Mira Saraf's Blog, page 3

Thoughts on the Lockdown

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Photo by @gebhartyler on Unsplash

We are now on Day 6 of the lockdown.

 

It has been an interesting week. A mix of good and bad, of optimism and despair, anger and hope.

I know a lot of people who have struggled with depression and staying positive. They may be far from their families, they may be struggling with the emptiness of days, they may feel frustrated that they can’t do anything, they may be lonely or any number of things.

At the same time, I see a lot of “be positive” messages on social media, pointing out, rightly so, that we are privileged to have a roof over our heads, particularly as compared to the thousands of migrant workers, with no choice left but to walk home, and those of lesser circumstances.

We are, indeed, lucky, that we have a roof over our heads, and the means (however temporary, since some of us run businesses) to put food on the table. We are incredibly fortunate that our biggest problem is now we are spending time doing household chores and cooking, when we could previously hire people to do this. That we can’t go out and buy our favorite brand of curd. That we have to queue up for groceries and can’t get them delivered.

But pointing this out, does little to help one feel better. It makes those who are struggling with depression, with anxiety, and fear, feel like awful superficial people, and altogether is unproductive.

We need to acknowledge, that even within our bubbles of privilege, this is hard. This is hard for everyone. We need to forgive ourselves with struggling with it, in order to then recognize our own privilege.

So, if you are feeling down and out about what’s going on, it’s okay! Acknowledge this first, and then you’ll have the bandwidth to process the types of suffering that are happening among the less privileged.

You’ll have the capability to think about how lucky you are in a much more constructive way that doesn’t make you feel like a horrible person for feeling the pinch. And hey, maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to do something in some small way to help another person or group of people.

And for those around these people who are struggling with mental health issues, be kind. Don’t just tell them to be positive, to snap out of it, or that so many others have it way worse. It won’t help. Just allow them to feel it and move past it with their own pace. They’ll get there a lot faster.

Another thing I’ve seen on social media is hate. Hate against China, hate against NRIs, hate against the government, hate against those who oppose the government, hate against those who ran away from quarantine and testing. There is just so much hate, it’s hard to know what to do.

The virus does not distinguish between nations, religions, class, caste or any other lines. Yet we seem to have made a way to polarize it, often in the most creative of ways. In fact, just this morning, I saw a Facebook discussion turn unusually heated with name calling (foolish, idiot, ignorant etc.). The post was about the correct way to wash vegetables.

I get it, we are all tense, a little on edge, and upset at those things going on around us. And it is okay to feel this way. But we have to recognize that it accomplishes little to lash out.

The mandate to stay indoors, to remain in isolation, to not have routines to cling to, or be busy, has a different effect on everyone. While some may respond with depression, others may respond with anger. And perhaps this is where it comes from.

Coupled with this anger is judgement. As humans, we feel good when we can deem something right or wrong. Judgement is a cheap thrill, and in times of distress, it can be a temporary balm on our angst, a moment of respite from our despair.

I understand, because I do it too.

But I think it has reached a tipping point. The enormous Whatsapp flow of mix of real and fake information has ensured that many people are ill-informed, and on top of that, defensive about their false information.

If we are truly to get back to a place of simplicity, we need to stop advising each other and judging each other, and getting angry with each other. We need to stop needing to have the last word, or to be seen as well-informed. That is insecurity my friends, and we all struggle with it. In fact, I’m doing my best to make sure this post doesn’t come across in that way (apologies if it does).

But that negativity is only going to fester.

It really won’t help the pandemic situation if someone is right or wrong about a particular thing. It won’t stop the spread of the virus. Perhaps, the underlying lesson for us in all of this is that these small things we cling to, how evolved or informed we appear, really don’t make a damn difference in the world.

Being alone with ourselves is difficult. And these tensions that are rising are all part of a normal reaction to a challenging situation, even within our domains of privilege. We can let these feelings overwhelm us, or we could learn to learn from one another, learn to co-exist and agree to disagree. Ease up on the judgement a bit.

I would hazard a guess it would make us happier people. And that can’t be all that bad for our immunity

Journey of my e-Book Debut (Reblogged)

Of course, I was an early reader and writer.

No shit, Sherlock!

Though my early attempts were rather laughable, they make for great anecdotes! Get this, at one point, I hand wrote a newspaper about the goings-on of my home and was selling it to my family for 25 paise a story. I think I set a precedent right there.

I wrote poems, which rhymed but never actually said anything. There was even a soon-abandoned novel – about someone using scorpions as a murder weapon to kill people (I had just discovered what scorpions were and they both horrified and fascinated me). It was, of course, full of plot holes:  the ten-year-old me was definitely no master novelist.

All said and done, writing has always been therapy: a way to empty all the garbage in my head. I’ve kept a journal regularly since I was 21. But my fiction – both short story and any attempts at long-form – continued to feel half-baked and superficial for years.

This changed when I returned to Delhi, following 15 years abroad. Adult life in India, with all its peculiarities and challenges, somehow shifted something in the way I wrote, or perhaps it was age and experience.

Don’t get me wrong, like many writers, I regularly suffer from imposter syndrome, when I read the work of writers I admire. But then I have to remind myself that writing and stories are an integral part of who I am – and that while not everyone will enjoy what I write, that is okay.

Getting something published – even in e-book format, is one of the most terrifying things. First of all, you must place something you have toiled over in front of a stranger’s eyes – and then lay it bare to criticism and judgment.

Then you have to promote yourself and the book, all the while battling that little voice in your head that keeps whispering “what if everyone hates it?” Self-promotion for me, like many writers, feels unnatural and contrived. But at the end of the day a book is a product, and if we don’t tell anyone about it, how will anyone read it?

I had great publisher partners who gave me guidance along the way, answering loads of stupid questions, and doing an amazing job with the edits. I also had a friend whose been through the process who has been a constant source of advice and reassurance.

These stories were all started at different points in time, and I first started revisiting them in late 2017. There is a lot of joy in re-writing older work. I found I was able to add a lot of substance that was previously missing, though it took a lot of reworking to get them to where they are today.

Solitary Confinement was inspired by the way we see the events that happen in our lives, and the narratives we create, and how they impact us.

Spilling Over the Edges was in some sense a result of my own battle with guilt, and perhaps my feelings of inadequacy, and not quite being comfortable in my own skin.

Senseless Worries was written at a time when I was contemplating the dynamics of friendship and neediness, originally for a short story course I was taking online. I’ve changed much of it since.

The Mirage actually started as a result of a writer’s meetup I attended in Delhi, as a result of a free writing exercise. It was actually triggered by feelings of self-doubt in previous relationships due to gaslighting type effects – and the result of not being sure of what’s happening and whether it is right or wrong.

The Storyteller was written as an ode to the city of Delhi, originally as a contest entry, but later withdrawn (the said contest was quite suspect!) It is also a personal tribute to storytelling.

All five of my protagonists are flawed. They make mistakes, things do not happen to them. And that’s what our lives are, in a sense: imperfect, bumpy, inconsistent and unpredictable. We don’t always do the right thing, and because of this, we must deal with the consequences of the wrong thing. And that’s okay.

We look at mental health, stability, happiness, and positivity in a very tunnel-vision type of approach. Perhaps this is enhanced now by social media, but in a sense, the expectation to conform has always been there.

We feel this pressure to achieve, to have our shit together, and to be winners at everything. But sometimes, in chasing after these things, you slip into your own darkness. We tend to struggle against this, banishing thoughts we deem negative, pushing them so far down that we don’t need to think about them.

But that doesn’t make them go away, and it’s these very thoughts, that I wanted to explore in this collection. What each reader gets from this might be different, but if you are all able to walk away having resonated with one of the many emotions I poured into this book: my job is done. Happy reading!

Mira Saraf’s debut ebook The Boundaries of Sanity is now available on Amazon Kindle.

This blog was first published by Readomania here: https://www.readomania.com/blog/the-journey-of-my-ebook-debut

Memories of the License Raj: Guest Post by Mira Saraf

Memories of the License Raj: Guest Post by Mira Saraf

Memories of the License Raj: Guest Post by Mira Saraf

— Read on wanderingsoulwriter.com/2018/09/13/memories-mira/

Guest post I wrote for my good friend Piyusha Vir

HARD TO SAY GOODBYE

My father writing on caregiving for aging parents. This is worth a read

Book Review: Just Another Day

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It’s always nerve-wracking to read a close friend’s writing – and especially so when it is writing that has just been published.

Fortunately with Piyusha Vir’s “Just Another Day”, I needn’t have worried at all. This collection of three short stories, Vir’s debut book, is available on Kindle, and did not disappoint.

Vir peels layers of the story off like an onion, revealing deliciously little at a time. All stories start like just any other day, rather nonchalantly, and keep building in the background, till she suddenly sticks in the metaphorical knife and twists it deep.

She has a way of exposing the story through the character’s train of thought, which is appealing, and lends itself to the suspense she builds. These characters are everyday people like you and me, each with their own set of neuroses, each with their own hangups and issues.

I knew I enjoyed this book because I got lost in her storytelling, and was able to disassociate the fact that I knew the author, from my experience of reading. And that is the best feeling, when I can confidently say that a collection is awesome, without feeling the pressure to do so to be nice.

My only complaint is when I got done, I wanted more stories! I look forward to the next collection, and hope Vir continues to surprise and delight us with her tales.

You can buy your copy here: https://www.amazon.in/Just-Another-Da...

Words for Asifa

To the monsters that broke her body:

what twisted state of mind begets

belief of your claim to innocent flesh

in the house of your God, no less?

Was there an ounce of shame lingering

somewhere within your thirst for blood?

Or did you feel powerful when

you shredded her dignity and

squashed the life of a little girl

perhaps too innocent to

believe in an evil and

cowardice such as yours?

Did you feel proud that it took six

of you to tear her apart,

spirit and soul, bones and skin?

What is this darkness without

remorse where human life is cheaper

than a depraved gluttonous hunger

for power over an 8 year-old?

There are no words to articulate,

no torture or torment great enough

to make you feel what she felt

There is only our own self-disgust

and a growing number of

involuntary martyrs,

that bleed pain, despair and hopelessness.

Vengeance will never be painful

enough, to crush this disease that

breeds within our minds.

********************************************

This does not seem like nearly enough to address the horror of what happened to Asifa, but it is all I have. I don’t know whether to be angry or heartbroken – both seem equally useless against this sickness that plagues our society. How many brutalized bodies will it take us to change? It doesn’t look like that’s anywhere close to happening unfortunately. They gangraped her in a temple and then murdered her, because that’s how cheap human life has become. And there are people who defend the rapists like there is any justification for doing this to anyone, let alone an 8 year old girl. Whatever we are doing it is not enough. I am still reeling from this and I don’t know what else to say except we need to fix this, break off the root of it and crush it forever.

Accepting Our Blind Spots

A few weeks ago, a woman named Shilpi A. Singh messaged me, as she was doing a piece on acroyoga (a blend of acrobatics, yoga and Thai massage) and wanted to speak to some practitioners and members of the community. Those of you who know me, know that I have practiced this on and off for a few years. Last year I became, what they called a jambassador, with the goal of promoting and facilitating jams, and helping build a community. 

A little wary of how people may perceive the practice, and hesitant that it might be misrepresented, I encouraged her to speak to teachers and to attend a jam.

Yesterday, when the article was published, a discussion began on our Delhi community group about the merits and demerits (largely the latter) of the article. Among our conclusions: someone who had asked not to be quoted was quoted, my own quote had been edited down in a particular way, there was a photo with no names of the people depicted in it, and little nit-picky things like that.

I’m ashamed to say that when this started happening, I did not stop to think that this woman, who had no ulterior motive or reason to do so, spent time, effort and energy to interview people and write an article that benefitted our community as a whole. It was free exposure in a pan-India newspaper and website, that we couldn’t have paid enough for. Instead, I jumped on the bandwagon and started complaining myself.

Why was I examining the way I had been quoted? She hadn’t written anything that contradicted what I meant, and the way she had presented the whole pursuit, was true to what it actually was.

As writers we often have to edit down extra-long quotes, it is what we do. So long as the meaning stays true to the original statement, it is accepted. She hadn’t lied. She hadn’t cheated. She was doing a nice thing for us, and in return she got yelled at and threatened, in a series of events I will not describe here, because it is besides the point.

Though I did not know that it was going to get to the level of escalation it did, I am guilty of adding fuel to the fire. I did not take a step back and think for one moment, that maybe I was taking myself too seriously.

Acroyoga teaches us levity, it teaches us how to leave ourselves behind and lose ourselves in play. It teaches us not to take ourselves too seriously. Yet all of us, this is what we did – we took ourselves way too seriously, got over-sensitive about the way we personally were portrayed or quoted, and didn’t remember the compassion that the practice teaches us.

The thing is words once spoken cannot be taken back, so we must use them wisely. It’s not enough to apologize after making someone feel worthless, and causing them pain, because it does not undo the damage.

It’s not enough to feel bad, and tell them you feel bad, because at the end of the day they feel worse than you. Words can be daggers, and they can cut deep. Those scars take much longer to heal than it does to cause the hurt.

I had no words for Shilpi. There was nothing I could say that would take away how she felt, and there was no way I could absolve myself of my responsibility in adding to the chain of events. I had no excuses, simply myself to blame.

I messaged her, then spoke to her on the phone for about 40 minutes. My heart broke when I realized how truly lousy we had made her feel. I have written articles and put my words out there, and I know how difficult it is.

Interviews, transcription, writing, editing, filing – these things are painful and time consuming. Then there is the backlash of everyone depicted and their series of issues around the articles. If not as a yoga/acroyoga practitioner, as a writer, I should have known better. She has a 16-year career behind her, and nobody has ever treated her this way.

I’m thankful to Shilpi A. Singh because despite not practicing yoga or acroyoga, she taught me how blind I could be to my own shortcomings. She taught me that I could do something for so long and still slip and forget what is correct and what isn’t. She taught me that, as much as I pride myself on my self-deprecating humour and not taking myself too seriously, I do sometimes fail, and my ego does take over.

I can only hope that the terrible things we’ve said to her, will fade, and one day we will be able to laugh about them, in a way truly devoid of any bad feelings. We ended our conversation on a good note, and I’d like to say that there are no bad feelings any more, at least between the two of us. For me, I don’t want there to ever be a next time for these types of mistakes.

I want to be better.

The Counter-productivity of Labels

I’m taking a break from Kerala posts but just for today

Finding Peace in Silent Empty Hours

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It’s a four hour drive to Kumarakom, a sleepy little town by the backwaters, dominated by resorts. Kottayam is a short distance away, and there is apparently some sightseeing to be done there.

The roads of Kottayam remind me of Goa, low-rise colourful houses, with wide fields lined with rice patties, and peppered with clumps of coconut and palm trees. Gates are flat, as security is not a concern here.

There are small eateries lining marketplaces, with mom and pop shops of all varieties.

Thursday January 11, 2018 is going to be forever etched in my mind, as the way I got rid of my driver.

That’s right. Finally.

Having had one day completely free, because I moved around Thekkady on foot, I had asked him to be ready at 8 am, but I ran late, and at 8:40 am, as soon as he saw me, he went for breakfast.

I’m annoyed because I had told him to be ready. 5-10 minutes is fine, but I wait almost 20 minutes for him to return.

As a result, I finally request them to change it, and they do. By the end of the day, my angry driver is back in Kochi, and a new one will arrive Saturday morning to take me on the final leg of my journey.

Kumarakom is super relaxing. In fact: it’s too relaxing. I try to see if I can use the afternoon productively, but apparently it is too late to do any tours, and too hot to walk anywhere outside, and the only activity, besides a free boat ride at 5pm, is Ayurvedic massage. It’s too bad because the grounds are beautiful.

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I am hyper to do something to make the most of my time here, so I make an appointment for the shortest massage – so that I have time to make it to the free boat cruise later.

The masseuse has no bedside manners. She looks at me with almost contempt, as she makes me undress in front of her and insists on putting on the temporary underwear herself, almost violating me in the process.

I close my eyes and squeeze them shut while she kneads my skin so roughly, I’m afraid it might chafe right off. It is a tense, and angst-inducing experience, nothing in comparison to what I think a massage should be.

As someone who already is not a huge fan of massages, I think to myself there must be health benefits, and to be honest yes by the end, I do feel slightly more relaxed, though arguably this could be because the ordeal is over.

I make my way towards the dock for the hotel boat cruise. It is while on the water, that I really start to appreciate traveling solo. All the groups on board are running from one end to the other in order to catch the perfect selfie.

It sounds like a very stressful way to spend the cruise, looking for the perfect angle, the perfect shot. Instead, I lean against the railing, and stare out at the water and the setting sun.

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In spite of my feeble attempt above, no camera, no paintbrush, no pen, can capture this beauty. It is beyond human expression or creativity, and the best way to enjoy it is in silence. And I certainly don’t want to ruin a photograph of such perfection with my own image superimposed.

There is a contentment here that I can’t explain, it’s like it’s just me, and miles and miles of water, and the silence that exists between us. For now I’m okay to slow it down, and accept the emptiness of my hours. For now, I let go of the hang up of being productive. For now, far away from strange Ayurvedic masseuses, angry drivers and slow customer service, I find peace.

Kerala Food Highlight: Grandma’s Cafe

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I hear a lot about a Thekkady-based joint called Grandma’s Cafe, so on my second (and last) evening there, I finally decide to give it a try.

This place is an institution, and is known for it’s mix of Continental, non-Kerala Indian, and Kerala cuisine, and being a favourite of travellers. I found it in my Lonely Planet guide book and on Tripadvisor, where there seemed to be a rather lively debate on whether they serve beer.

They do serve beer. But that is not the only, or most important reason you should go.

As I write this, I have yet to travel to Kochi, but I have to say that Grandma’s was the best meal I had in Kerala.

Although there appears to be a door, you have to enter through a narrow alley on the side. There is what appears to be patio-style seating, with stones scattered underfoot. The tables and chairs are wooden with flat cushions for customer comfort.

A sewing machine sits in one corner, and most of the wall has been converted into a chalk board, with messages from the patrons. Many of the early diners are alone, or in pairs. Tube lights and whirring fans hang from the ceiling, and the Black-Eyed Peas are playing in the background. It is perfection.

Beer isn’t on the menu, but like I said they do serve it. You just have to ask. You will only get a big bottle of Kingfisher, no small bottles, and from what I could see, nothing else. Though I’m not much of a Kingfisher drinker, it sort of goes with the whole vibe of the place, and I found myself really enjoying it.

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What is on the menu, is hangover recovery tips, and a rather stern reminder to customers not to steal the menu. If it’s that important to us, they are happy to provide us with an alternate solution.

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The place smells deliciously of coconut milk simmering and spices.  I order the Travancore mutta curry and the Mushroom ularthiyathu (someone from Kerala please help me pronounce this word!) with plain white rice.

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The food is delicious, though I cannot finish the white rice, which leads to an admonishing look from the server. I glance guiltily back at my Kingfisher that I do finish.

As I pay my bill and rise to leave, I know I would want to come back to Thekkady, just to eat at this place. Everything was absolutely perfect. Till next time Grandma