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The classroom

Looking back isn’t easy. It makes you dig deep. This past decade has been instrumental in defining me and my expectations from life. It has taught me lessons I will never forget. From finding the love of my life to losing the will to go on, from living my dream of writing books to realising that change is the only constant, life is a classroom and we are eternal students. Here is my abstract take on the years gone by

Classroom

We are all born into this classroom

Where we learn, we forget, we are punished and we remember

Are 10 years enough?

For the lessons etched on desks and handles and withered doors, into the fading paint on the bathroom walls?

I open the stained pages of my notebook, I straighten its relenting spine and look back
To where I learnt that when grief and loss slice into you with their hungry talons, and it seems that the world must end, that it should end, the world ambles on at its pace. While the malignant pain sears through your emptiness, flowers bloom, the earth spins and the trees sway in the gentle breeze. Nothing stops

I learnt that dreams are amorphous and distant till you make your small but steady strides to them. That you will live in someone else’s make believe world till you paint your own canvas and splash it with the hubris of a mad magician, trusting the hands that only hold doubt

I learnt that there is as much hate in this world as love. That kindness floats like the battered lotus left on the banks of an angry tsunami. It shivers, quakes and rattles the firmament but gentleness and resolve can weather any storm

As the years go by, I am taken by the transience of time. Ephemeral and an unreliable trickster, it will play you and leave you by the wayside. So I have learnt to forget. That anything matters beyond my resolve, that there is a sky beyond my reach, that I can be defined and sketched by another’s pencil. I know now that I am enough and I forget that I was any less

My book brims with chapters of love, hate, lust, doubt, happiness and the index is flecked with fame and foibles. A hallmark of a decade etched into my veins and a life lived whole

I turn the lights out, drag the chairs back into place, pick up my pen and wipe the blackboard clean. For it is that time again. To learn, to fail, to live some more..

 

“This post is a part of ‘DECADE Blog Hop’ #DecadeHop organised by #RRxMM Rashi Roy and Manas Mukul. The Event is sponsored by Glo and co-sponsored by Beyond The Box, Wedding Clap, The Colaba Store and Sanity Daily in association with authors Piyusha Vir and Richa S Mukherjee”

Decade, BlogHop, Contest
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The key to your e-book is just a carnival away!

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When asked about writing ambitions and book journeys, often, with a starry twinkle in their eyes, people reminisce about a fiery childhood passion, or a goal they have been chasing with utmost determination. My inspiration on the other hand, came to me amidst diapers and zombie like fatigue. A time which is associated with people not being in possession of their faculties was the odd time I chose to write my first book. When I had just delivered a baby!  Goes to show how different everyones starting point and respective journeys can be.

Of-course I was always in love with the written word, my most enduring love affair being with the books that lined the walls of various rooms I occupied while growing up (My father was in government service as a result of which we were constant nomads!). I wrote a lot of poetry and even published a book of some 50 odd poems that I particularly loved in 2017. Some short story experimentations saw me participating in writing contests as well, such as the brilliant platform by TOI. It helped me find publishers for my book and started me off on a road I had never imagined myself on. It has now been a year since the launch of my first book I Didn’t Expect to Be Expecting, which you must have guessed by now, is a humorous book on pregnancy and my second book, which is a humorous thriller is due for a September launch. It all seems a bit surreal even today. I still remember pinching myself when I went for my first book signing. I think it was the first time I cried out of happiness!

Something else that gives me great pleasure is helping writers who are sitting on the brink of their own writing journeys. It is an exciting but scary place and I’ve been there. And bing a fellow blogger, I’m especially delighted to be a part of EbookCarnival (Season 4) by Blogchatter. I don’t blog nearly as often as I’d like to, but I think blogging is one of the most organic ways of making your way to a book. And if a blogging platform is giving you the tools, know how and support to get you started, then don’t put that idea away to another day. Dive in to this experience and emerge with a book and a dream coming true all at once.

 

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The nurturers need some nurturing as well

Tear

A friend recently put up a blurred picture of a mother walking around in a restaurant, trying to entertain her baby. Apparently she was away from the table for the entire duration of the meal while the remaining family was at the table laughing away, enjoying theirs. Does this dynamic represent those within every family? No. Does this mean that every mother single handedly bears the burden of child care?No. But the reality is that there are enough cases even within urban and semi urban families, not just rural ones, where all eyes and expectations are turned on the mother.

More than the physical burden, my friend was trying to highlight the mental implication of this solitary process. There are millions of women worldwide who suffer from post part depression. I too went through it. And this, despite still having a job to go back to, stellar support from my parents who I had moved to stay with at the time, very helpful in-laws who used to visit often, and my poor husband who drove 400 kms back and forth every weekend just to be with us. I don’t think feeling lonely is singularly subject to the number of people around you. You can have 15 people milling around you in a joint family and still feel like you are on your own island. The most disconcerting thing I remember about that terrible phase was one particular afternoon, in the middle of a reunion of sorts where my entire family, with their families, possible 25 of us had come together to celebrate the arrival of my little daughter. And all I felt, sitting amongst the very people who make me whole and complete, was an utter sense of despair and loneliness. I couldn’t connect to the conversations and visited the washroom very often to shed tears for reasons I couldn’t even fathom!
I often think about how privileged we are that in this country, we can still assume it is our right to depend on the army of nana nanis and dada dadis to help us raise our children. Something I’ve heard is acutely lacking as an assumed support system in the west and even within Indian families settled in the west. But there needs to be more awareness towards the needs of the caregiver and not just the tiny ward. ‘Handling the baby’ helps. But talking to the mother, encouraging her to take some alone time, a walk, a shower, some time off with friends, having interesting discussions about the world beyond the crib, talking about reintegration post maternity breaks, helping her figure out how to manage life and emotions incase she is returning to work helps her deal with the tide of hormones and the faceless and nameless monsters that form in the head when there is so much change and uncertainty. The solutions might sound simplistic but they will go a long way towards ensuring that the nurturer feels nurtured as well.
I feel women have some innate qualities that make them empathetic and natural caregivers. Towards children, husbands, parents, people working with them, the world in general. But when that sincerity and indulgence gets taken for granted, neither does it feel good, nor can it be sustained without puncturing the mind and soul of the one who is making it all happen. Roles of women and resulting expectations won’t change over night. But a little bit of sensitivity and understanding is the least we all deserve, irrespective of gender.
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Conquering worry is the most life changing gift

Happy celebrating winning success woman sunset
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been what I like to call a ‘muller’. This does not mean that I am unhappy, or that I don’t have a normal functioning brain, capable of clear decision making. It just comes with an immense inbuilt bandwidth, to think excessively about an action, its consequence, its origin, which leads to another unrelated thought, bringing with it some anxiety and before you know it, you’re at the bottom of this confused vortex where you’ve done a run through of issues from problems at work, to your daughters health to your holiday expenses, to possibly the future of the economy of Ghana. What is meant to be a mechanism that should help plan and deal with life better becomes a deterrent to just that. It’s like having an unnecessary unproductive cobweb in your mind that you’re constantly wanting to get rid off.
Let me help you with an identification process here, to help you understand whether you fall into the same trap. I just read somewhere that thinking too much means that you are more intelligent, that you have the capacity to absorb and process more. I tend to think a bit differently here. The minds of great thinkers, philosophers, and all the most important people in history who have made an impact, must have been a complex and masterful web of thoughts and decisions but I doubt they could have done any of that without clarity of thought and peace of mind. No revolution, no dreams, no great acts can come from a pre occupied mind that is ‘stewing in its own pot’ so to speak!
Where and why have I attained this mental nirvana you ask me? To be honest, I still struggle with it on bad days and as I analytically tell my husband, I’m still in a batter state, far from being baked in the mould I desire! But in the last year, so much has happened around me, to me,  that I was forced to make a decision to stay sane. If I wanted to have a peaceful mind, not have it become a permanent residence of the chattering monkey, I would have to make some changes. The environmental factors would not change and were not in my control, but my mind and body should be.
Here is a very small snapshot of what I believe you must remind yourself once everyday to banish that worry.
– By worrying, neither does the problem change, nor its resolution. You are the one that suffers mentally.
– If you keep worrying, you will open your body to countless diseases in the future. This is a promise. Leading research has proven over the years that elevated levels of worry and stress are directly co-related with several common to life threatening diseases. They were right when they said you can worry yourself sick. You really can.
– When you are worrying, ask yourself, what is the worst that can happen? Once the worst of the consequences is clearly in-front of you, you’ll feel less dread and think more clearly.
– When you’re overanalysing and not being able to reach a decision, take to pen and paper (should be easy for you guys since you belong to this tribe:-) eh?) List out pros and cons. Sounds childlike in its simplicity but sometimes it really helps putting things in perspective.
– Take out one hour everyday to do something easy, where your mulling and your mind can relax. I turn to physical exercise very often. Sometimes I’ve gone into a workout with drooping shoulders and come out with a fantastic solution to something I’ve been obsessing over.
I’m just touching the tip of the iceberg here but I do hope it helps someone in some way. It is such a liberating feeling to unshackle your mind from fear, dread and over analysis. Try it and you will breathe like you have a new pair of lungs!
‘I am taking my #Alexa rank to the next level with @Blogchatter’

 

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Giving back. One word at a time..

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I have always struggled in one respect for as long as I can remember. How can I help someone else in need? We were raised on a steady diet of compassion and giving back. Even as a child I remember my mother dipping into her hiding places (often the strangest ones from grain canisters to under the mattress to a big wad in a worn silver box in her cupboard.) All saved for a rainy day but when there are four children milling around the house, rainy days are often around the corner. Even amidst the steady depletion of these treasures and day to day expenses, there was always enough food for whoever came to the house, delivery boys, maids, needy neighbors, visits from my fathers colleagues with their gigantic families in towe, kids coming to collect their errant balls. My father always had enough kind words for whoever he bumped into and it continues to this day. From sweepers on the streets, to shopkeepers, to attendants at clinics, to liftmen and security guards who everyone passes by as they blend into the world, invisible. He is a great listener as well and he always told me that at times the greatest service you can render to humanity is just to be a good listener. We are surrounded by people, daily, who are going through so much, who feel lost, who are miserable. They have no one to turn to. The joy you will give to someone by just lending a few minutes of your time will be visible on their faces. That should be the reward. Compassion was also ingrained within us in the way we were taught to treat each other within the family. Of-course four girls will always find a reason to be uncouth, fight, pull hair and beat each other up, but we saw with the passage of time that all that we had seen while growing up, without ever being preached into it, was naturally imbibed and became an integral part of us.

Of-course I have always tried to be kind whenever an opportunity presents itself but in this busy, insular world, even these opportunities have to be dug out I feel sometimes. Isn’t it then easy to just keep donating online, or give money to beggars or find some such way to appease your need to be kind and good. Each to his own. I don’t judge as this is a very personal action but I certainly was not happy as I was unable to make a visible difference in anyone’s lives, to add value to someone’s existence even in a small way. It rankled inside. Till one day I decided to take my father’s advice and listen. I was on a call with a temporary maid in our society who had finished her tenure with me and was seeking another job. I was trying to guide her towards a prospective employer in the other building and she was so uneducated that she wasn’t able to remember a name, a building number, any of the details. So she asked her son to call me later to note them down. A small incident but it got me thinking about the scores of women I had met within this compound itself who were struggling to either sign their names, fill a form, open a bank account, struggling with a bill as they couldn’t do basic math and were lacking basic language proficiency. It just struck me then and there that i could help them and it made my heart dance! Finally I had found a need gap that I could try and fill.

I had to start with a name. Even if for no one else but myself. To excite and instill a sense of ownership, I came up with a name. My ‘Bai-lingual’ classes! (I stuck with it despite a lot of jokes from my husband) Now I am no teacher. And what was on offer was very basic math and language proficiency. But I had to learn how to teach! So I started reading about teaching aids, pulled out my daughters stock of slates and alphabets and books as she looked at me strangely and started preparing myself. Then came the price of benevolence, time! Where was I to find time for this noble activity between work, home, a young daughter and my writing schedule? I decided to take an hour out each week to begin with and then let that slot evolve as per their requirements and their work. the biggest hurdle though was the recruitment. My proposal was met with suspicious looks (where they possibly thought I was mad or a drug dealer) and ‘How much will you charge?’, ‘ I am too old for this’, ‘I have things to do at home’, ‘My family will laugh at me,’ , ‘I don’t have time.’ All of this made me realize that it was a bigger stigma for them to opt for education at this stage of their lives rather than being coined illiterate. It was a sort of battle for their rights vs their mental and societal attitudes.

I can’t say it’s been easy. I’ve managed to finally recruit two helpers. 4 more have been on-boarded. And I am hoping this army will grow as I learn with them. It’s strange but I feel like a jilted lover when someone promises and doesn’t show up! But what thrilled me the most the other evening was when I passed by my daughter playing downstairs, while walking to my kickboxing class. She was busy recruiting two maids who had come down to the playground with their respective wards, telling them eagerly to come home. ‘My momma is very nice. She doesn’t get angry. She will teach you with my class things!’ As tears pricked my eyes, I smiled wide! At 4 years of age, compassion and caring for others was making a home in her little heart. This is the additional reward. To let my child see the importance and happiness of giving back. In however small a way. For there is no greater joy.

Every change begins with a small step, whether it’s a change within your family, or the whole country! India’s hero, Padman, had its digital premiere on ZEE5, on 11th May. Don’t miss this inspiring true-life story, only on ZEE5. Download the app and subscribe now. For every subscription, ZEE5 will donate Rs. 5 towards the personal hygiene needs of underprivileged women.

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Drive

 

When was the last time you took a drive?

Just sat in the car, unclutched all your thoughts and accelerated far away from whatever is holding you back or towards whatever you want

The headlights come on, clearing your mind and the path ahead, showing you where you’re heading

The seat belt clicks you back into reality but as you pull out of the garage, you feel unfettered, free

Is it necessary to know where you’re going? Sometimes

Will you always know where you’ll end up? No

But does it matter?

The blinking street lights zip past like orderly, well behaved fireflies

Suddenly there is no traffic and you are left soldiering alone, against the inky black sky

Enjoying the solitude, enjoying the nothingness, enveloped in nothing but a nippy breeze

As you stick your hand out to tame the wind and try to grab fistfuls of it, your hand keeps flailing around, almost merry

And it’s a loss of control that feels amazing

Your hair, pulled away from your face is the only thing looking back, taking notes

While you blaze ahead, liberated, anxieties annihilated

Feeling like you’re infinite

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An heirloom

 

I owe you so much little one
I’ve tried to repay this debt in tears, patience, lessons, hugs and kisses
But there is so much more I want to show you before this world implodes and consumes itself
A million crimson sunsets, where you can just hear that slight thud when the horizon gets greedy and gobbles up the fiery spheres
Beautiful rivers that carry hopes and goods and people, up and down, like the tides of life
Mute verdure mountains awash with the beauty of simplicity
Kind people who help everyone in their paths like gentle streams rearranging pebbles along their way
Gestures that are laden with hope and happiness, not reciprocity
Long drives taking us to new places, new people, new experiences and sometimes to nowhere
This basket that I’m weaving for you is full of small, simple, happy things
I’ll cover them all with a blanket of hope as I pass them on to you
I know you will look back and wonder what there is left to love in a world packed to the brim with hate, violence, blood and sorrow
But that is when I want you to sit with this little basket and see the wondrous world that was, and still could be, through my eyes

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Lights

They shimmer, they twinkle, they dance, they shine.

Riders of a dark world, to being messengers of the divine.

One little flicker can raise a lifetime of hope.

When snuffed out, you feel a paralysis of fear, like you’re hurtling helplessly down an endless slope.

Rows upon rows of illuminated bulbs can welcome a bridegroom atop his royal steed.

While under a flickering street lamp, sits a shrivelled mother telling her shrivelled son a fantastical tale from a tattered book, when that’s all that she can feed.

Many have spoken of seeing a bright speck of light at the end of a tunnel they see.

And some see these sparks even when their eyes are shut, their eyeballs darting around, trapped in a vivid dream.

The morning glint can hurt the eyes, or make them dazzle with delight.

The moonlit sky can light a melancholy in the heart, or build the runway for your imagination to fly.

You can embrace it, feel it, or then simply draw the blinds.

But a tiny tenacious ray will pierce through a crack, and fill your heart with a bright light.

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Bare


What if you were asked to show your real self? Express your true feelings. Be who you really are. 
Without any masks, without any make up, without any excuses.

Isin’t it scary?

That when every layer is peeled away, like an onion, what you might be left with, could be something pungent and not pleasant.

That when the veneers are gone, you might not even recognise yourself.

They say truth is liberating.

But sometimes it shackles you to the ground. You want to hope, you want to gallop but no matter how hard you pull away, you are what you are.

What will he think? Will I be slotted a fool? Or worse, will I be ostracised?

The truth is they will never know.

Because we do a fantastic job of cloaking ourselves.

Because the world outside the cloak is unknown and too scary.

Manners, social lies, sarcasm,excuses, take a pick and call them what you may

I am certainly no one to preach , but in some eyes, I have seen the serenity of a deveined and de shelled world, that doesn’t have to keep up appearances.

Certainly looks like a peaceful, tranquil place to be.

Is there some such tranquility in store for me?

Only time will tell.

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