I didn’t grow up reading Ulysses, but what I did see growing up in Calcutta is the celebration of poets, writers, and the written word. The earliest memory of which would be to wake up early in the morning, wear a sari, put flowers in my hair, and head to school to celebrate Rabindranath Tagore on his birthday. Be it reciting one of his poems, singing Rabindrasangeet in a choir, or being a part of one of his operas, Rabindra Jayanti is a core memory in almost every Bengali’s life. It is almost equal to, or sometimes even more important than Durga Puja; probably the only non-religious festival where a “thakur” isn’t sacrosanct.

This Bloomsday, I experienced something very similar in Dublin. The day is celebrated every year on 16 June, the date on which the action – such as it is – in James Joyce’s Ulysses unfolds.

Joyce’s is a I first heard uttered in reverent tones in classroom lectures at Presidency College during my time as a student. It’s a name that I both admired and feared, for his oeuvre tends to have just that effect on young readers. But it also takes me back to an afternoon of solemn silence in the...

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