Measuring Time in Saturdays
The Ochre Sky Memoir Writing Workshop, March 2025
When I made an account on
last February, I stumbled upon an essay (or a note; I do not remember) which sang praises of the Memoir Writing Workshop facilitated by and . I thought to myself how affirming it would be to have a community of writers exploring my favourite genre, the personal essay, especially since (long years ago, in 2019) I had already attended two lovely writing workshops led by and . How beautiful it would be if we all came together to share our words. Last February, these were amorphous wisps of thought. I was burnt out from work. My maternal grandfather's first death anniversary was looming. There were too many conflicting and wearisome feelings in the heart.As the months passed and I started reading the work of some excellent writers here (
, , , , , , , , , , , , and Sanket, to name but a few; and of course and themselves), I came to realise that a beautiful thread connected them: they were all part of the eclectic, all-embracing Ochre Sky community.As for me, I moved to a remote French town in the second half of last year, beginning a seven-month-long stint as an English-teaching assistant in French primary schools. October and November brimmed with all the typical feelings that a transcontinental move evokes (and here, I’m sure
will concur; we have been living our Cambridge and France chapters on parallel tracks, finding echoes of a delightful similarity!). In December, I sought much solace in the beautiful and profound essays that I encountered here, along with some delightful conversations that I had with the writers of those essays (via comments and threads).I had wanted to enrol for the December cohort of the workshop, but my winter vacation schedule thwarted those plans. So, I waited for the announcement of the next cohort, and when it was announced, I signed up for it right away. (Perhaps some things aren't meant to find us until the time is right…)
The first two months of this year crawled by at an agonisingly slow pace, exacerbated by the visceral loneliness and homesickness that had revved up and were ravaging my system in earnest. Every day felt as if it were an endurance contest. I had trouble sleeping. Blinding migraines. The tightness and stiffness in my muscles made their presence felt, on and off my yoga mat. Mysteriously, I ached all over: lower back, upper back, shoulders, neck. The Travelling Pain Chronicles (I was reminded of
’s stunning essay on chronic fatigue and pain). I wanted to know whether there was a link between the prolonged absence of physical affection and increased cortisol levels in the body. I felt exhausted all the time. I wondered: is this how my body processes difficult feelings…? I kept thinking about it; especially in the context of The Body Keeps the Score by Dr. Bessel van der Kolk – one of the most brilliant books I’ve ever read. I yearned and longed and pined for a sense of home, in the beautiful and expansive way my writer friend has expressed in her latest essay. My twenty-two-square-metres studio apartment felt eerie, cavernous, for the amount of loud loneliness that it could (and indeed did) contain. On a few blessed days, I was able to tune out the noise in my head and look forward to March. And when 1st March finally dawned…
What a journey it was. What a journey it continues to be. Even though March in its entirety went by as slow as a snail, my Saturday mornings were the sparkly silver linings in my (ochre) sky that was laden with clouds.
Over five Saturdays, twenty of us met on Zoom for three hours, sharing our words, our thoughts, our feelings. Of course, in the beginning, it felt strange…and for me, at 5:30AM CET, it was an ungodly hour to make myself presentable and turn on the single glaring, unflattering white light in my apartment! On the day of the first session, I remember feeling somewhat euphoric (“it’s finally here!!!”) and really terrified (“how on earth am I going to wake up at that hour every Saturday…and engage online, for three hours, with strangers???”).
Subsequently, it started feeling like an unravelling. All the parts of me that had been so knotted up with angst, loneliness, self-directed anger at my inability to adapt, a nameless yearning for the physical closeness of my loved ones, not having/not having been hugged for (more than) six whole months… all of that started coming undone, word by word.
(And here, may I add how proud of myself I am slowly coming to feel, now that the programme has only just ended. Yes, grrrlll, you did it: you made a dream come true; you travelled solo to many cities and countries; you paid your own rent and bills; you budgeted; you learnt how to cook. In short: you grew up!!! Okay, thank you, but now I want to go back home-home, please, to my familiar cocoon. Pride and quiet confidence notwithstanding, one also realises what is not sustainable for one in the short or long run. It is equally important to acknowledge and accept that with equanimity.)
It was exactly halfway through, in the third session of the workshop, that I felt as if something had… cracked. Think of a crème brûlée and its gleaming golden shell of caramelised sugar that one must whack open to savour all the soft goodness underneath.
“Oooof.” I exhaled s-l-o-w-l-y after sending in the homework of the third essay prompt. “This is why I signed up. Now I see. Now I know.” I felt as though I’d been whacked open, too.
We are a community that doesn’t shy away from sharing our very deepest vulnerabilities. We honour all the feelings: yes, even and perhaps especially the icky ones. There are hesitant pauses and deep breaths. Sometimes, there are throats tight with tears. Brimming eyes, shaky voices. The real miracle lies not just in the crafting and the sharing (although that is a powerful starting point); but in the way we receive each other’s words – with such tenderness, compassion and gentleness. We hold space for each other. We suspend judgement and really listen...to what is not being said. There is a feeling of being held (even through all those Zoom rectangles). A feeling of being… seen. Holding each other's beautiful and broken parts up to the light, never looking away.
The first among us to share their writing ignites a torch of courage and bravery. We pass the torch around. Through the cathartic process of writing and speaking our life's fundamental truths, each of us feels safer, more reassured, less alone. It is the universality of human emotion, experience, empathy. Perhaps this is what it means to feel psychologically safe.
To kindle and nurture the (bottomless) depth of sharing that we do…
and are The Alchemists that way, you know? My God. I am at a loss for words. It takes a lot. They have my deepest love, gratitude, wonder, and awe.This Memoir workshop has shifted the tectonic plates within. It has wiped my (non-rose-coloured) glasses clean. It has taught me the power of choosing to be soft and vulnerable in a world that keeps insisting on sharp, right-angled ways of being.
It is a gift that will never stop giving. Thank you, Natasha and Raju. I am forever a member of your fan club now, and am looking forward with bated breath to the dates of the next Ochre Sky Writing Circle, so that I can be among the first people to sign up for it.
(In case anyone has an hour to spare, this wonderful video by
will shed a clearer light on why and how the workshop can be the best thing that one does for oneself.)Of course, this would be incomplete without mentioning the ones amongst whom I bloomed like a flower: , , , , , , Anna, Archana, Radhika, Shilpa, Niyanta, Gauri, Srushti, Jancy, Ujjwala, Binati, Madhusudhan, Himanshu. Thank you.
In the words of our friend, Walt Whitman: “I am large, I contain multitudes.” May we never stop exploring and delighting in the depths of our stories, our selves, our
communities; connected across different cohorts, united and moved at the way “a word after a word after a word is power…” (Margaret Atwood🥰)
I am gobsmacked and so incredibly grateful to you, Shreya! We invest so much emotional and literary energy in the Ochre Sky memoir workshops that I often find myself silent and without words for weeks afterwards! Thank you for sharing this personal account - it tells us so much about ourselves 💜💛🌸
I am at a loss for words. Your writing made me realise how the workshop has resulted in some fundamental, soul-stirring realisations for me. It has indeed been a gift. The workshop. Natasha and Raju. The community. Our vulnerabilities and how safe it felt to share them. All of it. Thank you so much for writing this. It is a blessing and serendipity to know you and share with you. <3