Sometimes, memories become my pastime. In those moments of reflection, I try to recall how I handled the storms of my youth—or more accurately, how my father helped me navigate them. Because we spent so much of our lives,actually 18 years in exile, my mind often drifts back to our years in Kolkata and Varanasi. Those times left a lasting impression on me; I was in my formative years, and later a preteen, grappling with the internal friction of anxiety and confusion while the external world seemed to be coming apart at the seams.
During the 1960s, Kolkata was a city that seemed to be perpetually holding its breath. Our home at 27 Janak Road was no exception. It was a crowded sanctuary, filled with families and children. As the oldest of the children there, I carried the silent, heavy pressure of being the "big one." During the summer, the air was thick—not just with the monsoon humidity, but with a high-voltage sense of insecurity and academic pressure.
Outside, the Naxalite movement was turning the streets into a theater of radical slogans and sudden violence. I remember Basu kaka, Achyut kaka, and Kosu kaka coming home with their handkerchiefs soaked in water, rubbing their eyes. They would talk about being ambushed in teargas situations while returning from their office at 25 Camak Street.
But the fear wasn't only internal. With the Indo-Chinese war casting a shadow over the borders and the famine of 1965 tightening its grip on the city’s resources, we existed under the constant threat of the sirens. I still remember the blackouts and the eerie quiet of the streets. I remember the ritual of painting our windows black to ensure not a sliver of light escaped to guide a plane.
I was eight years old—a "troubled child" by the standards of the day. I carried a restlessness that manifested as constant fear. My father, a man living in the precarious limbo of political exile, carried a much heavier version of that weight. Our home was a sanctuary, yet the geopolitical unrest, the uncertainty of our status, and the scarcity of the famine years seeped through the cracks.
It was during those restless nights, with the city hushed by a blackout and the air-raid sirens a recent memory, that my father introduced the other children and me to a ritual that would save us. We didn’t have a name for it then. We didn't know that decades later, clinical psychologists would categorize it as "grounding." To us, it was simply the "100 Game."
The Sanctuary of Naming
As we lay in the dark during blackouts, my father would sense my spiraling thoughts. He wouldn’t ask, "What is wrong?" He knew the world was on fire. I would tell him I was hot, or I couldn't sleep, or I was afraid. In response, he would offer an anchor.
"Let’s name the rivers," he would whisper. "Starting with A."
Technology has not Defeated Geography
"Amazon," I would say, my voice small.
"Amu Darya," he would counter.
We would move through the alphabet, trying to reach one hundred. Cities of the world, species of birds, and mountains we would never climb. Berlin, Bangkok, Cairo, Dhaka. Each name was a brick in a wall we were building against the chaos.
There is a specific magic in a list. When the mind is caught in the "what-ifs" of anxiety—What if the war reaches us? What if the money runs out? What if something happens to Baba? What if we don’t have food?—It is operating in a terrifying, imagined future. Naming a river forces the brain back into the territory of facts. You cannot name the tributaries of the Ganges while simultaneously mourning the past or fearing the future. The brain’s logic center must switch on to retrieve a memory, which effectively shunts the "fear center" into the background.
Raising the Stakes: The Art of Mental Friction
As I grew older and the games became second nature, my father raised the difficulty. He knew that a bored mind could easily slip back into anxiety, so he introduced "Mental Friction." We moved from naming things to performing complex cognitive tasks in reverse.
We would count backward from 100 by seven (Rs100, 93, 86...Rs). We would recite the times tables backward or try to say the alphabet in reverse. These tasks require intense concentration; you cannot do them on "autopilot." By demanding that my brain work harder, he was ensuring that there was no room left for the Naxalites or the sirens. We were effectively "crowding out" the fear with logic.
The Infinite Anchor: Counting the Stars
This process of grounding continued as we moved to Varanasi in the 70s, still in exile. During the summer, we would sleep on the terrace to escape the heat. We would look up into the vastness and count the stars, finding specific formations and constellations. This ritual followed me through my teen years, providing a "cosmic perspective."
There is something deeply grounding about the stars. When you are a child in exile, your world feels small and fragile. But looking at a constellation that has remained unchanged for thousands of years reminds you that while the politics of men are loud and violent, the universe is vast, silent, and steady. Counting the stars was the final step—moving from the internal mind, to the physical world, to the infinite horizon.
A Modern Crisis of Coping
As I look at our society today, I see a world that looks remarkably like 1960s Kolkata. Our young adults and teenagers are coming of age in a constant stream of global crises delivered directly to their pockets via smartphones. They are "troubled," not because they are weak, but because they have no anchor.
Yet, we are failing to give them the tools my father gave me. We have pathologized the "troubled child" without providing the "anchored parent." There is a profound shame attached to the idea of "coping," but in reality, grounding is a survival skill. It brings peace to the family unit. What I learned during those times helped me later with my own sons—and now, it helps me with my father as he approaches his 100th year.
Destigmatizing the Anchor for Families
Every family should have a "Geography of Peace." We need to teach our children—especially the confused teens—that it is okay to shrink your world down to the size of a list. Here is what you can use at home.
The 5-4-3-2-1 Method: Identify 5 things you see, 4 you can touch, 3 you hear, 2 you smell, and 1 you taste.
The "Reverse" Challenge: Recite the alphabet or a times table backward.
The Category Marathon: Name 50 brands of cars or 30 types of trees.
The Infinite View: Look at the stars. Remember their scale.
The Legacy of the 100 Game
My father’s wisdom was born of necessity. In exile, you learn quickly what you can carry. You cannot carry the stability of a nation, but you can carry a list of its rivers.
We must stop feeling ashamed of the "crutches" we use to stay upright. If every family practiced these simple grounding rituals—not as a response to a crisis, but as a regular language of connection—we would see a generation that feels less like they are drowning and more like they are anchored.
The blackouts in Kolkata eventually ended, the regional wars moved into history books, and the exile changed its shape. But the lesson remained: the world will always find a way to be loud. Our job is to teach each other how to find the quiet. It starts with a single letter. It starts with a name. It starts with the realization that peace is not found by fleeing the world, but by grounding yourself firmly within it. Please do try it. You never know how much that will help you!!
The author is an educator. She has written several children’s books. She has written for children and on parenting issues for Republica for the past 10 years. You can access her writings at https://myrepublica.nagariknetwork.com/author/1042/usha-pokharel.
