Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 19

Why I Write what I Write: My books

Shuvashree Chowdhury

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.”

— Ernest Hemingway.

A life coach does for the rest of your life what a personal trainer does for your health and fitness: That’s what I attempt to do through anything that I write. As it’s what I know to do best, ever since I’ve been assigned corporate training and coaching roles as part of my earliest career assignments. Many of my early trainees today, are in senior and responsible roles themselves, as I can get a glimpse of it on facebook. What gives me the confidence today – is to recall and reflect under what circumstances these youngsters were handed over to my care, though I was barely much older myself: with the confidence from senior management – that only I could turn around these people. I was often given these people to coach, as a…

View original post 785 more words

A Spiritual Sojourn: My Renaissance

[image error]

 

“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace.” — Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost

 

The nurse woke me up at seven this morning,

though to my phone alarm I’d already arisen:

so I may shower, dress, and be ready by 9 am –

to be trolleyed to a theatre for the operation.

 

Mildly sedated the night before so I sleep well,

I am fresh and mindful of my every move now:

though not a droplet can I drink since waking,

nor a bite of food did I intake past ten at night.

 

It’s a bright sunny morning outside my window,

yet there isn’t a spring in my heart, step or voice:

A solemn calm pervades my soul prepared to die –

like in films – convicts in readying to be hanged.

 

I brushed, looking outside a wall-to-wall window –

as if a painting of a tree by a multicoloured house: 

Two nurses walked in-and-out readying my room,

laying out a starched white backless surgery gown.

 

I showered breathing slowly, conscious of my form –

in bathing a dead woman before her funeral sojourn:

Drying my hair, I shrouded in a white hospital gown,

to lie in view of a sky that’d be – even when I’m gone.

 

Wheeled on a bed – down the corridor and into a lift,

conscious of each turn I shut my eyes looking within:

Would my soul grief in not returning on these aisles?

I realise there’s no regtret – I’ve made peace with life!

 

Ouside  an OT they dial my mother, sister, two friends –

with each on video chat – I realise how detached I  am:

Like it didn’t matter if I were never to see anyone again –

I’ve given everything I had to give, to every relationship.

 

Shielded in a sky-blue blanket they peeled off my gown;

the writer in me shut eyes after a mindful look around:

Then the only sensation I was aware of was biting cold,

like I had sat up on my death bed on a thick slab of ice.

 

I knew for sure I wasn’t going to die, my mind’s strong –

shutting off life was just my soul’s defence mechanism:

A test of spirituality, after living every moment of life;

the fighter in me would survive – I’ve unfinished tasks.

 

Anaesthesia overriding – took over the baton of my life –

passing it on to the expert surgeon and team to resolve:

First thing I profess floating up to life – is searing pain;

soft sunlight on my face – in baby pink suit I feel reborn.

 

“Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a” torrent of light into our dark world.” — Mary Shelley 

“Every man’s life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.” ―Ernest Hemingway

 

 

 

PS: I had this experience, on the 15th of October 2019.

Yet it took me almost two weeks to be able to put it into this flow of words…Only when experinces and ensuing thoughts are left to cool off, can they be written dispassionately. As I tend to with life’s experinces, as a responsible writer, I had to first step back, heal the physical pain, then let the thoughts process in my mind…

 

 

 

 

 

A Mystical Sojourn: My Renaissance

[image error]

 

The nurse woke me up at seven this morning,

though to my phone alarm I’d already arisen:

so I may shower, dress and be ready by 9 am –

to be trolleyed to a theatre for the operation.

 

Mildly sedated the night before to sleep well,

I’m fresh and mindful of my every move now:

though not a droplet can I drink since waking,

nor a bite of food may I intake past midnight.

 

It’s a bright sunny morning outside my window

yet there isn’t a spring in my heart, step or voice:

A solemn calm pervades my soul readying to die,

as in films – as convicts in readying to be hanged.

 

I brushed looking outside the wall-to-wall window –

as at a painting of a tree by a multicoloured house: 

Two nurses walked in and out in readying my room,

laying out a starched white, backless surgery gown.

 

I showered breathing slowly, conscious of my form –

as bathing a dead woman before a funeral sojourn:

Drying my hair, I shrouded in a white hospital gown,

then lay viewing a sky that’d be – even if I’d be gone.

 

Wheeled on a bed down a corridor and into the lift –

conscious of each turn; I shut my eyes looking within –

would my soul grief in not returning on these aisles?

I didn’t find any cause as I’d made peace with my life.

 

Outside the OT they dialled my mother, sister, friends –

with each one on video I realized how detached I was:

As it didn’t matter if I were never to see anyone again –

I’d given out everything I had to give to every relation.

 

Shielded in a sky-blue blanket they peeled off my gown,

the writer in me shut eyes only after a good look around:

when the only sensation I was aware of was freezing cold,

like I’d just sat up on my death bed over a thick slab of ice.

 

I grasped, for sure I wasn’t going to die, my mind’s strong –

shutting off life was merely my soul’s defence mechanism:

A test of spirituality – I’ve truly lived every moment of life,

the fighter in me would survive, I still had unfinished tasks.

 

Anaesthesia overpowering – took over the baton of my life,

handing it over to the expert surgeon and team to resolve:

First thing I professed floating up to life, was a searing pain –

conscious in my room, in baby pink pyjama suit I felt reborn.

 

PS: I had this experience, just the way I described it, on the 15th of October 2019. Yet it took me almost two weeks now to put it into this flow of words… I had to first step back mentally, and heal the excruciating physical pain, then let the thoughts cool off and allow it to process in my mind. This is still just a second draft that I’ll revisit to edit and fine tune much later…

 

 

 

 

 

Dhanteras & Diwali: “In Search of My Friend”

[image error]

Wishing you all a very happy Dhanteras and Diwali!

Sharing an excerpt from one of the stories of my book, ‘Existences’ to go with my nostalgic mood tonight…especially that I’m back to live in Calcutta now after leaving in 2006, just a couple of years after this story dates back to…

The story is titled: ‘In Search of My Friend’.

It was pointless arguing with someone as strong willed as Mrs

Viswanathan. We slowly resumed walking to the exhibition.

The arrival of the festive season of Durga Puja, Diwali and

Dhanteras – meant an incredible rise in work pressure at the store.

110 Shuvashree Chowdhury

In spite of a centralised indenting system, additional stocks had

to be indented for locally, keeping regional tastes and the local

market in mind. Then there was the festival-specific display,

visual merchandising, counter re-allocations and accounting of

incoming stocks and additional staffing to be looked into. With

all the planning and multi-tasking required, I barely could say

“Hello!” to Mrs Viswanathan. I now found it impossible to make

time for her when she visited. So, I stayed in my office on learning

of her arrival. The staff ignored her completely. The showroom was

now buzzing with customers they had to attend to, with a view to

meeting the enhanced festive season targets. Mrs Viswanathan now

insisted on chatting with the security staff, gardener, attendants,

who also pretended not to notice or hear her.

At times she would telephone me, on her return home.

“I was not able to meet you today,” she would start and then

add excitedly, “I had brought this saree I wanted to show you,” or “I

wanted to tell you about that great exhibition I went to yesterday. I

wish you could have come along.”

“I’m sorry to have missed you too, Mrs Viswanathan,” I would

reply politely. “I was caught up in a meeting when you came.”

She would, to my chagrin, visit the store the next day or the day

after, hoping to meet me again. At the peak of the festive season,

I stopped taking her calls. It had been my fault, I realised, for not

discouraging her overtures earlier. After a few unanswered calls

from her, Mrs Viswanathan stopped coming to the store. Then

abruptly there was no call from her. I had too many things to

worry about simultaneously. Yet, a sense of guilt, for snubbing her

out the way I did, would pervade my conscious from time to time

and linger.

We surpassed our festive season targets. After that, the

workload reduced along with customer walk-in. It would remain

low till the next high season of Christmas and New Year. It was

now that I missed Mrs Viswanathan. I could not help thinking of

her contribution to the positive changes, our target achievement

and the high sales-incentives we earned. Her sincerity had been

unmistakable, whatever her motivation.

“Has any of you seen Mrs Viswanathan?” I asked at a morning

meeting. “It’s been a long time that she visited us.”

Existences 111

“No, we haven’t. Thank God!” was the spontaneous response.

“Please … please don’t call her, Ma’am,” the staff pleaded in

unison.

“Perhaps she has a son for whom she is considering you a

prospective bride,” someone joked, while another added, “She

asked us if you were married and we said ‘no’.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she’s looking for a bride,” I grinned, though my

heart felt heavy.

“Can you imagine a mother-in-law like her?” one staff mocked,

“A nightmare, I tell you,” another staff rejoined.

There was roaring laughter, but I remained silent. My joining in

the hilarity would mean a breach of loyalty to my friend.

Mrs Viswanathan’s absence was a relief to everyone at the

store. But for me, she had become an integral part of us since my

joining. Her not visiting again, not even calling me, meant we

had hurt her deeply, I concluded. So I called her on her mobile

phone. There was no response. I dialled several times, but still,

there was no response. She must be really upset, not to take my

calls or call back later if busy, in spite of my several attempts to

connect with her, I thought. I decided on visiting her at home.

PS: My photo here is current…till early 2006…I had long, almost waist length hair

Durga Puja: An Excerpt From My Novel ‘Across Borders’

Durga Puja starting in a few days, with Mahalaya on the 28th, just three days away…Sharing these traditional sari clad photos along with relevant excerpts from Across Borders​, again… .

Shuvashree Chowdhury

Wishing you all a very happy Durga Puja: ‘Shubho Mahalaya’ – with an excerpt from my novel ‘Across Borders’.

Chapter 3 – ‘The Home That Adopted Me’ (Page 71-74)

Every year during the Durga Puja, Ronjit uncle gave all

women of the extended-family a sari each. I wore mine with

a flourish, for the anjali or collective offering of flower and

prayers conducted by the priest on each of the five days.

With my ardour for dancing, I started the dhunuchi dance, in

offering to the deity. Taking the earthen pot with burning

incense by the handle, I brandished it gracefully. I danced

with agility in front of the goddess Durga and her four children

– Kartik, Ganesh, Lakshmi and Saraswati, to the beats of

the dhak, the traditional drums. My dance recital was well

appreciated by all and even today it is customary for the

students of the school…

View original post 983 more words

My Teachers Day Thoughts.

[image error]

This was my second day at boarding school (St. Joseph’s Convent, Kalimpong) at the age of five, with my sister (visiting) and Sister Louisa, who had instinctively taken me under her wing the day before – when I was admitted to class 1, in early Jan of 1977.

Sister Louisa, never left me feeling neglected even for a day, all through the year ahead, as she didn’t think I would emotionally manage on my own as I was painfully reserved and shy.

She and Sister Blaize – often took me out of study or sports hours, excusing me from the teachers minding us, and then holding my hand – took me along to supervise the gardening of the beautiful chapel garden, or to run varied chores with them. Sr Louisa would even take me to the Store/Linen room and she’d ask me to spread my handkerchief and often my skirt, then fill them up with imported biscuits, sweets and chocolates, which none of the children received.

These two Sisters perhaps had no idea, how these gestures would build my inner strength and confidence to stand strong to all the struggles I faced on changing my boarding school a year later to a branch of the same, where my silence and reserve were taken as stubbornness and utmost effort was made by a string of teachers to penalise me for what they misunderstood as defiance.

How many teachers truly have the mental maturity, flexibility or caring to drop their egos to understand, that each child is so distinct. And loud, talkative and gregarious children are not necessarily smarter, more intelligent, least of all better performers or leaders. Introverts who are shy and reserved, perhaps just need a little more attention to grow stronger wings.

“I have come to believe that a great teacher is a great artist and that there are as few as there are any other great artists. It might even be the greatest of the arts since the medium is the human mind and spirit.” – John Steinbeck

“One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings. The curriculum is so much necessary raw material, but warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child. – Carl Jung

#authorlife #literaryfiction

Excerpts from Across Borders, in the words of the protagonist Maya…

Shuvashree Chowdhury

(Click on the picture to enlarge)

Excerpts from Across Borders, in the words of the protagonist Maya…

Chapter 1 : That day in 1948, Kalpana and I left to cross over to another life with Ronjit uncle across the Pakistan border. There was no Bangladesh yet and was not going to be for a long time. Mihirpur is a small town near the city of Dacca, in erstwhile East Pakistan, currently Bangladesh. I was about to transcend the border of my childhood. After the age of eight, I was sucked into adulthood like quicksand. It would only be fifteen years hence that I would again cross the border, back into India. After my graduation in 1964, I would return to work, marry, raise a family and live the rest of my life on the Indian side. A few years later, in 1971, the home that I grew up in was…

View original post 1,616 more words

“The Flame of the Forest tree in my Courtyard”

[image error]

 

You came into my life like the thunderstorm,


bringing an essence of rain on parched ground.


 


Winds of your words draped me in green hope,


causing in my soul expectant tumultuous uproar.


 


I stand alone, wrapped in imaginary petrichor,


expectantly waiting for the overnight downpour.


 


But you just hover above – as big rain clouds


watching in anticipation, waiting to give succour.


 


Draped in tangerine I’m drenched in longing:                                                                 
drizzle after squall won’t satiate flames of passion.


 


So you await the sizzle shower creates on leaves –


dry and flaming: to gush over me full muscle.

 

PS: I watched a late evening show yesterday – of the Hindi film “Judgemental hai kya’ – the trailer is in the link below.

And woke up and typed this poem spontaneously on my phone early this morning.

Basking in the Painter’s Vision: Ganesh Pyne, Shantiniketan

[image error]

 

An oval shaped veranda overlooked the lawn and garden,

furnished with six cane chairs set around a big glass table;

where I’d sit watching the grass turn varied hues of green –

ingesting slivers of morning sunlight after the light drizzle.

Infusing with my tea a view of red and pink Rajnigandhas,

like a canopy over a string of pots of yellow, orange flower;

where a black-brown Greater Caucal alights on a wet lawn –

sipping its moisture in soft sunlight, while staring me down.

This cottage, like an oyster, is enclosed within a green shell,

through every window on both floors only green is visible:

Sitting on the bed it seems as you’re in a cabin in the woods –

also from it’s first-floor lounge and downstairs dining room.

A well behind the kitchen door from which Moti barks at us –

after his run of the front garden with trees over lined plants:

He appears on the back veranda – my best part of this house,

with a direct vision of a wrought iron swing on the side lawn.

Over several cups of tea, in green serenity I watch July rains –

before or after breakfast, and lunch or dinner however late:

I can’t be yearned out of sight of sun or wind’s play with hail,

in my mind’s eye a large water-colour painting is in progress.

The canvas I’m immersed in is a famous painter’s imagination:

Ganesh Pyne, had himself drawn up this charming disposition –

for the home he built keeping in mind every hue on its canvas;

in this veranda – since inception, embracing solitary detention.

 

About renowned painter – Ganesh Pyne…read in the link below:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganesh_Pyne

https://www.saffronart.com/artists/ganesh-pyne

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

 

In Search of an Author’s Inspiration: Sunil Gangopadhyay

[image error]

The red mud track I stepped onto to the right of our homestay

was smooth and broad; flanked by houses, ponds, tiny groves —

over which a just risen sun dodged us – trailing wings of birds,

leading to the forked road with contrary settings on either side.

I instinctively chose the tiny wet track on the right, to the slum –

one on the left with villas and gardens, was too picture perfect,

looking urban and implanted in the outskirts of Shantiniketan:

which was originally rustic and belonged to the tribal Santhals.

Thatched roofs with billowing smoke bestowed an exotic charm –

upon a semi-circular platform of shacks, over which trees guard:

around which there wasn’t other signs of life but stray pigs, dogs –

and a child with wide wonder in his eyes – roaming these tracks.

Mud huts crisply painted Turkish blue, black, with thatched roofs

nestled under palm trees, remind me of childhood painting books –

I coloured with imagination – unaware they existed in this world:

hoping the rustic life was made known to me as a privileged child.

I had set out to look for Bangla author Sunil Gangopadhya’s house,

but landed up in this dream world – recreated in his poetry, prose:

I concluded were less fictional than my unoriginal child’s sketches –

unlike now when as a poet and novelist I value real life inspiration.

After returning to the forked road, and crossing to the urban side –

I was unable to find his house, as at seven people weren’t in sight

amidst cottages cushioned in lawn-gardens of picturesque delight:

thus disappointed I gave up – turning back to return to our house.

A few steps before I’d reached our well-manicured garden porch

I saw a young lady coming out of her gate to a mud road outside;

so one last time I decided – to ask her to attempt to reach my goal:

when to my bliss she knew the author’s house, offering to walk us.

A brisk walk back and I stood facing one of his  homes by a pond,

with plants hiding the name of the neglected but beautiful cottage –

I figured now what might have been his inspiration to call home:

‘Alone and a few People’ titles one of his novels, I translate from.

 

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]