My Journey to Self-Discovery

A months after my 23^rd birthday, I channeled my innate feelings and unspoken thoughts for the first time, only to experience liberation. While many think of this kind of an outpour to be an introvert’s resort, I believe every human carries the need, or the want, for a safe space. A place to just be.

While some may find this space in the company of people who get them, some may find it in the comfort of music or sports, or even meditation, among other things. I started a blog in December 2016. Imagine the nervousness of being a student and walking into a new classroom without knowing any of your classmates. During the first few months, every time I hit “Publish” on my screen, my state of mind was akin to being an out-of-place student.

Soon enough, putting pen to paper soon became my haven. As my words unleashed a torrent of emotions, all the anxiety, fear and confusion suddenly found a way out. A mere exercise of journalling my thoughts started feeling like catharsis. I had just found my safe space.

 8 years down the line, a few lakh words, several professional writing assignments and a degree in Creative Writing later, the motive behind coming back to the keyboard remains the same. With every new writing task, I’m still a student walking into a new classroom, except that now this student has discovered her voice and can hold her own in a crowd.

 

 

Kanda Poha and a Hazelnut Cappuccino

 A few years ago, a peer of mine once told me that people who leave their countries to live in another country, even if it is for as short a period as a year or two, always lead dual lives. Back then, I found this statement to be quite blatant and unfounded, but that may well be the truth.

My life in India was comfortable as it could get, like is the case with most Indian kids who live their parents. If you are a single child living with your family, then you can easily find yourself in the category of privileged kids. And more so, if are your mother’s ladla beta. While I don’t belong to any of these categories, I was free from any household responsibilities. Not only was I never expected to cook, but I also often enjoyed fully prepared meals of my choice. Seeing my crumpled clothes in the laundry basket magically appear in my cupboard the next day, fully ironed, was a reality. No matter what time I woke, the maid would be quick to make the bed. Getting champis from my mother or hearing my dad’s voice fill up with concern, while he strokes my head most gently, are some add-ons to a life of all the things I enjoyed in India.

Two years ago, I left India to live in Singapore. It’s no guess that my life changed to a very large extent. I’ve pretty much adjusted myself to my current life out of India, with a few bouts of homesickness here and there.  My definition of comfort has seen a huge shift. Today, every simple, home-cooked meal holds a lot of value. Having someone over is so rare that, much unlike my reaction when the doorbell rings in India, I always answer the doorbell with a lot of anticipation. I never thought that the sight of a growing pile of laundry would get me anxious. Consequently, seeing my clothes washed, dried and folded comes with a big relief. There are several comforts on my current list that I’m leaving out for now.

Looking back on my life in India, I’m realise how I’m finding comfort in all the things I once took for granted. However, during the times when I feel like it’s all getting too much, all I do is eat a phulka roti dipped in a steaming-hot cup of Nescafe coffee to make everything all right.

Thirty-One For Real

 I turned 31 this September, and the old adage “Time and tide wait for none” has never seemed any truer than it does in this moment. I wonder if it’s just me, but I somehow find myself associating more and more with the age I’m no longer at.

The thirties are generally the defining decade of your life, or so I’ve heard. Be it flourishing in your career, growing your family, or being old enough to be called a responsible man or woman, this fourth decade of life honestly makes me feel a little too overwhelmed. It’s sort of hilarious to see myself desperately looking into the mirror and saying. “I look 28 or maybe 29 at best, but certainly not 30 or more.” Simultaneously, my inner voice eerily tries to soothe my anxiety by reminding me that age is just a number. However, I’m not yet ready to take this, because adulting is real and I ain’t comfortable enough to accept that my mum was already a mother of two at my age.

As I reflect on the years that have gone by, my biggest realisation is that time is a thief. A big, bad wolf kind of a thief. Under the garb of growth, it has swiped off my childhood and thousands of precious moments with my loved ones, which I held onto as tightly as I could, only in vain. It has often managed to change my good times into bad. The evil force that time is, it has compelled my once youthful and energetic individuals to slow down, as they now lead their lives as senior citizens. If this is not enough, time has stripped me of the presence of some of my most beloved people, all while relegating them to mere memories.

At this point, I’m pondering over whether I’m more resistant to change than the idea of time itself. My current battle is more about trying to fight the anxiety that comes with the fear of tomorrow than about the past which is not the same as the present. And it is the hope that comes with the anxiety towards a future, which makes the race against time worth it.