely grey clouds forming a pewter bowl where the sky is, and those days we need to dig deep within to find that summer so intrinsically a part of us.

The snow-laden tree in picture one is from the park when we had the first snowfall. It was pretty, poignantly so. Even with its bent branches, it radiated an aura of beauty. And, that is how we see trees. No matter how worn, bent, worm laden, they still appear beautiful.

How much more beautiful then, the same trees would appear to the human eye if clothed in the brilliance of summer colours?

Trees are beautiful, no matter the season.
​
How readily we admire beauty in nature. Yet, do not recognize the beauty of the human spirit ever present no matter the season of life.

We chatted about my latest book TWENTY TWO FOR 22 - a collection of short stories, poetry, and magical travel vignettes. Among the many questions Benji Cole asked, one that really stood out was about the name of the book. I have been asked many times about it - here's the link 
youtu.be/HmI-4p-vYMU​

I was woken this morning, not by birdsong, but by a light that suffused the entire bedroom in a surreal glow. Piercing through the curtain at the window, this glow had danced in to settle on my closed lids, urging me to open my eyes. At first, I thought I had overslept but a quick check told me it was just 3 a.m. I walked to the window, lifted the curtain, to stand in fascinated awe drinking in the beauty of a landscape that only the first snowfall can bring. The first pure joy of the season where the spirit meets the mind to acknowledge this is happiness.

Later, instead of focusing on a brisk walk, I meandered over to the park, my faithful companion during the winter months.

The morning walk turned into more meditation, than a walk, as my gaze swept across the familiar fields, playground, and benches, stopping only at the edge of the woods bordering the park. I recognize the role of this, and the other places I walk, in my creative make-up; I respect them. Every so often I will pause, listen to the silence of a hush-filled dawn as this one, feel its breath upon my face. This is the earth, who, even in the throes of winter, is alive and in her aliveness is what we call life.

I remember well those days taking public transport to work, the air of camaraderie among fellow travellers. Even loaded down under the weight of winter outerwear, it did not take away from the mutual delight of witnessing the first snowfall of the season.

Take a pause, wherever you are look around you. Make each minute count. They are tiny but packed with immense possibilities.
​
Stay safe and well, my friends.
Purabi Sinha Das

​Settling comfortably on the cushioned seat of the bus, I lean my forehead on the cool glass of the window. It’s been an exhausting and exciting day.

The free day trip to Playa del Carmen offered by the resort caught us by surprise. We accepted and hopped on the bus.
Mexico, made up of thirty-one states, stands in the southern part of North America and most of the country borders the Pacific Ocean to the south. Besides the U.S., it shares a border with Guatemala and Brazil in Central America. We are staying in Playa del Carmen, a resort city along the Caribbean Sea in the state of Quintana Roo. I learn playa means beach in Spanish. And Quintana Roo is one of three Mexican states that make up the Yucatan peninsula and is the most popular state to visit. 

I know Mexico is famous for gold and silver but the spectacular display at the Hacienda Matises & Co. of artisanal talent blew me away. She, of the golden tiara on jet-black tresses; he of the powerful silver encased body of a God, shaped their passion into fantastical shapes that glowed and glittered forever. Even the sun and moon, and the stars, I am certain, bow in obeisance. My eyes stayed glued on the artisans working behind glass windows bringing a delicate balance between precision and beauty. Think artist and mathematician rolled into one.
Then a short ride brought us to the iconic 5th. Ave. the happening place where it’s de rigueur for tourists to congregate. 
I didn’t stop to shop, instead continued to walk weaving my way through throngs of tourists, eyeing the vast array of visual delight displayed in stalls and store fronts along the avenue which seemed to go on forever. The Spanish tongue, with a smattering of English sprinkled in between, danced in the air adding an extra sparkle to the leaves of trees that must have stood there for a very long time, welcoming guests from the far corners of the globe. Oh, what a wonderful world! 

Our bus is slowing down. I have been dozing and open my eyes to look out the window. There is traffic; the sun is setting. I shut my eyes and return to my reflections.
***
In a clearing in the jungle, there, before my bemused eyes, is a sort of meeting place of men, women, children all intent on the task at hand. They don’t even look up when I stop to stare. Although I am an alien in their world, no one questions me. They are friendly and caring, holding an arm when I stumble, or, gesture for me to sit down. When I show signs of flagging strength, I am given a tumbler wreathed with moisture from the afternoon heat. It is filled with juice from the hibiscus flower. My thirst is quenched. Again, when hunger pangs make me double up in pain, I am given a drink made from rice and vanilla, and sprinkled with cinnamon. A clay plate is proffered, I grasp it in my eager hands, and devour the cactus salad with gusto. Yet, no words. Only silent kindness. Fortified, I resume my perambulations. 

Statues of gods abound here. Chaac, the Mayan deity for rain; Ixcjel, Moon deity; Itzmana – ruler of heaven, day, and night. He teaches humans the science of medicine, numbers, the calendar and writing. Hun Hunahpu – maize god. For the Mayans, maize is not just a crop. It represents who they are. 

Such beauty, I muse, touching a brilliant orange hibiscus. Immediately, a red blur spreads before my eyes. Through this blood-soaked mist, scenes of such violence unfold that I fall down fighting to close my eyes which remain open. The beautiful jungle of moments before has grown dark and suffocating, the trees bent with twisted arms, grimacing in pain. The people who had tended me have vanished without trace. I raise my aching head, a dreadful premonition grabbing at my throat, and I understand. The Europeans have arrived. 
***
There is movement around me. People are shifting and mumbling, saying goodbye to new friends, discussing dinner which will be served in a few minutes. I stand up with the rest of the tourists, settle my backpack on one shoulder, clamber down the steps, and find myself walking towards the beach. I am not hungry for the people I met earlier in the jungle, fed me.

Music from the resort reverberates in the night air lifting some of the heaviness from my spirit. Although I had promised myself not to scroll the internet I do so now to learn there was a mass burning of Mayan literature around 1562 resulting in the loss of information about the Mayan gods. However, incredibly amazing ruins in the Yucatan bear evidence of the density of population and how important agriculture was for the Mayans. All dating back to at least two thousand years. In many ways the indigenous civilization of the Mayans was more advanced than their Spanish conquerors.
I am gratified to learn that 50 indigenous languages are spoken still including Maya in the Yucatan; Huastec in northern Veracruz; Nahua, Tarascan, Totonac, Otomi, and Mazahua mainly on the Mesa Central; Zapotec, Mixtec, and Mazatec in Oaxaca; and Tzeltal and Tzotzil in Chiapas. 

I gather my wandering thoughts, pick up my backpack and turn towards the lights of the resort.

“The most regretful people on earth,” the poet Mary Oliver said, “are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.”

Mary Oliver is one of my favourite poets whose words always resonate for me. I am hoping you will understand my crazy and weird compulsion while writing a piece, to swerve into another world, where imagination mixes with reality. Do come along – I would love your company. 

Dear Friends, I want to share my thoughts about the day when our world changed forever on September 11, 2001.

I did not know any of the victims. But the shock it brought remained within for a long time. Grief never ends just becomes less harsh with time, I suppose, and with that I will have to comfort myself.

After it was all over, the sun would have risen the next day. Invisible tears of nature’s grief would have been wrung out of the beauty of many-hued flowers, shiny ripeness of fruits, the glistening leaves of trees trembling in shock and disbelief.
Even the tiniest living being on this planet would have grieved as they had never done before.

Alak and I had made the trip to the former World Trade Center site, called “Ground Zero” at the time, on the tenth anniversary of the September 11 attack. At the sight of the crater like hollow in the ground where the Twin Towers had once stood, such desolation swept over me that I was incapable of taking pictures and merely stood with bowed head in silent prayer for the departed souls.

September 11, 2022 marks the 21st. anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. There is now a memorial at the site of the former World Trade Center complex occupying approximately half of the 16-acre site. The memorial’s twin reflecting pools are each nearly an acre in size and feature the largest human made waterfalls in North America.

Lives lost forever. Dreams crushed before they could even appear. The unborn to remain unknown.

Dusk approaches clothed in midnight blue while stars appear, one by one, in the beyond where a pristine moon waits in the wings. Time for me to wrap up.

I leave this picture of a stunning sunset in Barbados taken in September 2019, as a meditative prayer.
​
Stay safe and well.
Purabi

In the hush of dawn, I stand transfixed in our tiny backyard, camera in hand. Emotions swirl through me. Joy, delight, wonder. It’s hard to explain emotion, right? You just feel it. A quickening of breath. Lightning of the spirit. A buzzing in the brain.
Such are the feelings I experienced gazing at this miracle. A potted plant that had almost died inside the house. I was heartbroken. How do I give it the breath of life? I pondered, touching its dry leaves. I couldn’t throw it so I did what common sense dictated. I brought it outside.
Then waited.
Each morning, I stepped out to the backyard to see if anything had happened while I slept.
One day, I saw a little green leaf peeking at me. A miracle!
And, day after glorious day, tiny bright red flowers kept appearing. As if out of nowhere.
My sturdy little plant #theonethatwouldntgiveup probably sees her own beauty in the worshipful delight on my face as we greet each other at dawn, every day.
What I see, is her determination never to give up. Her message that I should also keep going, no matter how tough the going gets. Stay focused. Concentrate on the job at hand. Create stories. Write poetry. As if my life depended on them. This little trooper knows writing pumps oxygen into me. 

​#amwriting #poetry #nature

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.