Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 16
July 26, 2020
Destiny Delayed, or is it Denied.
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The sun strained to look at me
just a few more moments –
through window grills of thickets,
with it’s tired bleary eyes.
As it slowly slipped into a coma
under a blanket of clouds,
forcing it into the deathly folds
of the gaunt Hooghly at night –
that has lost its immunity now
after four months of lockdown.
It hasn’t eradicated Coronavirus,
which still spreading like wildfire –
is burning up economic life;
yet again testing the resilience
of the city of joy – Kolkata,
a land that history has bellied;
cyclone Amphan mocking its plight!
Yet with arms full of sunny warmth –
it’s always taken in destiny’s denied
since the times of two partitions,
or for that matter neighbourhood strife!
PS: An initial draft of thoughts from this evening’s visit.
July 25, 2020
An Author Life
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“I have never claimed to create anything out of nothing; I have always needed an incident or a character as a starting point, but I have exercised imagination, invention and a sense of the dramatic to make it something of my own.”
— Somerset Maugham, in A Writer’s Notebook.
I wrote my 2nd novel ‘Entwined Lives’ to be a sequel to the issues I depicted in my first ‘Across Borders’ – on the socioeconomic position of women in undivided India since 1940-2005.
The second novel depicts the drastic change in the position of women in every way. I depicted this from 2006-2015, and as I happened to live in Chennai throughout this time, married to a senior journalist, working as a senior executive search consultant (headhunter) after a few lifestyle-retail stints, I located the novel in Chennai and also Mumbai, with the characters created out of my familiar work spaces.
The situations in both novels are relevant pan India and across/outside borders, however much we may try to deny or hide it out of fear and hypocrisy. Reading that we’re not the only ones facing turmoil is emotionally liberating, as I’ve been told by those who read my books, making me feel an immense sense of job satisfaction, which has always been my driving factor all my working life.
In the writing of my novel, Entwined Lives, I have meticulously read and reread almost all of Maugham’s novels back to back, and I read him only – and exclusively for the close to three to four years it took me to write this novel.
My characters, plots and subplots are all inspired by real people and incidents, but my detailed handling of their psyche, is inspired by Maugham’s. 
July 16, 2020
On Personal Freedom
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A few years back, I was invited to a popular library in upscale Chennai one Sunday morning, to read from and discuss my first novel ‘Across Borders’.
It was a lovely – lively, interactive session, where I first read several excerpts of my novel, to a rather attentive audience; followed by a series of intelligent questions and a lot of personal perspective sharing.
After the session, over tea, coffee and lovely short eats as is usually the practice in Chennai – like at the Madras Book club events, two young women who were there with their husbands and children – approached me and told me how they were inspired by all that they just heard.
But what shocked me and what this whole narrative is about – is that they blurted, crestfallen: “You are so lucky that your husband allows you to write!”
I looked at them quizzically, and replied, “But why would I seek my husband’s permission to write? It’s my inherent right to choose my purpose in life and follow my path and I do not hand over that control to anyone to tell me what to do with my life. My husband insists – a full time corporate job is best suited to me; but that’s because he married me thinking – that’s who I am. Who I now choose to become as years go by to nurture my truest self – is completely my personal choice.”
The two women mumbled something mundane politely in reply and looking at me like I would never understand their circumstances – they moved on.
I certainly do not want to empathise with those who try to cling on to conditional and transient love, by trying to become the person their partners envision them to be and then become disillusioned when the partner’s attention wanes or waivers nevertheless. And nothing exasperates me more than those who claim to always give in – for love, to camouflage their own deep insecurities.
Then another young man came up and said his parents and extended family restricted him from writing ‘seriously’, even though he loves to read since a child and has thus been reviewing books in journals in addition to a career in corporate finance.
So the rest of the time there at the library that afternoon, though I interacted with several others politely, over the samosas, sandwiches and pakoras, I was in an irritated state of mind from these claustrophobic views.
After all, my book Across Borders, and everything else I’ve written yet, stands up tall for feminism and women’s empowerment, also the emancipation of men from age old moulds. And here I was meeting women and men for that matter, that too in a library of all places, who do not have the basic freedom to write. 
July 14, 2020
‘Pride of India’: Talent Hunt, win.
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Very pleased to have the opportunity to uphold the banner on behalf of Poetry, in an attempt to make it accessible to and for everyone, especially that many today think it is not relatable!
This win was judged from my poetry recital, on video …from my book titled ‘Fragments’. Could not have asked for better timing for divine reiteration, when my next poetry manuscript is ready!
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When I was asked for my photo last Sunday evening, after having made it to the list of winners, I forwarded this one above, after some deliberation – as to choose an appropriate one with these thoughts…
Be who you are, not who the world wants you to be…Integrity is key!
As a first year employee of an airline, in my mid-twenties, in 1995, I happened to meet a celebrity photographer at the Calcutta airport, as he waited to take the flight to Mumbai. He struck up a conversation, even as I was walking past him, going about my work. After he introduced himself, my immense interest in photography, propelled me into the seat beside him, as I had some time in hand before I rushed on to my allocation. His continued attentiveness, however, as I was to realise in due course of the conversation, was of me as subject of his photography rather than as pupil – who had my own camera with interest in photography since class v, and a Yashika I’d purchased myself in college with several years of my pocket money. While I was quizzing him on technicalities, he chose to reply only from the viewpoint of me as subject and though I could well do without his deeply intrusive gaze, my curiosity kept me looking back at him steadily.
“You cannot be a ramp model” he blurted, even though I didn’t even remotely ask him his opinion, “but you can do well as a still photo model…and your weight could be taken care of with the right camera angles.”
Now for a woman in her twenties, that statement on weight, even though I considered myself rather proportionate then, and how it was an impediment to my beauty could have sent me scuttling into depression or a crash diet and a severe exercise regime over my regular walks and gym workouts, but it didn’t.
It rather reiterated and firmed my resolve that I did not care to make an impression on the world with my looks unless it was a prelude to my professional attitude, my skills and talents.
Yet, I am that same woman who changed her clothes, even applied lipstick and eyeliner, and did up her hair, at 10pm of a January evening, on her way to the crematorium, accompanying the hearse carrying the remains of her father – who was perfectly alright even the night before. It was a huge shock.
I dressed only for myself that evening, to garner mental and emotional strength, even though I knew I could be judged as frivolous by the large crowd outside our house, who were waiting to accompany or see the hearse leave.
So as I sent this photo, one of my last taken – on the 8th of May 2020, after months of lockdown, rather than a smarter and crisp one from before, I reminded myself 
July 4, 2020
The Tarot Card Reading
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Rain is about to pour down in torrents,
as clouds overhead weigh down full strength
over the muddy Ganges that’s calm as night –
stirring emotions, in lockdown – bound tight.
A medley of coloured boats near the shore,
as cards displayed on a Tarot reader‘s desk –
from which she’ll shuffle a deck at a time,
pull out cards interpreting mysteries divine.
It’s three months, still the coronavirus raves –
making us dance to it’s fluid psychedelic tunes
that keeps us distressed – in a trance of anxiety,
but nature stares at us serene as the Hoogly.
The boats are ready and waiting to be rowed,
but not many souls in the mood for Hope –
to care to make a wish from under the bridge
that now looks gaunt and powerlessly still.
Young couples strewing the river banks –
on Saturday night dates, are still well masked
and cautious to maintain social distancing,
as Love in the time of Coronavirus is daunting.
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#love #coronavirus #lockdown #princepghat #gangesriver #kolkata_diaries #kolkata #kolkatadiaries #sunsetphotography #sunset
#poetry #poetrycommunity #poetrylovers #poetryporn #poetryprompts #romance #literaryfictionauthor
July 3, 2020
Harbinger of Hope: A Full-moon Sunset
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‘Harbinger of Hope’
Azure is the dusky Sky,
with streaks of fairy lights
riding cobalt blue waves –
floating up in a sea of haze:
a basket-moon cruising tonight,
to contain tomorrow’s full moon
that is a harbinger of Hope
to shower the tired Earth
and draw it out of it’s cocoon –
the coronavirus relegated it to
PS: No filters/photo edits used at all…
#dusk #sunset #sunsetphotography #skyphotography
#poetry #poetrycommunity #poetrylovers #kolkatablogger
#kolkatadiaries #fullmoon
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June 23, 2020
On International Widows Day
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A few Excerpts from my novel Across Borders: today, on International Widows Day https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Widows_Day
These excerpts are from the 2nd chapter of Across Borders titled, “The Two Wives”. The cover and blurb are below, please enlarge to read…
*****
Baba was bewildered at the irony of a woman so young and beautiful, destined to lead an existence devoid of colour, severing all ties with humanly pleasure.
As a widow, Ashalata was supposed to stay out of the way of visitors, especially young, male ones like Baba. But she had come to lead the doctor to her brother’s bedside.
Ashalata’s planned bidaai (farewell ceremony to the new bride) turned out to be her farewell indeed. Life bid her good-bye that day. In Hindu society then, the death of the husband led to the killing of a woman’s soul. She thereafter lived her life as a corpse, shrouded in white, in the confines of her house, at times even a single room. It was as if she lived in a sealed coffin that had been lowered into the earth.
Ashalata had barely known the man she married, but was ironically expected to love him in death and remain loyal to his memory. Baba was pained to hear of the cruelty Ashalata had suffered.
A widow should be allowed to lead a happy and complete life, having already suffered the loss of the husband, Baba mentally reasoned. The only way Ashalata could even dream of fulfillment now, he thought, was perhaps through remarriage and motherhood. A Hindu widow could choose to remarry then, or remain single, as legalized by the Hindu Widow Remarriage Act of 1856. But Baba doubted her interest in remarrying. She had very apparently chosen a life of widowhood for herself. Those like Ashalata who intended to stay single, dedicated their lives to the upbringing of their family, or lived in the pursuit of spiritual enlightenment. They were respected as brahmacharinis (celibate women dedicated to spiritual pursuits) and lived life as monastic’s wearing plain white clothing, as Ashalata did. She ate only vegetarian food with no onion, ginger or garlic, even though some Bengali widows ate fish. Unlike meat and spices, fish was not known to be heating on the body and therefore not a threat to their celibacy. Ashalata cooked her own meal, of a mere fist of rice, boiled with a few pieces of vegetable. She ate once a day, in her room, all by herself.
Widows who chose not to remarry could opt to be initiated by a swami to be a sanyasini and wear yellow or orange saris. Then they did not participate in community functions such as weddings, except to observe or give their blessings. They led prayer groups during holy festivals, gave discourses if qualified to do so and performed pujas on occasions, where there was a gathering of people for spiritual purposes.
According to the general guidelines for widows in Hindu culture, widows who intended to remarry could follow the customs of an unmarried girl. She could dress like before marriage, without using red kumkum on her forehead, using the black one instead, signifying she is open to marriage proposals. Ashalata had chosen not to remarry. This was clearly depicted by her plain attire.
Baba was appalled that a woman like Ashalata should become so submissive to the pressures of society, allowing it to dictate how she led her life. But then that is how the social order was, a woman had no identity without a man in her life. Ashalata’s situation perhaps, in addition to her youth and beauty, led Baba to fall in love with her, in spite of his
The Two Wives
Across Borders
49
much married and parental status. Perhaps her being within her child-bearing years had something to do with it too, raising his hope of bearing male children through her. But Baba knew it was not going to be easy to change Ashalata’s dedication to her widowhood. First thing he had to do, Baba realized, was help Ashalata identify a cause. She lacked the will to really live; burning in the cinders of failure destiny had relegated her to.
It was ironic that fate had given Ashalata the good-looks and calibre but not the opportunity to be a wife and mother. Baba, in order to reinstate her interest in life, decided to strike her compassionate chord. He tried to awaken in her the desire to be needed, by making herself useful in society, to the poor and the ailing. He asked her if she would be interested to come to work with him at his clinic. Ashalata seeing a ray of hope and purpose in her dark-cloud filled life could not turn down this proposition. This was possibly what God had planned for her all along, she thought optimistically, to be of service to humanity not just to one man in marriage. Her life took on a new meaning, and colour returned to it, in spite of the white saris she continued to wear. It felt like viewing a rainbow in the sky, at the first rays of the sun after a shower, even amidst a drizzle sometimes.
PS: the above photo is downloaded from the internet – had no photo courtesy.
To know more about International Widows Day please click here: https://www.india.com/festivals-events/international-widows-day-2020-history-significance-of-the-day-and-theme-for-this-year-4065701/amp/
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#internationalwidowsday #literaryfictionbooks #internationalwidowsday2020 #dignity #equalrights #womensempowerment #womensrights #literaryfiction #historicalfiction #plightofwomen #india #bangladesh #books #culture #tradition #heritage
June 20, 2020
International Yoga Day: Summer Solstice
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“I would like to be known as an intelligent woman, a courageous woman, a loving woman, a woman who teaches by being.”
— Maya Angelou
Yoga takes you into the present moment, the only place where life exists. I may not have mastered many yoga asanas yet, but I am diligent, practice almost daily, and always like to practice on my own. I keep trying to do difficult poses myself, so that it may give me moral strength and reliability, and faith in my own mental processes and physical agility. For me, it is the time and attempt to really connect with myself, become and stay rooted.
Yoga is neither a physical or religious exercise as far as I’m concerned, but a spiritual experience. So if I don’t attend group classes, or have yoga teachers whom I particularly follow, it’s because – to me it is a form of meditation and only you can teach yourself how to do it best, to attain enlightenment.
I’m a self learner that way and a very conscientious one at that…as a child, I even taught myself to cycle, not allowing anyone to run after my cycle to enable me to balance and to learn the basics of swimming, and therein lies my mental strength, self dependence and independence.
My professor cum college principal mother, along with my DU college principal thought a college teacher’s job at most – teaching English, would be suited to my quiet and reserved temperament and high grades in English. But I had to prove myself to myself first, and then to the world, by taking up a bachelor of commerce degree instead of the Arts both in high school and college – though I was pretty poor at it, I enrolled in DU through the sports quota (basketball) as I didn’t qualify for B.Com Honours, in Delhi University north campus colleges otherwise. Most of our class timings, from which we were readily excused with full attendance marked, went into practising for the college team since 5 am, and then playing at and versus – every other DU colleges. The way I saw it…Why would I go out into the world armed only with my strengths and take the easy way out! Result – I lost my hostel seat at the end of the 1st year… business maths and statistics, not to mention the high level of Hindi as 2nd language after ISC, was akin to greek and latin.
So from a very early age I learned to forge ahead armed with my weaknesses that I would sharpen to a deathly saw from the lack of fear of failure.
My parents were thereafter, ready to resign and realign their perceptions of me, with every bold step I took, each time. My father passed away in 2005, proud of the way I’d turned out, after a lifetime of worrying about me.
Thus now, I cannot be expected to be a writer who can be persuaded, or dissuaded to say – but what it is I feel compelled to say to fit into regular publishing patterns. I don’t seek external validation and approval on my life and choices…never have
May 31, 2020
My Feline Family: in Isolation
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In the photo: Tinni & Jason…on a date
May 23, 2020
‘Love Died, last Night’
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She didn’t live – Love didn’t survive,
in spite of all the attention lavished
after her mother brought her inside,
to save her from – cyclone Amphan.
Three days, Minni hovered around
watching one of her kittens from far,
as she had entrusted her to our care
after she couldn’t save one herself.
Minni herself barely six months old –
learned to oblige, lying on her back,
when Love was positioned over her
to demonstrate, assist her to suckle.
Love, lay in the carton shelter all day
without ability to move let alone play –
while Minni licked and squat on her,
sure her baby was safe in our charge.
Three days as we watched constantly –
aware of every move – Love squealed,
giving us hope she would soon crawl:
but abruptly – Love breathed her last.
Minni afar – must have heard her cry,
recognising in it Love’s final goodbye –
for she hovered near us, but not Love
who lay lifeless – a week’s life enough.
Minni even had a meal, her child dead –
after she waited assessing the situation,
then lay down, away – to come to terms
with the emotional impact, of her loss.
With our persistence Minni drew near –
but only to feebly lick, meow goodbye
to Love – she’d braved from the floods,
but now couldn’t dare look at – lifeless.
There must be nothing heart-rending –
than a mother who can’t even mourn
the death of newborns – even foetus,
saving it from this treacherous world.
PS: This poem has reference to the previous post…
#Love #birth #life #death #catlovers #kittens #motherhood #cycloneamphan #poetry #literaryfiction #heart-rending #isolation #coronaviruslockdown #Kolkata #treachery #Kolkatadiaries
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