Teaching a ‘winner’ the art of losing

I wouldn’t go as far as bragging that I am raising a winner—I mean, everyone likes to win; and it feels great when your offspring has a natural winning streak that places her somewhere at the top of her class (and consequently, her peers). But I am going to be honest; I am not doing anything out of the way to make her feel like she was born to win, or that this is her only destiny, or that she was going to be judged by the medals on her chest. I have always validated her willingness to work hard, be in academics or extracurricular activities, and not her triumphs. So whether it’s full marks in Math, or a first prize in singing, what she has been told is that she worked hard, gave her best shot; and the victory is just a subsequent blessing, and not a validation of ‘her brilliance’.

However, success does go to one’s head. Even when the victor involved is a 6 year old. Initially I panicked. Where was humility? What had I done wrong? Was I too extravagant with my praise? Did I play down or over play the whole ‘hard work is the key to success’ mantra? Is the trophy display a bad idea? Or did the child think that working hard means victory is guaranteed? Because if that’s what she was thinking, she was going to have to meet life.

It started with me having to tell her that the only thing we had to do was give our best. And the rest was not in our hands.

Karmanye Vadhikaraste, Ma phaleshou kada chana

You have the right to perform your actions, but you are not entitled to the fruits of the actions.

It took a while for this “gyaan” to be accepted; but it eventually was, and boy, am I glad! From “Oh! I always win prizes!” to “It’s okay if I don’t get any prize,” it was a journey that took a few months of work. Not that the work is done as yet—it is work in progress, after all.

Telling a child that it’s okay if she doesn’t shine like a beacon all the time is actually like walking a tightrope. You have to do this without hurting the child’s self-confidence or pushing her into a thought space that her victories don’t mean anything to the people she cares for.

I don’t know if I have done this tightrope walking the right way; but thankfully, the child has learnt to shrug her little shoulders and say, “Oh that’s okay!” when a coveted prize has slipped her hands. She has come to accept that whether it’s dealing with the tough akshar mala in Hindi or mastering the complicated dance steps I teach her for a competition, it’s not going to be easy, and she may not get it right all the time. She has learnt that the key lies in taking up the challenge and performing to the best of her abilities. And honestly, the occasional “I can’t do this” actually feels like the right way to do this.

She may not always be a winner, but then, no one ever said that’s a bad thing. I ain’t trying to raise an “all-time winner” now, am I?

Where is the writer?

It’s time I admitted the truth…looked myself in the eye…stopped denying what I’ve known for quite a few months now.

Writing has left me.

There! I said it! Although I should have confessed this long ago. There are no words left in

me anymore. No ideas that form sentences…that become paragraphs…and pages. Every time I write down a few lines, I look at them sceptically. They feel contrived. Pretentious. Meaningless. And most importantly, they don’t seem like they came out of me.

                          PC: pixabay.com

It’s hard to believe that what made me “me” is not mine anymore. And looking back at what I have written – professionally and personally, it all feels distant.

It breaks my heart. I thought I was a good writer. I won’t exaggerate. Just ‘good’. Now I don’t feel like an ‘average’ even. There are thoughts in my head that seem great while they sit there preening. But the minute they flow out of my fingers, they appear forced. Humour sounds unfunny. Anger looks futile. Tears seem fake. There is no emotion. No love in those words. They are just empty letters, shaping empty sentiments.

Where is that writer in me? The one whose fingers flew over the keypad; or whose handwriting was just mad scribbling because the ideas couldn’t wait for the words to form on a page?

My identity is slowly slipping away. There is nothing else I know to do. Nothing else I can do. And with this one skill gone, I am a hollow entity. Will the words come back to me? Will they fill my soul again? Will my fingers race over the keyboard once more? I am afraid to answer these questions. Very afraid. 

Getting ready for Babumoshay Joy’s wedding

Source: https://goo.gl/AC843A 

Joy’s wedding is round the corner, and Muktha and I are gearing up for the big day more than the groom himself. His wedding has been our point of discussion for months. And in spite of him moving from Cochin to Hyderabad, the excitement over his big day has built enormously with time. But what makes it even more thrilling are the tips Joy has given us to prepare for his wedding. He says since we are south Indians, there’s a lot we need to learn about the Bengali wedding. Me having seen a couple of Bengali weddings before doesn’t count, apparently. So, from how to dress and what to expect, there’s a masaledaar list of tips that Muktha and I are going to follow to the T.  

*Disclaimer: This might offend Bengalis, but trust me, I made this list with Joy’s help, and so if you have anything to say, I’ll give you his email id/number. ;) Take it up with him, I say!

Here goes…THE TIPS!!!

1. Cover what’s black. Having been told a million times that we are black (and fat) wasn’t enough; now we have to change that. Since it’s too late to try fair & lovely, Muktha and I are stocking up on gallons of pink foundation to cover our black skin. The arms will stay black to go with the Bengali tradition of keeping everything ugly.
2. Kerala is non-existent. If the Punjabis hadn’t told you that already, the Bengalis would do it for you. Bengalis cut out the southern portion of the map of India to wrap fish from the market; but not before they spotted Madras. So in Calcutta, when anybody asks us where we are from, we will say Kerala, but we’ll still be referred to as Madrasis. We’ve got to deal with that!
3. Ugly is normal. So even if you think you’re going to be an epitome of south Indian elegance, be assured that you are wasting your time and money. Prepare for ghastliness – ghastly clothes, ghastly make up (check point no.1), ghastly everything. If it’s not ghastly, it’s not Bengali.
4. It doesn’t matter which part of the country or world you come from, if you don’t know Bengali, you might as well be communicating with ET. Conversations with the elderly will be baffling to say the least. And most of the time, they’d be badgering you for being a black Madrasi.
5. On the same note as No. 4 – if by any chance you meet someone who CAN speak English or even Hindi, get ready to process their pronunciation in your Madrasi head. The vowel “O” is omnipresent. It appears in words you wouldn’t have ever imagined. It opens up a whole new world of etymology. 
6. Fish is vegetarian, you like it or not. So be prepared to eat fish. Don’t argue – you’d probably get badgered with more Bengali and you don’t want to encounter that, trust me.
7. Being subtle is the opposite of being non-Bengali. So go full on with the perfume. Ideally when you walk into a room it should gag the people in it.
8. There’s no such thing as “personal”. Be prepared to be asked why you aren’t married, why you are divorced, or why you don’t have any children yet, and other inappropriate questions, in full public view. Answer with a rational offhandedness – because this obviously is not offensive or embarrassing for you in any way!

So there! Eight fabulous tips to prepare Muktha and me for Joy’s wedding. The bags are packed, and we leave in a few hours… Can’t wait for the drama to unfold. Yippie!!!