Dear friends,
As I keep digging into the depth of my soul and my existence. There is an almost aching beauty in the Japanese concept of Hansei (反省). It is simply meant “self-reflection” or “introspection,” but such direct words fail to capture its true weight and the real beauty. Hansei is not just an intellectual exercise. Hansei is a deep, and somewhat too painful reckoning with one’s actions, a solemn acknowledgment of mistakes, a quiet commitment to growth. It’s the silent promise whispered to oneself in the aftermath of sorrow.

But the first and worst realization, from my own experience, of any profound awakening, that be it to loss, the grief, or the truth—is the sudden, crushing knowledge of isolation. One day you wake up to a world which has transformed, yet you have no idea if your friends or family from the beginning have awakened too. For a time, I am lost in that singular grief, reflecting not just on the past, but on the terrifying, absolute loneliness of the present moment. This is when I found Banana Yoshimoto. Her characters frequently dwell with my awaken. They inhabit liminal spaces – between night and day, life and death, presence and absence – adrift in a personal void. Hansei becomes the constant, internal question:

– What could I have done differently?
Only compounded by the despair of having no one to share the burden. Having someone to share a small talk or a meal seems to be the new definition of fancy.

Yet, it was just as hope faintly lights the path back from this solitude. But it’s a first, fragile hint of another’s existence. Hansei in Yoshimoto’s novels often emerges as a persistent, low hum of regret, a lingering echo in the hearts of those who eventually find their quiet resilience.

Consider “Kitchen” – my most favourite novel of all time. Mikage and Yuichi are 2 people adrift after the deaths of their beloved ones, finds an unlikely solace with each others. Their bond is forged in shared meals and the comforting hum of refrigerators. Mikage’s gentle narrative is a constant, imperceptible Hansei. She reflects on the vast emptiness her grandmother left, the suddenness and emptiness of it all. Her own awkwardness in navigating a world that feels suddenly alien. Her reflections aren’t rage or self-sabotage, it’s rather imbued with a quiet sorrow, a lingering question of how to truly honor those gone, how to live fully when such a crucial part of her has vanished. It’s the silent regret of unfinished conversations, of time taken for granted, of the sheer and brutal fact of irreversible change. Her kitchen, her sanctuary, becomes a place not just for nourishment, but for the slow, internal processing of a life irrevocably altered by absence.

In N.P, the characters are haunted by the legacies of suicide and death itself, by the choices of those they loved, and by the ripple effects that linger through generations. In these narratives, Hansei is not a clean, surgical process of identification and correction. Hansei in N.P is burden. There is a deep, communal sorrow, a shared regret that perhaps if one person had acted differently, spoken another word, chosen another path, a different outcome might have unfolded. Banana let her characters carry this Hansei, a heavy weight that shapes their present and dictates their futures, often without a clear path to release.

As I put myself into their shoes, I felt the subtle shifts in perspective, the quiet moments of realization that things are forever changed, the internal struggle to integrate this knowledge. Hansei is the gentle acceptance that some mistakes cannot be undone, some losses cannot be recovered, and some regrets will simply become a part of the fabric of who we become to be who we are.

I always like the sad but beautiful vibe of Hansei in Yoshimoto’s world: a silent, persistent turning over of memories, a gentle examination of what was lost, and a fragile hope that through this quiet, internal grieving, a path towards a new understanding of life might just emerge. It is the echo of regret, yes, but an echo that eventually, perhaps, teaches us how to listen.