Turning a New Leaf
A wordspill about a reading retreat that came to my rescue.
Once upon a time, a girl started a Substack blog about her writer’s block. Ironic right? She would jot down a list of things she wanted to write about daily. Then, when the mood would strike, she would open her Substack, stare at the blog’s dashboard as her courage trickled down her spine, realise she had nothing important to say, and then close the website and nap. She believed sleeping solved everything. She was almost always right.
Then, one day, her father woke her up from a drool-inducing slumber to announce that he was taking her to a magical place filled with books. Time would stand still in this haven, allowing a celestial congregation of book lovers and ardent readers to read and talk about as many books as they wanted. The girl thought she was having a nightmare.
You see, the girl wanted nothing to do with this alien place called Reading Retreat because she knew quite well that a single printed page would hold less of her attention than multiple re-runs of the sitcom Modern Family (shameless promotion for the show: available on Hotstar; must watch; guaranteed heart warmth). So, imagine her horror when she found out they were to spend three days holed up in this asylum with only books and what she assumed would be a bunch of over-achieving, one-upping people for company. They would probably silently snicker at her chosen books, pity her less-than-amateur reading pace, or intimidate her into a discussion session!
WHAT IN THE READER’S BLOCK HAD SHE GOTTEN HERSELF INTO, she thought. She also wondered how many “blocks” a person can have before they are declared as simply lazy.
Hi. I’m Aathishree, and I’m that girl. I know I sound insufferable and prejudiced. In my defence, I was extremely nervous about that trip. But the Reading Retreat turned out to be my knight in shining armour. If you blinked now, you were surprised by this plot twist.
Bad jokes apart, I had a wonderful time during the retreat and met the most down-to-earth people. I’ve wanted to reflect on some things about the trip that made me want to pick up a book again. Not out of guilt from the self-induced pressure to be well-read, but just to experience the joy of reading like I once used to.
Day Zero
The reading retreat was organised by The Poonga Book Club, which was started by a couple of my dad’s long-term Twitter (X) friends. From what I can see on their WhatsApp group, it has a membership of around twenty-five people from all walks of life. Most are in their 30s or older, and many are from Chennai since the club only recently (during COVID-19) became open to anyone online. One of the members even joked that they were known as an “old people reading club” in some Twitter spaces.
They function as any other reading club would: they pick themes/genres for each month and have an end-of-the-month discussion on their chosen books. They also meet once in a while in Chennai’s Semmozhi Poonga (a famous park), where they got their name. And yearly once, the founders organise a reading retreat for which members can invite people they know as guests. This trip was planned for three days during a weekend in January. The venue was a homestay cottage in the Yercaud Hills. The day before our trip, I asked Appa (‘father’ in Tamil) what usually happened during retreats like these. Appa explained that the club only had three rules about what you should do in the retreat.
One: bring a minimum of two books of any genre for the trip.
Two: read as much as possible within the two days.
Three: all mobile phones and other digital devices should be kept together in a corner while reading.
Appa added that the third rule was the most important since, recently, club members have felt that they frequently get distracted by their phones while reading. So Appa advised that even if I don’t find myself in the mood to read at any instance, I should sit quietly, sleep, or do any other activity (silently) instead of using my phone.
I thought the rules were refreshingly democratic, and I wondered if I had judged the club members too harshly. That thought quickly vanished when another one popped in. The party was planning to reach Yercaud only by 1 pm on Friday, spend Saturday there and return after breakfast on Sunday. How was I going to finish two books in what was barely two days?? Even though it wasn't a rule, I was sure the others would meet that target. By nature, I am a slow reader. Actually, I’m pretty quick and purposeful with academic reading. Still, I can never justify why I can’t do the same with novels or even comics! Leaving my insecurity to waltz around in my brain, I began to pack for the trip.
I started by choosing my books. I picked Smoke and Ashes by Amitav Ghosh and What We Know About Her by Krupa Ge. The former is a densely packed non-fiction about the opium trade. I enjoy history, and historical fiction is one of my favourite genres. I had already read a few chapters from Ghosh’s book, but it was too serious for the day-to-day light reading habit that I struggled to imbibe. So, the trip was the only good time to force myself to immerse in the book, given that my only options were reading or sleeping. And I wasn’t going to give Appa the satisfaction of calling me “sleeping beauty” in front of his friends by opting for the latter.
On the other hand, Ge’s book is a stimulating fictional story about a modern woman in her late 20s trying to unearth her orthodox family’s secrets, particularly the life and sudden death of her famous grandaunt. I mean, come on! Doesn’t that sound like a modern Nancy Drew story? I had already read a few chapters of this book when it came out in 2021. Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t finish it even though it was a relatable and easy read. But something made me pick it up a few days before I had heard about the retreat. I took it as a sign.
So, I packed these two books and, along with them, some tokens of appreciation for the club for inviting me along. I used to make DIY bookmarks out of packing materials, waste paper and other excesses. I packed a few origami bookmarks resembling butterflies, which can be placed on the corners of pages. When the book is left open at the marked page, it looks like a paper butterfly is resting in the corner reading the lines. I learnt to make it from a friend. Some other friends said they liked how cute and convenient they were when I gifted them the same. So I hoped the club members would like them too.
Then I waited, in nervous anticipation, for the weekend.
Day One
As I expected, it was around midday when we reached the Yercaud cottage. My parents and I picked up Chenthil uncle on the way and arrived first. The others came sometime after us. Geeta aunty and her driver were accompanied by a newly married couple. The husband, Gautam, was a member and had brought his wife, Meena, as a guest. Both of them worked IT jobs. Gautam knew Geeta aunty even before the club because she had been the head of his department some time ago. And that made up our party of seven. We had a round of quick introductions and then began unloading luggage into the cottage.
Note: I’ve anonymised the names of everyone for their privacy except Chenthil uncle because he’s already a public figure due to his popular tamil poetry webpage.
Quite aptly, our idea of settling down into the place was trying to find the best spot to begin reading. Yercaud in mid-January still continued to hold its winter charms, so it was uncomfortably cold - when the tips of your fingers and toes convince your body that everything is icy cold and your teeth involuntarily chatter.
I was so glad that I remembered to pack some socks and my favourite sweater. But that wasn’t nearly enough. I grabbed a blanket from the bed allocated to me and adorned it as my final piece of armour. My choice of a cosy corner was one of the thick wicker swings on the cottage’s main balcony. It was downwind, a chilly breeze facing a mesmerising view of the garden and the hills beyond. Minus a massive mug of steaming hot chocolate, I could have convincingly played the protagonist in an American Christmas movie. I had found my spot.
Now, the inevitable was waiting in front of me. Reading. I was glad I had put my phone where Chenthil uncle had kept his, assuming that was the assigned spot for all phones. Interestingly, no one else separated from their phones. I just assumed the people who came on the trip were not the members who usually got distracted by their phones.
I began to read Krupa Ge’s book. In between turning pages, I glanced at everyone else. Geeta aunty sat on an armchair, bending over her book. My Amma (‘mother’ in Tamil) was on the other swing, and then she later took over a sofa and reclined into it with a fluffy pillow. The couple chose to sit in the small gazebo in front of the cottage. It had a long wooden table surrounded by some stools. Chenthil uncle and Appa were the only two people who had chosen the most absurd places to sit. On the entrance staircase, Uncle was seated on the cold tiles, wearing only khaki shorts. He was on his bare feet! Likewise, Appa also wore no slippers, and he sat next to me on an armchair facing the wind, covered in nothing but his half-sleeved shirt and pants. Both of them were deeply engrossed in their books. This was justification enough for anyone seeing me next to them in my cooped-up state and assuming I had left my skin back in Salem.
For a while, I fidgeted with my blanket, reread a couple of passages because I had been mindlessly reading them (apparently, this happens to the best of people, Appa assured me) and then came to the conclusion that I wouldn’t be able to read because it was just too chilly. I was feeling quite warm but just looking for some excuse for my distractions. I found it so weird that no one was talking to each other. There wasn’t even an occasional cough or a clearing of the throat. The only thing that made the silence bearable was the mixture of chirps from birds and insects and the music playing from my speakers. I had put on a playlist of mild instrumentals to create some ambience.
Eventually, I eased into the rhythm of reading. It was very peaceful - like the soft lull you feel when drowsy. I was subconsciously aware of myself slipping into the story. I even began to appreciate the silence because it allowed me to focus on the book and, in doing so, kept my wandering thoughts in check. The silence also meant no one was planning on starting a discussion anytime soon, and the occasional introvert in me loved that. I was not obliged to make small talk or nod in false agreement if I didn’t understand the discussion. I could just read, and nobody would care or bother. I realise now that was the one place where I didn’t have to be awkward with a sudden silence. I loved every bit of it.
At some point, people started to move around a bit, taking short breaks, discussing each other’s books and checking their phones. I barely noticed any of them. I didn’t check my phone for almost three hours until we returned to the cottage for evening tea. I am boasting, but it’s a huge flex for a GenZer to say they used their phone less than the average GenXer.
Teatime was when we got to know each other properly. We spoke about our jobs, how we liked to take our coffees, teas, or bournvitas (in my case), and Chenthil uncle’s excellent baking skills. I was quite chatty then, to my surprise. I even challenged Gautam to a fuzzball match and lost miserably thrice.
After tea and snacks, everyone decided to settle down in the hall because the temperature had dropped so low that even Appa and Chenthil uncle used the words “very cold” while describing the weather outside. The cottage only had a sofa set and dining chairs, so there wasn’t space for everyone to sit comfortably. I decided to sit on one of the highest rungs of a spiral staircase that connected the hall to the loft above, with a spare bed and sofa.
From the top of the stairs, I could see what everyone was doing and observe bits and pieces of all the conversations simultaneously. If the phrase bird’s eye view had an anthropomorphic representation, I would be it. Now and then, I tuned into a discussion and then got back to my book. I was determined to finish it by the afternoon the next day.
That night, as I lay in bed after a hearty meal and a bit more reading, one particular discussion returned to my train of thoughts about the day. They were all talking about what brought them passion in their work. The question erupted because the IT couple and Geeta aunty talked about how monotonous their jobs can be. Amma and Appa chimed in, saying that their jobs as doctors can also seem like a dull routine from the outside, but for the ones doing it, it becomes passion over time. Appa added that one can also find comfort in the fact that this job is all they have worked for and know about, so that comfort quickly translates to passion. Then, at some point, Chenthil uncle said, “Happiness is a memory”; to that, Gautam added, “Then maybe passion is also a memory”. The topic abruptly ended there. Maybe the others were too much in agreement with that statement that they had nothing else to say.
But what Chenthil uncle said was what was keeping me awake. I’m in my 20s and a long time away from a mid-life crisis. To my unseasoned ears, the connotations from these sentences should have sounded negative. But, honestly, there was something so profound and universal to that statement. Even if people usually associate being happy with “living in the moment”, “doing what you love”, or “being true to yourself” (or some other cliche thing, you get the idea), it all ties back to all the kinds of instances, people and actions in your past that ever made you feel good which you associate as happiness. You spend your life trying to replicate this feeling based on the memories it brings. Why, I felt so much at peace and happy about finally reading again only because I missed the joy that reading used to bring me as a kid.
So damn right, happiness is a memory. And with that epiphany, I fell asleep.
Day Two
Saturday was a blur of many things. Appa had arranged with his friend to take the party to the friend’s gated community estate. The place is remarkably scenic, so it was supposed to be a great change of scenery for reading. We ended up extensively touring another upcoming property of the friend’s, similar to the estate.
I was slightly irritated that I couldn’t finish Ge’s book by midday like I had decided and longed to get to my corner bundle in the cottage. But, the friend had arranged for us to read at the new place, and we spent a few hours there reading under a large gazebo while he and his staff serenaded us with warm refreshments and cookies. By the time we returned from the estate, I had read most of the book except a dozen pages.
People my age should read books like Ge’s - a slow yet exciting-in-its-own-way everyday fiction written by upcoming contemporary authors. People don’t seem to appreciate relatable works like these; they mostly want the classics or the best sellers. You know what I mean? We all know that there’s at least one aunty in any Indian neighbourhood who’s talkative, highly opinionated, and intrusively gossipy. We might occasionally indulge in her gossip, but we can’t imagine her writing a book about something in her life. And that’s because we don’t value people like her for their deeper insights. Or take a quiet, shy person in your friend circle. Same story. I’m not saying Krupa Ge is like one of these people. I just feel like we don’t pick up books from ordinary people or books that don’t have a this or that city bestseller stamped on their front pages and back covers filled with quotes from the most prominent newspapers and distinguished personalities. But, someone is picking these orginary books, which is why some are well-known. I’m not doing it enough. You’re not doing it nearly enough.
There are some spoilers coming ahead so if you’re really interested in reading Ge’s book skip to the last two paragraphs in this chapter.
According to me, this book is about intergenerational and interfamilial female relationships and the ugly consequences of domestic violence (DV). And when I say people should read this book, I mean anyone who is a feminist, a sociology or gender studies enthusiast, or someone with lived experiences of DV. If that’s cutting the demography too short, then if you can read this:
Now and then, though, I feel as if I am playing the part of a grown-up. In my heart I know, just as well as you do, that I am just a girl. (…) Amma assures me that this is true of all women. And that, eventually, everyone did grow into real women.
Amma was braiding my hair when she told me this: you will become me. Like I became my mother. One day you will look in the mirror and search. In vain. You would have disappeared. And your mother’s face will smile back at you. You can change your hair now. Wear your bindi differently. Never wear your saree the way I wear it. Leave the tiniest bit possible at the end as pallu, not long and winding like I do mine. Or wear only glass bangles and not lac. But a day will come when your hair will be worn the way I wear mine now. When you will tie your saree the way I do mine. When you will wear only lac bangles. When you rummage through my ruins long after I have gone, looking for my remnants, you will find them only in the mirror, in your own reflection, she said. (Ge, 2021, p. 8,9)
And answer this:
Disclaimer: The poll and my conclusions are used to elaborate on a very simple point. It’s as scientific as a flat-earther’s theory.
And, if you chose the first option, you’ll appreciate what this book has to offer. I initially liked the book because of this very excerpt from a letter that Lalitha (famous classical singer and grandaunt of protagonist Yamuna) writes to her sister. And I stayed with the book only because of Lalitha. Like many, I tend to picture myself as the protagonist when I read fictions. And Yamuna has many qualities that may be attractive to today’s readers. She’s the big city girl who is financially independent and politically correct, frequently smokes, lives-in with her boyfriend, and has occasional one-night stands. She has a complicated relationship with her mother, and she’s excessively obsessive over certain things. All of this makes her a fascinating character to read.
But Lalitha can pull your heart into strings and play Veenai (an Indian classical instrument) with it as she sang her beautiful songs. Her innocence makes you empathise with her, her strength makes you admire her, and her plight under her husband makes you wonder what will become of her. In the end, it's her plight that almost kills her spirit because her innocence and strength could do little when her secrets were never allowed to venture outside the ears of her closest family members. She was famous, so she was well spoken about, but no one talked about the things that mattered because they were considered so fragile that they were kept hidden. She had found happiness from some bygone hopeful memories and that had made her life bearable. But she didn’t live the life she deserved. When I turned to the very last page of the book, I wanted to cry for Lilitha.
I soon convinced myself that the intense emotions I felt were due to the surreal feeling of having finished reading a book within two days. The book may not be too big or the time not short enough, but only a serial procrastinator will understand the never-ending earnestness one feels about being just around the corner of completing something and never getting to it. So, it was a huge win.
I was too excited that night to sleep. After dinner, I picked up Smoke and Ashes. But then I noticed that Amma had abandoned her To Kill a Mocking Bird graphic novel and had moved on to an audiobook. I know I could have soaked in the celebration of finishing a book, but I thought this was probably the only time to aimlessly read as much as possible. I was sure the novelty of my re-discovered hobby would wear off once I went back home the next day. So I propped myself on one of the sofas in the hall and opened the pages of the graphic version of Harper Lee’s one and only book.
Day Three
I read the graphic novel well into the night. It was almost three in the morning when Amma came out to the hall. She, too, couldn’t sleep because it was too cold. I didn’t feel a thing because, yet again, I had wrapped myself with a thick blanket from midriff to toe. Amma got cosy on the other sofa and began to listen to her audiobook, and I continued reading. I think I drifted to sleep after a while because I woke up to find the big novel resting on my face. As I moved it from my eyeline, the mild warmth of daybreak hit my cheeks. The time was six thirty.
I was immediately wide awake. Maybe it was the disappointment of not pulling an all-nighter. Or perhaps it was my determination to finish this novel, too, before we started our journey back to Salem. It was actually the urgent need to use the bathroom. After what felt like forever (because I really was eager to return to the novel), eating breakfast and showering, I spent my final morning of the retreat cuddling up on my swing reading.
In my early teens, I watched the black-and-white movie rendition of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. I had forgotten the story and characters since then. I only remembered that the story was portrayed from a little girl's point of view, just as Lee had written the book as a woman's recollection of her girlhood days.
Fred Fordham is the illustrator for the book, and he did a phenomenal job with his art. Only a few illustrated adaptions can exceed our own vivid imaginations and have an impact just as or better than the original, and Fordham’s was one of them.
Not only that, but every frame, setting, and establishing shot was theatrical! His strength lay in the way he created shadows and midtones. I've never read a comic or graphic work with such a simplistic yet detail-oriented art style. Most impactfully, by giving Tom Robinson a face, the Fordham version truly brought out the raw, tragic and unjust nature of his death.
I completed the graphic novel version at home the very same day after I fully recovered from a much-needed sleep. I was not ready to say goodbye to my swing, the cottage, and the Poonga Book Club members who had made me feel so much at home. They gave me the gift of getting over my reader’s block, which I will cherish forever. I can only assume my bookmarks were a good enough return gift. But it was time to go. I don’t remember anything apart from the sweet goodbyes a culminatory group photo because I was still asleep when our car pulled into the parking space at home.
Since the retreat, I’ve turned a new leaf. I’ve already read another graphic novel and am currently reading a historical fiction. If my Goodreads account was human, it would weep with joy because it’s finally seeing some serious activity from me. I even set up a 2024 Reading Challenge. My target is twelve books in one year. I wanted to set a simple goal of reading one book a month. The good news is I’m down three within just over a month. I hope I keep it up.