Lockdown Chores

There are certain things out there in the world, in books, in movies, in memes, in poetry that we don’t understand or relate to. One of those things, for me, has been the love for chai (tea).

I have never understood that uncle who asks for 10 cups of tea in a day, never understood friends who attach tea with nostalgia and limerence. It’s not just people, books and movies are also filled with romantic anecdotes of tea. Tea breaks at Tapri and tea dates at Irani cafes were sacrosanct in college. Some people paired it with Brun Maska and some with cigarettes (chai-sutta). At times, tea became the glue that gelled people instantly. They said tea can be a comforting company on a lonely day or something that one turns to after a tiresome schedule. Long-distance friendships were also rescued by tea; tagging each other in chai related memes became a thing.

Sigh. I was never a part of this party. I have had tea but only to give company to people. I have even been borderline irritated at friends who made assumptions and ordered tea for me without asking. I am in my mid-twenties and somehow a cup of tea or coffee never made their way to my daily routine.

However, things change. As they say, these are not normal times. While in the last five months the world around me has changed drastically, I couldn’t help but notice how ‘tea’ tiptoed its way into my life. I have been home since March. When the house chores got divided in an unstated way, brewing the evening tea became my job.  I was indifferent. I had no business with tea. I did not make it for myself and only followed the regular obvious way of making it without giving it much thought.

However, eventually, after doing this for a few days, I realised that I have started looking forward to it. It gave structure to my day. Now, I knew exactly what I have to do as soon as work got over. Honestly, when everything in the world is bizarre, predictability becomes comforting.

I started walking towards the kitchen with a little jump in my feet. From a ‘chore’ it became a part of my day that helped me unwind. Long days of work became better by watching the simmering tea change its colour from milky white to sunset orange. It was my time of solitude. I stared at the tea, imagined shapes in the froth as it subsided and thought about nothing. It calmed me down. 

Yesterday, when the tea was almost done, I let my face soak the steam and lungs fill up with the essence of ginger, cardamom and tulsi. And there it was my ‘Julie and Julia’ moment. I think this is the closest I have come to tea. 

Not a cup, but a pan of tea has certainly become a part of my life now. 

Incoherent

Are there days when you feel a lot like a little too much. Days when things feel more painful or happy or frustrating than they actually are. Or maybe these are the days when you are not able to brush your feelings away under some numb activity like scrolling or Netflixing.

You close your eyes for some respite and suddenly see yourself sitting on a bench with someone you knew seven years ago but don't want to know or remember anymore. Memories are persistent and stubborn though. They stay. The bad ones sometimes longer than the good ones. Or maybe I am just self-pitying and cribbing here. Maybe, all memories are equally persistent. 

It is difficult to write coherently on such days. Your mind is full of so many thoughts. One can say that why not write all of them. But it is still difficult, you know because while you are writing about one thing, the other thoughts start hitting the walls of your brain. Wanting to come out. I am not sure if they want to come out or if you want to get rid of them. Does that happen? 

Adults are a sugarcoated, superficial, glittery bundle of shit. On most days I don't like them. However, I am an adult now and maybe I am becoming exactly what I despised. 

I like observing my sixteen-year-old brother though. His energy is infectious. While I am typing all this grimness frantically on my laptop. He just entered the room with a lot of ice in his hands. He was playing with it. Sometimes, I feel bad about not being responsive enough when he is in a playful mood. He looks happy. Was I also like him when I was a 15-year-old? 

I am not sure if it's a good thing but in my head, I was never young. Maybe it's because of the good old stereotype where you say 'girls mature faster than boys'. No, they don't and even if they do, it's not nice. My most prominent memory of my younger self is writing diaries. I used to write poetry and other random things. I had several diaries. I remember once on Rakshabandhan my brother gifted me a lock-diary. I was very happy. But I could never use it. It was too pink and small. That's not my problem though. It was just not comfortable to write in it. The pages were fancy but loose. They would come out easily. I guess the priority of the makers was to make that diary look pretty. They never focussed on making it useful. Sounds familiar? Might sound familiar if you are born a female in a patriarchal world. 

I read a quote today. 

If you want to talk about anything, you have to talk about everything first.

It's relatable at this moment. I don't know what I am writing about. But it also feels like if I want to share just one thing with you, I will have to share a lot of things, which I would love to do, but some other day. It's been a heavy day. I can list the reasons but I prefer not to archive them. It's better to not archive. I am not a fan of archiving anyway.

I don't think about the readers of this blog much because I know there must not be many. But today I am thinking about them. I am thinking about you, in case you are here, reading this. It's weird. Sometimes I like it because this blog is a way to put things out there. In the universe, I suppose. But today I am getting creeped out. What if someone I am not fond of is reading these random details of my day. 

There are days when I romanticise the existence of this blog. I watched Julie and Julia and was elated to see what Julia did with her blog in a year. It was also on Blogspot by the way. But then there are days when I am just bleh (cynical) about everything in life and the world, including this blog. 

I think it must have been one of these days when I destroyed all my personal diaries. In my defence, I was just trying to save them from the eyes of the world. 

Pandemic Poetry

reading a poem

has lately been difficult

i read a line, the first line

and then the second

and then again the first 

to make sense of it

i still don't hear the poet

i don't get it.

what is she trying to say

the metaphors take

too long to unfold

i feel an itch on the nose

read the second line again

drink a glass of water

come back to the poetry

read the third line

while thinking about 

the image of that hungry man

drinking milk from the road

with the dogs

read the fourth line

about the blossoms

i get that

it reminds me 

of the rain flowers

and the rain and 

the muddy feet

the phone vibrates

and i scroll 

through flowers and skies

and empty roads

some random numbers

talking about death

i come back to the poem

go on to the next stanza

the metaphors ask 

for my attention

but my mind wanders

art heals? it does.

who does it heal, though?

Uniform Does Not Guarantee Safety

A couple of weeks ago I had to go to the hospital at around three in the night because a health supplement that I took after dinner did not suit my body. I went to a good private nearby hospital. Contrary to my imagination, the hospital was not at all crowded. I met two nurses in the casualty and they asked me to sit, saying that the doctor will arrive soon. The doctor came and after listening to me said that he will give me an injection and after that, I can go home. I am not scared of injections but the moment he said that my mind was filled with horrifying thoughts. What if this injection makes me unconscious and the man standing in front of me in the white coat violates me? I created a whole scene and inquired about the injection as much as I could. I googled everything before I let him give me the injection. The doctor and the nurses obviously got irritated but, fortunately, I reached back home (hostel) safe.

Often the white coat or a uniform is not enough assurance for a woman to feel safe because what she sees is not a doctor or a policeman but just a man who could be a potential predator. My previous roommate once told me that she checks the door of her balcony multiple times before going to sleep at night. My classmate says that she becomes restless if she is the only woman in a lift filled with men.  These are not the stories of just one or two women but of all of us who are independently living away from home. According to WHO, the high prevalence of sexual violence to which women are exposed and the correspondingly high rate of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) following such violence, renders women the largest single group of people affected by this disorder. It’s disheartening that when women meet, today, for a dinner or a sleepover, they end up sharing and discussing the trauma that the everyday banal violence causes.  

What is sad, though, is that all of this is not enough talked about in the mainstream media.  It takes a rape or a murder to happen to bring the attention of the society towards half of its population. It’s not just about the man who abuses but also about the society that acts as a constant enabler. The harder questions are still being brushed under the carpet. It’s easier to blame the night or the darkness or the empty street but what about the harassment that happens in the broad daylight at home by someone who is not even a stranger.  Young girls are raised to be tolerant and empathetic while our boys are raised with such inflated egos that it’s hard for them to understand and accept a ‘no’.  If our answer, as a society, to every question is still “boys will be boys”, if hundreds of people are still clapping on a rape scene in cinema halls and if we are still okay with making and telling rape jokes then I am sorry but our outrage towards this heinous crime really means nothing.