My break from people

I noticed that my previous post did not garner nearly as many views or comments as my otherwise personal, venting, bare-it-all, vulnerable ones do. So does that mean that those are the only kinds people like reading about? Because they relate to them or because it’s a voyeuristic universe? I can’t tell. All I know is that I avoided the blog for a while for precisely this reason—I didn’t want to write vulnerable, whiny posts. I don’t like whiny people, so why would people tolerate my whiny-ness? Clearly, I was wrong.

I’ve been on a break from people lately. Well, to be fair, I’m slowly slipping back into the game, but for at least for two weeks back there, I stayed away from most people. Apart from of course my colleagues, who I see at work. Can’t give up my job—would never do it; it’s what keeps me going. For those 10-12 hours a day, I forget it all.

The reason I decided to take a break from people is simply because all of a sudden, for the last few months, my life had become shrouded with negativity. Nothing in my personal life was going right. I know I sound dramatic. But when you’re as tiny as I am, all of it can be overwhelming. My biggest strengths, my friends, were falling apart all around me. We call each other family, and suddenly all I could see was that this family was disintegrating before my eyes. The matters of the heart were not getting better. I was losing people closest to me—either temporarily or permanently, I couldn’t tell. After a point, I stopped blaming the universe and world for all that was going wrong, and decided to look inward. It had to be something to do with me, right? I mean, I could no longer connect with people I had known for 20 years, some for eight years, and some I had been intimately connected with for four years. What the hell was going on? My solution—work till I drop, go straight home and numb my senses (insert what you like here).

Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, this seemed to work. For those two weeks that I decided not to see people, not only did I feel lighter, as I had no expectations, and hence could not feel disappointed, but certain people who had dropped out of my life, miraculously reappeared—some for a moment, some maybe for good. Although I said I didn’t want to see people, I ended up spending time with those I really cared about, and some time spent on my own in introspection or with my favourite—a ton of books.

During this time, the only kind of articles that kept popping up on my newsfeed, etc., were on love, friendship, the importance of forgiveness, etc. Very unsettling. Of course, I read them all. They didn’t help much because the oscillation only continued stronger—one of those giant pirate ship rides that give you butterflies in your tummy.

I am slowly getting back ‘into it’ so as to speak, but I’m not there yet. And I don’t know whether and when I want to be ‘there’. Doesn’t it just sound cooler that I have no time from my hectic job to socialise or to think about my broken heart, etc? I think so.

Medicine - a money making machine

I’m literally sick of doctors. Not just in that I hate visiting doctors, hospitals, clinics and popping pills. But I am truly sick and tired of the kind of doctors I’ve met lately—and all of them seem to be the same. Unfortunately, I’ve had a host of problems lately which has led me into the cabins of a gynaecologist, an ENT specialist, a dentist and an orthopaedic. And every single experience has been horrific and blood-boiling, to put it mildly.

Gynaecologists are supposed to be gentle, understanding and patient. The one I met, supposedly a famous one, was anything but these. On first glance, she is a sweet old lady who treats you like a grandchild. But during the course of my two very short visits I discovered that she was impatient, snappy and rough—too busy to spend time on one patient; she had money to make! This woman was so terrible that she literally drove me to tears and I vowed never to return to her.

My ENT doctor has been one I’ve been going to for the last three years or so. He’s told me the same thing every time—I have a recurring infection. But I was never thinking clearly; to me, he eased my excruciating pain and that made me want to go back to him every time. He also instructed me to visit only one particular pharmacy for the medicines he prescribed, every single time. I never quite saw through this till my friends pointed it out. The last time I went to him, I was adamant not to go to the particular chemist so that he doesn’t get his cut. Thereafter, I visited at least 8-10 chemists across the city and none of them had all the medicines. Apart from this, he has always been full of personal questions (he remarkably remembers every single detail of my personal life, that I foolishly shared before) and does not get the hint when I don’t want to discuss it with him. I’m simply going to find a new ENT the next time my problem resurfaces.

Finally, I went to an orthopaedic a few days ago. He checked me out (after which my pain was only exacerbated) and after making some small talk, I exited his cabin to pay the OPD fee. It’s only then that I discovered that the fee for his moving around my wrist for less than 10 minutes was a whopping 1,000 bucks. I sighed but relented. Since I wasn’t carrying that much cash I asked whether I could either go to an ATM to withdraw the money or could pay by card. The lady at the desk said I would have to pay by card but would have to pay 200 bucks extra (this was after she had a quick conversation with the blessed doctor). Again, I sighed and relented. It was my fault that I hadn’t asked how much the fee was before I came and that I didn’t carry enough cash. I specifically asked her for a bill, which she said she would furnish once the payment was done. I was taken downstairs where I made the card payment and then returned to the very polite lady’s desk to ask for my bill. I was then rudely told that the doctor had left and I would have to come back for the receipt. I was fuming, especially since I had already made it clear that I need the bill—1200 bucks isn’t a small amount. She put her hands up and asked me to speak directly to the doctor.

I did send the good doctor a message who categorically told me that he cannot give me a receipt till he receives the cash in hand, which could take up to seven to ten days. In the interim, he told me, the hospital would give me a bill. Utter bullshit, either way.

What has happened to the honour associated with the medical profession? Yes, money is important for all of us, I don’t deny that. But for a doctor, is that all it’s about? Wasn’t the profession supposed to be about helping and healing people? When did it become about fastest money first, at the expense (literally) of their poor suffering patients?

I have truly had it with these miserable creatures. I’m so tempted to name each one of these doctors, but I’m using every last ounce of willpower to refrain from doing so. Henceforth, I’d prefer to either let my problems solve themselves, or take bloody good care of myself so that I don’t have to keep going back to them—alone, that too.

Feminaaaaa :)

Read my stories on femina.in! And read my friends stories on femina.in. They're all fun!

Here's my latest one:

http://femina.in/editors-blog/in-search-of-home-1553.html

I'm a serial mover, so this is something about them. And please, tell me what you think about the stuff I write too; and what you would like us to write about. Talk to me, peeps! Lots of love xx

Memoirs at a vineyard

The word ‘lush’ is truly justified by the green terrain offered by Maharashtra and its countryside. Drive to anywhere in the state, outside the main cities, and the colour you will encounter will blow you away. Luckily for me, I’ve enjoyed this lush greenery, time and time again, in the last eight years.

For me, the Sula vineyard in Nashik is steeped in memories. Memories of a long drive through the countryside; of endless vines inviting love and lust into the horizon; of twirling delicious wine in glasses, gingerly sipping it at leisure; of fingers entwined with a light, loving caress here and there; of a head on a shoulder, staring out into the vision that is the vineyard, together; of that look when that song is played for the first time; of endless photos taken, capturing moments never to return…

For the first time since I first visited Sula in 2009/10, I was given an opportunity to make new memories, while reliving the old ones through the mist of rain. I just spent three days at the Sula vineyard with the entire team of Femina, and what an experience was had! Do you blame me for being a blissfully happy workaholic who is head over heels in love with her job?

I think beauty and nature inspire every artist—be it a painter, writer or a poet. So why should I be left behind? Since I arrived late on a Monday morning, this blog post has been cooking in my mind. I’m sure the one in my mind read better, but this had to be put down.

The thing with memories is that it can make you happy and sad in equal proportion. Reliving good times will bring a smile to your face, yet the knowledge that those times will never return make your heart sink to your feet. And then you realise that you’re lonely.

Loneliness is a damned thing. It’s extremely difficult for most of us to admit that we’re lonely, even to ourselves; and yet, it’s one of the most common things felt among people of all ages, especially ones living away from home in big, bad cities.

When you have to go from enjoying someone’s company to suddenly not having that company every single day, you will get lonely. You may have friends and colleagues around; your job will distract you; and substances like alcohol and drugs will blur your memory into oblivion. But try as you might, admit it or not, that loneliness creeps in. It’s sad, depressing, heartwrenching and frustrating—more so because you’re feeling sorry for the one person who matters the most to you; you.

I suppose realising that you’re not alone in your loneliness, and that different people have different manifestations of it, helps somewhat. Once you realise and admit that you’re lonely, the process to get over the self-pity and self-deprecating stance can begin. Sula refreshed me this time, especially since I had a particularly lonely weekend in a house I don’t like. So I intend to change that. If I’m going to stay here for a while (and I must!) and I’m going to spend plenty of time there, I might as well get over my “I don’t give a shit about this place” attitude and get down to start prettying the place up. So that’s the agenda of this weekend.

If you read this blog regularly enough, you’ll know how often I oscillate between positivity and mindnumbing pessimism and depression. So I don’t promise that this streak will continue, but fingers crossed. I hope my next post can be of how I made my new apartment and room into home.

Till then, visit Sula vineyard, and have a glass of the Sula Late Harvest Dessert Wine on me. Cheers!

Learning it all the hard way

So I’ve been chastised lately by several peeps for my lack of regularity in updating this blog. Truth is, I’ve been avoiding it. There, I said it. For the first time since I started writing here, I don’t want a bare-it-all kinda post, and yet I fear, that as soon as I start typing, my mind will automatically go into vulnerable and open-to-all mode. And right now, for a reason I can’t quite fathom, I don’t want to do that. But let’s see how this goes.

There’s been an overhaul of sorts in my life in the last month or so. An overhaul I’ve been through a few times in the past, so I guess it makes me stronger every time, yet something that gnaws and chews at me every time, nonetheless. This overhaul has led to a new abode which I’m still trying to get used to, with very little luck. People have been giving me all sorts of ideas to spruce things up in my home but I just don’t feel like it. Maybe in time…

I’ve learnt some hard lessons lately, questioned a number of decisions I’ve made, and wondered where my life is taking me. Wondered about the things that I’ve been so clear and confident about till now. I’ve learnt that no matter what and who, everyone has their own lives and priorities and the sooner you accept this, the easier things will get—so don’t expect others to pick you up. I’ve now realised why people stay in bad marriages and relationships, or forgive their partners for cheating and murder, or search high and low for a new partner, or settle for much less than they want or deserve—for the companionship and security they otherwise provide. I’m not condoning it, nor am I dismissing it. I just understand it now.

I’ve learnt that you feel differently about different people, and the degrees vary as well—how you feel for someone and how they feel for you. I’ve learnt that sometimes your strongest convictions are shattered, but having them shattered just once usually isn’t enough. You’re not going to learn to give up or let go unless you’ve been trampled on several times over. Yet, somehow, you emerge strong—out of no choice.

But I suppose the toughest lesson I’ve learnt is that planning and giving your all to anything at all usually goes unrewarded. Because at the end of the day, it’s all about your destiny, which you can’t fight—try. I’ve learnt that you can get your heart broken by the same person over and over again, and it hurts the same, every time. I’ve learnt that expectations are worth nothing.

Today’s an especially emo day for me cos it’s the happy buddays of two very special men in my life. Two people who I’ve turned to, leant on and given my all to, in varying degrees, over the years. Two people I love deeply, in different ways, but who matter to me greatly, whether they are in my life or not. Sadly, I saw neither today, for completely different reasons. And I guess that just makes me sadder.

The big fat silver lining to this phase though, is that I’m completely and totally in love with my job. I’m being branded a whacko workaholic, but I don’t mind. This job distracts me, lets me do what I love doing, what I’m passionate about, pays me and gives me credit for it, and lets me be me. Femina, the magazine, the website, the people—all of it makes me inexplicably happy. I hope I never lose this spark, because after almost two years, I feel ambitious and focused again; and I suppose I wouldn’t trade this feeling for the world.

Complexion - a dark tale

Two of the worst things you can be born as in this country are being born a girl and being born dark-skinned. I inadvertently committed the crime of being born as both. One of my parents was devastated when said parent was told I was a girl, while the other was in tears when said other saw my skin tone—not the blushing cherubic little flower the parent was promised. I choose to not disclose which parent felt which emotion—one said parent reads this blog regularly, and the other one seemingly gets regular updates from it.

That India is obsessed with fair skin is a widely known, almost accepted fact. While advertising for alcohol and cigarettes is illegal, and the manufacturers of Rooh Afza are suing the makers of Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani because their sentiments were hurt with some dialogue in the film, propagating fairness and suggesting that dark women have no confidence, cannot get ahead in their careers or will not get married, is perfectly acceptable and legal. Indians are known as brown-skinned all over the world and very fair skin is less common than dusky skin in the country, and yet, we all want to be fair.

I just read somewhere how even the words attached to each are so loaded with prejudice—fair (justice and equal) as opposed to dark (evil and twisty). I couldn’t agree more.

I grew up genuinely feeling bad about the skin colour I was born with—my mother and sister are both far fairer than I am. My mother, apparently, was as dark as I am, but once she moved to the US, the air and fruits of a foreign country turned her into the Cinderella version of fair. This was supposed to console me; that some day I, too, would be fair.

Relatives would always tell me, “Oh my God, why are you / have you become so dark?” Umm, you’ve seen me for years, when was the last time I was, err, fair? I still get it. Every time I go back home, some relative or neighbour will tell me how I’ve become darker. I’ve also been told how a photo of me with my very fair best friend looks like a black and white one.

My mother would return from weddings and give me a lowdown—what food was served, how the groom looked and most importantly, how pretty (or not) the bride was. And so very often I would get this: She was very pretty, rongta ektu chanpa (literally translated to her colour was a little covered / suppressed, ie. she was dark), but still, pretty. As if it’s a holy miracle that this girl with dark skin is pretty. How in God’s name did that happen? Must’ve been a fluke.

I don’t blame my mother. This is the country she grew up in, how progressive can she be? As I grew up, I developed and kind of, well, blossomed into my own, and started first accepting and then enjoying my ‘dusky’ skintone. People started complimenting me on my complexion, and first boys, and then men, started to get attracted to me largely because of the colour of my skin. I was initially surprised but once that faded, I revelled in it.

Today, I love my complexion. Often, I’ve tried to close my eyes and imagine what I’d look like fair, and frankly I cannot picture it. It just seems far too alien. My complexion, my hair and my eyes kinda grew on me, and everyone else.

Recently, I was on a weekend trip with my bunch, and the conversation veered to this very topic. My very opinionated friend seemed to take offence to the word ‘dusky’ as opposed to ‘dark’. She believes that by using dusky as a euphemism for dark, we’re further propagating this bias against the dark-skinned. Needless to say, she is not dark-skinned. While I wholeheartedly agree with her principle, I chose to sit this one out. Simply because she has not grown up with the kind of jibes and insults you have to hear when you’re of a certain colour. For those who have, and if they prefer to be dusky over dark, then so be it—whatever it takes to not hurt your feelings or pick at a raw wound. So I understand the preference of dusky over dark.

Frankly, I no longer give a shit about how my complexion is termed. That’s not to say that I didn’t grow up with a major complex, serious self-esteem issues (which, honestly, are not all gone), and just very hurt at the fact that my close ones thought me to be less beautiful than others because of something I was born with and that was completely out of my control. Which is also a reason I never use the word ugly, on principle. Or fat, for that matter, but these are for another post.

The entertainment industry the world-over today is flooded with ‘dusky’ women, and more are still sought out. I am dark, dusky, chanpa, whatever you’d like to call it—but yes, I don’t cringe when I look into a mirror, and that’s more than enough for my self-confidence.

Title-less

I’ve been meaning to write for a while now but have been at a loss for words. I know, that’s a first. ‘Lots’ has been going on and yet nothing. My mind is a mess and yet a blank slate.

I’m packing again. I’m packing up my entire life in Bombay in boxes and suitcases, just like I did three months ago and three months before that. It’s funny how your entire being comes down to just a few boxes and assets. Some you take with you and some you leave behind. Well, I suppose you leave behind far more.

I met a very special man last year who told me I’ll never settle in one place, and that I’ll probably be touring the whole world and be happy. I’m beginning to wonder—maybe he got this one wrong. Maybe he meant to say that I’ll never settle in one home; that the vagabond life, much as I hate it (since it’s within the same city) is the one for me; no choice there. Damn, that’s depressing.

Yes, I was in search of my happiness and for a while there, I found it. Rediscovered myself and all that. But once the rose-tinted glasses come off, you realise that the smile you’ve found is just temporary and perhaps just a way to put off dealing with real life, the way you’re whole life is about to change, as you know it. We all crave change and yet it’s scary to actually face it, isn’t it? When you, till a point in your life, were so convinced that it’s headed in a certain and then poof—in just a moment, it’s all gone.  

On top of all this, you have worry—not for yourself, because you know that no matter what, you’ll survive just about anything. Yes, it’s strength of sorts, but not out of strength of character so much as it is from lack of choice. Life doesn’t throw me lemons; it chucks melons at me.

But you’re worrying about those in your life, those close to you, or at least, those who were close to you at some point. What do you do when you can see someone you care about deeply heading down a dangerous path? You know it, the world can see it, hell, s/he knows it too—but will just not do anything about it. Paying heed to your worries is obviously not an option; you’d not be here if it was, to begin with. How do you tackle something that you can see slipping out of the person’s control, with helplessness setting in? Do you sit back and let that person destroy himself? Do you walk away because you can’t watch him doing so, well aware that he will, indeed, destroy himself? Or do you fight to save him, at the risk of your feelings, self-respect and perhaps any possibility of a relationship with the person, being destroyed along with him? These aren’t rhetorical questions; I’m genuinely throwing this out there, cos I’m helpless and clueless.

In the midst of all this, I think the universe is trying to send out a message. People have been dropping like flies—excuse the crudeness. This is odd, because people die everyday, but the nation and the world only cares when it’s someone famous, or even remotely famous. Did Jiah Khan make the right decision to end her life? Maybe not; but unless you’re in her shoes, maybe that comment should not be made. Committing suicide takes a whole load of guts (no, it’s not cowardly). Many of us have had the thought cross our minds as some point, but have subsequently chickened out. It’s only when life gets unbearable and that pain in your gut is so excruciating that you can’t breathe, that you take such an extreme step. I’m not condoning it nor am I condemning it. My only point in this would be—no matter how crappy your life is, there are still enough people who love you to bits; think about what would happen to them if you were suddenly gone.

I suddenly find myself a little dazed, a little confused and quite scared. I thought I was ready for something, but I find myself suddenly recoiling. I thought I was ready to take a certain step, but when I see it becoming even a little bit of a reality, I just want to find a rock and crawl under it. Damn, this rock has been mentioned too often—really is time to find it.