Ever since I was a child, I had an unexplainable love for reading and writing in English. Now that I am much older, I can, of course, make a deeper connection to the post-colonial trend of inculcating the English language into every sphere of one's life, but for the sake of nostalgia, we'll let that psychoanalysis be for another time. My younger self lived and breathed literature, not only consuming it in copious amounts, but also acknowledging an urge to produce it one day for all to experience it.

English classes were a treat. I would look forward to writing creative stories, breathing life into characters that had very English names—it took me a while to stop naming protagonists Peter and Jane and switch to Ali and Sarah—for that to later be catapulted into researched essays in higher classes. I voraciously sought out book recommendations, consuming as much as my mind would allow. I never understood why my classmates bemoaned their fate when we had to sit and analyse Shakespeare in class—Julius Caesar has remained a favourite—or seemed less than enthusiastic when a poem had to be deconstructed. I lived for those classes, even teaching literature briefly at home to students who elevated the process further, paying no heed to the fact that my mind would easily wander during classes that were more practical, and required arithmetic or logic to be put to use.

Literature, to me, seemed like a world of its own, one where I fit in perfectly, whereas science and math were of no consequence. It was a world where I could unleash all that my mind could process, outside the binary of right and wrong. Literature was and remains my safe space. I can lose myself in a book for hours on end, though I must admit, my attention span has taken quite a hit ever since I let the beast of technology into my life.

Growing up, the pursuit of literature as a serious subject out of which one hoped to make a career was never truly viewed as a viable option. There was no scope in that, people would state. My passion bore the label of a passing phase, a hobby, an afterthought. The stellar grades in the subject were of little significance. After all, why was I not excelling in the subjects that could propel me into cementing a legitimate career later in life?

The constant tussle was exhausting, and when the time came to choose subjects for higher education, opting for literature was a relentless battle. In this battle, I had many teachers to thank, who not only shaped my relationship with the subject from a very young age, but also encouraged me in numerous ways to keep fighting, even when everything around me seemed bleak. One of those teachers was Lynette Viccaji, the author of Bubbles, the book I am reviewing today.

Perhaps, life has come full circle. I sit here having read the work of one of the facilitatory forces in my life, doing exactly what I have loved since the age of eight: reading, and writing about what I have read. I could not be more ecstatic, not only because it is the work of someone I have admired for a long time, but also because through Bubbles, I have been acquainted with this individual in a far more intimate capacity.

Bubbles is an ode to Viccaji's mother, Charlotte Donohoe, Bubbles for those who loved her. Viccaji recounts her mother’s life by tracing her lineage, exploring correspondence that has been kept intact over the course of time, narrating anecdotes that make one feel immersed in the space in which Bubbles resided. It almost doubles as a large letter to Donohoe, by, as Durriya Kazi puts it, her biggest fan. Intertwined with the state of the country in a post-colonial and post-partition world, and the consequent adaption to a changing atmosphere, the book is also an insight into the lives of a minority faction, a reminder that every resident of this nation experiences the country in a differing capacity owing to their positionality.

Talking about Donohoe, it is evident that for Viccaji, Bubbles was more of a friend than a mother. The reservoir of immense love the author holds for her mother is a given, but the way this love is personalised with the painting of the portrait of an iron-willed, jovial, graceful, and hilarious woman is what strongly tugs at the reader’s heart. With parental love and its reciprocity as the main themes, Viccaji explores the relationship between Donohoe and her parents, and how that shaped, to a great extent, the kind of parent Donohoe became.

There are numerous instances of camaraderie that Viccaji shares, making one yearn for a parent they never knew or had. Indeed, South Asian families, like all families globally, come with their own set of complications, with strained relationships with parents often being an unfortunate facet. However, the bond between Charlotte Donohoe and Lynette Viccaji makes one mourn the loss of a parent they wish they had—one who is doting, empathetic, and with whom a candid openness can be shared, without any hesitation whatsoever. If one is to peruse through the many letters exchanged between the mother-daughter duo, one better understands just how sacred the thread that ties these two together truly is. And that is why one better understands the need to have their relationship immortalised in the form of this book—a love homage that is immortal.

Another factor that hits rather close to home when it comes to Bubbles is the visualisation of an alternate universe for my own self. Given my personal context, I found immense joy in the supportiveness shared between Donohoe and Viccaji, where mutual gifts were encouraged, and the choice to make practical decisions was more of a suggestion as opposed to an imposition. While reading the book, I was reminded of how the author encouraged me to pursue literature when I was choosing my A Level subjects, going out of her way to facilitate the process. Had I known then, I would have pointed out that those were glimpses of Charlotte Donohoe, alive and well, surviving through her daughter.

Viccaji recalls in the book how her mother instilled the habit of devouring books from an early age, a habit that became a delightful hobby, and snowballed into Viccaji becoming a published author. The pursuit of knowledge was a shared one, and I would like to believe that as and when the author produces new material, she adds a feather in the cap of her mother who would have loved to read the books Viccaji has penned. After all, like Donohoe, as is evident through the book, Viccaji is also an exemplary storyteller.

Another aspect of the book that I thoroughly enjoyed was the variety of exchange between Donohoe and Viccaji. Letters aside, their poems for each other were either brimming with humour, or served as intelligent tales, intellectually penned, and a clear-cut testament to the wit and craftsmanship shared between the two. Both the mother and daughter come across as an infinity pool of talent that flowed seamlessly like water through a connection only they could tap into. Given my love for poetry, witnessing these exchanges was a downright joy, and a gift I was bowled over by time and again.

In a world that is increasingly experiencing the gatekeeping of movements, terms such as empowerment are often tossed up for debate. What does or does not constitute as the same becomes a part of a larger discourse, and many people seem uncomfortable with labels. However, Bubbles easily confirms that Donohoe was an empowered woman who did not conform to the status quo, manoeuvring through trials and tribulations with her head held high, making decisions that were well-informed, and preservatory of her sense of self-respect and being. As an example, Viccaji outlines how dedicated Donohoe was to her occupation, which she continued for a large chunk of her life. The author outlines how Donohoe found the courage to walk out of an abusive marriage, without maligning her partner, or harbouring any ill feelings, carrying on to construct a fruitful life for herself and her daughter.

When Viccaji was teaching me literature during my A Levels, she stated something that has stuck with me to date and has become a guiding principle of sorts. I distinctly remember her saying that literature makes you a better person. That it teaches you empathy, and how it is essential to place yourself in someone else's circumstances to understand them better, regardless of who they are, and what it is that you may think they have done. With those words in mind, I remember falling in love with Blanche from A Streetcar Named Desire.

Those words have stayed with me, forever etched on the walls of my mind, and whenever I feel myself slipping up, they act as a siren, a blaring reminder of how everything is circumstantial. All this time, I had believed that it was Lynette Viccaji who had shaped much of my understanding of an art form that I already loved with all my heart. Having read Bubbles, I now feel that the spirit of Charlotte Donohoe has, for an eternity, embedded itself into her daughter, doling out kindness and love wherever possible, leaving her footprint in an unimaginably connected web of empathy, leaving a piece of Bubbles in all those who have the grand fortune of having come into contact with her kin.