The cosmos and I

It's a usual day in the household. I wake up after hitting the snooze button a couple of times. The inky blue sky outside is about to burst into a bright shade of daylight. I know it's only a matter of a few minutes. Is the darkness aware, I wonder, of the simmering ball of fire underneath the surface that's about to erase its identity? The rays either sneak its way, without a fuss like a blushing bride, casting a warm glow all over or scream for attention like a melodramatic model, throwing generous doses of orange and pink kisses to the night that gracefully recedes into oblivion. Does the night ever resent the day for its ability to make heads turn its way each morning?

On some days, my mind is free from the mundane clutter and I receive the bounty of nature with a smile, my hands cupped in gratitude. Most other days, I ignore the drama in the sky.  A teasing interplay of the cosmos, filled with life lessons for those who care to seek. It would never matter to the day or the night whether I partake in their intimate discussions. I could choose to be a part of their clique, but if I did not, I certainly wouldn't be missed.

As I set the milk to boil on one stove and watch the veggies sizzle on the other, I take a deep breath, a reminder to myself. I could afford, today, to sip my coffee in the quiet darkness, letting the caffeine work its way slowly into wiping off the traces of sleep-induced lethargy. I savour these brief moments of languidness before I get consumed by the regular drill of routine life.

I play the roles of a mother, wife, homemaker. These are impressed finitely upon my person like the thick primary lines on my palm. The other fine lines criss-cross and intercept the primary ones but taper off abruptly; an eerie reflection of my life. For, every so often I seek out the person who might be someone other than these titles. Not out of any feeling of inadequacy but perhaps a curiosity to find out if there was a person ever waiting to be discovered. I fancy calling myself a person of importance - a freelancer, a blogger, a writer- at various points but they remain transient. They tempt me with a sense of purpose but I find myself retreating to the familiar and comforting territories of my primary roles each time these turn into shackles.

It is then, I realize, the feeling of importance that appeals to me. The ego bloats up in the know that my contribution makes a difference to someone out there and I add value. The fallacy of it all dawns sooner or later and I realize that I'm just a speck in the sea of humanity. I could be flicked away and just like my place in the cosmos, the world will only carry on in my absence, cleaner and lighter.

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Why I root for the underdog?

It's one of the rare times that I find myself plonked before the idiot box, eager to watch yet another episode of  The Indian Idol. Good music and movies have the power to keep me glued, though. As the episode progresses, I feel my cheeks moisten with salty droplets that have ambushed their way out. While soulful renditions more often than not get me teary-eyed, this time it was the personal stories of the contestants that triggered an emotional response; the show shenanigans of playing melancholic background scores and deliberate freezing of expressions notwithstanding.

It's touching to listen to stories about modest upbringing, financial struggles, and the courage to dream despite or perhaps due to adverse circumstances. The fact that talent can get its due even if one is not from a privileged background makes a perfect poster for inspiration, hope, and motivation. Such real stories serve as lessons for someone who is ready to give up on the brink of success just because the last mile is most arduous and one wishes for that godfather that can make the final journey easier.

There's something about the journey of underdogs that does not fail to touch a chord with me. When someone least expected to win makes unprecedented progress, challenges the crowd favourites, and sometimes even pulls off a stupendous upset to become numero uno, I cannot help but applaud and nod in awe. (The important caveat being that the win is purely based on merit). I'm sure it's not just me who feels so because this feel-good factor has been milked quite a bit by the film industry. Needless to add, films based on such a premise hold a special place in my heart.

As a person who has, at best, been an average achiever, it's easy to see why I identify with parts of an underdog's life. I like to imagine that I'm no different from that person on stage or that protagonist in the cinema who wins despite all odds. At such times I allow myself to dream big; dreams about experiencing the satisfaction of having reached my full potential, finding my true calling and being on the path I was always meant to be on.

A late bloomer in life, I've questioned my capabilities at every stage. I've looked at schoolmates and college mates glide past me with surety and confidence while I wondered about what I wanted to do in life. With every step forward, there were several taken backward. Yet, it's been a decent climb for me, as I realize today.

The struggle in my case has always been an internal one. I could never see myself win. Actually, I've been more afraid of success than of failure. I fear not being able to replicate a win. I prefer to remain an underdog because then I have no pressure of fulfilling expectations. If I win, it's a bonus but if I lose, it isn't really a surprise and I don't have to explain. And, so I root for underdogs in the outside world and for the self in my heart.

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Awaiting colours of change

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It's the morning rush hour. In between flipping the dosa on the steaming pan, I scurry towards the bathroom door, impatiently asking R to hurry up and finish his bath. I scamper back to the kitchen to finish packing the lunch boxes, feeling the pressure of the husband's temporary absence which would have otherwise let me concentrate on just one part of the early-hour circus at home.

"Amma, I'm done. Please get the towel," screamed R into the empty room. Finally, I mutter and stride back to help him get dressed for school. My hands work quickly in tandem, patting him dry and squeezing the moisturizer into my palms when I notice R's. They have a flaky white colour to them, the one that comes with the skin being in contact with excessive foam and water. I apply a generous dose of the creamy lotion over them as I gently rebuke R for using so much soap.

"But, I want my skin to be light. I like light skin not dark" he quips, in almost a matter-of-fact tone.

My hands stop briefly, the mind numb over how to respond; myriad thoughts flogging the brain. How and when did the colour bias make way into a child's mind? I asked him where he heard about the advantages of having a light-coloured skin. He replied that his friend at school had divulged about how having a fairer skin tone makes someone stronger than the rest.

I looked up into R's earnest eyes. I wanted to hold him and soothe him yet I saw that he didn't seem to be wounded by the racist remark. At this tender age, he took his friend's words at face value and only wanted to rectify nature's ways in a manner he thought possible. Even though there was no apparent malice behind the other child's statement, that a skin tone had to be dragged into a child's world made me wonder how these ideas were implanted in the first place.

With all the honesty I could muster, I firmly stated that the skin colour had nothing to do with how a person turns out to be. Strength, poise, dignity, attitude, are all attributes one had to cultivate and nurture from within and the colour of the outer skin has no roleplay in this, whatsoever. R nodded his head solemnly. I wasn't sure he understood completely. There was so much more to add and share, but that would have to wait for the time being. I had to rush.The bus was here. We hugged, said our goodbyes and I lingered a bit longer as the bus rolled away into the street.

I mulled over the episode. I sighed. Not much had changed in the social conditioning yet I couldn't believe that such a discussion could creep in at such a young age. Who could be at fault here? The parents? Relatives? Media? Other kids? The society?

It's probably a mix of all of the above. Years of being slaves to the whites who are synonymous with wealth, culture, power, and for some reason beauty, we have unwittingly bent our knees to this rather foolish ideology of needing to discard the dark shades, albeit literally. If the common man and underdogs have a reason to fall prey, I wonder about the compulsions of the influential and the successful who endorse fairness products and have even undergone cosmetic overhauls to go from brown to white.

Images from my own past came back to me. As a young girl, I'd want to keep the back of my hands facing out because they were lighter in colour. I remember comparing my complexion with that of my mother and sister who are fairer than me and wishing I were not so dark. I recall clearly, from my early teens, that nasty remark from a playmate who called me a "coal". He thought he was being funny. The irony? His skin shade was several times darker than mine! I remember my mother telling me that I was beautiful and reminding me to focus on my talents. Still, those were impressionable years and there was an unmet desire to fit into the society's standards of acceptance.

As I grew up, I began to acknowledge my skills with the quiet realization that they had no relevance or relation to my skin pigmentation. I also learned to shove these demons at the far end of the mind whenever they threatened to corrode my confidence. Just as I thought I was fairly successful at accepting myself, I entered the matrimony arena where the colour of your skin took precedence over all your other accomplishments. The unabashed ask of an educated professional yet homely, good-looking and above all a fair-skinned girl for the 95% of the grooms listed was simply disturbing to put it very mildly.

For a condition inflicted largely by the society, it's rather unfair that the individual victims have to undertake the journey towards healing, rather alone. For, even though you might have the support of the immediate family and friends circle, it takes a good deal of effort to build your own resistance and inner strength. Today, I'm no longer impaired by my skin tone. The mirror no longer reflects just a dusky skinned person. I know that I'm worth far more than the outer layer. But, this hasn't come easily.

Moreover, today's incident made me realize that my journey hasn't ended. Even though R might potentially have it easier because all is still well with the dark and handsome theory, I believe the colours of change need to be ushered in. It's an opportunity for me and several others like me to re-set the agenda where the next generation is taught to reject such hand-me-downs thoughts and seek a better world for themselves.

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This won the crowd favourite at the Yeah Write grid!!!

 

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Have you had such experiences regarding the skin colour? 

Is your child a victim of colour bias? How did you deal with the subject?

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Stepping into 2017: the mind seeks!

I sit gazing at the screen of my laptop waiting for words to spill forth. A hundred myriad thoughts are crowding together, none of them coherent. They seem like restless school kids waiting to rush out of the gates with the ring of the closing bell. Which among these will first succeed in bursting the pregnant cloud of emotions, feelings, and introspection, to pour down as steady, restrained rain?

I look around and see happy, hopeful, energetic, determined posts about welcoming 2017. I wonder if I have anything similar to show the world; about my goals, plans, or a new word or resolutions. I realize I have none. Perhaps, it's the hangover of the New Year celebrations that I partake in each year; one that descends on your soul without being inebriated.

Mere words will not suffice to describe how the first day of 2017 dawned for me; soaked in divinity, drenching the fortunate gathering with grace, humility, and hope. Even though the celebrations remain the same each year, there's a new layer added to the experience and the only resolution I make then is to arrive in time every year to receive this benevolent offering and pray to the Almighty to make it happen.

Walking down the familiar lanes of the place where I grew up and lived until I got married seemed like turning the pages of an old picture album. Sepia-tinted, the characters grow older with every turn of the page. As I waited in the park watching R and S prancing about without a care in the world, I was automatically thrown back to the times when I was in their place. The neighbourhood mamas and mamis were the quintessential middle-aged saree-clad/dhoti-clad folks for my tribe then. An age and time that seemed far away from us; one that we were not in a hurry to reach. Today, I was them. Maybe not saree-clad but surely middle-aged. I wondered how did that make me feel. It sounds utterly cliched and fake but time had stood still for me in more ways than one. I was in a relative bubble where I was still the young girl who was perhaps at her parents' after a brief period of separation.

The enormity of age and its vagaries struck me hard as I sat with Amma casually enquiring after our acquaintances. Someone's spouse had passed on while a few I knew were no more. A handful had relocated elsewhere while some others were celebrating the arrival of the grandchildren. Life was coming a full circle. Time and tide waits for none and finally, only the memories would remain.

Trips back home, especially during the year-end, leave me more wistful than ever. And, my family isn't the only reason. The familiarity beckons to me even as I fly back to my own home, the one I have familiarized, created and nourished over the recent years.

As young fledglings, I longed to travel far, assimilate newer and richer experience in love, relationships, and work. However, as I strike off year after year from the calendar, adding those to my age, I sense a longing, for an anchor, a reason, a homecoming moment when I can finally say I've arrived in a true sense. Is it disillusionment from not understanding what exactly I'm after and hence orient myself accordingly or is this what one would call growing mature? I do not know yet.

My word for the year should perhaps be 'seek'.

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How has 2017 begun for you all? 

I wish you all a wonderful year, one in which you realize what your dreams are and are also able to sow the seeds to achieve them!

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Purge, prune and get ready

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The nooks and crannies have been dusted off. The spiderwebs destroyed before they get a chance to weave their complex pattern at idle corners. The shelves cleaned and re-arranged. The junk has been thrown out without mercy and the outgrown stuff neatly piled into bags to be donated away. I'm methodically and systematically attacking every room and feel a great sense of satisfaction as I step back and admire the results.

Diwali is around the corner and I'm neck-deep in the getting my space ready for all things positive. I believe our customs are rooted in meaning and hence the prescribed ritual of cleansing before the advent of a major festival. The home-cleaning is only symbolic to reflect what we ought to do at a more spiritual and deeper level. We are preparing our mind for goodness to enter our lives, for light to dispell the darkness, for rustiness to give way for renewed energy and momentum.

I find spring cleaning therapeutic. While I pride myself on not being a hoarder in the literal sense, I have a tendency to collect unproductive adornments like anger, self-pity, despair, inertia, and demotivation. These sit silently beneath the surface, decaying my spirit. They burn my mental peace, the soot coating the true character from time to time.

I mentally visualize my mind being freed of the baggage as I diligently scrub away the dullness that is hardened precipice of dust and grime over my cherished brassware. Just as the metal responds immediately and enthusiastically, gleaming and shining, I will the mind to break away from the negative loop of ungainful thoughts and steer it clear from leading a disruptive way of life.

The blackness that cloaked the brassware previously has now blanketed my fingers. Placing my hands under the running water, I watch the remains fade away; vestiges of the labor, letting off a faint smell of the soap and powder remind me of my sweet victory.

Not far away, Chaos with its multi-faceted tentacles of turmoil is sitting quietly, smirking and shaking its head solemnly at the futility of my attempts, mischievously indicating its impending arrival. In reply, I look and smile in tranquility. What it does not know is that I'm not afraid of it anymore. I've begun to enjoy the periodical process of breaking it down and sending it scurrying away. I seek strength from defeating it every time even as I accept that I cannot wipe it away completely.

Just as I'm wired to get into action at the sight of disarray in my surroundings, I resolve to tune myself to work on my mind and body in a similar fashion. It is never a one-time activity and I'll probably never get to the day when I can sit back and say nothing that happens in my life will affect me negatively. However, I can:

• Promise to attack negativity the moment it threatens to pollute my sacred space. 
• Promise to not let it consume me and envelop me in its darkness. 
• Promise to seek outside help when I falter and slip.

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I'm ready for the festival of lights. Are you?

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The most difficult words to say

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Have you wondered about the relationship between an artist and the audience? And, I'm not referring to the successful celebrities and their fan following frenzy. I'm talking about those unassuming people we see in our everyday walk of life. The ones who seem ordinary at the outset but carry a special skill  within that outshines when pitted against the rest.

Don't we all know of, in our immediate circles, a master chef, a pitch-perfect singer, a skillful painter, an imaginative craftsperson, a graceful dancer or even someone who's a bit of all of these? These are artists in their own right, some perhaps bidding their time to make it big and some just content being a devotee of art. At different points of time, we could well be that artist or one among the audience.

As an audience, how many of us walk up to the unsung hero and applaud his/her efforts? How many of us generously spend from our tightly-held purse of appreciation without a grudge or an expectation of a return compliment?

It's easier to be a mere spectator of the artist's mastery over respective genres, pausing only briefly to register his/her excellence. And then, move on. Without a word. To either wallow in self-pity or to sharpen our own set of strengths to feel worthy enough.

I often wonder why we don't praise easily; or generously and genuinely enough?

I assume it's because we are entwined in low self-worth and insecurities. It's very likely that we are ourselves a struggling chef, singer, painter or dancer and lack the confidence to showcase whatever talent we have. We begrudge the other person who has risked criticism and is brave enough to expose the raw self. The feelings of 'if only', 'what ifs' and 'why me' throng the egoistic mind, building up an invisible, impregnable shield between the self and the artist or even rest of the world.

Perhaps, this is also a reason why we're able to freely congratulate and applaud someone whose skills are disparate from ours. Here, there's no basis for comparison and therefore no green monster raising its ugly head. Again, it's easier to be in awe of a celebrity figure because somewhere in your mind you have accepted the fact that the artist and you are on different planes and there is no scope for the juxtaposition.

However, when the tables are turned and we do not see our talent being recognized and appreciated, do we smile knowingly? Ah, the complexities of a human mind! As slaves of an art form, we are constantly seeking a discerning audience, some constructive feedback, a bit of admiration or adulation.

Appreciation from external quarters is a validation of all the hard work the artist has put in to create a beautiful artwork for the world to see, touch or experience. The words that speak highly of a job well done serves as a throttle for him/her to do better each time.

A creative person's world is often lonely. Even among a company of those similarly endowed, he/she embarks on a long-winding path that is traversed alone. Thick boughs of a criticizing audience dotting the sidelines form an intimidating canopy. The path itself is strewn with thorns of self-doubt and fear. At such times, when a kind face waves out encouragingly and cheers him/her, all the obstacles seem to fade out into the oblivion and the journey becomes enjoyable.

The perspective changes dramatically by simply reversing the side you're on! Yes, it's tough to make that switch but not completely impossible. So, the next time our ego stops us from patting someone's back, we must try to put the self for a while in the artist's shoes. It might then be easier to smile easily and say those simple but difficult words, "You did a great job!"

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What are your thoughts? Would love to know what you think.

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5 ways to move beyond your writing faux pas

Writing blunders. Don't we all make them? If you don't then maybe this piece won't make any sense to you. I can speak for myself and I've no qualms admitting that I make a whole lot of them. On my blog here, in my work-related writing, over formal and informal emails, there have been instances of minor and even gaping flaws.

So, how long do I dwell on my writing faux pas?

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Each time I've realized the shortcomings, I've cringed. My ego is bruised and I cower in embarrassment to think of how I might seem to others. I imagine the sniggers directed towards me; someone who claims to be a writer and yet has not pocketed the nuances and finer aspects of the trade.

Despite this, I sleep over my failings. I brood, sulk, but emerge out of the shadows of self-berating and criticism. To write again. To falter again. It does not happen as easily or automatically as it sounds. Nevertheless, I try not to dwell too much on the damage already done. The more important part is to learn from those and move on. Perhaps, to make newer mistakes; perhaps, to write better.

It has taken me many years to learn to accept my limitations. I don't say I've been able to do this entirely even today. Yet, I'm on the path. Slowly, but steadily. A few decades ago, I'd have stopped trying. Shaming myself privately and losing the courage to pick the pieces up. Today, I at least, I look beyond what could've been and focus on what can be done.

5 Things that I tell myself when I'm too harsh on myself:

1. Accept the fact that there will always be more talented people in my circle.

I realized that I cannot learn if I constantly pit myself against the best. I can only better myself not be better than someone else. It's also unfair to myself.


2. I may not be the best but I'm still good

My field of choice is a large galaxy and we are all at different levels like the planets in orbit. The position of a particular planet does not make it superior or inferior to the others.

This is something I'm still working on. For, I lapse into phases where I tell myself if I'm not at a particular level I shouldn't be trying at all.

3. Set goals but embark on an unconditional journey

While it's good to lay down goals, if we lay down pre-conditions that I have to be 'this' good or I'm no good at all, we might not start on any journeys in life.

I have a problem in setting specific goals. And, I'm not talking only about writing goals. It's because I'm scared to think big; because I pull myself back saying when there are so many better ones out there struggling what better can I do?

4. Goals can be smaller ones. Celebrate every milestone.

So, my answer to the previous point is that I need not think big. I can start with smaller achievable goals and take it from thereon. I need to allow myself to pat my back for every little milestone I achieve along the way. This way the journey itself will become enjoyable and I won't be worried about the destination.

5. Enjoy the journey and don't worry about the destination.

Didn't I say that already? I'm going to tell this again and again. To myself and to everyone out there like me.

What's your mantra to forgive your mistakes and move on?

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