30!

I am not an excited for birthdays kinda person, it’s usually an intimate gathering with friends, food and cold weather. But this year I was inclined to making a deal about it because 30 years is something. Then came the nightmare of a pandemic, jolting our everyday life and existence. What followed was a rollercoaster journey of anxiety laced with sanitizer and hand washes, cooking shenanigans, virtual everything, appreciating the golden/ purple hour, day-night merging work schedules, etc.

Living in a world inundated with done to death words from unprecedented to new world order, I had forgotten about the pre-meditated excitement of turning 30. Also, too much happened in personal and professional life keeping me distracted from the fact that my usual people wouldn’t be around. Or that I’d be celebrating in the new normal with a bunch of new people in a new stage of life.

I had plans/ checklists for when I become 30, right now they are in some corner of my bedside drawer mocking me. I’m nowhere close to what/ where I wanted to be when hit this milestone age. But I have a sense of contentment and gratitude, complimented a new wave of nervousness, a whole new set of existential questions and the joy of finding someone who has volunteered to join along this paraphernalia of life, existence and beyond.

Anyway, like every year, I sat down on my birthday night with a piece of cake for the annual tradition of going over life till now to marinate in some self loathing and wallowing. I tried hard to concentrate but all I could think of is that I lived and loved through a pandemic with essentials from people to product intact. Sure there were some moments of breakdown and a strong urge to up and leave everything to cocoon in misery. But hey, to err (cry) is human! So I celebrated in the new normal, bought a new mask, took a couple of days to process and made a note to remember that I have to fill 30 against my age in all paperwork now on.

Over thinking in the time to Corona!

For obvious reasons as lot of cleaning and cooking is happening these days along with home office-ing. In the last 14-15 years since I started living away, I preached cleaning as an outlet to take out unwanted emotional agony or just to sort things in my head. And cooking a calming therapy. But right now both these concepts make me more anxious than ever, each morning, especially since I am home alone these days. I tried making a schedule- alternate days cleaning, cooking all 3 meals once a day, etc. but like any other plan these remained aspirational. Then there’s this productivity guilt that sets in every evening looming over my coffee- Am I doing enough? Am I doing it right? Is there better way to manage house work and work work? When do I read or write or catch up on my watchlists? When will I find the time to check on my friends or call home? Did I leave the gas on? Do I have enough clean clothes? When should I do the laundry? Are the clothes dry, should I take them in now or finish this document and keep fold clothes tomorrow? When this lock down ends, it’s going to be a wild wild world outside. Will I have the strength to deal with it? What will I do when this is over? I mean, staying indoors is my thing.

To put an end to this, I promise myself to finish the coffee and get started with the tasks at hand. And here I am still thinking- should I make more elaborate to-do lists for the day? Will the houseplants die if I forget to water them or did I water them twice today? Did I drink enough water today? Should I just wash my hands again? Hands are getting dry with all the cleaning and washing, should I moisturize more? But then, should I sanitize after applying hand lotion or before? Oh wait, let me just clean around a little and I will be able to sort it out for myself. Voila, back in the vicious circle!

Am I the only one who feels this way? Shit, I must be doing something wrong here. Am I? There we go, again 😑!! 

Faith in the time of Corona

When I could go out shopping on one of the coldest nights of December 2019, I should now be able to sit comfortably indoors in the March of 2020. Why should one make it a case of victimisation?

There definitely is some discomfort for the priviledged and it is actually harrowing for the other section of the society. So why should I crib about my privilege? I mean I can, but would that help? On any given day under normal life circumstances, I am the ground zero of optimism so when something remotely decent happens, I find a reason to celebrate with a toast. That’s my defense/survival mechanism. I am not saying it’s healthy or life affirming but helps.

I am not trying to be all Maria from The Sound of Music here and in general I’m the antipode of anything Maria. And me not cribbing is not the sudden wave of positivity that hit me with this morning’s caffeine. This is just me trying to hold on to my faith in the universe with an couple of ounces of hope.

I believe that our lives are pre-ordained and that some parts of it can be metamorphosed. I also believe in density and the uncertain but delicious ambiguity of this very universe. And that death is inevitable, much like Newton’s third law, action and consequence. So either I die everyday with the fear and irritability of the unknown or just be thankful for the life (with some existential crisis).

Also when all this is over, we can confidently say that we survived a pandemic with complete shut down for heaven’s sake, there’s not much in life that’s going to startle us easily anymore. That’s a good line to use over generations.

If stars could talk…

Sitting by my little window by the table, I wait for the traffic sound to die down. I browse through my phone gallery out of habit and keep coming back to this picture. I look at it, zoom and extra zoom it, hoping to see more of the colours and the lone star…

I can’t help but wonder what would stars talk about given a chance. Would it be about how colourful the earth looks from above? Or would it be how many shades are there in the sky? Would they look at a falling human and make a wish? Or do they also look for human constellations tracing back to a mythological story? Maybe they have something good to say about humans. Do stars become humans when they fall (die)? Do they observe is hiding behind the sun during the day? Or do they think humans are devils who come out only in the dark? There must be a way to find out. Don’t you think?

And what did the lone star do to be alone this way. Is it lost or does it just enjoy solitude? Maybe it’s taking a break from the constellation for ‘me time’. Is it dealing with personal loss, heartbreak or healing? Maybe it’s just celebrating it’s life without overthinking. Maybe it happy about being alone in the glorious sky with splashes of blue, orange, yellow and red. There must be a way to find out. Don’t you think?

Do stars have a positive connotation for dark and scary story for the sun that takes away their shine? Do they play hide and seek with the clouds? Or maybe they dance in the rain. Do they grieve, love or hate? Do they wonder when the moon goes missing on some days? Do they have a theory for the horizon? Maybe they too dwell in the marvelous beauty of the sunrise and the dusk. There must be a way to find out. Don’t you think?

29!

I turned 29 earlier this week, I’m still trying to process how I feel about it. To be honest, it wasn’t a great day and probably one of the dullest birthdays till date. I’m not one to make a big deal about my birthday, I’m just happy with a cake. I’m an old soul, therefore no complaints about turning a year older either. And this year, despite moving cities, I got to be in Delhi with all my loved ones around to celebrate. My people did the best to make me feel good/special.

But with so much going around, I was feeling disturbed, much like every other citizen in the country. These are not good times, but when I look back, the journey from 28 to 29 has been bumpy with whole new level of adulting. I have lost people to death and indifference, I’m not sure which one hurts more though, but I can draw parallels. I can’t seem to decipher the loss, but I’m living with it for now. I no longer cry, scream or fight. I absorb, process and rant about it with a few people; write, scribble, rewrite, watch old shows, plug in earphones, walk behind closed doors and unknown streets. No, I haven’t given up on life as yet; maybe I just have grown up in some aspects.

The bittersweet thing about growing up is your heart is filled with happiness seeing your friends settle and it aches at the same time to sub-consciously even acknowledge that things will change now. Nostalgia, however is a constant- in the form of therapy, reflecting on good things and laughing at your own goofiness. I now understand what Jim and Pam from The Office meant when they said they wouldn’t want to change anything in their 10-year life documentary and how it was priceless. Except that, in real life there aren’t cameras following you around everywhere, it’s a whole bunch of people, memories, some embarrassing digital traces, obnoxiously loud laughter and crates full of love. Wrapping up 29, I’m only thankful for all of that and can say with some confidence that the ride to 30 is going to be convivial when I look back.

The year end escape mechanism

It’s almost the end of 2019 and I’m contemplating if a quick walk back into the memory lane will do me good or make me feel stagnant. Do flashbacks, replays and throwbacks have to be always this unnerving? I thrived on nostalgia for a very long time. Then I noticed, there was a pattern. I promise myself a quick walk and end up rethinking, lamenting, cherishing, sobbing, questioning everything all over again. While I am doing this, there is definite conscious and knowledge that it all happened for a reason and there is no way of changing the past. But who am I to stop the quirks and cheap thrills of the human mind!
So, I instead try to find a background track and bloody @spotifyindia / @gaana / @soundcloud (please don’t recommend new platforms, I am old school) almost never have the song/version of the song I am looking for. So I open @netflix_in watch @friends and @theofficenbc on borrowed @primevideoin account. Or watch @theellenshow on @youtubeindia
And life goes on!
This is my escape mechanism. Thank you and you are welcome.

My saree story!

Like a typical Indian girl, growing up I enjoyed draping ‘pretend saree’ and ‘towel hair’, that was all what being a grown-up meant to me. I grew up around a lot of women, walking and functioning, beautifully wrapped in the sarees like Goddesses ready for anything. But I grew up and got detached from the concept of saree. To be honest, I don’t know if I even wanted to because I was that ‘healthy’ kid in my family who looked older than her age and concern was shown by drawing comparisons. I hated it back then, but I don’t blame them, I guess they didn’t know any better. Anyway, I resorted to it only for school farewells and thought that was the end of it. But life had different plans, graduation college mandated wearing sarees once every damn week! I was in a hostel, barely managing to hold a dupatta, luckily, I found help and gradually learnt to drape it without any damage to life or property. By the end of graduation, I was the official saree draper in my family, except I wouldn’t voluntarily prefer it for myself. I bid adieu to the nine yards for the second time and it lasted for a long time.
In last couple of years, thanks to Instagram, I have been scrolling through the various #sareemovements. Finally, last year, I bought my very own saree for a friend’s wedding from Instagram. But, I had lost my saree draping skills. They say luck favours the brave and so it did, I had people to help me (averting major causalities). I will not deny, it felt so beautiful. In the adrenaline rush, I bought saree number 2 again, from Instagram for another friend’s wedding. And without doubt, it felt cautiously empowering. The comfort of Instagram shopping allured me to get this beautiful grey saree number 3, but after lying around in the dark corners of my wardrobe for a year and half, it served purpose at a wedding function, again.
I realise, each time I wore a saree it was for a special occasion, because for me the nine-yards is festivities and celebrations. While, I am yet to explore whether I am able to manage day-to-day affairs in a saree (while saree number 4&5 await inauguration), I am almost tempted to find that out! 

Write to me, will you?

Will you write me, my dear, or should I write to you first, will that be alright?
No matter how silly or how grave, will you write to me my dear, or will that be too vulnerable?
No no, I don’t mean like an email or a text or a ping!
Write to me the old fashioned way, even if it’s the smallest letter in the whole world.
Sit down in the favorite corner of your house or that cafe you told me about, and write to me from there, will you?
Pick up a pen and let it blot traces in the form of words, punctuations, incomplete sentences, broken thoughts…
On the quietest nights, write me your fears
On the brightest of days, write me how you smiled with the sunlight against your closed eyes
On the dullest noons, write me how you learnt sleeping with your eyes open
On the craziest evenings, write to me how you looked up at the sky during your coffee break, will you?
On weekdays, write me about the monotony and on weekends, write me about your sleep marathons.
On birthdays, write to me about the surprise party you knew about all along.
When there is nothing to write, just write that you care, will you, my dear?
This might sound crazy but no matter how much the technology advances, handwritten words make me feel the safest on the darkest days.
For days when you feel lonely, write that everything will be alright and you just need to show up, write that letter to yourself my dear, will you?
Because no matter how much I try, I will not be able to say it with enough conviction to comfort you. I’m sorry but you know I just can’t be vulnerable. Not in front of you or anyone, for the world has taught me my lessons. I’m sorry but write me your thoughts my dear, will you?

Let love be fluid!

I don’t agree when people say things like ‘you deserve to be loved/ you need to find love/ hang in there, love will find you’ etc. Mostly this love refers to the romantic kind, the kind that makes you want to stay in bed for 5 extra mins of cuddle, slogging through a rough day to go back home to someone’s arms, so on and so forth. No doubt it’s beautiful but I think we are being myopic here, our ideas about life and love have been vividly painted by the world of motion pictures. In this age of ‘beyond the norm’ relationships, there still runs a parallel cliched love story.
For the longest, I believed that everyone comes across one great love in life, depending on whether it stays or not, you pick your narrative for love and related things. That would be it, simple, I thought. So when my ‘great’ love left I tried to weave my life accordingly with various permutations and combinations. I thought I did well but for reasons beyond my understanding, I was always told that while I let go of the past, I need to come out of ‘my shell’ and ‘I will find the forever kinda love’. I gave it a shot (no, I did not go on a dating app spree). But I didn’t find one great love, I found many, in more than one shape, size, form and feeling.
I saw it from the eyes of my mother who in her 40s is passionate about her entrepreneurial love. I smiled at the love of my innocent father who insists on video calls even when we have literally nothing to talk about and wishes me all the best at the end of every call. I was lucky enough to witness love from friends who keep me warm in more ways than I can probably think of. I experienced unconditional love of a handful family members. I am thankful for the love from those friends, who always help me pick clothes, despite the distance. I found love in the fading handwritten letter from a long lost friend. I reciprocated love that came disguised as all okay, let me know when you reach home and how are things. I appreciated love that came as assurance in the form of hugs, forehead kisses and holding hands while crossing the road.
Like Rumi said, we are born of love, love is our mother. So please, let love be fluid. Let love just be!

So much hypothetical anxiety…

Hi, this is me, the not-so-very-optimistic semi-adult who get anxious 12 out of 10 times about 20 days a month. An example of my paranoia, before every journey while I enthusiastically look forward to it for weeks, I also think that there’s going to be a crash because some moron will jump a signal or the ‘left phalange of the airplane’ will go missing and that will be it. If nothing else, my luggage will go missing. This is in addition to the generic fears every woman in the country has on top of their minds.

On a regular day when I leave home, I lock everything, turn off the gas and still fear that something catastrophic will happen and by the time I return, my room would have disappeared (note to self: must take a break from Murakami). I seal every gap in the room to avoid the uninvited occasional wall reptile (I’m not using the name because it scars the bejesus out of me and I also think that if I say it out, it will appear in my life). So basically, trust doesn’t come easily to me, one of the biggest reasons why I have only handful of ‘my people’ in life. I have several such hypothetical fatal versions of this paranoia, for every urban situation and person. Much like the Google search for any minor health symptom that eventually leads you cancer scare!

Inevitably, I think there will be a lonely death. I stay away from family and a lot of friends, so lonely. Also, in the new city, it’s death in unknown places and the fear of being unidentified. So much hypothetical anxiety that on some days I wake in the middle of the night trying to figure out if I’m still on earth or floating between heaven and hell (not sure what I deserve so…). Then, I also try to figure out who will erase my digital identity when I leave this materialistic world, who can I entrust with my passwords and et al. Bigger question, will I be able to transcend? And then I put together the funeral guest list (it gets updated regularly). This is how a part of my brain works.

But to my own surprise, these fears vanish when I visit places which are closer to nature and have zero phone connectivity. Something about the minimalistic lifestyle seems alluring and warms the cockles of my heart. To an extent that I am even okay giving up on my curly hair products (they are quite dear to me).

There’s a constant subtle smile, I wake up early to soak in the morning quiet, uninterrupted sweet melancholy and calm, that feels like a long warm hug from life. The probability of anything disastrous happening in the wild is multi-fold but strangely, there’s no trepidation or inhibition.

I think the human anxiety is caused by human interactions and everything the world asks of you. Just like the lion, in the jungle, in the mighty jungle with a quiet village nearby, I think I can also sleep peacefully every night. And, the old lady in me resolves the issues with the voices in my head. So, it’s all good.

A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh