In Sickness & in Health

After two & a half years, my slip disc problem recurred. About 2 weeks ago, one morning I could not get up from the bed. Excruciating pain, a feeling of helplessness & a strange anger consumed me as I was raised & made to prop against my pillow like a child who has to be made to sit every time he has to eat, minus the pain of course.

Another stint at the hospital and a reasonably long bed-rest advice later, I thought, it is tragic to have this problem at the age of 26. It is more unpleasant than a facebook friend request from the girl I hated in college. It is more unpleasant than the taste of Safi that I have just begun to have each night. It is more unpleasant than the zit that sits proudly on my left cheek right now. It is almost the most unpleasant thing to have happened to me of late – or so I thought.

Being in bed & confined to home all day makes you depressed, chronically moody & deeply retrospective. In one such day, as I lay in bed, with that contraption of a pulley with 2 kilos attached to my neck, I thought how I seem to have wasted my talents away.

I like to believe I used to have a couple of very-pursue-able skills. I am a good cook & always have been. I wanted to be a chef but was always told that hotel management means being a glorified receptionist. By the time I was old enough to understand, I was too old. I am a good photographer. I take lovely portraits & have had my manual SLR to experiment & discover my interest with but I did not pursue photography professionally. Maybe I never bothered to find out how to. I used to write well & always thought that I would be writing for a magazine some day till I come out with a book of my own. And then when I finally could have had that chance, I completely screwed it up at post graduation by willingly specializing in film making – which by the way, is probably the biggest regret of my life till now – and never did pursue journalism of any kind. So all 3 skills which I had were never pursued & I ended up in a television job that I hated & quit, went onto some semblance of a content writing job which soon turned into me writing pre-sales proposals for clients and after that I started making too much money to go back to a mainstream writing job, knowing that when treated as a fresher, I would probably not even be making one third of it. Was it the money that killed my passion or the lack of time with the house to take care of and another thousand personal commitments? I don't know. Ideally I would like to blame myself on neither and make fate the scapegoat but unfortunately that's not how I perceive my haphazard career graph & seeing my personal participation in my own doom, I get morose & depressed all the same.

So I message Miss P, informing her of my feeling of directionless aimlessness and she tells me things that are, to me, as profound as what any shrink would have said as pearls of wisdom for which I would have paid a thousand bucks an hour.

She told me that I am lucky. And it made sense. And that I am not the only one who didn't get to pursue a career out of something I loved. Many people who are bankers & accountants are actually closet rock stars & artists but they don't make a living out of that. I know my husband, who is a fantastic golf player, would have loved to pursue it professionally but he works 8 to 8 in an FMCG company and tries to put as much passion in that as is humanly possible and that is inspiring. If I set aside my constant complains about my lack of passion in my job, there is actually nothing in my life to complain about (apart from the slip disc surely), but the way I see it today, even that could be a blessing in disguise. For all my cribbing about unhealthy living & weight management issues, my medical prescription after I get better is not a couple of pills a day – its actually this: Compulsory yoga daily & swimming at least 4-5 times a week. How many people get a prescription like that? Its like God's way of telling me to start living more healthy.

So I also have anxiety issues. My doc told me to calm down. My parents told me to get a grip or by 30 I will surely get blood pressure. My best friend told me that I need to soothe my nerves every once in a while & my brother told me to control my spurts of uncontrollable anger. Even M told me to take things easy & stop being so much of a perfectionist because more than anyone, its driving me crazy.

Therapy? I asked.

That would be insanely expensive. Miss P said

Is the work driving me over the edge? I inquired

No, you were worse when you were on a break. M told me gently.

I will control my anger. I reassured my brother.

Hah Di! That cant happen! He assured me in return.

Maybe I am becoming a fanatic for perfection. I discussed with Ma.

Please change yourself before you get old & cranky, she told me frankly.

Why are my reflexes so aggravated? I asked my doctor a week ago after the check up

You need to calm down, stop thinking for the future. Worrying is your bad habit. He said as calmly as a prophet would.

And then the prescription for my slip disc – life long swimming to keep my spine in order and yoga – to improve posture & calm my frazzled nerves. I should really consider myself lucky. Some people get strapped to the bed, some go for surgery, some live with a collar as an extension to themselves forever. None of that scary stuff as happened to me yet & instead of pills, I get Yoga. Really, for once, I should stop complaining and start being positive.

So what if I couldn't become the next big thing in the writing circles, it isn't late yet. And I get to do some really awesome freelance writing once in a while which also gets published & read! So what if I couldn't become the photographer I imagined myself to be, I am soon buying myself a Nikon D90 and getting busy with a serious hobby. And so what if I couldn't be a famous chef and feed the world, I continue to feed my friends and family and make them happy! Not every skill has to turn into a profession and not every profession has to become a passion. Sometimes that's the way things go and as long as I have my bracket of people in my life, to love me and keep me, in sickness and in health, I am incredibly lucky & happier than most people in the world.

(P.S - Mom, Dad, Bro, M, Miss P, Adi, Ips, Amby & the recent addition Yesyen – thanks for being the bracket & thanks for being the joy.)

Not So Subtle

I know the season is changing since it started getting darker than usual when I leave work. Other than that Mumbai doesn't really have a palpable sudden shift of weather – like in Delhi one fine day the night seems chilly & the morning seems refreshing, nothing of the kind happens here. The heat slowly wanes – so slowly I don't notice it. I never notice differences too subtle – like the different shades of greens in microsoft excel, like a haircut on a man, like a new plant potted in my society. I notice however if the angle of my vase is changed, or the face that the lampshade faces has been turned, or the tiny pimple bubbling under my eyebrow & the smell of the over-toasted garam masala. I guess I am selectively observant. As are most of us.

So anyway, no blogging has happened because I think my blog has died. Every attempt to resurrect it has been dismal & only triggered by a single post with no following ones. Perhaps because nothing of significant importance has happened that can be written about. I have started work & am in the process of starting my own home-made chocolate business from home. So training, research & plans have taken up weekends, new chilled our work where I churn out content for a start-up company has taken up weekdays, family visits have taken up festival holidays & its been a normal yet joyous phase. Is this what they call settling down? Is this the definition of stability? I don't know. Yet I like whatever this is called.

One post that I make each year on the blog as tradition has been for Diwali – my cathartic festival with significant change of circumstance or heart. Every year since the past few has brought with it a new chapter and closed an old one. Some have memories of quiet, solemn, peaceful diya-filled nights, some are insanely bursting at its seam with energy, dancing through the night & sparkly skies. But all have memories of my entire family together and that has been consistent. This time the family had a brand new member – M, who has magically hypnotized my folks into loving him like a son & struck a camaraderie with my brother into sharing all beer & sutta secrets with him. So the relatively larger family was together for my first diwali at my own house. Diyas, rangolis, kebabs, mirchi lights, laxmi pooja, phuljhadi amongst other things made this diwali quite regular yet not. It was somehow a very special Diwali – maybe one of the most special festivals ever & one of the more memorable nights in this house.

Did I mention we shifted in a spanking new house in a lovely locality where everything is a phone call & a 5 minute drive away and where I actually have 4 big balconies – to sit & have tea, to learn yoga, to lounge with friends and to string with lights & lamps! Did I also mention that we will be leaving Mumbai for newer lands soon? I don't know where though but as my stay in Mumbai is coming to an end, I am falling more & more in love with the city. Do I even want to go to another? I don't know – but change is refreshing, change is what keeps one occupied. Plus lots of my friends seem to be leaving Mumbai together. One left for the US, another sets sail for the UK. These were dear friends – my chick friend cum shopping partner decided to make more money and ran away, my favourite guy friend & easily the longest conversation holder needs to go set up some office in firang lands. Its a sad brain-draining world if you ask me.

I admit today that I would prefer to maybe stay in Mumbai over any other place – stay though, not settle mind you – I'm still very north indian at heart, still very much in love with my mughlai cuisine with non-sweet green chutney & a forever-hater of vada pavs! But for now, Mumbai seems to appeal to me. And then again its the comfort level that I get into I guess. I am used to my house,my househelp, my facilities, my supermarket, the disciplined lane driving, the warm people & the gorgeous monsoons and I have always been resistant to change so I can't say, maybe shifting to another place will be a better experience.

I would like Delhi very much. But I will not pin my hopes on any city this time, especially that one. I seem to invariably jinx it like I have three times in the past – I wanted to intern there & it didn't happen, I took my first job there and within a month I had to move, I was almost going to go there after marriage and M got a stint a Mumbai. So this time I will be open in my head to any city & let fate take its course. Delhi would be nice though – the comfort of familiarity, of localities & friends, of home being 9 hours away, of Miss P's house being a drive away instead of a flight. But anything can happen & I will not hope this time.

Though I will look forward to the not-so-subtle change of weather in Delhi and the lovely transition from autumn to winter that is as obvious as the kitchen that my mother just rearranged!

Here’s to Monsoon. Here’s to Mumbai.

Mumbai is parched again. Dry days and quiet nights. No noise of the rain lashing against my window, no hearing the neighbour abuse because she got splashed by some lunatic auto driver. It’s all quiet again. I should be happy really – it’s a respite from the pot holes in front of my house that get concealed by the water, leaving no scope for escape, it’s a relief from the damp, musty smell of the semi-dry clothes, it’s a definite escape from the super slow traffic on the road and the almost-paralysed days of heavy downpours. But I miss the rain. I miss standing at my balcony and watching gorgeous polka dots form in the puddle below, I miss having my hair made frizzy by the light spray of the drizzle, I miss the giant globular water bodies crash against my arm when I stretch them out of the window, I miss the feel of the steaming cutting chai in the mud kulhads I have bought, I miss getting a call from my paranoid mom telling me to stay at home because the news channels tell her that Mumbai is drowning yet again! This monsoon season is growing on me – and it is, but dangerous.

I mean I hated the rains. I hated Mumbai primarily because of the rains. The dirt and the slush and the muck and the transition from sophisticated footwear to clumsy flip-flops made me want to run away from the damn city. There was a time I would dread this season – pray to the gods of weather to make monsoon pass soon but now, I actually miss it if it doesn’t rain for a few days in this season. I don’t know what it is really – I can’t seem to put my finger to it. Maybe it’s the fact that I have, with rains, some of the most memorable moments in Mumbai with some of my closest people. Or maybe it’s because for me, the rain is like this cathartic force that comes every year and washes away all the crap that has happened since the last monsoon. Or maybe it has become my muse, my inspiration to write. It seems to be the only weather which makes me really calm and makes me want to dig out an old book and re-read it. It seems to be the only time of the year when everything looks beautiful to me. It’s the only time of the year when I get to use my retro style flowery umbrella and roll up my jeans without the fear of looking silly.

I guess it was only a matter of time that monsoon grew on me. It was only a matter of time that Mumbai grew on me. It’s all happening. The unthinkable and the unimaginable. Mumbai taught me to be resilient and be good to strangers. It forced me to be patient and more tolerant. It made me see the whole world’s joy come together on the faces of people who spend their Saturday nights on Chaupati. The city is becoming me and I am becoming the city and though I am sure I won’t stay here forever, I am surer of the fact that I will miss it very very much once I leave. So here’s to Mumbai – the land of ‘anyone who really cares to come here’, the city that will make you fall in love with it no matter how much you resist and the place where dreams are weaved on local trains.

The Shoe-side Story

So I like shoes. Big deal! I also like clothes. I like brands. I like a nice bag. So what?
So a few days ago I met these 2 friends and one of them ended up discussing something about colours and heels with me and the other one said “Please don’t sound like Barbie dolls. Please be normal”. Err… excuse me but being well dressed is abnormal?

I don’t understand this stereotype associated with women who like to shop. No, all of them are not full of fluff. And most of them are, in fact, people who earn well to shop well. I’ve always had a thing for footwear – when I was a student, it was my collection of Oshos and flip flops of all colours and since I started making money, I started collecting gorgeous heels from Aldo and Nine West and Charles & Keith etcetera etcetera! Does that make me any less smart? I don’t think so! I like to write and I love to read. Haruki Murakami sits on my bedside table as I type. Some Atwood is stacked up on the shelf. I just finished The Colour Purple. And there is the latest issue of Cosmo and Vogue that lives in my bathroom too. So why are people always equating fashion talks with lack of real brain? I don’t know!

The other day, my husband’s friend’s wife, who I am just beginning to hang with, dropped in and M mentioned that I show her my massive heel collection. I refused saying that “She needs to know me better or she will instantly judge me as some blonde who only buys shoes”. Why did I say that? I don’t know. But somehow, somewhere, even I am aiding this stereotype to thrive.

People really need to stop being so quick in judging. All coordinated women are not dumb and all messy ones are not geniuses. Just like people need to abandon the stereotype of all feminists being manly, aggressive and short haired, more people also need to stop associating fashion with stupidity and high heels with blondeness.

Everyone has pretty feet. I think its time every woman starts buying herself some really sexy high heels and adopt my mantra – “Have pedicure. Wear Heels.”

Cross Legged Thoughts

I sit at my desk, bring the lazy white-butt cigarette to my lips, inhale, shut my eyes, exhale, open my eyes and pop in a dark chocolate. Ummmm. But I am not completely comfortable yet. So I cross my legs, struggling to fit into the tricky wheeled chair and start typing and thinking and smoking and typing – all at once.
I like sitting cross-legged I realise. I do it when I type, I prefer the sofa side in a restaurant so I can cross my legs and eat, I like to cross my legs while I pray, I don’t mind being the only person in the house-party who volunteers to sit on the floor in the absence of enough seating space, I also like sitting like that in the car, at my office desk, at casual meetings, at a jenga game and anywhere else that it is possible. Give me my comfort position and I am happy.

Anyhow. So I quit my job – walked away a job that allowed me to slot and choose and watch movies and give promo briefs with a very comfortable routine & with weekends off. For many it was a dream job – ‘Wow, you work at Zee Studio. That must be fun. Blah. Blah’. Yes, so it was initially – and then monotony set in and frustration of not being able to do what I like bugged me enough to just leave. Recession, bad economy, rising prices aside, I still feel that I am meant to work somewhere where it allows me to write. I may be wrong you know – I may be really bad, maybe no one wants to give me a chance or a job, maybe if I attempt to write a book I will get dismally rejected by the publishers, maybe if I try my hand at a magazine I will suffer from a writer’s block on a daily basis. OR maybe I am good, maybe practice will make me better, maybe I do start doing what I actually enjoy and not go to office to just do a damn ‘job’. But we won’t know till we try, right?

Parents threw a fit when I decided – and it wasn't an easy decision, mind you – it gets very comfortable to work in a place which gives you such flexibility and such fun colleagues and you get into a comfort zone after 2 years in an office – where you know everyone and everyone knows you (at least by face if not by virtue). The chai wala knew exactly how I take mine, the canteen people were habituated by my sugarless mosambi juice, the ex-boss knew me inside out and became my agony aunt plus mentor plus super friend, the colleagues knew my quirks, the common enemies were identified, the confidants selected– its not easy to think of starting afresh – new desk, new people, new colleagues, new unknown devils, new café menu, new area, new afternoon lunch places, new roads, new bathrooms, new dress codes and more than all that, a new profile altogether. So I think it was a brave, brave step towards at least attempting to find my calling. If I fail there are always more similar jobs, if I don’t then hurrah for the switch. But then again, what else is life if not a series of heartbreakingly tough risks?

I can take this risk because M is with me – here, there or anywhere. I get encouraged to pursue literature because Miss P is there to yell at me and make me see sense. I feel confidant to take this step because my brother who is 19 acts like he is 39 and says he will stand by me come-what-may. I feel incredibly lucky & blessed. Many people have to do a 9-5 job – some like it, some don’t, some do it by choice, some don’t, some need the position, some need the money and some just need to keep themselves occupied. I need neither and if I don’t make the effort now to do what I like, then I would be a complete idiot.

So here’s a toast - to new ventures, new people, new workstations and many many new words.
It’s a new beginning in my life. All good wishes (and maybe some leads) would be appreciated!

From the Diary of a Newly Wed

I’ve set out with a very hopeful heart to resurrect my blog. It’s been minutes, hours, days & months. Either I am suffering from the longest writer’s block ever or there is nothing exciting enough to write about. I’d imagine it’s the first. Mainly because since I have stopped writing, the following things happened:
1. A 50 days long vacation
2. A bachelorette party
3. A wedding
4. A honeymoon
5. Moving into a new house
6. Starting life over
Whew! And what a journey all of this has been.

First of all, the myth of post-married life has been killed in my head. No, it is not restricting or stifling or a loss of identity or a distancing from friends. In fact it is anything but that. It’s lovely, refreshing, stable and I love coming back home to a friend. I feel like I’m dating the man I married & that makes every day exciting & every dinner, a date.
So in a nutshell, I recommend marriage to anyone.

I am married. But I don’t feel married. I still have my last name. I still wear my jeans, tshirt & coordinated chappals. I still talk to my friends as much. I still party. I party more. I still drink. I drink more. I still go to work, come back, watch tv, chill & laze around with my husband, M.

I used to think love is overrated. Now I think marriage is underrated. For me, marriage has been a surprise – all preconceived notions have fallen flat on my face, all apprehensions disappeared. I think it’s mostly to do with M, who has ensured happiness & madness to continue & multiply in my life. I think I have been incredibly lucky and in the rush to catch up with the new life & the new luck, I have not written a single line in the salad. I have been running around, working like a cow because of the damn recession, partying like a rockstar on weekends to temporarily forget recession, stocking up my beloved kitchen, putting lamps in corners & feeding every single soul who happens to drop in.

Yes, life has been good. The blog has been resurrected. And you are invited to a meal if you happen to come by my new home.

I will keep adding portions of my life to the salad platter. Between love, life, work & marriage, I will write again. :)