A Year of Hope
Tanushree Ghosh
The time of the year for mandatory reflection on the year that was has come, forcing me - usually fluctuating between hope and despair like a passenger on an empty local, bewildered by the sudden availability of choice, struggling to pick the right seat – to sit down on the hope chair. 2022, as a year, was in itself a rolled coaster that flung me (and I suspect many others), from one seat to another. But mostly, it was a year of hope. After devasting 2020 and 2021, in which death became mainstream and things we had taken for granted had become precious in a way in which we never had wanted them to be, 2022 came as a – things can only go upwards from here – year. That is how it had started for me too. I was launching my second solo author work: Beyond #MeToo (Sage Publications). The book, a labor of love and an embodiment of my activism, was the toughest work I had compiled to date: it took intense research, difficult interviews, walking with activists, and forcing answers to uncomfortable questions, to create it. It took, even more, to get it to print. But Covid years were ending- a launch date was finalized, the event venue was booked, and I – after changing tickets three times to ensure I don't get caught in a high-risk country transit caused random RTPCR – was en route to India. I was going to spend Christmas in beloved Park Street, would get to embrace my parents (both of whom had been hospitalized with Covid in 2021, my father had battled for his life for 21 days in ICU), would get to hold my sister's hand (my brother in law had suffered post-Covid Covid induced heart attack at thirty-five), meet my relatives who had lost their thirty-five-year-old son to Delta, I would get to go to Delhi book fair – and be at Readomania stall to socialize with my fellow authors whose pictures I keep up with on Whatsapp, wishfully lamenting on how less I get to do the things other authors get to do. The camaraderie, the laughter – I could see myself holding my books in each of the stalls and signing…going to India solo and frequently is not easy for me – so this, planned ever since – was hope, joy, and flutter in my heart.
But then, when I landed, the picture changed. It changed faster than my head could keep up with. From the flood of humans on the 25th on Park Street to New Year Parties advertised on flashing billboards, it went to daily uncertainty of which streets will be closed, which buildings are quarantined off as high risk, which events will be cancelled, and which, like a desperate commuter making a mad dash for the platform, will make it just in time before the metro doors closed. My launch, kept on hitting one snag after another, apart from having become a daily- rather hourly – decision given the Omicron count and that day rule, also was hit by a young TOI journalist who was going to cover it dying in a fatal car crash in Rajasthan and the worry of my parents, who were still fragile and reeling, being exposed again. My launch did happen, both in Chandigarh and Kolkata, but hardly anyone attended. I requested folks specifically not to come – worried for their health. The night before, my sister and I lay awake until 3 am trying to decide if we would take our parents – they, fed up with what Covid had done to their lives- had cried earlier that they'd rather not live than miss an event so critical for their child. Delhi book fair was cancelled – I never got to be in any store or stall signing my books (a dream I had held from childhood), and I doubt if I will get the chance ever again.
But in the end, as I reflect on 2022, I don’t remember these months – the rocky start – or other things that were not so good – as sad things. Interestingly, I, not the most optimistic of rainbows out there by any measure – remember these with fondness. Because Covid taught me to look at things through the lens of those who had it worse. The guild and small publishers who lost money. The family that lost beloved members. The summer later in the year that gave me a bit of a chance back. The travels I could have. The work promotion I received mid-year. The year ended with my publisher Sage closing its door, but 2022 – like the last train leaving the station, taught me to believe that another train will come. Even if the doors close before I could make it in.
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