Politics is not about which political party or ideology or politician you support. It’s not about how much “you know” or how much you’ve read. The conversations around politics seem to be gate-kept by a bunch of pseudo-intellectuals who claim to know a lot and use a lot of terminology you may not be familiar with. This is what I thought for years because I felt like I didn’t read enough to have valid opinions and to defend those opinions. My pet peeve is – one can’t be emotional about politics. Oh fuck that. I’m emotional through and through. And I learned from my sister that that’s perfectly okay.
At the heart of the matter, there are some simple questions to ask ourselves –
Do we believe everyone should have equal access to basic human rights?
Do we believe everyone should live a life the way they choose and with dignity?
If the answer to that is yes, no, I don’t know, I don’t care or whatever it is, you have a stake in the game. You can speak to and about politics. It’s not some big, out of the world, esoteric concept. Many would like for you to believe that’s true because it limits the number of people who can have powerful and fruitful discourses centered around politics. Many will take you back to, “You know what happened in the second world war?” And you may think, oh I don’t remember anything about the second world war. This person clearly knows what they’re talking about. They’re presenting evidence for what they’re saying so they must be right. There’s no right or wrong though. Lived experiences carry a ton of weight. If you think about your own life, assess your opportunities, your family’s class and caste, you will discover a lot about systems, privilege and concentration of power. And the thing is, asking yourself how you feel about the situation is truly the most genuine way of discovering where you stand – not just politically, but as a citizen of the world.
For example –
How do you feel about children being murdered?
How do you feel about billionaires hoarding wealth?
How do you feel about women being forced to carry their pregnancies to term?
How do you feel about a government inciting communal violence?
If you were forced to get displaced from what you consider home, how would you feel?
These are not hard questions to answer but they do require you to sit with them for a minute. Another thing gatekeepers love to ask is – so what would you do about it? Like issues are individual problems. Like an individual having a solution to an insurmountable problem makes them credible enough to have an opinion, to have some skin in the game or to simply be considered political.
You don’t need to fit into any pre-existing buckets – left, right, center, republican, democrat, liberal, nationalist, capitalist, socialist, communist etc. to be able to have a discussion around politics. You’re human. And that’s credibility, permission, reason enough.
Imagine a coffeeshop on a Saturday morning. It’s bright and sunny but not too hot. There’s a reasonably cool wind blowing but not strong enough to knock off the almost finish paper cup of coffee (because no matter how many times you’re asked by the barista “for here or to go?” and you say for here and still get handed a to go cup and you wonder why they bothered in the first place). You’re reading a book – either a physical copy or on an e-reader (yes, Kindle, for anyone that’s confused). There’s something about starting out your weekend on this note. For me, this is selfcare. Being deeply invested in the next move of my characters but not so engrossed that I miss the life being lived by all those around me. Perfect doesn’t exist because we tend to look for what’s missing, always. So, this seems like a bloody perfect day to me. Until, I also start to look for what’s missing. Also – don’t go by the title. It’s not a sob story about the death of a baby. Well, not exactly that. These are things I think about as a 31 year old female with a uterus which means I can potentially bare and nurture life within my body.
Going back to the perfect coffeeshop scene I was describing above. On many an occasion, I’ve looked up and I’ve witnessed a family walking in. A mother, a father and their child or children and if you’re in a city like mine, usually a dog as well. It’s an everyday picture, right? Just an ordinary family, out and about on a weekend. The adults getting a caffeinated beverage while the kid getting a sweet snack and something resembling chocolate milk. Maybe. Chocolate milk is loaded with sugar and I’ve heard parents aren’t fans of giving their kids a sugar rush. But it’s also a weekend and maybe weekends are meant for going off script. Sometimes, there is a baby being carried by one parent. The baby isn’t immediately exposed to all of us but eventually the baby is picked up and put on display. Now, at this exact point in time, depending on which dance my hormones are doing, I experience a sudden pang in my heart. To add to it, there will be an ultra cute pupper guarding the baby and it’s all excruciatingly cute. For someone like me, who is so single that she ends up buying two tickets to a movie just to feel like she isn’t going alone, all of this hits very differently. It’s not about not having a romantic partner. Well, hell, of course it is. But it’s not only about that. This maternal instinct is dead on most day okay. But somedays it acts like a dormant volcano and when that damn volcano decides to erupt, the world momentarily comes crashing down.
As people who have the (biological) ability to birth a baby, we often hear of timelines. The older you grow, the harder it gets. Pregnancies get riskier with age. You’re more likely to give birth to a child with down syndrome. If we go back to the basics of procreation and look at the number of things that have to go right from the sperm meeting the egg to a baby actually being born into this world, all 7 billion of us are miracles. And these miracles take place every single minute in every corner of the world. In spite of it lacking novelty, it is extremely novel because a whole new being that’s like nobody else is born with a clean slate. I was visiting family friends a few weeks ago. They recently had a baby and all of us adults were encouraging this tiny human to rollover. The tiny human was struggling but eventually managed to rollover on his tummy and we all hooted and clapped for him. It must be excessively rewarding to watch this tiny human being learn literally everything from scratch and constantly looking up to you to guide them on the next big thing. In this case – learning to crawl.
Sometimes, it’s scary to think that I might never have that. I may not leave behind a human who shares some of my impeccable qualities but also some of my worst traits. I may not have the good fortune of cheerleading my tiny human to do great things. I may not have a stabbing pain in my chest when I witness my child going through pain. I may not sit them down and ask them about their hopes and dreams or see the dreamy world through their eyes. I may not get the opportunity to hear them yell “Mom” when they’re sick, angry or want to share good news. I may never be this human’s safe space, the one they turn to, the one they rely on. I may never get the opportunity to say to them, “It’s okay that you suck at Maths, mom did too. I didn’t get my father’s maths skills but I did get his writing skills.” I may never get to entertain this person’s friends, potential young loves. I may never get the opportunity to be the annoyingly cool mom who discusses everything under the sun with her offspring and be more than willing to answer questions, even if they were ahead of time. I may never be able to assure this person of how much they mean to me, how much it doesn’t matter who they become in life or how much money they make. I may never be able to fully grasp where that unprecedented strength comes from when protecting your child. I may never get to wait impatiently by the door into the wee hours of the night wondering what trouble has my young one gotten into. I may never be a part of their big days. I may never have a relationship of friendship like I have with my own parents, especially my mother. I may never long to see or hear from my child. I may never have the opportunity to raise a kid with all my life experiences, learnings and values.
The dilemma is – knowing all of the above and being aware of time constraints, and still not knowing with certainty if I want to procreate in this lifetime. There’s no going back. And it’s very rare to hear from a parent, who has done right by their child for the most part, that they’d go back in time and decide against having the child. Similarly, someone who has passed their child bearing age can either be content with their decision or regret it but that’s all there is to it.
I truly don’t know, like everyone else on this planet, except for of course astrologers and soothsayers, what’s going to happen in the future. What I do know is that the curse of being born a woman is sometimes to bear these feelings deep within me and not necessarily life and that’s okay. I wish we talked about this more often – mourned our unborn children more often. Sometimes it’s a choice, sometimes it isn’t but it hurts all the same. I can choose not to have children and still be torn by that choice. And that’s okay too.
Also, I lied. I will watch a movie alone at any given time. I just needed the fleeting sympathy up there and to set the mood 😉
You know when you’re absolutely exhausted after a long week, meeting a million people and you’ve committed to yet another gathering. This time, a picnic in the park with a theme of ‘comfort food’. The night before when your body is close to breaking you’ve decided to buy your comfort food instead of making it and fall asleep worry free but you get up thinking about how it’ll be nice to bake something because it’s a picnic after all and you need an excuse to bake for a crowd so that you don’t spend the entire week eating all that dessert. The weather is perfect and you want to go the extra mile and so you set out on this journey to gather the comfort food ingredients. No? Is it just me? What? You don’t do this? You have excellent boundaries and know when your body is asking you to rest the fuck up? Geez, lame! Fine, just stay here and read about my mundane morning escapade of buying a basic ass baking ingredient. And yes, I know mundane escapade doesn’t make much sense. I’m self aware like that. Thanks for calling me out in your head. Pff. Way ahead of you. Okay no no, I’ll give you more information. Read on? Pretty please? If you laughed at all, at me or at the situation so far, you should stay.
Okay so, I wake up on this gorgeous Sunday morning and think to myself, don’t blueberry muffins sound comforting? Half asleep, I look up recipes. I’ve baked it once before and they came out orgasmic so I was insistent on finding the same recipe. If only the universe was paying attention. Looking at the recipe on halfbaked harvest’s site, it was an unnecessarily overly complicated muffin recipe titled ‘Bakery Blueberry Vanilla Crunch Muffin’. What happened to good ‘ol blueberry muffins without any crunch? Anyway, this got a little boring, I know. I’m trying to keep you entertained. Writing’s hard. You should try it sometime, you know…to develop some empathy? Sorry, I think my nastiness will make more sense in a few minutes. Anyway, I found a better and easier recipe which had no crunch. I decided to go to the H-E-B nearby and since it was a chilly enough for a jacket, I went braless. I felt so efficient, I had a list, I bought only those things. I lie. I also bought flowers because I get distracted very easily by happiness. I also had a hard time reaching the 6 egg case because obviously everything in this country is built for tall people. Except of course, guns. Those they must be selling at floor level so even toddlers could buy ’em. Anyway, I bravely asked a reasonably cute guy (why not?) to help me with the 6 egg case at the top shelf. Funnily, when I was following him, for a second I thought he doesn’t look very tall. It’ll be hilarious if he can’t get to it either. Like I said, I get distracted easily and good looks..good looks…and good looks (for any K3G fans here) held my attention. He reached out..for the eggs and not for his phone to take my number. I paid for the stuff and came home. The recipe was for 8 muffins and I needed to make 12. So I did some fun cross multiplication on paper which went like: If 2 eggs for 8 muffins, how many for 12? Mathematical representation:
2 —-> 8
x —–> 12
12*2 = 8x
24/8 = x
Therefore x = 3 eggs
This is very satisfying, I’m not kidding. Try it out. Don’t use the calculator. Don’t blame me if your muffins aren’t baked all the way through. And if you could have done that in your head, well, fine. Don’t think you’re special.
The instructions were to add all the dry ingredients in a large bowl. Great! Easy peasy. Flour….sugar…baking powder. Where’s the baking powder? Why don’t I have baking powder? Oh fuck! I threw it out the last time because it had expired. Who even cares about baking powder expiration? Ugh! I’ve opened all my cabinets and I know what my next step should be but I delay weirdly hoping that the next cabinet I open, I’ll find the baking powder hiding in the corner because its shy. Nope! No baking power. Have to drive to the nearest Walgreens. By this time, it’s warmed up and I leave the jacket behind and take my bouncy boobs with me. At Walgreens, the baking powder aisle is empty. Huh. Weird item to be out of. Anywhoo, the lady at the front said the morning shipment didn’t contain any so they’re out. Okay, alright. That’s okay, bad luck. I was really avoiding going back into a large grocery store because I only wanted one thing. Opened maps and literally typed in ‘baking powder near me‘. Grocery stores showed up, obviously. The closest one was Sam’s Club. You see..the word club would indicate that I’d need some sort of membership but hey! I’ve got 2 dry ingredients waiting for me in a bowl back home that I need to get back to. So all frazzled I walk into Sam’s Club and the lady at the entrance…simply doing her job, asks me for the membership card. I say I don’t have it. She asks if I want a temporary one I can get it inside the store because I’ll need it at check out. I’m about to cry saying oh my god I just want a tiny bottle of baking powder. I leave. I go to the Indian grocery store next door really hoping they have it, just for the sake of my mental health. I walk in. Aisle by aisle, no sign of baking products. I ask someone and they guide me to it. What do you think? Do I heave a sigh of relief or have a breakdown in the car?
You guessed right! Breakdown in the car. Awww you know me so well. Above the baking power label on the shelf, there was no baking powder. Is all of Round Rock baking today? What’s going on? I make peace with the fact that I’d have to go to a grocery store now. There’s just no other option. Also, imagine the angel devil scene in your head. The devil says to me I don’t want to state the obvious but you would have been home by now if you just chose to go to the big grocery store. Ughhh! Don’t you hate it when the devil’s right? Mental breakdown happens. You know what else? Something else irks me. This is suchhhhh a tangent but it was what happened so you have to read.
I spoke to a swanky Radiologist during the week for over an hour. Based on the length and quality of the conversation, I drew the conclusion that it warrants me asking if he’d like to talk again. For all those going to jump to his defense without even knowing him, I shall have you know, I texted at a decent morning hour on Saturday, his day off and didn’t hear from him the whole day. In spite of me spelling out – ‘no is a perfectly acceptable answer’ in the text. Aaaahhh the entitlement. Anyway, I was mad about this and that added to my frustration of not finding basic baking powder. I know! Insane. So I let it out, wiped my tears and drove to the nearest target, ready to burn it down if they were also out of baking powder. You’d think why baking these muffins were important at all by this point because the effort vs reward ratio was highly lopsided. But you tell me – where would I store mixed flour and sugar? Yes it’s a legit concern because I’d find a container for it and never remember about it and even if I magically did, I’d never know how much flour and sugar was added to it in the first place. No! I don’t want to label it okay? Please stop giving me such amazing suggestions in your head that I don’t want to know of.
Cut to Target. I walk in and I want to cry again. At this point, I’m missing tiny shops in India so much where you could walk in, ask the shop owner for what you want, he will fetch it if it’s there, if not he will say no, you pay or don’t accordingly and leave. Side note – I smile at a lot of people. I practice the southern hospitality culture seriously and so I have a pleasant smile on my face especially in grocery stores. Not today. No. I was literally serving looks. Nobody had any clue why I was walking through this store like a complete zombie with terror, hope and sadness in her eyes all at the same time. Yes, this is still very much about the baking powder. I find the baking aisle, and there, it sits in all its (fuckall) glory – BAKING POWDER! I grab it, walk over to the self checkout counter and leave.
My therapist had asked me sit with my feelings and see if I could note them down. Mental breakdown in the car called for this. So I started typing…”I’m so angry because I can’t find baking powder..” We’re going to have a whole lot to discuss in the upcoming session.
Sitting by the couch on the floor You wrapped up in a blanket Me wailing, hands joined praying Praying for you to come back to bed Asking for you to hold me, get me out of my head You scared for your life Allegedly convinced someone would find you dead
I sit on the very same couch years later Hugging myself, telling myself I’m okay Unable to shake off the weight of the accusations The dark colours you added to my personality’s beautiful illustration I try hard to find the slightest hint of blood on my hands Tears incessantly falling off my face The past, I remorsefully attempt to erase You broke me and yet I hold my pieces with so much grace
There was no blood, it was all an illusion One you convinced me was a reality I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror Teary eyes were now full of terror I closed the monster I saw in the closet Inflicting pain upon that reflection
It hurt me so bad, I cried out in anguish “Get me out of here!” was my dying wish You believed the demon in me was true More than I ever believed in you Holding me close but keeping me afar Your disappointment in me and love for me was visibly at par And now forever I shall carry within me a scar
Good luck to you darlin’, so long farewell I’ve broken away from the demon’s spell It was you all along who I saw in the mirror Casting dark shadows, assuring my I was a killer, My broken pieces are all glued back together A phoenix rising from the ashes is something for you to fear.
Hie! I’m so happy I don’t have to start this post with ‘oh it’s been a minute’. Don’t you love it when you’re consistent with some things that you love? Yes, I used love twice in that sentence and yes I really wanted a synonym for it because how else will you think I’m a good enough writer? Lucky for me, I write for me, ha! I do realize I address a reader(s) in every post even though I say I write for myself because one can dream right? I like to fantasize that some people some where do read my work (It’s mostly my mom’s friends) Yes, writing two blog posts within 2 months is the consistency I was aiming for. I’m not an overachiever like you 😉 I set goals that are achievable so even if I don’t achieve it, I don’t feel too bad about it. I can say, oh, didn’t manage manage to write 2 blog posts in 2 months. Did manage to write 1 so hey, achieved 50% and that’s better than 0%.
What made me achieve my 2 in 2 goal this time around? Glad you asked. Well, glad you thought. If you hadn’t before – I just made you. That’s the theme of today’s write up too – making people do something. Kind of. I think. We’ll find out. Mystery is what keeps us hooked. So, I started seeing somebody about 4 months ago. This is the longest anything has lasted since my divorce. Naturally, I want to hold on to this because I don’t want to be alone. I hated admitting this but it’s true and I’m looking to be in a serious committed relationship. This is a relationship but I don’t think it’s serious. It’s nice. ‘Toh phir problem kya hai?’ (watch the video for reference, you won’t regret it!) That translates to – Then what’s the problem? You’re on a roll today! Asking/thinking all the right questions. Read on. I’ll tell you.
I came to home to India for a work visa stamping. That same old shit you have to do every 2-3 years if you live in the US and oh my god! The scene at the consulate makes for a really great reality drama. They treat us like cattle and the security guards are drunk with power. The first world vs third world really comes to life outside the US consulate. It’s a battleground. Parents and loved ones come to drop off their child with hopes and second hand American dreams and fear that they may lose the war (aka visa gets rejected). I digress, I know I know but I have to deal with this in less than 48 hours and I’m not looking forward to it. Preparing myself in advance so that I don’t get consumed by my anger there. Okay, so, because my trip was going to be 3 weeks long, I had to have a chat with the person I’m seeing. Let’s call him P.
P is someone who doesn’t take anything seriously. This helps him keep a cool head and is hardly perturbed. He prefers to communicate in person, hates text banter. While I was away for 2 weeks in the recent past, we barely spoke on the phone twice. This sounds a lot like I’m airing my dirty laundry out in public – yes I am and I’m going to stop now. This leads to why I’m writing this story in the first place. I’m going to stop after providing the backstory. So yes, while I was away, we barely spoke and I don’t appreciate that at all. I love banter and I like regular consistent communication. I asked for exactly that.
The conversation sounded a little threatening because I said you have to call me once a day when I’m in India and his response was – I’ll try my best. At this point, if you can’t make a one phone call a day commitment while I’m away, it starts to get tricky. So I said that his response wasn’t satisfactory, wasn’t oozing any confidence. So he…laughed. As usual. And then I said I need that, it has to happen and he agreed. Acknowledged why it’s important and then – this morning at 8.15 am his time, like clockwork, he called me. I was pleasantly surprised and the minute we hung up, I felt…guilty.
Guilty because I made him do it. It’s because I said so. I do ask for what I want, mostly. There’s no way for someone to know when my needs aren’t being met. And this is so new, so it only makes sense to be explicit. After having this conversation about him calling me, him doing it, I didn’t feel good about it. It’s weird. I logically understand that one can’t read my mind and yet it’s my deepest desire for this person to give me what I want without an explanation. There’s no joy in someone making a routine phone call as they wake up because they were asked to do so and yet, yet I still expect that. What’s the middle ground between asking for what you want and being understood and given what you want without asking for it? I assumed communication is a basic need but each person is comfortable with different levels of communication. When in doubt, overcommunicate with me. I prefer that. I also learned this in therapy – to show up for people how they need for you to show up. And that’s an art. The way he shows up for me is how he would expect to be treated in a similar situation. For example – if I’m upset, I don’t want space. For him, on the rare occasion that he may get upset, it’s the opposite. The phone call was also 80% me talking. That made it worse because I could sense it even more than this was being done ‘for’ me.
I was recently told that I’ve buried my romantic side somewhere and that I’ve started to think too practically about matters of the heart. It’s my defense mechanism. If I’m vigilant about all the flags and actions, I’m reducing the chances of being hurt again. I don’t want to be watching out for everything so closely that I forget to enjoy the process. And I’m accepting nice because I haven’t even had nice in a really long time. So at the moment, nice is great. And maybe, that’s all it’s meant to be – nice in the moment.
Hii! Oh my god. It’s been a minute. I feel guilty for not being more regular with my blog posts. At the same time, I have to feel something to write about something. With everything going on in the world, be it abortion rights in the US or the protests in Iran following the 22 year old’s death for not wearing her hijab properly, we have been lying to ourselves about time traveling not existing. Men. Argh. Religious, fanatical, conservative, sexist, patriarchal men. And women too. But men. Mostly men. Argh. Before you draw any conclusions about me being a misandrist, I’d like to assure you, that’s not the case. There are many men in my life that have made me believe that there are good ones out there. Having said that, we cannot turn a blind eye to the fact that most people in positions of power across the globe are men. All of this is overwhelming. Overwhelm doesn’t aid creativity. Not for me, at least. I’ve been lost. Not sure of what matters to me enough to pour my heart out here. There are obviously no rules. My posts aren’t meant to change the world or even a single person’s thought process. That’s just an added bonus, a by-product. I write for myself first, and then for the one other person that reads this, ha! Again, I’d like to remind you, if this is your first time here, you should know that I beat around the bush quite a bit before I come to the crux of the post. There has to be a beginning, middle and end, right? What’s the point of starting a story in the middle? Actually, what’s the point of anything really? See, after you turn 30, existentialism catches up with you. Okay, I digress. As always. Okay, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve been trying to find something that makes my heart feel strongly enough to make my way over to my laptop on a non-workday to dedicate my thoughts and ideas to something I’d like to put out in the universe. This something happened yesterday and no surprise, it is related to my all time favourite subject: divorce.
My mom is visiting me from India and has been helping me set up my new home. Never did I ever think I’d buy my own home. Hell, I didn’t think I’d ever get divorced so surprising things happen all the time. It’s scary as hell to make these decisions alone. It’s something that nobody can prepare you for. And as I write about divorce more often than not, there’s this gnawing voice at the back of my head that keeps asking me – don’t you think you talk about it too much? Is that repulsive? Does that make you less desirable – as a partner, friend or simply as a human being? Of course, I talk about it too much. I also use ‘it’ for divorce once I’ve written divorce because using divorce again and again is not something that comes to me without a slight hesitation. We all know very well why. I’d like for it to be as easy to say happily divorced as it is to say happily married. They are the same because of the word ‘happily’. Let’s not take away from either situation because truly, there’s nothing to take away except for people’s narrowminded outlook on divorce (and women). There is a story here, I promise. We were driving from Austin to Houston where my mom’s old school friend lives. When he learnt of mom’s visit, he insisted that she visit their home on the occasion of Navratri (an Indian festival) as many of their other school friends are going to be present. My mom hasn’t seen any of these people since 45 years. That’s something, huh? We put on our best Indian clothes and set off on a 3 hour long drive.
On our way, we did regular mother daughter things. Shared gossip about everyone we know. One of my mom’s closest friend’s son is getting married and I hear plenty about how this dude stands up for his fiancé and is fantastic at setting boundaries with the parents and isn’t afraid to fight for what’s important to them as a couple. Breath of fresh air. I’ve known this guy for most of my life. Something pierced my heart while hearing this. Here’s what it was — him standing up for his to-be spouse. In that moment, I couldn’t help but say, “Aah, it would have been so nice to have found a spouse with a backbone.” This was followed by a few tears which got mom to hurl few (read: many) abuses at the ex. I followed it up by saying that I’m on my period. Somehow things hurt more when you’re bleeding out. Makes sense right? It hurts when you bleed. From where is immaterial. I quickly wiped out my tears because they’re precious but more than anything it was hot outside and I didn’t want to be dehydrated.
We reached the friend’s home in Houston after battling some awful traffic. On walking in, it felt like mini-India. Everyone was dressed traditionally and their golu was ginormous. After about 30 minutes of hanging around, mom and I decided to leave. We didn’t know anyone and the host was naturally too busy attending to all of his guests. When we tried to say out goodbyes he insisted that we wait because he’s expecting some folks from their school to join us soon. Eventually, they did. There were also some other introductions made. If you know me, you know that I can talk to literally anyone and social situations do not bother me. Thanks to this trait, I sat talking to a woman, aunty, as we call them in India. Let’s call her M Aunty. M Aunty was fascinated with my job and got another of her friends to listen in. I’ve not been in a room where people have been so interested in my work. I don’t think much of it outside of my work hours so I won’t lie, it felt nice. Next up, I’ve not been in a social situation where I have been asked – are you married? Believe me, I’ve imagined these situations because I hear about it from so many people. I always imagine having snarky comebacks for such questions. Some of these can be quite intrusive. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been in one until yesterday. So, I was asked – are you married? And for the first ever time, I was able to say, with a buttload of confidence and a nice smile on my face – I’m actually divorced. I cannot tell you how liberating that was. I knew why they were asking. I know myself to be reasonably charming, kind, attractive so I’m sure all the eligible men known to them were running in their minds. They went, ‘Oh, oh..’. Yes, one doesn’t know what to say in such a situation. Here’s why — nobody gives you this information upfront because it’s that thing you do not talk about. But why? Because it’s not a ‘good’ thing to get a divorce, especially in a South Asian context. For me, their reaction didn’t matter. For me, what mattered was owning my truth in a room full of people who are complete strangers. And of course, if being divorced changes any of that. I was curious to know. It was a social experiment. And let me tell you – it didn’t change anything. They were as kind to me as they were before I told them I’m divorced, they gave me their phone numbers to keep in touch and contact them in case I ever needed it. I cannot take this incident and say it’s all in our heads because I know for a fact that it’s not. What I can say is this — own it. Whatever it is. The only person who can decide how this situation should playout is you. It’s me. I had the power to present this information the way I wanted it to be received. I’m fully aware that it can go either way but I was clear about my intention and can control only my part of the exchange. What someone else thinks of my divorce is –
— Not my problem
— Says more about them than me if it makes them uncomfortable
India took 200 years to become free from the British. Millions of women had to die before women were given the right to vote. Change, meaningful change, never takes place overnight. History is proof. Not to say I alone talking about divorce every chance I get will make divorce a less looked down upon term but even if it makes a difference to one person, I’ll take that win. Talk about everything. Especially the things you’re told not to talk about. Learn why that makes you uncomfortable. Discomfort is a fantastic teacher. Liberation is the reward for speaking out. I’ll be honest, it’s a drug. I just can’t seem to get enough.
Prabha – a force to be reckoned with. The reigning queen of the Indian Railways and all of our hearts. It’s an impossible task to condense her personality into a 1 pager. I’ll provide the highlights. For all of us that know my mother, we know her to be fierce, warm, intelligent, empathetic, exceptionally kind and giving. What I have had the privilege of learning about her over the years is this – she’s someone who is always open to learning and reevaluating her opinions based on new information. She will go out of her way to make anyone in the room feel like they’re a true gift to all of humankind. She keeps so many people in mind and will always give a little something to anyone who visits our home. She taught me that the little things are the big things. There is nothing I can’t discuss with her and she’s become Shruti’s and my best friend.
Mamma – thank you doesn’t even begin to cut it but I have to say it. Thank you for being you. You have always led by example and you are and always will be my safest space. (You too, Pappa!) You have made umpteen sacrifices to give your daughters the best life possible and let me tell you, it’s been an incredible life. Right from waking up at 4am, cooking for all of us, sending us off to school, then going to work yourself with barely any days off, you did it all. I often hear from my friends that their parents don’t apologize or don’t know how to apologize when they screw up. It’s baffling to me because that’s something you and Pappa have always done. That taught us that respect has to be earned and is mutual. No one is entitled to our respect. Your warmth is infectious, and your generosity knows no bounds.
This toast would be incomplete without mentioning your food and your wardrobe. Thank you for never sending food we didn’t like in dabba. You’re one hell of a cook, Ma! And no one, I repeat, no one in this world can pull off a saree like you do (and also run in them with heels on a railway platform). We’re in awe of your style and how you carry yourself. We got it from you, Mamma!
Prabha and Ravi have cultivated some very strong friendships over the years and we’ve seen how all of you have shown up for them. I’m taking this opportunity on behalf of Shruti and myself to thank all of you, especially Mima, Peri, Anita aunty and Raj Uncle, for being a big reason for our peaceful sleep day after day, month after month, year after year, as we continue to lead our individual lives far away from our amazing parents. They have always wanted the best for us, and they have left no stone unturned in making sure we never feel even a second of hesitation about choosing to live away. We’ll forever be indebted to their unparalleled parenting and for being our strongest support system and our loudest cheerleaders. We’re so bummed to be missing this big milestone but we’re always with you in spirit and we’re happy knowing you have so many people who’ve gathered to celebrate you because you deserve to be celebrated.
Happy birthday, to the best mother, friend and human! 60 has got nothing on you, sexy! We love you and cannot wait to see you. Both of you!
My mind has been running at a pace I simply cannot catch up with. So this exercise, of attempting to write out what all is going on in my mind, is my way of calming myself. You can read through this journey with me or not, totally your call. I haven’t written in six months and that’s also been bothering me but so much happened in the last few months that nothing singular made it to the blog. I’ll try to touch on the different stories. As you know, I don’t always stick to one topic on here. I start somewhere, end somewhere and the middle is a hotchpotch of some stuff. Don’t expect too much coherence from this one alright? These thoughts aren’t well formed or haven’t dragged me out of bed like some of the other ideas have.
I started watching Telugu movies on streaming platforms during the pandemic. My mother tongue is Tamil but it’s debatable if I could save my life speaking it or not. You see, my own mother has a hard time understanding half the things I say to her. She claims – Such, you talk inside your mouth. So for that reason, I’m unsure. Anywhoooo – Telugu films. Yes. Started watching them, with subtitles and started enjoying them. Movies feel like home to me. I can’t describe it any better. I love watching movies, especially Indian movies and only recently I’ve started going back to the theatre. There’s this blockbuster movie called RRR made by a celebrated director called Rajamouli and the movie stars the biggest superstars of the Telugu industry. I went for the movie with a friend who moved from Hyderabad (heart of Telugu cinema) just over a year ago. We met on Bumble BFF. I’ve given up on the men. More on that in a bit. This was my first ever Telugu movie on the big screen. The tickets were double the price of regular tickets and now I completely understand why. There was hooting, cheering, whistling in the cinemas and I thoroughly enjoyed every bit of the movie. Halfway through, I realized that one of the actors called Jr. NTR has an uncanny resemblance to the ex-husband. Now, we don’t have any common friends and we’re not connected on social media. I don’t have pictures of him/ us either. So I don’t see anything that will remind me of him. Seeing someone on a massive ass screen giving me full ex-husband vibes? That’s a whole new feeling. I couldn’t get over it somehow and I came back and told folks who had seen the ex and they agreed with me saying yep, they see it, it makes sense.
It’s been a few days since I watched the movie. Today, I ended up watching a 30 minute long interview of the same actor and my mind was absolutely blown. Now, he was out of character, he was just being himself and talking naturally. The mannerisms, voice, expressions even the laugh, oh my god, I had to pause the video multiple times to just ground myself. Why did I watch the video then? Great question to which I don’t have an answer to. It’s a novel feeling and I don’t understand it. I was enamored by this man who spoke about the movie and his love for cinema in a way only true artists can while thinking constantly about how he comes so close to being like someone I was married to. It’s such a bizarre, insignificant thing that has just occupied my whole brain this afternoon. It is so heavy. It has slowed me down. This has been playing on my mind since the day I saw the film which even made me see him in my dream last night (the ex, not the actor, sigh). I truly don’t know much about dreams and the science behind it but when I do think about something, even if it’s subconsciously, I tend to dream about it. This feeling is also alienating because I can’t explain it to anyone else. I’m not sad about it nor is it bringing back any painful memories. In fact, quite the opposite. I have a smile on my face while writing this and I’m not sure what it means. I guess I want to acknowledge some kind of a relationship did exist. There was some love? Some connection? This very loosely ties back into a little something that happened over the last few months.
I met someone back in December who I really liked and he claimed that as well. After months of dating and not letting anyone in, I let my guard down and let this person in. We grew up not very far from one another back in Bombay but we never knew of each others’ existence up until then. Things escalated (or at least I thought they did) and we skipped a few steps because of familiarity. I left for India end of the year and spoke to him sparingly during the 3 weeks that I was away. Towards the end of the 3 weeks I was sure enough that I wanted to come back and date him (I’m proofreading this and see that I barely spoke to him but wanted to come back and date him. Ideally this should have been a yellow flag for myself. Hindsight visions is always 20/20, no?) We got along super well, similar values, similar sense of humour (I’m funnier, obviously!), common love for the movies, feminist, good conversationalist and flirt. We ended up meeting 2 weeks after I got back from India. Actually, hang on, date number 2, he made his intention clear of wanting to see where this goes while I was on the fence because of my past. I had gone on a date with another person in between and even though he made fun of it and made it sound like he was totally cool with it, it came up faaaarrr too many times for it to be a nothing thing. (I bet if he ever read this piece, he’d fight me tooth and nail on this point, from the little I gathered about him) He would say things like oh you’re busy going on dates with other people. That’s alright. I don’t want to. He went to the extent to say there was no rush and that he’d wait for me to get comfortable enough. (All good things, I thought). Fast forward to the meeting after my return. We discussed not wanting to see other people. Little did I know what his meant at that time. My assumption was he didn’t want to see other people because he only wanted to see me. He actually only wanted to see his work. Take his work to bed. Make love to work. This also sounds eerily similar to who I was married to. Love their work to a blinding extent. The problem with me is, once I let go, I let go completely. And it takes me a while to reign it back in. And that’s exactly what happened here. Soon, he came around to tell me that he does care about me but the first quarter is extremely busy at work and gives him no time to breathe. (Proofreading addons: sounded like a recurring event. Every first quarter you become MIA then why lead me on to a point where I got sucked in? I’ll play devil’s advocate and say he probably didn’t anticipate things escalating. The man was saying all the right things but my gut felt a ton of unease. A friend also brought up, why is he on dating apps when he knows he’s just unavailable for months on end? Does he decide he’ll find love only in certain months? I had asked him the same question and he had laughed it off. Yellow turning to light red flag here) I went with it because he was being genuine and honest about the situation. I had made my intention of dating him explicit as well. I didn’t mince my words. He said I can’t give you what you want so you shouldn’t stick around. You deserve better. Funny thing is, I knew that. At the back of my head, I knew that. But my mind was so bloody tired of looking for love or something that resembled it, came close. I’m not saying this was love by any means but you get what I’m trying to say right? Life can get bloody lonely quickly at times and I wholeheartedly projected onto him. I couldn’t go back to the apps and start over, explain who I am, what I am, where I’m from, what makes my tummy tickle, what food I love, describe my happy place and so much more to many many new people who would be in my life for maybe half a day. I refused to see it for what it was – something casual that will certainly fizzle out if I don’t pay any attention to it. I say that because I was the one trying to reach out, make contact. And now that I’m writing this out, I’m shaking my head. Not judging myself, not even for a second because what we do for a fleeting moment of feeling wanted, feeling desired is often not our best decision. I’m not immune to that. I make bad decisions. I also own my bad decisions. Anyway, all of this to say that I once again fell for someone who didn’t fall for me and that sucked, sucked real hard. It’s not the end of the world. At the same time, being vulnerable and letting yourself go while fully knowing that the chances of getting hurt are high is also not easy.
Tying this all back to the celebrity who reminded me of an old love for a bit was a gooey feeling. It may not make sense to you. Heck it barely makes sense to me. But there are days I crave intimacy, crave being held, crave sex, crave a morning coffee in bed, crave a forehead kiss, crave a date night where we both come back to the same place, crave saying I love you, crave being said I love you to, crave being held while bawling my eyes out, crave a warm body next to me. It’s not something I can sit and chat about and feel better. The solace sometimes is in remembering the past, moments that made me feel a lot. Moments that meant something and will always remain something. Moments when someone, at some point, loved me, desired me, cared about me. And a superstar of Telugu cinema somehow managed to give me back my moments.
You can’t. Haha, you thought I have the answer? So cute! Okay okay, if you’ve been here before, you know I say ton of ridiculous things. If it’s your first time here, know that I say a ton of ridiculous things. It’s been a long while since I’ve written anything and that’s been an unsettling feeling because writing is my outlet. It’s how I experience the world, my life, my people and people in general. Things make more sense to me when I write them down. The other side to this is, writing, like any other art form, cannot be forced. You may argue that I’m taking the lazier way out and yes, you’re 100% right. I am. It’s a perspective. Yours isn’t wrong (maybe it is), mine is definitely not wrong. Haha! I’ve had times when writing ideas come to me in my sleep and I’ve dragged my lazy ass out of bed to write it out because if you write or have heard stories from people who do, these ideas evaporate if you don’t write them down. It’s next to impossible to write it at a later time, exactly how you thought of it in your head. I like to believe I’m a good mix of lazy and well..not lazy. I’d never sabotage a good write up due to laziness. Those thoughts are too strong. They simply take over my actions. So, in conclusion, of this tangent (which is another thing I do..a lot! But always bring you back to the point of the story. So, you’ve got the trust me. Come on, turn around and let’s try that free fall now, shall we?) no thoughts have been powerful enough to get me to sit in front of my computer (haha so old school) and write. Today’s topic though, is supremely important to me. I have strong opinions about it and I’m learning as I go along and the road is endless.
So, I’m going to do that whole Webster’s dictionary says privilege is..except Google says it and I don’t know the source – a special right, advantage, or immunity granted or available only to a particular person or group. In other words, you get an advantage, a leg up or a visual for this could be this – imagine a relay track with 4 tracks. Each person has a reduced advantage as the numbers increase. So #1 stands way ahead and starts the race before #2, #3 and #4. #1 still has to run the race but has better chances of winning since they started early (in this case starting early is a privilege). I often imagine this scene in my head when I think of privilege. Okay, that’s a lie. It’s not often. It probably happened once and it came back to me while writing this. I’m glad it did because the analogy makes sense to me and I hope it makes sense to you. Also you’d think it’s obvious. Recognizing your privilege, at least in some cases, is pretty darn straightforward. I learned that it isn’t. And the thing is, these are recent learnings, over the past 2-3 years.
Until recently, I used to introduce myself as a TamBrahm (Tamilian Brahmin). For those of you who aren’t familiar with the caste system in India, Brahmins sit at the top of this hierarchy and definitely enjoy a lot of perks thanks to this association. It’s what I’ve heard growing up, we’re a TamBrahm family. So I used to say it innocently. It wasn’t a flex, by any means (at least in my head). Brahmins have oppressed people of other castes and what is considered as lower castes for generations. It’s still prevalent and I realized I didn’t want to be associated with the group anymore. That obviously doesn’t mean I can ignore the privileges I’ve had and still have from being born into such a family. It’s like the ostrich closing its eyes and assuming no one else can see it. Don’t ask me where I read or heard that. I won’t be able to tell you. It could be a load of bullshit but hey, it fits the bill here and the ostrich has lent itself to a greater cause – to explain stupidity. It’s a small thing but I consciously made that change and now I say I’m a Tamilian (if it comes up) and I’m trying to learn more and more about disadvantaged groups, especially folks #4 running the race. This is why I said the road is endless because one lifetime isn’t enough to understand the gravity of oppression many groups have had to face and make the most of the hand they’re dealt. This brings me to a story. It’s short, I promise. Also, if you’ve stayed with me so far, you’re having a good time, aren’t you? 😉
I’ve created a matrimonial profile. I know, I’m getting all the eeewwwww feels as I’m typing this out. Don’t get me wrong. It works for many people and that’s the path they want to go down and that’s great. It’s just not for me. I did it knowing fully well I’m going to be disappointed and disgruntled no sooner than 30 seconds into it. It’s a 3 month membership and my plan is to call privileged misogynistic Indian men out on their bullshit while maintaining a respectful tone. That’s the first rule of engaging in a dialogue. Be respectful or else you might as well not try because no one is going to engage with a stranger yelling ‘you’re a terrible human being and you should go marry your mama!’ I can think it but best not to say it. There was one person on there who was super excited to know of a ‘brahmin chick’ in Texas. He clearly asked for it 😉 I had to ask questions. And so I did. I asked why he was so excited about learning that I’m a brahmin. This further led to a discussion of privilege and how we both have it because of our caste and he went on to say he doesn’t think it’s true anymore. He had a hard time in India, the reservation system didn’t allow him better opportunities and so he decided to move to the US in search of better prospects. It baffled me that he couldn’t see that him being able to make that decision to move away in search of something better is in itself a privilege very few get. Most people in India have to make the most of their situation and where you’re born to/who you’re born to or raised by has a massive role to play in it whether we accept it or not. This had to be taken to the sister and brother in law. During our conversation, they mentioned how it’s a magnanimous task to explain privilege. It’s often misunderstood that our struggles are undermined if we acknowledge our privilege. But, remember the relay race? One has to identify where they started that race from. That helps put things into perspective. People rightfully earn what they worked for, but the truth of the matter is, it’s almost never a level playing field. The idea that you can acknowledge that you could have had a tough time, jumped through hoops and slogged your ass off for what you have today and simultaneously can also acknowledge another person with lesser opportunities did the same while maybe jumping through fired hoops is somehow unfathomable. The two exist (maybe not as peacefully as we’d like) without one’s acknowledgement. Actually, if you think about it, privilege thrives in ignorance. The more it’s not taken stock of, the more we get away with it – the better jobs, the better rates of interest, the better schools to put our kids in..the list won’t end.
We cannot give up our privilege..unless you’re thinking on the lines of Siddhartha or Mahavira (who founded Buddhism and Jainism respectively) who gave up worldly pleasures and switched to a minimalistic lifestyle. We’ll need way too many volunteers for that to be able to see a difference. That’s not what’s expected or needed. Sometimes I find myself sounding like I’m sitting on some high horse telling people to open their eyes and see how they’ve been running as #1 on life’s race track since the beginning. Then I think about who am I? Why do I need to go around asking people to remove their blinders? How much of it is my responsibility? The thing is, I am a nobody, I’m trying to learn as I go and am open to being called out when I wrong someone else. I don’t ‘need’ to go around asking people to do anything. In fact, my asking them will almost always never work unless they know me, trust me and have some relationship with me. And lastly, it’s not my responsibility to educate anyone but myself. However, like everything else in this world, this isn’t black and white. There are no absolutes. When I engage in a dialogue around privilege, caste, misogyny, patriarchy and the likes, I’m doing it to keep my own ideas and thoughts in check and do it on behalf of people who don’t have a voice or means to fight back. The time is now – to have these conversations, to call each other out, respectfully, to learn from each other, to acknowledge where we come from, how that has and continues to aid us and how there are millions in the world who have to think about things on a daily basis that we barely ever have to – where’s the next meal going to come from? How do we pay the next loan installment? How do I take on this massive medical bill? If I take an extra shift at work, where can I leave my kid for a few hours? These are just a few top of mind things that came to me. These thoughts are someone’s reality. And for their sake, all we have to do is express gratitude for what we have. Everything is relative. Heck, even time is relative. So situations are always better for some, worse for some.
Coming back to the title question – how to explain privilege? The answer I gave trying to be funny is actually kind of true – you can’t. It’s something that comes from within. Does that mean we stop trying? Hell no! Revolutions don’t take place in a day. Or was it Rome wasn’t built in a day? Or was it history wasn’t made in a day? No, that’s technically incorrect. History can be made in day. You get where I’m going with this, right?
#Don’tStopTillYouDrop #PleaseComeSitWithMe #NotAllParentsAreGoodParents (just something for you to think about, has zero connection with this article)
Okay, I’m going to let you go now. You’re free. Here’s a sock. (If you know you know, or what babies are calling #IYKYK these days) Byeee!
For the curious, below is my chat exchange with the person on the matrimonial profile. What I appreciated was that he was respectful and engaged in a constructive dialogue. I need not agree with him or vice versa. But it’s refreshing to talk to someone with contrasting views and walk away without feeling agitated or unheard.
A bouquet was delivered to me a few years ago. I can’t remember what was written on the note but I’m pretty sure it said ‘Dear Sushi’, and ‘I love you.’ Sushi is what the ex-husband called me. It was unique. I’m called a lot of things but it was the first time I was called Sushi. It started with him playing a game called Sushi go party with his friends when he used to live in California. I remember he called me later that night and said something along the lines of how he saw this game and he knew he had to buy it for me. And somehow the name stuck. I liked the idea of being called something different by someone I loved with my whole heart and soul.
Coming back to the bouquet – I love getting flowers. I can’t explain the feeling. I mean, if you think about it, it has already started dying when it gets delivered to me. How morbid, right? Its beauty is fleeting but as its own light fades away, it fills up my life with some colour. And like everything in life or life itself, that romance is short lived. Just like ours was. And in that basket of perishables, there was a fake bird that stuck out like a sore thumb. I’m not sure what the florist had in mind while placing that with the bouquet. I didn’t think much of it. What’s there to think about a tiny purple and white fake bird? Little did I know I’d be writing about it years later.
When I moved from Dallas to Austin a little over two years ago, he helped me set up my apartment. We were to get married and then three days later, he was to leave to go back to India. We were staying at one of his friend’s house then and he’d spend hours into the night setting up my apartment. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure if he was trying to escape reality by putting all his mental and physical effort into setting up the place or was he genuinely wanting to make my apartment feel like home before he left. Things that I’ll never have the answers to. Maybe there isn’t a need to question every intension. Maybe, sometimes, it’s okay to want to believe that his motivation was his love for me and he didn’t want to deal with being separated again. Life was simply preparing us for what the future was going to look like.
When the apartment was set up, my home was set up, the fake bird had made its way to the top of the window frame. I can’t recollect the exact conversation we had had about it but for some reason he decided to stick this up there.
When I returned from India after three months in June last year, I had an apartment full of his stuff that I needed to get rid of. Some things I accepted as my own and kept them, for example, this fancy kettle with a gooseneck serves me very well when I need to boil water for my filter coffee every morning. Other things like photos and his personal items, I packed up and dropped off outside the house of the very same friend who had hosted us in the beginning.
It’s just a fake silly bird. But somehow it’s not just that. I’ve had so many people ask me about it. Why do you have a random bird sticking out like that? or Hey what is that? Why’s it there? I’ll nonchalantly say something like ‘Oh that? Umm, yeah I don’t know it’s just there’ or sometimes I’ll even say ‘yes, the ex stuck it up there.’ Truth be told, I don’t know what it means. Or I do know and I don’t like accepting it to myself. How hard would it be to climb up on my step ladder and pull that thing down and throw it in the trash? Not hard at all. With my current agility, strength and age, I’m estimating that task to be completed in about 3 minutes and 1 minute if I’m feeling overly competitive which makes no sense but does life really? All the time? See what I did there? Haha! Okay anyway, I think about getting up on the step ladder often. (aah sounds like a euphemism, doesn’t it?) I’m seriously talking about the ladder, that helps me achieve great highs. But I just haven’t done it yet. Some part of me (read, major part) thinks that that’s kind of the last piece of something from the relationship that doesn’t have a negative connotation to it. In fact, it’s a silly, funny, sweet thing and somewhere I’m not ready to trash it. I don’t have any feelings for the person, don’t get me wrong. But some times, some evenings, when I sit on my couch reading a crime thriller and look up at this weird dead fake bird staring into oblivion, I momentarily remember that the entire relationship from start to end didn’t suck. A lot of it did and more than the parts that didn’t which is why we didn’t make it to the finish line holding hands but all of it wasn’t devoid of warmth and love. I’m weird, attaching so much meaning to a fake bird. But we all have our version of this fake bird that we embrace, keep close, can’t let go of as a testimony of our past, our stories and how they will always be a part of us irrespective of whether we choose to throw it away or not.
So, for now, I think I’ll let the bird hang out in my living room for a little while longer and let it fly eventually 😉
In a relationship with Words 