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!!!

But you...

I stopped.

To ask you what kind of day it was going to be.

Would you talk to me?

Or would you walk past me like you didn’t see me?

Did you have us on your mind?

Perhaps not. Doesn’t look like it.

I saw you look at me;

Fleetingly.

But it wasn’t me you were looking at;

I saw the distant look in your eyes.

I waited.

Maybe you would notice;

There wasn’t a smile on my lips.

There hasn’t been one in a few days.

But no. You didn’t.

You rarely do. The distant eyes, they never see what they should.

So what are you thinking about?

That unpaid bill? The broken down car?

Or that project that needs to be wrapped up today?

I know, deep down I shouldn’t really worry;

Even when you don’t have me or us on your mind.

But I wish, sometimes,

You’ll think about us.

About what we are, and were we are headed.

Whether we’ll get there together.

And then I know

I am being unreasonable.

There is nowhere else to be

But together.

I have you, and you have me,

And we have us; and that is forever.

Then I look at your distant eyes,

And I smile.

You catch me smiling;

You ask me what’s funny.

I shrug and say nothing.

And nothing is sometimes all I need.

But you. 

The shitty business of bathrooms

Moving from one office space to another is a trivial matter of discussion—there’s nothing to it. But finding solace in a washroom, whether it is to relieve oneself or to cry secret tears or even to control that fit of giggles is almost a matter of life and death—to me, it truly is! So when I heard that my team is moving to another space, what bothered me the most was not the sub-zero temperatures or clinical lighting of the new workspace; but the fact that there were no loos inside the office. Imagine having to ping yourself out from the office and walking more than a couple of meters away, to a space that’s shared by a truckload of employees from different companies! I was appalled. What would happen to touch-ups or even quick gossip sessions that ladies’ washrooms are so known for? The more I thought about it, the more devastated I felt.

I have an unexplainable obsession with loos. I am not sure when I was struck by lightning, but I remember being revolted by school bathrooms—where little (and sometimes not so little) dumplings lay casually on the floor, when they should really have been inside the pot. In college, the situation was definitely much better; but I had ample opportunities to witness the “gross” underbelly of public toilets.

Train toilets were frightening. For long journeys I completely skipped the big business, sticking to just number 1 because THAT I cannot control! But bus journeys—and I have limited their incidence for this one obvious reason—were the worst. Stopping at roadside “rest rooms”, was more “unrest-ing” than anything in this world. You see, adult dumplings are not exactly, well, dumplings. They are humongous mass of grossness left in the open, with the cruel intention of psychologically scarring unsuspecting individuals who are looking for that one clean, dry spot they can squat on. But hell no! That one square centimetre spot is not to be found in a wayside loo.

Airline loos on the other hand are a nightmare for Indians like me, who believe in the indispensability of water. Plus, the flush sounds like the roof came down, and the lack of space just makes you feel so much closer to what’s going down under, it’s not funny.

Then there are loos in railway stations, restaurants, shopping malls, and more that offer plentiful opportunity of ‘visual treat’ and ‘olfactory pleasure’ that I have gone through, not only because of my seemingly tiny bladder; but also because the daughter wants to go at all the wrong places and at the wrong time.

All said and done, I love the peace and quiet of a bathroom. My own that is. It’s where I read – don’t look shocked. A lot of people read in the loo, and I admit to being one of them. The loo is also where I don’t (usually) get harassed by the daughter. Or the mother. Or the husband. It’s my “me-time” place, believe it or not.

But coming back to the problem of the washroom at the end of the 100 feet road in my office building (dripping with sarcasm coz a 1000 pound migraine is blinding me as I write this) – it’s put everything in jeopardy. From having to “hold it in” because the loo is too far, to having no access to all-anytime preening, this has been quite tragic. Not to mention, no toilet paper! But in spite of the headache, I’ll try looking at the bright side. The distance ensures I walk longer, faster, which turns out to be good exercise – I am in the “let’s get my body moving” phase right now.

Look at this blog! I have rambled about bathrooms way too much. But hey, my tryst with washrooms is far from over. There are so many more to explore and experience. So much more to witness and run away from. And many to find solace in (provided there are no dumplings!).

The silence in the clamour of a train journey

Somewhere between Ottapalam and Palakkad on a train journey from Cochin to Coimbatore, my senses were free to feel the world around me. The 5 year old was asleep (phew), I had an engaging book in hand (woohoo); and then, suddenly, I had to keep the paperback down and just be. That’s when the thoughts came rushing, and I had to write them down. I found a four-line English book in the daughter’s bag, and a pen, and then the words began to spring... 

“Train journeys are a time to enjoy the quiet in the noise. To look within as you look out. To not do a thing because just “being” is a kind of doing.

I enjoy the luxury of “not doing anything”; or should I say just “being”? For me, just reading a book as the world goes by is a luxury I rarely enjoy these days. But today is one of those lucky days when the clanging railway tracks bring me that elusive inner calm; elusive, because a young working mother is mostly denied of that pleasure.

I look at the speeding landscape, listen to the vendors selling their wares, watch the co-passengers—some reading the newspapers, a few sleeping, and others chit-chatting with each other—and I find myself in each one of them; a passenger who knows exactly where she is going, but unsure of what experiences await there. But the anticipation is priceless…”

Rumination done, I went back to my book. Smiling.

As I typed these words out on my laptop after getting back to Cochin, I tried going back to how I was feeling on that train. The daughter and I rarely travel alone; unless of course we drive around the city, trying to get things done as we agree and disagree on a thousand things. But this journey was different. I was going to a city I had left 12 years ago. Of course I had been there a few times in between, but this time it felt different. Special. Perhaps why the mind was wandering, picking at random thoughts, making sense of my eagerness to get there. It’s when moments like these come along that I thank my stars for making me a writer. An average one, alright. But at least I know how to put my thoughts down on paper.

As the days at Coimbatore unfolded, I rediscovered almost all of what I had left behind. It was precious. It made me want to cry and laugh at the same time. And when I was leaving, my heart ached. That bittersweet feeling. I told myself—I may have made many mistakes when I was in this little town, growing up and learning from life’s little lessons, but I wouldn’t want to change a thing.

I said my goodbyes as the train left the station, unsure if I would be back ever again; but glad that I had a few more memories to take along with me. 

Nameless tears

There are nights I cry myself to sleep. Why does a happy woman like me have to do that, and for seemingly no real reason? Perhaps I am too tired, physically, and sometimes mentally. Even then the crying seems a little extreme. I think I have a great life. A supportive family, a great job, lovely colleagues, great friends…but still there are times when the emptiness just engulfs me. The tears brim over, and all I can do is curl up on my bed and cry, till sleep takes over. I have asked myself many times why I am so demanding of life. Why would anyone want so much happiness? I understand that happiness and disappointments come hand in hand, so one should be used to the ups and downs, the fits and starts. But obviously that realization alone doesn’t make you accepting of it. And so the cyclic tears make their unexpected appearance every once in a while. The reasons are plenty—from something as simple as too much to do, to something more complicated like no “me time”. I have cried for something as silly as having to watch a movie that I just don’t want to, but because someone in the family wants to, and I am obliged to tag along. Yes, when life is choc block with things to do, even the silliest things can tick you off. I have even shed copious tears because the daughter talks incessantly and all I can hear in my head is screeching and pounding of ceaseless questions and demands! I have cried craving for silence! In all honesty, I have a good life. I probably couldn’t have asked for a better one. Things seem to work out just fine for me most of the times. So there’s nothing to really complain about. But then again, who really knows a woman’s heart. Not even the woman herself. So let the tears flow, because in the morning, the sun rises, and so does she, with new spirits, new hopes and a new sense of happiness. To me this is my way of appreciating my life, of finding me after crying nameless tears.  

Amen.