Secret lives, self-help jargon and honesty

I’m about to inflict another unrelated, incoherent list without as much as a warning. Take this.

1.) I inhabit a parallel universe for the most part of the day. In said universe, I’m the protagonist, I always say the funniest things and I have doting friends and family. In this version of The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty, I may not swoosh down from the air and rescue people from calamities and disasters, but I kind of make their day with my charming presence and wit. I heal broken hearts with sinful brownies that I whip up in my cozy chic kitchen. And brighten up weary souls with stellar home cooked meals as I regale them with interesting stories, great conversations and soul-stirring music. Sometimes, when the stars are aligned, my secret life and real life merge like a dream and even as I revel in it, I know it’s short-lived, temporary as all things in life, and life itself. I flit between these universes and I think they feed off each other in a strange way. This is not just useless distraction, as I see it; to me, this is insightful, it is a means of self-improvement, and it’s also a kind of mental rehearsal. But most importantly, the person in that secret universe is who I aspire to be. Living in it gives me hope, strength and makes me feel like I’m closer to becoming that person, that this is all possible. And that, my friends, is enough. A life ripe with possibilities.

2.) I sometimes come up with really cool, interesting thoughts or a great joke, but I don’t say it right away if it’s a private conversation with just one person. I feel like that thought deserves to be shared with a larger audience who’ll appreciate it better. (Bring on the applause and the standing ovation.) So I hold it and wait endlessly for said opportunity to present itself. It’s not like I’m going to address a Ted Talk, but hey, you’ll never know, right? Why do I do this? Because I want people to know that it’s mine. The thought, the words, it’s all me. I wouldn’t want someone stealing it and taking credit for it. I’m vain, like that.

3.) I’m all for self improvement but I cannot stand people who speak like they’ve ingested every cheesy self-help book in the world. I have friends who speak in self-help jargon (read gibberish) of aligning their past self with their present and extension of identity beyond societal norms and for the life of me I don’t get it. Whatever happened to simple, honest talk? The more I hear friends spout such BS, the less I’m inclined to spend time with them, or most of all, trust them. Drop that mask, honey. I can see right through you.

4.) That brings me to honesty, the number one trait I look for in people these days. I’m not in college anymore, so I know that you can’t build everlasting bonds based solely on taste in music, books, movies, food, TV shows and fashion. I just want to meet real people with whom I can be more of myself. I don’t want to be impressed so stop trying to seem cooler than you are. I want to know who you really are. Your deepest fears, your imperfections, your flaws, your dreams, your genuine ideas, thoughts, feelings. I want to be able to share my world without judgement and scorn. And without the need to pretend or be restrained by political correctness. I want to be lost in conversation on things close to my heart and I want to rest assured that the other person has my back always. It’s the kind of community I want to build, where people care for each other and make time for each other, no matter what. And don’t dish out unsolicited parenting advice.

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.

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.

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 are enough

I’m going through an identity crisis of sorts. I spend my whole day and most of the night with D – nursing her, playing with her, lying next to her when she’s asleep, and I currently do not have the inclination or the time to work. So my career is essentially non existent. This is not such a bad thing because I only look at it as a temporary break. I have much bigger priorities than slogging my ass off and making some money. Im raising a baby girl and it is hard work; it’s fun yes, but it’s also a lot of work, and is the single most important thing at the moment.

I fully understand that this is a choice I made whole heartedly – the staying at home till D is old enough part. Yet, I cannot seem to shake off the feeling that something’s amiss; I want to be more than a stay at home mom, you know what I mean? Sure I run the home, nourish my child and I’m happy doing that. But is that all there is to me? When I was in my early twenties, I had a fire burning within me, a drive, to be the best at what I set out to do. I had good grades, I worked hard, got great feedback from bosses, colleagues, professors and some of my readers and I was confident I’d make it big. I could sense that I had potential, that I had it in me to do exceedingly well at work.

And just as things were beginning to work out and better opportunities promising more money and more exciting work came knocking at my door, I happened to be in a different place. I had to move to Jaipur to be with M and while it’s what I’d wanted ever since we got serious about each other, the circumstances under which I had to do it were just too traumatic and I literally threw away my career to just be with him. I did not regret it then but it kind of set the tone for a different career trajectory, one that involved a few breaks, experiments with freelancing, unfulfilling stints (moneywise) at leading national media houses, unfair appraisals and while the quality of my work was just as good, I found that I was becoming invisible and hitting dead ends and blindspots.

So I keep beating myself over the fact that I haven’t quite made it and I’m disappointed in myself for not reaching my potential. In fact, I worry that my whole family is disappointed in me for forgoing my career. And there’s the possibility that if I’m not in the market for long, I’ll be forgotten and will have to start from scratch once I resume work full time. My sense of worth has taken a beating and I wish it wasn’t tied to things like work and career. I’m constantly seeking to be more than what i am; while I used to think it would push me to be a better person, I see how counterproductive that exercise can really be. Maybe I’m enough, just maybe. Now hold that thought.