THE MORAL OF THE STORY….

Yet another page from the mother-daughter diary

“Mom, please tell me a story and put me to sleep,” my daughter requested. It’s a part of our routine. Sometimes I read folk tale books, and sometimes I play bedtime stories on YouTube (when I have a lot of things to wind up and anxiety kicks in thinking of the remaining agenda). But there are times when she demands stories freshly cooked up. She also hands me a few specifications, like certain characters, names of the characters, certain habits, and so on. Trust me, she plucks fruits of imagination from La La Land and lets me feast on some of the juiciest fruits. Once ingredients are given to me, the onus is on my shoulders to serve her with an enjoyable story, laced with a moral, of course.

So this time she wanted me to tell her a jungle story with a baby elephant named Daisy as the central character. To weave stories instantly is a difficult task, but parenting comes with additional features. Either you end up being a pro at multitasking or you nevertheless end up doing the job somehow. I fall into the second category. Let me go straight to the story. Don’t worry, I won’t make you fall asleep (the purpose of a bedtime story), and I will keep it short.

The story:

Daisy moved to a new jungle colony. Monkeys inhabited the area in large numbers. Daisy was delighted to make new friends. Her days would pass loitering around in the jungle, exploring every nook and corner while her friends were busy scaling high trees. Her mother was upset with how Daisy spent her days, doing nothing productive compared to her friends. “Why don’t you learn anything from your friends?” “You can give climbing a tree at least a try.” “You are giving me a lot of tension, mind you” her mother’s rant would go on and on. She even made Daisy participate in the area’s annual monkeys race. Daisy failed and failure has to some extent stirred resentment in her.

Daisy’s parents had to go to a nearby colony. They entrusted Daisy’s responsibility to neighbours. Everyone assembled on the ground, having general chit-chat. A rabbit named Bonny came running, breathing heavily. He had dreadful news to share. “Guys, I overheard hunters in the nearby fields; they are going to launch an attack on our colony.” “We need to think and act fast,” Bonny said, distressed. The gloom was in the air. As he was still speaking, a shot was fired into the air, setting off chaos. Monkeys were rushing to find a cover. A few of them were hopping on the treetops to locate the exact location of the hunters. Amid the chaos, Daisy considered using her strength to resolve the situation and help others as well. Creating hurdles for hunters, she uprooted trees and flung them over. That would buy time for escaping. A coordinated effort helped Daisy and her friends escape the hunters’ trap.

When Daisy’s parents returned, they learned about the entire fiasco. They were proud when everyone in the colony praised Daisy. Her mother patted Daisy’s back with her trunk. “I’m proud of you, dear,” she whispered. Daisy smiled and said, “But mom, I couldn’t climb trees as you would have liked it.” “I am sorry for that,” she said, leaving the place, leaving her mother pondering over her behaviour when she constantly compared her daughter to others.

As soon as I finished the story, my daughter made a quick remark. “Daisy’s mother is none other than you. You compare me to my cousins.“

When I made up this story, I knew that she was smart enough to find real-life references, though I wasn’t creative enough. I replaced fish with elephants. Yes, as much as I boast of being a cool Gen X parent, I am sometimes guilty of being an anxious and overly enthusiastic parent. I have no shame in admitting that I do compare my kids to others (sometimes). When I notice my daughter repeating the same calculation mistake every three days, the paranoia kicks in. A matrix of future scenarios’ permutations and combinations dangles in front of me. I end up giving her examples of her cousins who have a vast syllabus compared to her and a rigid education system.

But going back in time, I, and perhaps a majority of 80s and 90s kids, have witnessed a similar kind of parenting style (talking about the Indian scenario; I am not aware of how things were then in the rest of the world or, say, outside of Asia). Blame it on the cutthroat competition in every field, parents compare their kids (mostly academically) to their peers. My mother, being not highly educated herself, always dreamed of giving her kids a good education. The only way she thought was right was to keep track of our marks and tally them with our friends. Whenever I used to have a bad examination, nervousness would consume me. Nervousness about how to convey how badly I fared at the exam and the results that followed I used to share my woes with my brother. He had a perfect solution up his sleeves. He used to say, “Simply say that you did well, and when the results are announced, you can have your share of reprimand from mom. Why double your trouble?” Fortunately, things changed when I started my graduation. My mom no longer compared my results; rather, she started to believe in the process of learning, that is, to understand the concept. More importantly, she believed in me and said that I was responsible enough to take care of my studies. A breath of fresh air! And, happy to say that I lived up to it.

So can you blame me for the occasional “look at them” behaviour? (Ideally, you can; I am guilty and have no qualms accepting the same.) But I have been privy to such an environment, and it makes its presence felt in my thought process sometimes.

Coming back to my situation, I train my brain not to fall into the temptation of making comparisons of any sort. But as the flawed character I am, I do fumble sometimes. I compare myself with other successful women (the definition of success is debatable). I have a specific set of problems, and the people I compare myself to have their sagas and woes to share. But everything becomes opaque to me, and I turn a blind eye to the obvious. This is where self-doubt takes good control over my senses and abilities as well. I want to make special mention of my husband’s role here. He never compared kids to others, for he had the same experience as mine as a kid. According to him, comparison connotes pain and misery. He is convinced that such a juxtaposition elicits (most of the time) negative emotions. It kills confidence. He clearly stated, “I wouldn’t mind even if my daughter decides to be a worker with the garbage cleaning department as long as she is happy and an honest person.” (As a child, she expressed an interest in becoming a garbage collector. Now her favourite jobs have changed for a while. He got his priorities straight, I must say. A lot to learn from him.

Let’s have a broader perspective:

Is comparison completely evil? Or can it be a tool to leverage better performance? The impact of comparison on our lives depends on how we are applying it. I believe we can not completely do away with comparison. It is omnipresent on both micro and macro levels, essentially dealing with quantifiable things. The purpose is to improve. We are a part of the social fabric, and comparison among us seeps through at one or the other point. If used as a tool of introspection, it paves a way for implementing a concrete plan of action to reach the goal. Comparison is a tool to leverage introspection only if we are ready to accept our weaknesses, identify our strengths and prepare a unique path to tread. We shall be able to enjoy the process of learning (from others) and understanding (ourselves). Customization is the key because of the uniqueness of every handler who is using comparison to optimize the results. Precisely every journey, destination and path is different. But what if the element of customization (understanding our own circumstances) is missing? You are either blindly fancying or ranting about someone somewhere in a better position and messing up with your own life. In my mother tongue, Telugu, there is a saying that translates to: “A fox burned its skin to have the look (stripes) of a tiger.” The underlying meaning is to imitate someone by being in their place or position. It will only lead to pain. If the purpose of weighing or comparing oneself is to achieve acceptability, to meet certain notions and standards, then pushing the envelope to reach there can lead to irreversible losses. For example, fashion influencers do a fashion haul every two days. They purchase clothes from brands and showcase (read: show off) them to gain traction online. The vanity of such behaviours rubs off on their primary target audience, which is young people. The clock of comparison ticks, “Let me get the same dress.” “Let me lay my hands on the same brands.” “I need to amp up my wardrobe just like the influencer/star.” Their actions therein without assessing their needs and circumstances could have rather serious implications. They could be mental, financial, and, in this particular case, environmental as well. Case study of how fashion haul impacts the environment: READ HERE

That is one off-beat example (out of the context of the current conversation).

Conclusion (moral of the story):

Comparison in a jungle colony as Daisy’s is completely futile undoubtedly. But for homo sapiens, the tool of comparison could be either useful or frivolous. It all depends on the acceptance of the conditions, the enjoyment derived from learning and carving a unique path to reach the goal. The aim of comparison should be to induce betterment and not to belittle or make one feel miserable.

Last but not the least, I shouldn’t be giving this heavy speech to my 7-year-old daughter. I better stop comparing her to others, for she is precious and carries her own set of capabilities. Mindfulness mode should be on default mode. For myself, I must concentrate on the path, customization you know!

WHEN THE CHAOS IN ME FOUND BALANCE

When we say that words have the power to heal, it is not merely another cliched statement. I am thoroughly convinced of this realization. I have always enjoyed reading more than writing until lately when writing has turned my source of catharsis. During my childhood, writing even an essay caused a frown on my face for I always lacked expression and my words failed to gather any attention. I did write at times but they were meant for a diary. It was used to vent out my frustration whenever I secured low marks or the homely anguish troubled me. Other than that, writing didn’t come naturally to me. However, it is an irony that today I find both pleasure and solace in writing.

Just like many others, I resorted to writing when depression struck me and I felt no one could understand me better. It was like there was an earnest need to get things out of me as I felt that I was growing hollow day by day. Blogging has actually been the best decision of my life since the support I got from the writing world has been amazing. I don’t mean assistance in literal terms of flowering comments and appreciation but their consistent presence that asserted I am not alone helped me to recover soon.

Pouring my heart out clears the toxins out of my chaotic mind and lightens my soul. The best part is that writing gives full liberty to create an illusionary world where I can not only dream anything fancy but can also fly. Earlier it was difficult for me to think positive and maybe even today my poems end on a sad note most of the times. However, I can say my sufferings have reduced substantially for writing actually works as a therapy. It has even enabled me to see the beauty in things which made no sense a few years back. When the ink bleeds, it actually breaks the walls that we build around us to avoid further hurt from penetrating. For writing brings along the gift of acceptance melting the heart to even perceive others’ sorrows.

Initially, I wrote about my pain, my miseries, and my preferences. However, when nature around started affecting me positively, my words gradually drifted towards the colours beyond white and black, reflecting joy. My writings are evolving day by day as now I have developed linking the observations beyond my personal experiences thereby empathising with others’ circumstances. Every element of nature be it living or non-living has now meaning for me as if it all symbolizes something ethereal. It is certainly a fact that our words can create an impact only when they are poignant enough to affect us deeply and we are fully convinced.

Whether we write about the demons scaring us or the fairies in heaven, it reflects the exquisite mental state and our position of the heart. Whenever we articulate the stories or poems depicting verity wrapped in ornamental words, it becomes more appealing. Just like the words have the power to rescue us from the chaotic world, they also have the potential to strike the reality hard on the face. Writing has always driven me forward while helping me to reminisce the bad times like a good memory. No sooner than our words start leaving footprints than we realize that this talent needs to be utilized for healing than reminding people of their scars. With this, I conclude by saying that writing actually helps our own selves before acting as a support system for others. Thus, we need not be mindful of what we write for it is actually necessary to vent it out before we fill rivers with our tears!

SEEING THE WORLD DIFFERENTLY

I was never a writer… I never thought I could write something that would interest others. It is thanks to two very important people in my life that I got into writing. 

Let’s begin from the starting…

As a kid I loved stories. My Dad used to buy so many books for me from book exhibitions. I had a great collection and I used to love reading and rereading them. My storybooks were my prized possessions. There were a lot of  Russian book exhibitions in our area so my collection had a great many stories of Czars and Czarinas. Whenever I read a story I always visualised it – the room, the ambiance, the characters, etc, I always formed a mental picture of the whole thing. This craze for books spilled over to my adolescence also. From Famous Five, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys to Mills and Boons to Sydney Sheldon, Danielle Steele I guess my affair with books was lifelong. 

Coming back to the point, throughout this journey I never felt the urge to write. I was quite happy reading what others were churning out. My sister Prabhjot was actively writing for Candles Online. I don’t know what spark she saw in me and proposed my name to Chiradeep. But it was only due to the coaxing and guidance and patience and perseverance of Chiradeep and Prabhjot that I became a blogger. They both saw something in me that I myself didn’t.

Writing changed my life in many many ways. I was very bogged down by the daily mundane chores of my life. Life was just routine and not exciting. Writing for Candles changed that. Just the fact that the people were reading what I wrote and commenting on it was exhilarating. The small little limelight that was shown on me boosted my confidence a great deal. 

Writing an article is never easy for me. I usually plan everything out in my mind and then start typing. Some days it easily flows and some days I get stuck at every word. But it’s a journey which is very fulfilling. It’s an outlet for my emotions. Because of my love for stories I use a lot of anecdotes for my articles. And the inspiration for these articles comes from people around me and my interactions with them. I have started looking at the world from a different perspective. After all, anything or anybody or any incident could be an inspiration for my next article. There is a story in every person I meet I just try to weave them into my articles and my thought process.

WRITING MY HEART OUT

Writing has put me to ease, always! Be it expressing my feelings in a better way or just venting out my feelings writing comes to my rescue. I started expressing via writing at a very early age. I was 13 yrs when 3 children from our school died in an accident while on their way to school. That was the first time I felt the need to let out my emotions through a poem. That poem was a tribute to those kids and it was so well received that the principal of our school had put it up on the notice board for days together for all to read. Those were the days when there were no school magazines or anything alike, hence the any of your contribution getting displayed on the notice board was a huge achievement.

Writing is therapeutic for me. I write when I am sad, I write when I am happy and I write when I am overwhelmed with my own life. I prefer to write mostly because you are always able to edit what you have written, unlike the words that you say. So writing my emotions out is the safest bet for me because I am dead sure that it is not going to hurt anyone.

Writing heals me you know. When my life had hit the rock bottom, it was writing that I resorted to. From poems I moved on to write about social issues, then short stories and then microblogging at Instagram. I let my distress make a way out of my mind through each blog that I posted. Every blog of me, every story that I wrote has a true part of me. This was a major catalyst in my life. It helped me tremendously when I was fighting infertility for years together followed by undergoing very difficult fertility treatments. I wrote about my loss – a loss that no mother is able to take. But writing it out gave me the strength to move forward.

I took to Instagram recently. Over there, I write about my IVF journey and I feel so good when some women reach out to me just to tell that they look up to me as a role model and hope that they will be able to overcome infertility like me. Some ping me to ask about infertility doctors and some others ping only to pour their heart out. I am so blessed that God has given me this art which helps me touch a distressed life and provide comfort or motivation to them. I am also working on creating my own website and I am hoping to put up such content there which will make a positive change to women like me who crave and pray for having a baby. Wish me luck with that!

I wanted to do a career in writing but the accounting bug bit me and I turned in to an accountant now punching numbers to balance sheet and P&L day and night and words only playing on my mind all the time.

I can not end this emotional outpour without mentioning about two people. I met two wonderful people who took my writing interest to the next level in the form of blogging. Those two people are none other than Savio (he joined Candles Online recently) and our very own Charlie. The encouragement that I have for from these two is incredible. So a big big thank you to Savio and Charlie for being a constant support and a critic. You have always helped me improve. And all of you – my extended blogging family who take time out to read my articles and blogs, I can’t thank you enough! Your likes and comments on my post cheer me up to no extent.

I would like to take your leave with a very inspiring quote from Maya Angelou in her book, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings –

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

Happy writing guys! 🙂

WRITING CURED MY SANITY

Ever since I became a mother, I was completely lost. It was like a new era of my life, that confused me to the core. For one moment I wanted to be a perfect mom, the next moment I lost it with my impatience. It took me so long to understand that there is nothing like a “perfect mom”. We all do some or the other way to be a good mom or maybe an average – but motherhood is not measured using a scorecard. Exactly this is what I learned as my first lesson from the time I began to write. It helped me burst the sanity of perfection and much more.

And all I began to do is love my kids with all my heart. People might point fingers at me for being so insane. But I was enjoying it to the core. The moment I shed a cloak of sanity and trying to fit in, I was happier and merrier.

It was all the moment I began to share my experiences. It showed me that I was not just alone in the world dealing with the same issues. And I could literally enjoy the moments of my life.

Photo by Joy Deb on Pexels.com

I am not an avid reader, but I love reading.  If I could recollect the first book I read -it was Matilda – the story of a little girl with unlimited dreams. I was more like her, but with much more limitations to succeed. Earlier the thoughts were cluttered in my head. And all I did was just think – rethink-think and again re-think polishing it a little bit. At times it confuses my present and the past. The moment I began to write the thoughts cloud reduced to minute ones, as my thoughts began to float in my words. It was a turning point in my life.

Writing has befriended me like no one ever can. I could weave my dreams, realisation, achievements and even my limitations in a better way. I could write even when I was judged many times. It helped to boost my confidence, making me realise a hidden potential in me.

The more I write, the more I feel relieved.

Photo by Kat Jayne on Pexels.com

Finally, during my times of depression, especially the one’s most ladies can’t wade off – the postpartum depressions- writing helped to build a career in my life. Even when the pay off was not so grand, I enjoyed every bit of appreciation that occurred to me.

In a way, writing helped me discover a hidden me, who was in great slumber.

My key advice to newbies would be, keep writing, never stop your pen from bleeding. Do not be discouraged by unwanted comments. Just ignore it and move on. You have better things to listen to.

Writing is discovering your insanity and then embracing it. This is how my SoulRecitals was born.

Happy Reading And Writing!!!

LETTER TO MY FATHER

Dear Father,

Hope You are doing well there. I am fine here. It’s been long since I opened up about my feelings. Today I want to let it flow without any interruption or inhibition.

I want to tell you how much I miss you. The lateral distance between us seems irrelevant as I find you by my side every day in my dreams. Every time I cook your signature dishes I miss your touch in them. Every moment I watch my kids grow up I can imagine your expressions and reactions if you were around them. Every year when my trips are due to my homeland I can visualize how happy you would be to receive me. Whenever I have a disagreement with mom I know you would vouch for me. To put it plain and simple you are never away from me.

But more I find you closer to me more I regret not apologising to you for my rude behaviour, for my harsh words, for my cold shoulder that I gave you when you least expected it. We had a crisis, we stood together and rose to the occasion but I did let anger dwell within me against some of your decisions. The new then-found independence handed me over a bit of arrogance which I sometimes used in my words that hurt you. That was in the spur of the moment though.  You never held any grudge against me. We fell apart but kept flowing together only to reconcile more strongly. I thank you for everything you did for me.

Now having a family of my own I understand how spearheaded words can leave you wounded for long or forever. I plead of being guilty to have done the same to you. I wish I could have apologised to you early. I wish I could have ripped open my heart to you to show how guilt is written all over it. I wish I could talk to you one more time.

I miss you and I am sorry Daddy.

Yours Lovingly,

Daughter.

P.S: please post this letter to heaven as my father resides there.

People say “better late than never” but I would say “do it before it’s too late“. As a family, we all have such moments transpiring among us where in the heat of arguments or disagreements, disappointments, disapproval we end up shooting curses, venomous words to hurt people and satisfy our ego for that moment. Later everything falls back to normalcy. We sometimes apologise, sometimes take “Sorry” for granted and never actually say it because we know our family loves us with all our follies and we move on.  And many a time there are instances that our leniency would never give us a chance to say it to the concerned person even after we realise how wrong we were because that person is gone like in my case.

Remember: Apologise now before it’s too late because later you might have all the courage and beautiful words to express your remorse but the person might not be there with you forever.  Uncertainty’s thy name is LIFE.

BEYOND THE DOORPOST

There is danger out there, my love
You’re safe in here.

 

Numerous times a day did I hear,
These lines from my mother dear.

Unaware what she meant exactly,
I often sulked dejectedly.

 

The house and the square courtyard,
Was all that I had to myself under everyone’s surveillant guard.

I loved my family,
So dared not march towards anomaly.

But their fears unspoken deep within,
And tears unshed bothered me day out and day in.

Courage had I none,
To venture out and have some fun.

The open skies beckoned with their serenity untold
The lush green orchards how I wished to behold!

There is danger out there, my love
You’re safe in here.

 

Leaving behind the years of tender childhood,
As a young man I one day stood.

Shaking my fist and bellowing loud,
I threatened to go past the ominous doorpost.

Quiet silence surrounded me,
Sad lowered eyes refused to look up at me.

A sudden gust of wind,
Brought traces of noise from outside.

In no time was a flurry of stones pelted on the windows freshly painted,
Gun shots and fire – hearing which my mother fainted.

Hours went by as we stayed securely in,
Hoping it would stop and we would save our skin.

 

The night brought with it a silence so eerie,
I heard my father step into my room with eyes bleary.

The night was long with stories of attacks ghastly,
Of lives lost and families ruined.

Of women violated,
Kids killed and mutilated.

The reason for years of safeguarding,
Now clearly stood at my face staring.

 

Clutching my blanket close to myself,
I looked at my father’s retreating poor self.

Blood seemed to gush from my veins,
And the brain threatened to hold the reins.

 

Sleep eluded . . .
Thoughts crowded . . .

As the clock struck six,
I tip-toed down the staircase.

 

Looking back at my loved ones,
Would weaken my resolution.

I looked ahead and opened the latch above my head,
Taking a deep breath I slipped out . . .

 

Beyond the doorpost . . .
Into the darkness that my mother had guarded me against, the most.

There is danger out there, my love
You’re safe in here!

 

 

(P.S. Written from the viewpoint of a youngster in a violent conflict zone of war and extremism)