Memoirs are like delicate steps back into the corridors of time, each one unlocking long-forgotten moments, familiar faces, and family stories that linger in the shadows of our past. They are vivid reminders of relatives who may have passed on, leaving behind not just memories, but entire legends and narratives, often retold at family gatherings. These stories are woven into the fabric of our lives, connecting us to a time when the world moved at a slower, more deliberate pace. Childhood in those days was an entirely different experience—there were no instant solutions to boredom, no television, no digital entertainment streaming endlessly at our fingertips, and certainly no fast food that could be summoned at the tap of a mobile phone screen.

Back then, life was rooted in the kitchen, where mothers and grandmothers toiled in the heat, tending to pots and pans, creating meals from scratch. The kitchen was not a place of convenience; it was the heart of the home, where meals were crafted with patience and care. Domestics helped with the chopping and cleaning, but often, the grandmothers took it upon themselves to impart their culinary wisdom to the younger generation—if the grandchildren were curious enough to learn. These secret family recipes were passed down through the generations, each one carrying with it the essence of tradition and the warmth of home.

Many Bengali bhadralok families, particularly in the pre-Independence era, owned homes in picturesque out-of-town locales such as Ranchi or Dehradun. These houses served as sanctuaries, offering respite from the bustling city life. Family holidays were grand affairs, complete with retainers, bountiful food supplies, and heaps of luggage. The journeys themselves were adventures—often beginning with long train rides or, if the destination was closer, by car. For the children, these trips were filled with excitement, an opportunity to explore the countryside, with pit stops at quaint towns and local attractions along the way.

In contrast, today’s holidays are about quick escapes to luxurious resorts or weekend getaways at modern farmhouses. The simplicity of those earlier family vacations, with their retainers and carefully planned logistics, has faded. Modern conveniences have taken over, and the personal touch of those old family retainers—who knew exactly what was needed and when—has been replaced by the anonymity of hotel staff or service apps.

Anjana Dutt’s memoir, My Family, Leopards and My Litchi Tree, beautifully captures these fading memories, transporting readers to a time when life revolved around simpler pleasures. In her book, grandmothers are not just figures of authority but symbols of elegance, wafting Chanel No. 5 perfume while jangling the household keys tied to the ends of their saris. These matriarchs commanded the kitchen, overseeing the making of treats like China Grass puddings, while ensuring that the rituals of chopping vegetables—the precise cuts, the techniques handed down over generations—were meticulously followed. These culinary rituals, often taken for granted, now find new relevance in today’s world, where cooking shows like MasterChef have renewed interest in the art of preparing food with care and attention to detail.

What makes Dutt’s memoir particularly poignant is its reminder of a time when life was more connected to nature. Homes were not just places to live but sanctuaries surrounded by expansive gardens filled with lush greenery, flowering plants, and fruit trees. These gardens were cherished, tended to with love and patience, much like the family members who inhabited those homes. In today’s fast-paced, climate-impacted world, such close proximity to nature feels like a distant memory.

Although the modern world seems obsessed with the idea of globetrotting, Dutt reminds us that even in those earlier times, families had their own version of travel. Relatives would often venture to far-flung, exotic locations, spending weeks or even months exploring new lands. This form of travel was far from the hurried jet-set lifestyle we know today—it was leisurely, with time to soak in the local culture, customs, and cuisine. The world felt both larger and smaller at the same time. Despite the distance, there was a sense of closeness, a connection to family and tradition, even as products from abroad made their way into local shops. The colonial hangover of the time added a cosmopolitan flair to everyday life—items like Waxpol, Bengal Potteries, and Dunlop were staples, and New Market, once a treasure trove of international curiosities, is remembered with a certain nostalgia for the era it represented.

Dutt’s attention to detail is especially captivating when she describes objects from the past—reed organs, sewing machines, and the like. These were not just utilitarian items; they were part of the household’s identity, crafted with care and often beautifully adorned. The colours, mechanisms, and elegance of these instruments evoke a world where things were made to last, to be treasured for generations. Colour, in fact, plays a central role throughout her memoir. Whether describing the vibrant hues of the garden’s flowers or the intricate designs of fine china, Dutt’s writing evokes a world alive with texture, shade, and detail.

Gardening, too, is brought to life vividly in her memoir. Dutt recalls afternoons spent with grandmothers who, armed with khurpis (traditional gardening tools), would tend to their beloved plants. These sessions were more than just chores; they were bonding moments, filled with quiet conversation and a shared love for the natural world. The flowers and fruit trees were not just garden staples—they were the backdrop to family picnics, outdoor lunches with picnic hampers, and colourful bouquets that adorned the family’s home.

Adding to the historical richness of Dutt’s narrative are the mentions of iconic landmarks and cultural touchstones—the Grand Trunk Road, the Botanical Gardens, and the Brahmo Samaj, to which her family belonged. These references anchor the memoir in a specific time and place, adding depth and context to a way of life that, while now largely forgotten, played a significant role in shaping the culture of the region.

With its beautifully crafted illustrations, My Family, the Leopard and My Litchi Tree has a charm reminiscent of Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals. However, Dutt’s work focuses more on the intimate, close-knit bhadralok world of Bengali culture, offering a look at an elite yet warm family life. Her advertising background shines through in the book’s catchy chapter titles, each one offering a snapshot of what the reader can expect.

For a memoir to be truly successful, it must resonate with a wide audience, and Dutt achieves this effortlessly. Much like Deepti Naval’s In A Country Called Childhood, which captured the early life of someone who would go on to become a Bollywood star, Dutt’s memoir transcends the personal to offer a window into a specific cultural experience.

For non-Bengali readers, the inclusion of a handy glossary helps navigate unfamiliar terms, such as confections like patishapta or jibe goja. Yet, the charm of the book lies in its universality—it will appeal to anyone who has ever felt a pang of nostalgia for a simpler time. Bengalis, in particular, who are famously known for their love of nostalgia, will find much to relate to in this lovingly crafted memoir.

Moreover, the book has a certain appeal for younger readers as well, particularly those curious about their own family histories or the world their parents and grandparents grew up in. Through Dutt’s memories, they can glimpse a time of strict discipline under Irish nuns, school-time adventures, and the enduring bond of family. My Family, Leopards and My Litchi Tree is more than just a memoir—it is a tribute to a way of life that may be gone, but through the pages of this book, is not forgotten.