Today I wore a punjabi

I don't celebrate Diwali in the traditional sense (owing to being Christian). But today I wore a punjabi, did my hair up in a bun and squeezed my legs into those tight pant- contraptions they come with.

Why?  Because I miss Durban, home. I miss Ma and Appa and Grandma and Thatha (my maternal and paternal grandparents) and all my family. I miss the feeling of belonging. Since we moved, I will admit that I felt the Indian part of me dull significantly. I miss having loads of Indian friends to talk to with those weird accents we all do when we mimic our mothers. I wasn't exactly a vedda making, sari wearing(ok I lie about that), bhangra dancing Indian but I still love my culture deeply.

Durban is the world's largest diaspora of Indians outside India. And God I miss it on days like today. Days where Appa's garden was filled with candles and the smell of food would waft around until it permeated your being. Days where it would probably rain but no one would cease to fill the sky with colour and where sparklers were lit in quick succession.

I read the Ramayan when I was old enough to read proper books. Appa had spent virtually my entire childhood telling me stories as I fell asleep, quizzing me the next day about the details and retelling the best bits. Ram and Sita was a favourite because he read it out of his green-and-red copy that reminds me so vividly of being young.

We moved over 10 months ago, but this morning was the first proper, nausea inducing homesickness I've felt. I love talking to other students who are from Durban or who know Durban. It's weirdly comforting to know someone else misses that gorgeous coastal city where all our stories began. 

So this is for all the students, people who moved to work or just Indian people who are far away from home on Diwali. I started crying like a baby while on the bus so I can only imagine how you feel alone this year. Happy Diwali ♥

When I write...

I believe that the reason I write is because I haven't yet been able to read the story my soul craves and that I want to be the one who creates it.

No story I have written  so far will ever see light of day because I hold them to the same standard as the books I love- rendering each one lacklustre and riddled with faults. Each attempt to flesh out  the stories ends abruptly. It just doesn't fit what it is meant to be intially. Each character has their own soul and I cannot love all of them equally nor can I hate them without seeing some redemption. 

To show someone else my writing, the personal kind, is akin to having it tattooed all over my body for the scrutiny of the world. I seek deep purpose and to write is the only way I know I can try to understand my purpose. It is the only thing I can attach this search to. 

My melancholic musings on life are not because I am dissatisfied or angry. They are merely a reflection of my mind when I can wallow in this desire for meaning.  What shines through are the inadequate aspects of myself that I must one day learn to reconcile with. So I put pen to paper or fingers to the keys in an attempt to foster reconcilliation.

I write because there is no other way to get rid of the words that dance in my mind. To tie them to paper gives me clarity. To create  and complete the sentiment gives me the most serene sleep I can ever have.  I write when it is almost midnight and no one else can ask what I am furiously typing. The world is best when quiet, at cruel hours like 11 pm and 6am when the words want you to stay awake so they can come into being. 

I write because one day I hope to be less mediocre than I am now. To be a better writer would mean my understanding of the world had become broad enough to comment on it. Because as desperately as I try to capture Man in these letters and musings, I yearn to convey my thoughts about just one man or woman.  I crave the ease with which some people seem to write.  I tend to scatter my words, let them mingle with the characters that play out in my head, hoping that one day it will be worthy enough to be read by someone else. 

Someone like you, perhaps.

An open letter to my Muse

 

Dear Muse,

Losing something you have written is almost as painful as losing a possession or a person, I think. Only, it is not a generic thing that can be bought again and it cannot be reclaimed from an insurer.  And it isn't someone who you can find again or visit when you miss them. It is a piece of your soul, laid on a page and made tangible. To lose this moment that has been captured by ink and blue-lined paper hurts more than any heartbreak. It is the only pain I feel more than my acknowledgement of death. Because in a way, it is a death. The part of you who wrote aforementioned words is gone forever.

Once upon a time, I had pages and pages of a story that was only beginning to write itself. I was only beginning to know myself. Written over 3 years and each word a burden that needed to be laid down, it was bound in a red folder with a blue ribbon around it. Red, black and blue were the inks that splashed my feelings into reality. There was a girl, lost and in search of purpose and identity. There were others of course but now when it is late and the night is silent, I long to hear from her again. By pouring so much into it, at 2am when sleep would not come and the words would not stop, the ache lingered for so long when it was lost. Misplaced or thrown away by someone who probably thought it was useless during a spring clean. I would search every cupboard and every page, even two years later when we were moving- I still searched. Even now I sigh at the memory.

But she has gone now and I forget the parts of her story that were once so vivid. I wish you could know her too.

I used to keep journals. But that was a mistake. Of course it was a mistake to pour every simple, naive thought into a book where the only intrigue and scandal is not your own but rather the idea of what could be or the lives of those around you. There is no filter. And when it is read and taken for more than it was, your heart can only weep while you throw them away. The bitter regret of trusting yourself to reveal to much teaches you to be less vulnerable.Perhaps it is better now, when every thought may be forgotten and when memories fade away to make room for new ones. It is better now, that I have learned to internalise each problem. Who needs a retrospective opinion anyway?

I will never meet that girl I was again, even if I chose to. You would laugh, at my exaggeration and musings about the people around me.

I was full of ideas, when life had not yet made a cynic of me. My writing was my secret project and I was too shy to let anyone examine the flesh and bones of my soul. So I tore up my poetry and wished it away. The few that remained were cryptic and held very little weight. Pages and pages that drew a map of me were discarded into a tall green bin. The intensity of my confessions were too stark and obvious, there were no secrets that were not in plain sight in my stanzas.  My sentiments seemed more heavy than I wished to be known. Each one was a record of my doubts, fears, failings and sadness. 

Such deep sadness that I would hate to revisit ever again. If my heart held on to these for too long, the veins would become lined with lead and soot that burned in a time of angst. What would be left? A shell I think, who had to let go before it was consumed by all this reflection.

And when I fell in love with you, I wrote a poem or a letter every other day. I wanted you to know that one secret. And when you told me you felt the same way, I wrote two a day to try to contain myself.But before the urge to burn it up and hide behind my wall arrived, I bound it in ribbons and watercolour and left it for you. It is so cheerful and full of my smiles and laughter. I'm glad I gave it to you for a while. Now you will know how deeply those pages decorated with flowers and ink, are tied to my heartstrings.

You were given those pages so one day, I am able to see who I was before "me" became "we". 

 To lose something you have written is akin to pretending it never happened. Be it your fault, or an accident, the pain stays. You crush and sweep away the fallen leaves in Autumn, leaves that unfurled in a time in your life when it was Spring. And now, while it is Summer, I will endevour to write to you and about you so that I remember what the blossoms smelled like when it is Winter again. 

Yours faithfully,

Your semi-retired poet

Functioning at family functions

Death and taxes may be unavoidable for all of us. However for your average Indian child, the maxim is altered:

Weddings, funerals and your cousins neighbour's prayers are unavoidable. Death and taxes will be sorted by Bobby Uncle (priest AND accountant).

You get the long weddings, the even longer funerals and then functions where you don't even know the host but they're obviously related to you (right?).There's an art to keeping your sassy comments to yourself, socialising properly to reflect that you were not raised by newts and finally, in identifying the samoosa with mince filling without biting into it. You nail those and you survive. Sort of.

Is your momma a newt? No? No excuse bud

 It's not that bad if you have cousins* to chat to during the proceedings and this generally is an incentive to attend the function. They're like friends that come pre-packed with family. They used to run around with you but now you're older and not allowed on the swings anymore. But it's a moot point if the aforementioned cousins are the sort who sit on their phones the entire time and won't say "Hi" back, to anyone. When I was younger I assumed that you got to a certain age and then stopped talking to relatives and your new place was skulking behind buildings and acting oh-so-nonchalant. The sort who wouldn't deign to have an iota of decency toward their family.I'm 18 now, still waiting for the natural urge to act rude. Will update you when I turn 25. Nada. For now however, good manners apply and hopefully they will always apply. You can't act too cool for the same people who saw you in diapers and with food in your hair. Stop it.

I've always been raised with the principle that you show respect for your elders, you give them your seat and greet them when you see them. I respect older people deeply because they had to live through a LOT and they can still  be friendly and speak to you without condescension(usually)  Even with my Handshake Policy **(for uncles I know vaguely) and my obvious reluctance to hug the insistent ones, I try to show some felicity. You don't sommer look up from your texting and grunt a hello. It's a reflection of your immediate family when you're that rude. Is your mother a newt? There's no excuse to be That Relative Who Doesn't  Speak if she isn't. You can grace someone else's table with your attitude, you can't sit with us. 

(*this is a loose term. It could be any relation who is in your age bracket  and/or younger than your parents) 

(** Even though I am female, we don't know each other so I will give you a good, firm handshake to rival any clammy-handed nephew of yours and maybe one day, when you die, I might consider a hug)

Three points on samoosas

- White friends will assume you make them yourself (keep that façade up if you would rather hide your supplier). Relatives will scrutinize the filling (more onion than mince? Someone got cheated). I will seek out the potato ones and avoid them like the plague. (I refuse to eat it)

-A good host should label what fillings are on display, if not- look for a dark, green-flecked parcel of yum and carefully take a corner off to determine the contents. If unsuccessful, sneakily put it on your dad's plate. 

- I have no last point other but the pun-oppurtunity was too good to pass up. Use this null point as a voucher to redeem a samoosa. OR use the food available as a distraction from insistent uncles who want to give you a hug, they can't make you stop eating. 

 Being a smart-arse will only land you in peril 

I inherited more sass than I should have. Paired with my tendency to not filter my opinions too much, it can do more harm than humour when around relations. Not all of them, I have family with amazing humour. But the ones who get picky and pointy-outy are usually tests on my ability to keep the sass down. Some mild examples are:

"You've gotten darker, too much sun hmm?"

"You're a lot fatter this time."

*pokes my stomach* "I see you still like your food"

Oh lady (because it usually is a lady) you test me. You make me call on my sassy ancestors and ask them to restrain my commentary about your superficial values and points on your physical attributes. Your "banter" makes me want to slaughter a beetroot to aid my inner peace in not bursting into an impersonation of you. Impersonation is my super power, to be used for good or evil. But I won't. Because my momma raised me right, also she is scary when angry and I don't need that kind of fear in my life.

Your quintessential Indian mother will instill a fear greater than religious fear. God has mercy but a mother armed with a wooden spoon may not. They are really strong people, these masala-making, sari-draping, death-staring, function-attending women. And you know there will be a look you get when you behave badly among relations, it freezes your heart and that cold dread spreads into every crevice. It's not just me, even mothers who are "laid back" can have this side them. They need a documentary series narrated by Stephen Fry: Crouching Tamil Tiger, Hidden Hindi Dragon; The Sari Safari ; Diwali Dangerous. Something along those lines.

(Disclaimer: I'll have you know, my mum is chilled- she uses the emojis on Whatsapp and can fangirl now and again. )

I digress.Earlier this year (When I actually started writing this post), I bumped into the parents of someone I find deplorable and insufferable. By honing back the Sass, I avoided asking how their child's criminal trial was going and therefore avoided probable injury. I walked back to my mother and my first words were: "My sass self control has hit another level, guess who I just saw?". Just be polite. It leads to a better you, one day probably. People recall your sassy quips faster than your classy everything else.

Honestly, I love spending time with relatives and what inspired me were the by-standers who appear aloof and rude toward these  same relatives. You can have the best laugh with the right Aunty and a cool Uncle can teach you card games. (Well one day someone will teach me thunee, I cannot play at all).When did it stop being taught that you should make an effort to be civil towards other people? Avoid being whispered about when you sashay to the biryani, avoid being frowned upon when you grab some burfee. Sort that out and you wil survive the marquee mêlée.

Be wise, socialise.