A few days ago I attended Roshan Abbas’s Indradhanush again. Same stories, told slightly differently, some context added, some extraneous stuff deleted. It was like watching a master in action.

People often wonder why I go watch the same show again - this was my third time doing that - I did the same with Laksh Maheshwari’s Ishq Sufiana and Priya Malik’s Ishq Hai...Indradhanush too, was about love. What can I say, I LOVE love....because, and this has to be said...what’s NOT to love? That would be indifference…like standing dry as a grain of sand in a desert, next to the Ganges in Rishikesh, that would be to dislike/hate like bathing yourself in dirt or dung while a beautiful clean water fall flows right next to you. Seems rather pointless, doesn’t it? Or an exercise in self hate? And I may not be a saint, worthy of worship, but I am also not worthy of so much negative attention from anyone, including myself.

Coming back to love, Laksh talks about Sufi love - love for your spiritual guru. That feeling of a love bigger than you, that consumes you, but is asexual and holy. Priya talks about romantic love - finding love after a broken relationship, through pieces of ginger passed between two strangers turned friends of a kind, living one above the other in an apartment building in Bombay through the pandemic. Mr. Abbas talks about the love of a craft. A love so deep that it took him from acting to radio and now to spoken word performances, across cities and countries.

All of them talk about a deep passion. All of them turned it into a profession. All of them made me fall in love with their words. The second time, deeper than the first. That’s the sign of a master. The same stories, slightly different words, but if my first experience took me 500 feet deep, the second time was twice or three times as impactful.

All three of them brought me to tears with their words. And like Mr. Abbas said, the world “seen through the prism” of those tears brought up so many thoughts and feelings. Thoughts of those who hold my parachute, who amp me up when I’m down, see things in me I don’t (yet), show up for me time and time again. So much gratitude for my family, my friends, old, not so old and brand new, and yet they show up when and as I need them - sometimes with a kind word, sometimes with a hug, yesterday so many of them showed up with reminders to rest between the teaching sessions at a volunteering opportunity, one bought me books I’d been eyeing but holding back because I always find books I want to buy at these events, one of them called me today to ensure I got reimbursed for an expense I incurred yesterday.

I don’t know what the central idea for this post is. I’m not sure there is one, except to say thank you, to all the people, places and events that led me to where I am, who I am today. Through the fumbles and successes. Its been a fun ride. I can’t wait to see where life takes me next!

Well actually there is a one - Natural Language Processing. IBM describes it as “a subfield of computer science and https://www.ibm.com/think/topics/artificial-intelligence that uses https://www.ibm.com/think/topics/machine-learning to enable computers to understand and communicate with human language”.

The NLP I am learning, on the other hand, Neurolinguistic Programming, is, according to Pschology Today, “a set of principles and techniques aimed at enhancing self-awareness, increasing confidence, building communication skills, and motivating positive social actions”. Or, ways to help humans understand themselves and other humans better.

And so you ask “so what’s “And, so what?””. That, my friend is my biggest takeaway from all the NLP techniques I’ve learned so far.

“And….so, what?” As in so what if this or that happens or doesn’t? “And….so, what?” if someone says or does something…or doesn’t?

NLP has given me tools to deal with things like that. As someone who analysed and overanalysed everything and everyone, “And….so, what?” made me think about the worst case scenario, and look at what it meant. And realise that its ok. Its given me the tools to look at things differently - look at them from the other person’s point of view. That’s made me either shift my perspective, entirely change my mind about the situation or the person or find different way to approach or deal with them since I have a better understanding of the underlying issue. Knowing that the choice was mine - to keep to my pov/chosen path/opinion or not, has given me the freedom to change it, or accept what I was doing and keep at it with conviction. The choice has made all the difference.

In a world where it feels like more and more choice is being taken away from more and more groups of people, I feel so blessed to have found a technique that lets me give myself options. And so “And, so what?” is my magic mantra, my short hand for “Its my choice babe!”

The title of the show was Indradhanush - a rainbow, in Hindi. In those 90 minutes Mr. Abbas took us on a journey, through his childhood - the look but don’t buy experiences all of us born in the pre easy EMIs and credit card world have memories of, his career and generally his life.

The actual experience of admiring something I have no scope of buying is something I miss. Hear me out. This isn’t an ode to poverty, but the reality is we’ve lost the ability to deeply admire something - a beautiful piece of art or furniture or jewellery for itself, without our first thought being “which credit card can I put it on that’ll cost me the least amount of interest?”. That ability to simply admire something is now a learned skill rather than default mode. And its taken away the pure joy of enjoying something for its own sake. Mr. Abbas talked about experiencing this during regular family outings growing up, walking through a market, past a high end store, where he would want to linger and that his parents pulled him past to avoid arguments over things they could not afford. Yet his memory was of just admiring the stuff in the store, not of being denied the actual items.

He talked about familial support of his career, but with set amount of the money earmarked for each child. Such an unusual practice especially back in the day - the freedom to pursue one’s passion, something that is outside social norms, but with a real limit based on how much his parents could afford to give him. Such an amazing way to teach someone budgeting, time management and to pursue what moves them so hard that something comes out of it.

He talked about how life sometimes keeps repeating itself - bringing the same people and similar experiences back, but with new learnings based on what you learnt the last time and what you need in the present. That hit hard…so many people and situations come into my life, come into all our lives I’m sure, and just don’t fit. We live through them - those experiences, relationships, situations until we don’t…until they meet us again and it feels like the perfect fit, we feel the feels, learn the lesson…. until finally, we let go.

Three parts of his monologue hit me the hardest -

1. There’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow because the rainbow is actually a circle, we just can’t see past where the curve of the earth cuts off our view midway. I took it to mean “find the joy, the laughter, the meaning, now, and keep doing what you need to so you can keep finding new versions of those emotions at every juncture of your life”

2. The reframe of “those who can’t do, teach” to those who haven’t done teach you more than just the subject they’re teaching you as their profession. He talked of his first drama teacher showing up to one of his first performances, sitting in the gap between the two sections of seats in the auditorium because the show was sold out. That’s respect, for his own time and the student’s skill. That’s humility - the tacit acknowledgment that he might have been the teacher back then, but in the present he was just an audience member determined enough to watch the performance, enough to not care where he sat. That’s quiet support for someone he got started on a journey, someone who perhaps needed the encouragement and endorsement of a familiar face, of someone who knew what it took to be on this journey Mr. Abbas was on

3. And the most heart wrenching learning- the reframe of the idea of a rainbow as rays of light seen through droplets of water. Joyous color being created through the prism of nature’s tears. I took that to mean that there’s always a silver lining. That the way we experience situations is through our perspective of them. So then improving our experience of a situation is perhaps…simply a matter of changing our perspective of it. Huh…

I just finished reading a substack piece about mental models someone derived from different experiences he had lived through. One of his learnings was how his varied interests improved his professional life even though they weren’t directly connected or correlated. This is so true. It inspired me to write this post. And the analogy is right there - watching a spoken word performance is not in any way related to writing. And yet it inspired this piece.

So, on this beautiful Tuesday morning, as Bangalore does what Bangalore does best - cool weather, mad hustle coexisting in the same space, I learnt a few valuable lessons…about art and life or something like that…

Those are my memories of summers in my nanihal. Waking up to the smell of strong chai in the air, sitting on the kitchen floor, sipping said chai out of the saucer, while dipping a Marie biscuit into a deeper pool of chai in the actual cup, then trying to rescue the oversoaked bits while making noises I refuse to believe myself capable of, then or now. All this while discussing the most important topic of the day - what I wanted for breakfast/lunch/dinner.

My nani had a seemingly inexhaustible list consisting of the usual - poha, upma, parathas, idlis, plus a whole slew of dishes from her own mother’s kitchen.

Once I made my choice, the paraphernalia of the morning tea was placed in the sink, to be dealt with by the bai later that morning. Then started the meal prep.

It was music in its natural form - the sound of the water flowing over the veggies being washed in the sink, the rhythmic beat of the knife’s edge hitting the counter top with every slice, the tiny clang as the kadhai hit the stove top, the slight ping of the single grain of rai, as it hit the hot oil in the kadhai, the volume an indication of whether the oil was hot enough, and the different cries made by the spoonfuls of spices as they followed the rai into the hot pan, committing hara kiri, in pursuit of bringing delicious flavours to hungry mouths and salivating tongues.

The sounds were as explosive as the term itself - the word “phodni” coming from the marathi verb “phodna” meaning "to destroy”.

But kitchens and phodnis were not meant just for the prosaic purpose of cooking. Those kattas and kitchen floors were where families came together, to catch up over cups of chai and pieces of Marie biscuits before the day started, where mothers, grandmothers and aunts shared their wordly knowledge about the benefits of each spice, the minor and not so minor transgressions of other family members and stories of their youth and those passed on by their own mothers, grandmothers and aunts in the kitches of their own childhoods.

It feels to me like phodni/tadka/tempering are apt words, regardless of the language to talk about what happens to ingredients as they hit the vessel the dish is being created in - they are destroying parts of themselves, as individuals, to come together as a more beautiful and bigger entity. Is that any different than what one does in a family or friendship or work team? Destroy or modify bits and pieces of themselves so that the whole can work better?

Its just words they said…huh…as if!

The more I think about everything that’s happened, the more it all seems to fall in the bucket of people showing up for me in the most basic and yet very magical ways.

Today was such a lovely day. I spent a couple of hours helping a friend shop for a wedding she has to attend in a couple of weeks. Nothing in it for me but the joy of window shopping with her and seeing the simple joy on her face at finding the perfect jewellery for the outfits she’s wearing. I didn’t make a big deal of it, driving 45 minutes to help her out. Because there was something in it for me after all. The happiness of spending time with a friend who I just clicked with at a random dinner a couple years ago. On the surface we don’t have much in common. She works all hours, I’m actively working to build a life that has a healthy balance of work, health, social and spiritual activity. But she has an innate warmth, vulnerabilities that I find her sharing openly with me, all the more precious as she and I have both had to be strong and independent in so much of our lives. And somehow over the last couple of years we’ve  built a strong  friendship that doesn’t require daily checkins or even regular ones, but when we do talk or met or spend any amount of time together it feels me with so much joy.

While I was driving to meet the first friend a second one called with an impromptu invite to even further away for lunch. Thankfully the stars aligned and I was able to make it there along with my parents who are visiting me for a couple of days. That was such a wonderful few hours of my worlds colliding - the two most beloved and precious people in my life meeting a couple of friends who’ve come into my life recently but are absolutely some of those who bring so much laughter, many new experiences to my life in this city I’ve chosen to build my life in. To see my friends love on my folks felt so good!

Then to visit a flea market with all manner of beautifully crafted clothes and art work as a group and end the night eating a whole bunch of old favourites family style was absolutely the cherry on top of the cake. 

As I thought about the day the thought that kept coming to my mind was all the different ways people showed up for each other in my world today. Friends, for each other, parents and children for each other, and friends for their friend’s parents. It all took effort, but it all felt so easy. A lot got done but it all felt so seamless. Just a little care, a little love, of different flavours, sprinkled gently and generously. More than enough to fill everyone’s day with a lot of smiles and good juju.

I guess that’s what life is, isn’t - doing your best for yourself and for those you love. The what doesn’t matter as much as the doing, with an open heart, kindness and an ease that can’t help bring reciprocal gestures and experiences into the lived experiences of everyone involved.

Here’s to more beautiful days, many of them, in the year ahead.

Metaphorically slapped in the face by photos and a sweet post by someone I was vaguely socially connected to over a decade ago. About someone I expelled from my life around the same time. The post was about the happy ever after of that person who I spent some of the most unhappy and draining years of my life with.

It felt like an insult to me that this person found someone else, seemed to have real friends who valued him and celebrated him. Because those aren’t my memories of our lives together.

But after the freak out and the feeling of coming last in a race I wasn’t even aware of running, one I had explicitly refused to even consider, I took a minute to consider the last 7 days. Just the last 7.

A week full of experiences - a beautiful sufi event. I saw Laksh Maheshwari’s show about sufi love for the second time, almost exactly a year after I first watched him. The show was so profound, equally so, but slightly different, perhaps deeper, this second time. I went with friends, new ones, who brought so much joy, laughter and do many deep conversations that further enhanced the impact.

I went for a long walk through a beautiful in bloom Cubbon on Saturday morning, with a different set of friends, we appreciated the difficulty of even finding each other on a morning when the park was hosting its annual flower show. The whole process of finding eachother filled again with snark, encouragement, laughter, a wrong turn or two and lots of conversation. And like most meetups in Bangalore, ended with filter coffee and dosa/idli, so fullfilling for the tummy and the soul.

That meetup led to an afternoon spent watching the Dubey ladies enacting scenes from the pandemic. Real, relatable scenes that brought tears and smiles and a deeper understanding that those few years were tough for everyone regardless of the figure in their bank accounts.

The last few days have, as has been the norm since I moved to this beautiful city, been full of calls from and to friends, interesting books and posts and events read and lived and discussed and a weekend already planned, threatening as usual the need to clone myself so I can to what I have already planned for and more.

And I realised that not only is it not a bad life, its a damn good one.

That I have curated my everyday so it fulfills me in the ways I need and appreciate.

And so what if Mr. Right is still on his way. But that guy who the post was about was never him. What he made me feel and perhaps vice versa was never what either of us needed or wanted. That even if he was still single, that is not someone I want in my life.

So, good for him that he found someone. That things worked out. After all they did for me too 🤷🏻‍♀️

When we inevitably reached the part of the conversation where one talks about what one is “looking for”, though, the guy came out in great detail about how noone took the time to get to know him, how women ghosted him after the first date, how there were websites and apps which filtered men out by income.

Sure, its not fair. But did anyone ever ask a woman how she felt being asked if she can cook, clean, and all the sundry questions that are de riguer in the process of finding a partner in India? Has anyone been offended by or paid a second of attention to the often unsolicited advice, opinion, questioning of a woman’s life choices? Is that fair?

Of course not. That’s just “how it is” in our culture. So why not accept that a woman brought up in this culture then also filters by something that is important to her? She’s judged by her looks, her cooking and cleaning and admin skills despite being a professional - a doctor/lawyer/architect/engineer - and that’s ok, but he shouldn’t be required to be earning enough money to live a good life - an apartment in a gated community, meals at fancy restaurants with good food and ambiance, vacations in beautiful places? Things that cost money. More and more of it with time.

Why is that an unfair ask? It does sound ridiculous, I agree. But not any more so than expecting a woman, a professional, with a busy career, to cook and clean and manage home while dealing with a job as exhausting as the husband’s while its perfectly acceptable for the said husband to come back home and relax.

When I put this question to my date last night he said “not me, I don’t do that”. But then why am I, one woman, being asked about the choices or preferences of some other woman, all other women?

This post is not just about the entitled behaviour of my date last night but this trend that’s prevalent in real life, on social media - men will say or do as they do, their mothers/sisters/whoever else will justify their behaviour, someone will say “not all men”, but ALL women end up having to defend themselves again in one case of a woman behaving badly.

Just this morning someone, a woman, posted on Linkedin about the success story of a female influencer and a photo of the person concerned. There were the inevitable comments “disciplining” her - Asking why she needed to post a photo. Really? Lets do what men do and give a completely different example of men behaving badly - just yesterday there was a news item about a delivery person, a male, posting indecent photos of women on social media. What about that? How is that not a valid comment on ALL men?

What about the Astronomer story? All over the media for the past few days. The villainess? Or villainesses, I should say - the head of HR, for conspiring to become close to the CEO, to gain more power. The wife, steathily trying to worm her way out of the marriage. The CEO? Oh he’s just a man. She came on to him. He just indulged in what was made available to him. No self control. No ability to think about anyone but himself.

But, but, but…the woman in the affair? Already old money, already the head of HR. Anyone who’s worked for any little amount of time knows that head of HR to CEO is not a career path. Someone who rises to the head of anything is experienced and specialised in that particular skill or set of skills. Head of HR requires a whole different set of skills to someone who is the CEO. And trust me, no one who works with people, resolving human issues all day long has the energy to plot further machinations after.

The wife? a teacher who works with students who have learning difficulties. A position that requires, in addition to the right educational qualifications, deep inner strength, patience, empathy. She’s not sought fame – no revenge, no pity party. Just silent action to correct the course of her life.

The CEO? Andy Byron got to the role through a non traditional route – a political science degree, followed by tech sales. His wasn’t an ivy league>investment banking>C-suite journey. It was a journey of decades, taking different roles and eventually becoming the CEO of a large tech firm. All of this requires hard work, dedication, and a whole slew of technical and soft skills that are hard won.

Oh, the cherry on an already awful cake? Gwyneth Paltrow being hired as a temporary spokeswoman for Astronomer? An A list actress with known and celebrated acting chops? Her intro reduced to being the ex wife of the lead singer of the concert that Mr. Byron and Ms. Cabot were found out at. She had nothing to do with the affair or the location of its discovery, yet somehow, it was important to reduce her to just being the ex wife of the entertainer. Not hired because of her acting prowess, comic timing, fantastic marketing skills…simply for being the ex wife (a marriage that ended long ago) of the singer whose show Mr. Byron and Ms. Abott were at when their affair came to light. Huh…

Mr. Byron and Ms. Cabot are both people who rose to high levels in their careers. Can they not just be professionals who have not made the best choices in their personal lives? Why does one need to be a Machiavellian b word and the other a poor victim?

Its not just the women in the story that have been caricaturised. It’s the man too.

Women are tired and disgusted by what’s become normalised behaviour toward them, conversations about them.

What about the men though? Are they not tired of being portrayed as being weak? Because look at the words –

My date last night - the women don’t take the time and effort to get to know him. As though its somehow more their job to understand him than his responsibility to present his best self, and accept rejection gracefully when the lady isn’t attracted to him.

Andy Byron, the innocent schmuck, seduced by a conniving woman. Completely negating the drive and skills it took for him to get to his position.

Are men ok with being talked about this way? The women of the world would really like to know. Because if they are not, and logic says they shouldn’t be, isn’t it time they changed how they portray themselves? How they treat themselves and others? Of their gender and the other genders?

Something to think about and talk about methinks.

Its about Love, or the finding of it, known as “dating” in modern parlance. Dakota Johnson plays a matchmaker to the rich. Come to find out, though, that rich girls’ list of desirable characteristics in partners is very very similar to that of those who don’t fall in that economic strata - tall, fit, attractive, well to do. I’ve read enough to know that this harks back to our evolution as a species - attractive is a preference, instintive though it might be, but its very individual, the rest - tall, built, economically viable is to do with the guy’s ability to provide - to provide his partner and offspring things like shelter (housing), sustenance (food and water), protection and support (physical - if he’s physically bigger than his partner, the partner feels safe in a crowd, in a unsafe place, even perhaps in social situations).

But what if the female partner is doing as well, perhaps better than the male partner? That was my takeaway of the conflict in the movie.

Dakota convinces herself, as so many of us do that a financially abundant, physically perfect partner is THE ONE, the better choice against an equally good looking but economically less well off partner.

But when she’s not worried about paying her bills, because she can do that for herself, what really matters to a girl is someone who sees her. Who listens to her without jumping in to solve a situation that’s really a mental mess that’s she’s trying to work through. Someone who makes her smile, makes her laugh, who “gets” her. Who makes it easy. Easy as in he understands when she needs a hand but also when she needs a ear or just someone to give her a hug and/or make her laugh.

Not to say being well off is a bad thing. But these unquantifiable attributes need to exist in the relationship regardless of a marble floor, luxurious furnishings or a doorman manned building.

Like all single women I struggle with this list that seems to be the ask of everyone i meet - friend, family, dating coach or matchmaker - what am i looking for in a partner.

This movie made me realise, there isn’t a list. There can’t be. Because like Dakota says in the movie, we are talking about a person not a manufactured object. Its a feeling, of safety, of peace, of feeling safe enough to express all your emotions- sadness, joy, excitement, anger - without feeling selfconscious about having them.

And that feeling of love…its exactly that well known French phrase “je ne sais quoi” - can’t define it, can’t make a list, can’t look for it, but when you know, you know…

I am so scared I won't be able to find my next job.

I am so worried I am not good enough, in my personal life, in my professional life.

I am so worried that I have fallen so far behind my peers, personally & professionally.

I am so terrified that AI will make it so I can never be employed again.

Yet, when I think of starting up on my own, advising people on things that I advise people on informally anyway…

I worry that I am not good enough

I worry that no one will give me a recommendation

I am scared that no one will want to pay me for my services

I am terrified about my ability to be the expert that advises people who are further along their journeys about those journeys

Yet

People less skilled than I, get jobs

People less eloquent than I, get paid to advise others

People of all shapes, sizes, preferences find partners

So what makes me so special as to be unlikeable to everyone?

Unlikeable to anyone?

Nothing!

Just the demons in my head…

Carcasses of misspoken words by unqualified people who wouldn't recognise me if I stood before them...a party of one...

So what makes me weaker than these weak people? These living room critics, these armchair warriors?

Absolutely nothing…

N

O

T

H

I

N

G

So...maybe let me give myself a chance...?

Write my words everyday, because just 3 days in they are already flowing smoother

Show up to the gym, to badminton training to my spiritual practices, because just a few weeks in, I’m running faster, lifting heavier, feeling quieter in my head…so…

Just one day at a time…

Just one thing at a time…

Because the hare in that famous hare and tortoise race?

The only creatures who lost the race apart from the distracted rabbit? Those creatures who never even took the first step to begin with…

This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers Group. Each of us examined the concept of ‘TIME’ through our unique perspective, distilled into roughly 400 words. At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.

Keeping Time

I play the piano. I grew up learning it, spent a decade ignoring it and have spent the last decade trying to repair my relationship with the instrument. When one learns music - the sheer hard work that goes into making a piece sound simple – one is very wary of calling herself anything more than a player of music. Not a pianist but a piano player. Regardless of the semantics of the term used, when one learns music in any form, one becomes very sensitive to the concept of time.

Decades of playing, and even more, of listening to music, and the concept of time takes on a different meaning. Especially the concept of “keeping time”. I find the term funny, for, who, in any time or place, has been able to keep the damn thing! And yet, depending on how a player keeps the time, the piece can sound very different.

In order for the piece to sound melodic, whether or not one plays it the way the composer intended, there are rules to how the music is to be played. Those rules include pauses (the space between the notes), the holds (the length of time a note is held), the speed at which the notes are played. Each of those concepts involves the use of time – the silence of a second or two between the end of a portion of the music (a musical phrase, if you will) and the next, or the longer drawn out note at the end of the piece, make one experience time differently. Depending on the skill of the player and how well she has been able to make her audience create an entire world using her fingers – moving them at particular speeds, volumes and pressures, the time at any of these junctures can feel like a second or a century. Isn’t it ironic, then, that “keeping time” is actually the fine art of helping someone (or yourself) spend it, in peace, in joy, in sadness or anger. That’s the magic of music, and the irony, of language isn’t it? using a term of preservation to describe the spending of the ultimate nonrenewable resource.

• “So… When will shit actually hit the fan?” by Sailee, sunny climate stormy climate

• Time: I Just Want to See It, Watch It Move by Abhishek Singh, The Comic Dreamer

• Timekeepers - Retracing the Universe’s Deep-Time Signatures by Devayani Khare, Geosophy

• Keeping Time by Reshma Apte, Fanciful Senorita

• Locating Myself In The Map of Time by Priyanka Sacheti, A Home For Homeless Thoughts

• The Thing We Pretend To Understand by Avinash Shenoy, OfftheWalls

• The lost intimacy with time by Siddharth Batra, Siddharth’s substack

• Lessons Time Taught Me by Aryan Kavan Gowda, Wonderings of a Wanderer

• A Time for Worship by Vaibhav Gupta, Thorough and Unkempt

• “Tata Mummy Tata” by Rakhi Anil, Rakhi’s Substack

• The vicious cycle of sixteen - A dancer’s take on keeping time by Eshna Benegal, The Deep Cut

• How long is twenty years? by Richa Vadini Singh, Here’s What I Think

• How mystery writers play with the clock by Gowri N Kishore, About Murder, She Wrote

• TIME INFLATED, JUSTICE DEFLATED. by Lavina G, The Nexus Terrain

• What keeps the fool in me delighted by Rahul Singh, Mehfil

• The endless ebb and flow of Time by Siddarth RG, Siddarth’s Newsletter

• Time, please! by Shaili Desai - Litcurry

Its not even Feb 14 yet, and I’m already exhausted at the thought. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve already got plans that night, so I don’t end up on a very (not) romantic date with myself, blaming the neighbourhood uncle, my family, society at large, for the pickle I find myself in.

A very dry pickle if you will, because its made up of one living being, me, and a bunch of imaginary characters - ghosts of romantic past (and sadly neither I nor the ghosts look anything remotely like a certain Mr. Maconaughey), and imagined spectres of every ‘Seema aunty’ I ever met, on tv, or in person.

Feels rather self indulgent to talk of the travails of singledom at a time when I should be grateful for the roof over my head, the friends and family in my life, this life I’ve built myself over the last couple of years, full of amazing experiences, conversations and laughter.

I have an amazing and amazingly large and diverse friend circle, more than one of them, a couple of them all female.

A friend in one of them called us ‘Single Pringles’ and I loved the term, then and now. But the fact is, noone can ever just have the one pringle and nor can it survive alone in nature - it’ll either fall prey to greedy hands or, be crumpled to bits by falling on something or having something falling on it.

I don’t at all mean to imply that single people can’t last alone or be happy. But man is it exhausting sometimes.

This past week, a guy was found going around randomly stabbing people (only men, and young ones so far) for small offences in the city I live in. Four people were injured. One for a minor traffic offence, another for not answering the perpetrator, the other 2, street vendors, both, for a disagreement over payment.

Even though it was nowhere near I live or frequent, the fear that crept in when I read the news, was real. As is a slight anxiety, everytime a delivery person comes around with things I have ordered.

Not that its necessary that a potential partner will be big and strong, prone to amazing feats of valour ala the angry (young) men of bollywood. But, I suppose, there’s a sense that I would feel safer, if I had someone at home, a male someone, when I had to deal with a delivery man or the urban company guy, or or or…

Its not always the case. I know that. We’ve all heard the horror stories. We’ve probably experienced some version of them - the unreliable boy friend, the unempathetic fiancee, the disloyal spouse, or just the incompatible one.

But the damn grass, on the other side, lush green, as always.

I don’t want to make this a “poor me” post. That’s definitely not the case. Its just reading a few really cute stories, running into some friends who really work in terms of their relationships with each other, this damn day created by a greeting card company to up its sales, and Seema aunty and her tribe start whispering in my ear.

“You waited too long”, they say. “Too picky.”

“She wants someone she can talk to! Aisa thodi hota hai”

“Compromise is the name of the game”

I let them at it in my head for a respectable hour. My therapist did say ‘feel your feelings’ and maaaan did I feel them today.

Then, I realised, I have plans this week, everyday through the weekend. With different people, some old friends, some just friends i haven’t met yet.

Maybe I’ll laugh with the guy who drives up behind me as we both wait, for what seems like an eternity, for the valet to finally give us some bhav and take our precious cars off our hands for the night when I go out to dinner tonight.

Or maybe he’ll be someone I meet tomorrow, on my way to meet a friend downtown and we’ll have a perfectly lovely conversation about something, maybe even nothing.

Heck maybe I’ll turn away from the stage, at the poetry event I’m going to this weekend, touched by an unbearably poignant verse, only to meet another set of eyes, shining with the same emotions.

Possibilities exist everywhere. I choose to believe a stranger (known, so, not really a stranger, because it is India after all), someone who shares my passions, is a friend just waiting to be made. Perhaps, maybe even something more. Maybe this is something i need to tell myself…two days before yet another Valentine’s day…but isn’t life just a game we play with ourselves and each other anyway? So why not play one which turns my smile the right side up?

I’ve increasingly become aware of the privilege that women enjoy today, compared to the lives that our grandmothers, mothers, heck perhaps even older sisters had. But perhaps I should say I used to be and the privileges we had.

While, as usual, my lovely substack friends celebrated my last blog post, pen pals engaged in a lot of positive affirmations of my writing and thoughts, the reality is, this happened in my tiny part of the world.

In other parts, even of the city I live in, I’m unfortunately sure, the attempts at minimising women continue. I write this in reaction to a substack post I read this morning about an apparently heated debate on the worldwide web this past weekend on the very, very important topic of how an actress looked lounging about in swimwear by her own pool, in her own house, in Los Angeles.

In a first world country, about an actress who is doing well enough for herself that she makes the news, people, strangers, MEN are discussing her fitness, form, values, morals and god knows what else.

Unfortunately, though, ALL women have to deal with this. To different degrees but on the DAILY, in their personal and professional lives. Because we are not happy with having a choice in just the cut and colour of our clothes and shoes and purses. We want a choice in life choices, our life choices. Whether to marry or not, have a child or not, where to work and for how long, heck even our opinions. Read that again - our own personal opinions.

As I live in a time when women in supposed the firstest of first world countries have lost the right to decide whether to have a child or not, once pregnant, I am reminded that this is just the latest version of choice being taken away from us.

My first memory of this was the sundry uncles and aunties wanting to buss my cheeks, or pinch them, as a child. “Oh, how cute!” they would say and I was supposed to smile and be available for said bussing and pinching. Even when it hurt, even when I just wanted to be left alone.

A slightly later memory was sitting, an unwilling audience member, to being told how I was this (quiet, introverted) vs, my sister, who having spent her first few years of life in a much more kid friendly and supportive environment was much more confident, sunny, funny, personable. The commentators were blind to my sister and I sitting there, hearing these words and uncaring of the impact they would have on our psyche, perhaps even our relationships, with ourselves, each other, heck, even the world at large.

Later, in adolescence, a memory that stands out is being excited for one of my favourites of my mom’s friends and her son being invited to lunch after school. The son had to go home before he could join us so I was sitting there with the ladies, with all manner of animals making their presence known in my tummy, waiting for him to show up so we could have lunch. He was a year older I think and I want to believe that the intention was innocent - both of you have just come back from school. Why not sit and eat together. Except, if the reverse were to happen - the girl in the duo was late coming to lunch - I highly doubt his mother would ask him to wait.

Don’t get me wrong, my childhood was unremarkable in the best ways - there was nothing that happened that didn’t happen to any other girl of Indian origin. But that these things happened at all is the problem.

It continues on in adulthood, with shows like Indian Matchmaking glorifying “compromise”. In an era when women are also educated, working, living their lives and dealing with everything that comes with that, its scary to me that this show exists at all. Its “just entertainment” they say. Its not! Its horrific! To watch as an out of shape, very traditional, barely able to speak the language woman is engaged by parents in the UK and US to find a partner for their daughters brought up in the west just feels crazy. This lady, selling them the same sh*t about “You can’t get everything in life” while talking to successful professionals, women, about them wanting a emotionally mature, financially successful, interesting and attractive guy, with a straight face, blows my mind.

And today, a white actress being objectified, her body being discussed and how she should be thicker, thinner, smile, not smile, wear a swimsuit with more or less coverage while sitting by her pool, in her home…my god. The language has become more palatable (supposedly), but the thoughts and feelings are those of yore, still.

The biggest jaw drop moment for me was reading about the comments and the underlying jealousy (?) of the actress, frustration that these men would never get a partner like that. What the what?

Life is simple - you want money, work hard, work smart, figure out what works for you to get that mullah.

If you want to be fit, work hard, work consistently, eat clean, consistently, you will get to your fitness goal.

Similarly, one would think you want a certain kind of partner, it would be obvious that the solution is to work on your self to be your best and attract the kind of person you want. Because free will? You might not get a specific person, but you could meet and develop a relationship with someone with the qualities that you admire. If you too are the kind of person they would attracted to. This holds true regardless of gender.

So why then are there forums, specifically for men, to go on about not being able to find a partner because apparently “Women are too amazing”. This comes back to men being babied from time immemorial. A little girl being told to wait for lunch, because her school mate is going to be late. A young girl being told to dress a certain way, behave a certain way so she can be safe because otherwise the boys will be tempted. A young woman, an adult, being told to dress a certain way, manage her time a certain way so her spouse is able to live life as he did before they got married while she takes on several additional roles as a housekeeper, a daughter/sister in law, and on and on and on.

Its like asking the sun to shine less because the people on Earth might get sunburn, or a luxury car to be less so because most people can’t afford it as is. Ridiculous examples, I know, but aren’t the asks of women equally so?

Sigh, is it just me, or is the world going crazy? Do people, men and women not want rational, mature partners who they can life life? The questions keep coming, the answers, not so much. All one can do, as always is just work on themselves, build a life they want in their corner of the world, with people who can inspire them to keep levelling up…I read an inspirational message somewhere - be the light you want to see…so just keep doing that, all that anyone can do…

I was part of a couple of different Secret Santas this past holiday season (because, as an adult who can and usually has to buy whatever she wants herself (sigh…adulthood), its so, so lovely have an unknown, but safe (because kinda known) person buy you something). Would be nice if you liked it, but hey, personally speaking, absolutely loved not getting a bill for this particular effort to feed my obsession with books.

Sorry about that minor (and absolutely delightful, even if I say so myself) detour…but on to the actual story.

As all writers know (and those who like, love, live with them), noone in a writer’s life is safe from being written about in his/her writings. And so is the case here. This post is about one particular group that I was part of the Secret Santa for, the group I have positively waxed lyrical about on here multiple times.

So, a team of elves (gluttons for punishment, I tell you) volunteered (gasp!) to match the gifters and the giftees and one beautiful December morning, I got an email telling me the name of my secret santee. I had an absolute blast (as bookworms do) going down many a metaphorical burrow (genre) trying to pick just the right book for this lovely lady with a delightful name that brought to mind Bollywood and associated childhood memories.

I was almost more excited to receive my santee’s name than I was about getting my gift, because, as any bookworm, will tell you, any excuse to browse books is great. But then I ordered the gift. My santee being similarly inclined, I just had to place an order on amazon, and have it delivered to their device. We’re both very ecologically responsible, as you can tell. But, but, but, that meant no waiting with baited breath for the book, the wrapping paper and the ribbon to tie it with to appear. No gift to actually pack or cute message to write or notification from said santee to wait for when she finally received the gift. Sigh…after days spent researching and picking the books, a few clicks and my santa journey was done.

Then, I remembered that I was also a santee! and while I, as santa had delivered, I as santee was still waiting! With impatience, now that I was done with my santa duties. A casual perusal of our usual hangout spot (aka our group chat) showed that I was not alone in my pain! There were others who were metaphorically pacing, waiting for their gifts to drop. And so began quite the entertaining week (hey! it was the last ten days of the year…and girl had nothing better to do <imagine a shrug here>).

Some innocent bystanders (fellow group members) had shared a song or two on the group and yours truly was inspired by that to find the perfect song to woo her Santa with. There were song references, poetry, and god knows what else (poor guy, that was a LOT to remember and this was just me, just one week…no wonder the world is going crazy! his OS is probably malfunctioning in self defence!).

There was also a sly nudge to the head elf who in turn elbowed the poor soul who was my santa…and finally, because my Santa turned out to be a lovely benevolent soul, I got my gift on Christmas day! I guess I got on to the good girl’s list by the proverbial skin of my teeth. Whew!

But the saga continued and the last santa delivered just a day or two ago. Despite the (liiiiiitle) bit of drama and with a lot of laughter and good cheer Secret Santa and 2024 is done…

This was a post that I just had to write because the fun we had picking, sending and receiving our Christmas gifts. Its also (despite all the snark, all in good humour, trust me) a gratitude post to the lovely folks behind the CWC Secret Santa who matched people and put up with brats like…well, never mind that. Seriously speaking, it was a great way to connect with 2 people I hadn’t interacted with before and get to know them a little better. It was also an opportunity to explore genres known and unknown to find the right gift. It was an absolutely lovely experience.

Thank you to everyone in CWC for humouring my humour, to my Santa for being such a good soul and the elves even more so for putting it all together.

Wish all of you (the CWC specially, but also everyone on substack) a wonderful year ahead. May you visit lots of new and old books, authors, genres and a generally all things literally in 2025. May it inspire to you to write as well. Wish us all a lot impactful reading in the year ahead!

So much about the book literally hit me hard. As Paul and then his wife, Lucy, describe his health decline, so many of the words and phrases - nodules in the lungs, difficulty breathing, rapid, unexplained weight loss, hair loss, brought back so many horrific memories of bearing witness to my maternal grandparents’ health declines and eventual deaths.

And yet I distinctly remember, being in the moment - when I went from just being shocked and childishly angry at what I thought was yet another one of my grandpa’s health experiments resulting in dramatic weight loss to finding out he was gravely ill with the big C as a barely 15 year old on what was supposed to be a routine summer trip to visit my grandparents. We, my parents, sister and I had gone on a trip to Israel earlier that year, I still remember, to grieve my paternal grandma who was gravely ill and to pray for our family’s continued good health. To go, within a few months from that, to witnessing first hand another grandparent, my maternal grandfather, the man who I always thought was larger than life, fight ferociously for his life was horrific. Yet day to day that summer, in our home in Pune, and in a hospital room twentyish kilometres away, life was still very prosaic.

Similar to the tone of the book, there were matter of fact discussions on what was happening to baba, as I called my grandpa. Very practical effort to hide the disease, his biggest health fear, from him, the doctors, nurses, family friends, medical professionals themselves, coming to talk to him and the rest of us - my grandma, my mom and me - on the daily, to chat with him, make him smile, maybe laugh, talk about what was for lunch, the grimace over the Indian equivalent of a jello pudding and other hospital food….more importantly I distinctly remember discussions I was allowed to sit in on between my mom and the doctors talking about next steps, balancing home chores along with taking turns taking care of my grandparents because even if death is looming, food has to be cooked, the floor dusted and mopped and clothes and bathrooms washed.

The same thing happened, albeit much more gradually, as my grandmother’s diabetes caught up with her a couple of decades on, resulting in her losing her zest for life, and having to prick herself thrice a day with insulin to control her blood sugar. Lots of hospital visits for the ensuing health issues, becoming very familiar with most hospitals in a 8 kilometre radius of our house, as well as a whole slew of doctors, medical streams, medicines and tests that until then I was blissfully unaware of. Her death, against the backdrop of all the rushed hospital visits was almost a non event in that she passed away while under anesthesia during what was supposed to be a routine medical procedure.

Being the parent figure in the life of someone who bathed and fed you as a baby is extremely painful but it is nothing special. Everyone does it for their family. But the dichotomy of some version of that being all of our future vs. the daily happenings - loud neighbourhood noises, someone in our lives - a coworker, a boss, a parent, a friend, a sibling failing to follow through on a promise or behaving in a manner not in line with our own beliefs etc - taking up so much mental space and eating up so many of our emotions just boggles my mind.

Just this morning, via video call, I had yet another conversation and mini argument with my parents. About something minor, that, in the moment felt so massive. Yet when I see them on video calls sometimes it scares me to see how they are ageing. Despite being very physically active, still very mentally agile and very enthusiastic for life, I see my parents ageing before my eyes. And it scares me. Their looming mortality. It's scary being an adult. Because that means that the generation that came before us is becoming old. More often than not it's me advising my parents now. More often than not, like they did when my sister and I were children, it's me protecting them from life’s harsher realities. 

As long as my grandparents were alive I always felt protected from death. When my paternal grandmother passed away followed months later by my maternal grandfather, that firm conviction that “death was something that happened to other families” was shaken. When my nani, my favourite person in the world, passed away at the beginning of the pandemic, it was as though the last frontier had been crossed. This was it. All the grands were gone, my dad’s dad having passed away when he was barely out of school. The next people in line are my parents. But not really, right? Not necessarily. Because if the pandemic taught us anything it was definitely that death is definitely not an age thing.

Writing this post made me cry in a way I usually can’t. It feels morbid in a way that this beautiful Bangalore afternoon does not deserve. There are lush green trees gently swaying in the breeze right outside my window, children screaming with joy as they run about playing on a lazy saturday afternoon. Life goes on.

I guess the lesson is what Paul and Lucy end their book with - live life fully when you have it. Laugh loudly, breathe fully, do what makes you happy, live whatever situation you are in fully, fully appreciating all of its facets. That’s all any of us can ever really do, isn’t it? Keep living, not just existing, until our breath eventually just becomes air.

And because karma is nothing if not predictable, the two lovely gentlemen I used to nag to write more, decided to reciprocate. Of course they are also the first ones to like my attempts at writing and always, always shower compliments my way that I’m not sure are wholly deserved. But that does not take away from how blasted torturous the process of writing is. So when, this morning, I read an article by Navtej Sarna called The Right Way to Write, I was intrigued. What is this secret path, I wondered? Will reading this make me, suddenly, write more and better? It turned out to be commentary on the crazy things famous authors and poets have done, in years gone by, in order to produce their works of art, including, but not limited to -

• Joining writing groups (getting together to read enviously the writings of others) - check

• Joining reading groups (to read enviously the writings of others) - check

• Trying to find the secret sauce of how other writers manage to get alllll those thoughts in their mind on to paper (or a screen) through vigorous, repeated questioning - check

this last one, made me feel so validated!

Mr. Sarna recounts how, at one point in one of these writing meetups, he told an investment banker and part time writer, “I could write a novel only on a computer screen and a short story only with a fountain pen, and the scratchier the nib, the more time I had to find the right nuance”. Sounds so lovely, but writing a novel?? Shudder!! writing with a pen, in long hand??? What the what now???

But it sure felt good to know that there are others like me - those who like to think they can write who also love to read, and that they too suffer the tortures of the damned thinking up things to write about, coming up with their own take on the subject and then paring the write up down to size. All of which is killing!

In my desire to bring discipline to my life - in writing, in my spiritual practices, in my workouts, in my diet (taking this whole “Live Life Queen Size” rather literally) - I decided to start writing weekly and after I chanced upon Mr. Sarna’s write up, couldn’t think of a better subject to write about today.

So, yes, writing is difficult. Getting thoughts down on paper, in a coherent manner, that other people might actually want to read, equally, if not more so. We’re all in the same giant boat, fellow writers. And while the more famous among our brethren have done things like writing 24 hours at a stretch, writing at dawn, writing different types of material on different coloured paper, in bathtubs, while lying down or standing up (all this info curtsey Mr. Sarna’s writeup), I think my thing is writing spontaneously…hence this latest master piece. So, my fellow boat passengers, I hope this writeup makes you smile, makes you feel heard and understood…may you keep writing and may I keep reading all the wonderful things you write about that inspire me on my own writing journey.

So Sanket, this post came out as a reaction to your beautiful writeup. I have struggled to cry for as long as I can remember. I feel all the feels but the literal squashing of those feelings is so instinctive that that, now, is the only way I know to deal. Oh, I can cry. When it is involuntary, like in the middle of a guided meditation, or due to laughing wildly to a funny joke or writeup. But in the face of tragedy, or god forbid in the middle of a therapy session, trying to deal with the emotional blows experienced during the course of the time spent on this planet? Not so much.

The voices of all the unqualified and certainly not unbiased people who seem to think its their birth right to comment on everyone’s body, thoughts, emotions, feelings, reactions shout loudly in my head as I even entertain the thought of an actual loud reaction. On the rare occasions I manage it it feels foreign, like someone has taken over inside me.

I am always subconsciously seeking other people’s approval of my reactions. Like I am still in middle school in the small Embassy of India school in Moscow where I grew up. As much as people complain about the student to teacher ratio in India(over 50 students to a single teacher in most schools I think), the smaller ratio of less than 15 to 1 made the experience way more horrifying to me.

We were “disciplined” for twitching during class, for laughing too loud or too long, for being friends with boys, for everything under the sun except…I would say breathing, but I think they tried that too.

I learned, therefore, to be quiet, except then society said “oh, she’s so quiet”, bury myself in the wonderful world of books, but then it became so that I was nearly unable to speak to people in the real world, so to speak. I took to dance, which I loved, but I either moved too much (to which “she’s being too too” they said) or too little (“as stiff as a board” was their reaction). And it continued until well into my adulthood.

Its only in recently years as I have worked on my mental health have I started to question exactly who these “they” were. To noone’s surprise it was the casual neighbour, friend, relative (who I have fervently wished to be long lost). I got up the nerve to ask, what qualifies them to say what they do? “Oh, you know, s/he has a child/dog/acquantance who did/not do/say/study/learn” whatever it was I wanted to do/say/study learn.

Then I finally moved to Bangalore last year. Met my tribes. “Tribes” I say - my girl gang who I can talk about all manner of things with and rarely do those things include our relationship statuses, my book coven with whom I can talk about all manner of things to do with literature and arts, my writing group who is so, so supportive and who I credit 100% with the creation and writing of this blog. I reconnected with a school mate from decades ago. We barely spoke back then, but connecting as adults we have found so much common ground despite still being so different. We still don’t talk or meet as much as we would like, but the news is that we would like and she’s become a really good friend.

To someone who rarely lifted her head from a book in my school days to now be someone people reach out to to hang out, laugh with, gently nudge to write more because they like what I have to say, its been quite a journey. Its been a revelation. The commonality across all my groups is their genuine appreciation of my humour. And all of it fills me so so much gratitude and joy. The joy has brought with it a sense of peace - I’ve found my place. And, its finally starting to feel like I’ve finally found myself. Now that I have, I’m finally starting to deepen my understanding of myself. While I still struggle to rage or cry or show any reaction loudly, I am starting to own my emotions again. I laugh louder and more often, I feel safe to feel irritation or anger, sadness and sometimes fear. I feel now, loudly, if only in my own head or the safety of my home. Someday I may even let myself cry.

In contrast there are those in other parts of my life who I truly, from the bottom of my heart and depths of my soul, wish would not use English (or truly any language) at all. A certain writer who shall go unnamed but whose writing made me wish I didn’t know English the one time I tried to read his books and someone I worked with who would on conference calls ask people to “fasten the process” lead the pack. Fasten the process!!!

Its one thing to try to sound fancy, another to try doing so without basic research! He would use the word on every call. The experience of hearing him start talking, the dreaded anticipation of him using what seemed to be his favourite word and then, finally, the reality of the experience…sheer torture. I would visualise that scene from the Titanic where the captain sees the iceberg, the horror on his face, the fear apparent in the sweat on his brow. The dread in my heart in anticipation of the upcoming assault on the English language and my sanity was possibly second only to his. When it finally happened and sir found a sentence he could wrongly use '“fasten” in, I fervently wished I was Jack in the last scene of the Titanic. Except he was holding on to a piece of wood desperately hoping to survive fast approaching death. I, on the other hand, was wishing with every part of my being that something would happen to make the internet stop working, the telecom sector disappear or me to stop existing. Sadly, both our hopes were dashed…every time….

This trying in vain to sound fancy person and others who seem to have a passion for massacring a beautiful language will often wonder at my irritation. “What’s in a word (or phrase or sentence or paragraph or page)?” they ask. And I wonder at these apparently rational human beings. The snarky part of me wants to shout, and loudly “Its only words, and words are all we have” to express our thoughts, ideas, emotions! Without a sentence comprising its constituent parts, I have no way of understanding what my fellow conversationalist wants to say or ask. Ironically these questioners of the value of a word use way the hell too many of them and the words they use usually tend to give me a headache, present a serious challenge to my continual sanity and and a serious danger to my equilibrium. Words are also all they have to kill all their listeners or readers slowly and painfully. Sadly when it comes to their own words, as far as these perpetrators of crimes against languages go, silly things like a simple spelling or grammar check are absolutely unnecessary.

“Understand the meaning behind the words”, they say. Umm…why not just use the right words so understanding the meaning doesn’t feel like I’m trying to decode a language from another planet? Why make me work to understand your sentence rather than make it easy for me to understand your point?

I also fail to understand the disdain for language. I am truly fascinated by the way the same thing is said differently in different languages. Let’s take a simple question - “What’s your name?” In English (in India), you would ask exactly that. In Russian, one would be asked “What are you called?” - because, hey, its other people who are going to be calling you that. Interestingly in French, you would ask “Comment vous appelez-vous ?” - what do you call yourself?

Funny as that sounds, its an interesting peak into the culture - In India, its all about other people - the mysterious society that governs (or tries to) our decisions and choices, big and small. In Russian, its the very proper what are you called - the “by other people” is implied, because it is only other people who call you by a name. The French way, seems, to me, to exemplify how they perceive life - their self concept is strong and they do what they think is right. I might be extrapolating a lot. But just watch content about or by the French. I wouldn’t call them arrogant, just very, very calm and sure about their place in life.

So yes, words matter - simple is usually better, and please God grammatically correct, so that you might ease your way into some where comfortable in the afterlife and perhaps not hasten the process for the rest of us. In the meanwhile, I will seal my lips shut and try to metaphorically board up my ears to and pray to all the gods of all the religions and across time, space, religion and dimensions to please, please, keep me safe from word marauders in all facets of my life.

You know the type? They will drrraaaagggg their feet across the floor. The one that frequently drags himself across the corridor right in front of my cabin also does a “smushing” thing. What is that, you ask? Oh, you know, the sound a shoe (in this case a sneaker) makes when the wearer kinda (but not really) kicks a floor?

Yea that…so the symphony happening right now (and for interminable number of minutes before I finally let my inner dragon/bitch/what have you loose (just on here, but still!) ) is smush, hmmm (as the gentleman walker endlessly pontificates on matters obscure), draaag, rinse and repeat. Only…no rinsing, only repeating…this reminds me of those audio cassettes of yore, remember that - The tape is broken but the cassette tries to keep turning?

Now imagine that you have no control over the tape. No access to the tape recorder to shut the damn thing off! Yea, that’s how my Thursday afternoon is going…If it was not bad enough that there is one whole more day to go before the weekend.

Once, in a work conversation my then boss (ugh) said something about “sit-av”. For the blissfully uninitiated this is short for situational awareness. Clearly some people’s egos are not limited by their place in life (even if he was a senior leader, he was one in a decidedly normal citizen org, not the freaking US military!!).

But coming back to Mr. Smoosh…I wish he had some, or could (or would) get some sit-av, or if only I could overcome my infernal good manners to interrupt his conversation to get him to become situationally aware of the irritation his situation is causing other people existing in the same space!

But then I wonder how often I am so caught up in my own world - not the clouds, just in matters significant to mostly just me - to the extent that I am unaware of how what I am saying, the volume, the tone, the noises my feet make as I walk and on and on.

Sigh, empathy, that pesky thing that won’t even let me be irritated peacefully…

So ya, foot draggers, thursday afternoons…foot draggers on a thursday afternoon…whatcha goana do…

The poster of the piece of music that got me thinking about this was soliciting names for the piece. I hit ‘play’, closed my eyes and let my imagination soar. In my mind’s eye I saw a ball of snow, small to begin with, fall off one of the Himalayan peaks. As it tumbled down the slope of the mountain it developed momentum and grew ever larger until it hit the foothills. The intense sun of the Indian summer melted the ball into a dribble, which developed into a steady flow of water, then a stream. The small stream gurgled along until it became a mighty river, which raged its way through the land, frothing and fuming until it hit somewhat of a calm patch in the northern plains. There it flowed gracefully, getting smoother, and calmer, still flowing at speed, but steadily so, until it ultimately surrendered itself to the mighty ocean. 

Each line of the description above was inspired by the volume, depth, tone of the music. The rapid pressing of the piano keys created the froth of the young stream, the loud crescendo made me imagine a large river, falling off of the edge of a cliff creating a waterfall, the calm, soft, slow notes at the end made me imagine this fully formed river, having lived its journey, gently folding itself into the ocean. I felt the eagerness of the small ball about to explore a new world, the excitement of the spring as it built speed, pushing its own potential to the limit, the calm after the storm when that little ball lived out its destiny to become a mighty river and then the eventual peace of subsuming itself into a larger entity.

All this played in my mind as the music began - a series of individual notes, played softly, then with increasing speed, complexity and volume. Through his skills as a player, the pianist managed to create for me an entire world. Or I should say gave me the tools to create a beautiful story through the minute or so long piece. And then the quieting of the notes again as the piece of music came to an end. The title that came to mind was “The Circle of Life”. 

‘Circle of life’ because isn’t it very analogous? We all begin our lives as tiny beings, unsure of ourselves in this new place we suddenly become aware of. The way a little baby tries to explore the world with its eyes, a toddler with her fingers and legs, to understand how this world works and where she fits into it. And then becoming more and more comfortable as she grows up, builds confidence, finds herself - figuring out if she is quiet or naturally loud? Would she rather sit in a corner or be the centre of a larger group, does she like to sing, dance, drum or draw? That journey doesn’t really ever end does it? But we do become more at peace with ourselves, understanding that knowing that we don’t know all and working out what that “all” is, is in fact, the journey of life. And then like Paulo Coehlo’sSantiago, one discovers that what she was looking for was in fact within her. That brings peace and a sense of knowing, the calm that one often sees in old people, like that satiated river, at full size, flowing lazily, until it becomes part of a new, larger entity, or as we call it, death. 

While a beautiful piece of music can affect different people differently, the important thing is that it does. At the very least someone might call it pleasant. But like water, it will never leave a person - listener, or player - entirely untouched. So the true definition of the sound of music is possibly the emotion it creates.

Through the pressure applied on the keys or strings a player can convey anger, grief, joy and sadness. The tempo of the notes can evoke excitement or calm. That is power. Power to impact someone’s emotions, sure, but also the power to process one’s own. 

 Purely by how deeply I pressed the keys, how delicately I strung the notes together and how loudly I played the climax, I could make the same piece of music sound very different. I have never thought about it so deeply before, but some of my earliest memories of music are learning to play my piano. I learnt to play in Moscow through the nineties. I learnt from a very elegant Russian lady, who even back then must have been in her fifties at least. She showed up one day, moving with such grace that one didn’t even notice the hunch of her back. I later found out that it was the result of sitting hunched over as she practiced the piano for hours on end during the second world war, playing on mute so that she wouldn’t be heard by passing soldiers.

That really struck me - the dedication to something through times of intense stress. Similar to the orchestra playing on the deck of the titanic, for Angelina, the playing of a piece of music, repeatedly bar by bar, to memorize the notes, gave her something to occupy her mind in a scary time, a way to channel a fear through the use of her hands. At the same time she was using her creative energy to create something in the midst of so much destruction. So perhaps music is therapy. It is whatever it needs to be for whoever creates it and for whoever listens to it. That has literally been proven to be true - music or frequency has been used to get people into a meditative state, to heal mental and sometimes even physical maladies in eastern cultures for millenia. 

 A couple of years into studying the craft, Angelina put me to work learning Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I had heard of it from a family friend. The story went, so he said, that the composition was Beethoven’s answer when asked by a blind boy to describe moonlight. Against this backdrop then, as I fell in love with the piece, I would play it, emphasizing the climax louder to create the thunder of a stormy night when I was in a negative state of mind, pressing the notes harder to create a deeper sound when I wanted to evoke calm, playing the notes softer and slower when I wanted to express peace and contentment. 

As I became a better player, my piano class and practice sessions became my meditation. I was lost to the world while I floated in this world of my own creation. I never realized the compliment my teacher or family paid me by asking me to play as they sat near me with closed eyes until much, much later. It is only now, in hindsight do I realize how much they looked forward to the opportunity to create their own worlds as I used my fingers to bring to life the notes put together just so by the masters of an era long gone by. 

As I think about this more and more I realise how blessed are those who have the skills to give this joy and relief to themselves and to those in their lives. It is simultaneously the best thing one can do for oneself and also for others. It is meditation, it is love, it is every emotion in the spectrum. It is life.

We have planes to travel between places because someone looked up, saw a bird and said hey ‘if they can do it, why can’t we??’. We have gorgeous monuments like the Taj Mahal because a architect dreamed up an incredibly beautiful building to immortalise an emperor’s love for his favourite queen.

Heck, even the excel and other hacks folks have come up with over the years are a result of someone imagining a better way to do something and then creating the tool in 3D. 

And yet there continues to be a war on day dreaming. We continually discourage our children from thinking of something that doesn’t yet exist, and on the flip side of that we wonder where our genuises have gone. 

I had a conversation with a neighbor a couple of days ago who is very strongly against his daughter pursuing any activities outside of school. When I asked him ‘why’, he said he feared it would distract her from studies and therefore make it harder for her to compete for better marks etc, I was stunned! 

I mean I hated the various classes - Bharatnatyam, western classical dance, playing the piano, chess and god knows what else shoved down my throat growing up. But  a couple of decades on i find myself coming back to many of them, even driving half an hour or more for a bachata class.

What irked me back then, I’ve come to realise, is the lack of choice - being told what to do. But if I could have tried a few things and picked a couple to focus on it would have enjoyed them more and greatly added value to my overall education. 

Genuis, whether it is Beethoven coming up with a composition to describe moonlight to a blind child, or the invention of an electric car to help combat air pollution is a result of people giving free reign to our thoughts.

Even writing for that matter, I’ve come to realise as I’ve written in other pieces is a way, to clean out my mental attic and put ‘out there’ thoughts that i have perhaps not even consciously thought in my head!

As I express my thoughts, I’ve also become a better reader - more aware of the subtext and underlying tones in what i read. As I express myself I give my mind a workout and I get more ideas about random things.

All of this to say, a walk through the metaphorical cloud is a walk worth taking and regularly. To live in the clouds is a blessed way to exist, above the cacophony of everyday life. Lucky are those who can do so. But a trip there every once is a while is a requirement, not just to clean out your own mental attic, but to have better conversations and experiences in our relationships and life in general