And it itches again ...

My heart that is! No more sure of what would be more appropriate to use - soul or heart. More and more people have flung on me what looks like an accusation - I weigh my words. But what is a word if not worth its salt. No takers sadly for my sincere effort to let a word meander around my tongue, be weighed and then let out lovingly.

The itching although has nothing to do with my grief as a misunderstood soul. It is just that words are finding me again. I returned home this summer to find my neighbour gone. What stayed on were two discarded chairs on his roof. One long glance and words came out. I went on my rooftop and words tumbled out. I was fair to them. I put them down on paper and then made it a point to lose them. But that didn't help. It is like the pollen from the words have taken wings. I now want to write...and not just write but write a novel. It is funny! Funny because there is no plot, no idea and no characters. There is just a germ and that germ is making my heart itch. No more sure of what would be more appropriate to use - soul or heart.

Pat, pat, pat on the back

Many ships have come and gone by. I can tell because I never see the same lot when I take a break from staring at my computer screen. While I worked furiously at finishing my guiding course, my girl finished a year at school. While I took the next step, trusting destiny is not just pre-decided but taking a chance – I grew a year older. Somewhere along, my hands discovered the floor in my yoga practice.

By the time the first fireworks lit the skyline over the smacking new stadium, I was ready to throw my scarf in the air – to celebrate my graduation. Rest has been life - stuff cooking, acne happening, friends leaving and yoga suffering.

As I type, out of the gutters of my brain, comes out the memory of the little girl who sang at Beijing Olympics. She was pretty and she sang beautifully. It was found out later, the face was pretty but the voice was someone else’s. I have felt like this a bit over the past few months - not getting my due because somehow I am not good enough for the world to see. But today I was found out – face, voice and all. I did a tour. Not my first but my best. There was applause, happy faces, kind words and a positive feedback to the museum. I am happy. And I feel generous. Generous enough to sit over a pile of clothes and an unmade bed!

Happy Valentine's Day

Dear Ivy,

It is Valentine's Day today. It holds no meaning to me. But one V Day I would like to give you a heart-shaped balloon, a bear hug and a piece of cake I baked. The purest, meaningful and rounded love I have felt is the one you have for me. You are the dream I sometimes find written about in my old diaries. It never ceases to amaze me how different you are from your momma. And yet when you look at me with my eyes, I see myself, my words, me.

You will never remember the first time you turned around at your classroom's door, eyes distant, and said, "You go momma." You broke my heart. Momma couldn't stop crying when you said, "I sleep alone." My stick of a girl, I forgave you the moment your big eyes turned pools of uncertainty over what was wrong in being a big girl. Truth is, momma was proud of you. She was as she is when you scooter too fast, let go and raise a leg like a ballerina to relish the moment - my eagle in flight. 

Love is to give, love is to live and love is to go on. It is easy to say that while you sleep, and the house is quiet. But it is true. I love you as much as I can love. And one Valentine's, I will have a heart-shaped balloon, a bear-hug and a piece of cake ready when you wake up. 

Humility before flexibility

I often have women in my yoga class complimenting me on my flexibility. The Miss Vanity in me lights up, while Miss Humble waves frantically, telling the mind to not forget yoga is about humility. I began my yoga practice a few years ago and have never felt happier. The mat is the only spot I can exclusively claim to be my own. It is my place to ponder, to look within, and to have a private dialogue.

Imagine if you could talk to your organs. Imagine if they could tell you - could you please readjust that walk, that standing pose, that lurch to the back when you dive down to pick an errant toy. It would hurt less. The body preens before you, and like a tailor you make adjustments.

You breathe more consciously. And in that moment the breath leads you a micro inch more towards touching the shin with your face, you realize the more you give the more you get.

Flexibility comes at its pace. It grabs the cockles of your ego and makes you see reality. And then, after years of frustrating efforts, it surprises you one sweaty day when your legs entwine to form an eagle.

Every time I hear I am flexible, I think about those days when my boobs and my girth suffocated me in shoulder stand. Through tears, toil, sweat, broken nails and aching muscles, my body deigned to sync with me. All I can say is I am grateful.

Back to books

I find it tough nowadays to write for the fun of it. Words overwhelm me. They make my eyes water and my brain shudder.

For the last three months, I have been burning the midnight oil reading and writing. I wonder where I would be if I had spent my five years at university with such dedication.  

With family and a kid, some things become a luxury. For me it is time. And the harder to get it acts, the harder I work - juggling being me, momma, wifey and a museum guide. I never knew it was in me to be interested in history. But here I am, furiously absorbing in the 32 signs by which to identify the Buddha. I love the musty silence of my museum. I am at an age where I accept my failings and my strengths. I am comfortable among the sentients of the past. Their silent demeanour draws me. They stir up my dried-up muse. I could not be a professor, but I am confident of being a history teacher – and a mighty good one.

Back to reading Buddhism’s esoteric form.

Midnight blues

The good comes with the evil. Happiness has sadness lurking in the shadows. My India visits are like these done-to-death sayings. Every year I come back home to my parents looking forward to be a kid again. And every year, I begin my holiday with lots of accusations, harsh words and hate thrown my way.

I am no longer sure about the right way to deal with it. I once believed that no one deserves shit and after slogging for a degree all those years, I was not meant to take shit. I was so wrong. I have been on both sides. I have hit back and I have endured it to the point of losing my sanity. But it has not worked. It hurts. It hurts to the point of losing faith in goodness, in people, in relationships. 

Hong Kong memorabilia - I

5/7/2010

I got into a cab and immediately regretted it. The driver was shouting, errr.. talking on the phone, and could split my delicate eardrums any second. 

I was ready to faint by the time we had snaked through the narrow Lockhart road and Luard road, and on to the Queens Road east. I recovered as we turned into the Magazine Gap road. But I sank back as the driver abandoned the usual way to Pedder Street, and raced again towards Queen Roads east. Making it to Yoga on time was looking impossible.

It was either my sulking face or exclamations of irritation that the driver began to talk to me.

I was caught off guard when he asked me - what were Hong Kongers called who opposed the Chinese government? 

As I debated whether he was an undercover, mainland-CCP agent, trying to deport me on the sly by getting me started onto an anti-commi tirade, he put brakes to my imagination. He inquired what was the correct way to pronounce 'dissident'. Whether it was dissi-dent, dizzi-dent or didd-ent.

I did my best helping him with the pronunciation, and explaining why demanding more electoral reforms was not dissidence. He cut me short as we entered Lan Kwai Fong, and tailed the taxi ahead.

The traffic on Wellington Street meant we still had some time on hand. The driver was now talking about how the French in the city said they were going to rendezvous when they could simply say - I am going to meet so and so. He now wanted to know if I knew what rendezvous meant. I gave a quick nod, asking him to turn into Lyndhurst Tearrace and stop.

As I handed over the fare, he asked me where had I learnt English. There was a line of cabs building behind us and conversation had to be cut short. As I slammed the door behind me with enough correctness, he said aloud - not many people understand these words in this city. You know your English!

Yoga at Joo Chiat

A few plants on the left, and a lone-one to the right, frame the vintage, grill-door to Anna’s white-washed studio. Unassuming like her, it is soaked in her trademark, soulful music and a light fragrance.

It is my first time here. The positive vibes immediately uplift my mood. 

A passionate teacher, and dedicated fellow-practitioners are essential to a group practice. And our yoga group is fortunate to be blessed with both. By the time we finish, I am smiling for no reason. I feel light - lightness of being :-)

Most often, I am soberly focussed in class, but tonight my mind and limbs feel an unusual sprint. If you have seen the grace in Anna’s practice, you may get what I mean. Perhaps, she had rubbed it on to me.

Ye agan

How do you kill the anger in you? You douse it with reason, dissolve it in acceptance, or rise like a phoenix from the ashes of your rage, and turn a new leaf. Three days a week for over a year, I have lied down in shavaasan, and pondered over the embers of my feeling wronged.

The year gone by

I am often overwhelmed by my life moving with the precision of an old clock. Well oiled, yet falling apart without notice. In motion like the gong but peppered with stillness, which comes when the mind drops pace to see the needle turn a minute. The meaning of my ambition has made a tectonic leap. I am just a mom on most days. Once I felt guilty about switching gears. Now I hold on to what I have come to have like rosary beads. Turning it over and over again, as I mediate before my computer screen.

To Ma

I stood as a kid in front of the mirror, and looked for similarities with you. Your smooth, white complexion, the graceful neck, the straight hair – I did not seem to have been blessed with any of it. The sting of the slap when I did not listen to you, further confirmed my fears that I was not your own.

Almost 25 years later, I cannot help but smile at the memory of my childishness. I am smiling again, as I walk by the dressing table. I am certainly beginning to look like you. The smile readily turns into a frown, as babu scampers with my t-shirt to mop the floor. I hear myself muttering some familiar words. Words you muttered when I and sis were up to some mischief. I wait to see if you heard me. To see if you will tell me that Idepend on her even to express my exasperation with my little devil. But you are busy. Busy being mommy.

I want to run to you once again. To tell you how I have waited a year - to come meet you. To touch you. To eat your food. To see you worked up over details. To drink sugary tea. To wear starched clothes. To smell the incense stick you burn every morning.

As babu runs away to lay siege elsewhere, I wonder would she miss me once she is all grown up. Would she wait to come back to me. Would she love her Ma.

Sleepless in SG

We leave for Spain tomorrow, and as the time for the 14-hour flight approaches, sleep has begun to elude me. It had bothered me less earlier as the daily motions of life, and planning and shopping for the trip kept me on my toes. But now that it is here, I can think of nothing but all that can go wrong travelling with a teething and restless, 15-months old.

A lot of people had warned us about holidays having to be put on hold after the baby's arrival. But to their surprise and ours, the contrary happened. We have been on a few mini vacations including an eight-hour road trip since last year. It has been far from easy. But better than sitting at home and dreaming about all the fun we are missing. Holidays, of course, are not what they used to be.



Everything and every moment has to be worked around the kid's schedule. One full day has to be treated as half a day, as meal times, naps, meltdowns, and the unthinkable have to be factored in. Yet, we have stuck to our guns. Made the best of our circumstances, and been happy with what we could do. And so, going on a long-distance trip seemed ok until now. Anyway, there is no turning back and nothing better than taking the devil by its horns.

Please pray for us, and I will soon send a hola from the other side of the world.

The year that was

The year 2012 was full of revelations – about myself and about people I called my own. My daughter’s birth almost a year ago set in motion a series of incidents that left me bitter, full of rage and cynical. While I struggled to take care of my girl, deal with ailments and settle down in a new country, my extended family ensured that I sank emotionally. I have been through enough quarrels, borne enough insult, been shocked enough, and cried enough as people denied what horrible things they said. I might not be the most perfect being, but I am fair and decent enough. I have never badmouthed anyone (until now), never played dirty games, and never been disrespectful to elders. But when you are forced to listen to insults against your family, be manipulated for everything you say, be taken advantage of because you do not know how to hit back, expected to compromise for the sake of peace at home – something breaks and something changes. I have had enough. Enough of the doormat treatment! I still do not know how to end it, but I am not going to take it anymore.

Finding my feet

You cannot seek peace. You can only live your life, hoping it will seek you some day. And it sought me out last evening as I walked along the Marina reservoir, soaking in the silence evening brings, humming Wo shaam kuch ajeeb thi… It has been over a year since we left Hong Kong, and our life before our girl came along. Pregnancy, displacement anxiety, P’s work situation, family issues, and initial hiccups of parenthood have kept us away from relishing the adventure that moving cities and countries entails. And, I suppose, it has reflected in how I have lived my life in the past one year. Looking back, I am afraid, I have given people the impression that I have been bitter. I was bitter. Bitter the way one is when nothing makes sense. With no friends, nowhere to turn to for support, no help, a battered body and a little baby, I fear, I was depressed for some time. I did not step out of my apartment for days, feeling victimized and wronged. All the optimism that I had gushed about earlier on this blog deserted me. I was so forlorn, so unhappy that I shudder thinking about it now. Thankfully, I have begun to understand the injustice I have been doing to myself. Talking to random people, boring my mother and sister to death, and trying P’s last bit of patience, let me vent out. After months of complaining, I think my negativity is losing steam. Healing begins when you begin to accept your reality. Bit by bit, I am making peace with my situation. I have begun to pick pieces of my life, cherishing all the good stuff it has showered on me.

Bitter and sweet-II

I had never imagined that I would be caught in a complex web of hatred, slander and meanness, but I am. The people involved are some of my closest and the people targeted are the closest too. How can one demand respect when they do not know how to give respect. How can one claim to be hurt when they let go no opportunity to hurt. In the vicious cycle I am caught what I say gets used against me and sadly accepted too.

Bitter and sweet-1

It has been five months since my girl's birth. Five long months that have been filled with countless lessons and revelations about me and others. In the strange world of relationships we tread, there are no caveats about what a possible step could entail. What things seem and what they are - are two different things. And, it is when the two realities collide and put things into perspective, the worthlessness of it all strikes. I am tired - rather shocked by how fragile bonds could be. One invests so much in other people, in forming bonds, but at the end of the day, you realize it was worth nothing. All it takes is ego, jealousy, insecurities and selfishness to undo it all. I am weary of what my daughter will learn out of it. I am disillusioned now that I know how grey the grey is. I often thought that I am fortunate to have been blessed with my little world. But like all bubbles, this one burst.

Get arty

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Bitter and sweet

In my ten days of motherhood, I have learnt:

1. A normal delivery is just a delivery with fewer complications but no less sweat.
2. Pain gets redefined once you go into labour.
3. The real work starts when the baby arrives.
4. Rest when you can because the rest can wait.
5. If you initially feel no love for the little being, it is alright. You are human and you need time to adjust to the big change.
6. The bonding will happen. It always does!
7. In the end you are on your own, so stop feeling sorry for yourself. But if you cannot, go ahead and cry, and then tighten your belt, and get some work done.
8. There is always a first time, so never shy from asking for help.
9. A lot of people will claim to be ready and to be in the process of doing a lot for you but when the time comes, it all goes poof!
10. Free advice should always be treated as free and readily dispensed with.
11. Some people get more credit than they deserve, and often, those who do the dirty work do not.
12. No one can be frailer and in need of more attention and love than women who have delivered a baby.
13. Expectations are a two-way street.
14. Time flies, so know what to do with it.

Sweet indulgences!

I have been shopping like there is no tomorrow – jewellery, sarees, suits, home stuff, utensils, baby clothes, gifts, make up. And, I am yet not quenched. I have always bought the essentials on my India trips, stocked up on what was not available; but with SG taking care of masalas, and other basic stuff needed in an Indian household, I am free to direct my energy and attention elsewhere. And what a ball it has been! Tough on the purse but energising for me and my frayed spirits!

I have not been able to venture far but been happy shopping in the little shops that dot the bazaar near my home. There is no fun like sitting in a shop, watching fabric after fabric falling in a heap in front of you. The variety available is a treat. Brocade and chanderi prints are the rage here, and just feasting on the blazing and antique finish colourful fabrics is enough to bring a smile on a woman’s face. Add to this, shopping for chikan suits and kurtis. There is something about this form of embroidery, full of nazaakat, that you can never have enough of it. The heavier and the brighter, the better!

I have walked down narrow lanes into dirt-wracked pooja bhandaars selling deepams and all stuff brass and its copy. It is not like walking into a fancy home store but the treasure hunt and prices are worth it. I visited a street market, going berserk buying spools of fancy lace at ludicrously cheap prices. They are bit shiny and gaudy, but then doesn't every thing find its place some day. Another great buy on this day out was a traditional wooden bangle stand. It has four horizontal wooden rods, with dome-shaped edges painted golden, balanced on roughly cut vertical, wooden blocks. It is not an excellent piece of artisanship but its crudity is what makes it pretty.

When I could and had the appetite, I jostled with crowds, with my pattal stretched, waiting for my turn for yummy golguppas. There is nothing like biting into a jalebi or samosa fresh out of the wok on a cold day.

Sadly, much of this has slowed down as the countdown to the d-day has officially begun. I am excited but slowly losing enthusiasm. The big day is no more months away and can no longer be postponed to the future. Bodily signs in preparation of the big day are slowly and silently making their appearance. It gets uncomfortable, not to mention the frequent mood swings, but the thought of all that I have bought and would buy in the future keeps me warm and happy. I may appear funny that way but that is how I am.

Self gloating

Pregnancy has done wonders to my self image. I have never revelled in the sight of my cleavage, a bit of flesh on display and overall the way I look, as I have over the past months. Part of it could be a result of being unable to do much about the way I have begun to look. The baby needed my thighs to be sturdier, the waist to accumulate more layers of fat and my breasts to fill up. Side effects such as glowing skin and a healthier mane have been helpful in dealing with the not-so-welcome changes. Anyway, the point is that impending motherhood has brought out a new love in me for myself, warts and imperfections included. I feel good despite the toll being a human incubator has taken. I think I can handle myself better. I am more at peace with myself although this could be a smugness induced by the feeling that everything at this point is justified and excusable. Still, I am looking forward to get into shape, do yoga, run, cycle, dress up more, laugh more, and be more active, once my baby is here. Not for its sake but for mine.