Maryellen Donovan’s The Road to Yesterday: A Memoir is one of those books that quietly enter your life and then, like the sound of an old tune you half-remember, refuse to leave. Its strength lies not in spectacle, not in drama engineered for effect, but in its trust in memory, in its attention to the contours of a life lived through family, migration, and the ever-shifting search for a sense of home. It’s the kind of work that reminds you why memoir is such a deceptively rich form: it’s never simply about a single life but about the resonances that one person’s journey can set off in the reader’s mind.
What struck me first is Donovan’s prose. She doesn’t try to dazzle you with metaphors or make herself the heroic protagonist of her own life. Instead, she writes as if she is having a long evening conversation with you—sometimes tender, sometimes mournful, sometimes brimming with sly humour, but always with the unmistakable intimacy of someone who trusts you enough to be vulnerable. This lived-in quality—prose shaped by experience rather than affectation—gives the book a texture that is far more enduring than stylistic fireworks. One feels, while reading, that these stories are not just written but worn, like the creases in an old travel bag or the softened corners of a family photograph.
At its core, The Road to Yesterday is about displacement and the search for rootedness. Donovan’s family stories unfold against larger cultural shifts—migration across countries, the pulling apart of families, the longing for something stable in a world that is perpetually in flux. She writes of childhood places that vanish with the passage of time, of houses sold or demolished, of the quiet ache of losing a parent, and of trying to make sense of traditions when uprooted. Yet this is not a memoir weighed down by nostalgia in the narrow sense. Donovan understands that memory is not a perfect record; it is, rather, a compass shaped by both longing and loss, and it guides us, sometimes shakily, toward the future.
Reading it during the Puja vacation of 2025 added another layer for me. After hours of pandal-hopping, with music and conch-shells still ringing in my ears, I came back to her pages and found her reflections echoing the mood of Puja itself. Durga Puja, at heart, is a ritual of remembering: the re-enactment of a mythic story, yes, but also the revival of family practices, the gathering of communities, and the return of sounds, smells and foods that are passed down through generations. In that sense, it is “yesterday” performed anew each year. Donovan’s narrative of revisiting her past, confronting the shadows and savouring the sweetness, felt inseparable from the ritual of Puja, where every lamp lit is also an invocation of those who are no longer with us but still shape our present.
The memoir is divided, not into sharply demarcated “chapters”, but into flowing sections that move from family stories to travels to reflections on belonging. She writes about her parents with both tenderness and honesty. There are no saintly portraits here—her family members are fallible, sometimes frustrating, sometimes inspiring, always human.
In one particularly moving passage, she recalls the dissonance between her mother’s expectations and her own chosen path, not with bitterness but with a clear recognition of how generational gaps create wounds that only time can heal. The way she handles grief is especially striking: not as a sudden rupture but as an ongoing presence, a shadow that becomes part of the furniture of one’s days.
Travel, too, is an essential strand in Donovan’s narrative. She is not the kind of traveller who reduces places to tourist checklists. Rather, she lingers on how unfamiliar streets and foreign languages reshape one’s own sense of self.
Her displacement is not only geographical but emotional. In recounting these journeys, she is always attuned to how encountering another culture reveals both its differences and the buried assumptions of one’s own upbringing. Home, in this memoir, is not a fixed place; it is something provisional, constructed, always under negotiation.
What keeps this from becoming abstract is the detail with which she remembers small things. A train compartment where she overheard strangers talk in a language she barely understood. The ritual of her father’s evening walks. A family recipe prepared after years of absence, its taste not quite what she remembered but close enough to bring tears. These fragments accumulate to create the road she is tracing. And this road, she makes clear, is not a straight line but a series of detours, delays, and sudden turns. Yesterday is not behind us; it keeps re-emerging in the present, shaping every step forward.
In many ways, Donovan’s memoir is also a quiet meditation on the act of writing itself. She acknowledges how memory is selective, how it smooths some edges and exaggerates others. She admits to forgetting, to misremembering, and to revising stories over time. Yet rather than undermine the memoir, this honesty makes it more compelling.
She reminds us that writing about the past is not about capturing it perfectly but about engaging with its hold over us. Each retelling is also a renegotiation with one’s self.
What also lingers is the cultural dimension of her reflections. Donovan is acutely aware of how traditions, rituals, and community practices shape identity. Even when she feels displaced, she recognises that her sense of self is inseparable from these inherited practices.
But she doesn’t treat them as unchangeable relics; she sees them as evolving, as something to be adapted in new contexts. This is perhaps why her memoir resonates universally: anyone who has migrated, or even simply moved from childhood into adulthood, knows that tension between holding on and letting go.
Late at night, reading her words after wandering through the festive chaos of Kolkata’s Puja streets, I realised how much the memoir insists on the simultaneity of past and present. Puja is filled with music that is centuries old, yet played on modern loudspeakers; it is celebrated by young people scrolling Instagram in between offering anjali; it is memory transformed into a living ritual. Donovan’s narrative, likewise, suggests that yesterday is never gone; it is continually re-enacted in the rhythms of our lives.
Stylistically, she avoids sentimentality even when dealing with loss. Her writing is reflective, yes, but never indulgent. This restraint gives her memoir its dignity. It allows the reader to enter her experiences without being forced to feel in prescribed ways. The effect is cumulative: by the time you finish, you realise you have been carrying her stories with you, that her memories have braided themselves with your own.
The universality of the memoir lies in its refusal to present a triumphant narrative. Many memoirs are structured around redemption arcs or climactic victories. Donovan offers no such neatness. Her road to yesterday is ongoing, without final resolution. The effect is paradoxically comforting: it tells us that it is alright not to have closure, that life is made up of unfinished stories, and that carrying the past with us is not a weakness but a form of continuity.
By the time I closed the book, the sound of dhaak drums from a nearby pandal still in my ears, I realised that Donovan had given me a new way to think about tradition itself. We return to Puja every year not because it is the same but because it is different each time, layered with new memories. In the same way, revisiting one’s past is not about fossilising it but about finding new meanings in it. The road to yesterday is also, always, the road to tomorrow.
In the end, The Road to Yesterday is not just Donovan’s memoir—it is a mirror for the reader’s own memories. It invites you to think about your own family, your own displacements, and your own rituals of remembrance. It lingers because it does not pretend to answer life’s questions; instead, it offers the companionship of someone who has wrestled with them honestly. That companionship is, perhaps, the greatest gift a memoir can give.