Imprinting My Indian Conscience In London

My first memories of London include roaming around the streets as an 8-year-old, overflowing with patriotism upon seeing the wax statue of Mahatma Gandhi at Madame Tussauds and feeling a deep sense of deceit at the sight of the magnificent Kohinoor diamond.

It’s been 17 years since that eventful trip, and the national pride still remains well-intact. At 25, I have decided to come back to the English capital as an international student. It has been exactly 5 months from the time I left my homeland, and every single day away from it only serves an opportunity, and a rather big one at that, to be reminded that being an Indian forms a bigger part of my identity.

As the croaky sound of my alarm sets off amidst stoic silence, I open my eyes to the most serene view of clear skies and the gigantic Wembley Stadium arch. Just when I’m about to turn around and pull my blanket over my face, my thoughts chase me to seek an update on the weather to vaguely assess the rest of my day. Having lived in the perennially hot and humid weather of Mumbai all my life, checking the weather app regularly and seizing my spotlight in the sun is certainly no mean feat and that’s not it; the unpredictability and randomness of the rains in the city make it is hard to miss the sight of my spotted yellow umbrella in my bag at any given time. How the city of London has ably triggered new responsibilities!

With the zip of my jacket pulled up to cover all the bare skin, I take a brief look into my bag to check for all the essentials for the day, including my spotted yellow umbrella. I pace up to the nearest Underground station to catch a 9:23 a.m. train to Baker Street. Despite a careful attempt to place my steel lunch box and my flask in two different corners of my bag, the two make the most engaging sound banging into each other, as I climb up the lengthy stairs of the station, attracting the attention of most passers-by. I run across to the platform before I can even catch my breath, only to find the train beginning to move. “But it’s not even 9:24 as yet!” I exclaim, out of breath, as an expression of disappointment takes over my face.

The aroma of the sabudana khichdi wafts across the compartment of the train. Surprisingly, this is one of the first times I actually feel at home after moving to London. While I relished my amateur cooking, oblivious to my surroundings, I, for once, remind myself that it is okay to let myself slip in the realms of familiarity and revel in the joy of what remains explored. I allow myself a   chance to exploit and reunite with the selfless joy of belongingness. I, for one, proudly represent the food I’m eating.

I get off the train taking the potent smell of the well-garnished sabudana that lingers in my hands. The journey from the platform to my class is precisely seven minutes, including the wait time for the lift and I have only 5 minutes to get to my destination. Not withstanding the state of pandemonium my mind is in, I wait at the signal for the pedestrian sign to turn green. It is one of the few moments when I feel like I don’t want to begin something new for the fear of having missed the initial moments. The feeling of being late for my class by 2-3 minutes in a foreign country triggers a sense of hopelessness and defeat.

It is ironic how the things that have consistently been within a focal range in my life have often been the ones most overlooked. More often than not, it is these things that usually bring in the element of stability and allow one to engage in other, so-called “more important” activities. I have realized the hard way that nothing in life comes free, and that includes the independence and freedom I have been explicit and vociferous in demanding. I force myself to think that the reason I’m late for my class is because I tried to spend a little too much time trying to replicate the taste of my mother’s cooking. I convince myself to believe that I’m late because I got busy ironing the clothes I had to wear. I want to tell myself that I’m late is because there was no one that I could ask to clear the mess in my house. How I miss witnessing magic around me when my mum is around!

Most of the people I know here have often been at the receiving end of the endless stories and incidents from India, that I carry around in my headspace. I have already taught some Hindi words to some of the people I bond with and one of the most endearing things I experience is watching them greet me in the most anglicized Hindi I have ever heard.

I have made an exhaustive list of the things I need to purchase on my way home from my university. Knowing the peculiarities of my Indian brain, I’m carrying 4 large plastic bags in my handbag to save myself from any additional costs. Once in the store, I carefully scan through every aisle, making sure that I don’t miss out on any essentials. As I’m checking things off my list, I stop at bhindi or ‘lady finger’. I wander across the aisle in search of the name tag for the green vegetable. I catch hold of one of the staffers, trying to explain what I’m looking for. Watching our animated discussion from afar, a brown man walks up to me and tells me “I think what you are looking for is okra. You will find it in the aisle behind this” in what sounds like a typical Indian accent. There is an inexplicable joy in the feeling of being surrounded by your countrymen when you’re away from your homeland. Through the rest of my time in the store, I’m reveling in the comforting exercise of decoding the mannerisms of the man in a bid to declare him a man form my land.

As I step out of the store with bags brimming with what seems like my stocks for the rainy day, I see droplets of water sliding down the overhead roof. It’s only mid-March and I’m all ready to take out my spotted yellow umbrella.

60 minutes in a London café

As a child, I found bars and cafés to be mysterious places which saw shady people enjoy sinful indulgences. My distorted conjecture was born out of my parents’ unwillingness to let me walk alone past a bar close to our house, which had been busted by the police for its illegal activities. Over the years, I visited a few bars and cafés reluctantly, almost judging everyone that I saw around.

After what seems like an eternity, I recently visited Little Portland Café which is situated on Little Portland Street, London, as part of my blog assignment. The cafe is a tiny, frenzied place which is brimming with a diverse crowd, right from selfie-loving teenagers to typical English gentlemen, coffee aficionados to the vegan youth. I was fortunate enough to find a table on a Saturday afternoon.

I felt dreadful for the first fifteen minutes after taking my table, reconsidering my decision to sit in a “café” and observe the ongoings. The menu was listed on a giant blackboard. “One hot chocolate and one cheese chilli sandwich please,” I said to a speedy waitress, before she asked me to be comfortable. It wondered if working in the café and dealing with hundreds of visitors everyday, with each one coming from a different walk of life, had taught her to read their minds with consummate ease.

The table on my left was filled with an eclectic mix of food items. It turned out that the bunch of teenagers seated there were making the most of the student discount that applied to their orders. The sound of constant giggles, gossips and incessant laughter coming from the youngsters demanded that I loosen up, but then, the two elderly Englishmen on my right held their own. Black suits and matching hats adorned their tall statures, while their self-standing (and black) walking sticks were placed exactly parallel to their right legs. They bonded like two old friends who were reminiscing their past glories and reveling in their life learnings. Upon further observing them, I noticed how none interrupted the other while talking. It seemed that one could see the wisdom through their wrinkles.

I was almost going to spill my hot chocolate on my white pants in a bid to keep up with the activities on both sides. I pulled myself back in my chair, before realizing how I was actually bridging a vast generational gap between both the tables. While the group of teens were full of young energy, dreams and rebellion, who could blow up with the slightest provocation, the gentlemen on my right were oozing wisdom and laughing away all their misgivings with calm.

As easily as I could laugh with contentment in the comfort of the knowledge that I was well past the phase of my life that the teenagers were experiencing, and marvel at the sight of the two elderly men who took pride in the wisdom and perfection attained with age, I wasn’t able to see myself in them. It was one of those rare occasions when I didn’t want to fit in. I just wanted to pause my thinking and live in the moment. For once, all I wanted to experience was what being a twenty-five-year-old really felt like.

My state of mind had changed completely from the time I entered the café. I soon finished my hot chocolate and sandwich and decided to make an exit. Just as I was about to leave the café, a voice behind me went “Bye, ma’am. I hope you have been comfortable.” My doubt had been confirmed. The waitress could indeed read minds. 

The Halo of Pride

                                              

April 7, 2002

“I shall take you wherever you wish to go,” my father finally made the promise to his ten-year-old daughter, who never ceased to dream about traversing the world with her dreamy eyes. It was the day when months of anticipation and persistent efforts had come together, to give me something that eventually set the tone for the rest of my life. My father was obliged to fulfill his child’s wishes only to see her give an outstanding performance in academics.

 
My father had always been a man of his words. He was honest to the point where he would choose to get reprimanded for his actions over speaking lies to cover his mistake. He was a proud man, for he was one of those people that had achieved success with sheer integrity and goodwill. Growing up, his principles interfered even in the most innocuous of my actions. So clearly was the picture of the right and the wrong embedded in my mind, that I had grown to fear any encounter with mistakes. But then, my father always stated, “All you must ever fear is fear itself.” Knowing full well my father’s regard for truthfulness, I mastered the art of keeping conditions in exchange for all that he expected of me.

In May 2002, we took off to explore what urban dreams are made of: London. Having grown up in Mumbai, India, what I really fancied about the Western countries was the cleanliness and the  kind of space dedicated to public entertainment and refreshment. One of the best things about having a wish granted on a condition was that it entitled me to make many subsequent demands along the rest of my trip with barely any objection.

Soon after we landed in London, I chanced upon some people riding their bicycles around Trafalgar Square. “Look, there are so many cyclists here! I, too, want to ride a bicycle. Please, Papa,” I exclaimed in sudden desperation. My first wish on the trip was granted in a flash, much like how I decided on the destination for our trip.

The best part about the London summer is its long days. It was almost 10 p.m. and the sun was beginning to immerse amidst its plentiful rays. As the winds started blowing with more gusto, I began pedalling harder. For the first time, I was experiencing a sense of coming closer to my dreams and there was no way I was anywhere close to ready to let go of the fervour of freedom. The feeling of independence was indeed addictive. Everything around me soon started to get dark. Not realizing how far I had come, I turned around to look for my father. I was filled with trepidation when I did not find him anywhere around. People around seemed too occupied to even glance at my distraught face. With every passing minute, the shade of red on my face was intensifying. Little did I know, then, that my father was always going to have my back.

I was almost on the verge of tearing up, when I saw my father silently watching me from the corner of the lane. I shoved aside my bicycle and ran towards him. “You were so engrossed in soaking up all the excitement of your freedom, that you may probably not have realized that your father had not moved an inch from where you began cycling,” my father said, placating me, while I firmly clutched his hand. “But why did you not reach out to me when you saw me looking for you?” I asked, while my tears seamlessly continued to roll down my eyes. Wiping my tears, he said, “The reason you got scared was not because you had taken off in another direction, but because it got dark and you were unable to find me. In order to get a taste of thrill and success, you ought to step out of your comfort zone. Most of the times, we restrict our own success, for we fear that we might become alone in the journey of life. Through the rest of your life, I want you to be your own motivator. I want you to find solace in your company, for you can tap into unlimited potentialities if you learn to enjoy your company. And if you ever happen to lose your way, you can always turn around to find your father waiting to show you the way.”

 
As I tried to wipe away my tears and catch my breath, I promised my father how I would dutifully follow his advice, provided that he allowed me to stay in the embrace of his hug for a little longer. There came the second wish! Little did I know, then, that my father was holding back his tears.

Through the rest of our journey, I cycled into every by-lane of London, with every sunrise and sunset marking the start and end of my two wheeled expedition respectively. With every step that took me further away from my father, I was given an assuring smile that allowed me the freedom to choose my own path. I realized how warm and eclectic London was. It had presented itself as a potpourri of world cultures. It was an unusual combination of countryside-like beauty and unstoppable frenzy. The entire city felt like it was a part of some systematic chaos. Maybe it was the tall buildings that my ten-year-old self got lured into counting, or witnessing men and women dressed in the most elegant manner on the busy Oxford Street, racing against time, or just being in close proximity to Buckingham Palace, the enchanting landscape of the city was hard to miss, but there was one thing that I wasn’t able to get enough of. The British Library captivated my attention right from the time I set eyes upon its larger-than-life presence. Little did I know, then, that my father had well anticipated my third wish.

The British Library was a world within itself. It looked every bit the biggest national library in the world. There was an air about the gigantic structure that was quite stimulating. I was quick to grab my favourite Harry Potter book and sit in one corner. The Harry Potter books had created a massive rage in India then. It had become a common topic of discussion among the students in my school. For someone who was obsessed with literature and the arts, I couldn’t stop fantasizing about writing novels and becoming famous. “One day, you will find my books in the British Library!” I exclaimed to my father with new-found pride. Little did I know, then, that my father was the loudest one cheering for my success.


April 7, 2012

The moment I had most carefully envisioned had finally arrived. I was setting foot in London after ten years. London was still the same; warm and eclectic. Summer was settling into the city, while the sudden showers continued to add to the spontaneity of a Londoner’s life.

 Surprisingly, I found myself to be the same girl who never ceased to dream about traversing the world with her dreamy eyes. Almost everything in my life had changed from the time I had first visited London, but then, a lot still felt the same. I was still around unknown faces. Men and women were still dressed in the most elegant manner. Oxford Street was busy as ever.

 
The British Library, over the years, had carefully nurtured my dream, only to bear testimony to the promise I had made to my father in its premises a decade later. After fighting countless battles and taking many an unassured stride along the years. I was back amidst the grandeur of The British Library and a frantic bunch of book lovers and aspiring writers, that had turned up to witness my first ever book launch.

As I was called upon the stage to launch the book, a packed auditorium roared to give me a loud cheer.  This time around, even with hordes of unknown faces surrounding me, I did not worry about finding my father. All I did was silently look up for the skies to see my proud father smiling back at me and giving me an assuring smile. 

Tera buzz and My buzz

The other day, as I was about to board a flight from Dubai to Amman, I happened to carefully listen to Buzz by Badshah and Aastha Gill.  What followed was me trying to make a judgement with respect to what the Bollywood music scene is getting to. If the increasing amalgamation of Hindi-English lyrics in our songs was not enough, their crass lyrics, in a bid to increase the song’s youth following, seems to do no good to its recall value. 

In any case, I thought it would be a good idea to attempt translating the song’s lyrics to English to see if the eccentricity of the song intensified any further in English. Here’s presenting my version of the song Buzz in English. And if you’re wondering what my answer to the hilarity of the English version is, then you will have to wait.

My heart is not satisfied with you...

Your buzz doesn’t let me live

Doesn’t let me live… (4)

My heart is not satisfied with you

Now you are the doer and keeper (2)

And you don't let me drink water

Don’t let me drink

Your buzz doesn’t let me live

Doesn’t let me live (4)

Your eyes are trip

Your hair forms beautiful ringlets

You walk around as if

Everything belongs to your dad (2)

And you hold my waist to pull me

My fate is right under my feet (2)

Let it be and don't set me free

Set me free

Your buzz doesn’t let me live… (4)

Okay, okay, okay, I agree you are sick

You are thick from all the required places

Don't come in my sight and don’t show me your face

I shall break your heart, take this and note it down

Baby, ask anybody around, this lad is too much

My words have a slight Haryanvi twang 

All the rumours that you have heard from your women friends about me

They are all true

Baby, I am the one against whom

You may be getting cautioned by your mother

BAD shah is my name, and you can change it

If I did not get a no ensured for you

Everybody keeps looking at me

But I chose to only look at you

Everything around looks blurry

When the focus is on you (2)

Don’t show so much haste

By making lazy talks (2)

Don’t give me such stupid thoughts

 Your buzz doesn’t let me live… (2)

Astha Gill 

Your buzz doesn’t let me live… (2)

It’s your boy Badshah!

Your buzz doesn’t let me live

Doesn’t let me live… (4)

Hmm...And the buzz of this song was a little too much to handle. Quite surprisingly, this song is stuck in my head. What do you think? 

The woman I am not

Happiness lies in equality

Have you wondered how rapidly the relevance of ‘feminism’ has surged in the Indian cultural context in the last decade, and moreover in the past 5 years? The outcry of women empowerment and the need to give them the respect and honour that had been evading the Indian woman does quite a bit to question the status of women before the sudden ‘awareness’ wave came about. Every other person wants to talk into showing how he/she is pro women’s rights. On my part, I feel a better way to deal with the ill mentality towards women and their status in the society is by looking in the face of all the challenges and barriers that face us, to collectively upgrade the framework of an Indian woman. Asking someone to respect us is an obligation, which does not serve the real purpose in the long run. Women deserve respect.

I had envisioned my adult life when I was just a little girl, dancing around and making merry, while many people around slotted me as a doll who would grow up one day to become her husband’s responsibility. Like many, I have often reveled in the joy of seeing a future that presents an advanced and glorified version of myself. While some of us restrict our greatness to a dreamy vision, very few go on to actually embody the person we have imagined ourselves to be. ‘I’m not the one to accept dominance. I shall grow up to be a fearless, decisive and independent lady, who will command respect,’ I would often repeat to myself, upon the slightest provocation. As I grew older, I started relegating my future portrait to just my imagination. My reality soon started to look like the reality of the women around me. I almost felt like the frog whose bubble burst as soon as it stepped into the real world. All of this only signaled one thing - it was time to change my reality to do justice to the woman in me!

At first, it was imperative to accept that it was okay to not know everything, even the things that the society has associated with womanhood. The real challenge lied in understanding my strengths to my full potential. It was important to tell myself that it was okay to let out my emotions and cry once in a while, but it was not okay to let anyone tell me what I could and could not do. It meant that I had to train myself into accepting that if I am to be equal to a man, I must exempt men from all preconceived notions that be. And the exercise ought to be applied at the grassroots. It meant that it was okay to dress in short clothes, but it was not okay to think every man was misogynistic internally. It meant that it was okay to learn how to cook, but it was not okay to not do the ‘manly’ chores (read lifting luggage and taking ‘big’ decisions). It meant that it was okay to enjoy gossips, but it certainly was not okay to shy away from discussing menstruation and sanitary hygiene around males. It also meant that it was okay to be the only woman in a group of friends, but it was certainly not okay to label a man flirt and playboy if he is seen around women.

While we largely talk about the bigger acts that work to demean a woman’s self-worth and morality, let’s not forget that they all stem from notions and egos the society has firmly implanted. If the society must really change, at large, then it must learn to let a woman establish her own self-worth and find out her real identity, apart from being a mother, sister, wife and daughter. Do not forget she is a human being, first. Everything else is secondary. And this journey must start right from the time she is born. Give her the freedom to do the same things her brother does. Let her make her own choices and lead the life she deems fit for herself. Instead of protecting for the fear that she might not be able to fight her battles, emphasize the importance of supporting her own living. Teach her how to drive a car before you generalize women’s driving. Make her strong enough to wipe her own tears and continue facing her fears and challenges. Compliment her strengths and skills instead of marveling at her beauty. Don’t fill the canvas of her life only with shades of pink. Let her choose the colours she wants to fill her life with. This will teach her to respect and experience the diversity of life. The only time we can proudly call ourselves feminists is when all women are born as equals, while growing up to think that there is no other way of life.

Things to learn from Rahul Gandhi

As a sucker for humour and sarcasm, I have been fed my dose of essentials for a long time with the fabricated touch of media, but my assumptions were met with a pleasant surprise when I glimpsed a historic hug in Lok Sabha, last week, during the no-confidence motion. Among other things, the speeches given at the session were filled with enough antics to tickle a layman’s funny bone. To give you an idea of the intensity of this laugh riot, through the week that went by, my routine after coming back from work focused on overdosing on all the footage glorying Mr. Gandhi’s actions and speeches from the past. When most people choose to emphasize Indian politics as a source of regular entertainment and hapless tragedy, here’s a few things I would like to take back from his speeches,  other than seeking comical relief, which I have decided to call my learnings from the bachelor.

1) Choose your career wisely: It is better to understand your capabilities and stay within your limits, while taking a shot at success than to explore options without understanding your interests.

2) Have self-belief: Whether people thrash you for your lack of smartness, boo you for your immaturity and stupidity, or simply relegate you to being a failure, keep your head high and don’t lose your belief in yourself.

3) Practise forgiveness: In the 21st century, it is a rarity to find someone reflect a value as sacred as forgiveness. And when we are to find someone that is ready to indulge in the act in full public view,
we must indeed celebrate the moment. Plus, let’s not forget that by forgiving someone, we, first, forgive ourselves.

4) Live in the present: It’s important to bury the past and look beyond all your actions to ensure that you can exist peacefully in the present. Follies, mistakes and spiteful actions only reinforce the human side to everybody.

5) Make light of every situation: Leading a life with intensity and seriousness kills the vibe. No situation, absolutely no situation, should keep you from having your share of fun and joy.

6) Learn to laugh at yourself: It takes an enlightened person who can laugh at himself. There’s a saying which goes as ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you, snore and you sleep alone.’ If the world chooses to mock you and laugh at you, join in the laughter and celebrate the happiness of the world.

 7) Keep trying until you succeed: It’s absolutely human to lapse and experience failure while trying to prove your point and battle hurdles, but it’s crucial to keep pushing yourself harder with every challenge you face.

8) Respect is earned: It doesn’t matter where you belong or which family you are born into, you will be respected only for your own actions.

9) Value your family: The word ‘privilege' for most is restricted to having fame and access to materialistic luxuries. Ask those that have lost their family members tragically and you will know the real blessing of life lies in the comfort of a happy family.

10) Educate yourself: There is a thin line between being well-educated and well-qualified. Choose the former, for it will truly empower you.

The Missing Buttons On My Sweater

                                                                                  Image Source: www.google.com

One of my fondest memories as a child is sitting at my grandmother’s feet and listening to her talk about the experiences and lessons from her life. I could listen to her for hours without getting distracted. My grandmother believed that real education entailed doing things out of the comfort zone and learning to look beyond the barriers set by human minds. “Unfortunately, the the education that we receive in schools and colleges makes us more qualified than educated.  It is important to grow beyond what we are taught to truly become learned and make a difference,” my grandmother often remarked. She wasn't a highly educated woman, according to the standards set by our society, and nor had she ever ‘worked’ for a living, but she was a very disciplined and astute woman, who had a mind of her own. It’s no wonder that her words still ring true in my head.

My long summer vacations during my school years were spent at my grandmother’s house, who lived in our ancestral home in the interiors of Gujarat. Spending my vacations with her always meant learning something new, either by observing her or from the valuable life-lessons she would share. One day, as I sat beside my grandmother to listen to her talk about her life struggles, I saw her opening a small box of fancy buttons. I was fascinated looking at her collection of studs, while she tried to choose the right buttons for my sweater. Little did I know that it was going to be the last sweater she would knit for me. While sifting through the buttons that had been carefully preserved over the years, we realised that none of the fancy studs in the box suited my aqua blue sweater. “Don’t worry, we shall go and buy matching buttons for your sweater, tomorrow,” my grandmother said, immediately, after watching the excitement on my face give way to a frown. 

My grandmother decided to live alone following the untimely death of my grandfather. Despite several attempts to convince her that staying with her children was indeed a good idea, she refused to uproot her life and routine in that small house. She did all the household chores with little help from anyone. “The more you grow dependent the more you let someone control your life,” she would state as a matter of fact. I woke up the next morning in anticipation of my visit to the shopping market. Most vendors in the village market came from neighbouring villages and would set up shop only in the evening. The sight of make-shift stalls selling fancy items, women excitedly trying out various accessories, children pestering their mothers for a gola (ice-candy) and vendors at small eating joints calling out customers to taste their hot-selling dishes never failed to mesmerize me. It was refreshing to feel the warmth and connectedness among the people of the village without there being any need to interact with each other. It was a far cry from the busy, city life of Mumbai.

I hurried my grandmother to leave for the market so that we could reach before the market got crowded. While my grandmother and I strolled, looking at the various stalls around, many a vendor tried to stop us and display their items in a bid to promise us a better deal. “These buttons are so beautiful, Ba! They are also very light and would look perfect on a sweater,” I exclaimed, as soon as I came across some very attractive, hand-crafted buttons. I was, instantly, tempted to buy those buttons, and, much to my surprise, they also happened to be quite reasonably priced. I, immediately, turned to my grandmother, who said, “Do you see that ice-cream stall? It sells the best ice-cream in the village. And the ice-cream barely costs anything. We must go and have 5 cups of ice-cream each, today” she stated in her typically calm tone. “But I usually cannot relish ice-cream beyond 2 scoops, no matter how good it is. And did you forget that we also have to buy my favorite chocolates before going home?” I replied. My grandmother smiled as if she knew it all. “The biggest mistake we make in our lives is that we fail to differentiate between what we need and what we think we need. Just because the ice-cream is good and you can buy as many cups as you want doesn't mean we must have it beyond our capacity. At the end, you won’t benefit in any way. You've over-eaten the ice-cream, that you did not have to, and you also won’t value eating the chocolates you most love, since you've had more than your desired share of something sweet,” she explained in a manner which was indeed delightful. Although it was difficult to convince a young, raw mind to look away from what it had set itself to, for once, I had decided to heed my grandmother’s advice. 

As we continued our stroll in the market, we saw a distressed man lying on the streets. There was blood dripping from his nose and his arms and feet had severe bruise marks. At first, it seemed like the man was involved in brawl with some locals, but it turned out that the man was a construction worker, who had accidentally fallen off the construction site, nearby. It was shocking to see that nobody bothered to reach out to him. All that I could gather from that sight was that there was a man covered in blood stains and crying in extreme pain, and all that the people around chose to do was take a glimpse of the situation and move on. My grandmother handed all her belongings to me and rushed to the man’s aid. With some assistance from the locals, she managed to take him to the only hospital in the village. It was later learnt that the man was suffering from vitiligo, a condition which is characterized by the loss of skin colour in certain parts of the body. In India, especially in most rural areas, people suffering from this disease are considered to be social outcasts, almost to the point of relegating them to the place of sub-humans. 

The man’s family profusely thanked my grandmother for her brave act that entailed putting humanity above everything else. In their eyes, my grandmother was a real-life hero who had successfully battled the demons and unwarranted complexities of the human mind to let her real intentions come to the fore. But to my grandmother, she had only fulfilled her most basic duty as a human being. It was surprising to know how, despite being the most evolved of the lot, humans fail the evolution test every time they are pitted against each other. On our way back home, I kept pondering over the incidents that had transpired through the day. Although, at that point in time, my raw mind could take little more than the disappointment of having to go home empty-handed, there were some lessons I picked up that day that will loom large over my existence till the time I live. My grandmother was indeed correct when she stated that educated men in our society were much fewer than qualified men, for real education encompassed deeds that go far beyond selfishness and competence that degrade the spirit of humanity. One of the things the failure of our work and choices can be attributed to is the bleak division between our priorities and desires.

As humans, we, often, get so engrossed in chasing our dreams that we forget what we had actually set out for. My grandmother did not live enough to find me the right buttons for my sweater, but she enlightened a mind that would have, perhaps, been left untamed in this all-for-money world. As I continue my search for the right buttons for my sweater, I either come across  buttons in inappropriate colours, or those that my wise and ‘educated’ grandmother would have never approved of.

The Missed Matter

The Saturday that went by was chaotic for the mind and the stomach. It seemed like my mind and stomach were tugging at extreme ends with the former the mind feeding endless ideas about the next best option on the menu, while the stomach decided to oppose in what I would describe as a smart way of teaching the mind a lesson. No wonder, the evening’s gastronomy, which was a result of not wanting to make my weekend escapades sound like a waste, chose to mock my desperation the next day.

After binging on the choicest bites the previous evening, I needed some serious motivation to get out of bed the next morning. My stomach felt just as heavy as it did the previous evening. It felt like my mind and stomach had been warring the entire night with my mind just refusing to accept that it had pushed my stomach to a far edge.
Here’s a sinful extract from their conversation:
Stomach: Everything doesn’t seem fine.
Mind: It’s alright! You don’t binge everyday.
Stomach: You don’t realize the pain of suffering from loose motions.
Mind: You are not the only one with problems. So, just relax.
Stomach: Don’t you realize that I’m suffering because of you!
Mind: Whatever.

One of the most comforting feelings in the world is to wake up on a day off and know that you can still go back to sleep. Just when I decided to sleep a little longer, my mother stepped in and brought along a bout of animated stimulation. ‘Good morning! Can you please come in the kitchen and assist me in preparing the breakfast? And I hope you don’t have any plans for lunch. We shall be going out for lunch, today,’ my mother said in an unusually hyperactive tone. It turned out (quite predictably) that our domestic help hadn’t turned up for work.

My morning was clearly not a usual one. After spending some 25-odd minutes in the toilet, I arrived at the conclusion that I had been punished. All the talks about how futile life would be in the absence of what is possibly the most valuable pressure situation suddenly held true for me. Sitting in one corner of my drawing room, I observed the morning frenzy in my house to keep myself from envying the ‘flushed' joys of those that were excitedly acting on their Sunday plans. My mother was stirring the contents in the cooking pot and talking away to glory on the phone, simultaneously, while my father was anxiously awaiting the arrival of his newspaper. For years, now, my father has been used to carrying the newspaper every time he makes a trip to the toilet to perform the big chore. My dog, after returning from a long morning walk, chose to sit across from me and stare at my me with a wide grin. For a tummy that was clogged, grumpy and truly desperate, everything around tried hard to convince me that I was one unlucky soul and I needed to achieve orgasmic satisfaction on the toilet seat to feel complete.

After downing a glass of milk only to lose hope, the steaming hot Manchow Soup at the lunch table filled my heart with hope, once again. Although my constipated stomach hardly gave way for a constipated expression, all I could think of through the day, be it lazing at home in the morning, devouring the hot soup in the afternoon or reading my favourite Jane Austen novel in the evening, was about the pleasures of being relieved in the true sense of the word. A bunch of Sunday evening visitors only ensured that food remained free-flowing, which, for once, did not entice me one bit. While the guests preferred to sip either on tea or coffee, I, with all my hope and food from the previous day all intact, within, flaunted a glass of warm milk. I was sick, uncomfortable, pained and almost on the verge of blasting out. And what got things even worse was the fact that I could only see cheerful faces around. Just when my little cousins looked thrilled to spot my milk mustache, my stomach decided to give up. Thankfully, after spending what seemed like an eternity in the washroom, I had achieved the fruit of my labour. My matter (I so missed it!) was finally out, ladies and gentlemen! And, for one, I couldn’t be any happier to announce its safe exit.

Survival

                                                                                                         Image Source: sapiensoup.com

If you are emotional, sensitive, over-thinking, anxious, or worrying, you are truly human!

“Will I be able to say what I’m thinking?”, “Would I be able to continue writing like I have been doing?”, “I hope my words don't get misinterpreted as lies”, and “Would they bother if I just disappeared?” among countless other passing thoughts, decided to make way, one fine day. Imagine thoughts like these piercing your actions and routine activities. And no, they did not just appear like a bolt from the blue. They were a result of a series of small, ignored upheavals, which could no longer be forced into silence and neglect. I couldn’t suppress my anxiety any longer, menfolk and womenfolk.

We may use the term ‘independence’ very commonly in today’s day and age, but little have we tried to extend its importance to our mental and emotional existence. I decided to become ‘independent’ the day I learnt about my existence in a patriarchal society. I have seen my mother emphasize the need to be financially independent if I wanted to have an identity of my own. I have been at the receiving end of complaints about how being a mother, wife and daughter-in-law is akin to filling a bottomless pit; it just dilutes your essence as a human being. Should I consider all those times when I was taught the importance of being able to travel alone and crack my own deals in the guise of independence? My father always treated me as someone who was equal to his son, if my level of independence was anything to go by. People who know me well know that I’m not the one to shy away from enjoying my share of limelight and attention. My independence adds to my overall confidence. So it may seem surprising in such a case to see a someone’s hand shiver, while holding a pen in front of a few people. How can a person that looks sound fear not being able to reach her destination that is just a few meters away? And this brings me to some important questions - Is physical and financial soundness of an individual enough to evade all the battles of life? If not, then why was I fed lies all this while?

It has been disheartening, moreover, after I developed and reeled from severe anxiety, to know that in a nation like India, mental health issues still carry enough stigma to make serious conjectures about one’s identity. As a child, I remember being scared into sanity with a warning of having to be taken to a psychologist/psychiatrist. “You must go visit a psychiatrist” is still a commonly used phrase, doubled as a joke-talk in many a friend circle. The problem is that we have seen our minds as closets. They cannot be revealed to everybody, and the contents of one must carefully remain contained. It is usually our association of independence with what meets the eye that decide our joy and sorrow. And till this persists, most of us may just refuse to address the elephant in the room.

The Day I Grew Up

It was a usual Thursday evening, when my mother took her regular stroll in the garden behind our house, while I queued up behind a bunch of kids, who awaited their turn to sit on the bumpy slide. There was a bright, attractive passage that connected a spiral slide and a bumpy one. As they inched closer towards the slide, the kids usually experienced an adrenaline rush before beginning to jump up and down with excitement. I, with my childlike enthusiasm, always waved, excitedly, at my mother from that little passage before sliding down but, that day was a little different. I heard collective laughter of the kids around me, when I got off the slide. Something was certainly not right for I had grown up a little.

On our way home, while my mother tried to wipe my tears, I could barely comprehend what had transpired. The ten-year-old child in me refused to think beyond anything except for having missed out on my playtime for what was going to alter my body and actions for the rest of my life. "Now onwards, I expect you to know how to take care of your health and body. I cannot be with you be all the time,” my mother stated, in a calm tone, before asking me to change my clothes. Terror struck as soon as I entered the washroom. I, for one, had always associated blood with wars and fights, but what I experienced that day was far from what I had imagined. From playing with dolls and jumping around in the park without a care in the world to transitioning into womanhood and suddenly monitoring my actions, the change almost felt like something was thrusted upon me and I had no choice but to eventually make peace with the change.

I refused going to the garden with my mother for the next few days following the sudden bout of emotional and physical chaos in order to save myself from any further embarrassment. While the girls in my class giggled and excitedly discussed their anticipated participation in the different sporting events that were lined up in the school through the year, I had slowly begun to keep a check on my physical preparedness and allowances. Things around, still, seemed pretty much the same except that I had grown up a little. The environment that I existed in, too, remained pretty much the same except that the people that co-existed in it chose to look at me a little differently, now, maybe as someone who had lost her innocent with puberty. While I grappled with the harsh truth of growing up, the tears that welled up in my eyes reflected the sorrow of losing all of what I cherished as a carefree, ten-year-old girl including the moments when I happily piggybacked on my father and took pride in roughing up my male friends, when they tried to tamper with my bicycle. What I took the longest time to come to terms with was the fact that I grew up even when everything else was constant.

Today, at 24, when I look back on the immediate transition, there is a strange sense of pride in having overcome the emotions and mental pandemonium, which came partially from having to deal with the anxiety of what lay ahead and majorly from the thought of having to part with my indeed apparent childhood, or so I thought. That’s the sad part of life; nothing remains forever. What had taken the coming together of countless precious moments needed nothing more than the ticking of the clock to turn it all into memories. A girl that once made a raw, innocent sight had turned into a woman embracing maturity. Nonetheless, everything was the same except that I had grown up a little that day.