Saturdays

 You remember as kids we used to have slam books where our friends would fill their favourite colours, favourite city, favourite actor, etc, etc. And as we grow up, we usually grow out of favourites. Either there are many things to like in a category and you can never pick one or you have stopped caring about the category altogether. Who cares about a favourite colour anymore? (I'm sorry if you do).

However, today I was thinking about my favourite day in a week and even though the options are only seven the decision was not difficult at all. My favourite day is Saturday.  

Saturday marks the end of a work week. It's the first day after a series of five days when I am not waking up in a hurry to log in to my work laptop. Even if I wake up early, I still have the time to lounge around and look at the money plant on my work desk being greeted by the morning sun. 

I usually start by making my bed and opening the curtains. The morning sun makes me feel better immediately. On Saturdays, I sit on the balcony and read and then worry about my writing and how I am not writing enough and I keep sitting on my ideas for hours. On Saturdays, I have the time to eat peanuts while looking at the flower vendor or the eagle that Purvash spotted today. 

Saturdays are also distant from Mondays. You still have a day and a night in between, which seems enough. I feel like there is enough conversation about the Sunday evening dread, but hardly any on the Saturday night's chill. There is an entire night and you have no pressure to sleep early. You can go out for dinners (which we rarely do) but you can also be up at night rummaging through random people's blogs and making dosa to satiate your midnight hunger.

You already know about my obsession with rumlolarum, but lately, I have also discovered a few other blogs. The idea of knowing a person only through what they have written in the blog is fascinating. On most of these, it's hard to find a name or social media profile and that's how I like it. It's like knowing a person only through some letter that they wrote. There are no followers or numbers that you can look at to find out where this person might be in life today. Most of these bloggers that I am discovering today in 2022 have been writing since 2008 or 09 and I am discovering them and their writing after more than a decade. Seems like Internet was a beautiful place, once upon a time.

The days that are not overcast

I hardly ever write about the good days. The need to vent and get it out of my system often leads me to this blog. On the days that are not overcast and I can sit and eat rajma chawal on my sunlit balcony without worrying about work, I  feel. I feel a lot but I don't sit to write. Does that happen to you?

It's Monday and I am recovering from a weekend that involved a lot of feelings. Saturday was calm and I wondered if sunlight could make me so happy, why do I need the money? If you can derive pleasure from nature and people, which is the truest kind of pleasure I believe, then maybe capitalism might not be able to weigh you down? I don't know. These are just thoughts. Good to think about them, hard to pursue them. Saturday was also about a cup of coffee during the sunset with a long conversation with Purvash. We talked and talked each other into it and then out of it. 

Purvash and I talk a lot (to each other). Sometimes our conversations are in sync, we are both enabling each other, completing each other's sentences, and understanding where the other is coming from. At the end of these chats, we realize that amid all our differences also, we are quite similar. Saturday involved one such conversation. By the end of it, I had a heartache. I was physically missing TISS; it was a new feeling. I had never felt like that before. 

It was a good day all in all. For the evening dinner, I made triangle paratha for myself. By the end of the day and till now I have also been restless. I want to do so much; my mind is constantly making plans. But I am also scared of failing and making mistakes and just not being good enough. 

Sunday was one of the days when you wake up a little bad and then can't do much about it. By evening, I was anxious. My mum made it worse. The conversation about pregnancy and kids makes me anxious. It's so unfortunate that parents are supposed to be our safest space, but as we grow up we grow so apart from them. 

The dinner at Anand Sweets and the familiarity of the food made it better for me. Purvash was kind and accommodating throughout the day. Oh and I forgot to tell you that the weekend was so much feels because it began with us leaving our respective offices early and going to Umesh :)

Tomorrow should be a better day!

Okay, so in an effort to be completely honest with my blog and also to test if journalling can truly make one feel better, I am here again for the second time today. 

I worked from home today so this day shouldn't have ended like this but ah who can predict, right?

I was crazy busy today between 10:30 to 5. In between, I took a one-hour break to cook, eat, and take a shower. I was running in the break though, literally jumping from one thing to another. It didn't help that I decided to wash some of my woolens today.

But somehow right when I was going to finish work around 5ish, Google News decided to show me a notification that talked about B12 deficiency in vegetarians and its severe impact on a particular girl. I was already tired but I started feeling really low especially after looking at this notification.

Can your mental health or how you are feeling at a particular moment affect you physically? I think it does. I feel that my mental health has physical manifestations. However, one is never sure. I can never say confidently that I am tired or puking or pooping because of how I feel.

Yes, it's a common symptom and it isn't new. As a child, I didn't understand anxiety but I understood fear. I either puked or pooped when I was scared. And it's the same even today. So if people are yelling in the house, don't be surprised if you find me in the washroom.

My experiences with my health since 2017 have shaped me in a way that I don't even remember who I was before then. I could use it as my strength. At least that's what the productive-capitalism tropes teach you but it's hard. It's hard because, on so many days of your life, you experience minor health-related problems and if your mind keeps making it bigger then it becomes even more difficult to get through it.

I am always anxious about my health. A minor cut or a stomach ache scares the shit out of me. I am scared of hospitals and doctors. If it was in my hand, I would want a life where I never need a doc.  I think about death a lot. Both mine and my loved ones. It's like I have seen it up close and now I can't let go of that feeling. A moment like that makes you more grateful for life. It's easy for you to see the larger picture. However, a moment like that can also give you lifelong trauma.

Alright. Tomorrow should be a better day. Goodnight!

Rituals

I feel quite uninspired and blank. Before coming here, I scrolled through everything that I could. I don't know what to write about today. I was working and thinking about a piece for months. I sat on it for so long that I kept missing deadlines. Somehow I finished working on it yesterday and sent it to the editor. The default expectation is always rejection but let's see. I am also imagining and wondering what if it gets accepted.

But it feels like that piece has left a void. Last few months, I had something that I was supposed to work on. Now my mind is looking for a new subject. I am reading Mason Currey's book. It has all these stories about women artists and how they worked, what was their daily routine like. I love reading/watching the daily routines/rituals of people. It's strange and weird. This need to be so voyeuristic. But it is what it is I guess. 

Anyway, this book is extremely inspiring. It tells you how despite all kinds of adversities and responsibilities, these women lived to create art. They were constantly at unease, always uncomfortable. Their stories also tell you that most of them prioritised their art, it didn't come naturally or easily to them. It was hard but they kept at it. 

I am quite restless today. So I am not going to write more. I should maybe go and read another story from that book.

See you later.

In my head

Am I honest with this blog? Can we ever be completely honest outside of our heads?

There are thoughts that cross my mind all the time and are so strange that I don't even want to document them anywhere or say them aloud. They are not things I want or think about, but somehow the fleeting thought doesn't care about that. It comes, if it has to. 

Think about the weirdest thought you had today? What is it? Can you say it out aloud to someone?

On my way to the office, in the auto-rickshaw, I often think about me rolling down or stumbling and falling out of the rickshaw. Sometimes I also imagine my head flying out of the rickshaw (something like what Alia Bhatt did in Brahmastra). If we are ever on a quiet road, I think about the driver taking me somewhere else and violating me. When I see an ambulance on the road, I think about the urgency of the siren, of the person whose loved one is on the stretcher. 

The other day I saw a guy standing across the bus stop and it seemed like he was smiling at me. I wanted to smile back but I didn't because I imagined him running towards me and sitting right beside me in the auto. The thought was scary and hence no smile!

Yesterday I saw a young girl holding a man's finger and walking on the road. It took me back to this childhood memory when I was on a bus ride with my father. I don't know where we were going or coming from. Just this image of me having my head on his lap and sleeping. I see construction workers and think about their lives. How do they manage to do such a tiring job? 

I think about my future. What will it look like in five years? Will I be in India? I imagine living in a cold country with no access to Indian food and then coming and telling Purvash to not think about moving to Canada. I think about my fears and how I have so many now. 

I am scared of driving a scooty. I am scared of travelling alone. If I have to, I will. But I don't want to. I think about adventure sports and how at some point I would have wanted to do them. But I don't know anymore. I don't know if I will be able to do it even if I have the opportunity.

I am scared of doctors and hospitals. The thought of falling sick gives me anxiety. I think about death a lot. I imagine who will read this blog after I die and what will they discover. I think about the death of my loved ones and how will I be without them, what would my life look like without them. Would I cope or would I collapse?

Sometimes I get scared of my thoughts. It seems like if I will allow myself to even give a moment to this thought, I will manifest it and then I will be the one responsible for my miseries. 

I have kept secrets all my life and still continue to do. I think about the lives of people who completely fit in and hence don't have to hide anything. 

In Fleabag she says, would I be a feminist if I didn't have smaller tits? I also wonder would I be a writer if I didn't have secrets?

Sunshine

I always take too long to come to this. I don't know if it's the fear of a blank page or just the usual habit of procrastinating everything. Even the feeling of accomplishment and the so-called 'joy of writing' which I genuinely feel every time I write is not enough to push me to be here sooner. I had dinner, switched off the tv, cleaned the house a little bit unnecessarily, played music, scrolled through my phone, and a couple of blogs that I follow and when finally there was nothing more to look at, I decided to open the blog.

It's been a weird day. Work was tough, although I was working from home which always makes it better. I have told you how much I like the sunlight. My work desk at home is near a window and the light was falling on my face while I was on a video call. It was making me look a little better haha. There is also a mirror right beside my work desk so I was peeping and looking at myself in between and what that sunlight was doing to me. I know my description of work right now does not seem that bad. But it was bad. I think nostalgia just makes everything slightly better. The toughest part of work is not often work though, it's the people.

I watched a really nice interview after a very long time. Linking it here and won't talk about it much. It's just nice to see someone being so honest about their work and life. It also hits you differently now because of how rare it is. I am obsessed with Bollywood, no doubt about it. But art and artists have also always inspired me. And now that I know what cultural capital is and what 'low brow' and 'high brow' art is, I am unapologetic about the kind of things I like. 

I remember as a kid, there used to be this dance reality show on TV, and Isha Sharvani was a participant. Every week she would come on the stage and get the maximum points (often 30 on 30) from all three judges. She was perfect. Extremely hard working and so good at what she was doing on that stage. I remember as a young girl I was inspired by her. Not in the sense that I wanted to dance like her or be in a reality show. But just be better in life, at school. Maybe I am justifying my obsession with all things Bollywood, who knows?! 

I like the flashbacks though. These old childhood memories crawl back on the surface from somewhere deep down and leave you with a strangeness. Honestly, my biggest realisation of growing up has been that we don't really grow up, at the core we all are still the same 12-year-olds with a lot more battle scars. 

I am reading Mason Currey's book. It's unimaginably exciting how someone could write exactly what I am always seeking. The book is a day-to-day account of women artists. What they did, their routine, how they worked, how was their life, the mundane things. I can't obviously have a vlog of Louisa May Alcott's life but I am glad I got this book. :)

My life right now - yes the one that I am living - is a dream that I imagined and lived and aspired for growing up. To be able to live in a home with lots of sunlight, plants, freedom, safety, space, and love. I feel free here like I have never felt before. Thank you, universe!

sunshine on my sunshine

Sun-Day

 I was watching an interview series yesterday that talked about violence and cinema and was hosted by Varun Grover. At some point, Grover said that all Indian parents want their kids to make Baghban. 

His comment took me back to the day when I watched this film with everyone at home. As I grew up, and my parents grew older somehow their interest in cinema deteriorated. Maybe adulthood and responsibilities did that. I am not sure. However, the memory of watching certain films is still fresh in my mind. Like it happened yesterday. Baghban is one of them. Amma, papa, mummy everyone was crying by the end of it, as expected. I don't remember how I felt exactly after the movie. What I remember is that my father (being his very own self) asked both Prakhar and me to write a movie review of sorts. 

I wrote a three-page essay I think. However, I remember wanting to write a lot more. I was reading a story at that time (I think it was a comic book). In the story, a girl was asked to write an essay by her class teacher and she wrote a long 300 pages essay or something. When she submitted it, the teacher asked her to reduce the number of pages because she can't read so much. The girl went back and reduced the essay to some 100 pages and submitted it again. The teacher again politely asked her to reduce the number of pages further as it was still a lot for her to read. The girl went back, wrote a one-line essay and submitted it. That's it. That was the story. Somehow the younger me loved it so much that I wanted to be this girl (from the story) and write a 300-page essay on Baghban. Obviously, that didn't happen but yesterday when I remembered this, it made me realise (once again) that my desire to write and my fascination with writers isn't new. It's been there for a while.

We didn't travel much as kids. There was enough money for the needs but it was never enough for the indulgences. Whenever I travelled though, my father always asked me to write about it, and I did. I still have some of those writings in my diary. I wrote in Hindi at that time and these writings are titled as - Yatra Vrittant. 

I listen to Amit Varma's podcast and often wonder how privileged these folks are. They grew up reading. Their grandmothers read, and they published poetry in magazines. I don't come from such a family. My grandmother was struggling to make ends meet. She did pretty well, but reading and writing were a luxury that she could never afford. My parents also had a similar life. However, if I recall carefully, my father liked to read (at least when we were young). He encouraged us to read and write and archive. He encouraged me to cut and save snippets of newspaper articles, the ones I liked. 

Maybe I don't give my folks enough credit. They did well and I didn't become a reader and writer out of nowhere.

***

It's a sunny Sunday. Sunlight is good for my mental health, I think. I can never get enough of it. I love to watch clothes drying in the sun. A weekend like this has come after a long while. There is no rush. I could wake up leisurely. We had idli for breakfast. Ghee podi idli is the usual Sunday breakfast here. It's easy and comforting. 

The instinct is always to keep yourself occupied. Last month passed by in a blink. I was consumed by work and then GoT. There was no space to think or be. Then we went home for ten days. 

After a long time today, I am sitting and my mind is blank. There is no agenda. I am not binging on anything. As much as, having this space makes me restless, I also like it. I am not great at it though. I am too eager to quickly fill in the blanks. It's hard for me to be by myself. It's hard for me to be with my thoughts. How do writers cope with this? How do they learn to be okay with the emptiness and the loneliness? I hope I figure it out. 

I plan to write more regularly from hereon. Wish me luck!