That little faggot got his own jet airplane That little faggot, he’s a millionaire

I was in a bit of a funk today. My brain was playing its eternal what-am-I-doing-with-my-life monologue and I decided to settle it once and for all. So I went online and took a bunch of BuzzFeed quizzes to chart my own career path. Turns out I’m born to be a surgeon. Or a chef. Or a restaurant owner. Okay, close enough.

Armed with that expert knowledge, I tried to work out if I could indeed be somebody in this lifetime. When I was in school I had a clear vision about what I wanted to be — an award- winning journalist. I had to first tackle engineering though because that’s a rite of passage as far as my family is concerned. My grades were stellar all through school but in college I slipped majorly. I was a flunkie student with arrears the first two years.

I wanted to drop out of college, work at a cafe and moonlight as a writer/journalist. I’d dread going back home because I received a slap on my face from my dad when he came to know I’d flunked an exam. My mother cried inconsolably. And it was all too much to take. I’d lock myself up in my room and play November Rain and Winds Of Change on loop while being an emotional wreck. Thank god for music.

I managed to pick myself up eventually and even featured in the top 4 in my department in my final year, got a job that I was sure I’d hate but it was nice to have one. I lasted five months in the job (including the two months of training) and I was miserable. I just couldn’t get a hang of programming no matter how hard I tried. It went way over my head. It wasn’t what I was trained to do and I had no intention of becoming a civil engineer ( which is what I studied in college).

But I made it to ACJ – I’d wanted to study there ever since I heard about it in school and in the midst of my catastrophic GMAT scores and a possible MBA seat at Anna University, this came as a big big relief. I was working at a great publication in Madras and all was good but I felt trapped. Invisible. Saturated. And that seems to be the theme of my life all along.

The reason why I’ve narrated my oh-so-colourful (not) life history is because I don’t have the vision I had as a 15-year-old. I don’t see myself doing anything exciting. Yet I look around me and see women, men, new moms, old people do sensational work: I know of so many people who’ve followed their dream and started their own venture, whether it’s a home-baking business or a dream library. I don’t want to be an employee at a big firm and slave for hours together for a measly paycheque. But I do want to create something of value and make some money and have a career in the process. I’m just not sure what it is and I don’t seem to have the clarity and the vision at the moment.

But I have time. I’m much more relaxed now that I’ve weaned my little baby and put her in daycare for a few hours on weekdays. Which creates additional pressure to be productive, to do something and monetise it because now I have a block of time for myself. Sure I read, watch my favourite shows, drink coffee, walk, talk to friends and sort out the home but I must do more.

I’ve been a big disappointment to my folks, both professionally and personally. And my overachieving family with its NRI CEO cousins and highly influential uncles and aunts clearly looks down upon me for choosing this life. For giving up my job. For being an average journalist without credentials. Of course, success is subjective and it’s what you make of it personally yet I can’t tell if my idea of success is my own or if it’s something that has been drilled down into my head by family. It’s hard to tell them apart at this stage.

But my quest to do something worthwhile continues. For now, let me slurp my Maggi noodles and binge watch Gilmore Girls until D is back home.

Title flicked from Money For Nothing by Dire Straits

Notes to self

A set of reminders for a better everyday.

1.) Focus on being present in the moment . This has been a recurrent theme in my blog of late too. Learning the art of doing this from 14-month-old D.

2.) Set apart time for fitness. Work out at home, resume yoga, meditate for a while, go for a walk. Was regular with this but been lethargic ever since I got home to be with parents.

3.) Read good books. And read more often.

4.) Listen to music. Surprised that this is on the list because this is the one thing I used to do all the time. Now, though, my phone’s always on mute but I do play music in the background when D is eating or playing. But it’s mostly devotional or classical music, thanks to my family. Maybe pick different kinds of music too, so D is exposed to more variety.

5.) Mindless social media surfing needs to stop. My fingers and wrist hurt after a point!

6.) Start driving your car. Enough with the excuses and the baseless fears.

7.) Wear sarees more often, and learn to drape with more finesse. On a similar note, wear good clothes, give away stuff you don’t wear. Been doing this in regular intervals but wardrobe optimisation is a life-long process.

8.) Focus on self care. Seriously. It’s about time. Treat yourself to a good hair cut or a pedicure every few months at least.

9.) Practice patience. Easier said than done especially for someone like me who’s most impatient. But, but, I’m already doing a lot better than the last few weeks ever since I felt myself spiralling out of control. Point number 1 , aka, mindfulness, has helped.

10.) Get on top of your finances. Pending PF withdrawals, invoices, investment status, mutual fund returns, SIPs… get them all sorted one by one.

11.) Pick your projects. I’ve been turning down out a lot of work that’s come my way these days because I realise it’s not important now. Maybe it’s a good idea to say an outright No rather than reeling under the pressure once you’ve agreed to take on said work and then opting out. I want to spend more time with D. She’s my number one. Work scene seems more manageable now.

12.) Ask for help. You can’t and don’t have to do everything yourself. I can count on family and friends to help with babycare and more or just talk.

13.) Stay in touch with friends. And get out more to meet them. Also don’t shy away from forging new friendships.

14.) Do things you love. Sing, bake, cook, paint, photograph, write, work, laugh, play with abandon, with passion and zero expectations. And don’t think about how you’ll be perceived or if you’re good or bad. Treat everything as an opportunity to learn. Try it without holding back. Without seeking validation.

15.) stay grateful and positive. You are in a god place.

16.) Cut yourself some slack. It’s all right.

Am I a good writer?

I’d been obsessing over an article for days. It was for an international in flight magazine. I wrote the piece, re-read it a million times, and was pleased with it. I thought it was a well written article with authentic information and strong sources.

Today I received a mail from the editors with a bunch of corrections they wanted me to carry out on said article. My heart sank. My pride was hurt. I went back to the original piece and when I read it this time, it seemed average. I felt rusty. My writing felt redundant. Sentences and ideas seemed templated. The article seemed flat and laboured.

I dug into my inbox and fished out some of my older articles. Pieces I’d written for The Times Of India, Hindustan Times, Discover India… some of the pieces had me grinning with pride, while some, not so much. I read some encouraging feedback that had come in from readers, from people I’d interviewed, from editors… and felt good for a fleeting moment.

I couldn’t help noticing though that my older work is in fact a lot better than the writing I’ve been doing over the last couple of years. And it made me wonder if experience really makes you a better writer. Or does it have to do with the passion with which you get involved in the work? Or the nature of the assignment itself? Or is it the lack of stimulation that an office environment provides? Or is it because I’m not as invested in work as I once was? Or the fact that I was in a darker place then and as is commonly believed, all good art comes from a dark place?

Too many questions. The answers elude me. As I sat at my desk reluctantly making those corrections, I felt like an imposter who’d been caught in the act. My time was up. The mask had fallen. I was just an average person peddling substandard articles that no one really cared much for. I can’t even trust my own judgment when it comes to my work. When I feel like I’ve done justice, I’m asked to change things around, rework certain parts of the article, and given instructions on how paragraphs and sentences need to be shorter. And a complete paragraph – which I still think is central to the story – is carelessly hacked to death.

While I do understand that guidelines need to be adhered to, and that you need to write for your audience, it kills the joy of having written what you think is a good article. You start doubting your skills and your sense of judgment. And from thereon, it’s a slippery slope down the rabbit hole — I could feel myself sinking, my confidence and self esteem had taken a beating and I was just at a loss as to what really constitutes a good piece of writing. Is my lede really strong? Does the concluding paragraph pack a punch? Does the article flow coherently? I couldn’t tell.

Thankfully I was spared more such paranoia because it was D’s bedtime and I had to stay calm to handle it with some grace. It’s amazing though how babies can help you gain perspective. Just a moment ago I was thrashing myself for being a complete failure, but as I lay cuddling D on the bed and planted a kiss on her forehead while she slept, I knew instantly that at this moment, this is all that matters. This moment is special. Everything I’d ever done so far have led to this. At every instant, you are the sum total of all that you’ve endured in life up to that point. Suddenly work seemed trivial, easily dispensable. But not this moment. This moment is everything. It demands that I be fully present. And it’s the least I can do.

Why I am on Instagram

I’ve been grazing Instagram a lot lately and I have to admit that I like this social media platform. I post almost every other day and most of my content has to do with motherhood, D, and now that I’m home, snippets of our garden, my grandparents, and some glorious food which I don’t have to cook. Most of what I share are happy frames and the ones that are not so happy are usually disguised as light-hearted posts.

However, a few days back I found myself in a really dark space and I did something I’ve never done before: I vented on Instagram. I am a private person and I generally don’t like the idea of sharing too much information online but this time I was so lost and helpless that I had no second thoughts about honestly expressing how I was feeling. I got plenty of very thoughtful and supportive messages from friends and people I barely know and it made me feel secure. M completely disapproves of me doing this though. He believes that certain things are best left unsaid when it comes to social media and his view is that it’d soon become an obsession and you’d feel the compulsion to share every trivial detail of your life on a public platform. I agree with him to an extent considering I’m just as guarded about posting stuff online. Yesterday, for instance, I took down a story because M insisted it was showing D in bad light. I thought it was a funny post – irreverent but funny, nonetheless- about D’s sleepless nights but M said I was being harsh on D and it’s not ok to complain about our kid like that. Had a major argument with him and eventually deleted the story.

By now, it’s well established that Instagram holds an unswerving power over our relationship. Especially now that we’re in different cities temporarily, the stress gets to us: to me, more than anyone else. And I’m already plotting sweet revenge when I get back to Hyderabad: determined to go out and explore the city alone while leaving D with M all day. Anyway, the question is: why am I on Instagram?

The answers are multi layered. For one, I like the Instagram community, now that I’m a mom. Earlier I’d just post travel pictures and get on with my life. But now, I’ve discovered Instagram moms! I follow a lot of them for their absolute honesty, humour and no nonsense approach to parenting, for keeping it real, for normalising a lot of things like breastfeeding, postpartum depression and the hellhole that motherhood is, at times. No judgments. I also follow moms for book reccos, fun activities, toddler food ideas, and so on. More than anything there’s a sense of camaraderie, a feeling that we’re all in this together, our experiences matter and the anger, rage, irritation we feel as mothers is normal.

Secondly, I don’t have many mom friends. And I live in a quiet part of town that’s very far from where a couple of my only friends in the city live. I do not have friends in the building I live in or in the vicinity. So it’s a rather lonely journey with me staying holed up with D all day long in the flat except for walks in the park in the morning and evening. Instagram on the other hand is home to plenty of moms, most of whom I want to connect with and be friends with in real life. So I live in that little bubble when I’m home, exhausted and a little lonely.

Do I want to document my journey and D’s on Instagram? Not really. I quite enjoy sharing snippets every now and then but I’m not comfortable with the idea of flooding my page with personal photos. I used to deride moms who can’t stop sharing pics of their little ones but I kind of get where they come from, and I enjoy reading their posts so it’s all cool. Instagram captions are the new blogs, it seems like. I’m still pretty old fashioned though and prefer writing long winding articles here to posting lengthy Instagram captions. This is my safe space.

Why do I spend so much time on Instagram? The response to this is plain boring: i cannot leave D alone even when she’s asleep ( here our bedroom is upstairs so I have to be with her) during the day or night. By now you know that my little peanut hates sleeping and i have to draw the curtains to make the room pitch dark. It’s too dark to read a book. So my phone is my friend! Instagram to the rescue. Or Netflix on mute with subtitles.

One of my favourite things about Instagram is that it has helped me discover some fabulous indie brands – be it fashion, beauty, kids clothes, toys, books, home decor, food, recipes , you get the drift. It’s like Pinterest, Amazon and Facebook rolled into one. I’ll share some of my favourite Instagram brands in another post. Plus I’ve been following a lot of accounts related to fitness, food, home decor and parenting that inspire me and give me hope.

I am prone to jealousy but by and large, this community doesn’t stir up too many negative emotions nor do I feel the pressure to keep up. I look at these Instagram accounts and pages as free tools to learn new things, seek inspiration and get better. I even got interesting work opportunities thanks to the platform, so while I have toyed with the idea of deactivating my account I don’t see the need for it. On good days, I share the joy I experience and on bad days, I seek validation and support. Doesn’t seem like a bad deal at all.

Belated gratitude

gratitude: readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness

Don’t we all aspire to be grateful? Maybe we’ve even dabbled in keeping a gratitude journal, diligently noting down five things we’re thankful for every day. Or every other day. Okay, once a week. Realistically, once a month. And then forgetting its existence for a long time only to fish it out one particularly rough day hoping it would soothe your violent heart. But no. Instead it seems forced. Your gratitude journal is one big fat lie. On one seemingly uneventful day you’d written ” I’m grateful for a quiet evening spent reading a book and sipping coffee”. But you’d spent said evening sulking at home and wishing you could go meet a friend.

Maybe you truly are grateful… but only on retrospect. The full force of it hit me now as I lay next to a sleeping D on the bed. I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and moved to tears thanking the powers that be for the gift of this little squishy in our lives, for her enthu-cutlet-ness, her relentless curiosity, her sense of wonder, her overall cuteness and the boundless joy and love she brings.

Cut to a few minutes ago, though, I was a mess. I lost my cool while dealing with bedtime; I’ve never seen anyone fight sleep as much as my baby does. She was tossing and jumping about on bed, kicking me and biting while I was trying to keep calm and nurse her. And then something within me snapped and I literally yelled at D telling her she’s troubling me way too much and if she doesn’t sleep, I’ll go nuts. And I meant it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to call my mom to help me settle D to bed, and while she slept peacefully in my mother’s arms, I broke down into tears.

I remembered just how grateful I really am for D, for my family, and felt guilty about what had just happened. I shouldn’t have yelled. She’s a baby. But at that moment, when I was battling bedtime with a fidgety baby, I was honestly not feeling grateful at all. When my mom came upstairs to help me, I wasn’t particularly thankful either. Why is this gratitude thing always an afterthought? Why is it so hard to remember to feel grateful when you are bang in the middle of that moment, no matter how happy, sad or overwhelming ? Is it just me or does anyone else have a problem with acknowledging the moment you’re in, being fully present and reacting in a way that does not make you cringe with guilt later on?

I used to jot down things I’m thankful for, as an exercise. And I noticed that it simply seemed too forced at times, especially on days when nothing significant really happened. Arbid entries like “grateful to be alive” or “thankful for a nice meal” evoke zero feelings of genuine gratitude. It’s also confusing because I don’t know whom I should be directing my gratitude to for staying alive, for instance. The Beegees? (Worst joke) Plus, there were entries that seemed to suggest I was grateful but I really wasn’t; definitely not when I was in that predicament. “Grateful for the long wait at metro station and conversations with a stranger”. That’s a lie. So not grateful at all because who likes to wait endlessly for the train after a long day at work? In retrospect though, it just seemed like something you ought to have been thankful for. It’s very tricky, this gratitude thingy; even when it’s real, it seems fake. And when you ought to be genuinely thankful for something, it’s always too late, it’s always on hindsight. If only we knew we are grateful when we are in the thick of the moment! If only we were more mindful and consistent, there’d be no need for things like gratitude journals on bedside tables. Or therapy.