Reality vs. Imagination.

Every year on my birthday, I cry.

This year was no exception.

"Happy Birthday to me." I grumbled sarcastically as the husband entered the kitchen at 7.30 am on the morning of my birthday last week.

He said nothing. Didn't react. He's learnt to walk on egg shells around this time of the year. He's had 28 years of practice.

I was washing the dishes. The kitchen tap was gushing ferociously. I huffed and I puffed at the unfairness of the morning. 

He extended a small bag towards me. I rolled my eyes at him. I was in no mood to dry my hands and accept my birthday present from him. He left for work after wishing me 'Happy Birthday' quietly.

The 'present' sat on the slab near the water filter, unopened. I looked at it only after I had done the dishes and scrubbed all the surfaces and dried my hands. I didn't open it.

I should've been happy. I should've ripped the present open and rejoiced in this act of love, basked in the happy fact that he'd made an effort. But, something inside me was nudging me on to be unhappy. I wanted to be moody and block any joy from entering my heart. What it is, I don't know. But, it happens every year -- around my birthday. Perhaps, it's an unresolved childhood memory. Perhaps it's a disconnect between my reality and  my imagination.

Till a decade or so ago, I'd imagine my birthday to be a replay of the many Mills and Boon romances I'd read as a teenager. Something like this: that a perfectly fitting dress with perfectly matched accessories and the most comfortable and fashionable shoes (all wrapped up beautifully) will be delivered to my door along with a note that'll read--have made reservations at so and so, will be waiting for you. Love you. Signed--husband. 

The messenger will turn out to be a chauffeur as well.  I'll get dressed and go to celebrate my special day at this fabulous imaginary location and we'll live happily ever after.

Ignore the big plot gaps such as work schedules (my birthday is not a national holiday) and HIS choice of dress, location, footwear suiting my taste and temperament -- I don't let him decide my salad dressing, how did I imagine myself being okay with his choice of attire for me?

Let's assign the absurdity of my imaginary celebrations to my daydreaming ways.

Granted, it's a ridiculous ask. 

Now, Let's take a quick peek at what usually happened--year after year on my birthday.

Firstly, it took the husband more than a decade of reminding (by yours truly) to remember the all important date!

By the time the children became old enough to make cards and make a fuss over me, he'd figured it was safer to ask them to help him to keep me from blowing my fuse.

It worked, mostly. Except, there's that big one he missed -- my fortieth. I sulked for half a month.

He's been good as gold since.

It's been 11 years.

Another learning happened on that fateful 40th. I took charge of my own celebrations. 

I became my own romantic hero from then on. I bought my own presents for me--a saree and/or a piece of jewellery, organised picnics or turned up for gatherings organised by other women, met friends for a meal--anything that I fancied that year to celebrate my special day. 

In fact, the year I turned 48, I decided to let go of all and every expectation. I had just turned older than my mother had ever been. I could see what a blessing this life is. A joy to behold.

Despite all the maturing that was going on, images of my imaginary celebration continued to cast intermittent shadows on the day and make me sad in the middle of all the love, joy, happiness. I'd shed a tear or two and let the sadness wash away from me. 

Of course, there is no logic to my behaviour. No, I have not seen a therapist for this unique problem yet.

Back to my birthday this year.

The little bag is still sitting on the slab. I look at it but don't open it. Instead I grab the garden broom and step outside. Dried frangipani leaves are strewn all over. I start collecting them, one swipe then another and another. A pile of leaves -- half golden, half brown makes me smile for the first time on my birthday. The morning sun, filtering through the branches on which these very leaves lived a day ago, touches the crumbly heap with its magic. Each leaf, now dead, shines like an incandescent incarnation of its life's journey-- a purposeful life lived fully and let go of so effortlessly.

Something dislodges inside me. Tears well up and escape down my cheeks. But they're not sad tears. I can't explain it but holding the handle of the dust pan, I get up and look around with new eyes. I look at my hands and thank them. My dusty feet, naked on the brick floor, look beautiful to me. I look up at the frangipani tree. In a moment, I'm buzzing with joy. Birdsong, sunlight, gentle breeze -- all come rushing in as if the gate I'd kept  bolted up all my life has suddenly swung open. I don't know what happened but I run back to the kitchen--grab the little bag and take out the card first, read it and then rip open the white tissue my beautiful necklace is wrapped up in. I call him. Thank him. Tease him about his 'official' sounding card. I sense his relief. I sense his love. I sense my love.

For the next 2 hours, I clean the rest of the house while listening to Sufi music on full volume.

The list of things I'm grateful for grows longer with everything I touch to dust or move to clean: this safe space, this new day, this new beginning. 

At 10 am, I decide to pick up my phone. It's heavy with messages. I listen to a few, make a couple of calls I'd missed and accept the love. It keeps flowing. Then, I hear a voice note. I'm stunned. I can not imagine I'm hearing it. How could this be? Who's listening in? Who's watching me? 

My friend Aprajita's message rolls out of my phone and tumbles into me like a torrent. Kabir's words gush in through my ears first. I'm stunned to hear the poem. I listen to it again and again. Each pore of my body absorbs the words of Kabir like a famished soul--hungrily. My thirst is unquenchable for the solace his words bring. I put a star on the message so I can reach it easily, quickly as often as I need to hear it.

I don't know where, how or what I'll be next year around the time of my birthday. But for now, I'm happy that the turning, the changing and the unburdening this year happened in a matter of minutes.

Once upon a time, I would've sulked for days for imaginary things. Now, I stand firm in this body, this moment, this reality and keep my heart wide open for love to flow into me, through me.

An ocean in a drop--a drop in the ocean.

Going forward, there will be times when I'll forget the lessons I've learnt. In those times, I know I'll stand firmly in my space and remind myself that this is life. Forgiving the self is the best present I've opened this year. I know without a doubt that the next time I stumble upon my path or lose sight of this love, a voice note or a poem or a gesture or a dried leaf will present itself to guide me back to my present, my joy, my happiness.

Are there any imaginary worlds that you've attached yourself to that distort the beauty of your everyday reality? You know I'd love to hear if you'd like to share.

Thank you for reading this post. I wish you beautiful days and wonderous nights where you stand firm in your reality and in the solidity of your grounding may you soar brighter than any imagination.

Stay safe. Till we meet again.

An easy embrace

(Seattle, August 2021)

My husband and I have adhered to the social-distancing, minimal meeting protocol of Covid times like good students. We have followed the rules. Over the last fortnight or so, however, we have started emerging out of our long hibernation and engaging in the social etiquette of meeting with other human beings, mostly friends--tentatively and cautiously.

At all these recent meetings, what struck me was the palpable discomfort and uncertainty surrounding the erstwhile easy practice of shaking hands and/or hugging each other.

Open palms pause in mid-air, turn to closed fists and proceed to bump fists of friends. For that split second fist contact, I, at least, feel like breaking into hip-hop or rap. Thankfully, my mask hides my silly grin and I continue to act my age.

Then there are those hanging in mid-air moments when both of us bend our bodies towards each other to hug, and realise we're not ready to throw caution to wind just yet. We turn sideways and offer an elbow bump instead: Bhangra style sans music.

Embracing reality has made us let go of the ease of embracing each other. 

When I was growing up, japphis (hugs in Punjabi) were the privilege of family and very close friends. It was a valuable commodity used sparingly but honestly. When you received a pyaar wali japphi (a bear hug), you knew you'd be okay. It was a token of love. For strangers, acquaintances, and friends-in-the-making there was Namaste: the no contact way of expressing a phenomenal range of emotions, from love and respect on one end to  discord and disagreement on the other. How hard the two palms come together to form the 'namaste' can convey the intention of emotion very clearly to the other.

Sometime in the past, the 'hug' became as mandatory as wearing deodorant in polite society. 

Suddenly, everybody was offering themselves to be embraced at parties, meetings, conferences and get-togethers. Sometimes, the ubiquitous air kissing would provide the sound track to these newly adopted social norms.

I must admit I participated in the practice of communal hugging myself at first. 

Then, with dwindling need to fit in, I became more discerning of who I hugged. But my hugs became deeper and more meaningful. They were my expression of love for the one I hugged. My hugs were never flippant. They lasted. I have friends who'd come over just for a hug. 'I need a hug today.' I'd demand solace from friends when I felt vulnerable. And they'd do the same. My body remembers those beautiful hugs, still. 

Moving forward, I wonder if we'll learn from the pause provided my the non-contact era of Covid'19. Will we practice deeper, more meaningful embracing of friends, family or will we continue to engage in fickle, societal norms to fit in? 

What do you think? Are hugs a part of your 'normal'? Do you miss them? Should we be more discerning of who we embrace? 

I'd love to know your thoughts. 

In the meantime, I'm sharing a poem I wrote for a contest run by Soul Craft Poetry on Instagram last week. The task was to write a poem in exactly 44 words on the theme of:

Harvesting Hope

I know not how to harvest hope

four letters long

eternal

impermeable

indestructible harbinger of spring.

dormant 

it lies 

in snowdrops all winter long

like a lover's hug

breath. raison d'etre

gallantly, gracefully, generously rising 

to embrace

all my cells

to keep me alive.

*********

Wishing you all a wonderful week. Stay safe and healthy. Embrace hope, love and a warm blanket if it's cold where you are.

What has made you happy thus far in the New Year?

7 a.m. January 10th 2022

Holding a glass of warm water in my left hand, I open the front door with my right and step out onto the porch.

Winter wafts in like a friend who knows me well. Even before the door fully opens, a faint smell of wood fire, mixed with the sharp, soft rays of the morning sun, rushes in to embrace me. Winter's nippy kisses tingle my skin--clad in a cotton kurta and yoga pants. I'd slept in those last night. I shudder with delight. Winter is rare in Doha. I want to inhale it to my core. The bulbul mimics my joy and frolics noisily on the neem tree.

6 a.m. January 10th 2022

I turn off the alarm and promise to be up in 10 minutes. 

10 p.m. January 9th 2022

I set the alarm for 5 a.m. and then change it to 6 a.m. to be reasonable. I've just finished reading 'Kafka on the Shore' by Murakami; my first Murakami. Even though it took me four months to read the book, I've loved reading it. So, naturally, as soon as I put the book down, I  google Murakami's  'writing process'.  My phone screen informs me that when he's writing, this famous and successful author's day looks like this:

• Wake up at 4 a.m.
• Write for 5 to 6 hours.
• Run a 10 K or swim 1,500 meters in the afternoon.
• Read and listen to music.
• Be in bed by 9 p.m.

He attributes his writing success to the 'routine' he follows. 

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

                                                

Dear Readers,

It feels so good to be back here: writing and sharing after a gap of 4 months! As you may have gathered by now, I've been an absentee blogger and to some extent an absentee writer. Apart from a few Instagram posts and a couple of poems in Hindi, the last four months have been dedicated to dealing with surprises LIFE springs on us rather than documenting it in prose and paragraphs.

Last night, when I read about Murakami's routine, I thought I'd give it a try. 

'Sadhana' in Hindi means 'dedicated practice or learning'. Whether it's yoga, music, or passing an exams in school or college, a dedicated practice births results. I know that but when one falls off the wagon of one's practice, it can be a struggle to get a foot hold back on. At times like these, it's sensible to look to the masters and follow in their footsteps. 

I don't know what 2022 has in store for me but I do plan to visit my writing desk every morning. Why am I telling you this? Because, writing a promise down makes it real. And sharing it with you makes me accountable to myself. 

Adriene of Yoga with Adriene who I follow when I'm unable to join my yoga class, always says: "the hardest part is to arrive on the mat." And I agree.

Irrespective of lost time, the uncertainties and turmoil of the last quarter of 2021, I'm happy to be present at my writing desk today, typing out my first post of the year. 

Thus far, 2022 has been joyous in many ways:

The food, friends brought from their travels and shared with me, made me relive my childhood without the need to time travel! Thank you Vini for the rusks from Sunrise bakery of Dehradun and Anshu for the delicious gajak from Moradabad. Another dear friend sent home -made makki ki roti and sarson ka saag so I could enjoy Punjab in Doha this winter.

Long walks on sandy beaches, sunsets, one lone sunrise, reading 'The boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse' and finishing 'Kafka on the shore' have made me happy despite the pounds that I've piled on -- thanks mainly to binging on Downton Abbey and Ozark on Netflix and NOT moving much.

I have a long way to go before I can discipline my day as perfectly as Murakami but I've made a start.

I wish you all a very Happy and Healthy 2022.

I'd love to know what has made you happy, joyful, smile in the last 10 days of this brand new year?

Till we meet again, take good care of yourself.

Warmly,

Arti

Rejection: does it make you or break you?

Have you ever felt the insides of your gut churn so violently that you are sure the intestinal walls have convoluted into a vortex—a sinking, gutted, dark vortex that will only stop once it has buried you deep in the Earth’s core?

Saturday, 16th August 2020

It started last night.

24 hours later, and the whirlpool inside me rages and whirls and tornadoes round and round.

I want it to stop.

But then my heart which has been beating faster than it has ever beaten--even faster than that time my lips had touched his for the first time!

Okay, that happened a long time ago, but still--the dhak, dhak, dhak of my heartbeat drumming against my ear drums had erupted with the ferociousness of first love--after we’d kissed, however, the heart had found its usual rhythm again.

But this time it hasn’t stopped its somersaults since Friday night.

What’s happening to me?

All I did was: sent my story for a story-telling competition; got picked for a regional round; learnt my story by heart and performed it in front of a panel--zooming into my own eyes on my laptop screen. The little camera light on top kept blinking throughout -- reminding me that I was being watched and judged.

Now, I’m waiting for the results---anxiously, neurotically, obsessively. Not at all like my calm, cool as a cucumber veneer that the world sees. Not at all.

Inside, I'm this mixer-grinder: crushing hot, red chillies on and on; the sharp blades slicing through my invisible expectations: will I? won't I?

Outside, I am visiting a friend who’s had a knee surgery recently: even cracking a naughty joke to cheer him up.

Every opportunity I get, I check my Instagram feed--on the sly--hiding my newly developed obsession from my own judging eyes.

I search for the organiser's insta--refresh their page. No news.

Stop it Arti! I admonish myself. Show yourself the face you show the world--be the badass bindaas optimist you’ve always claimed to be.

Why? What’s the matter? It's not so easy when it hits home, is it? Why is this bothering me so much? I ask my sanity.

Is it the long, long lockdown? Has it turned me into a self-obsessed, inward looking narcissist? 

No matter how soundly my own logic supports common sense, my ears refuse to listen. I can’t help it.

Night falls. No results.

“It’s a tough call”, a WhatsApp message on the participants' group chat says. "You were all so good!" it says.

It doesn’t make a jot of a difference to my pummelling gut.

Others on the group are pouring their hearts out; making connections, sharing stories they wrote.

I’m feeling quietly confident about my story--despite the drumming in my ears--so, I play the mother (a role I love to play) and send out some congratulatory direct messages. It calms me down.

Secretly, I’m very, very hopeful about my own chances. Those fairy lights I so artistically put in my rattan pot should’ve done the trick. They did say make the background interesting.

My story spoke about how my life had unravelled when I was 19. A mother’s suicide, a father’s betrayal and step-motherly treatment were the plot points of my story.

I’ve only recently reconciled with my father. What if he objects to my story when I make it to the finals? Will we become estranged again? I weave webs of future possibilities entangled with past injustices.

Night falls. We’re told the results will be announced the next morning. I put my phone in the other room to help break this silly new habit of checking it every half an hour.

Sunday, 17th August 2020

It's 2:30 am. I can sense my phone is missing me. I get up and bring it back to my bedside table.
I toss and turn and try to get some sleep. I drift off for a bit.

I'm up before sunrise.

My gut is a pit--it’s churning.

My heart is a mess--it’s burning.

My mail inbox blinks with the address line. It’s from them. I open it.

The first line reads:‘Hope you’re well.’

The bile rises like Doha temperature in summer.


My saliva tastes like sour grapes.

My ricocheting heart frees itself from my rib cage and slides down the chair’s legs-- the chair I'm sitting on. It feels like fresh cement drying, heavily.

I wish I was Hailey of Modern Families who would say: "Don’t keep me in suspense! Tell me! Did I make it?" whenever one of her family read the first line of her college application reply: “We regret to inform you….”

Every molecule and every fibre of my being was expecting to read : "Congratulations!" not “Hope you’re well.” 

How can I be well after reading this??

Pray, do tell.

I type out: “Congratulations--All the best.” on the WhatsApp group chat.

One or two winners respond with: "We are all winners."

I smirk. Only a winner would write that.

More ‘congratulations’ float in--mostly typed out in pain (I think) by others like me whose stories and performances didn’t cut the mustard in the regional rounds.

A fog of self-doubt is threatening to settle around. I get up and fix myself a super strong cup of coffee--even through the fog I remember to add coconut oil--skin to fog mein bhi dihktee hai na—dhyaan to rakhna padega.

But instead of dissipating the fog, the coffee acts like an electric charge. Now all of me is reverberating like a phone on silent mode: buzzing aimlessly in all directions.

Yoga. I think. 

Yes, a good stretch and a few deep breaths will shake me out of this 'self-imposed-pity-party-monologue'.

I share the rejection with Giselle, my yoga teacher.

She smiles and I feel her love.

I’m in locust pose when my phone starts buzzing--silently. My bag dances on the floor. My phone never rings during yoga class.

I check. It’s Vidya. I’ll call her back, I think and resume the locust.

“I thought they were calling to say they’ve made a mistake.” Giselle whispers.

“You and I belong to the same galaxy--forever the optimists.” I tell her while transitioning from locust to downward dog.

“Why not?” She says.

I nod looking at my navel.

A head stand should help me change my perspective.

At least you made it to the regional round. 1500 applications. Imagine! How wonderful!

Dhadaaam! My pesky perspective is lying sprawled out on the mat with me.

“What happened Arti?” Giselle sounds worried.

I have never fallen off like that.

It's a Sunday of firsts, I amuse myself with that thought and reply,“I lost my focus.”  

“Get a hold of yourself woman--what’s gotten into you?” I tell myself cocooned in child pose.

Yoga is over. 

I start my car and drive off. I reach the barrier too soon. It refuses to lift. The security guard looks at me. He’s miffed. My usual over exaggerated waving hand to say bye is missing today. He signals me to reverse, a little more, a little more…enough distance later, the barrier relents and lifts to let me go.

Eureka!

Ping!

The light bulb comes on. 

Distance, woman--take a few steps back, back off a bit. Then try again.

The fog flops over and starts to settle down around the accelerator pedal of my car. A cautious driver, usually, I can’t wait to get home to face my rejection head on.

Park car. Lock car. Turn keys. Mask off. Sing Mahamrityunjaya mantra to ensure the hand-washing is taking its stipulated time. Dry hands. Run to the laptop. Start typing.

I can and I will.

Rejection may be plucking my heart strings and serenading songs of mein bechaaree –a duet with my bruised ego, but my spirit--the one that shines through me and blasts out to the world that it’s not over till the fat lady sings is making sure I write this story out--my story  out and send it as a wild card entry.

Perhaps rejection was the spice that was missing from my first entry.

Perhaps it’s time to pickle that rejection and turn it into a projection.

Feminism ka sirf gaana nahin gaana hai. Feminist ban kar dikhana hai.

Shakti and Kali didn’t sit and cry when things didn’t go their way. They picked a different weapon and carried on.

Agar dil tootega nahin to shaayree kaise niklegee? 

What better instrument to write with than a broken heart?

I write. I record. I send my wild card entry at literally the last minute.

Wednesday,19th August 2020
Another "Hope you're well." mail greeted me today.

But, this time it didn't sting as much.

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

I've come to the conclusion that experiences such as the one I went through this past week are my 'quality checks' sent to me by the universe. Just when I was lulling myself into believing that I'm so cool about working for the joy of it, not needing any pats on backs, doing it all in Krishna's name, for it is the Spirit that guides me and She who does it all and I just get the credit. Why! I had been reading and understanding the Gita all through the lockdown. OMG! I am so sorted now. 

Dhadaam---just when that egoistic self-congratulatory voice makes a hammock out of you and swings on you--plays you like a spinning top--such occurrences blow in like  tornadoes. tip you out of that comfy hammock and say: 

the work is never done--keep going--keep going--keep going.

What are your thoughts about rejection? Is work enough? Or is acceptance part of the game?

Are we more in need of acceptance of others when we are insecure?

Or is it the essence of art?

jungle mein mor naachaa kisne dekha?

Does rejection rock the boat

or does it keep one afloat?

Does a story need a reader/listener to be called a story?

Or can it survive in isolation?

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Rumi, adrak wali chai and stunning sunsets work in tandem to nudge me closer to my equilibrium. 

I can't thank them enough:)

Stay safe and well dear ones.

I'm so grateful that you take the time to read these posts.

Much love.

Arti 

xx

May 2020: Bidding it goodbye with photos of Gulmohar and #Poetry

Dear Readers,

I hope you've been well.

May, of the year 2020, like many things we took for granted all our lives, was unusual. Perhaps, 'new normal' is a better phrase to describe May this year.

Doha, as you know, gets very, very hot as May approaches. So, for a vagabond soul like mine, it's imperative that I step outside the confines of what I call home for a walk before the sun gets too hot. Walks are my oxygen. And in order to survive, I don't mind waking up at twenty past four in the morning just so that I can start my day on my terms.

Going for long walks (alone) always centres me, stills me and very often these walks plant ideas for new writing: poems and stories, musings and memories. 

Clicking photos is another hobby that keeps me grounded in the present moment. 

Morning walks are my kind of mindfulness: 
every step 
every breath 
every fallen leaf or petal 
every discarded scrap of metal
reminds me 
of the precious gift of this very moment
when I can go on my morning walk
and pay attention 
to
every chirp
every bird
every fallen feather 
in this humid weather
a car that zooms past
and calls to prayer that blast
through the newborn sky
remind me
of the precious gift of this very moment
when I can go on my morning walk
and pay attention
to
the splendour of slowly erupting lava of the Gulmohar tree
who stands by the roadside
Flamboyant, Resplendent and Free
Come with me
I've gathered a few fallen petals
some colours, 
some photos
and words
that got woven into some form of poetry.

May will be gone tomorrow
This much I know.
I'll set my alarm for twenty past four
so I may walk out of my front door 
to welcome June
who'll be wondering
why all the roads and walking tracks 
are so clean
of human feet and shadows
I'll keep him company for a bit
so I may welcome June
while masking my mouth and nose
and 
absolutely, no shaking of hands, of course.
I'll just nod
and carry on
Dear June, 
welcome to Twenty, Twenty

**********

All the photos shared were taken this week:

For all those who can understand Hindi, a poetry recital to bid May goodbye....

Wishing you all good health, happy hearts and blue skies.
xx

The attitude of greytitude

Good morning dear Readers.

I hope all is well with you and your loved ones.

"I'll post every Sunday if we are still observing self-isolation in May." I had thought at the end of April.

I'm not ready with a brand new post today.

So, sharing an older one which seems to resonate with me these days.

Wishing you all a peaceful and healthy Sunday

Arti. xx

What is grey?

Is it a minus or a plus?

Is it the fading of colour from lush black hair?

Or an adding of salt and pepper to their ripeness? 

Is the lack of colour a reminder of my mortality?

Or a timely reminder to celebrate the years lived?

How you look at grey is entirely up to you.

I'll be celebrating my forty-eighth birthday soon. I've been greying for a few years now. After almost a decade of henna application regimen of once a month, I switched to hair colour when the rate of greying spiked. I convinced myself that No Ammonia written in purple letters on my box of shop bought colour meant it's almost chemical free and therefore harmless. I was wrong. My hair didn't take to the colour like I'd hoped it would and so I'm back to applying henna twice a month. The henna I use these days is organic. Yes, I believe the claims made by the packaging.

I've thought about greying naturally many times. To not bother about covering up my ripening roots. To celebrate rather than hide my luck to have lived this long, and mostly in good health. I'll be a year older than my mother ever was when I turn 48. 

But this pull of vanity makes me pick up that brush, load it up with goopy green henna paste, slather it on my head, paying special attention to the pesky roots, the obstinate growth above the temples that NEVER changes colour, no matter how many layers of colour or henna I put on it. Then there's the 4 to 6 hours of waiting, wearing a drying henna crown covered in cling film or shower cap. A couple of sheets of kitchen towel are twisted and stuffed into the edges of the shower cap to stop the henna from leaking on to my forehead or ears or clothes or the floor. The washing off of henna takes time. The bath gets super messy. All in all, it's a very messy and tedious process. 

Of course, this can all be replicated in a salon. I don't have the patience to sit for long periods of time in salons and my middle class Punjabi upbringing runs strongly through my veins. So, if I can achieve the same results at home, I'd rather wear my crown of crusty henna for a few hours every fortnight while I cook or watch Netflix or read.

The question I struggle with is why do it at all? 

I admire women and men who are happy with their greys. My husband is one of them.

I'd like to be just like them when I grow up.

I keep promising myself that I'll stop colouring my hair after this next milestone in my life. Our son's high school graduation in May. Our daughter's university graduation in June. Our holiday in September. That dinner at a friend's last Thursday. Yes, you get the idea. The pull of vanity is strong with this one. 

At times like these, I take refuge in the shade of greytitude (a term that popped into my head on one of my morning walks): a state of being that allows a person to be kind to themselves. It's when grey mixes with gratitude. It's when after having lived a few decades of accumulating material comforts, one realises how important the free things in life are. Not just important, but essential and irreplaceable.

Greytitude has to be cultivated, like a habit.

So, I show myself the kindness I find easy to give to others. 

I remind myself  that I have hair and it's healthy and the choice to colour or not is mine. When it feels right, I'll stop. For now, I'll cover my greys. But, I won't let the greys cover me with self-conscious gloop. I've lived my thirties is boxes of what will people say. It's time to discard those suffocating boxes. 

Today, as I sit at my kitchen table to write a post after almost five months, I look out.

Doha sky is wearing a soft grey blanket. Winter has arrived very late this year. 

The month of December was warm. Both our children were home for the holidays. The four of us were together under one roof after almost a year. Our collective chatter, arguments, silly jokes, leg pulling, telling off, accusations, sharing of news, making of plans, meals at the kitchen table, pizza slices in front of TV, saving and then savouring of favourite episodes filled the house to the brim with the warmth of family.

January arrived. The children left.

An empty nest. A quieter home. 

The clearly defined lines of mothering, the black and white of raising a family have been blurring into the greyness of what next. What does my role as a mother of adult children mean to me? to them?

Like a drop of dark ink in a bowl of clear water, I feel my world of parenting disappearing into a bigger, wider world. I feel like that drop of ink: spreading one molecule at a time, mixing with the water, losing my essence as a mother to the world that my children now inhabit. A world where they don't need me or my cooking. The black and white world of bed-time stories, school runs, packed lunches, help with homework, PTA meetings, school plays and proms has disappeared like that drop of ink. 

I sigh deeply as I type this post out. The drop of ink may have disappeared, but the water carries the tinges of its colour. 

Greytitude comes to my rescue again.

It's time to take down the scaffolding of mothering.

I celebrate the diluted inky waters of my new role as a mother who gets more Whatsapp messages than hugs.

I rejoice in the 'miss you too' and 'love you' sign offs.

I look forward to the next time this home will house us all in its fold.

In the meantime, I celebrate the open pastures of time where I can frolic with a book, volunteer at a hospital or at a special needs school, enjoy long languorous lunches with friends or just sit and stare at  sparrows in the garden as they flit from a purple petunia to a buttery frangipani, cheerful in their tweets and sprightly flights. I can do whatever I choose to do with my time, which is no longer bound by the knots of school runs.

I choose greytitude: an attitude of gratitude as I enter my fuzzy, soft, warm grey years.
I choose to be far away from hard lines, from definitions, rules that stifle, clothes that restrict, make-up that covers up more than it shows, people who find faults with everything, human stories that only focus on the ugly and the offensive. 

Instead, I choose to savour my grey like one savours the soft pink and white splendour of cherry blossoms or the orange and red of an autumnal birch. For like the seasons, my greys  will dissipate in a blink of an eye. Whether I will be blessed with the bliss of a snowy winter, I do not know. 

In the meantime, let me relish these grey pauses and welcome the peace and quiet of my home of brick and mortar into my heart of flesh and blood. Let me sit in silence and dip into my inner well often so I may draw from it the milk of human kindness. Let me ground myself enough so I may have the strength to share the warmth of my  grey blanket with a soul in need. 

Let me line my attitude with the warmth of gratitude.

Leaving you with these most beautiful words written by Guru Nanak Dev ji, sung like a dream by Shivpreet Singh and sent to me by my dear friend, Vidya. Her name means knowledge in English. I smile.

Wishing you all many moments of peace and tranquility.

My first Haiku

A warm red flower

holding on to a bare branch

waves autumn good-bye

Dear readers,

I hope you've all been well and happy and healthy.

I've been away from this world of blogs and blogging for sometime now. In fact, being away has become more frequent than being here.

Why?

There have been a lot of reasons.

I've travelled a lot this year: some journeys were about getting on planes while others involved sitting on my mat and closing my eyes. Some journeys took me to taste new food and wine in wonderful places like South Africa and Bulgaria, while others required me to prepare food in my kitchen in Doha, pack it in large containers and drive to a hospital to share with friends I've made less than a year ago.

As an empty-nester, my life is sprouting new roots and shoots and nourishing the ideas that I had put on hold while I was raising my family of a son and a daughter. As an empty-nester, my home has filled up with ideas that were once lying dormant, wrapped up under layers of excuses.  They are now free to walk in the nude in any part of the house at any time without raising grunts of disapproval or ridicule or disbelief or lack of confidence. They're blossoming now. Some are higgledy-piggledy while others are thriving with a life force of their own. Life is being lived with gusto and pauses as the heart pleases.

Departing from a grid of routine or a matrix of people/situations/habits/compulsions can be challenging at first. But hang in there. Trust me.

The song that lies in between the lines of lyrics, in the space between the end of one note and the beginning of the next, will reveal itself to you if you let it.

Four decades of life lived, perhaps a couple more to go, I find myself needing less of everything. Perhaps, it's the blessings I'm thankful for: the blessings of having enough.

Perhaps, it's the age.

Perhaps, it's time spent on travelling within.

Perhaps, the Universe has presented kindred spirits in my circle because I'm ready now.

More and more, I feel, less and less is needed.

Less of talk, more of action.
Less of sharing my words, more of listening to others.
Less of accumulating, more of enjoying what I already have.
Less of planning for the future, more of loving the living of the now...this moment...right here...this exact one...this one ...when my fingers are touching the keys of my laptop and words from my heart are pouring out on the screen...this exact moment...it's here now...gone now...

And that is all.

Lesser, fewer distractions.

More and more of birdsong, poetry, hand holding, kisses, hugs, shared jokes, tears rolling down cheeks with gratitude and/or laughter.

Hence, this today: my first haiku: a form that uses the bare minimum of syllables to capture a moment in time.

Love

Arti

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

Wishing you all joy and good health

jokes that tickle 

daal, chawal and pickle

to make your weekend restful, happy and spicy.

Thank you for being here today and for reading this post.

photo was clicked in Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden, Cape Town in June 2019

Of friends and friendships

I recently read an article called, 'How to end a friendship' in the Opinion section of The New York Times. The author discussed the lack of guidance available about the etiquette of breaking-up and/or dealing with the natural death of a friendship (platonic) as compared to avalanches of advice available about how to end a romantic chapter in ones life. 

That got me thinking.

The article resonated with me while I was reading it. Yes, I have had my fair share of not knowing what I've done/not done to warrant cold spells from erstwhile warm friends. So Lauren Mechling's (author of the article) suggestion :"when the magic dims, the best thing to do is let go." made sense, common sense to me.

However, almost as soon as I had put the newspaper down, a realisation tingled through me like realisations do. I realised that even though I agree with her wisdom of 'letting go', I don't agree with her notion of  friendships being like "beads on a string". In other words, according to Mechling, friendships should be like romantic relationships: you give your all to only one friendship at a time and when the time comes to let go, on account of dimming magic, you close one friendship and move to the next or at least feel comfortable with the demise of an old bond.

Disclaimer: Before any knickers or g-strings out there threaten to get into any twists, let me state clearly that the article was in the opinion section and therefore what I'm about to share with you is also an opinion: my opinion based on my experiences. No facts have been consulted. This post is purely based on experiential explorations of my heart vis-a-vis my friendships.

My all time favourite poet, Rumi and his best friend, Shams of Tabriz, are shining examples of giving your all to one friend at a time, but I'm wired differently.

Mundane acts like moving cities and continents, changing jobs and locations, changing interests and schedules has opened doors to many new friendships for me. But that hasn't warranted shutting doors on my old friends or 'ending' a friendship.

Of course, friendships comes in different shapes and sizes and depths: depths being of particular interest to me.  

Meaningful friendships, the kind that nourish  are very important to me. Some nourish my grey cells, while others nourish my soul and then there are those friends who feed my ambition to do better: to cook better, to write better, to be more organised or to travel lighter, to buy more consciously, to use resources sensibly, to recycle, reduce and reuse. There are friends whose knowledge of books, authors, art and poetry leaves me in awe and every time I spend time with them, I feel like I've been hugged by a library or kissed by an art gallery.  

So while Mechling looks at the individual bead and sees a single friendship at a time, I look at her analogy of  "beads on a string" and see a collection of friendships co-existing side by side, completing the equation of my life, complimenting each other, never competing for attention.

Ambica, my best friend in high school, opened her heart and offered me her family's love when I needed it the most. Asha and Anu were my rocks through college: my go to buddies for food and shelter who were always ready to listen to my latest 'crush' stories. I used to fall in love often: one sided, admiring from a distance kind of love. The kind my adult children find lame and don't see the point of. The kind Asha, Anu and I spent hours discussing and dissecting and drooling over. We pick up where we left off whenever we meet or talk. Time spent apart shrinks to zero. 

Payal and Fakhra, whose daughters were the same age as Arshia, my two year old, when we moved to London, got added to my string of dear friends when we took our toddlers out to the park together, baby-sat for each other, emptied our hearts out about in-laws, husbands and the general grind of busy London life as young mothers.

Angela, Di, Helen, Jess and Jane appeared on my life's primary school teaching horizon and shine brightly to this day. My string of beads would be bare without their love.

My sister and my cousins, my sisters-in-law, my nieces and some second cousins play the dual role of friends and family. Their presence in my string of beads is precious to me.

Doha's easy going pace and the job-free last three years of my life have conspired to add not just beads but entire strings of beads to my necklace of friendship. There are so many friends I've made here that I'm in danger of missing out a name or two if I start listing them all. 

Friendships, to me, are like mountain ranges. 

On bright and clear days, when the skies are blue and the clouds are invisible wisps of  vapour, I can see all the peaks and hills around me that make up my range of friendships. Some seem far away in the past, others reachable after a day's travel and some shine with snow covered peaks in my future. The mountain I'm climbing or walking on at this point in time is the friendship I'm experiencing right now. I do it with all my being, all my attention, all my love, all my laughter and with all my tears and emotions. For the time I'm on this mountain, with this friend, I step with care on her jagged rocks, I relish in her gurgling streams, I see heaven in her alpine blooms, I take shelter in her forests of trees when the sun starts to get too hot. When I'm with her, when I'm climbing this particular patch, I'm all hers, I'm all his. But, the range that holds this mountain, the string that holds this beautiful bead of a friend is also always present. 

If I look at a bead as separate from the one sitting next to it, am I not in danger of snapping the string? When was the last time you saw a mountain separate from its range?

For me, therefore, all my friendships have painted my life's canvas collectively. There are no solo stars or villains. 

I may not have spoken to some friends in decades or they may have travelled far from me in distance or interest, but I've not had the need to 'end' anything to move on to the next. Perhaps, I've been extremely lucky. 

I suspect, instead of letting go when the magic dims, I've learnt to let go of expectations. 

It wasn't always like this. I've been harsh with my words and put the phone down on a friend when I've felt let down by her actions. I've been moody and broody and no fun at all when I felt I was being excluded from plans and parties. I was there, in that land of expectations and 'why me?' woes. 

"Oh! you don't call any more." I've used that needy, clingy group of words too.

It was exhausting to live in that land of expectations. I wasn't happy. 

Anusha once asked me when she sensed I was hurting about a friend's actions, "Did you sign a contract before becoming friends that she should always include you in her movie going plans?"

It was a rhetorical question, of course. But it showed me what I needed to see.

As if by magic, old friends started behaving more gently and generously. New friends walked into my arms with open hearts, their world views not necessarily compatible with mine but it didn't matter.

How did this magic happen?

Almost as soon as I let go of my-friends-are-bound-by-unsaid-and-unwritten-contracts-of-expectations, my friends changed. They all became beautiful. 

I no longer needed to think up of excuses to get out of catch-up-coffee-sessions-which-I'm-not-keen-on-but-feel-obliged-to-attend-or-I-may-be-excluded-from-the-group-and-not-invited-for-the-next-birthday-or-anniversary-celebration. 

I no longer need any excuses. I speak the truth: sorry-mate-can't-meet-got-to-do-yoga-or-write-or-just-be-with-myself works perfectly these days. None of my friends have disappeared from my life. On the contrary, beautiful souls infuse my time with love, grace, home-cooked food and hugs whenever it's needed.  

As a lover of mountains, I know that the path I'm currently on seems closest to me. The light is right for me to see what I need to see to travel this stretch of land, this mountain, this meadow and to bask in the warmth of this human, this friend, this soul who holds my hand and my attention today.

Why do I need to worry about how to end anything when there is no such thing as an end?

We're all connected. 

For me, at least, letting go of expectations has opened my eyes to the vast vistas of mighty ranges of solid friendships that stand witness to my journey of self discovery.

What are your thoughts about friends and friendships? How has your journey been? You know I'd love to hear about your experiences.

 

Wishing you all the sweet fragrance of friendship, wherever you may find it.

Photos taken in spring of 2019, on my way to Kuari Pass