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.

The Slut List

They create discord and then vanish. Like the Salem Witch Trials, any evidence (real or imagined) is sufficient. Dislike someone? Put them on. Want to ostracize someone? Stick 'em on too. A list of names to blacken, a judgement passed. All some women have are their good names- yet a select few choose to fling mud. 

Since I started high school, there were always mutterings of them, whispers that lurked the corridors and hid in scraps of paper passed along a row. They were posted on Facebook and sent over Mxit or BBM. In the same way disease spreads, each person branded as an offender tried to isolate themselves. Fearing the reputation that had been smeared onto their names would stick. Fearing the rumors would always lurk over their lives.

Every few months I see a scandal unfold on my newsfeed: a catfish profile that gained the trust of people or a fight that ensues because of suspicions and rumours. People depressed because the drama caused has put a strain on their lives. And then I see a list. 

The Slut List has been a notoriously childish, insensitive and destructive trend. I've never been on one and even if I had been, it would hold less water than a sieve. But I still feel for those girls who are put on them, again and again. Until they feel numb. Since when was it okay to "decide" that there needs to be a list put out, detailing the names and "offences" of people you vaguely know? The truth never matters, it is bent to suit the author. 

The creators are cowards, usually hiding behind a farce of "Someone sent this to me, told me to share" or by creating catfish profiles on social media in order to escape the backlash. They are bitter, lonely, cruel and immature. They are hungry for a sense of power or a sense of belonging. Do they care if their victims are deeply affected by it? They sit behind a computer and presume to know the girls they write about. Do they feel remorse?

Nope. 

The targets are usually:

- enemies

- popular people who are seen to be "too friendly"

- a specific type deemed to be "slutty"

  

And the motivation varies from resentment to wanting to create a stir.All thats left to do afterwards is type out all the names that fit your requirements and press "Send". 

Some of those lists follow girls (and recently many boys)around for many years.Nothing is easier to ruin than a reputation. Your family finds out? Some of them assume that where there is smoke, there must be a fire. Speaking to some of the girls who have featured on Slut Lists makes you realise how deep the pain can go. Some feel victimised because an impression of promiscuity and depravity is created by this list. Do you know what a label feels like?

Suffocating and like a prison to some. It is a violation that is pinned to you, a scarlet letter that brands you. 

As much as I hate to say it- The Indian community tends to have these lists circulating.  Not exclusively but by far most popularly. A witch-hunt to shame the girls who do not fit into an "Ideal". Since when have we become judge and jury? Why this need to publish and spread hate and malicious petty behavior? 

It is unrealistic to expect these lists to stop. But it is very realistic to stop giving them power to have any influence. Click report, ignore them, don't forward them. Give them no power and let them starve of the attention they so desperately crave. 

Call me a slut? Sure. I will hold my head up high and let you try to belittle my womanhood. Keep trying. Take your best shot actually. Those words do not define any of us. They are not chains that bind my wrists. We create our own identity. 

slut. whore. bitch. slag. loose. 

They are just words. And your womanhood is so much more than a few letters grouped together.

Toothache: On Candy Crush and Imbeciles

I do it on the bus, the train, sometimes before a lecture and occasionally when waiting in traffic. It doesn't last long, usually a few minutes and then it's over. Have I sent you a Game Request telling you what I'm doing? No. 

Candy Crush has become a much condemned, nay despised game by people who do not play it (and a lot of us who do play it) because users will incessantly send out requests to their Facebook friends. If you're into being detested and mocked then go ahead and send me another game request. 

I'm currently on level 270 (ok I'm stuck right now) (blame peak traffic for this). I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm not sending a plea to help me and I'm certainly not begging you for an extra life so I can get past the level. It's just a game that passes the time for me, it doesn't have to be your problem.

I think the only times I've sent Candy Crush requests were when:

1) A friend and I agreed that if I was stuck in Gingerblade Glade any longer (trying to unlock the quest), I could send him a request and he would ask if ever he was stuck for a few weeks. Mutual acceptance of the dreaded request.

2) My Significant Other was the other invite for the one above. The last one I decided to send to someone who had plagued me with requests for lives. That was a mistake. I have probably received 54 requests from her alone. 

In reality 30 minutes isn't a long time, if you run out of lives then put the phone down and do something productive. 12 hours isn't a long time, if you finish the quest then wait until you can play again. Instant gratification for you is an annoying notification for the rest of the population. DID YOU KNOW YOU DONT EVEN HAVE TO CONNECT TO FACEBOOK? I put my data off and play without really needing to have popups to send people lives/extra moves/ my soul/a gift. 

I enjoy the game. It's a simple concept that appeals to the parts of your brain that like rewards. But I am tired now, of having the same inane requests.A friend of mine told me that someone he knows actually texted,called and IM'd him to ask if he had seen their game request. Those are the people we don't need in our lives. Or on Facebook.

 Yay you got a higher score on level 77, is it really necessary to post that irrelevant piece of information onto my wall? I don't care.   I play, it passes the time on my daily commute to university. My mum plays, she doesn't even have Facebook. She's even told me to leave her phone alone when I've offered to do a level for her.  

But I know that the real motivation for the statuses that declare that they will unfriend people who they have who send a CC request:

1) The imbeciles who send them, barely know you. They make no effort to communicate with you, nor do they actually read your blog (cough cough), sorry I meant they don't actually care. Same thing really.

2) Its the same idiot, again and again. 

3) They don't even play the game, they don't care. Why do you fill up their notifications with crap? 

I've decided to send the people who send me game requests a link to my blog. Afterwards they are free to decide. And by "free"I mean I will post this link all over their walls until they stop. You can do the same (all press is good press). Don't send me lives, extra moves or a Lollipop Hammer. Do something worthwhile between your CC lives replenishing if it is such a vital part of your life.It says more about you than it does about me if you can't find something to do for 30 minutes.  

Refuse to abide by my terms and I will sugar crush you. 

Su's Tough Love Talk

This is for the troubled girls. The sometimes happy but mostly sad girls. This is for the ones who aren't sure if they can leave him. This is for the one who hasn't spoken to her friends because she knows he hates them and because they all said he was bad news. The girls who are too scared to dump his sorry ass and move on. This is for you, my girl- it's time for some tough love. 

I have many obscure Life Beliefs. But I hold firm to three of them when it comes to the people in your life: 

1) Never apologise for the high standards you hold. And if you aren't apologising for your standards in life yet... Pretend they are the roof and RAISE THEM. 

2) There are 7 billion people in the world (a handful in space). There is NO obligation to scrape the bottom of the barrel when it comes to your choices in partners.

3) The men you choose to love must be like the books you cherish: Well read, highly recommended and critically acclaimed as something that doesn't come along often. 

Now I don't expect the last to apply to everyone, but the first two should be taught to your daughters as soon as they can say "Mama". Make them aware of their value early on so that no one can ever take advantage of them by low balling that value. 

Am I being too fussy? That I will never tolerate a cheater, liar, thief or someone who just doesn't quite reach the bar. No. I owe it to myself to expect Great Love, to demand nothing less. To expect love that demands mutual respect, kindness and understanding. I owe it to myself to pick a diamond in the rough and not grab at Fool's Gold. You should expect the same, you know why?

You are a woman. In the 21st Century. In an age where all the sex-based mountains of the past have been knocked down so you are on equal standing with men. The Suffragette Movement had women throw themselves under horses and going on hunger strikes in prison so you could stand up and declare your feminine power with pride. So you could go to the same institutes of learning and work at the same companies as your fellow man. You have all the opportunities that they dreamed of, all the freedom that some women STILL do not have. You represent a long line of thinkers, teachers, healers, leaders and so much more. 

So why the hell would you choose to settle for a man who does not do your potential justice?

 Why do you choose that "bad boy"? These guys come with a neon warning sign. And moths love neon signs right? So they allllllllll flock to them. You don't have to be a Moth. You're a frikken butterfly, you don't need his explosive, psychotic neon sign. The guy who your friends don't like and who is overly suspicious of you?  Still don't recognise that your "man" is a Bad Boy. Let me define that guy for everyone in a case study:

Bad: Defined as something that is Not Good. 

Boy: He is not a Man. He does not live up to the standard set by men. Great men who treated women with respect.He is a boy who will never grow or learn from his foolish ways. Do you need a boy in your life? I thought not.

Dead beat Bad Boy: defined as the Ideal Man by women who like to conduct their romances through the glass at a prison's visiting bay. Characteristics include Devil-May-Care attitude, possible addiction to narcotics /and/or/ Alchohol. Paranoid about losing you because many women see through him. Was arrested/will be arrested at some point ( possibly related to his narcotics). Displays violent tendencies but very quickly apologizes to his Lady. Ambition in life is limited to some dead end job, possibly with a kind relative.Always has a half baked "complicated" plan that never works out. May or may not hack into your social media to attempt to drive away your best friend with a horrible message. (yeah I know the guy all right) (You actually went back, again?)

Not-John-Mayer Bad Boy: he doesn't fit the stereotype but he undermines you, makes you feel trapped and he knows that he wields some kind of love-related power over you. He might not have the black leather jacket, but he's a douche. 

Sauve Playboy Bad Boy: He's the Too-Cool-For-Commitment guy. Everything is exactly the same as Dead Beat except he probably will leave before you figure out his ambition in life. His neon sign has attracted many other moths. He cheats but he really, truly loves you and will honestly never look at another... Oh darn there he is kissing your best friend, again.

Let's be real for a second- people use your name and "stupid girl" in the same sentence, often. You aren't but your choice of Significant Other makes people doubt you have a brain. My question is "Why him?". All I would like is an explanation or some justification from someone my age( or older) who chooses to stay. You have no kids or any real ties to him. He cheats, you go back. He gets arrested, you go back. He leaves you for someone else and comes back to you, you go back again. Where is the self respect? There is only so much that love can justify. 

 The world is your oyster- why must you dine on the kitchen scraps? 

Charles Darwin's theory of Natural Selection describes it as "The survival of the fittest". Those that cannot adapt- die out. 

-Does he fit your Life Plan?

-Does he fit your (now raised) standards?

-Does he fit in with the people you care about?

-Does he survive temptation?

If not, then he can just get selected out of your life. Dead like a Dodo and (you should pray about this) extinct from your life like a dinosaur. 

What I'm trying to say that even though he's "Just the boyfriend" now, he might end up as "just a husband" and then "just the father of your kids". And you'll be stuck with him because you don't want your (now estranged) friends to be right. You're gonna be 37 with family you haven't seen in years because they hate your husband and his violent outbursts. You might end up a statistic like the ones that I find in my Criminology textbook when it describes how some men kill their intimate partners. Or another perfect fit for Battered Woman Syndrome. 

There was never any shame in walking away. 

 Your choices now, can define the rest of your life. So Woman Up and walk out.