It’s hard some days, to get in here and casually, almost without an extra moment’s thought, type out a few hundred words about the latest discovery in my inward-focused, self-serving rambly-rambling journey.
It’s hard because I’ve just read the news, and the world doesn’t feel so sunshiney, positive and full of hope, like it did in my head just yesterday. Deep inside, I’m devastated by the accounts of what’s going on in Kashmir. Outwardly, I can’t seem to talk about it to anyone around me, save a couple of friends who know and feel the same way.
Every time I read a piece of news about Kashmir, I feel waves of guilt for how good I have it, how untouched my life is by the literal strife they’re going through. How good we have it, down south. How good do I have it simply because of the privilege I am born into — Hindu, “upper caste”, economically well off, looked after, safe, secure. None of these descriptors will ever let me know what it is to be a minority, and how easy it is for me to then be further and further cut away from the experiences and truths that minorities are living through everyday.
It’s hard to go on and just be happy, like everything is peachy, as it truly is in my world. I can’t seem to juxtapose the two and it is a struggle I sit with at least a few times a week.
It’s hard to go on and be normal, when I think about how massive floods and an acute shortage of water are somehow happening at the very same time, in places so, so, so close to home. It’s hard when I think of my MIL who is kicking cancer’s ass like a pro every single day. It’s hard when I see S struggle to give her children the life she wants and that they so deserve.
It’s hard because there are blips in my own journey. Every now and then, what felt like an upward movement suddenly comes to a grinding halt, where everything feels meaningless and almost futile.
It’s hard because, for every layer I peel back, I find myself right back at the “what-is-the-point-of-any-of-this” pitstop, that I am now thinking is a mandatory stop-and-go milestone that I will get to over and over again.
It’s especially hard when somehow the two — my personal monologue and the world that spins on — sometimes collide. When I think about the future, my future, and instead of brimming with hope and optimism, it is filled with a kind of dread. I wonder what use is it working on myself, on creating a healthy, agile, emotionally-stable future self, when the world around seems goddamned insistent on going out of control and self-destructing. I wonder what world we’re creating and leaving behind for future generations — a world that’s being destroyed by fascists, greedy capitalists and self-serving, manipulative politics across the globe.
What use is any of this then?
As I have watched my own politics (of everything!) slowly morph and find a new mould that fits for where I am right now, I find myself at this juncture more often.
But every now and then, the sun comes out again. Like it did today, after several rainy (but beautiful, nonetheless), grey days. And I realise this is the way of the world. Hard as it may be, all of it has a place — the struggles, the injustices, the deep failures, as much as the wins, the victories and the justice.