At the stroke of midnight on 15^th August 1947, Jawaharlal Nehru delivered his historic, Tryst with Destiny’ speech, ‘When the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom.’

Even today, this speech evokes emotions of immense love for our country.

We feel the sacrifices borne by our people for our Freedom.

We Love our country deeply; but does the country love us back equally?

I Doubt that.

For we are asked to prove we Belong to the land.

We are called Foreigners.

We are branded Immigrants.

We are told the land is not ours.

Just as Sita was asked to perform the Agni-Pareeksha to prove her purity and devotion for Ram, we have been asked to do the same; multiple times over.

To Prove the Purity of our Love and Devotion for this Country.

And what do we get back in Return?

Betrayal, Lies, Humiliation, Racism, Violence, Branded Anti-Nationals.

On this Independence Day, I ask, ‘Is it still not enough?’

II

We were promised our Land; we were told, ‘Gorkha ko Sapana, Mero Sapana’,

We applauded, We Danced and We celebrated.

The Joke is on Us.

Every Elections we are promised and given Hopes that our ‘Dreams will be considered.’

Our elected representatives have sold our Dreams and built fortunes for themselves.

The Dreams remain unfulfilled and we learned to dance to the tunes of those who kept pulling the strings.

We became participants of this Carnival; mere puppets in the hands of those in power.

When did we learn to become so fearful?

We celebrate Independence Day like nobody else in the whole country; Kalimpong puts India to shame in terms of its display of Nationalism.

And yet, it is us who are bound stronger than ever in cages we cannot even see anymore.

Are we even Free anymore?

I doubt that.

We cannot even utter the G word anymore.

G- stands for Gorkhaland- a Dream silently residing in the hearts of every Nepali speaking person and non-Nepalis who have lived in the Hills for decades, knowing it as their only Home.

A Home that was long denied to us.

A dream that continues to now fade away slowly,

As a minority, we know our plight.

We watch our Culture being distorted;

Mocked, Mistreated and Humiliated,

Ignorance is both blissful and dangerous.

For it allows those in the rest of the country and those in power to call us Chinkis, Momos, Immigrants, Bahadurs.

Seventy-nine long years and we continue to ask for our Right- Constitutionally Guaranteed Rights- to Live with Dignity and Respect.

A Right to ask for our Homeland, to protect our Culture, Our People, Our Histories, Our Land, Our Language.

The Answer remains the Same- Denied!

III

This land holds our Dreams;

Our Identities and our Sense of Belonging and Being.

We are; because of the ties to the Mountains, the Rivers, the Land and the Plantations.

It is our Home, Our identity- our Astitva.

They have instilled fear in us by taking away Our people.

They have told us if we Resist, we will have to face the Consequences.

We Remember Chyaasi- They Wish us to Forget, but we will Remember, Because Remembering is Our Resistance.

We Remember 2006- The Revival;

We Remember 2017- The Betrayal.

The Wounds have not Healed and the Pain persists;

They may exhaust us, but They can never truly kill us.

You may not have accepted us and yet you want to keep us; bound and unfree.

We have embraced the country as Our Home.

But We continue to seek our own Space to Be;

Our Dreams may feel Distant, but we keep it alive;

In our Songs, in our Poetries, in our Resistance

And most importantly; in our Memories.

The Longing will Persist; for we were never meant to be chained,

Our Dreams will be ours to keep,

For You can Break our Bodies; But you cannot Break our Spirits.

Image courtesy- Praveen Chettri.

This Independence Day, we will once again unfurl the Tiranga, for it is a symbol of Courage, of Freedom and of Hope.

It is a Reminder that Freedom was Won and Not served on a platter,

We will continue to ask; when will we be given our Freedom?

Freedom to live with Rights and Dignity;

Freedom to have our own Homes?

And Freedom to Belong?

For We are the stories of our ancestors’; their sacrifices; their Dreams which is now Our Dreams.

We will find ways to keep these stories Alive.

We will continue to ask for our Home.

For it is our Right.

Our Patriotism and Nationalism; which You have labelled as Anti-Nationalism.

Deny it as much as you want, but this is who we Are-

Indians at Heart and in Spirit.

And Asking for our Home is the highest form of our Devotion to Our Country; for who are we, without Our Land?

Jai Hind.

It takes constant revisiting and conscious awareness to understand what privilege truly means; a lesson I had almost forgotten, for myself.

It is easy to preach and harder to practice and I believe I was falling into this trap myself.

I begin this piece by acknowledging I was getting comfortable in my privilege. This realization has been the awakening I needed.

There are times I feel like I am moving in circles with no end in sight, and I often wonder as to what is the purpose of it all?

All along I had failed to realize this is what privilege does, it either prevents you from asking questions at all, or pushes you to ask the wrong questions.

I was beginning to fall into the latter category.

'Sarkari Naukri paunu bhaneko chai Abhimanyu ko Chakravyu ma fasnu, pasne baato chai cha niskine baato chai hudaina,’1

I remember trying to desperately escape and leave my government job a few years back and in response I was given this analogy of Abhimanyu’s chakravyu, by my former principal.

I was never a sucker for government jobs, but thanks to my middle-class values and limitations, I have stuck to it- for eleven long years!

It has been a roller coaster ride of emotions where I have mostly felt miserable, frustrated and questioned my life decisions.

Further, having had a taste of revolutionary politics in JNU as a student activist, I knew right from the beginning I was doomed.

Revolution allows us to dream about Liberation- in every sense of the term.

Sarkari Naukri on the other hand ties you down in every way possible. Forget being Krantikari, it trains you to lose every ounce of voice and agency left in your soul.

I refer to it as signing a deal with the devil.

I know I signed my soul off the day I received the joining letter and chose to take the job.

Fear of transfers, fear of being suspended, fear of disciplinary action- all parts of the service rules that prevents government job holders from taking any stance against the government, even when you know it is so wrong in your core.

And you do not even realize when bit by bit you have almost lost yourself; desperately looking for reasons to find meaning of your life and work.

Being an educator requires freedom and when that is taken away from you, I really do not think it has any meaning.

I have done this quite a lot of time; stayed silent when I wanted to actually scream and revolt.

As an educator, the dilemma was stronger than ever this time around witnessing the anger and the frustration of the students pouring out in the streets. Something broke inside me a little as I witnessed the brutality of the state in its unapologetic use of violence on its own youths.

The educator and the Revolutionary inside me could no longer be chained. I could no longer hold myself back.

I took a stand to extend solidarity to the students’ movement for myself. If I had felt dead inside for a very long time, I had myself to blame as much as I had the system to be blamed.

I chose to allow the system to stifle my voice.

Privilege.

It took me a while to realize, despite being an ardent supporter of equality and justice, I had succumbed to the system.

I am a product of affirmative actions, I come from a lower middle-class family and I have this job because I earned it; working my way up with support systems that allowed me to have access to this kind of a luxury- of having a permanent position with financial security.

I am undoubtedly privileged today. And I earned it. But what use is this privilege if I do not choose to use it wisely? What purpose does it serve if I forget my own struggles and choose to look away.

I knew a breaking point would come eventually when I would not care much about the chains that these systems have built to keep us leashed.

The desire to be liberated is stronger than these chains that exist because we give in.

I found my voice back and it is the courage of the young people challenging systems meant to hold them down that has given me back my courage.

At the same time when the protests were boiling in New Delhi, my students were fighting their own battles here.

It only came to our knowledge recently that under the New Education Policy, the University to which our institution is affiliated informed students of the fourth semester they would not be promoted to the fifth semester unless they had all their papers cleared from the first and third semester.

The university had failed to communicate this important information and their seriousness about it until this point which suddenly resulted in a huge section of students facing termination. This by default implied a significant rise in drop-out rates, which has been a major concern for small town colleges for some time now.

The more I read about the policy and its regulations, with different universities and colleges still trying to figure out how to make it work, the more I realized it is a disaster.

If big universities are grappling with these challenges, one can only imagine the plight of the small town, rural colleges. We are all doomed.

I no longer had the privilege to keep quiet, hence I chose to speak, and write about it.

That is the least I can do.

Inspired by the youth movement in the entire country, it has revived my zeal to fight back

The only truth right now is that the students are unhappy, everywhere and so are educators.

This movement has given hope to many such young people; young people now asking for what is theirs.

And as educators, I do not think it is possible to hold on to our privilege of saving our jobs and keeping quiet anymore.

We are, because of our students. Who are we if not for them?

Does this job have any meaning at all without our students?

I do not think so. I am unfortunately an idealist and a revolutionary at heart, a student of Dr. Ambedkar’s teaching.

For me, education is meaningless if it fails to transform the lives of those of us teaching and those learning from us.

When the news of the education minister resigning came in, I felt like I had woken up from a slumber.

I danced in the rain, something I had not done in a long time, letting the rain drain away years of being numbed and years of hopelessness.

I felt free, liberated. I have not felt this way in a long time.

Amrita Pritam’s words on Azaadi resonated with me that night as I lay in bed, sleeping with hope.

I knew something would come out for my students here too, that battle was not lost either.

After a week of waiting, resisting, mobilizing, we were finally told the university would roll back its policy and allow these students to continue; I am sure it also comes with a clause, we are yet to receive the final verdict.

But for now, the battle was won.

The resignation of the education minister will not make a huge difference, the rolling back of these clauses are exceptions. These are temporary stop-gap measures, but we will still celebrate.

For it served its purpose, it gave us all back our voice and most importantly it has given us all Hope.

It has allowed us all to reflect and make choices that will be meaningful.

For me, it helped me open my eyes to my own privilege.

I always like to tell my students and for a change, it was time to remind myself, ‘with great powers comes great responsibility.’

And to quote Rahul Gandhi, there are only three categories of people, ‘a student, an idiot and an Andhbhakt.’

It is up to us who we choose to be.

I choose to be a student.

Always learning, and unlearning.

Privilege- requires us to unlearn and revisit it again and again.

A lesson I will never now forget.

I am grateful and I write with gratitude and a heartfelt thank you to the youths of this country.

I had given up hope a long time back.

It is no wonder I felt dead.

I lacked motivation and I always found myself wondering about the purpose of my life.

This week has allowed me to awaken after a long slumber, and I finally feel the flicker of hope within.

I attended a book launch last evening and I came back tired, but content. I do not remember the last time I felt this way. To put it simply, I came back home feeling really nice.

The past few weeks we have witnessed the streets of our country being taken over by the youths and giving us the hope we needed.

I do not think these kids were angry, I sincerely believe they came out with a sense of determination and knowing that they had to do this. I have a newfound respect for them, which I believe is why I feel alive.

For us, as educators- the youths, our students are the only elixir that can keep us alive. I was unaware of how desperately I needed to taste this elixir to come back to life again.

I had not imagined we would get to see this day, for two reasons- the changed political environment in the country which has turned us all into compliant beings; either out of fear or a sense of hopelessness- I do not know.

And, I had slowly but steadily lost faith in this generation.

It was natural for the educator inside me die a slow death every single day; losing hope and my sense of purpose.

I do not know when the seeds of hopelessness turned into a full-blown tree with its roots being firmly planted into all parts of my being; exhaustion becoming an inseparable part of me.

This week allowed me to introspect and let go of this exhaustion that had occupied a huge space in my life. I am choosing to fill this void with a renewed sense of hope.

There are jobs and there are jobs which cease to simply be jobs at some point of time. As educators I do not believe we have the choice of being merely salaried people.

I was fortunate to have the best educators who taught me how to see the world differently. Maybe, the thought of becoming a teacher was planted into my head a long time back; driven by a purpose of making the world a better place.

In the many years of working as a teacher, I have found myself questioning my life choices endlessly. I wonder if it is even worth it, the desire to leave everything and find a better option keeps luring me every now and then.

But the love for my students I guess has now chained me. I am still to come to terms with this and find my inner peace.

I was attending the book launch as a reviewer.

A wonderful anthology of short stories from the Darjeeling Hills, titled ‘Adhuro’ (meaning incomplete) written by a very talented young person at the age of 21! I was both impressed and inspired. sitting across such a young person self-publishing and organizing his own book launch, with an air of professionalism you would not expect at such a young age.

I have often complained that young people do not read anymore, and I have endless conflicts with my students over their lack of enthusiasm towards reading.

So, I was naturally overjoyed to see a young person choose to become a writer, when the young people are actively choosing to move away from anything remotely related to reading.

My heart was full. I understand what being hopeful now feels like.

And when this writer ended his talk by saying, ‘who are we without hope?’ it sparked something inside of me, a flickering of a flame which had died long back.

When? How and why? I have no answers; but I have not felt this free in a long time, and I choose to let it be for as long as it stays.

While the students and youths were protesting for educational reforms in the streets of Delhi, my students were also fighting the consequences of the New Education Policy back home.

It was painful for me to accept that a huge chunk of my students would have to drop out of college, with incomplete degrees because they are left with no choice.

I understand their difficulty too; I mean completing a four year long degree which does not even guarantee employment at the end of it is not an easy choice to make. And while it hurts, I am learning to make peace.

I have no strength left in me to fight the system. I only know I must preserve my energy to keep things moving- as best as we can. And I see these kids doing the same, albeit with an attitude that almost feels casual and unbothered.

Perhaps, this is who they are, and our judgement clouds us before we comprehend what they are going through.

‘Ma’am, we are scared and upset’ I found them cheering me up which was ridiculously warm, it was their future which was at stake and instead they were doing their best to let me know they would not disappoint me. Why will our heart not hurt as educators so deeply connected to our students?

I do not know how many times a person can experience heartbreaks and how one heals from it. In the course of these ten years of working in a sarkari mahavidyala my heart has broken multiple times. I am unsure if I will fully heal.

If on the one hand I was celebrating the courage of the youths of this country, I was also nursing the pain of saying goodbye to my own students, some forced to drop out some without any choice, but to do so.

The book launch gave me hope because a young person had chosen to become a writer, aware of the challenges and difficulty of being one in this age and yet making that choice.

I felt a renewed sense of hope fill my heart watching my students show such courage in the face of absolute despair.

As I stood with them, listening to their conversations, I could not help but wonder how unfair the system has been to these young people. They were not supposed to grow up and be burdened with the anxiety of life so soon.

And every time I find myself sinking in my own despair, I also find the courage and inspiration of these young people saving me.

While they seem nonchalant, they care as deeply as we do. I realized how wrong I have been in dismissing them so soon. And I keep learning.

Despite their own worries, these kids never fail to drop heartwarming texts assuring me they will not disappoint me, and they will figure something out.

They try against all odds, and it gives me courage, it anchors me.

They are my elixir.

I have come to make peace with this person I am also becoming within a system which I choose to believe will one day be replaced by a better one.

I do not know when it will happen, but this week has given me hope and for now, I choose to hold on to that hope.

She reminded me of my younger self, with a desire to live my life- not really knowing what it meant.

‘It is only when they get married and leave that they will realize the value of home, no miss?’ her mother’s pain was evident in her voice.

The classic mother-daughter relationship, where each think they know better than the other, on what is best for the daughter.

Her mother was clearly upset and disagreed with her daughter. The thought of sending your only child- and that too a young, pretty girl, far away to an unknown city- is a mother’s fear I can now understand.

The two women standing in front of me were both right, but I had to choose a side and the minute the girl had said, she wanted to continue further studies, I had taken my side.

For an educator, struggling every-day to ignite passion into dead, bored young minds, when someone desires to study, it is like breathing life into a dead soul.

Added to that, this was a student I had always held high hopes from the day she stepped into college. I had patiently watched her drift off from being a shy, sincere student to someone who barely attended classes towards the third semester.

It breaks my heart a little every time I watch students with much potential lose hope, become disillusioned with the system and find better avenues. We have failed as a system. There is no denying this bitter truth.

‘Your mother is right,’ my colleagues were on her mother’s side.

I could sense the girl’s discomfort; I knew she had a lot to say but she chose to bite her lips and remain silent.

I chose silence too. I have often found myself in disagreement with my colleagues. I am told my views are too radical. I was young when I joined the system and fought back.

It burnt me out, fighting the system alone. Now, I am wiser, I choose my battles wisely. This did not require me to fight back anymore.

It is hard to watch a system which is anyways outdated and collapsing, it is not a wonder that we have the youths in the entire country totally disillusioned, losing hope and choosing to give up. It is painful and the truth is we failed these young people.

We failed them.

And when as educators, we collapse under the weight of the system, somewhere we are equally responsible for this failure.

Educational institutions were meant to foster creative, critical thinking and dialogue. On the contrary, we chose to become a system that enforces silence, fear and repress any kind of critical imagination.

Just like her, what I wanted to say, was ‘She should live her life' and see the world’. ‘Why does it always have to end in marriage before anything else?’

Instead, I chose to say, ‘your mother loves you, but you also have the right to decide what you want to do next, and I am thrilled that you want to go out and pursue higher education.’

I was thrilled, for how often do I get to witness a student show enthusiasm for education?

Therefore, when she stood there saying she come up to me and say, ‘ma’am I want to continue with my further studies’, I felt life pouring back into my dry soul.

I had high hopes from her, and I was not wrong. She may have taken a detour, but she had found her way back.

And, to my delight not only was she standing here expressing her desire to study further, but she was also defying her mother.

It is always an irony that strong, independent mothers choose to suffocate their own child- daughters, who have a mind of their own.

If she looked rude defying her mother to my colleagues, she looked bold to me for having a firm but strong head on her shoulders. It is when you learn to defy authority at home and in educational institutions, you become empowered.

I believe it is important for young women to have that voice. And more importantly to choose to believe in their dreams, at the cost of looking rude, being difficult and firm.

My colleagues and I differ in our beliefs and approaches. I have learned to not worry about changing it anymore.

I choose to preserve my energy and create spaces in my own ways to support students in finding their own voice, and that is perhaps my only contribution as an educator, where I try to find my own purpose and meaning.

Who do we blame? A system that is outdated?

Faculties who are confined by their own beliefs, torn between letting go of the old and embracing the new?

Students who have dreams and aspirations, most often beyond their reach? Students, completely disillusioned with this system that has failed to catch up to their needs?

In an era where meaningful education no longer exists, where educational institutions are no longer designed to promote critical thinking and creative imagination, who do we blame?

It is a shared sense of exhaustion for educators- where on the one hand the system has killed the curiosity of teachers alike, burdened with unnecessary, extra labor and meagre salaries, pressurized to perform for the mere sake of APIs and points.

On the other hand, youths for whom the system is merely outdated.

I do not fully blame these young kids. On the contrary, there are times I envy them. I believe they are smarter and grounded than we were, and more radical than we could ever be. And because they have a mind of their own, it makes them look rude and inconsiderate and I still have not decided which side I am on.

Perhaps I have stopped questioning the system so much and slowly begun to find joy in these small moments which feels like an achievement in itself.

I have often found myself frustrated when I fail to ignite curiosity in my students, constantly challenging and at times being extra hard on myself, wondering, “why do these kids not value education?’

Maybe this is where I am growing as an educator.

My students often show me the way forward. Helping me undo my own prejudices. Like my colleagues, I had also made my judgement about her a few months back.

A year ago in a similar meeting with the parents, I had watched her mother cry and break down, ‘she was a good kid you know, but I am so disappointed. She lies and I know she is not doing well’, her mother’s tears had moved me.

This was when I had given up on her as well. I had hoped she would be a ‘good’ student and here she was refusing to even attend classes. I was aware she was sitting for interviews, and it broke my heart a little.

Most of our students drop out mid-way, joining services like the Army or nursing and the aviation industry, carrying small town beliefs that this is the best they can do. I am selfish and entitled in wanting them to dream big.

I am a little entitled in hoping they dream big and choose bigger destinations.

I am learning to be more empathetic and understand not everyone can choose to dream and follow their dreams. The system does not allow it.

And just when I begin to drown in despair and hopelessness, it is my students who save me all over again. For them, I am willing to fight the remaining fight left in me.

She proved me wrong that day and I did not mind it at all.

Out of curiosity, I asked her about the job interviews.

She answered without the slightest hesitation, ‘It was her’, pointing a finger at her mother, ‘I want to study ma’am, and I knew even if I get the job I will not take it.’

And I knew she would go and see the world. I was satisfied. I was rather proud of this rude, arrogant, firm headed girl fighting to study as my student and I knew her mother would understand someday, just not today.

I was glad she had chosen to believe she knew what was best for her.

I was humbled by my student again.

Students like her give me hope and the will to keep showing up and making our lives go by, seeking purpose and meaning in our roles as educators in a Sarkari Mahavidyala.

‘What if you start treating your life like your room?’, I asked her, ‘Would you let anyone into your room?’

I was speaking to my friend/sister/colleague- one of my favorite people with whom I actually can have deep, meaningful, fulfilling conversations.

We are both from the same place. That is the basis of our friendship. And we do not fit into the place I would like to call Home. That is what makes our camaraderie warm, comforting and perfect.

Like always, we were in conversation about our lives and how we have made difficult choices and slowly coming to terms with it. Over time, I believe, we have become better at venting our frustrations and making sense of what we are doing with our lives. And that is reassuring.

Yesterday’s call was about ‘setting boundaries’, but given the writer/reader we both are, we did not call it that. Now that would be an insult to our creativity.

We talked, for more than an hour, that is how it usually is, random calls which begins with, ‘I need to rant’, and rant we do. What follows after the rant is the conversation- meaningful, intense and deep- from intellectualizing to catching up on the latest gossip. Deeply fulfilling.

Last night, our conversation moved from ‘what is the need to make others understand you anymore?’ to intense discussions over the recently released movie, ‘Shape of Momo’, written and directed by Tribeny Rai, filmmaker from Sikkim.

It is an amazingly well-made film and for the first time I chose to appreciate the work of someone else and let it be- over dissecting it- to make sense of every nuance and detail for my purpose.

Once again, coming back to the pertinent question, ‘why do we need to make sense?’ and mostly, ‘to whom?’ which is where the analogy of Virginia Woolf’s ‘A room of One’s own’ came in naturally.

In trying to understand why we feel the need to explain ourselves, our choices- which is unconventional- choosing to become writers in this age- we had to ask this question, ‘can we treat our lives like our private room?’

Do we have the agency to choose who we let into this room or not? We both knew the answer, the only challenge now is to implement it, which is happening.

It was one of the finest conversations we have had in a long time. We talked with simplicity and that is rare for those of us who are so used to overthinking all the time.

Trained to be intellectuals, as readers and writers, I believe we stopped being simple somewhere and adopted complexity as our way of existing. Unless life is complex, or we make it complex, it fails to feel meaningful. Or relevant.

And yet, here we are now, working on ourselves to become ‘simple, boring’ people. The irony being- we were always simple and boring. It was labelled being ‘uncool’, and ‘nerdy.’ Only those who belonged to this category understand the scars it leaves inside of you, especially in a society which valorizes glamor and cool. The Hills are not so welcoming for everyone, I have to say this.

For some of us, growing up as ‘nerds’ and ‘boring’ people, we tried hard to become ‘cool’ and in that process ended up becoming complex and weird to an extent we needed therapy to become uncool all over again. The suffering is real.

And despite achieving it all and actually doing good, we have to keep reminding ourselves, ‘we did good.’ It is hard.

It is in this context, our conversations become therapy by itself, where we remind ourselves of our own humanness. To be okay coming Home to ourselves.

Virginia Woolf’s ‘A Room of One’s Own’ making more sense than ever for us now; thank goodness for the fact we were boring. Because we learned to find meaning in the world of books and it saved us. In ways unimaginable.

For people like us, it is important to have a room of our own and to make sense of our lives through this analogy of the room. Even as I asked her the question, I was repeating it for myself too.

It was important because vulnerability came with a price. And a heavy one.

Being questioned and feeling ‘out of place’ all the time, even when you try really hard to belong is not easy. Perhaps this is what Bishnu, the lead character of the film, ‘Shape of Momo’ felt and therefore left her own Home, seeking a place where she can belong.

And I know that deep down in our conversations, we are constantly asking ourselves, ‘will we ever truly Belong?’

I do not have the answer and the question haunts me; especially when the shield of armor is always intact. For if I let it down, I know I will be ripped apart. And I cannot afford that anymore.

And I see my friend doing the same- holding her fort- while trying to live on her own terms- for after all it is her life, and that should be a basic, a given, right?

I see her building her own fortress- her own room- for people like us will always be wanderers- with no fixed place to call a Room of Our own.

Our lives by itself becomes the room we live in, carry and walk around with- a place where we truly Belong.

So, can we then afford to not guard it with all that we have?

I asked her and myself.

It feels tiring but I have begun to find it liberating. Would I now allow anyone to come into this room without my permission?

No.

For it is my sanctuary, where I can Be.

I wished Bishnu would have stayed. I would have loved to be friends with someone like her. And I know when I first returned home, along with it came the harsh reminders and scarring baggage of my past, my childhood. A place I had perhaps silently vowed never to return back to.

But here I am, and I have friends like her, like this one I love talking to and someone I know will forever be one of my favorite people, with whom being different does not feel weird. A friend who makes boring feel cool and liberating.

I know this place that I now call Home still is enamored with glamor and pretentious culture, but I also find those who choose to stay away from it, silently curating simple, boring lives.

Choosing that invisibility now no longer feels burdensome or scarring. It feels like healing.

Homecoming no longer being intimidating.

Both of us are growing and becoming better people, shedding off the baggage we carried for far too long; baggage that was never ours to carry in the first place.

‘I think your story needs to be heard,’ is what I found myself telling my student as we sat chatting in the small cubicle of our Department.

This cubicle has come to become a sanctuary for me and my students in the past few months. I have witnessed my relationship with my students evolving within the small space of this glassed cubicle in the past few months.

I have also come to believe that the only thing which is keeping me steady within an institution that is already dead from within are my students.

It takes a toll on my system to drag myself to work and make it feel meaningful, I will not lie. It is not at all easy or glamorous to be part of sarkari karyalayas and more so sarkari mahavidyalayas, especially in the current times when the education systems demand a massive overhaul- for teachers and students alike.

I do not know how my colleagues find peace or are content. I generally spend time questioning the system and imagining how to make it better and perhaps that is where the problem lies.

Maybe, it would have been easier if I had not been on the other side and had a taste of what sarkari institutions could also be like, life would have been easier. I went to the best institutions of the country and at one time- the world- and all of them were government aided first class institutions.

I graduated in Political Science Honors from Lady Shri Ram College for women, Delhi University, ranked number one in the country at the time. LSR is where my dreams began to take shape- where I learned I could be so much more than what I had thought. And later, when I went to Jawaharlal Nehru University, I understood there really is no limits to your dreams and who you could be.

This was a time when sarkari mahavidyalayas still provided that space and possibility. I was able to pursue my higher education and do so much more because I was in the best institutions at an affordable price. I did not have to worry about financial security due to the availability of scholarships that made it possible to pursue my education in the first place.

More importantly, these places allowed us to thrive and dream big. The education system pushed us to be creative and provided us with the opportunities to do so.

Today, I do not have the heart to tell my students- ‘Dream Big.’ Dreaming Big is unaffordable, inaccessible and maybe impossible for everyone.

A huge bulk of my students come from extremely poor and deprived backgrounds- where their families are simply making ends meet. And yet, the encourage their children to dream- ‘hami bhanda ramro gari khaos’

And they do. They dream. Dreams which often die within these corridors, without even taking off.

My heart feels heavy and helpless every time I watch these dreams die, right before my eyes. And I can do nothing about it.

And this is what I felt when I asked my student, who I had recently discovered, plays cricket;he not only plays, but plays for the junior team at the state level. I felt a sense of pride only a teacher can experience and understand.

I asked if he had any plans to pursue it further. I already knew the answer, but I guess as teachers, we need to keep the hope alive. Because if we loose hope, then what will become of our students?

Like always, I did what I knew I had to do- motivate him to pursue his dreams. To play cricket.

‘Do you love cricket?’ I asked him, curious to learn about his journey.

‘It is my passion, ma’am’, I could see the twinkle in his eyes as he spoke at length about how he had developed love for the game at an early age. I was enthralled, never being a fan of sports myself- it was merely the passion with which he spoke about the technicalities of the sport that kept me hooked.

‘Let’s make a podcast’, I told him excitedly. I could already imagine the setting in my head- in this chamber and him talking about his struggles, challenges and pursuit, at such a young age.

‘No, ma’am’, he laughed, covering his face, ‘people barely know I play’, he continued and insisted on staying away from social media. Humility at such young age.

‘But, this is why you must talk about it’, I said, ‘Don’t you think people need to hear your story?’, I coaxed gently.

‘No, ma’am’, he replied with a sense of conviction, ‘I know it is important but what if it gives wrong hopes to younger people?’ This is how my students inspire me.

Here he was, an accomplished player ( in my eyes). To be in the state team as a player, representing the state, despite belonging to an under-privileged minority community from a district with complicated history with the state is a huge achievement. It demands recognition, validation and celebration. And him, like so many other silent achievers had got none.

I wanted him to be celebrated and given the opportunity to play further. And here he was, worried about not giving wrong hopes to himself and younger people. The despair I feel at such times is inexpressible.

‘It is so frustrating ma’am, I cannot even explain and you won’t even understand’, his words echoed my sentiments. The frustration is real and the pain that follows is hard. But, do we have any option?

I already knew he had made peace with the fact that there was no way he could pursue it for life, even if he wanted to. For the underprivileged can dream, but for dreams to become real, one has to be only the privileged.

I have a different kind of love and respect for my students- especially those who know what they are capable of doing, who know what they deserve and yet find the courage to make peace with their reality and continue to live with a sense of gratitude. To live with a renewed sense of purpose- to keep doing what they can for others, with what they have.

My student, along with his team mates use their payment fees, which is miniscule to organize spaces for younger players.

‘I want to make possible that opportunity for younger players from our place, ma’am’, it is in these acts of selfless doing, I continue to keep finding reasons to motivate my own self, in an institution, which to me feels dead.

‘Ma’am but I am also grateful because I have supportive parents who have always encouraged me to do what I want’, he continued.

I drag myself to work and I come back home with the fuel to keep moving because of my students. They save me every single day, every moment by allowing me to enter their lives through their own everyday existence.

I wish I could help and encourage him to keep playing, which I did, and I will keep doing, it is my job and I have made peace with simply showing up for my students. That is what keeps me going in this sarkari mahavidyala.

The small cubicle has now sort of become, ‘A chamber of secrets’, to borrow from J.K Rowling where I often find myself in conversation with my students about their life, their dreams and aspirations and frustrations.

Like my students, these days, I find myself going to the workplace, to simply BE. I still question myself and look for more ways to make my work feel meaningful. I can only empathize with my students, who perhaps are struggling more than me. I am increasingly coming to believe, I need them more than they need me.

Every time I find myself drowning in doubt and losing myself, doubting if I am able to do justice to my duty towards my job, it is laid to rest by my messages from my students at the end of the day, ‘Ma’am, you inspire us.’ And, I think this is what keeps me going and reminding me of what I can do. To just BE.

At this point, I just hope I am doing the right thing- by inspiring them- because I really feel like I have nothing else to offer, except inspiration because that is what they give back to me.

And I choose to write their stories for now, till the time they believe they need to write their own stories.

I tried coaxing my student, who is also very shy and humble, to tell his story- ‘if not anything, you should be seen, you are already doing so much.’

‘No ma’am, I am not ready’, he told me. This was for the podcast.

So we made a bargain, ‘I will write your story my way, is that okay?’ I asked, for I know it is important, ‘and then when you are ready we will do the podcast.’

‘Okay ma’am, but first let me read it’,

‘Fair enough’, I agreed, satisfied.

We have a parent’s teacher meeting for my Department students today.

I shake my head and grumble to myself as I wrap my sari- getting ready for the day ahead.

‘Who holds a parent’s teachers meeting for college students? for god’s sake?’ I ask myself.

I get a new message notification, ‘not again’, I groan to myself. Before even checking my phone, I know it is one of my students texting to give me some reason as to why they will not be able to make it to the meeting.

‘What am I doing with my life?’ I stare into the mirror at my own image looking back at me quizzically.

I was a student activist in the university, fighting for the rights of the under-privileged. I now work in a college in a remote location for under-privileged children.

There are days when I question my choices- of leaving job offers from first class universities, to stay back and work here.

Today is one of those days. Days when I question whether it is my ideology or my perception that has changed; I like to believe in the latter.

I would like to believe that my students are ignorant, but they are not. They just lack genuine interest in anything related to education, which I think is the hardest thing for us- as educators- to accept.

Grumbling and fumbling with my sari, I reach college which is not located in a convenient place at all. On days like this I choose not to look at the beauty of the place, rather focus on the hardships- of a sarkari mahavidyalaya.

Not only is it remotely located, but the basic amenities are a challenge. I mean there is literally one state bus which ferries students and, at times faculties traveling from Kalimpong- the closest town to the place. If you decide to open a college in a remote area, shouldn’t travel facilities be taken care of? We have students attending college from far flung villages where accessibility of travel is still a serious challenge.

Pedong is a small village, remote and distant, earlier integral to the Old silk route, connecting India with Lhasa in Tibet. The history is rich, I will not deny it and other times I deeply savor the silence, the fresh air and the mountains which comes up in the distance. Just not on days like today.

When it rains, we are cut off from the other parts because there is no electricity and phone connectivity. This makes communication a little difficult and working in an institution harder, for we are paralyzed. Pitfalls of being a government institution with limited funding and infrastructural support, I guess.

It is a bright, sunny day today, after weeks of rainfall. I am not sure how many students and parents are going to be turning up today- my energy level is halfway over before the day has even started.

I have not received the endless excuses from students to not attend the meeting well. It feels unfair that as teachers we still remain committed to delivering our best, despite real frustration of giving up and yet somehow dragging ourselves to work and show up in our best versions.

As government college lecturers in transferable posts, we know that we are going to be constantly displaced- the sense of being mobile is disruptive and exhausting emotionally and mentally. We do not truly feel at ease because of this nagging sense of knowing relocating is part of our job. We can only comply.

Nobody quite understands the emotional cost of being away from friends, families and partners which takes a toll on the mental and emotional well-being of the faculties in these colleges.

Yet, we are expected to deliver our best. Which we do but are never quite truly appreciated for. Especially by the students, which is where I guess work never feels fulfilling.

Then how do you sustain yourself? one may ask.

Once the meeting begins, we see equally distraught parents. Parents working as small scale farmers, local business owners- small grocery shops, odd jobs with no clue about what to tell their children except, ‘ramro padhnu parcha’1

Listening to parents who look at us as teachers for guidance makes me feel helpless.

I hate being in this situation. I do what I need to do, take a deep breath and counsel both the students and the parents- on awareness, effort and importance of education. The exhaustion is real. I can sense it in my colleagues beside me, all of us either trying to convince them or ourselves; We do not know.

We are all trapped in a system where we are simply making things go by.

Slowly, I feel the frustration dissipating- these children are only trying their best. And they genuinely lack interest in an education system which feels outdated. We know it. And is there anything we can do at all? except wish for a magical overhaul of the system which is like wishing for a unicorn.

They have dreams and aspirations which feels impossible to achieve. And as teachers, can we tell the students not to dream? Would that not be the most unethical act of service to our students?

I rarely get headaches, but today my head is throbbing. It is my anxiety and emotions rising to the surface. I will need to meditate a little bit more today. I take deep breaths in between pauses to bring myself back to the present and not disappear in the depressing loop of thoughts, slowly engulfing me.

But I feel tired. It is tiring to be a concerned, ethical person in a system that demands you to keep your emotions aside.

These meetings are confrontations with reality.

I listen to my own words which feels hollow to my own ears, as I request the parents, ‘please ask your children to work harder.’

I had entered the meeting with a sense of frustration- over the lack of interests and enthusiasms of the students- agitated about the futility of the meetings, and then something just flipped.

I simply felt sorry for the students and the parents; underneath the frustration I guess lies my own sense of despair.

As someone extremely aware of the system and how it works, perhaps I feel more helpless than I can accept.

I try not to be affected but I guess I am and in my endeavor to do my best, my frustration takes over me.

I guess I am looking for someone to blame and hold accountable over acceptance that this is what it is.

At times I blame the system empathizing with the students, genuinely aware of the crisis. Other times, I blame them for not putting in a little bit more effort, disappointed they do not appreciate our efforts enough. I move between these two emotions and my days are defined accordingly.

What has continued to save me is the resilience of the students. I do not know when I began to care, but I did and they made their way into my heart, silently but steadily. I care which is why it bothers me I can do nothing- or so- I think.

And then, they give me something to anchor myself with.

Today was hard, and then I saw one of my student, from another Department sitting alone by herself.

A colleague and I have been supporting her for some time in fighting her own battles- grappling with mental health issues, an alcoholic mother, taking care of her siblings and herself, she is a fighter.

It is impossible to not forge intimate, personal bonds with students in these smaller institutions. I truly do not support the idea of institutions and work places as families, but now I also know what that feels like and why I no longer contest it as much. n

She was sad today because she had no parents to bring to the parents teacher meeting. My colleague decided to be her guardian and attend the meeting as her parent. I followed suit without even questioning.

My head was still throbbing and I did not pay much thought to it. It was only when we were discussing her performance with the teacher, our colleague, I realized we were co-parenting and attending a parent teacher meeting- the futility of which I was questioning the whole day- as a parent.

As a feminist, I have always romanticized certain ideas- of single mothers, feminist motherhood and thought of these things through rights and theories. And here, I had just switched my role from a teacher to a mother with my female colleague who was genuinely concerned about our student’s performance.

We could have easily done that outside the meeting. We need not have done this. And then we did what felt the right thing to do. No theories, no grand plans, no gestures. Just what was needed.

Our student was registering what had happened as much as I was. My colleague taught me today to simply BE is as feminist and radical as it can get. While I keep loosing myself in philosophies and theories, there are people like her who just give their all.

And then, we ended the day taking pictures, selfies because we had after-all put in efforts to adorn ourselves in saris and show up in our best. I think we deserved this little treat for ourselves.

Earlier I would again question the futility of these things- but I think I am evolving and I am liking who I am becoming.

As I read the note of gratitude from my student lying in bed and narrating the events of the day to my friend, who stated, ‘Don’t you feel you are exactly where you are meant to be?’

I let the sentence soak in and hit home.

I am learning to let go of notions of what life should look like- what an ideal institution should look like, how things should be over accepting what it is and what we can do.

It is my own elitism and privilege that I am holding on to. And it is in such moments, I keep thanking my students and parents- my job in a sarkari mahavidyalaya for humbling me. I hope to keep learning and become a better educator someday.

Instead of questioning the futility of it, I am training myself to simply do what I can and today made me realize sometimes it is maybe in just my Being, I am already fulfilling my purpose.

I did not realize it but for those parents- our being is enough.

For the students, our being is enough. And maybe this is as grand as it can get.

I felt my headache lifting and my heart feeling a little lighter.

When she embraced us and told us that today she found happiness in a way she could never imagine, I saw that it was not pointless after- all.

It is not easy working in a sarkari mahavidyala and who knows, maybe I will grow old and become a grumpy, miserable, grouchy old guruama but I guess I will get used to it someday too.

My students will continue to test my patience I am sure, but they will also continue to humble me and make me a better educator.

In believing I am the anchor these kids need and wishing things to be ideal, I think I failed to see my own arrogance and despair, which surfaces at times like this as gentle nudges to understand my own self better.

It is these students who humble me and keep me anchored, reminding me of why I made this choice to stay here in the first place and not move to a first class university.

It is a symbiotic relationship which is constantly defining me as the human being I am becoming.

I need them as much as they need me.

‘Chyaasi ko Andolan aghari ta kasto dammi thiyo ni yo bungalow’,1

This one sentence captures the myriad layers of our complicated history.

I have heard the story of the bungalow and its glory during the time of the Sahebs, endlessly from my family members. Today, it forms a beautiful backdrop for our various photo-shoots and social media profile pictures.

Year after year, our family visits to my uncle’s place which is adjacent to this glorious structure until recently, was the caretaker of the bungalow, a job passed down by his mother- my grandmother- who died recently. Post his retirement, the job being passed down to his son- as was the system of inheriting jobs in the plantation. A system, which has been kept on halt for some time now; raising concerns about the slow death of the plantation.

A huge section of the population in this village are still plantation workers- the only thing that changed was the nature and form of plantation work.

When the British empire first landed in this part of the Eastern Himalayan region- they had their eyes on the place for multiple reasons.

‘The imperial eye mapped out distance and position in the construction of the hill stations that lends strategic social control over the hill landscape through the medium of vision’, (Queeny Pradhan, 2017).

The Hills therefore came to be constructed in ways the British imagined. In ways that best suited their interests and served their colonial purpose. The consequence was for the place and the people to be borne- even after the end of Colonialism.

So, here we are today- gripped by socio- cultural and political anxieties- enmeshed in questions of Identity and Belonging; questions that will perhaps keep getting muddled in the complexities of the post-colonial world.

As communities struggling to find our own sense of Being and Belonging, can we therefore afford to not remember our past? Will our future ever be secure without finding closures to our pasts?

If forgetting is political; so is Remembering.

Remembering is a powerful act of Resistance against the colonial/post-colonial state’s effort to dilute and erase histories.

During festivities, when families gather and recollect these old days- of their lived experiences- under the Sahebs (both colonial and post colonial), it is not merely stories of the past.

It is a mine- house of information. Of lived histories.

It is in these stories we find our own roots- of where we Belonged, of lands and places our ancestors moved across. Of how we came to BE in the first place and how we came to Belong.

It is in these spaces of collective Remembering, we keep alive the histories of our communities. We find our stories. If only our stories had a Voice; they would tell an entirely different history.

As communities living in the margins, we do not have to travel far to understand our histories.

The information- some classified- some inaccessible- some archived- in the hallowed hallways of some distant, elite citadels and spaces are not our histories.

These are mere information collected, preserved, stored and reproduced as histories for those and by those in power- the ones who constructed us to suit their own necessities.

Can we therefore make sense of a community and the place through archives and preserved documents by those who came, conquered and left?

Rather, it is in these spaces- of the everyday existence- where the routine, mundane life moves along the backdrop of these glaring realities- that histories continue to be preserved.

The stories continue to glare at us, everyday, preserved in these ruins and spaces- asking us to listen and to be told- over and over again.

Surel Bungalow is one such remnant of the colonial past and bears the markers of the post colonial developments. The presence of functional bungalows- as offices- Director’s office/manager’s office defines the place as plantations.; carrying forward these colonially constructed spaces into the post-colonial era.

Still functioning as plantations, the way of life continues likewise- on meager incomes, as migrants with no access to land- despite being inhabitants of these lands for generations, as mere workers.

In the changing landscape of the post-colonial order, where the idea of Belonging constantly changes contours, as per the whims and fancies of those in power- the insecurities of these working class community continues to deepen.

For after- all, to be a worker- and a migrant worker- is perhaps the most precarious identity once can carry in the post-colonial, modern nation-state. The crisis is real.

Surel is always cold, nestled amidst the backdrop of the dark pine trees, the bungalow must have been a sight to behold. My uncle’s house still has a framed picture of the bungalow before it was razed down to the ground. Their stories of working with sahebs has always fascinated me- where I have been transported to these places through their stories.

‘Tyo Amitabh Bacchhan ko film ko shooting pani bhako ni ya paila’, 2

The reference is to the movie, ‘Barsat ki ek raat’, where the bungalow was used as location shoot for a few scenes for the film- a sense of huge pride for the people of Mungpoo.

Today, all that remains is ruins. And stories. Even in the ruins the story persists of how it was burnt down by the former activists of the political party- Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF), in 1986 - Chyaasi.

Chyaasi, lives in the memories of the Hill people.

Chyaasi, marking another turning point in the history of the place, its people and community.

These ruins are reminders of the loss, tragedy, suffering and sacrifices of the people- en masse. Sacrifices, once again forced to be forgotten and erased. But these ruins, remind us to Remember. For Remembering, is a Political act of Resistance.

The structure looms large, amidst the pine trees, engulfed in the fog and dense mist that surrounds the place perpetually, mysterious, silent and brooding.

These structures? They are not only structures.

They are witnesses and bear testimonies to our histories-histories of conquest, oppression, of violence, of loss, of pain, and suffering.

The Hills just got saffronized. And, there is no going back from this point onward.

The sky cleared for a brief moment and the sun rays filtered through the gloomy clouds that had been looming large for the past few days.

The gloom reflected the despair that gripped my heart as I urged myself to desperately finish the last few pages of the book I had been reading. I needed the distraction. The election results were pouring in and my heart was getting heavier by the minute.

The news channels had already begun celebrating the victory of the Bharatiya Janata Party by mid afternoon- and rightly so, with the lead they had, it was impossible for the Trinamool Congress to catch up. They did not stand a chance this time.

The BJP was going to form the government in West Bengal.

I needed time- to process this new reality- and therefore the distraction.

I read with a frenzy, like never before. The book was captivating; such is the writing of Shafak.

‘Didi', they are taking out a rally’, my house help, Tulsi who had been watching the news with me throughout the day, announced.

I sighed, resigning to the defeat. I finished the book- I was mortified with the ending- I was not prepared for it- just as I was not prepared for what was unfolding in Bengal.

I felt the anxiety in the pit of my stomach. The despair.

I stood behind Tulsi and watched the BJP supporters; gearing to celebrate this historic victory. The BJP candidates won with a huge majority in all of the Hill consituencies.

I do not understand my people anymore.

The streets looked colorful- the rain did not stop people from celebrating this win.

This is what I witnessed with despair and heaviness- the crowd fluttering BJP flags alongside the flags of the local party- Gorkha Janmukti Morcha (GJMM) - a party which had lost its standing after the 2017 political agitation for the Homeland.

The chief of this party has been accused of murder of a political opponent in broad daylight. He remains charged with numerous crimes under the UAPA and other provisions of the penal code.

I guess our memories are short-lived. We forgot, how our aspirations were murdered by this very alliance- endlessly.

And yet, after all the betrayal in the past, it is the alliance of the BJP and the GJMM- an alliance of violence, corruption, anti-minorities, homophobia, misogyny, hooliganism, casteism- is what we voted for.

I want to believe we voted for change; for that is what I have been hearing ever since the results were declared.

‘Wakkai bhayera Mamata sita, yo pahad ko neta haru sita BJP le jeeteko’1

It is a lie.

Who are we fooling anymore?

For if it was change that we actually wanted- we had an option.

Mr Edwards with his newly formed party- Indian Gorkha Janshkati Front- was that option.

With no political baggage, unlike his predecessors, Mr Edwards offered something radical- Parivartan ( literally meaning change).

Sumendra Tamang, from the tea gardens, who has been silently working relentlessly for the tea garden workers and the issues surrounding the tea estates was also an option.

And yet, we consciously chose to bring back to power an alliance that has done nothing in the past; except create an environment of fear, intimidation, rowdiism and violence.

So what are we actually celebrating? Why are we not terrified and worried?

All I heard was, ‘junai party aye pani hamilai kei na kei’ 2

While some of us have become indifferent and believe it will not affect us, we are either being naive or chosing again to turn a blind eye to what we have become, as a society.

I wish it was that simple. And I really wish it was true.

I wanted to believe we were indifferent, but this is also what I heard and witnessed- ‘good, now the Muslims will stay in check.’

‘Nikkai jana ko furkepana jharnu parne cha’, (we have have to bring down the arrogance of a lot of them).

The culture of violence is embedded into our psyche. Add to this, our insecurity or what Townsend Middleton has aptly defined as the ‘anxiety of belonging.’

In a desperate effort to belong, we have imbibed the very idea of Belonging which hsa been the reason for our own insecurity- an idea that requires the minority to be othered, for us to belong.

We have identified Us as different from Them- the new enemy- Muslims. This is the new Pahaad; a new culture where communalism is the new normal.

Hence, when the SIR was put into action- we eagerly welcomed it. We are foolish to believe, it is not for us, but for them. We believe that in eliminating the real infiltrators- our identity and land will be secured. We fell for it.

Playing on our own insecurities, the BJP successfully managed to once again offer a sense of hope. Only this time, this hope comes with a huge cost. We will all pay the price for it- sooner or later.

It is clear that we do not learn from history. The Hills have been fooled by these promises before- we have supported the party before even when they have lost miserably in the rest of Bengal. And yet, we learned nothing.

We have paid the price before- we watched the aspirations of the Homeland slowly fade away, but what kept the Hills intact was the uniqueness of its multi-cultural and diverse communities living in harmony and peace.

While we want to believe we voted for change; maybe we should also take a pause and understand what we have actually voted for.

Today, we have voted for the politics of violence. As we celebrate the victory of the BJP- we should let it sink in that we celebrate the victory of violence and the politics of hatred that had already made its way into the fabric of our society. It is here to grow and stay.

The sky turned saffron, pretty soon- or maybe it was always there- underneath the pink hues.

As I let the new reality sink in, I cannot help but feel defeated. The Hills no longer feels the same and perhaps this is the new way of life-one that will take a long time for me to get accustomed to.

We talk a lot about Resilience, and I wonder, ‘how do we build resilience?’

Do we have a manual? To building Resilience. Yes we do, social media is filled with ample examples and theories on how to do it.

Is it a whole new skill that we need to acquire, to be Healthy and Happy?

Let us try to simplify it.

The American Psychological Association defines Resilience as, ‘ the process and outcome of successfully adapting to difficult or challenging life experiences, especially through mental, emotional, and behavioral flexibility and adjustment to external and internal demands. A number of factors contribute to how well people adapt to adversities, predominant among them (a) the ways in which individuals view and engage with the world, (b) the availability and quality of social resources, and (c) specific coping strategies.’1

The last part is where we will focus, psychologically Resilience can be summarized as ‘the ability to adapt to difficult situations, healthily given the availability and quality of social resources and specific coping strategies.’

The emphasis here is on the outcome- The ability to develop healthy coping mechanisms.

Easier said than done.

The next question that follows is, ‘how do we do it?’

There is ample information on the internet on this. Except, it becomes over-whelming after a point and we never truly get to ‘doing it.’

In an age and era where we are overloaded with information, filtering out the information helps.

My mother often reminds me, ‘too much of of everything is not good.’

And my mum is always right- or at least most of the times- between the two of us.

We begin by then starting from less.

What do we know about our own story? And again, this first step is not about going deep inside- Hell no- not yet! Slow down, Tiger.

We simply map our own journey- again- the literal pathway- from your childhood to now- tracing your steps- going backwards to map out how far you have come in life.

Doing it on paper- or visually- you can get creative- it is your own damn life map after all, go all artsy on yourself.

Why not? I mean, I am a sucker for stickers and all things pretty.

And then you see it.

Now that is where the magic begins. Trust me, but you got to try this before being like ‘like hell it works!’

My therapist always said, ‘appreciate the small wins.’

I would roll my eyes- inwardly- ofcorse. She was kind.

And that is where the power lies- visiblising the small, micro wins-which we often neglect in assessing our progress.

Resilience will not be built in one day; just as ‘Rome was not built in a day’- nothing new there.

What is new is this- ‘ Rome was not built in a day, but they were laying bricks every hour’- John Heywood.

Yeah, we thought we were smart, quoting only half the quote and being smug about it.

The truth is, we trained to focus on the wrong thing- for like ever.

And that is what we will now learn to do- it only requires us to move ourselves a bit- to see a different version of the same story. Simple, huh?

Like Hell, this is the hardest thing to do- to budge from our own position.

Hence, the visual map. Draw your own life out before your life.

For most of us, we would have learned to become strong, sorted, brave, defensive, practical, guarded and everything else very early on in our life- without even knowing we were building these fortresses around us.

And, now they tell you to ‘figure out your patterns and undo them.’

Eye-roll.

It is not easy, and it will not be easy to begin with, but the good news is with practice, patience and time- you begin the most important journey of your life.

Something shifts when you see your own visual map.

It will let you actually see that you have been resilient all along- now that is new, right?

Imagine, if you were not already Resilient, would you have come this far? To the point that you are actually here to read about this. It can mean only one thing. That you, my dear, are already on the path.

Did you stop to appreciate that effort? or let it pass while stressing out on ‘how to be resilient?’

So take a pause and appreciate yourself. The macro habits, remember, is where we begin to change our narrative.

We begin by reminding ourselves to appreciate, over always reprimanding.

In doing this more often, something begins to shift- it may be minuscule in the beginning, but hey, that is how it all begins.

Appreciate the small wins. I cannot stress it enough. But trust me and do it.

The small, irrelevant, stupid wins. Nobody said, it was stupid, ‘you did.’

We get so focused on the outcome, that we often fail to look back at our own journey- the process and therefore how far we have come.

Some of us may have come out of extremely difficult life situations and some of us are still struggling.

That is also okay. It would still have been progress. We only do not know how to see it yet.

And that is what we are going to do- appreciate and begin to see our own journey.

When we see that; like see it for real, we see our own progress.

The magic unfolds.

Resilience, takes different forms. And it is not easy for a lot of us to simply ‘do what is needed to be done.’

It all happens with time, when that shift happens- we make spaces within- for ourselves.

There is no going back thereafter.

Till then, we are still coping, surviving, building our fortresses, keeping ourselves protected and that is also being resilient.

It takes courage to stay.

To believe in the power of humanity and love; for that is what our innate essence is made up of- the Buddhists would call it- Bodhi Chitta.

We like to believe we have all tapped into our innate goodness; hence we stay- until we realize- we waited for someone else to do it for us for too long- we have to do it for ourselves, first.

Only with time, we begin to realize that we never had to ‘build Resilience’; we always had it within us.

Hence, we do not go looking for it as an external new skill that we need to build.

Rather, we need to build the ability to appreciate what is already in-built and at our disposal- to keep us protected, safe and happy.

We shift focus, and learn to develop the techniques and processes to utilize these abilities already ingrained within our systems, eventually turning it into ‘healthy coping mechanisms.’

Now that, I bet does not sound overwhelming and feels do-able, right?

And, that is how we begin to build Rome, ‘ by laying the bricks every hour.’

Which brings us to- Abhyasa- the act of dedicated, regular practice bit by bit, every single day.

Hence, when we become our own project, we start mastering the art of being Resilient- to unleash and tap into our full potential and bloom - like the Orchid- delicate, but resilient.

I cannot help, but smile.

Bahadur Daju’s playlist of popular Nepali hits provides me with a sense of familiarity in this new place I have chosen to make my home for the next few days.

‘Why are you going there, alone?’ I have been asked this by my friend and my sibling, both of whom love me dearly.

I cannot quite explain why I am doing this; because they love me, they ask me to ‘be Safe, at-least.’

Goa is relatively a safe place for women to travel alone; given how difficult it is to be a woman in this country; hence I consciously chose this place for my solo trip.

I am in the ‘getting to know myself’ better era; hence the solo trip.

It felt like the right thing to do.

I convinced myself with a pep-talk on how ‘It was time to get out of my comfort zone’, ‘time to face my fears’, ‘I needed to break free of my own inhibitions’ etc.

In retrospection, I do not know if this was necessary, needed or wise.

However, I cannot overthink my decision now, since the point of the trip was to break free of my old habits and Let Go.

I wonder, if it is truly possible for women to be able to do so?

In a country where it is unimaginable for any woman to feel safe anywhere at all.

It is not a wonder that our bodies have, by way of surviving this system, mastered the art of being on high alert and inventing ways to be safe, to be able to do things they wish to do.

Solo travel,for instance, which features in almost every girl/woman’s bucket list.

It is fraught with danger; on all steps.

Men, of all age, feel entitled to our bodies- demanding, coercive, persuasive, intrusive and violent.

I am aware of my body being almost double times heavier from the time I have landed alone in this place.

It is the baggage of the extra armour, my body brings up on its own.

To stay safe.

I am acutely aware, cautious and on high alert- all the time- even when it is not needed.

It is the curse we carry for simply being born a woman in this country.

I should feel relieved of having Bahadur Daju, a Nepali speaking person, around me. I should feel comforted and assured by the familiarity that comes from having someone who feels like your kind, around.

Sadly, it does not bring any comfort, nor assurance.

For it is also in these very spaces of comfort and familiarity women’s bodies have been brutally abused.

I am aware of that too.

At this age, I have come to make peace with this harsh truth for myself- there is not a single person- a man- you can trust- with your body.

It is painful and sad. It is terrifying and frustrating.

It is exhausting to be on high alert with your bodies, always.

I find myself asking, ‘Can women truly experience the joy of being simply free?’

Something as basic as being able to walk around, freely, comfortable in your own bodies, free of fear of being violated against your will.

I do not know if this will ever be possible, at-least in this country.

I felt terrible, but I slept with my body on high alert the first night.

Bahadur Daju has been nothing but nice to me; unfortunately, I cannot let my guards down.

I have learned to not trust men, especially in unfamiliar settings, especially when they are kind.

I learned this very early in life and it has damaged me, perpetually.

I cannot help it therefore when the armour comes up for me.

It is by default; my body refuses to listen to me.

I am both frustrated and grateful for this armour.

This will perhaps, always be the reality of a solo woman traveler in this country, walking on edge, never truly getting to fully experience the joy of solo travel like men do.

In these past few days, I have been appalled, amazed and frustrated equally, by men.

Men who feel they are entitled to barge into my solo space and strike unnecessary conversations, even when my expression, my body language makes it clear I am not interested.

I have found myself shaking my head in frustration and moving away from my space and find another spot- simply to be left alone.

The hard part is how as women, our first instinct is to blame ourselves.

‘Do I invite this for myself?’

‘Why me?’

‘No’, is all I had to say and yet I found myself doing just the opposite.

I have blocked almost five numbers from the time I have landed here- all provided by me- to these random strangers who intruded my space, with entitlement and arrogance.

Initially, I blamed myself, failing to understand how my mind stops working in these situations, despite my body sending me all the signals.

The signals were always there, I only had to learn to read it.

My body gets tense and rigid and the familiar feeling of a restless butterfly flapping its wings in my tummy grips me strongly, signalling discomfort.

I wonder if I will be able to simply read these signals and assure my body it is safe.

I think I learned this as a young woman, navigating safety in Delhi- a city that is a nightmare for women- that it was best to diffuse these situations by first buying yourself time to get out of that situation and be safe.

And this is how my body created a system of its own; intelligently learning to armor me with these shields and defenses.

It amazes me how my body knows which armor to bring up, on its own.

It is out of my control, or so I thought.

The whole, ‘getting to know myself’ era, is working its magic.

I am learning to read the signals my body sends me, before the armor comes up.

I still am not in control as to when and how, but I am learning to understand the mechanism and choose how high it needs to be.

The response is impulsive and I am learning to navigate the response and teach my body to feel safe and let the armor down where possible.

It almost feels like a tug of war between my body and habits enforced upon my body.

I am not yet sure of how to simply say ‘No’ to these unwanted interruptions.

Maybe someday I will learn to do so, but for now, this is what works for me, and I am grateful for this armor.

Till then, I guess I can learn to trust my gut, read the signals better and reduce the voices in my head, whose first instinct is to blame myself.

The truth being it is still not easy to be a woman in this country; to travel freely without having to worry about these bodies being violated.

It is a baggage we carry.

It is unfair and violent.

It makes us un-free.

It took me a while to be here. I know I have not arrived, not yet. And perhaps, I never will.

I embarked upon this journey of life unwillingly, unplanned and unaware of it happening.

Trained to focus on building a career, getting things right and done- ticking off one thing after the other- from the ‘To Do’ list of Life, I never got a chance to experience Life that was actually flowing on the side.

I was constantly thinking, planning, analyzing and doing things, as if I had full control over my life. And maybe I did too.

For after all, it was in my hands, or so I thought. I was naive.

I measured Life through these prisms of failures and success.

I believed I needed a purpose- to be Alive.

And then, Life happened. It has forced me to ask the deeper question, ‘ Am I truly Alive?’

I do not think, ‘setback’, would properly express where I stand today. I would rather look at it as a rerouting from the detour I had taken for a long time.

This re-routing is where I now finally feel alive.

A few days back I asked a friend, ‘Do you remember the last time you felt something over thinking you felt something?’

I have been applying my art of critical thinking to my feelings for a long time. As if I can control and make sense of feelings. I cannot.

And that, is where the hardest truth hit home- Of seeking control- over Life; an act nobody can master.

I tried. I ended up miserable and restless.

The need to ‘fix’ and have control became an obsession.

And then it dawned on me that I had to let go and surrender.

The challenge is real. Old habits do not go away easily. It resurfaces easily.

Added to that, I have my old friends to keep me company.

The voices in my head, turning my brain into what Myingur Rimpoche calls, ‘ the monkey mind.’

There are days when I have to work an extra mile to calm the monkey mind. At times it works, other times it refuses to listen to me.

These are the days when I can do nothing.

I have been hard on myself on these days, being difficult and impatient. I treated myself like a failure- for doing nothing but being in bed, battling these voices.

I have ‘worked’ on myself- with a project mindset. With focus on the ‘outcome.’

I believed that I would be mriaculously perfect after doing all the work. That at some point, I would be peaceful, happy and always positive.

We talk a lot about Anxiety these days. I am an anxious person; a default setting of a control freak and perfectionist.

Hence, I learned to live with anxiety; without even knowing it was a condition.

When I first went for therapy, I was sure I was ‘perfectly okay’, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with me.

I resisted. I was trying to challenge and prove myself. Another habit that has kept me miserable and in chains, for as long as I can remember.

I have been on and off therapy for a long time, out of habit and deep rooted fears.

For facing the reality would mean, Seeing myself,the storm and the turmoil within. It is hard, for we all like to believe we are ‘normal’ and that nothing is wrong with Us.

Years of practicing has taught me to become attached to outcomes.

I, therefore, never truly understood the importance of The Process.

Alongside Therapy, Reading and Practicing Yoga and Meditation introduced me to the art of Detachment.

I am nowhere close to it. I am someone who is deeply connected to outcomes.

Detachment therefore will not come easily to Me.

And the fact that I am aware of this, is where I am beginning to see how it works. I choose to believe I am making progress.

I recently went for my annual vacation with my parents.

I had a beautiful, relaxed trip and came back refreshed and replenished. I was filled with positive energy, gratitude and enthusiasm.

And then, I woke up unable to drag myself out of bed.

The voices in my head was back, after a long time; taking over me and draining me of my energy.

The darkness engulfing me in its storm and cage.

It had not happened in such a long time, that I almost forgot I had this condition.

An astrologer had once told me, ‘There will be times when something will take over you. At such times, you won’t have control over yourself.’

I simply nodded my head.

Clinically, this is what we call Depression; Spiritually an awakening.

This is how it works. You go from being a happy, cheerful and energetic person from one minute to being an extremely miserably, helplessly, hopelessly empty and sad being in another minute. The clouds loom large and engulfs the sunshine within its darkness.

It is like sinking in an abyss, and you have no control over it.

The fight to come out of the abyss is real.

Somedays it is easy; other times not so much.

When it hit me this time, I was unprepared.

I thought I had ‘cured’ myself.

The pattern felt familiar.

Along with the darkness came the urge to fix it quickly, to blame myself and feel useless.

It does not work like that.

It will force you to Let Go and simply surrender.

The difference this time was I chose to surrender with faith and not with exhaustion and despair.

Looking back, I realise the efforts gone into therapy, which felt useless at times has worked.

This is why I also value my Yoga practice for it has allowed me to become aware of myself and come Home to Myself.

The routine and discipline of the practice has helped me be at ease with myself.

To be kind, compassionate and brave and most importantly to confront my fears.

This time I was at least able to identify what was happening and not beat myself about it.

To know that the storm had arrived.

All I had to now do, was bring out my resources and to sit through it, till it passed.

The lull after the storm- of getting things back together-bit by bit, picking up the pieces and beginning all over would also happen.

I believe this is the only cycle that will stay.

I am beginning to finally understand how the process works.

It is teaching me how to find my own grounding.

To be patient and know it takes time and it will always be a process.

We will never arrive; we will always be a work in progress.

And, it is in being okay with this, that we perhaps truly experience Life for what it is.

Depression, my Old friend, haunts me.

The effort now, is to be okay and make friends with this part of me; accepting and understanding finally, why I am Different.

And perhaps to embrace myself wholly and fully; letting go of the need to control and replace it with Acceptance.

(Maybe someday, this grandfather will reminisce about me saying, ‘This Jhumri used to come early in the morning to drink alcohol, poor thing, she passed away just like that.’)

Jhumri strikes a conversation laughingly with my father, who continues to respond teasingly,

‘Thett ka hau, ma ta morecha bichara bhanera khada lagyera auchu.’ (No way, I am just going to put khada on your body, show sympathy and come back.)

It is winter and the sun feels warm on our backs.

I listen to their conversation with amusement.

The morning being the busiest hour in the Kamaan.1

It has become a daily ritual where Jhumri, a young woman from my neighborhood, my father and I sit and chat, soaking in the winter sun.

Jhumri does not mind my father teasing her.

On the contrary, she looks with fondness at my father and smilingly responds, ‘Mann parcha malai yo aakhey’, ‘ Aakhey le matrai malai naatini bhancha yo gaun ma.’

(‘I like this grandfather. He is the only one who refers to me as a grand-daughter in this place.’)

Jhumri is maybe 27 years old or younger, she lives a little below our house.

She is young and poor; poverty- being a glaring reality of this place.

She has a husband- an alcoholic too- another reality of our people- and a young daughter- smart and vocal- just like her.

Her future is not too bright as well. For after all, what will a young child do with both her parents having nothing to rely on, but make life livable out of the bare minimum?

Over the years, we have watched Jhumri drown herself in alcohol.

Her morning begins at 6.30 am.

Who knows what time she sleeps or wakes up. My father opens his shop at 6.30 am in the winters and Jhumri visits the shop in front of ours at exactly the same time, every morning without fail, for her morning quota of chiyaa.

We take our morning chiyaa very seriously in the Kamaan - haathey chiya,(black tea made of hand rolled tea leaves), doodh ko chiya (,milk tea) or alcohol chiyaa for others- Such is the way of life here.

‘Esto ho ni, aba yo ta hamro laghi charge greko jasto ho, jasari phone ko battery sakinda charge grnu prcha, tyesari hamile pani yo sattai khayera chai afulai charge garnu parcha’,

(‘It is like this’, she explains to me, ‘Just like you charge your phone’s battery when it is over, we need to charge ourselves by taking chiya,’) she explains wisely, with utmost seriousness in her voice, to me.

I believe her and surprisingly, understand.

‘Look at this grand-father’, she continues, pointing towards my father, who sits beside us, enjoying the conversation, teasingly provoking her in between.

This is a small village, where everyone knows everyone and my father has lived here forever.

I have increasingly come to love the co-existence and way of living in these small hamlets.

Life is still slow here, to a certain extent, but it is meaningful and precious. I am coming to understand and value this way of being.

People find joy in small things and live- to their fullest.

‘I can never be fit like him,’ Jhumri states, as a matter of fact, ‘ If I walk like him in the morning, I will die.’ And I know it is true.

She has lost the vitality of her youth and life at such a young age.

She has travelled to cities like Delhi and Punjab, where her relatives have tried to get her work as domestic help.

She has always found a way to come back home. She seems happier here. She has made peace with her life and has no regrets.

For a long time, I used to wonder if she would ever be okay. If she would quit alcohol and take care of her young daughter. Now I know that she knows better, who am I afterall to judge her for her choices?

‘Yo Jhumri byana-byanai maatera hera’, ‘Ghar ma basnu pardaina, nani ko khayal garnu’, my mother used to chide her often. (‘Look at this Jhumri, drunk early in the morning’, ‘Shouldn’t you be at home, tending to your child?’)

Jhumri would simply smile and go her way.

Today she sits and talks to my mother politely and with fondness in her voice, ‘Maam(grand-mother) ta jawani ma kya ramri thiyo hola ni, hera hami budhi bhai sakyo parai jasto ko tastoi.’

(Grand-mother must have been so pretty in her youth, look at us we look so old and she looks just the same.)

She does not hold a grudge against my mother, neither does she care about anyone commenting on her life.

‘Aba three years ma skincha’,

(‘She will be dead in another three years’), a neighbor walks past her, commenting on Jhumri, who simply chooses to ignore her.

It strikes me how harsh we have been to her, commenting and passing snide remarks everyday. I have never seen her retort back, all she does is takes her dose of chiyaa at regular intervals- morning, mid-day, afternoon, evening and night- and quietly goes about her day.

She lives an invisible, ordinary, quiet life, without causing harm to anyone, but herself. And yet, we have been nothing, but, unkind to her.

I cannot help but feel a certain fondness for her.

Perhaps, if she had a choice, she would have lived a ‘better’ life as well. But this is her life and she has made the best out of it, for herself.

And, maybe even those around her.

Who are we to judge what a good life looks like for her?

Who are we to make sense of her life.

The least we could do perhaps, was to be kind.

And I believe we failed at that.

Her heart is bigger than ours.

She looks at me and chides me, ‘Ke ho Nana tapai ta paila ramri thiyo ta aile ta paheloi bhai skyo.’ (What is this sister? You were pretty before, now you look so pale and yellow).

She is right about that.

I have lived the best life possible, and yet as I look at her, she seems to be more at peace, content and happier than I am.

I smile at her as she continues her banter.

‘Ek baar ko Zindagi ho, Paisa sabai kura haina’, she states wisely, getting up and dusting her pants, preparing to leave,

(It is just one life and money is not everything)

‘Morera lanu sakne haina tyo paisa, baru khayerai mornu parcha’,

(We won’t be able to take that wealth with us when we die, better you eat your heart’s full and die )

With her words of wisdom, she smiles and leaves.

Profound.

Here I am, practicing hours of meditation to make sense of life, while she sits in front of me- living the simple life- making the most of it.

I look forward to seeing her again tomorrow.

Jhumri.

Cornell University is beautiful, especially during the Fall season- I swear I had not seen such colours in nature and I was awestruck.

It has been three years since and I have not talked much about it- infact I have not honestly opened up about my experience and what I learned.

When I first joined my work in a small town college in Darjeeling Hills, completely uprooting myself from the world I had built for myself in Delhi, all I had wanted to do was escape. I hated being here and worked harder than I had during my PhD to get this postdoctoral grant.

I was desperately trying to put in my papers in mutliple colleges and universities wherever I happened to see vacancies. All I wanted to do was leave. I was panicking that settling here meant an end to my career. I needed a plan.

So I made a roadmap- I would take some years of teaching experience, I had a great C.V, the postdoctoral degree would add to it and I would secure a book contract, apply for project grants and be the best candidate for the job.

Once I came back from Cornell, I had job offers from three of the top universities in India. I got my resignation letters typed and got on that train to Kolkata, to submit my papers to the Department. Except when I landed in Kolkata, the first thing I knew was I did not want to resign at all.

I looked at my father who had accompanied me and whispered timidly, ‘Baba, I cannot do this.’ I thought he would be irritated and angry, rather, I saw him let out a sigh of relief.

He immediately called Ama and stated joyfully, ‘She has decided not to resign.We will come back home tomorrow.’

Now that I look back, I feel the relief. It has taken me three years to be okay with the decision I took back then. This is what they mean when they say trust the process. There has not been a single moment in these past three years where I have not doubted my own decision. Small town living is not easy and I still was not sure of what I was doing with my life.

I remember once being asked, ‘How was your Fulbright experience?’ I did not answer then, because I was unsure. But I have my answer now.

I remember the beauty of the place and how painfully lonely I felt in the white world of academia. My only solace and comfort came from the warm meals prepared by a Manipuri guy doing his PhD, who eventually became a dear friend, the Phd scholars all the way from China and Turkey.

The best times I had, was sharing lunch and walks or beer with these guys. I was the happiest when my friend had come over from India for a short course and we hit New York city. That was an experience I cherish.

I considered cutting short my fellowship before it was over. I longed to get back home and the loneliness was tormenting. Academia is a desolately, depressing space- we do not talk much about it. The number of anxious, depressed lonely souls pretending to be okay and trying really hard speaks about this reality of academia everywhere.

My time in Cornell allowed me to deeply introspect my relationship with academia. I was a good scholar and I worked hard to be where I was. I earned my place through my own struggles and challenges. Challenges faced by scholars from minority communities is a whole different reality. And it is taxing.

I had a manuscript contract by the time I left Cornell from a prestigious university press. I had projects and collaborations. And yet, I had zero motivation to continue in academia.

I felt the burnout. I had mastered the art of performance and convinced myself I was doing good. But for whom?

By this time, I had killed my joy for reading and writing. I had become just a mere scholar from being a storyteller. I had become the system that I kept telling myself am against. So what was the point of it all?

All I knew when I came back home was I felt chained and miserable. If this is what success felt like, I did not want it anymore. I felt the same anxiety and loneliness as I strolled around the campus where I was offered a job.

I remember sitting alone in the guest room of the campus thinking- I had arrived- I was ticking off all my goals and yet here I was- so miserable. Did I actually want this for myself?

I knew it in my gut that I did not.

So I chose to let go. I have been asked multiple times why I made this choice. And I think it is for the simplest reason- I chose my happiness.

I am coming to terms with it only three years later. It is not easy to let go of something that has defined you for so long. And I had defined myself by my work for so long.

I have mentioned this elsewhere, but my therapist once asked me, ‘Who are you without your work?’ I have avoided this question for so long and it haunted me. It has played out in the back of my head for so long- Who am I!? What is my purpose? Did I fail?

Today, as I sit watching a rom-com in Netflix, cuddling my warm blanket and chatting with my friend over watsapp over why we should totally do a podcast, I know what defines me.

I had to take a literal tour across the globe to come back home to myself. To acknowledge that am just a small town girl.

I go weak in the knees over hopelessly romantic stuffs. I gossip with my best friend- my high school friend-who I missed so much.

I love being at home, pampered by my parents.

I want to do stupid, nonsensical things.

I still dream of writing a book someday.

I love my yoga practice and dream of having my own studio someday. I love romance. And I love chai.

Most importantly, I love my raw vulnerability that I have questioned for so long.

Academia taught me to be pretentious and make sense of myself and the world through the lense of theory and rationale. It almost ripped my soul away from me.

And thank God, I found my way out. For I no longer need to be correct, or pretend to know everything. I do not need to be cautious to an extent that I cannot breathe.

Today, I know that I was an academic by accident. And it never defined who I am.

What defines me is my experience of life and how it continues to shape me.

What defines me- is my curiosity and desire to simply be alive. And most importantly, what defines me is my small world- made of friends who stayed, people who came back, my love for books and films, my parents and my relationships I have nurtured and who have nurtured me back.

Choosing to let go of one more baggage- of not being an academic anymore.

The body knows.

The body remembers and it will warn us. It will remind us, but we will choose not to listen to our bodies.

This body has been abused too many times, to not know. To not recognize when danger is lurking around.

And yet, this body also knows how to go numb and freeze. To turn into a three year old child who was first violated and helpless about it. She knows how to go back to being this child from the strong, independent, bold woman that she is today.

She is still healing and still finding her voice.

I visited the parlor a few days back to get my hair washed. I only visit this parlor because I cannot find the time to go to the place I actually feel safe and happy going to otherwise.

Going to the parlor is supposed to be therapeutic and make you feel nice. This one does not. Let me tell you why.

The parlor was empty that day and my body immediately started tensing up, that familiar gut feeling giving me the warning signals which I tried to shut down. This is how it works. The body is your friend, if only you learn how to trust it.

It had happened before and I had left back then with an unpleasant experience.

My body remembered and sent the signals to my brain immediately.

‘Hello baini’, the guy who runs the parlor greeted me smilingly. I usually avoid him and get my stuff done with the didi, who I did not see around this time.

‘Didi chaina?’, I asked, hesitatingly.

‘ Aja nobody is there, what did you wanted to get done?’ he asked normally, casually as if he did not know.

I could feel the slight irritation in my voice as I replied, ‘I wanted to get my waxing done. And a hair spa’, I said hesitatingly, knowing I should leave.

This is how it works. I am usually a ‘sorted’ person but in situations like this I freeze.

My brain and my gut send me all the signals I need and yet I find myself stuck, as if my feet has found roots going deep into the ground, and am unable to make the right decisions, immediately.

I regret it later of course. I blame myself furiously and become the most unkind person to myself. It is a pattern and all of us are familiar with it- women who have survived abuse know it well.

‘You can come for the waxing tomorrow, but I can get the hair spa done for you’, he said.

I knew I should leave, but I nodded and agreed to sit for the wash.

Why? I don’t know. It is as if my body moves on auto-pilot when I find myself in these situations where I know what is coming next.

He asked me to tilt my hair back, wrapping a towel around my neck slightly pushing my shoulders and titling my head back, resting my head on the wash basin to rinse my hair. It feels terribly intimate and I feel the bile rise to my mouth already.

His hands running through my hair, I could feel the nerves on my neck going tense and my shoulders tightening. I felt sick in my gut. The wash felt like it lasted for an eternity.

As I moved back to the chair after the wash, waiting for him to begin the spa, I could feel my body freeze and go numb. He was taking his own sweet time loitering around getting the materials ready for the spa.

I watched him from the mirror, setting up the music and moving around in a stride that reeked of power in his familiar territory. I felt like a prey and suddenly felt small in my own seat. I could move and leave, you see, but it felt like I was paralyzed.

‘Why am I torturing myself?’ I asked myself internally, almost cursing myself.

The next thing I knew, he was closing the door of the main entrance, leaving the door slightly ajar.

It was now just the two of us in this wide room and my body was screaming at me to ‘Run.’ I froze. I could feel the tears stinging my eyes. It was dangerously on the verge of falling across my cheeks, I held it back with all the force inside of me.

Women go to parlors, and it is normal for men to be touching our hair, our faces and giving us head massages. I love my regular parlor. I feel super nice when I visit that parlor.

So why did I feel unsafe here?

Because I was being abused here.

The first time it happened with me, in this same space a year ago, I was stunned, speechless and confused. My body knew what had happened and yet I convinced myself I was overthinking.

I felt disgusted and it took me months to get over what had happened. I chose not to visit the parlor unless I had too, like today.

A year ago, I had come for a hair massage to the same place, not prepared for what would follow next.

The parlor was crowded that day and everyone was engaged. So, when the man asked me to go into the cabin where I get my waxing done, I agreed, without the slightest inclination of his intentions.

What started as a normal hair spa massage slowly turned into the most unwanted violation of my body.

When his hands wandering and casually moving over my body, hesitatingly at first, I knew. My body remembered. It had happened when I was a child and young. I was a full grown woman now and I knew everything about my rights. Why was I freezing then?

He sensed my body going tense, but he also knew I was not going to stop him. When he casually let his hands loiter over my shoulders, it was as if he was testing the waters.

I knew what he was doing and I could not do anything- at all.

I had a voice, I was empowered and a strong, independent woman yet I went numb.

I felt his hands moving from my neck to my shoulders, freely wandering over my breasts and towards my chest.

I was stunned. .

I should have taken his hands and stopped him right there. I did nothing.

It took my brain time to realize what had just happened and it felt too late.

He had already gone back to massaging my head casually, professionally; as if nothing had transpired.

When it finally sunk in, I was disgusted with myself.

He knew. I knew and we both pretended to not know.

Having finally found my voice, I asked him to wrap it up.

I quietly paid my bills and left, feeling violated, disgusted and sick at myself.

This is how it works.

You know and yet you freeze.

You blame yourself, for no fault of yours.

A year later, I was in the exact same situation with the same person all over again. Back then I questioned myself and convinced myself that maybe it had not happened; that I was overthinking things.

And here I was, feeling the rush of this familiar sense of emotions take over me as I watched him close the door.

I knew what he was doing. Again.

I was not wrong then, and I was not wrong now. I watched him slowly move towards my chair, that smile on his face.

The power in his gait, the glitter in his eyes and the power in his stride- knowing I would freeze and do nothing, like last time.

‘Let’s go to the cabin,’, he said, slightly placing his hands on my shoulder.

I dug my hands into the seat of the chair, a new feeling taking over me. Anger. I grit my teeth and shut my eyes firm.

I took a deep breath, opened my eyes and looked at him straight in the eyes at the mirror.

He was standing behind me with that irksome smile on his face, his hands still on my shoulders.

‘No’, I said firmly, not leaving his gaze, holding it firmly with my own. I was not going to go numb this time.

I felt the tears sting my eyes but held it back. I could feel my chest swelling and a lump in my throat. I would not give in this time.

‘I am not going inside’, I said, louder it louder this time.

I could see his smile fall, slight mix of confusion and maybe fear in his eyes. He could no longer look into my eyes. I could sense his confidence dropping. It felt good.

He understood.

Taking his hands off my shoulder, I continued, ‘Please open the door and continue with the massage here itself’, I stated more firmly.

As he walked back to open the door, I saw his shoulders droop, the confidence of his gait shaken. I was no longer his prey. I had taken my power back.

I felt my body relax.

I felt my gut ease a bit.

He opened the door, came back and started the hair spa. It felt professional so I relaxed.

The touch felt different. His hands stayed where it had to. I kept staring at him in the mirror. He dared not to look back at me.

He knew.

I knew.

I walked out feeling better, lighter and satisfied this time.

I took a firm decision never to step foot in this parlor again.

I walked away with an affirmation to trust my body and my gut more.

I am healing and I will nourish the inner child in me. I know it is not easy but it will get better.

Note- Gratitude to the multiple voices of sexual abuse survivors who have fearlessly told their stories to help give voice to each one of us surviving abuse.

I had not read a good story in a long time and this novel came as a breath of fresh air. It is one of those stories that grows on you slowly and, holds your attention till the very end.

I picked up this book a long time back in 2022 or later- I do not remember when exactly- and it had been lying in my library ever since. I belong to that tribe- collecting books everywhere you go, while the pile of books to be read continues to grow.

Book lovers and Readers will understand what I mean when I say, ‘the book has to find you.’ Shafak’s book found its way into my library and into my hands at a time when I have been on this journey of embracing my own womanhood. It is what I needed right now. And I am proud of myself for finishing the book, despite much distractions.

The novel begins with this small note- ‘This novel is dedicated to those who hear, those who see.’ And this is my takeaway from the book. To become a storyteller- we must first learn to hear, to see and to listen.

The novel poignantly weaves the complexities of human emotions embedded into cultural beliefs and practices, reflected in the internal conflicts of each protagonists of this story. Each character has a story to tell, and it forms a beautifully woven web of emotions. It is I must say, largely a novel of emotions- of grief, loss, pain and love. And forgiveness.

Aptly titled Honour, the story weaves through the emotional complexities of the different protagonists of the story. The plot moves back and forth between the past and the present, revolving around this one incident of honour killing, which drastically changes the life of this family.

For me, this is a sy of Pembe and Jamila- the identical twins who get separated after Pembe’s marriage to Adem, migrating to London for work. It is about their journey, navigating life as young girls foraying into womanhood.

As a reader, I could relate to Pembe, her rebellious nature even as a young girl, her fiery spirit desiring freedom, but tied by family customs and beliefs, both in her childhood and her adulthood.

Unwillingly married to Adem who is actually in love with Jamila her twin, Pembe finds love in another man many years after she moves to London. She has a difficult life, as a mother of three children while her husband gambles, drinks and has an affair with another woman. And yet, it is Pembe who has to be fearful of shaming her family for falling in love with a man who truly sees her and loves her.

Jamila on the other hand, chooses (or is forced to choose) a life of isolation as a respected and feared midwife left leading a life of loneliness, desolation and despair, facing all adversities coming her way. Adem falls in love with Jamila, but refuses to marry her after getting to know she was kidnapped and returned home- so he barters for Pembe- over Jamila.

The central theme of honour continues to be the reasons behind the choices made by each of these protagonists- at the cost of their own misery, unhappiness, despair and loneliness.

Whether it is in Jamila leaving a life of solitude, or their sister Hediye who is forced to hang herself to death, as an act of punishment for bringing shame to the family- it is about Honour. Symbolically and Culturally notions of Honour is tied to the bodies of women in every culture, and this is powerfully and eloquently reflected in Shafak’s story.

When Iskender, as a young man, growing up in the absence of his father and convincing himself to be the Head for being the next in line of his kith and kin, we see his own internal conflict- between his love for his mother and his duty as a son to protect the Honour of the family.

In choosing the latter, he commits the most difficult act of his life- by stabbing his mother- Pembe. This, as an act of redeeming her from the shame she brings to the family by having an illicit affair with another man. The dilemma of an adolescent, stuck between navigating his own manhood and innocence is powerfully reflected in the character of Iskender.

We see more of his own internal conflicts in his later years, as he grows up into the man he becomes in prison- filled with remorse, guilt, regret and pain. We question the morality of his actions for murdering his mother as an act of Honour.

Centered around this one incident, Shafak takes us through the complexities of these characters- each one of them entangled in their own suffering and connected to the other. She delicately weaves through these personal struggles, handling with care and sensitivity the complexities of these emotions- as children and adults.

It is a story of how each one of them is struggling- to make sense of their own realities, against the backdrop of cultural beliefs and practices. She takes us through the ordinariness of life through the lives of these characters; in the backdrop of whose lives lie the heaviness of culture, beliefs and traditions- which forces each one of them to define who they are and hence their choices, likewise.

As a woman embracing my own womanhood, this book had my attention till the end. The powerful storytelling of Elif Shafak grasps your attention as readers, glued to the end which takes a remarkably surprising turn where you cannot help but go, ‘Oh!’ and then want to keep reading till you finish reading it.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading the book and is a must read for all those of you who have been wondering what to read next.

Go get a copy, if you have not already. Also, the book cover is insanely pretty!

I also have done a video review of the same- link to my Youtube channel- which is going to be about movie reviews, film reviews, culture and lifestyle can be found here.

http://www.youtube.com/@Dihasaview

Well, I did not think so, until I was forced to sit down and think about it. For I was doubted of having an affair with one of them recently. And to top it all I am married. Yet that failed to save me from this onslaught.

When I first moved into this house- the beauty of the place struck me. Here was a wonderful home conveniently located, with lots of peace and quiet. I loved it the minute I stepped my foot here.

It did not bother me it was run by a man, also there were other tenants- all women. It felt safe. Coming from Delhi, safety is a priority- and to have that in abundance is a luxury only women who have survived these cities can understand.

Why did this incident bother me? It did not affect me personally, I have faced worse, but what it did do was it forced me to rethink of us as a society.

A society where we claim to be better than the rest of the country when it comes to how we treat our women. To rethink questions of gender and sexuality in the Hills.

I love how we like to pretend we are a ‘fair and free society.’ I love our hypocrisy; often disguised under our branded labels, fancy English school backgrounds and pretentiousness. It reeks of our obsession with the Western, colonial legacies and its hangover.

I love how miserably stereotypical we are in our thoughts about our men, women, minorities and children. We love the idea of being free, of being advanced and modern, but are we there really?

Why do we fear and cannot tolerate a strong, independent, free-thinking, opinionated woman, with a mind of her own, control over her body and sexuality and knows her mind, then?

If we did not fear them, why did we label them as ‘boksis, churail, aimei, chanamati, fyaali, and more?’ (abuses/slangs to define dangerous/ promiscuous women in the Nepali society).

We are as a society, obsessed with taming our women. If we are unable to do so then we brandish them. We mark them as dangerous, we isolate and we destroy them. Sexuality therefore becomes the weapon by which we tame and control them.

We desperately hold on to the most regressive, outdated idea of, ‘chori-cheli ko ijjat syo ko tuppo ma.’ ( a woman’s honor is at the tip of a needle). If controlling a woman’s honor is so central to our idea of a modern, progressive society, then do we actually believe we are a gender equal society?

Welcome to my town- Kalimpong Hills, located at the foothills of the Himalayan belt, close to Darjeeling town. Lovely little town enmeshed in deep colonial history, central to the Old Silk Route and integral to Himalayan histories. More on that in another post.

Today we talk about Gender and Sexuality in our Hill town. Call me a Buzkill or a Turnoff, I do not care.

And you know what, I love my town, despite the fact it has been cruel to me.

It has been ruthless, brutal and unkind to me. Why?

Because I was not pretty when I was a child- I learned to believe I am actually (I still believe I am not at times, that is the power of cruelty and how it scars you for life).

I am dark skinned (our society is obsessed with fair skin- the amount of fairness creams and products that is consumed by young women in an effort to look fair and pretty is unnatural).

I am frail and thin, (The society is not kind always asking if you have some ailment. They have a problem if you are fleshy- ke saro motako chori manche bhayeras suhaudaina - It does not suit a woman to be fat looking).

I was a nerd- I still am. And Thank God for that- now I see through the ignorance and the dangerous confidence that comes from it. Being a nerd is uncool, so I was not amongst the popular circles.

I had a boyfriend quite late in life, while all the pretty young girls were popular and dating equally pretty looking young boys. It was hurtful as a kid- doubting if you were so ugly that nobody wanted to date you. This town still thrives on high school drama. We wear our school identity like a badge of honor. It is sad how we cling to these identities- for if we let that go, then what do we have really?

Shows how superficial our realities are. The uncanny burden of looking pretty, looking handsome is still a thing- and we take pride in it. Ugh! No wonder we still have childhood issues and continue to be dysfunctional adults.

I have opinions like this, no wonder I am a buzzkill. Sorry, but not sorry.

And no this is not a rant about myself, but how we were scarred early on in our childhood because of our gendered realities.

The brutal truth is that while we like to pretend we are an English educated society by and large, that we have high taste in fashion and we have better standards than our counterparts in the rest of the country, we are still living in the stone age era when it comes to treating our women right.

We have unspoken rules, limitations, ideas, imaginations, norms, boundaries, customary practices, codes of conduct and a manual for how to live as a woman as a man and others in this society. The segregation is stark and marked. Digression is not acceptable and has consequences. Often abusive and violent.

At school and in home, our parents and teachers worked hard to ensure we followed these codes of conducts obediently. We were groomed to become docile beings and the seeds are so deeply sown that despite being an adult, letting go is hard.

I lived by these rules all my life.

I lived by the book. I followed the rules to the core.

I burdened myself with following these societal manuals. I adhered to this image of a ‘good’ woman for the longest period of my life.

I was a timid, shy kid, living in my own darkness. A guy I once dated remarked, ‘Bachpan is dark’ and it hit home hard.

It took me years of undoing- working with friends, support systems and through regukar therapy to understand that what I was doing to myself was self sabotaging.

I lived in self doubt for years, I prevented myself from pushing myself out of my boxes.

I did not take risks. I was cautious and It took me time to be comfortable in my own body, my own skin.

I questioned myself when I was abused. I doubted myself when relationships failed.

I learned to ignore my gut instincts and go mum. I carried my trauma into my adulthood.

I did become a ‘good girl’ and later a ‘good woman’ but is was not rewarding. It was claustrophobic.

It was violence to myself and it was abusive.

And then, Feminism happened to me. Delhi happened to me. I went to the University and it opened my world to a whole new universe I had been deprived of for years.

‘ A Well-Read Woman is a dangerous creature’, wrote Lisa Kleypas and it cannot be truer than that.

I met beautiful, powerful young, old, middle aged women. Women of all groups, race, color, caste, class, ethnicity, religion, region- name it. It was a beautiful, colorful world I stepped my foot into- and there was no going back.

For the first time in my life, I loved the color of brown/black skin. I felt beautiful. I loved watching these young women talk, debate, gossip, fight back. I joined student movements, walking those streets alongside these women.

The long conversations in the dhabas, sipping chai ranging from politics to personal stories opened my universe to a whole new truth and reality. I breathed and tasted what being free can feel like.

It was a safe and free world for us. So many of us coming from broken homes, broken societies, growing up in despair. We tasted Hope. And Freedom.

Here, I learned about stories of abuse and violence, multiple realities of women from across the country. I read about them and the fight that had been fought by women and men to give us our freedom. I understood our responsibility to carry it further. Feminism became my anchor.

And I am so grateful- for it taught me to no longer question myself, but to recognise and resist the systemic and historical realities of injustice women have been subjected to for decades.

I felt like I finally found a place that felt like Home. I fit here. And then it was time to move back to my Home town. I was not happy at all. I was petrified and that is how trauma works- the body remembers.

‘You are so lucky to have a job in your own hometown’, they said.

‘Wow, you will be living in the mountains.’

Little did they know the anxiety that was slowly making its way into my own skin, troubling me slowly. Memories I had repressed for years eerily creeping back into my head. I was once again that little girl who had left town for good, never to come back. To be free, to live and be myself. I felt paralysed and I hated the homecoming.

This, after all that I had achieved in life. I was a doctorate from the best university in the country, employed in a prestigious position and yet, I was traumatised.

It went exactly how I knew it would.

I was and continue to be confused for being an outsider, because of my skin color. I am confused to being a Bengali or an Indian (meaning North Indian)- that is how ignorant and yet blatantly confident we are of our own ignorance and arrogance.

I am often told I should pay attention to ‘how I dress and develop a feminine interest for fashion and make-up.’ It does not matter I have degrees.

Me being single and unmarried was often a problem- was I a lesbian or bi-sexual because of my feminist thoughts? Was I into more than one men- because I did not mind talking and spending time with men- little did I know that there were norms- still.

So I learned the code of conduct all over- stay away from married men, espcially if you are single. Do not talk much to men- they think you are available, and women think you are a slut for being overtly friendly with men.

I chose to stay away from circles of gossip; especially as a woman you do not want to get sucked into it- only later I realized the gendered reason as to why so.

It took me time to realize I was once again following the codes of conduct and it was making me miserable. I knew it in my gut.

Gradually, the pretentiousness of our society began to amuse me. It slowly grew unto me, replacing my anxiety with agitation, irritation and annoyance. And then, I was just done.

I had to believe I was no longer the same helpless young child who grew up believing this was the only truth. There was more to the truth and we have been denied that truth- ruthlessly.

Today, I write with a sense of both frustration and liberation. Because, I am almost in my 40s, and I have the power to write and speak about it. For as spider man reminds us, ‘With great power comes, great responsibilities.’ I take Marvel quite seriously, the nerd that I am.

I worked hard to earn this privilege and it is empowering as a woman to have this voice. It is a privilege to be a woman and be educated, elite, well-read, respected with financial independence. I am glad I took shelter in my nerdiness.

When I came back I gaslit myself for some time. I forgot I had the choice to live my life on my terms. As a woman when you take back your power it comes with consequences and never goes down well in a society where the rules are designed by men. Sadly, all of us- men/women and others, we play by the rules. We are all both victims and perpetrators of this system.

We know that men by default, are the rule makers- why do we choose to follow those rules? Why do we choose to be silent, when we can choose to have a different voice.

Some of us, having achieved this voice still choose to succumb to looking the other way, or even worse strengthen these rules. I have decided not to be part of this brigade. And it is liberating. Alienating maybe but worth it.

I am told, ‘ I am too opinionated’, ‘ I am too radical’, ‘I am not feminine’, ‘I am a turn off’,

Sorry, but not sorry.

Our society lives and thrives on prejudices. Earlier, I was cautious of hurting sentiments, of not being vocal about my own opinions - and worried of being a Buzzkill.

And then, I stopped caring.

Ever since I moved to my hometown, I have been understanding what it means to simply exist as a woman- in my home, workplace, other spaces- the story remains the same. We may have come this far ahead and yet the expereinces of our mothers and their mothers and ours continue to be the same. It does not surprise me.

When I was in Delhi, I lived in perpetual fear of this body being attacked and violated by strangers. Coming back Home I am relieved and grateful for this freedom of being able to walk free at the least. It provides some relief.

Sexual violence is real, except we like to pretend it does not exist. We are violated as much inside our homes as in public spaces. In silence. We have mastered the art of looking the other way and not talking about it.

We love to believe these things do not happen in our society. We justify violence in the name of love.

We tolerate abuse believing ‘marad jaat estoi huncha, chori manche le jannu parcha kasari sudharnu’, (men will be like this, it is a woman’s skill to fix him). Hence we grow up becoming fixers. Entering and living in toxic, abusive relationships beleiving our love can heal the other.

It is a society obsessed with upholding the image of a ‘good, sabhya woman’ and suffocating women to live up to this image.

Men and women alike are responsible for being moral vanguards- young men and women are constantly subject to moral policing.

We perpetuate this violence by labelling women and men as ‘bigreko’, ‘hawa lageko’, ‘sangat ko asar’. We impose unrealistic responsibilities and burden men and women to live up to these standards.

Young adults continue to live fearfully in unahppy, even abusive marriages for fear of societal labels. Remarriages, adult dating, young adults exploring their own soceity is looked down upon- even violently suppressed.

We resort to violence- either emotional, mental or physcial abuse, rather than truly understanding why young children are prone to susbtance abuse, violence, abuse and toxicity.

We put labels and take to intolerance, for as they say if you do not understand something then label it dangerous. It is no wonder that in a society obsessed with the idea of a ‘good’ woman - a homemaker, soft, demure, polite, quiet and silent, feminine and nurturing, women like us become anomalies. Dangerous.

So we taint them, we isolate them, alienate them and bring them down. Witches in the old era, feminist in this modern era.

I grew up a young woman in this town, suffocated and burdened by these gendered practices.

I left and matured into an adult, exploring the universe and freeing myself of these burdens.

I returned a full grown woman blending both these realities and embracing the whole that is me.

I am back in the small town that remains as prejudiced, biased and intolerant to difference as always. I still do not fit in. And It is okay. I am glad I do not fit in anymore.

The moment you let go of what others have to say about you, as a woman it is taking back your power. I am doing just that. I had never fit in anyways so I have nothing to loose. It is liberating therefore when people treat you like an anomaly.

I hear rumors, ‘She is married, isn’t she? and yet she lives on her own.’

Living with strangers- men for that matter- on your own therefore, continues to raise eyebrows.

I continue to be a subject of doubt. Can such a woman ever be a home-maker? Can a woman balance her independence and responsibilities? Can she be friends with another man? Is it an affair? The speculations continue. Fingers will be raised and I will be tainted. For a woman has nothing to loose but her honor, apparently.

My friends and well wishers worried for me- ‘Daag lagcha’ (it will stain me).

I have seen worse and it does not affect me anymore.

Women across the globe have been the victims of the system; punished ruthlessly for crossing lines they were never meant to. I find my allies and answers, solidarity and solace in these battles that have been fought and continue to be fought. I know we have a long way to go as a society. Till then I choose to live unfazed, unbothered and tainted.

I am a woman after all, and no matter how far you come in life, no matter how much you live by the rules, it will never be enough.

And that is where we choose- to let go of burdens that was never ours to carry in the first place.

We begin to liberate.

I choose not to be burdened by the societal norms that prevent me from thriving, rather I make a choice to let go of this burden of being a ‘good’ women.

For Laurel-Ulrich reminds, us ‘ Well-Behaved Women seldom make History.’

Amen.

It feels like the wave- a soft, gentle, rise and fall of the sea. It swells, rises and falls. Just like our emotions, which is overpowering. The first half of 2025 has been about understanding the rise and fall of our waves within.

Grief- I am here to talk bout grief.

We understand grief in terms of the loss we endure. What about the loss we preserve in our bodies after the mourning of the loss.

In the clutching of our hearts, tightening of our jaws, blinking of our eyelids and the beating of our hearts.

We often do not speak of grief; but why I ask?

Grief cracks us wide open in places we cannot imagine exist within us.

It is like the swelling of the sea, and when we crack wide open we feel the space within expand and it rises, overwhelming us and we drown; almost. Then we take a deep breath, go down and rise again, with a gasp. Breathing.

We open our arms wide open, kick our legs, feel the calm and begin to settle.

Grief does that to us. It teaches us to love. That swell we feel in our hearts when the wave rises is our heart- alive, fighting, gasping, breathing.

The waves. It will come, it will rise and it will settle.

At 39, it is hard to let go of old habits. Habits ingrained into every nerve in our body. Responses are quick, so quick that one does not even have the time to register, let alone pause and rethink before responding. We are all trapped in our own mechanisms we have built and mastered over the years. Perhaps, we learned to build our walls and defense mechanisms so high that we no longer have control over how to let go.

I know I am not an easy person. I do however, like to believe I am an easy person. In my own head I am nothing but chill, relaxed and easy-going. On the contrary, I have been told that am rigid, I am uptight and firm. And I believed in those who became my voice to tell me all of this. For a long time I actually convinced myself that I am incapable of being an easy person.

While it has always been easy for me to see how gaslighting works on the outside; I have successfully failed to notice how I have been doing this to myself- by allowing these voices to become louder and stronger over the years. Often this happens in the most intimate spaces that we fail to recognize and put an end to this practice of self destruction.

It scars you and burns you in ways that is unimaginable. The voice is either loud or a tiny whisper, constantly playing in the background- planting seeds of doubt and guilt in your heart. You learn to live in this space of doubt. You learn to choose this voice over your own- despite your heart telling you that it is not true.

I learned and mastered the art of picking myself up over and over- putting back together the shattered pieces of me- strewn all over. As I age, I notice the scars and see how imperfect I am. The imperfection that I was so ashamed of for a long time. I believed that I am an impossible person to be with as a partner in any relationship. I convinced myself I am unlovable - because I am different and I do not fit.

I let people come into my life and open my space- out of kindness. Little did I know that kindness does not necessarily mean putting yourself out there, at the cost of burning and breaking yourself. I chose to feel bad, despite being the one who got hurt multiple times over. Kindness felt like a burden to my own self. I kept asking myself,

‘Why am I stupid?’

‘Why am I so trusting of people?’

‘Why am I so naive?’

Maybe I was pretending or trying to be a saint.

At this stage in my life, where I have been tossed and turned around in the whirlpool of my own emotional upheaval- life felt turbulent. I only saw a journey that was scarring. It started at a very early age for me- 3 years old to be precise- when I was forced to learn to take care of myself and my sibling. Over the years, I mastered the art of protecting myself and keeping everyone else’s needs before mine.

Today, I struggle to let go of this practice. At the cusp of turning 40, I am finally unlearning and practicing the art of letting go.

And, it is not easy.

But this also feels like Homecoming in its truest form. I now seek the road to my own self. The self that I had forgotten when I was 3 perhaps. The child that grew up too soon- way before her time.

I stand here finally beginning to bloom- at my own pace and time.

As I embrace the scars I no longer feel the burden of these baggage I learned to carry with me into my adulthood at such a young age. I often wonder how my life would have been if it had not been for this journey that began at such a tender age.

Maybe I would be a different person- perhaps I would be chill, easy-going, less rigid and free. But, I also wonder- if I would be Me.

I can finally look into the mirror and stop complaining about the way I look. I try to smile more often and it eases the stress I held in my jawline- I guess it also makes me look and feel pretty. I never thought I would use these adjectives to describe myself.

As I learn to still be kind despite the world being ruthless and brutal, I am also learning how to hold space for myself without burning out. I choose to still be kind for now I see it is not a weakness but an act of bravery. It takes immense courage to be kind in the face of adversity.

I have failed multiple times and I have been horrible to people, colleagues and friends. My only effort is to forgive myself and consciously practice kindness, learning from my own mistakes.

It feels like Homecoming because I am finally letting go of the need to be a 'good’ human being. I think goodness is overrated. I am choosing to be a wise human being. I know I can not be good all the time and it feels liberating to not uphold these virtues anymore.

I embrace this journey- this homecoming with both a sense of curiosity and awe. I know life will flow; and all we can do is learn to swim as we flow.

Perhaps, this is what homecoming truly looks and feels like.

To Life.

It is 2024.

I made a new year resolution- Two actually. I promised myself I would learn driving and swimming; two things I have always wanted to learn but kept postponing it.

In my head, I have visualized myself taking long drives by myself; enjoying my own company with the wind blowing my hair across my face and my favorite song playing in the background.

On other times, I have imagined myself enjoying slow vacations- swimming in pools and quiet lake bodies in the stillness of nature. Visualizing myself enjoying my own company.

Doesn’t it all sound so nice? And liberating.

Except it is not. Getting there is an arduous task and the suffering of being alone is painful. It takes a lot to pull ourselves out of our loneliness to convert it into solitude. They say, ‘all you need is inside of you’ and one you learn to enjoy your own company there is no need to look for anything outside. But, how do we learn to be alone?

The irony -you need support systems. Even this internal journey of going inwards and enjoying your own company is not possible at all without support systems, thriving and nourishing relationships.

It is hard to find yourself when you are drowning in your own grief and pain of being alone. We do not need to romanticize this at all.

Since 2022, I have somehow been forced to be in a situation where I had to be alone. My work required me to move to a remote and quiet place in my own Hill town in Darjeeling.

We romanticize living in the mountains and enjoying a slow paced life;it seems like the most ideal life to live. In reality, it is not so easy.

Having spent most of my time in the city- I moved to Delhi for my education when I was very young- it was a nightmare to come back home.

‘Who would not like going back to the mountains?’ I was told.

‘Me’, I sulked for most part of my transitioning days, which eventually turned into weeks and then into months and now it has almost become ten years.

I was miserable for most part of my transition back home.

I hated the weather, I hated the small town life.

I had no friends. I did not know how to make friends, especially at this age.

I craved cafe-hopping, bar hopping and loitering around cool places in the city with my friends. I missed my friends so much that it hurt.

I craved good conversations. There was only one book shop in town- and mostly empty.

I missed dating- how easy it is in the city.

I missed every part of my life that I had carved out for myself in the city.

I wanted to escape and leave.

I was so desperate to leave that I thought of quitting my job- a government job, mind you- which appalled my parents. They could not understand why I was so unhappy.

How could I explain to them that I had outgrown the place and I was no longer the same person who had left twenty years ago.

I had left a young girl and returned home a full grown woman- with my own quirkiness and weirdness- I no longer fit in my own home town.

That hurt; a Lot. The thought of being alone and lonely here scared me.

I was lonely and hated every bit of it. Living alone is not easy at all. Forget liberating, I was barely surviving.

As days turned into weeks and months and years, I slowly forced myself to give up on leaving. The place was growing unto me.

I cribbed a lot but I began to slowly like the smell of fresh air and the slowness of life.

Slipping easily into the slack, laid back way of life, I was learning to walk the streets alone.

I was learning to pick a book and sit in cafes alone. I was not happy but forcing myself to accept my life for what it was.

No matter how unpleasant it was, and completely different from the life I had imagined for myself, I was Home and I had to learn to make sense of being Home.

I gave up the idea of escaping; accepting this was fate.

I was becoming an unhappy and miserable person.

Relocations are hard. It is a displaces you; especially as you get older.

It was hard to come to terms with my own self and accept this new reality.

It was painful.

So I cried. I cried a lot in my lonely, small room - alone and miserable.

I could not bring myself to do anything. My friendships were fading away. It is hard to maintain long distance friendships and while we talk so much about the pain of long distance relationships, this brings a whole different kind of heartache and misery.

Nobody on the outside except my parents were aware that I was miserable. You have a good job, a great life and everything you could ask for, I was told.

Maybe I am an ungrateful person, I began to wonder and added guilt to my misery.

After a year of trying to be okay on my own, I decided to take up therapy. The only person I was talking to outside of work was my therapist.

This is how lonely I was.

I did therapy for two and half years- I stopped only recently and I am glad to be out of therapy. It no longer feels like a necessity, but a support system I know I can rely upon when I need it.

II

It is 2025.

I am still in a small town.

The past one year was harder than I could imagine. It has not been easy- being alone. It has and continues to be one hell of a ride- the misery does not end- on the contrary life continues to force me into circumstances where I see myself becoming more and more alone.

Just as I make friends, they are taken away- work or other commitments. Just I begin to feel I have someone of my own- life decides it is not working for me.

Life has plans for me- to constantly challenge me to be Alone. Amidst the heaviness of being alone, it is hard to embrace the joy of solitude.

While we are told it is liberating to be alone, nobody tells us the process of how to get there or what happens when you are in the middle of the process of getting there.

Let me tell you how it feels. Imagine a really cold, sad day with no sunshine for days? That is how it feels.

You want to talk to somebody and there is no one.

You want to cry and have someone tell you ‘it is okay’- and there is nobody to tell you it is okay.

You want a warm cup of tea- and there is nobody to make it for you.

You want to come Home to someone at the end of the day and there is nobody to come Home to.

Does it sound liberating?

It does not right? I know. I have been there.

You become comfortable in the boxes you create for yourself and you shrink to fit yourself into them. Because it gives you a sense of safety and comfort. Your comfort zone.

And the only option left is to find the courage to survive. Your survival is essential and you start finding mechanisms to survive- out of sheer desperation.

It is very hard to not drown here. Your support systems comes in forms you would not be prepared for perhaps- but you hold on to it with a sense of urgency. Because you know your survival depends on it.

Mine came in the form of - that one colleague at work who eventually turned into a friend you value for the rest of your life.

The coffee shop with that familiar smiling face making your cozy corner accessible to you.

My Collective- a space which I did not believe would grow into what it is becoming today. (more on this some other time).

My yoga practice- which I forced myself to get to despite my body not working with me at all for months.

My parents who knew not how to be there yet stood by my side-silently hoping I would be happy someday.

My neighborhood children who did not know the kind of therapy their innocence provided and filled me with.

Flatmates with whom I had never interacted in my place of despair but now I cherish.

III

The fog lifts- maybe fully or maybe partially or just a little.

You see the sunshine. It feels warm on your face and your skin tingles. It is like waking up after a long hibernation and you want to stretch your limbs and take small steps to warm up your body.

You feel Hope and now you want to hang on it with a renewed sense of urgency.

You are still alone. Except you are learning to let go of feeling lonely.

You begin to be curious about what solitude feels like.

After spending energy on carrying on your day against your will, you look back to coming Home to yourself and savor the warm cup of tea you prepared for yourself.

You come Home to yourself- a pet- or your plants- maybe.

You take deep breaths and embrace the brokenness of who you are, reminding yourself ‘You got this.’

For when the fog lifts, you see what you had missed all this while.

You begin to see how you always took care of yourself- in the walks you went for despite wanting to lie in bed all day.

The courses you forced yourself to sign up for and complete.

The coffee shop visits.

The journal entries you did- it may not be your best writing, but you wrote.

The small conversations you tried to have with new people despite it dreading you to talk to strangers.

You were never truly alone. But you also learned the hardships of being alone.

You learned the importance of cultivating meaningful relationships and support systems. And in the end you learned to trust yourself every time you found yourself alone.

Amidst the pain and despair, I forced myself to take up driving lessons. I postponed it for months- giving myself multiple reasons why It was not possible to learn in a small town. Lies I told myself.

But that small voice pushed me to learn driving. Every morning I forced myself out of bed to learn driving. This year even if that is the only thing I do it is going to be worth it, I told myself. I slowly began to enjoy what felt like a task initially.

I have now learned how to drive.

I did my first solo ride. The wind was blowing my hair across my face, my favorite song was playing in the background and I had myself for company. I smiled and let the sunshine seep in.

It felt liberating. And maybe that is how we take the slow but dreaded journey of transforming loneliness into solitude.