Ritu Lalit's Blog, page 3

I Am Enough

I

Believed in your crap
Ugly you screamed at me, difficult child
Lived in your shadow
Lived in fear, doubt and stress
You were the problem, now I know it
I am Enough

Nothing looks safe

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There are some mothers

Who warn you

to never ever

Ever Ever

Play with scissors and knives

But there are other mothers

Who in fits of uncontrollable rage

Will throw that knife at you

Watch blood, her blood, your blood

Drip down your thigh

She will seal that wound

With hugs, kisses, bandage

And whisper, This did not happen

There are some mothers

Who warn you

To never ever

Ever Ever

Play with fire

But there are other mothers

Who will drag you to the flame

Thrust your little hand into it

And watch it burn your finger

And whisper, Remember this lesson

When you’re taught to
see the world through blood and fire

Nothing scares you ever

but …

Nothing ever looks safe

 

Bhoori has a calf

“Sorghum,”
Balbir said with as much authority as he could muster. “It is hardy and does
not need much water. Grow it instead of wheat.”

The farmers
sitting in a circle around him stared stonily. They did not blink or twitch a
muscle.

“We know it
as jowar,” he added.

This time he
evoked a response. His audience snickered in contempt. He shrugged trying to
look calm. That was hard since it was hot and he could feel sweat ooze out of
his pores. He knew that he was red in the face, the downside of being light
skinned. “Do you know Tau, they call it wonder food.”

“Blunder
fool, more like it,” farmer Chugal sneered. “Jowar is fit for fodder, that is
all.”

“I’ll make a
deal with you. You grow it and I’ll buy the entire yield,” Balbir said aware of
his nervous tic, a pulse throbbing under his lower lip. He tried to conceal it
by scratching his stubble.

“Why?’ said
farmer Gopal. “I did not know your father was running short of fodder for his
buffalos.”

The assembled men chuckled. Balbir felt his skin flush, he really needed to develop a thicker skin. The farmers loved tossing jibes at him because his father was rich, and he had been educated in cities and had seen places. Chiding himself for being over sensitive he said, “How about it?”

An old man
he did not know removed his mouth from his hookah and said, “Every sarpanch and
every rich man has one son who turns out to be a wastrel. If Tau Trikha’s son
wants to waste his father’s money …” He spread his hands in an elaborate shrug.

“It is my
money Tau, not my father’s. City people think wheat is unhealthy, some of them
are allergic to celiac and others want to avoid gluten. Sorghum is a safe grain
alternative. I intend to take the entire crop, package it and sell to the
cities and even export it.”

“So these
people eat chara? The sehris are chutiyas,” a young man exclaimed to the
amusement of others.

The rest of the meeting was spent discussing price of sorghum and the health of their animals. Mangat Ram, a small time farmer came up to him. “Can you help me doctor? I think my Bhoori has a breech,” he said.

A farmer said, “Serves you right Mangat. What business does a man who owns a tiny patch of land have with a buffalo?”

“I did not ask you to pay for Bhoori, Kanshi, so shut your trap,” Mangat shouted back.

Balbir was not a qualified vet though he knew his way around animals. He did not want to deliver a calf today. He had a wedding to attend back at Kunjgaon. “You and your sons could not help her?” he asked reluctantly. Villagers paid for the animal care he provided with grain, home brewed hooch and in some cases, sex. He needed money, not home brewed. Besides he’d seen Mangat’s wife. She was fat, had prominent buck teeth and stank of buffalo and stale milk.

Mangat Ram
looked resigned. “No rains, no crops,” he said. “They work in factories in the
city now.”

Balbir could
empathize. He had seen the fields on his way here, they were full of stunted
crop and there was a pervasive stench of pestilence and hopelessness. “Okay,”
he said rolling up his sleeves. He hoped this would not take long. He had to
get back to Kunjgaon in time for Alka’s wedding.

He could
hear the buffalo’s cries as they reached the small tin barricade erected to
house the animal. It even had a thatched roof. “I need water, soap, oil,”
Balbir said shrugging off his shirt.”

Mangat Ram nodded and walked away. Balbir walked in and looked at the buffalo and sighed. The uterus was bulged towards the right side, a sure sign that the calf had lumped itself the wrong way. Definitely a breech. Mangat Ram’s wife came in with a huge chunk of red soap and a bucket. “Water,” she said simpering.

“Where is
Mangat?” he asked.

“Went to get
rope,” she said, her eyes on his bare chest.

His heart
plummeted to his dusty trainers. He would not get paid in cash.

“I’ll help you,” the woman said as he began soaping his hands up to the elbows.

“Get me some oil,” he said deftly avoiding her.

She returned with the oil while he was trying to get closer to the animal without getting kicked. “Hold her,” he said as he jumped out of the way as the animal lashed out. It would keep her far away from him.

She grabbed the rope and made a huge show of screaming as the animal kicked the bales of hay. “I had a breech too,” she said when the buffalo settled down. “The midwife put her arms into me and straightened my baby.”

He wished he could unsee the image that line brought into his head. No, he was most definitely not going to accept payment in ‘kind’ for this job, Balbir decided as he washed the animal’s vulva with water and oiled his hands. Better let Mangat Ram attend to her needs, and at a pinch, Bhoori’s too. Where the hell was the man?

“Damn it!” he cried as the animal crashed into the tin wall of the shed which fell, and the thatched roof sagged dangerously. The farmer’s wife began wailing, “I was just helping …”

“What’s happening here?” an elderly man in a kurta pathani said as he peered in. The woman jumped back and covered her head. “Nothing Tau,” she said looking away. “Just like that …” She simpered, making it look like there had been something going on! Balbir gulped and geared himself to face the rough and ready justice of the rural kind.

The old man who resembled Mangat looked disgusted. Mercifully Bhoori took matters into her hands. With a loud moo, she gave a huge heave, pushing the water sac out of her vulva.

“Go cook lunch. Send Mangat and some men here,” the old man said to the woman and grabbed Bhoori’s hind legs. He was strong and kept the buffalo pinned as Balbir turned the calf around.

Two hours later, Mangat’s wife accompanied him to his motor cycle with two packed meals, four bottles of home brewed and a flask of milk boiled with tea leaves and promises of a mound of grain next harvest.

“Do visit us when you are in the area, Doctor,” she said simpering behind her pallu. “Just to see Bhoori’s calf.” He looked up from his chore of tightening the ropes of his rucksack and nodded. He tried to smile but could not. Every fibre in his being urged him to flee.

Life as a travelling vet in the hinterlands was not without peril

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Play to Win

Play to win.

For me, this is a tough phrase. I think it is a cultural
thing, because I end up feeling that winning is for others.  Like stiletto shoes or platform heels.  I never learnt how to balance in them.  Others could rock the look, while I was
destined to remain the short girl in sports shoes, laces undone. 

What was worse was that I didn’t feel pretty in those shoes.  It was hard to feel confident and sassy when one is on the brink of falling flat on one’s face.  Sports shoes are good, the lace less ones even better.  That did not mean I did not wear stilettos or platforms.  I did, I even learnt to balance for short periods of time, though my feet felt like they’d undergone torture.  Why did I do that to myself?  Because even though they were excruciatingly painful, other girls wore stilettos and I wanted to fit in.

I can’t speak for men, but as a
female the whole ‘play to win’ thing was almost always discouraged when I was
growing up.

Not that I didn’t try only to have some authority figure intervene with “Let the younger kids win this time.”

8 Year Old Me :

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School wasn’t much better. I was reading Hemingway that I had swiped from my father’s bookshelf, along with a Harold Robbins.  The parents caught me with Hemingway and were quite proud of me.  The younger brother caught me with Harold Robbins and embarked on a lucrative career in blackmail young.  In third grade.

One time, I worked my entire English workbook
during the holidays before we entered Class V. 
I was punished for it and forced to buy a fresh workbook and work in it
with the class. 

B o r I n g

I also learned to not turn in my
tests when I finished them.  Teachers did
not appreciate that.

Stop showing off Ritu, they said.

Me : But I am not showing off.  I’ve finished.  Can I go out?

Teacher : You’re making other kids
feel bad!

Me :Eh?

You know why school shootings do not
happen in India? Because it’s so hard to get a gun, even a half way decent
katta!

School taught me to hide any academic
excellence. If I wanted to learn at the speed I craved, I had to work around
the system. Learn on my time, not school time. Makes total sense.

And I did. There wasn’t much else to
do.  Being a complete nerd, I was
socially awkward (and not much has changed). I never understood the nuanced
ways of girl tribes, only that they generally required an outcast/scapegoat
(usually me).

I was used to that, being the resident
scapegoat for my brothers when they recalled the lone sister.  Oh, I could show them my ambition.  They loved it.  If I won in the rough and tumble games, they
simply pounded me to pulp.

Its an odd message society dishes out
to us, isn’t it?

Playing to win is for others. If you
play to win, expect to pay a price.

Be nice. Be sweet. Share. Winning is
not nice to others.

‘Nice’

Puke

Nice is like souffle gone flat, soggy
biscuit and overboiled oatmeal.

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Forget nice.

Turn off the internal program.  I’m trying to do it now.  I’ve realised that

Playing to WIN is good

I won’t let anyone tell me otherwise.

Let the games begin and

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.

Million Red Balloons

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In the sunset of life

I watch a million red balloons

Descend from the foggy skies

Teardrops of blood

And you called it love

I don’t have a penis

So I disappoint

Can’t do anything right

In the sunset of life

I watch a million red balloons

Descend from the foggy skies

Teardrops of blood

And you called it love

I love you, you said

But it was a cage

If I dared break out

You’d go into a rage

In the sunset of life

I watch a million red balloons

Descend from the foggy skies

Teardrops of blood

And you called it love

 

No cuts to show

No sign of a blow

No bruises that glow

Just words that echo

 

In the sunset of life

I watch a million red balloons

Descend from the foggy skies

Teardrops of blood

And you called it love

 

How dare you be sexual

Worthless, not good enough

Stop pretending to be a man

Don’t have an attitude

 

In the sunset of life

I watch a million red balloons

Descend from the foggy skies

Teardrops of blood

And you called it love

 

“I’ll do anything for you

Because that’s what mothers do”

And yet you also said

I just don’t see

How you could dare be

Better than me

 

In the sunset of life

I watch a million red balloons

Descend from the foggy skies

Teardrops of blood

And you called it love

 

 

What I learned in 2018

2018 was… strange. It lasted forever. Astrologically, it was weird because as per Vedic astrology I am going through the Ketu Mahadasha. I have been assured by astrologers (ever noticed how happy they look when informing you about the gloom and doom they predict?) that I will experience general malaise, unhappiness, physical ailments and unrest.

In short “Acche Din”

2018 had some good and some bad parts, so in spite of the prediction, things evened out.

Rejection isn’t the end of the world.

We’re hardwired to fear rejection, because in ancient times it was linked to survival. If a member of the tribe was rejected by the tribe, he was either killed or banished into the wilds alone. So one had to conform.

If I found a magic potion which could change someone’s deeply held political beliefs, I could charge big money. I really mean !!!BIG MONEY!!! 

When the argument arose between liberals and conservatives I naively thought presenting hard facts would change people’s way of thinking.

Guys, Global Warming is Real!!!

The war on drugs has failed!!!

If we vote the far right, the fringe element will hijack the country!

We know how that went. Shakes head at my own naivety.

Truth is the mind doesn’t follow the facts. Facts are pesky and stubborn things, but our minds are pushy and even more stubborn. We tend to undervalue facts even if they are written in bold and highlighted, we won’t listen if they are shouted from rooftops if they contradict our deeply held beliefs. My second learning of the year is this :- We look for and find alternative facts that will support our pre-existing beliefs.

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Feels good to get that off my chest!

Confrontation sucks, but only if you let it. I hate confrontation, so I always deal with it by ignoring stuff or being passive aggressive. In the past year I’ve learnt that confrontation doesn’t have to be a fight. Confrontation can be a discussion. It helps clear the air and move forward with relationships intact. So the third lesson is :-

Contrary to popular belief, violent movies actually lead to a slight decline in violence, because, even though people who are likely to commit violent crimes enjoy watching violent movies, they don’t commit violent crimes while sitting in a movie theater. Over a decade, the violent movies led to the direct decline of roughly 1,000 assaults every weekend.

I’m going to binge watch gore this weekend! Netflix here I come!!!

The hardest lesson of them all …..

Sometimes one has to let go of the image of what one thinks one should have got and learn to enjoy what one has …

Oh, its caused me a lot of heartache. I have drowned the “what-I-thought-I-should’ve-got” in tears and spent sleepless nights bargaining with every supernatural diety I could think of.

Doesn’t work! I read self help books, meditated. The past kept haunting me. It was like I was sitting on the iron throne, and was getting stabbed by the swords.

I know … I am a drama queen. It’s hard to be anything else. Hum aisech hi hain, kya karen. So I won’t apologise for the bad simile.

But finally, Once the tears stopped, once I’d let it bleed, let it heal, I became Elsa and I let it go. Let it Go was the mantra of 2018 for me.

Let it Go, Let it Go …..

Is Social Media making us lonely?

Recently I was chatting with an old friend and he said
he was lonely.  He is a widower and his
children are adults who no longer live in the parental home.  “So what do you do to feel better?” I asked.  “Chat with old friends?”

He said social media makes him feel even more
lonely. 

This got me thinking.  Aren’t we interconnected?  The whole point of social media for me is connecting with likeminded people.  Apparently not for a lot of people. The digital age has made them feel more isolated.

Once upon a time social media looked like this.

But … but … where are the people?

I said, “Do you like your own company?”

“You’re talking B.S.,” he said irritably.

No, I wasn’t. 
The thing is that so many people think being alone and being lonely are
the same thing.  It isn’t.  Loneliness stems from rejection.  Nine times out of ten, the rejection comes
from the outside world. 

I have
no friends, I am so lonely.

My
family hates me, I am so alone.

No one
truly understands me.

I am
sitting in a group of people, but no one pays me any attention.

The common thread in all these emotions is the feeling
of invalidation, of isolation, of a devalued existence.

In other words, loneliness.

Being alone, on the other hand is another state of
being altogether.  It can be an empowered
way of existing.

But, to get back to the question I asked my friend, “Do
you like your own company?”

Surprisingly this question causes discomfort to a lot
of people and they react defensively.  My
friend called it B.S.

It isn’t. 

We humans are bombarded with sayings like “Man is a
social animal.”

The truth is that social
bonds were necessary for our ancestors because their survival depended on
it.  It was needed.  It still is in certain hunter-gatherer societies. 

Social bonds are over rated. They’re not essential in modern towns and cities. We like them but our survival doesn’t depend on them.

Moreover, in urban townships, it is possible to feel lonely while being surrounded by people. 

So, it follows that the
opposite is also true.  We can be alone
and not lonely.  We need to have a
relationship with our own selves. 

Try it, it is safe and non-reactive.  And when we embrace ourselves, our gifts and
flaws, without any judgement, we feel awesome!

And best of all, we never
feel lonely again.  Self love is the dope
of the day.  Its inexpensive, doesn’t
nag, ask to be taken to expensive restaurants or threatens to divorce you. 

I urge you, try it. I can’t stress this enough. I had self esteem issues once. But then I had this rocking love affair with myself.

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You may think that you can’t appreciate yourself because you know your flaws. 

*Eye roll*

Honestly honey, we’re all flawed.  Quest for Perfection is the cosmic joke some divine dude with a sick sense of humour played on humanity.

Don’t buy into it.

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Love thyself, hug thyself, buy thyself expensive gifts

Build a rocking relationship with thy awesome self

and then it shall follow

Others will love thee too.

(You can thank me later)

P.S. I wanted to go all wise and Shakespearean here, since the post was all ‘preacher-ey’

Pain Body

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The Pain Body

Of unacknowledged wounds

And inherited memory

Ancient

Patient

Festering

Muttering

A dark, malevolent weight

Of pain and rage

Wrapped in cheery gift-wrapping

And candy coloured ribbons

It waits for the trigger

Waits to be delivered

At the best moment

To ruin my perfect day

Of hankies and splicing

This, kids, is when I officially declare that I am old, antiquated and definitely don’t know what meatus means.

Swear on that!

Dear fellow over-forties, lend me a hanky.  I wouldn’t dare ask anyone under forty to lend me a hanky for fear that I’d have a box of tissues thrust under my nose.  While I do admit that tissues are more sanitary and do not have to be laundered and returned, handkerchiefs were pretty.  I can almost forgive Mummy for making me the chief embroiderer who had to hem, embroider, monogram and crochet laces for all the household handkerchief needs during my girlhood.  It was a part of her campaign to convert a perfectly sane tomboy daughter into a lady.  She failed.

Well, this is about a simple word called splicing.  Splicing is what we did to cassette tapes.  During my teenage, we had devices called portable cassette players.  They looked somewhat like this

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They, dear kids under forty, were devices we listened to music in.  Yes, we had devices and we inserted tapes (storage devices that housed eight to ten songs per side) that looked like this into the device.  I spent many happy hours filling in names of songs in block letters on the cover and labelled them MIX TAPE 1, MIX TAPE 2 etc.  I even had one for all Amitabh Bacchan songs.  Yes kids, that’s how I rolled.

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There were music stores that did roaring business in recording our playlist on to a cassette.  I remember we would fast forward to hunt a favorite track or rewind.  We weren’t completely antiquated you know.  We did have FF and rewind.  Sadly, in our enthusiasm fast-forwarding and rewinding the tape, we ended up making a mess like this

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But fear not.  We had a trick to combat that.  We would insert a pencil into the toothed circular holes to gently roll up the tape.  Sometimes the tape got nicked so we had to cut the un-salvageable part and splice it together with duct tape.  I tried to explain the process to my son this morning and failed.  So I went to Urban Dictionary to get the ‘proper lingo’ to explain it and found this

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And this

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Thank you Urban Dictionary for the completely unexpected education in areas I did not think I needed to be educated about.

 

P.S.  ‘Meatus’?  Gosh I feel old!

Writing as Therapy

I’ve been doing research for a self help book.  It did not start out as a book idea.  It started out as questions to fellow sufferers who were walking the same path as me.

My questions were basic and self serving at first.

How do you cope?
When does it stop hurting?
Is there some way I can forget and heal?

Like I said, self serving and basic.

I was overwhelmed with the response to my questions and more questions sprang up.  And then more.  After I’d filled up two long books and dealt with countless phone calls, one of the ladies I’d been speaking with suggested I compile the questions into a self help book.

I had the material, I knew how to write a book, so all that was left was collating and compiling.

What struck me while I was compiling was that I was past the grief.  A psychologist called James Pennebaker and his colleagues did extensive research on this and found that individuals who write expressively about their past traumatic events experience benefits in both physical and emotional health.  Well, I did not know that, I’d just been searching for a time frame and coping methods.

To people who’re facing some kind of heartbreak or are trying to get over their numbness and pain, here are some tips :

Recall your pain in vivid detail
Write.  If you do not want anyone to read, write in a long book, tear out the paper and rip it into bits.
I like burning that shit up, but then, that’s me.  I’d love to burn a lot of shit up.
Its okay if you cry while doing it.  Its okay if you have emotions that bubble up during the day.  Its the healing process.
If you feel that there is still pain and anger after you’ve done this, repeat the process the next day.
Rinse and repeat as many times you find necessary.
You may thank me with a donation on PayPal.  Ha!  Kidding.