Giving thanks

 The best way to do so is keep a 'gratitude journal'

I have written in earlier columns about the importance of keeping a ‘gratitude journal’, in which you can write down all that you are grateful for at the end of every day. It is, I believe, a good way of keeping a positive perspective on life because no matter how badly things may be going, it is always possible to find glimmers of joy in every single day. It could be in the birdsong that you hear on your daily walk; it could be the dimpled smile of a bouncing baby you encounter in the market; or even a passage from a book that you are reading. But if you are actively seeking out moments of joy in life, moments to be truly grateful for, you will always find them.

It is in that spirit that I have decided to compile my own year-end version of the ‘gratitude list’. So, here, in no particular order of importance, are the things that I have been grateful for this year.

• Early this year, a respiratory tract infection triggered my asthma after many years of it being in remission. I spent weeks struggling to breathe, pumped full of antibiotics and steroids, spending sleepless nights because I couldn’t lay prone without triggering a coughing fit. Ever since, the asthma has never quite gone away, and now, thanks to Delhi pollution, it is worse than ever. So, why is this one my gratitude list, you ask? Well, because if I had been born a couple of centuries ago, without recourse to the wonders of modern medicine, I would probably be dead by now. So, being alive and being able to breathe – albeit with difficulty – is kind of a miracle, and something to be truly grateful for. 

• A few months ago, a college mate of mine set up a Whatsapp group for the English Honours batch we were part of in Loreto College (Calcutta). I duly signed up and so did many others of my batch, from as far afield as America and Canada. I can’t begin to describe the giddy delight we all experienced as after many decades apart, we began posting about our current lives, our memories of college life, our experiences with our professors, and so on. The best part, of course, were those grainy photos that popped up intermittently, as we went through our photo albums from our college days. But while the photos may have been faded, the memories they evoked were as fresh as ever. Reconnection is truly the gift that keeps on giving.

• And last but not the least, this was the year when one of my most cherished dreams came to fruition. Ever since I read Tracy Chevalier’s masterful book, Girl With A Pearl Earring, I have been burning up with a desire to see the Vermeer painting that inspired it. I made many plans over the years but for one reason or another, they fell through. But 2025 proved to be my lucky year, when my husband organized a trip to the Mauritshuis Museum in the Hague to coincide with my birthday. As I stood there mesmerized in front of the canvas, I felt truly grateful – not just for the genius of Vermeer but for my privilege in being able to witness it.

Winter is coming

But this time around, I’m not among those celebrating its arrival

Winter has always been my favourite time of year. The moment the temperatures begin to dip in the early morning and the darkness sets in early, my heart starts to soar. Winter is coming, I tell myself excitedly. Though not in a George RR Martin way, thank God!

This year, however, the start of winter has begun to feel a little apocalyptic. I came back from a short break to find Delhi engulfed in a smog so polluted that just breathing that air, I was reliably informed, was equivalent to smoking 50 cigarettes a day. For an asthmatic non-smoker like myself, that sounded like the kiss of death (quite literally).

So, suffice it to say, my reaction to the arrival of winter this time around had been a little bit different. Instead of celebrating the season by taking long walks in Lodhi Gardens, I have retreated to the sanctuary of my bedroom with three air-purifiers going at the same time, anxiously checking the counters to see if the PM 2.5 count was going any lower.

The only time I ventured out was to attend the wedding of one of my close friend’s daughter. And after every single function, I staggered back wheezing to my room, puffing away at my Asthalin inhaler as if my life depended on it (spoiler alert: it really does).

The good bit about all this is that I caught up on my reading, devouring Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng and Ties by Domenico Starnone in double quick time (excellent books both, I could not recommend them more highly – but that’s the subject of an entirely different column). I also binge-watched the American TV series, This Is Us, weeping copiously all the way through (don’t let that put you off; it is a fabulous show). And I managed to get in a little exercise as well, working out on my cross-trainer to get my mandatory 30 active minutes every day.

So, compared to those who had to brave the streets and the dust and smoke of Delhi traffic, I didn’t do badly at all. And yet, through it all I was plagued by a vague sense of dissatisfaction, a nagging feeling of missing out on my favourite season of the year, as I sat barricaded in my room, breathing in the best air that money could buy.

My mind went back to winters past, to those halcyon days when Delhi was not a gas chamber, slowly but surely killing us all. I flashed back to my first years in the capital, when I lived in a barsati in Defence Colony, with tiny little rooms but a vast terrace that was transformed into party central the moment the cold set in. My friends and I would sit around a bonfire late into the night, drinking our poison of choice, eating whatever takeaway we had ordered in, talking, laughing, singing, and of course, in due course, dancing, the air crisp against our flushed faces. Good times.

Sunday afternoons were invariably spent in the homes of friends who were prosperous enough to have houses with gardens and backyards. The barbeque would be going, rustling up everything from kebabs to hot dogs, there would be pitchers of beer, sangria and margaritas at the ready (and mulled wine once the cold really set in), someone would be strumming on a guitar while the rest of us drifted along making desultory conversation, as we basked in the balmy sunlight. Soon the drinks would kick in and the lawn would be littered with people in varying degrees of wakefulness, until the soporific effect of the sun made most of us nod off. Siesta after fiesta, we used to call it.

Then, there were the weekend girly lunches my friends and I used to organize around this time of year at some open-air restaurant or the other. Though to be honest, these were less lunches and more gossip sessions, where a hundred reputations died a thousand deaths as we exchanged stories about the worlds of journalism, advertising and PR, which we all belonged to, our tongues suitably lubricated by lashings of Chardonnay. (Now that you mention it, I am beginning to see a pattern here…and yes, it involves alcohol!)

But my best memories are of spending lazy afternoons alone on my terrace, curled up on my wrought-iron sofa with a good book, with just a couple of oranges for company. No matter how carefully I peeled the oranges, a few drops of the juice always spilled on the book I was reading. And now, when I re-read one of them and see that tell-tale stain, it takes me back to that lovely sun-filled terrace where I spent so many happy hours breathing in that cold winter air.

It is these memories that keep me going now, as I huddle inside my air-purified room, fearing that venturing into the open will trigger yet another asthma attack. And with every puff of my inhaler I send up a prayer that one day soon, I will be able to relive these moments for real instead of just in my imagination.