Ahana’s Quill

Post Number 82: Woman with a Turban

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Before leaving for the office, Mum points me to a pink bag propped up on the table. I look inside and see a large, framed picture of her, wearing a Safa Pagdi (Rajasthani Turban) on her head. As the head of the health services in her region, my mother regularly gets photographed in power poses these days. However, this particular photo of her struck me. Every official function she attends as a chief guest, she’s gifted a Safa to symbolize her importance, something that is typically tied to men’s traditional clothing in Rajasthan. Isn’t it funny that the only way to emphasize her authority is through male symbology? It is as if the best of a woman pales in comparison to that of a man. 


Surprising.

Maybe I am noticing this especially strongly now because I have chosen to go through something where I grapple with labels every day. Unlike ever before, I feel acutely conscious of how I present. In the beginning, I believed that letting my work speak for itself is the best way forward. It partially still is, but it needs to be marketed too. Unless it is wrapped in pleasant packaging and tied with a pretty bow, it is like that tree in the forest that no one heard falling. You must be able to talk and do it well. You must be engaging, and be just the right kind of convincing, or else you could be eccentric. And you don’t want to be eccentric. Especially not an eccentric woman.


The next question is what makes the packaging and the bow pretty? My options are even more limited than my male counterparts. Be a woman of few words, and you’re reticent or underconfident. Be vociferous and you’re noisy. I am constantly teetering on the fine line between them. 


I envy my female friends who have figured themselves out or at least appear to have. They don’t sweat the minor details of others’ opinions and if they don’t agree with someone, they aren’t shy about calling it out. Some carry being loud as a badge of honour (as it should be!). They have figured out the games they need to play and how much they are willing to compromise. 

I wonder if men go through the same convoluted reckoning to find their voice. Do they second-guess themselves before confidently stating things — even when they’re wrong?

Post Number 80: Regrets and What-Ifs

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Another year is about to end. I too, am about to finish another year around the sun. And with each year, I seem to keep collecting regrets and what-ifs. 

When I was younger, I had more life ahead of me than behind me. I remember staying awake the whole night as a kid, buzzing with excitement for the first swim class of the year at school. Now, there is always some music or some show playing in the background to drown out half of my thoughts. 

When Dadum died earlier this year, I remember remarking that my luck had finally run out. I had considered myself incredibly lucky that I got to grow with my grandparents actively present in my life. When kids and adults would mention family members passing, I would send God a quick prayer to keep everyone safe and healthy at home. That clearly worked for a while. Dadum got to see many milestones in my life, except for that PhD. That may or may never happen.

Having these fears didn’t make me cherish all my moments more. It wasn’t as poetic. When Dadum recited poems or shlokas from memory, I would get bored, but I would still listen attentively for as long as I could and he wanted me to. Many days I would naturally gravitate towards Didum, or my aunt and mum because sometimes, finding it easier to talk to them because I related to them more. This birthday would be the first one without him. Last year, around this exact time, we had almost lost him, but he miraculously came back to us for a couple of more months. It was almost as if he wanted to stay back for just another birthday. 


I should have called him more often. 

It’s funny saying that. I haven’t turned into a new leaf after his passing. Many days, I still don’t feel like talking. I could be calling everyone and living in the moment more often. Yet, here I am, fully aware that I should be studying for the finals coming up but choosing to ignore it in this moment. I suspect most people live outside of their moments, but to those who manage to squeeze in as much as they can into their time, I envy you and admire you. 

Dadum isn’t my only what-if. I go through so many periods and events of my life daily, re-hashing everything I did or could have done. It never helps. Of course, you are sitting there reading this and thinking, just stop thinking so much! Yeah yeah, I should, and there are days when I do. And then there are days that I don’t, or I can’t. I adjust with the questions on those days. They will come, and some will go, only to be replaced with new ones. People will come, make their ripples. Some of which will die out, and some defy the laws of physics and never let the water just stay still.

Post Number 74: A displaced Indian

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I had never hoped to come to the US to improve my life. My career yes, but not my life. I loved how the DDA flats used to look so clean after rains, how the corner Uncle’s garage/convenience store was one of the biggest selling points about our apartment complex. I loved how I would come home to a cold lassi or mango shake in the fridge my mum made before she left in the morning. I would then sit and watch Bengali tv serials that had been on for three years at that point, with Didum. I looked forward to the FabIndia sales at Himachal Bhawan and one of my big adult moments was when I got the chance to buy clothes from there with me own salary. Yet, coming to the US seemed necessary at that point. Even as nostalgia tints my glasses in a rosy hue, it would be unfair to leave out those many moments in the couple of years before I left, when I realized that career growth in India isn’t that simple. Going for a Masters in the US seemed the best idea then.

It is still too early to say whether it indeed was or not. The only thing that I can talk about is my life outside my career. What do I do when I shut down my computer? What do I look forward to and who will I spend my time with? Three years ago, I would have been going to my music classes or go on a walk with my aunt to veggies. Keeping up the Ahana from then was easier because everything that made her was right there with her. It took little effort to do what I liked because people around me would do the same things too. The Ahana now, is busy looking up all the songs on youtube that she grew up listening to. She must try that much harder to find new songs on her own because All India Radio won’t do it for her. I actively tune out my boyfriend’s music from me head because it would take away the memory of the music I liked. I hungrily watch Indian news channels on youtube to stay Indian, but I cannot escape the fact that everyday Indian news seems more otherworldly.

The only thing my mum never had trouble with me was that I was never a picky eater. I used to be made fun of that if I was given insects to eat, I would even eat that without complaint. Now, I don’t sleep well if I don’t eat daal bhaat torkari. Everyday, I choose to remember what I used to do in fear of losing what has made me, me. I go extra hard into being Bengali and Indian because who will do it for me if I don’t? Who would have imagined that I would willingly sit through a whole show of Indian classical dance and shed a few tears because I was so moved?

I may already be that US wala relative who tries a little too hard when they visit India. Be kind to them next time. Their idiosyncrasies might just be protective mechanisms like mine. My life in India will always be suspended in the year I left it while it has move on for everybody else. And that terrifies me.

Post Number 70: As my throat closes up

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See the source image
Image Courtesy: Splice Today

This time, instead of melting my emotions in a cauldron of cute animal videos, I decided to write. Like always, I am going to regret ever writing this yet if I never take these rare breaks from my mental block, I might as well stop buying pens and notebooks to write.

It is strange how sadness is often more visceral than happiness. There have been at times, these moments of absolute clarity that seem like a storm’s eye. During this short period, the mental glass has nary a speck of dust or fog on it. If timed well, I have sometimes had my most productive spurts of writing during these moments. I hope, the following will feel like a creation of one such time when I read it in the future. You are welcome to judge it.

Trigger Warning: Not sure if this needs it. If you feel intense imageries of negative emotions affect you, you may want to stay away from this one. My sadness is not for public validation, obviously, but I still feel like I want you to know it. For those who decide to read it, thank you.

As my throat closes up
I recount everything
Parsing through each moment
To see what went wrong
What is happening?
What am I doing here?
Why am I here?

As my stomach twists over itself
I tell myself to be reasonable
It cannot be this dramatic
I am seeing a mountain
Where there is a molehill
And I cannot be the ant
Who sees no difference between the two

I pace through the room
Hands in fists on the side
Every muscle tensed up
Asking, pleading, forcing
Each molecule to loosen up
I am here, this is my space
Reminding myself that I have a choice

My limbs relax
I see yet I don’t
Nothing heard
In the deafening silence
I am empty
I am drained
I am blank.

Post Number 68: Unsettled

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Of late I have been regularly wondering if I am doing what I am meant to do with my life. Am I happy? Am I settling in mediocrity? I know what I am doing is not mediocre by any definition and just saying this reeks of privilege that stinks to high heavens. Yet, despite having all the support growing up, the possibility that I may not be fulfilling my “full potential” terrifies me.

We are told to study well and hustle for opportunities so we can stand on our own two feet and support ourselves. I have a job now, I earn enough to support myself, then why do I still feel less than I am? Is it me personally seeking something more in life or is it just the world around my childhood self, telling me that I need to keep doing more?

I wish I could say here that I’ve found the answer but sadly not. I worry that I may never find the answer. I wish I could be like all those Instagram people making their daily self affirmations and popping in new health supplement pills that sponsor them, but I am not. I suspect that they aren’t either, but you will never know watching them. 

I am going to keep it shorter than my already short articles. However, I do want to know if you have ever felt the same and what you tell yourself when you have these thoughts.

Post Number 56 : Not so home, away from home

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Before coming to the US, on multiple occasions my family had reminded me not to try replicate my life in India here. I hadn’t really paid much attention to them at the time. It seemed so silly. Of course, I wouldn’t. Between my classes and keeping myself alive everyday, I doubt I would ever have the time to replicate my old home in my soon to be new home. Yes, I was scared of living alone for the first time. I was decidedly not looking forward to cooking because I wasn’t sure if I would survive my cooking. However, the idea of living alone, like an adult and having independent adventures over shone any of those worries. 

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Post Number 51 : Why I stopped writing

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I don’t like my writing and I never have. I find it pretentious and lacking any sort of original thought. While I have a sufficiently sized vocabulary, I fail to use it properly. Whether that is due to the incoherent way my mind works or just an inability to accurately express myself, I am not sure. I suspect it is a combination of both.

At this very moment, I have four articles that I have written in the past year, that are collecting dust. None of these articles will see the light of the day. First, I thought their premise was childish, then I thought my writing was severely lacking, and soon I realised they also lack any spark that we look for in all the articles we read. I have been searching for inspiration for a long time but I suppose it has a restraining order against me.

image courtesy – @chikinnagit (Instagram)

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Post Number 38 : Dilliwali Diwali

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Ooh that beautiful smoke in the air. Smoke that’s so potent that all the bling on people’s clothes look just like…. Nothing. They would mean something if you could actually see a meter in front of you but since you can’t, you wait for the next day when people post their FABULOUS Diwali pictures on Facebook and Instagram.

Image result for crackers diwali delhi

Courtesy – The Financial Express

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Post Number 34 – The Whole Damn Bouquet : Part Deux

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Candid Wallflowers came into existence during one clammy summer evening, when the two writers, in midst of their gossip sessions, thought to share their infinitely wise observations of the people around them. With the utmost humility, of course.  The very first article was an attempt at decoding the kind of people we are mostly surrounded with in college. You can read it here. With time, the old groupings have disbanded just as people keep shedding old habits and come into new ones.

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Post Number 32: Holi – in the days of Social Media

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There used to be a time when Holi meant you wore your rattiest clothes because who’s even going to care what colour and print your clothes are? Nothing survives the onslaught of permanent colours and water. Is it supposed to be a Chikankari kurta? More like a kurta with chicken curry splashed on it. And who even cares if there’s that extra stitch around the waist or near the shoulder to give your clothes the perfect shape? They’re going to stick to your body like a second skin anyway. You might as well wear that old night suit that you’re planning to convert into a pochha (aka desi name for a house cleaning rag).

But lately, Instagram, Facebook and WhatsApp statuses have ruined that for me too. Now as soon as I go on WhatsApp, I am flooded with pictures of my friends wearing the classiest clothes. It’s like they’re straight out of the video of “Do me a favour, let’s play Holi!” where they are the impeccably dressed backup dancers for Priyanka Chopra. Their clothes look as if they were gently caressed by a naughty breeze with a little splash of colour.

courtesy – IBTimes India

In between their fabulous Holi celebrations, people make sure to take pictures of these said fabulous Holi celebrations. After all, your Holi isn’t fabulous enough if you don’t have a hundred pictures to prove its fabulousness. Add a dose of carefully choreographed pictures and videos where they are just randomly throwing gulaal into the air and bathing in its disintegrated form. Why couldn’t they just ask someone to smash some colour onto their faces is beyond me. Who even plays Holi like that? Can you imagine me alone on the street and blowing gulaal into the air and dancing around in it? Let’s just agree that my neighbours would preferably stay away from me in the future.

And what is it with people going out to play with seemingly perfectly blow-dried hair? Aren’t we supposed to drown our hair in oil before Holi? You know, so our hair can look perfect once again the next day, saved from the devastating effects of irresponsibly sourced gulaal? Looking at Instagram it’s clear that I am the only champu in Delhi (a goofball), who is glazed with oil all over her body just so it’s easier to get rid of all that colour later. Forgive me if I don’t want to look like “Jaadu” the day after Holi.

Related image

courtesy – memecrunch.com

What I feel the most sympathy for, is my 500 rupee, extra-power, extra volume pichkari or water gun that I bought a few years earlier and still worth its weight. Now, that’s something that deserves to be clicked from every angle. I can just imagine the caption that would go with those pictures, “A nozzle to bamboozle the crap out of anybody in a 50 m radius!” or “Is that sweat I see on your face? ‘Cuz there’s fear written All.Over.It!” But in a neighbourhood full of Instagram models, my dorky water gun is no longer a participant.