Hello and welcome to Aeroplane Mode, my modest attempt to reduce my reliance on social media to reach readers.
Over the past few years, I’ve radically reduced my need and desire for these platforms in relation to my non-writing life. I redownload Instagram every time I need to post, I haven’t had the Twitter app since 2016, I have no notifications on my phone, and I turn off the internet every evening and only put it on the next day after I’ve spent the morning reading and/or writing. And yet, I feel forced to keep posting online, so when I do have a piece of writing in the world, the algorithm will grant me a handful of folks who will read it. But as the platforms themselves become less recognisable by the day, this feels ever more like a losing battle. Aeroplane Mode is an attempt (an essaie from an essayist) to change this.
You’re receiving this newsletter because you signed up via social media or because you’re someone I have sent my writing to in the past. I recently heard artist Seth Bogart say (in a Homework Club workshop) that companies feel no shame at sending 10x email adverts a week; and so, at the very least, artists and writers can put together an email list without crippling self doubt (if only). But if you’d like to unsubscribe, I won’t mind at all, and plus, it will actually work - unlike my attempts over the years to rid myself of BookMyShow spam.
This won’t be a regular newsletter, but when I do have a piece published that I’m especially proud of, I’d love to send it to you, along with links to other pieces (if any) I’ve written, and a few things by other people (books, art, podcasts) that I can’t get out of my head.
What am I going to write about? Hopefully: wildness, anti-productivity, and what it means to have a body in the world. And of course, living life as close to aeroplane mode as I can.
Thanks for reading this far!
Richa x
Every day, I walk my dogs up a hill, through a cashew orchard carved into a jungle, in the village of Siolim, Goa. Here, over the past few months, I came to know a pair of great hornbills. I watched as they flew over the tree canopy, their expansive black wings rimmed in white, their bright yellow beaks appearing like beacons at dusk. Sometimes, I just heard their deep calls in the distance, or the unmistakable loud whooshing of their wing beats.
I named them — the male was Ringo, after the Beatle: cool and distant, yet goofy and friendly. His female partner, in turn, was Star. I watched them hopping along branches searching for ripe berries or taking their time to rest atop coconut fronds. Taking place just across the road from my house, these encounters with ancient creatures, reminiscent of dinosaurs, felt unreal. I looked forward to their presence each evening.
One day, Star vanished. Ringo flew from tree to tree. To my eyes, he appeared to be scanning the skyline in search of her. I felt a cold dread. How many places were there for Star to be? Siolim has a handful of dense wooded pockets with old trees, amidst a growing forest of concrete: hotels, villas, shops.
But the next day, I considered something more hopeful: perhaps Star had young hatchlings to care for. I learned about hornbills’ nesting habits. They are monogamous, and make their homes in the cavities of large trees. Their nests are sealed with mud and excrement, leaving just a slit for food to be passed through. Female hornbills live in these nests for four months, never emerging. It’s the males’ job to find food. A good system. But in all my excitement and hope, I had failed to account for one thing: nesting season was long since over.
And then, Ringo disappeared too.
Read the full piece, co-authored with wonderful friend and conservation writer Shivangini Tandon (who encountered Ringo and Star) in the Indian Express Sunday Eye. (It’s paywalled at a very low amount, but if that doesn’t feel possible for you at the moment, or if your card doesn’t work in India, just reply to this email and I’d be happy to send you a PDF!) We spent nearly a year working on the story, and we’re very excited to have it out in the world.
Ideas about having a good life usually go in two directions: extending your life via so-called wellness and fitness, and/or juicing the crap out of the short life you have (travel the world! Skydive!). As someone with chronic illness, these both feel like options where I’m set up to fail. But as I get older, I realize that everyone’s life is circumscribed in a variety of ways that mean one or both of these strategies will invariably fall short. You offer a more freeing alternative: “Maybe ‘the point’ isn’t to live more…but rather, to be more alive in any given moment—a movement outward and across, rather than shooting forward.” How is this type of living in the moment different from carpe diem in the action-packed sense we usually understand it?
For me the difference has to do with how you define an individual, or how much weight you place on the currently dominant notion of an individual. Juicing the crap out of the short life you have is what you do when you see yourself or your life as a product that you need to get the most value out of—even better if you can get more value out of it than your neighbour gets out of theirs. When I talk about being “more alive,” I’m describing a relationship—between myself and another person, myself and a bird, or myself and an entire place, for example.
I feel more alive when I’m really there with that other, in a way that can sometimes erase the clock, replacing my time with our time. And I think it’s pretty intuitive, this idea of building bridges across rather than accruing to oneself. When you look back at the moments in your life that you associate with meaning (vs. “success”), they might not have been straightforwardly happy or comfortable, but I’m guessing they involved some kind of especially resonant moment with something or someone outside of yourself, and that they might have changed you for good. For me, being receptive to such a feeling is part of what I mean by being more alive.
I interviewed Jenny Odell about her new book Saving Time (which, contrary to The New Yorker review, I thought was stupendous), over at Hazlitt.
Other things:
Does reading books make you a more empathetic person? The Witch Please professors have all the answers, and they make my favourite podcast of all time.
Is being fat bad for you? Also, if you haven’t heard Maintenance Phase yet, get cracking! Also, if you haven’t watched The Whale yet, maybe…don’t.
Deep Dives, the longform imprint I co-founded with Bishakha Datta in 2016, is running a new series on teenage girls’ rights and sexuality in India.
Some novels I’ve recently loved are Fiona Mozley’s Hot Stew (one of the best representations of sex work in fiction I’ve read), Real Life by Brandon Taylor, Mrs Caliban by Rachel Ingalls and The Factory by Hiroko Oyamada (if you loved the TV show Severance, this book is for you). I also did a very slow luxurious read of Olivia Laing’s To The River and felt grateful for all the Sussex Downs ever gave me.
I’m not a movie person, but All That Breathes seriously took my breath away. I also finally watched My Octopus Teacher, and it was wonderful.
Irma Vep was one of my favourite shows amidst all the millions I am constantly watching - recommended to me by Shivangini, of hornbills fame.
Until next time,
Richa xx
Sometimes I get mad at myself for signing up for so many Substacks (paying for only a few, being income-less at the moment). But then I find a few hours to just read many of them and it feels so much better than doomscrolling. Happy to be able to follow your work away from the gram. Take care!
been trying to get back to reading newsletters, books, articles. I truly enjoy reading your work and seeing your completed puzzles on the gram. <3 i'm sure it's going to be a nice little world of you out here as well.