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.

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.

Ten years is a lifetime

A friend of mine shared a pic of the two of us from almost ten years ago. It was taken at another dear friend’s beach house just outside Madras and we’re both grinning like Cheshire cats. My hair looks unusually curly and teeth look gigantic in the pic, yet I’m smiling and we both seem relaxed in the way only two close friends can be when together. This set forth a wave of nostalgia and had me pining for the good old times – post work shenanigans at Zara, inside jokes and pop culture references at office, weekends with M, impromptu coffee sessions with friends, random house parties, beach house nights, fun concerts, and Madras, that beautiful seaside city which made it all possible.

But nostalgia can be tricky because it warps facts and sugar coats real life events from the past. Ten years ago, I was a complete mess. It took me a while to actually start talking to my own team mates at work. I was actually intimidated by all the seemingly cool, progressive people I went to college with. It was my first proper stint in a big city and while I’d always liked the idea of Madras as a small town girl, it was not exactly a piece of cake. I was going through trouble in the personal front right from 2008 – right after I made the rookie mistake of telling my mom that I was dating a guy and would like to marry him someday. I said it innocently enough within weeks or months of meeting M, but boy! Did my folks throw a fit. It assumed violent, disturbing and traumatic proportions in the years that followed and at 25, I was contemplating suicide. Like very seriously.

I was battling my own demons, struggling to sleep, struggling to wake up, eating too much, not eating at all, experiencing panic attacks, high blood pressure, extreme anxiety, and through it all, I envied my friends who had saner parents and normal lives wherein they did not go through a nervous breakdown when their folks called them to say hi on the phone. At work, I’d put on a facade, and joke about my situation but there have been times when I’ve broken down at office too. I did not, however, shut myself out; I did the opposite, so I was out a lot, because I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone with my thoughts or worse, with my mom, who decided to stay put with me in Madras and torture the fuck out of me every single day.

Ten years ago, the only thing that mattered to me was my career and my friends; M figured in it too I think, but only much later when family drama intensified. I was not invested in family at all, and I was sure I did not want kids, because my folks had scarred me enough and I did not want to pass it forward and screw up the genetic pool. I was ambitious and driven but never realised that I was very very depressed and anxious too. I was trying to piece myself together and just cross the bridge when I got there because thinking about my future and how I’d work things out would get me frazzled and wound up.

Cut to today, I’m married to M, mother to a delightful ten month old baby girl, I’ve come to value family more than anything else and I’m on a break from work ( something that was unimaginable even 3 years ago). Several bridges were built and compromises reached, a lot remains unresolved and I’m ok with that. You cannot really get complete closure and that’s all right as well. I choose my battles and let things go. I’m also a lot more self aware, I’m not as awkward with people, I cook pretty well and make excellent coffee. I’m more practical, more confident, stronger than earlier, more accepting of myself and other people and more acutely aware of my flaws; some of them I choose to work on, and some are simply an intangible part of who I am.

A picture can be deceptive and you’re free to interpret it any way you like. So while it seems like a happy pic, I’m honestly in a much better place now, emotionally and otherwise. I’m still smiling in the picture despite all the trouble I was having then, because I think somewhere deep down I knew things would be better. I was hopeful then just as I am, today, ten years and many battles and setbacks later. Some things don’t change.

You should be working

It’s been a slow day. A slow couple of months, in fact. Ever since M and I made the decision to move from Delhi to Hyderabad, things have been slow, almost stagnant, I tend to think sometimes. Why? I’ve not been working as much as I should, as much as I want to, not making the kind of money I should be making at this point. So I’m caught in an endless spiral of guilt. Am I allowed to take it easy? Isn’t it sacrilege to spend my time cooking, reading, Netflix-ing and running, when I must be working?

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Work, to me, is sacrosanct; I define myself, to a large extent, by the work that I do. And it kind of runs in the family too. My dad is a compulsive workaholic, but he approaches everything in life with the same diligence he accords to work; so, despite spending 10 hours or more in an office 6 days a week, with hardly any time for himself, he continues to be there for everyone who needs him. He’s some kind of superhero, really; he makes it look easy, but I wouldn’t last a day if I were to run an office in a small town with no help even under back-breaking pressure, and still pick up groceries, do the gardening, clean the bathrooms and fix everything that needs attention.

My thatha is over 90, and he spends most of the time in his study doing accounts. He may have retired several years ago, he doesn’t have to work, really, at his age, but he does. Simply because he likes it, but I also think it’s his way of coping with retirement and old age. To ensure he stays relevant (to us, he always will), that his work is relevant. He even takes it upon himself to water the plants in our garden and sweep the porch; earlier, I’d protest and ask him to stop, but I understand what these little things mean to him. It makes him feel good, feel alive, and useful. His zest for life, and innate curiosity, amazes me; at 31, I feel like I’m too old to pick up a new skill, sometimes, but at 90, my thatha learnt how to use an iPad (my dad refuses to learn), and he plays Su-do-Ku on it, reads newspapers from around the world, debates on world issues, and is at peace with himself and the world. He has set the bar high; you don’t meet people like him every day, and I’m incredibly blessed to have grown up with him by my side. He is, and always will be, my favouritest person in the whole wide world.

I sometimes crib that I don’t have mentors or role models as far as work goes, but I have so many in my own family. My dad, my thatha, and now M. My mom, for the way in which she has turned her life around, for the joy and love she brings to the home through her splendid cooking, her genuine and innocent interactions with people, her little business ideas that continue to see fruition, her quiet intelligence that shines through; my paati for her enthu-pattani ways, her passion for life, for music, her intellect, her ability to take things in her stride, and her optimism. My sister for staying true to herself, for her sensitivity, for slogging it out in an office that’s over 1.5 hours away from where she stays, and still making time for things she is passionate about – like animal rescue, for instance, for the goodness and warmth she radiates. And, of course, M, for being my rock. For teaching me not to take myself or work too seriously. For showing, by example, that you don’t have to let a bad day at work spill into your home and relationships. For pushing me to follow my passions. For reminding me every now and then that being nice to people is everything. For showing me what selfless, unconditional love means. For helping me love myself, despite my flaws.

What has all this got to do with work, you ask? A lot. I have a narrow perception of what work entails. Simply put, it’s anything that keeps the money flowing into my bank account. If I’m busy churning out stories and getting paid a handsome amount, it means I’m working. But there’s the other kind of work too. One that does not involve cheques. And I realise it’s that kind of work which has kept me busy the past few months. As I try to sort out my guilt, I’ve completely forgotten just how frenzied the last few months were. We went to Turkey in March, flew to Hyderabad immediately after, went house-hunting and finalised a place, flew back to Delhi, wound up work and the house there, drove down over two days from Delhi to Hyderabad, stayed at a hotel till our things arrived, and then went about slowly setting up the house. All this in the excruciating Hyderabad summer. I even made a two-week long trip home in the midst of this, and actually got around to finding new work too. And when I look at my home now, I slowly begin to see just how much work and love has gone into it.

 

It doesn’t feel like home until I start cooking in the kitchen, and I’ve been doing quite a bit of that too. Does this count as work? I think it does, even if I’m reluctant to acknowledge it.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The transition – from Delhi to Hyderabad – has been taxing. It took a lot of work, time, effort, and part of why I wanted to move here was also because I wanted a change of pace. And I’m exactly where I want to be right now, at this phase of my life. Yet, I have a tough time coming to terms with it, to be open to this new experience. I respond badly to change, although I crave change; it keeps me going, but it also cripples me.

I’m aware that this guilt I feel now is fleeting. It comes and goes, and I’m now better equipped to deal with it. Instead of ignoring it, I now make an effort to understand where that guilt stems from; surprisingly, I discovered that it has to do with habit, with my fundamental idea of ‘work’ as something that’s not just ‘productive’ or useful, but something that involves a fat paycheque. And that’s the universal idea of work, pretty much. But what if it’s not true, or right? Would I then feel less guilty about doing things I want to, even if I feel like I haven’t ‘earned’ them? Maybe, but I’m glad that somewhere in the midst of this chaos, things are slowly unravelling, and making sense.

Thanks to my new schedule here, I set apart time for some meditation every day (besides my daily run); a friend of mine told me about Insight Timer, and it helps me breathe and just be. I’m a calmer person now, and clarity of thought now seems to be an attainable goal. You should try it too, if you haven’t already.

Home is wherever you want it to be

I have just about 50 hours left at home, before I hop on a plane to Delhi, a city I’m pretty much done with, especially after spending two-and-a-half glorious months with my family including my rockstar grandparents in a small coastal town in Tamil Nadu. I’m going to miss lounging about all day in my nightie, the national garment of South Indian ladis; and I’m definitely going to miss the most kickass home-cooked saapadu. It’s a shame I cannot replicate that magic and buzz in the kitchen, but I aspire to do that someday. 

I’m going to miss being around my incredibly supportive family who took care of me after my surgery, without as much as a shrug. In the last two months, I did not have to do any work at home – even my plate would be washed, the table cleared, my bed made, my laundry done. I’d wake up as and when I pleased, have a davara tumbler of hot filter coffee handed to me, which I’d devour while sitting on the verandah to the chirping of sparrows in the garden; a group of peacocks would strut by, two little cats would scamper around and the cute beagle in my neighbour’s house would wag its tail and try to jump up the wall. My mom’s friends would send me my favorite food sometimes, and come by to see me. And generally, people would fuss around me which made me feel important. And loved. 

Delhi is home too, in its own way. It may not have the warmth and simplicity of my hometown but despite its tackiness and brashness, it does have its charm. I am a bit harsh on the city, and I have valid reasons to be that way, but I don’t hate it. Besides, M is with me, and he’s my home too. I carry a little bit of home anywhere I go. It’s in a cup of coffee, a bar of Chandrika soap, in the crackle of curry leaves and mustard in my kitchen, in a box of goodies couriered from home, a TV show, a song on the radio, a bottle of Parachute coconut oil, Readers Digest and The Week magazines, in memories and smells that linger – Charlie perfume and Gokul Santol talcum powder that remind me of Paati, my dad’s obsession with old Cintnol soap and Johnsons Baby powder, mom’s Mysore Sandal soap and the aroma of all that yummy food she whips up at home, my Thatha’s freshly starched white clothes and his bright smile as he attends to the garden and sweeps the courtyard or quietly does his accounts or attempts to play Sudoku on his iPad, the smell of wet earth from our massive garden brimming over with coconut trees, vazhai, bottle gourd, greens, pumpkins, lemons, pomegranates and everything under the sun. Home is within me, and I can create it in my head and my heart wherever I am. Yet I will miss my real home sorely, in about 50 hours.