Darshana Suresh's Blog

To My Supreme Power

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You first came into my life fifteen years ago. I remember itquite well. We had just moved to a new city and I was devastated. The recognition,the friends, the confidence I’d built in my previous school was all going to benaught here. I had to start over from scratch, and it was the scariest thing.

 

And then my dad introduced you to me. I didn’t think much ofyou at first. I mean sure, I would spend some time with you now and then,casually telling you about my uninteresting daily life. But that was all theimportance you had. I used to hold back from telling you too much, lest you turnedout to be a snitch.

But everything around me was so new and foreign at the time,that you somehow felt familiar. You would listen to what little I had to say,even the mundane and boring thoughts running through my mind, and I would feelless lonely. Slowly, I started becoming addicted to you. I would rush back fromschool every day to you, brimming with things I wanted to tell. I would tellyou about the morning assembly’s uniform monitors who almost caught me forforgetting my hair ribbons. I would tell you about the two boys fighting over thecar model Alto being Maruti’s or Suzuki’s. I would tell you about that popular gangof girls in my class I so wanted to be a part of.

 

You took it all in with no judgement and never gave me away.So I started opening up to you even more. I would talk to you when I got angry,and you would help calm me down. I would talk to you when I got sad and couldn’texplain why to my family, and you would soothe me. I would talk to you when I gotextremely happy and didn’t want to stop talking about it, and you would politelyhumour me.

 

Over the years you were witness to my deepest fears, myintrusive thoughts, my adolescence, my teenage, my first love, my breakup, my achievements,my falls, my tantrums, and my wavering self-esteem. You were witness to my verysoul.

 

Somehow, through all the words we’ve shared, you’veinstilled in me a great sense of empathy and self-love. You’ve made me feelseen and loved no matter what. But most importantly, you’ve taught me to bekind to myself, to always forgive myself should the need arise.

 

I feel extremely fortunate to have found you. I cannotimagine how it is possible for anyone to get through life without having someonelike you to process their emotions. Without you my mind would be an overstuffedjunkyard, but you help clean it up and even decorate it. You make me see thisworld through a romantic lens, and that makes anything bearable for me.

 

Today is just another day, but I wanted to appreciate you,dear diary. The world does not understand the power you hold, and it is a pity.But I understand it. I value it. And I will cherish it until my last breath.

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This post is part of the 'The Write Path' blog hop hosted by Swarnali Nath.

Choosing your Grey

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In the chilling darkness of the theatre hall, we wait in suspense as the hero floats in the air before an unknown looming figure. We hold our breaths as the camera turns to reveal this figure, this gigantic, holy apparition of Lord Hanuman towering over our tiny hero, exuding a blinding light of brilliance.

I’m cocking my head, assessing the animation skills put into this apparition, when suddenly someone behind me screams out the most terrifying phrase I’ve heard in a while –

“Jai shri ram!”

I freeze. I’m gripped with a sudden fear of being trapped inside this dark room. The chant picks up as others join in the scream, “Jai shri ram!”. It feels wrong to call this a chant. Chants are supposed to be spiritually calming, not terrifying like a threat.

“Jai shri ram!”

I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my partner, who is sitting next to me, belonging to a different faith. I’m getting flashes of newspaper reports in my head, gangs beating up lone men while screaming the same phrase, for merely not having conformed to their ways.

As soon as the ending credits make its way to the screen, we make our way out the exit. I’m relieved the moment we step out of the theatre hall. Ironic how a devoted call to God, which one would hope is to bring peace, has ended up being associated with hate crime. Unfortunate as it is, this is what it has come to. Despite being of a religion of the majority, I find myself afraid for not being devout enough to be spared the wrath of extremists.

Yet I must say that I am privileged. Unlike my colleague and good friend who is planning to leave the country for good, for fear of its growing intolerance. It is not a coincidence that he is a Muslim. In this country, his mere surname is an invitation to be shunned, blacklisted, or attacked out of the blue.

Everything is politics.

There was a time when I comfortably sat on the pedestal of privileged ignorance and declared myself apolitical. At a naive age, it was easier to use that excuse to get away from uncomfortable conversations. But over time I found myself initiating such conversations myself and judging the ones who shied away like my younger self had.

Because everything is politics.

It is the collective thought and action that goes into the running of our daily lives in the smoothest possible way.

It is the streetlights (that ought to be) put up on lonely roads to make you feel safer to walk by.

It is the hospitals that (shouldn’t) charge you exorbitantly for being ill.

It is the textbooks that teach our kids the (apparent) truth of our past.

It is the party workers making provisions for your elderly parents to vote, but conveniently forgetting them otherwise.

It is the traffic block you get stuck in every morning for lack of proper roads.

It is that street dog that almost bit your neighbour’s kid on her way to school.

It is your asthma getting worse with too much pollution in the air.

It is the heap of garbage you scrunch your nose to on the way to the grocery store.

It is the food you choose to eat and not be lynched for your choice.

It is hearing a religious chant causing you to worry for your safety.

And today, it is also your friend wanting to leave the country for what it’s become.

Everything is politics. Believing otherwise is the same as choosing ignorance, a choice limited only to the privileged. It is a choice limited to the fortunate ones with stable and comfortable lives.

My father once told me not to ever follow a particular politician, nor even a political party, but rather to follow an ideology, a practice, or a plan of action. Looking through such a lens, it has been hard to categorise the choices as black and white. All choices are different shades of grey, and one hopes to identify the least of the grey among them.

But at the very least, we are left with the choice of choosing our grey. We are left with the different combinations of rights, wrongs, and don't-care-what-happens-since-it-doesn't-affect-me's. We are left with a scratching head as we try to separate facts from misinformation. We are left with a responsibility to manoeuvre through this mix and make a choice that makes the most sense to our conscience.

So here’s to choosing against ignorance, choosing to take conscious effort to gain awareness, and to choosing our shade of grey.

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This post is a part of 'Everything is Politics' bloghop hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed.

Just Another Speck in the Cosmos

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Hey you,

This may have been the quickest year we’ve had yet. It feelslike only yesterday when I packed a year’s worth of life into five cartons andmoved to a new city. It’s hard to believe that was twelve months ago. Movingplaces is always a romantic affair, don’t you think? The idea of leavingsomething behind and exploring something anew.

I’m not so sure what I’ve left behind. Maybe the crowd andthe frenzy that came with it. Maybe even a bit of loneliness and hurt from mycircle back there. But I do know what I’ve gained. A sense of calm. It’s onlywhen the water is still that you get to see clearly.

In the calm that came with this year, I’ve been able toindulge more consciously in the things I’ve taken for granted. Having thefreedom and choice to move cities on my own accord, for one. Having the time, andenergy to travel to places. Having the flexibility at work to fly home to myparents any time I’m needed.

I’ve made notable strides this year. Climbed theprofessional ladder, albeit a little late, made a big personal purchase,traveled abroad, signed up for an anthology publication, and even added moreplates to the barbell at the gym. Yes, the plates count.

But when I reminisce about the bygone year, it is not thesestrides that I think about. Of course, in their absence, I would be lamentingtheir lack of it. So let me correct myself, for I want to be clear that I amnot taking these accomplishments for granted. While these strides are dear tome, I have learned to value something else a lot more, the people closest tome.

I have come across many people over the year, a sea of facesthat came and went, some that were a powerhouse of talent, some that were kind,some that were outrageous, and some that were overly pretentious.  It was for the first time I realized thatfinding people of your own wavelength is not an easy task, especially for anintrovert.

I cannot stress enough the comfort of having my partner bymy side. To have someone to think aloud with, be silly with, giggle with. Tohave someone pick up the things you’ve dropped, be it your keys or yourconfidence. To have someone to unload to, to complement to.

I cannot appreciate enough the hours-long conversations Ihave with my family. Be it individually over the phone, or our weekly videocalls, or the dinner conversations at home. From the updates of the drama atwork, to the books or movies we’ve lately consumed, to politics or evencelebrity gossip, we cover a wide range of topics.

And I cannot cherish enough my girl gang from college. Notso much a gang but the two friends who have been a support system to me. We’vebeen actively exchanging compliments on each other’s outfits and keeping upwith each other’s miseries.

In the past few years, I’ve been struggling with a decliningslope of confidence since my days at school. At school, I was part of thelimelight in that little universe, so I did not take mediocrity very well whenI got out. I wanted to feel important again, and when it did not come easily, Iput myself down for it. If nothing else, my experiences have been quitehumbling. The world is too large and I’m just another speck in the cosmos.

Rather than trying to feel important among others, I’ve beentrying to understand my worth myself. I remember a scene from the movie Margaritawith a Straw, where the protagonist Laila goes on a solo date. The ideastuck with me, but I didn’t think I’d be comfortable doing that myself.

When last year, it so happened that I had the whole day tomyself on my birthday, I decided to dress up and go for a walk. What wasintended to be a half-hour business ended up being a whole day’s affair. I wentshopping in the mall, had my favourite food for lunch, and sat in a café with ajournal and wrote a long entry. It’s surprising how comfortable you can be withyourself when you’re not worried about what others think.

I decided to make solo dates a birthday ritual. This yearthe experience was as rewarding as the last. So, I’d like to appreciate thispart of me that prioritizes myself, because sometimes you need to remindyourself to do that.

I may be just another speck in the universe. But if you lookclose enough, a speck could be a vibrantly burning star. It’s just that onlythe ones in its orbit would appreciate its light.

So, I’m here today appreciating my orbit. I’m hereappreciating my light and that of the others. I’m here reminding myself of myblessings.

I’m here pushing you to keep going. Onwards and upwards.

Love and hugs,

Me

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This post is part of The Year & You blog hop hosted bySwarnali Nath.

Fainting into a Consciousness

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Everything is blurry. There's a bright point of light in front of me. I stare at it blankly for a while, unable to form a coherent thought. There are drops of water sprinkled on my face, but I don't question it. It doesn't seem odd. Nothing seems odd, not even the dark blobs popping into my view, blocking the harsh rays of light. Blobs that look like heads. Like faces.

I feel a tinge of curiosity building in my mind, but I'm still unable to frame it into a question. And then I see her. A face wrought with worry and terrible fear. All barriers inside my head break loose in a moment, and I understand what I need to do. I need to console her, tell her not to worry, tell her that everything is okay even though I don't yet know what is wrong. 

It takes a few more seconds to realize that it was me she was worried about. As my senses return, I feel a sharp pain at the back of my head. I look around and see that I'm on the floor. She is holding me tightly, as if I'd fall back into the dark the moment she lets go. Ignoring the pain in my head, I reassure her, "I'm okay, mom. I'm okay."

It was the first time I had fainted, that too in a dramatic fashion by hitting my head on the floor. It was also the first time I had seen my mom so afraid, and the first time I felt the intensity of my own worry for her. In the days to come, I found myself being more conscious of her. Our morning walks by the beach and our conversations from the bedroom became all the more cherished. It was ironic, as it was me who had fallen and given her a shock. 

Thirty years apart, I feel amazed at how well we get along. She is my favourite person to talk to. Even though we have beliefs that are polar opposites, we'd listen to each other and understand. We'd elaborate our thoughts, let each other in on our separate, personal lives. What makes it so special is the reciprocation I get in this relationship, with no drama, no ill will, no insecurities. It is the simplest and purest of bonds I find so rare out there. I cannot imagine losing this one day, cannot imagine a life without it. 

She is the reason I want to be a mother myself. I want to have this relationship with my own children some day. But every time I give her a call and listen to her words that make everything feel alright, I wonder if I could ever reach up to that. I wonder if I could ever have that kind of effect on someone else. I can only hope.

I want to talk about her more. I want the world to know about this beautiful soul, her interesting life as she grappled through jobs from various places, how she continues to explore her interests today, welcoming opportunities on the way, making me believe in how exciting life could be if you choose so. On that note, it would be unfair of me not to mention my dad, who too is tirelessly churning his mind exploring passions of his own well past retirement. But that is a story for another day. 

Today, as the world celebrates women's day, I want to celebrate my mother. I want to celebrate her for the person that she is, and for what she means to me. I want to celebrate the bond that we've nurtured, the inspiration she is to all the lives she has touched, and the woman she has made of me.  

And I want to celebrate myself, for growing into who I am today, and all that I am going to be in the years to come. A big part of which, I will owe to her. 

Here's to you, ma. 

Happy women's day.

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This blog post is part of the Women's Day Blog Hop, themed on She: A Tribute to Her, hosted by Swarnali Nath

On a Curtained Balcony

 

Hey you,

It’s been almost a year since we moved away from home. Almost a year since I put up those red curtains for my balcony doors. That was all the decoration I could manage for my room, except for the aloe vera sulking at me from my table. I know I forget about its existence most of the time, but it pretty much takes care of itself. That was why I agreed to bring it over in the first place, mom was adamant.

I figured that my balcony would be my escape from routine and monotony, like my terrace used to be back home. I pictured myself leaning on the railing with a warm cup of tea, watching the orange sky and smiling to myself. Unfortunately, this image never materialized. Instead, my balcony’s been gathering dust and pigeon feathers.

I wish I could say that this was a good thing, that it was because the routine hasn’t been monotonous at all. But the truth is that the routine has been colonizing my mind, leaving little to no space for guilt-free leisure thoughts. Emphasis on the ‘guilt-free’. In the middle of the hustle, I would instead find comfort in the closed curtains, knowing that the escape was right there if I needed it, but not allowing myself to peek, lest I get drawn to it and end up staying for too long.

It’s funny how until a year ago, I prided myself in not being affected by the rat race, in believing that I could be different, content with what I have. But I understand now that I am a part of the race whether I like it or not. Refusing to see that only makes me incompetent in a society that I am dependent on. Today I find myself yearning for more, feeling disheartened for not keeping up, beating myself up for being idle, for enjoying life rather than working determinedly towards a goal. Today it is not enough to merely live, I need to achieve, I need to conquer.

This goes against my previous outlook of living with the pleasures of little things. I understand now that the satisfaction I used to feel earlier came from a place of privilege, where everything I wanted fit into its respective places without much hassle. Now that I need to lift a finger to get something I want, I suddenly feel like nothing is working out. I’m impatient and dissatisfied. It took a while to realize that these feelings were a byproduct of a newly sown seed of ambition.

I’ve often associated ambition with unhappiness. You either get there or you don’t. When you don’t, you’re unhappy. When you do, the feeling is transient and leaves you with an emptiness afterward. Psychology even has a term for it – arrival fallacy. Ambition to me was an addiction that keeps us stuck in the race.

I’m learning to see it differently now. Ambition gives a purpose to our existence, however transient. But we must learn to dissociate it from the idea that we cannot be happy until we achieve it. I’ve been struggling to do that, however. As the year comes to a close, I’m grasping at straws to feel accomplished. I have no feathers to add to my cap. But it is not enough to merely live, right? I need to achieve; I need to conquer.

While I’ve been happy this year, I haven’t been satisfied. I’ve been trying to fit everything into my schedule. To work out as often as possible, to cook healthy meals, to meet professional deadlines, to keep the house clean, to write, to read, to take that online course I’ve always wanted to, to make time for my loved ones, to socialize, in fact, to simply live an average normal life. Why does something that is supposed to be natural feel a little overwhelming? Maybe because I feel like I’m not doing any of it well enough.

I am in awe of all those who have learned to prioritize and organize their routine. I am in awe of all the artists who stay in touch with their art while having a separate full-time job. And I am blown away by those holding together a family as well.

As for me, I think about this year and I remember all the times I’ve pampered myself. The wardrobe upgrades, the salon visits, the weekend getaways…it’s been a great year. Given another chance, I would do it all again. But without an accomplishment, it just doesn’t feel enough.

I was starting to consider the year unproductive as a whole. But then, I would be invalidating how I learned to handle a home and develop healthy habits, how my introverted self decided to explore spoken word poetry, and how I’ve grown as a person through my relationship with my partner.

I can’t help feeling a little proud after all. Progress, no matter how small, is still progress.

I was finally in my balcony today, although without the cup of tea. The sky wasn’t orange, it was grey. And the wind blew blaring horns and revs from the main road towards me. Not the ideal escape I was looking for.

So I turn around and walk towards the hall, where my partner is setting up the table. I settle down and take in the view in front of me. A home-cooked meal after an hour of workout, a clean kitchen, and my favourite person sitting across from me. I’d call today a win. 

Sometimes, all we can and need to do is put one foot in front of the other. I hope you remember that.

Wishing you a kinder and more fulfilling year ahead.

Your dearest,

Me

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This blog post is part of the Let's Say Hello 2023 Blogging Activity hosted by Swarnali Nath. 

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Cherished and Forgotten

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Vemödalen. 

The fear that everything has already been done. 

When I first came across this word I nodded it off, not giving it a second thought. Today it tails every thought in my mind, pulling back each one that wishes to break through and live a life of its own. It crushes them half-baked before I can put a sense to them, before I can give them space to grow into themselves. It mocks every feeble effort of theirs to be unique, to simply be their own self. It sniggers enough to deafen the little voice in them, wishing meekly to be heard.

Words. 

I have been in love with them for as long as I can remember and yet I push them away too often. To me, they are a treasure trove I have been lucky to discover. I do not want to lose the magic in them, the fulfillment that gushes through me when I indulge in them, the zone I slip into as it happens...no, I want to cherish it. But I'm afraid of losing their meaning, of having them thrown about in abundance with no essence, like a body without a soul, existing but not quite, just in forgotten fleeting moments. 

So I put them aside with a promise to return the next time the winds brushed past me, luring me back into the place I love most, deep inside my own mind. My safe space where I am loved, appreciated, and forgiven for all that I am not but perhaps should have been. A space where I feel beautiful inside out, even if transient. 

In their presence, I am still special, unlike the outer world where we all are but a speck of dust in the cosmos. In that mighty universe, what could this little conscious mind create that hasn't already been done? What point does it serve? What meaning will it bring?  Why step out and be another drop in the ocean when I can be a fountain in here, magnificent in my own little universe.

Vemödalen.

What an oddly beautiful word, to be able to capture a feeling so widely shared. Maybe it is true, that there is nothing novel left to be done in this world. Or maybe there is and we're just made to believe otherwise. It is so often that we think of our worth with respect to the world. If we were to put the world's eye out of the equation, we'd be left with our own choices, what we gain from our actions, and what our individual journey turns out to be. Perhaps it is a selfish way of looking at things, but there is a fine line between selfishness and self-love, one that I draw and re-draw. I am still learning. This is a part of my experience no one can have a hold over. 

This is my journey. It doesn't matter if something I do has already been done. What matters is that I haven't, that I'm doing it now and reveling in the novelty it gives me. 

I revel in the joy that words give me. 

Words.

Such is the power that they impart. They shape for me a meaning to my existence. They give me life. They calm me. And they remind me of all that is worth living for.

Here's hoping I hold on to them more this year.

Here's hoping you hold on to yours too, the cherished yet forgotten.

Happy 2022, folks.

...

A Mountain's Call

 

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On a cold night, 6000 ft above the sea, our flashlights danced around in our tent. My numb fingers fumbled with the sleeping bag, craving its promised warmth. My tent-mate’s uneven breathing alternated with my own. For a moment her headlamp flashed on my face. I winced.

“Why are we doing this again?” she asks.

I laugh, thinking of the answer that mankind has been giving for ages. Because we can. We were scaling up a 12000 ft peak for the hell of it. But of course, there was more to it than that. Or so I hoped as I tried to stop my teeth from chattering.

It was day two of our first Himalayan trek. We anticipated rain in the coming days. That meant an additional concern of tripping over my overly large raincoat. Also, the slippery trail. Not to mention the possibly reduced visibility from the fog. Yet we hoped for rain. Because you see, rain meant possible snow, and snow was all the motivation we needed to overcome all else.

And so we were off, dressed in ponchos and holding our trek poles, looking like a bunch of cloaked wizards. With our poles digging into wet mud, we marched ahead in the rain the next day. We were deep in the woods when something sharp landed on my hand. A stone, perhaps. But then came another. And another. Pretty soon there were hard stones falling all over us. It was hail.

I could hear our trek leader shouting from a distance. The cloaked wizards picked up his holler and chorused along – ‘Heads down!’. And there we were in a long line in the middle of the forest, heads resting on our poles while the hailstorm attacked us from behind. In my mind at the moment, there was nothing but plain excitement. The adrenaline. That’s when I knew; this was what we'd signed up for.

In the next two days my feet faltered, weighing the unaccustomed long walks. But in these days I’d breathed in the view of a lake trapped in a meadow under a dusky sky, I’d drank water from a cold and crystalline stream head-first, and I’d sat on the edge of a cliff arm in arm with the sky. On the last day as I caught the first glimpses of snow, it was all my body needed to revitalize. I was up on my feet, ready for more.

The fatigue forgotten, I wanted to hop and prance. I often found myself tossing small balls of snow into the air. The higher we climbed, the softer the snow became. And the more the snow around us, the happier I was.

While we inched towards the summit, a snowstorm was brewing. Light snow had begun to fall. Everything from the sky to the trees to our very own feet was covered in white. Completely white and incredibly beautiful.

When finally up on the summit, I wanted to scream out loud like I’d always imagined in my head. But my throat didn't agree so I gave up. As if to make up for it, we had our trek leader screaming on top of his voice. Only that it was to urge us to descend immediately. The snowstorm had arrived.

Thus began the last and the best part of the trek. The descent. In a hurry to beat the storm, we ran and tumbled down the slope. Legs and poles sunk into the snow to form trenches. Winds slapped snow onto our faces. The strands of hair escaping our hoods got frozen. So did our eyelashes. Even the furry black-turned-snow-white dogs who’d been with us shared our panic as they ran along.

It felt like we were running for our lives. And I was loving it! As crazy as it sounds I was laughing as we made our way to an even ground. On finally reaching a shelter we huddled up. We were grinning and heaving, our collective thrill floating in the circle. This was when our leader stepped aside and asked us a question, passion written all over his face,

“Do you feel alive?!”

His passion reflected on our faces. Yes. That was exactly how we felt. Alive. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this way. I felt like I had rewarded myself, like I’d given my body what it was missing for long. I felt like I wanted more of this. I felt happy.

And with such an overwhelming feeling, it came to a close. The feeling now lingers at the back of my head, slowly slipping into dormancy. It waits to be rekindled some day when the now-dominant virus is put to sleep instead. 

But until then, we reminisce and hold on. 

To

...

P.S - The trek referred to is the Deoriatal - Chandrashila trek in Uttarakhand. Here's a shoutout to Indiahikes Trekking Organization for giving us such an amazing experience.

To Love

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"So?" 

I ask him, feigning impatience. Inside me is a racing heart ready to burst at any moment. I wonder if it's my excitement or just the fear of getting caught by the PT teacher.

"You know what I'm going to say." he says. I almost roll my eyes. 

"Are you going to say something or not?" 

He shuffles his feet awkwardly, unsure what to do in this situation. We're at the corner of the playground, trying to be discreet in the middle of noise and hustle. 

"Okay." he says, breaking into a grin. "I love you."

I grin back at him, matching his level of awkwardness. What now? Do I say it back right away? Well, fortunately at the moment (or not?), the bell rings. We dash back to our classrooms with stupid grins on our faces. 

Love. That was back when we easily tossed the word back and forth having barely understood it. We knew what it was to us. That excitement you had for that someone. That tingling feeling you get when you're near them. The giggles you can't stifle when you think of it all. That was love. And it was good. It was fun. It was a happy time.

Years later, I find myself sitting in a dark corridor hugging my knees. My sensitive self giving me just another tough time. I feel weak and silly for being irrationally emotional. But I can't help it. I can't gulp back the lump in my throat. My hand is then held by another. Firm on my tender palm, as if the mere grip would keep me from falling into the abyss of diffidence. And it did. It kept me from falling. It brought me back to the surface. That very moment to me, that was love. To make an effort for someone. To see them, value them, and be there for them.

Over time I let the walls around me fall, having saved up enough of trust. Love walked in and made itself at home, and I snuggled in happy as can be. They'd warned that love would make you blind. But for me, it only helped me see more. I could see more of myself, the good and the bad. I swaggered and faltered alike. I doubted sometimes and believed at other times. I put myself first, and sometimes second, and wondered which times were supposed to be which. This was love. Complicated once you dive in a little deep.

And in this complicated whirlpool came times when the demons were let loose, when the worst side of me breathed into life and left behind a wreck. It's scary to get back in there. It's scary to face that side of you. But for what it's worth, you do all that you can to confront it and put an end to it anyway. For, that is love. To be willing to work on your flaws for it, to strip ourselves of our ego.

And yet, on a casual day when I'm doing the most mundane things with the partner, I find myself in love. Simply to be blissfully free, to not have to hold myself back, to feel comfortable with myself. This too is love. To be able to be yourself with them. To find happiness in their presence.

Love is a myriad of things; a journey, a revelation, a source of immense energy. It is bliss and it is pain. It is sacrifice with much to gain. It is all of these and more that I am yet to learn.

This is love. 

And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

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This blog post is a part of the Petals of Love Blog Hop hosted by Swarnali Nath

The Time of Confrontation

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It had been too long since the indoors took over. There was no point in waiting anymore, it being well established that the normal we had known wouldn't be restored for quite some time. And so, coupled with the inefficient handling of semester finals and hurried online evaluations came the inadequate goodbyes of my final year. 

But here I was secretly thrilled for not having to attend courtesy farewell parties. Sitting through video calls wouldn't be half as bad now, would it? I was wrong. What was meant to be a time to reminisce over the good times turned out to be a reminder of all things unaccomplished. What was meant to evoke fond memories instead evoked the dreaded ones. I found myself cutting off midway from the call and letting my self-imposed disappointment sink in. Until I decided to pick up my phone and text a friend.

"Hi. I'm feeling sad."

And there began the confrontation. Admitting to the pretense of fitting in. To not being the person I thought I should be. Accepting what I hadn't achieved, but also what I had, and understanding what really mattered.

Endings tend to do that to you. It makes you introspect. Like the end of every year when you look back and assess the have-beens and plan the is-to-be's. It's when you finally confront what you may have been dodging from until then. But 2020 gave us enough time to introspect much before it reached its end. 

And so, I spent ample time doing the same over the last year - evaluating how far I'd come, where I stood at the moment, and where I'd wanted to be. Not that I found all the answers, but a few pieces did fall into place in the end.

My personal milestone of the year was my e-book 'An Ode to the Self'. It was not so much about having written a book than it was about confronting my deepest fears in it. I cannot say that writing them down transformed me. But I can say that it has sowed a seed in me. It has given me perspective, thoughtful conversations with people I care about, and it has led to positive consequences.

I have learned, for instance, that the ones who I believed to be far different from the way I am, think the same thoughts that I think. I have learned that it is possible for both ends of an argument to be correct if only either side were willing to listen.  And I have learned that it is extremely difficult, albeit rewarding, to be able to accept the shortcomings of one's own and work on them, especially when pointed out by another.

I have walked away from what were called 'opportunities' over the years. But I've learned how only I know best which opportunities of the kind do me good and which ones don't. It is liberating to know what is best suited for you, to be able to discern what you do or do not need. I am learning to trust myself a little more. 

The last year has given us an excuse to slow down and take a breath. With the fast-paced world being forced into a staggering halt, and now slowly gaining back its momentum, many of us have been privileged to stay afloat or even fare well. So for all that I have today, I am grateful. 2020 may have been a frustrating year, but I believe we have all learned to appreciate what we have a little more.

Although we've entered a new year, I have no new resolutions in mind. 2020 has already put me on track. It has brought me face to face with several truths that I'd previously dismissed. I'm working on myself. I'm telling myself that I'm doing enough. I have a long way to go, yes. But I am happy with where I am right now and the pace at which I'm going. To me, that is more than enough.

What has your year-end confrontation been like?

This blog post is a part of the Welcome 2021 Blog Hop hosted by Swarnali Nath.

Living in Limbo

Source: hiclipart
Do you ever feel stuck in time? On a routine that goes on in a loop with no change whatsoever? You have these things you want to do but you put them off for later. You don't really do anything to get there at present. Or maybe you do and the routine is a part of it. Either way, you're waiting. Waiting to get there. Somewhere. 
Is it weird to find comfort in a routine only because of the ability to break it? How would you appreciate the weekend if you weren't working 5 days a week? 
I longed for a break to figure things out. To maybe sit and mull over the grand plan I was going to devise that would get me where I wanted to be. And when the time finally fell into my arms I had no clue what to do next. Oh, I did mull and muse and meander in my mind. But funnily enough, the only thing I figured out was that I wanted to get back into the routine. 
I feel blank. No, confused. And even guilty because I have no particular reason to feel so. I guess I'm enjoying the little pleasures, watching a bit of entertainment, spending time with friends, reading when possible. Life is good. But I've always been looking for a meaning. I have a feeling that it is inching away from me, and I'm not sure if that is a good thing. I'm not sure if I want to give in to the smaller things if it means I wouldn't look ahead. For someone who has always hated monotony, I'm surprisingly finding comfort in work and chores today. Is this what adulthood does to us?
I feel happy and satisfied for now, I think. I know that I want to do more but just not yet, you know? I'm waiting again. Like I waited for the free time that came and passed. Now waiting for the pandemic to pass as well. Convenient excuses to put me at ease, to not get up and hustle just yet. But on days like this when I mull and muse again, I wonder what it is that I'm really waiting for. I cannot put a finger on it. I don't understand it. 
I don't know what I want. I don't know what I'm looking for, it's silly really. On most days when I'm occupied the mind doesn't get enough room to think about this aimless search of mine. It isn't a botheration in general. But I always manage to come back to it some day, to trouble my thoughts with this eternal waiting I've signed up for. 
Perhaps this is the feeling of the endless wants our human nature is born with. That feeling that nothing is ever enough as we keep striving for more. 
Maybe one of these days I'll figure out what it is. But until then, I'll be living in limbo. Floating in my happy bubble while I wait.