Day 295: They say you were always enough

I’m exhausted. After days of fighting that itchy throat, my body gave in today. It felt like there were rocks embedded in there every time I swallowed. And so for the first time this year, I have caved and decided to have antibiotics. I know what has brought this on — exhaustion. This is my body saying, enough, get some rest. It was also probably tipped over the edge by the three chilled beers I had at lunch yesterday. Oh well.

It’s been non-stop this entire month, and I felt my energy really flagging on the weekend. Unfortunately I can’t fully stop just yet. We’re int he midst of packing before we set off to Goa in a few days. Once there too, a whole lot of things need to be done to get our home where VC will stay, up and going in time before I return.

So today, I took comfort in a big fat pill, an afternoon nap, a cancelled evening appointment and some forced downtime, before I made a batch of Asian summer rolls and headed over to my aunts for dinner. There’s quite nothing like a hot meal someone cooks for you, to hit the spot on an ill day like today, when my body has wanted to just stay curled up and asleep. We had fried fish, a hearty chicken curry, and topped it with a small Jagermeister shot that fixed my throat good and proper.

Tomorrow will be a better day, I know. And that R in the image, it stands for REST.

One year ago: When one door shuts, open it again
Two years ago: Day 295: In with the new

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Day 282: Try to remember the good times

Since the day we got back from holiday, there’s been a heaviness hanging over me. It’s not as if things are down out and dreary, but I cannot ignore this achy, heavy heart that’s feeling trapped inside my ribs. It started with Niyu’s illness that even though we caught in time, really pulled the rug out from beneath my feet. Physically there were many sleepless nights, which though one pulls through high on an adrenaline-addled response, begin to show one way or another. But even otherwise, this is the most stress I have known in a while. If it weren’t for my father, and all the support and help we got from unexpected quarters, I don’t know how we’d have managed. It didn’t help that I had to be away from home for four days, finishing my course, leaving them and my mind at home, trying hard to stay focused. The work in class itself, deeply emotional always takes a toll on me. All in all it was a cocktail of things that sucked the juice out of me last week.

There was also the undeniable sadness and almost grief of ending this incredible journey I’ve been on thanks to the learning. It was an emotional four days, and the cherry on top was the very moving, very inspired and sweet closing ceremony we had. I got some very encouraging feedback on my essays, a very powerful module to close the course with, and all in all it feels like I’ve refuelled for the next many months to come. It was all too bittersweet, high on the sense of accomplishment, of having done something entirely for myself after so many years, of having finished it so well, of having gained oh so much from the entire experience, and yet having it end so fast. It seems like I only just began, just the other day.

Just when that finished, and I was looking forward to sleeping in on Saturday, the #MeToo shitstorm broke out. With S braving the eye of it, I’ve been getting frequent, gut-wrenching, enraging updates, even though I am not on social media where one can follow closely. Every story, every update brings up the bilious rage. But that is not all. This time around, the wave of stories has left me very helpless, hopeless. With a fast and quick-changing idea of feminism brewing in my head, I am very conflicted this time around. My support lies fair and centre on the side of victims, but I am so undecided about many other things. Mostly I am also very troubled by what this means for us as a culture, as a people and a race. What have we lost that has brought us to this point? Where are we letting out boys and girls down? What does it say for us as a culture where so many, many men it seems have just no clue how to deal with desire in a healthy manner, and just don’t know what to do with their feelings when met with a no? I was at the WeTheWomen even here on Sunday, very briefly. I went in just to listen to Raghu Karnad and Rohini Nilekani talk about “Working with boys and men” and though the session left me quite dissatisfied and wanting more, one thing she said really stood out: what have we done for aggression to be the default response to all unaddressed feelings?

I am deeply ashamed at where we stand today, having done a giant disservice to generations of men and women by shrouding all conversation around sex, consent and healthy relationships in shame and fear. For building a culture that normalises violence, aggression and harassment in the name of desire and love. For how we have done little to question and topple power structures present in various facets of society, even as we make advances and have women increasingly make inroads into the ranks. It’s deeply distressing to hear stories from 30 years ago that are coming out today, echoing exactly what is still going on. What has our evolution come to mean? What use is all that performative wokeness?

It felt like a never-ending weekend of the sads. Monday couldn’t come soon enough. My sister got a clean chit on Monday morning at the hospital, and as I heaved a sigh of relief it felt like the first time I exhaled a heavy bout of air I’d trapped inside of me all week long. I returned home, thinking about resuming work again and finding some semblance of routine and normalcy. But then I got a message from D that Leo had passed on and I felt like my world had fallen apart all over again.

I’m due to puppy sit at theirs next month and there’s an ache and a puppy shaped gaping hole in my heart just imagining what it will be like to have 2, not 3 of them begging for a taste of my dinner. I’m still broken, and I have no idea why this has hit so close home and why this loss feels so personal.

Over the course of the last almost-two years, I have grown terribly attached to and fond of D’s puppies. There is something to be said about getting to know your friends dogs. Slowly, over time. It’s a lot like meeting your friend’s children. At first there’s tentativeness on both sides. They’ll look at your curiously, almost as if to say “Why are you here to hog my mommy’s attention again?” But you visit often enough, and the familiarity grows. Eventually guards will drop, and if you’re anything like Leo, you might even offer me your bum from a safe distance of about 2 feet, demanding a good scratch on the rump. You keep the visits frequent enough and slowly you’ll build a relationship with the puppy, outside of your relationship with your friend. You’ll take gifts along sometimes. You’ll take pictures of them. You’ll surprise yourself by feelings of longing when you actually miss the cute little runts. So you’ll fish out your phone and look at pictures lovingly, send them hugs and kisses in your mind. Eventually, you’ll be accepted as family and every arrival will be met with happy wagging tails, wet noses at your feet and gentle demands for petting. All pretence of good behaviour for “guests” too will fade away and you’ll love them anyway. All this and more happened with Leo. He was a special, special puppy who crept into my heart in a way no puppy has. I had mad respect for his underwhelmed-by-everything, too-cool-for-everything-unless-it’s-food demeanour. I loved his focus on all things food and I will truly miss his gentle giant presence every time we visit D and UT going forward. All I know is that special place in puppy heaven with an unending supply of pork sausages just found it’s most ardent occupant. And the loss is entirely ours.

The entire week, weekend and beyond has carried this heavy energy. The bittersweetness of it is inescapable. Wonderful things have happened, but not without a tinge of that heavy price being/to be paid. I’ve crossed paths with difficult times, and through the crises found the immeasurable gift of support, help and boundless love. I’ve ended journeys and felt the palpable beginning of new ones. I’m mad proud and excited for the way in which the universal energies of women are syncing up, but I feel drained and heavy with the pain it is making us all revisit. As much as life endures, it is not without death, surrender and difficult lessons in moving on. All of this is heavy, all of these are life-changing experiences.

One year ago: What coming home feels like: Revisiting old haunts II

Day 254: Not yet lost all our graces

For a bunch of reasons, some self-made some circumstantial, I’ve been so busy since the start of the month. Work has picked up suddenly, and I’m trying to get it done before I take off on holiday again for the last ten days of this month.

On the home front too, things have caught up with me. Rather, I’ve caught up with the home by sheer dint of being around. Since my mum and dad left, and with no sister in close proximity to go to (boohoo!) I’ve been having a regular life again. Waking up in my home, cooking myself proper, full meals, planning my work around things that need to be done, having a routine that includes some chores and some delegation and overseeing too.

And I’m trying to stay on top of it without losing out on having a life too. So in between all of this there have been outings to catch up with friends, working at coffeeshops, an anniversary dinner and watching Hamlet The Clown Prince.

Things have peaked, and despite the overwhelming busyness of it all, it has been such a good time. But, it’s been six days since I picked up my kindle, I realised. Instead, the pockets of time I’d otherwise dedicate to reading have been spent staying on my phone for inordinately longer than usual, and watching a lot of Netflix*. I have genuinely not had much time for TV this year, sticking to only my absolute must watches, like OITNB and waiting for This Is Us. I did watch the odd thing like Wild Wild Country, She’s Gotta Have It and Nanette, when the hype around it made it impossible to miss. But for the most part I’ve missed out on a lot of TV.

My whatsapp DND time has also gone out of whack with all the travelling, when I go easy on the self-imposed time out. I haven’t been strict enough with myself to enforce it again once we returned. More recently though, with my mum in the states, I find it easier to just stay available during the hours she’s awake.

This has meant a lot more screen time than I’ve been used to these past 10 months. So, it was natural and only a matter of time before I noticed that it was not a mere coincidence that a natural spike in my busyness saw a spike in screen time.

This is probably my pattern. When my brain is over-stretched, few things help me numb it out than mindless screen time. And no matter what the nature of what I am watching, or how scintillating the conversation on whatsapp is, I know that I turn to screens mostly to shut my brain out.

Here’s the thing though, it feels like a numbing mechanism, but it is anything but. If anything, it activates my already spread-too-thin brain some more. And instead of stripping down the number of thoughts, adds to them, thereby contributing to an overall restless feeling. Which is all very well for a weekend or a few days here and there, I suppose. I like a good mindless binge-watch every now and then, but last weekend, I suddenly realised I was missing the quiet in my head. The silence that that made it possible to put my phone down and actually forget all about it for hours on end because the book I was reading had me rapt. The silence that encourages me to read, even when I am tired because it soothes. I realised this when even though I had finished my tasks for the day, sent out my work, met my deadlines, my mind wouldn’t stop racing. I didn’t have anything else left to do, I could have picked up my kindle, but instead time after time, I turned to my phone. Or laptop.

Shit hit the fan when VC took this picture of me on our anniversary. I’m not one for big, outlandish celebrations, but I would certainly have liked to keep my face our a screen. And I’d have liked to spend the entire day, and not just the evening, really together, minus laptops and phones.

In a flash, it reminded me so much of my years spent in long hours at work. TV was mostly the only thing I could manage to do to unwind then. The idea that my brain had been occupied for 10 hours a day at work, almost warranted the binge-watch before bed, to just stop my brain from thinking thoughts.

I’ve come a long, long, long way from there, so to slip back momentarily and have those same feelings of restlessness and chatter in the brain surface was a bit unsettling.

The other non-coincidence was that the week of extreme phone usage happened to be the week I re-entered Instagram after nine whole months. I went in to retrieve some images and writing from last year that are locked away on the app. But the cheeky little thing that Instagram is, it wont let you deactivate immediately anymore. One needs to now wait a week between deactivations. It’s a tactic to make you stay and lure you in, I’m sure. And let me tell you, it works, for the most part. I didn’t get lured back in, but in the knowledge that I had a weeks worth of access, and once the literal anxiety and breathlessness I felt to see the feed (and how much it has changed, in form and content) had passed on day 1, I was back watching and watching and watching and watching. Till I could watch no more.

I’ll say it again, it’s not the app. It is entire me. Us. And the way we allow the apps to draw us in, but there is an undeniable link between the quality of the way I spend my time, the state of peace and calm in my head, and being on or off social media (Instagram and Whatsapp, in my case).

It was eye-opening to notice the difference. But it also makes it easier to acknowledge a pattern and reconcile with slowly slipping back to normalcy. I’m trying to wrap up my work at a sane hour rather than let it slip into the evening and night, just because I have the luxury to do that. This is another interesting space to test boundaries and reclaim space for myself, and so I’m trying it out.

Reflecting on the whole experience the other day, wondering about what drew me in, even though I know and have lived a whole, full life and realised that I’m absolutely not missing even the good stuff I thought was keeping on Instagram, outside of it. It’s the very nature of the application. And in some way, maybe it is  in fact a reflection of the nature of the world itself. Aptly described in this quote from Matt Haig’s Reasons to Stay Alive that I read earlier this year.

THE WORLD IS increasingly designed to depress us. Happiness isn’t very good for the economy. If we were happy with what we had, why would we need more? How do you sell an anti-ageing moisturiser? You make someone worry about ageing. How do you get people to vote for a political party? You make them worry about immigration. How do you get them to buy insurance? By making them worry about everything. How do you get them to have plastic surgery? By highlighting their physical flaws. How do you get them to watch a TV show? By making them worry about missing out. How do you get them to buy a new smartphone? By making them feel like they are being left behind. To be calm becomes a kind of revolutionary act. To be happy with your own non-upgraded existence. To be comfortable with our messy, human selves, would not be good for business.

*What I watched:

  1. To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before (Netflix): it was so sweet and light and lovely. Perfect for a Friday night.
  2. Bareilly ki Barfi (Netflix): was really, surprisingly good. I’m a blind supporter and fan of all of Rajkumar Rao’s work, and even though he isn’t the central protagonist here, he steals the show. Ably supported by excellent work by Ayushmann Khurana and Kirti Sanon who I had hitherto dismissed as just a pretty face.
  3. PadMan (Netflix): was terrible. Lazy, convenient, disastrous way to tell an important story about a real man, and turn it into an outrageous story that doesn’t even so much as acknowledge the man whose life inspired the movie. Again, maybe I’m not the audience, but the way in which everything was dumbed down I wonder if it even did the trick for the audience it was aimed at. Also made me wonder when Sonam Kapoor will figure she cant act and that she should probably try production or something.
  4. Sierra Burgess Is a Loser (Netflix): light, simple kiddie rom-com, worth a watch even though it was problematic in parts and gave me a lot of thoughtssss.

Day 176: Take a minute, I’ve been sitting here and wondering

Sunday evening blues are a real bane on my weekends in Bangalore. This is something that was largely missing in Goa. I had only begun to feel a hint of it towards the end, during the last few months before I left Goa. But for the most part, even my years working full time, I was largely unaffected by Sunday evening blues.

Here though, I feel physically trapped. And with every passing weekend, the feeling seems to be growing. On the one hand there is the palpable discomfort with having myself at a loose end on a Sunday evening. And then there is the added discomfort of wondering why I’m suddenly hating Sunday evenings. I don’t know what to do with this feeling except let it pass, which it eventually does, but not without making me sulk a whole lot first.

I don’t know what to do with it because that’s how unfamiliar the feeling is. In Goa, I’d just drive out, or go for a run or take myself to a coffee shop with a book, or do something to up my spirits on a Sunday evening. Most often I didn’t need company. In fact it was my Sunday evening rituals that convinced me I was a 100% introvert. That has changed now, but more so on Sundays in Bangalore where I find keeping myself upbeat depends on so many variables. I really resent that high dependence — on navigating traffic if I choose to get out, on that slim sliver of time that is the sweet spot of getting out on a Sunday evening, on the handful of places that aren’t going to be infested with noisy crowds on a Sunday evening, on finding apt company (because most places aren’t conducive to sitting by myself for long hours). It’s just all too much decision-making, and the thought of putting in so much effort just to feel a little upbeat, makes me feel like it’s just too much of a song and dance for something so basic.

So I sat home yesterday, in protest. Of what, I’m not entirely sure. I think I was protesting the state of my weekends and how far I’ve fallen. Or some such.

Sundays are the day when the reality of how much life overall in Bangalore, does not sit right for me. On a day to day basis, I get by because all the little things I do feel okay, they’re deliberate and I make efforts to look on the bright side and make my peace. But on Sundays, everything falls apart. Sitting at home, counting down the many ways in which I feel trapped, incapable and just so stuck, it’s enough to make me want to really question my life here.

This past weekend was largely meh. I vegetated for the most part. On Saturday evening, my sister came over and we baked a banana cake and some pesto-garlic rolls, which significantly cheered me up. I slept rather late because I stayed up watched Dear Zindagi, which I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed a second time over.

On Sunday, I stayed in bed way longer than I am known to, maybe because of how late it was by the time I crashed. We went out to lunch with VC’s family, which while fun while it lasts, always leaves me feeling a bit…empty. By the time we were back home, it was too late to do anything to salvage the fast nose-diving evening. VC was glued to the race which lasted all evening. And I curled up in bed again, ostensibly to read, but my mind was just overcome with This-Cant-Be-My-Life thoughts. More specifically, I can’t get over why Sunday evenings have suddenly become such a deal-breaker for me. It’s taken up unnecessarily large proportions that I am not comfortable with.

Serendipitously, P texted me all the way from Finland. Most uncharacteristically, we had a long, long, long chat about friendship, loneliness and the difficulties of moving on. Uncharacteristic because we only ever text each other when we need recommendations for books, or we have a book to recommend, and because I have been religiously turning my Whatsapp off by 8 pm every evening but given how I was feeling, I let myself stay and chat. And it was all kinds of affirming to suddenly have a conversation about the guilt and grief of changing friendships that feel like they’re slowly loosening their grip and fading away, so out of the blue, with someone who knew exactly what that feels like.

I am really enjoying this strange space where I am simultaneously craving the company of likeminded women, also struggling to find it, and yet also somehow finding it in the most unlikely spaces. (As an aside, it’s a sign of just how much has changed in just one year, considering on this day exactly a year ago I wrote about seeking solitude.) Chatting with P was the sliver lining on my otherwise very lacklustre Sunday.

***

Weather-wise, Bangalore has been a dream. Feathery rain that feels like a caress more than a shower, perfect to stay in, actually. And yet, that feels like such a trap in Bangalore.

It’s been reminding me of my Goa monsoon playlist, non-stop. And it’s also where the title of this post is from.

Re-live it a little with me, won’t ya?

One year ago: What coming home feels like: Seeking solitude
Two years ago: Day 176: Begin

Day 117: And love is all that I can give to you

There’s a lot I want to write about. A lot of fodder for long, verbose posts is crammed in my brain at the moment. And maybe I should have gotten to it sooner in the day. A morning of meetings and driving back home left me a bit winded, and I spent the rest of the day chilling.

But come evening, I’m feeling very listless and melancholy. A friend’s husband has an unexplained illness that is taking forever to get to the bottom of. I’m worried. Another friend has just lost a very. very dear relative. My heart clenched up reading the news and even though I never knew the person who has passed, I felt choked up. This made me so very sad and contemplative. Another friend I spoke with a while ago, is dealing with a very complicated domestic issue that I can’t imagine how one can get out of. I feel helpless just talking to her.

There is a lot to say and maybe I will get to it on Monday. Because, today is definitely not the day to wax on about my life and idle thoughts.

Sending love, healing and positive thoughts to my friends today.

One year ago: Because wanting to leave is enough
Two years ago: Day 117: See Lanka

Day 116: Bad news never had good timing

I suppose it’s safe to say my honeymoon period in Bangalore is done. At least as far as tolerating (turning a blind eye) the shit show that the city is, goes. On the one hand, being closer home has been all kinds of beneficial. Satisfying, happy-making, revelatory, even.

It was such an exciting challenge to be back in a city, so close to home. And the challenges and newness of it all occupied my focus. Coming back to Bangalore made me face a lot of the things I didn’t even know I had run away from, and that has been a whole other journey in itself. I’ve had my fair share of closing the loop on many things, lots of recognising unfinished business and acknowledging it if not beginning to finish it, lots of owning up to many of my demons in hiding. And best of all, entering into a phase that has seen me making peace and feeling the happiest I have ever been.

For our desires to give our business a shot too, this was a crucial move. To be out here in a competitive space, where standards are so far from the ones we had and knew in Goa. It’s been both eye-opening as well as reassuring to know where we stand.

As far as family goes, moving away happened so fast at a time when I was so very young, naive and otherwise occupied with keeping my sanity in a new marriage living with my in laws, that I never really processed the subconscious push and pull that possibly really drove me away from Bangalore. On the surface it was about work and the like, but really, it was so much more. So much more that I am only coming to understand now. In the process I’ve had to recognise and re-integrate facets of myself that I had ignored, denied myself of and just never allowed to shine through.

I have a new found love and adoration for my family. My own, as well as the one I am married into. I’m finding new levels of acceptance I didn’t know I am capable of. It’s been an essential learning of resilience, empathy and gratitude. And I’m convinced it is the kind of learning that wouldn’t not have happened in theory, over a distance.

There is no better place than here, and no better time than now for me to be working these things out for myself.  All in all this was a very necessary and timely move for us. I know this now, one year down.

And what a honeymoon it has been. Months of easing myself into everything slowly, taking time off from work like I haven’t ever done before, making and breaking and remaking friendship, revelling in the togetherness of being in such close proximity to my mother father and sister — all of this has created for me the best time and space to focus on my self-improvement. It has consumed my focus was for most of the last twelve months.

That has ensured that I was mostly distracted from the shitty mess that this city is, because I also made mad attempts to stay focused on the good, on the reason why we’re here, and the good things that have come out of it.

Now, with enough time having flown by, the creaky everyday mundanities are in full-swing, and the rhythm of life set, I’m slowly beginning to feel the opening scratchy strains of a strange kind of melancholy about my surroundings.

Now that I’ve been back long enough, a yellow-y mouldy jadedness has well and truly caught up with me. It started with waking up one day and suddenly realising just how extremely noisy my neighbourhood always is. It seems like this city is always in massive states of construction. Drilling, tile cutting, wall breaking, carpentry — on any given day I hear at least 3 of these noises for a good length of time. This, in addition to the burgeoning traffic just outside my home. My folks have lived on this street for upwards of 30 years now, and so we have watched the neighbourhood morph from a quiet by-lane of old-time Bangalore to the monstrosity it is today with larger-than-necessary buses zipping down, horns blaring, two wheelers snaking through dangerously, the constant loud chatter of people.

Slowly, the traffic is getting to me. Not just the volume and the unruliness, but the brazen way in which all laws seem to be null and void. I resent and feel physically helpless that a large part of driving in this city is about constantly taking chances — chances at a signal, chances at every turning, chances with getting past pedestrians.

That’s not all — the air quality is significantly worse. My allergies have flared up ten fold since I’ve been back. And I’ve been on three antibiotic courses in the last year, with a sore throat and cold attacking me on the dot once every four months. This is four times more than the average illnesses I’ve had in Goa.

OH, oh, oh, most of all I marvel at how so much of the shittiness I talk about has been this shitty since I left nearly ten years ago. It’s almost like absolutely no improvement is to be seen, and things have only gotten progressively worse. How can Silk Board still be a nightmare, for example? How is the quality of power still so terrible? One gust of wind before a summer shower is still enough to knock the power out for a couple of hours — this happened multiple times every day, for the last five days in our home.

Bangalore is a glorified, overgrown village, at best, masquerading as a city, with large swathes of people deeply in denial.

When I was tiring of the village life in Goa, I imagined that being in a big city would have certain definite advantages. It does, I wont lie — I LOVE that I don’t have to step out of my home for most things. A lot of my requirements come to my doorstep. Most everything is accessible online. And for everything else, there is Dunzo. But, I cannot help but feel the workings of all of this is still so small-town. Nothing is 100% efficient. Nothing is 100% dependable. This big-small difference between not having access to these facilities in Goa and having them here in Bangalore is that in Goa I’d just get out and get shit done myself. In Bangalore, when systems fail (and they do, a fair bit) the option of getting out is SO daunting because one has to think about traffic, parking, and invest at least an hour for the smallest chores. It doesn’t feel like this is a big city at all some times.

Slowly, I’m realising that something or the other is beginning to nag me. The people. The sheer number of people gets to me some days. Some days I long for the open spaces. I think back wistfully to my street in Goa where I’d drive out and immediately hit third and fourth gear in my car. I don’t get to do that very often in Bangalore. I get out of my gate and hit a speed hump.

Slowly, I’m realising that not a single day goes by when at least one or two things make me very vehemently think FUCK WHAT HAVE WE DONE, WHY DID WE COME BACK TO THIS, loudly, in my head.

It takes a lot of effort to constantly remind myself of the real reasons, focus on the good and bubble wrap and protect my brain from the shit here — whether it’s the environmental damage, the insane traffic, the widespread construction, the completely apathetic citizens — Bangalore is really, really falling apart and there’s no denying that. Realising all of this and being a citizen here makes me feel so extremely helpless.

I take solace in knowing that we never meant for this to be a destination in itself. It was always meant to be merely a stepping stone to a future we’re yet to discover. But if I’ve learned anything at all from the uncertainties of the last three years of my life if is to try and not cast anything in stone, not even my aversions or dissatisfaction.

I’m waiting for a day when I feel like this to materialise. Meanwhile, I’m going with the flow.

One year ago: In-stages
Two years ago: Day 116: Bits and bobs

Day 54: All my sweat, my blood runs weak

What coming home feels like: Sometimes, like a giant cauldron of regret

Yesterday was a super frustrating day. And it came on the back of a rather tiresome few weeks. Work has been testing our limits, our patience, resilience and everything in between. It’s the kind of situation where we’re having to work really, really hard (not just at the work-work itself, but the driving around town, the hustling to schedule meetings, the constant pimping, the follow-ups to get people to fucking respond that adds to the work) for the smallest wins. At this point, I’ll take it. And I’m grateful for every little bit of movement. But, on some days like today, it takes a toll.

Yesterday was one of those days where I fully and completely regretted moving to Bangalore. The reality of it hit me when we were out to run a single, really simple errand, not too far away from home. But after wading through impossible traffic for over two hours, we had to return home errand unfinished. This completely unnecessary wild goose chase included obstacles such as one HDFC ATM with a dead server, three HDFC ATMs in the vicinity that only existed on Google Maps, but not in reality, and a mindbogglingly circuitous route home. There are few things worse than having to brave evening traffic in Bangalore when you’re all set to get shit done, and you have to inevitable return without accomplishing the only thing you set out to do.

This, at the end of a hard few weeks where I’ve kept my head down and patiently tolerated everything this city has thrown my way, broke me a little. This month, I’ve seen the worst of Bangalore’s traffic, road rage, Metro construction, white topping, the beginnings of flyovers and steel bridges we know won’t do jack, road rage, traffic jams, aggression and road rage. Did I say road rage already? I’ve been to Whitefield (twice!), Jayanagar, Koramangala (thrice!), Hosur Road, Kengeri. And I’m pretty sure I’m leaving something out.

These past three weeks, I’ve witnessed the extent to which this city has exploded physically, at very close quarters. I’ve seen how the semblance of order that is not visible in the CBD area, fades as one move outwards, and is non existent in the external, ever-expanding limits of the city. Basically, Bangalore feels like one gigantic construction site, with no sense of logic or planning in sight.

From the moment I entered Whitefield, we were in gnarling traffic jams of the worst, worst kind, and for the most part, we were squeezed into single lane traffic. The temperatures are definitely a few degrees higher there than everywhere else, owning to the rampant and thoughtless construction. Clouds of dust, people zipping around either angrily, or with vacant expressions, zombified and totally sapped of energy. It was nothing short of a dystopic image. For a newcomer, it feels like Whitefield has no more space to give. No more space, no semblance of order, no peace, no air, no energy. I kept asking VC, who would want to live in a place like this? The energy was just reeking of negativity. Also, where’s the space? But the irony of it all was we were headed to a meeting with a property developer at a property fair in Whitefield. Evidently the big Bangalore property dream is still alive and kicking. The idea that you can build yourself a fancy home, high up in the skies, walled in to a self-contained layout, is a great way to keep the festering shitfest of a city out. It doesn’t matter that the minute one leaves ones multiple-crore home in said fancy self-contained enclave, you hit areas with no roads to speak of.

How is this appealing? Are people sleep-walking through their life here? How is this the “quality” of life is being sold to hapless citizens of this city? And how are they buying into it? When will it stop?

But that’s not all. I also had a deep, deep sense of regret because it was the kind of day that makes it seem like nothing is really working in my favour. The kind of day where you feel responsible for making it all work, yet want to just throw your hands up and resign. The kind of day where you want a shoulder to cry on, but the only shoulder you have wants none of it. The kind of day where you want to poke holes in your castles in the air, and let those demons out, but your cohabitant wants none of it.

By far the worst feeling of it all, was to realise that my life is once again down to this — getting around this maddening city, trying to do work that doesn’t want to get done easily, and feeling very, very tired every single day. I’m so frustrated that I get so little done, and yet I’m busy all the time, and it just makes me so very, very tired, with nothing to show for it. It’s not that content, satisfied kind of fatigue, but the exhausted, empty sort of tiredness.

This, in a nutshell, was why I left Bangalore in 2010. And somehow, I’ve signed up for it all over again.

Yesterday, I felt trapped, backed into a corner, with no options or way out.

Yesterday, my frustration with Bangalore peaked, and I longed for the simplicity that was life in Goa.

Yesterday, I realised once again, what I am and am not wired for.

I know this too will pass, and I’ll go back to focusing on the silver linings, with the surety and confidence that I came with, that has currently left the building. But until then, let it be known that February has been rather brutal, and it is taking it all out of me to try and focus on the good bits.

Meanwhile, the trees on my street have shed their leaves overnight.

I woke up one morning to find the streets laden with brown, dead leaves. It’s a sign of new beginnings. Of summer. Of the end of a cycle. And I hope some of that freshness translates into my life too.

One year ago: Ten reasons why I love the girls I’m in long distance relationships with
Two years ago: Day 54: Working better

Day 19: Sorry seems to be the hardest word

Ever since the Aziz Ansari story broke out, I’ve found myself torn up once again. While there is little doubt in my mind that the details in the account definitely count as harassment, I have been torn up about reconciling the fact that yet another good guy, someone I really wanted to root for is, disappointingly, just another potential asshole. I’ve been torn up about the grey area I’ve talked about so often. The grey area that continues to linger over women like me who are not innately vociferous or aggressive across all situations. The grey area that surrounds experiences that don’t always have the quintessential signs of harassment, but somehow do leave us feeling harassed, uncomfortable and sometimes violated. That violation isn’t always physical. Sometimes it’s a violation of personal space, sometimes a kind gesture is taken for granted, sometimes it’s an abuse of our politeness, and sometimes it’s the abuse of the lack of an explicit no.

But here’s the thing. As we navigate this vast and ambiguous grey area, and as the debate around consent, aggression and harassment intensifies, it is near impossible to hope for clarity without getting graphic, granular and very, very nuanced. Which is to say, the shades of grey need to be looked at individually. For example, it is no longer enough to accept that no is no. Even absence of a clear yes, is and must be taken as a no.

Three specific, and separate things to say. 1: It is impossible to attempt to gain clarity about the nuances of harassment, without really undoing and unwrapping the various elements that make up the monolith we call “aggression”. And looking at it means taking into account the subtle and not so subtle strains of power play, of the dynamics between men and women when they share intimate spaces that lie in the twilight zone between work and play, the tendency for men to persist and push with utmost confidence even when the signs and cues they receive are all pointing otherwise. It means calling out all of this behaviour that sometimes leads to us feeling violated or harassed. Even if it sometimes takes upwards of six months to realise that what we experienced was in fact harassment, and that the experience left a bad taste in our mouths. So, while it may be a little premature to lump Ansari in the same category as the Wiensteins of the world, it is unnecessary to take his side and bemoan the humiliation that this story has brought him. Because to do so is to ignore and pull a sheet over the very obvious signs of aggression, unnecessary persistence on his part, and a complete disregard for the feelings of the woman he was with.

It is impossible to begin to discuss the entire gamut of harassment unless we take into account, and take seriously, all of the instances that fall in the grey area, outside of the purview of rape and physical assault, that we typically call harassment. And to do this means to talk about the way experiences make us feel. To tell our stories, continually and unabashedly.

2: While I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that I am completely on the woman’s side, and I believe that the experience she had and how it made her feel, I cannot ignore the fact that original report, the Babe story, left me feeling very uncomfortable. Journalistically speaking. And the more I think about it, I realise it is not only important to tell our stories, but to ensure that when we seek support, we pick allies who will re-tell them or stand by us in strong and solid ways. In ways that leave enough room for debate, because debate is essential, but little room for blame. Blame for wanting to date a man, for wanting to wear whatever we wish to, for wanting help in booking an Uber, for taking our time to process and fully understand our experiences, for acknowledging how they make us feel, and for choosing when to speak up about it. This is the only way that we can ensure that the focus of all discussions, and the point of speaking up, remains on building stronger boundaries towards prevention, rather than devolving into what can just be casually passed off as witch hunts or attempts to publicly humiliate and bring shame to men in seats of power. Also, I want to take a moment to note that I can’t remember the last time that actually happened (even if it were the intention *rolls eyes*).

3: Just how hard is it to say sorry? Granted, there was an apology in the text message Ansari sent in response to the woman. But have you seen his “statement”? A politically correct, clever selection of words strung together, nowhere cleanly claiming responsibility and just saying sorry. One could argue that he got that over with in person, directly addressing his apology in an SMS to the woman herself. But why not take a stand in public, when you are after all a public figure?

In all of this, the greyness of what constitutes harassment keeps coming back to me. Perhaps he didn’t feel it was necessary to aplogise again because at the time he mis-read the signs and didn’t feel what was happening between them was not okay. He didn’t think he was being assertive or harassing the woman. Of course, he didn’t. Knowing what it is like to be harassed is a lived experience. One that only someone who has known and felt can bring to light. And so I keep going back to the need to tell these stories. To call out harassment when it happens. To help others identify, relate and sometimes even recollect, if they’ve been through similar experiences.

It isn’t always an act of violent rape. But there’s a whole range of things that happen to women all the time, at the hands of assertive, aggressive men, sometimes compounded by their power-addled brains, or just the desperate need to reach out and connect with a woman. Even when she doesn’t want to reciprocate, or engage, or react in a similar way.

Every time that I read a story of this kind, it takes me back to at least one similar experience I’ve had in my own life. Reading the Ansari story was no different. And I  know I can speak for most, if not all, women, when I say I’m sure it is the same for all of them. In navigating the ambiguous greyness of what constitutes harassment, our only measure is what it feels like. And when it doesn’t feel right, we must speak up. Because stories give shape to subtleties that otherwise remain in the purview of the nebulous grey.

One might argue that this is a widespread and somewhat baseless panic. one might wonder why so many women are suddenly speaking up now? Are we fining strength in numbers? Hell, yes. Are we slowly learning that it’s okay, and important, to speak up? Also, yes. But it is also that reading each others stories brings clarity to each and every one of us. It makes us think back to experiences we have had, that we may have dismissed as shitty dates. As bad behaviour. As the odd and uncalled for assertion. As the inability to understand real implied and stated cues that say no. Behaviour that we second guess, knowing all the time that it doesn’t feel right, but that we choose to ignore and not react to — with an explicit no, or a clear boundary, or a firm request to step back — because we want to be absolutely sure that we’re not imagining it. Because maybe, what we were subjected to, lay squarely in the nebulous, hazy purview of what we call the grey area. Behaviour that we know for sure makes us feel uncomfortable, violated, harassed. Behaviour that we’re too polite to call out for what it is. Harassment.

One year ago: Work. But also life.
Two years ago: Day 19: Hope

Pointless post

Today feels like a I.can.not.able.to.do kind of day.

In under an hour I’ve gone from feeling what I think are flashes of maternal feelings for the puppies we just got sterilised and released back in their home ground, to raging over tech difficulties updating my LinkedIn.

Is there a more unintuitive, non-user-friendly, lets-get-people-to-hate-us-completely platform that LinedIn? I think not.

Yesterday I was all wise and zen in talking A out of a panic attack where she thought she was the shittiest writer and really stupid for thinking she can do this freelancer gig thing. Today, I am in A’s place.

Can.not.able.to.do.

I had a massive breakthrough yesterday. A result of a nap I allowed myself to take, despite crazy amounts of work that were keeping me from succumbing to it for a full two hours before I actually gave in, and a conversation with R. I live for aha-moments of clarity like these.

I started writing out what I felt, in my notebook, as opposed to here. Half way through I stopped and wondered why. I don’t have an answer.

I’m headed to Bombay this weekend. It’s going to be a hectic trip, I just know it. I’m feeling travel inertia like nothing I’ve felt before. The thought of packing and taking a flight and everything else is making me want to just call the whole thing off. But I cant. And the only thought keeping me going is that I get to meet Niyuuuuuuu. And my folks.

Okay. Time to go fight the worst case of Imposter Syndrome I have had in a long, long time, before it paralyses me completely. Because this week is not the week for me to buckle under the pressure. I do not have the luxury of taking it easy or taking a break.

If you’re still reading, your morning is probably currently as pointless as mine.

Thank you for listening. Go work now, k? Bye.

Same time, last year: Day 46: Morning views

Day 366: December

It doesn’t take a genius to read between the lines of the impossible levels of drivel I posted at the start of the month, and tell that I’ve been in a slump. My brain has been impossibly foggy for many weeks now, my motivation levels plummeted to lows I didn’t know possible, and it showed in all aspects of my life. If blogging through this year has been a study in the ups and downs of my state of mind, I hit an all new low at the start of December. This kind of unexplained, debilitating, chronic blues has hit hard, several times this year, but last month when I returned from Thailand, I felt myself slip a notch lower. As an otherwise naturally happy, easy going person, it has been particularly difficult to deal with this. For one, I haven’t known this level of dejection and disinterest that seems to have crept into everything. Second, the inability to put a finger on it has meant I’m slow to recover. Third, my usual recovery time to snap out of a lull is a few days, a week, at best. So this one has completely thrown things out of whack.

Finally, I was prompted to dig deeper, and follow through on a hunch that perhaps there was more to this – a physiological reason – than meets the (mind’s)eye. Turns out I was right, and taking this blood test was one of the best things I did this year, making me kick myself for not listening to my gut sooner. Which is not to say the things I’ve felt and gone through this past year were unwarranted or without other reasons. This has been one of the most trying years in recent time, a time of transition, the sort that only makes sense when you look at things in reverse. When you realise that every sucker-punch moment was a set up for what is to come. I’ve felt for a while that all this confusion, unsettledness and restlessness is not without purpose. That it is leading up to something. You may not recall, but I said it at the end of this post too. It really felt like November was a culmination of one phase. Like December was going to be a time of moving into a better, brighter, positive space. I had an inkling about some sense of a transition at the start of 2016, but I didn’t anticipate it would last all year long and make its presence felt as much as it did. But, the reason I reiterate this is because December felt like I was finally over the hurdle. The same one I have been painfully eyeing and struggling to get over all year.

I’m putting a lot of it down to the multivitamins kicking in and altering the chemicals in my body which have put my fatigue to rest, given me sounder sleep than I have had all year, and generally brought the spring back to my step. My motivation levels have shot up, which is to say, they’re back to normal. I feel upbeat, positive and happy. My moods are more evenly tempered and for the first time in a long, long time, I feel like myself again. All the layers of sadness, nostalgia, PMS, PTS, and dejection have lifted and I feel like the aliens have returned me to my place on this planet, just the way I used to be. (Inside joke: I’m beginning to think I was abducted for the most part of 2016 because I couldn’t recognise the person I had become. Yep, this might be your cue to unfollow this crazy lady.) I’ve dropped the oscillations from extreme highs to debilitating lows. And clarity, sweet, sweet clarity that has eluded me, is coming back to life.

Some part of this sudden upward swing was kicked into motion when I was suddenly jolted out of my misery seeing updates from some writers on a group I’m a part of. Nothing like a look back at the year gone by to really put things in perspective, no? It’s so easy to slip into a loop of negativity when you’re feeling shitty because it’s the most convenient thing to do. It’s easy, and getting up and out is unthinkable. But I was forced out of my lethargy and I had a pleasant and rather exhilarating realisation that despite it all, somehow I’ve had a good work year. From where I stand, looking back, I see so many gaps in my work style. I took so many unwanted breaks that put my progress back significantly, I was slowed down by rapidly dipping motivation levels, I was plagued by self doubt and had my confidence crushed by plenty unsavoury experiences. I ended the year knowing fully well that I hadn’t achieved exactly what I had set out to do at the start of the year. Yet, it wasn’t all bad, it seems. And that came as a very, very welcome silver lining.

A mildly altered morning schedule saw me waking up at 6 am every day this month, which while I dreaded, turned out to be a bit of a Godsend. Because it gave me a solid hour everyday to be by myself, at peace, reading. And I was able to really pick up the pace and finish up so many more books because of it.

Somewhere in between, a long-awaited and very special essay — another one about Indian women who have chosen to remain childfree — went live on The Establishment. It was the byproduct of a lot of data I had gathered for another essay, but was unable to use. So tada, I turned it into a whole different essay. Win.

There were more travels of course, the last of it to close the year. I ran away to Bangalore, and then to Coonoor with S, a trip that came about in the most spontaneous and speedy fashion. Four days in the hills, and a road trip up there and back to Bangalore was really the icing on the cake. I spent four days soaking in the mountain sun filtering through the mist, and questioned my love for the seaside. I saw mighty trees that made me feel oh so very small. And I saw a giddying variety of flowers, trees, fruit and vegetation of the kind that only mountain air can bear, and it made my head spin.

It’s been a year of tremendous travel. I may not have gone very far, but with every trip I snatched some lovely cherished moments and experiences, and have found something that my life was missing the past many years: camaraderie with just the right mix of closeness and space all in one. I came home with my heart feeling very full. It put a whole different spin on thoughts of distance, longing to be with friends I love, and the expanses of time between us. I returned to the news of George Michael’s passing, and it put me in a nostalgic, reflective mood.

But I also returned to renewed enthusiasm and a very refreshed, positive outlook. It feels like I’m over the bump. I was able to write so much in the second half of the month, spruce up the home that I have ignored for a better part of the year, stock up the house and I even spent four days getting prepped for the work weak ahead. I had some time to even reflect on what a surprisingly good year of reading it has been.

December marked the end of a shitfest of a year of course, but I’ll remember it as the month my vitamins kicked in and my body and mind began to behave like I owned it again. It’s the month I closed the door on 2016 in more ways than just the passing of 12 long months. I’m so ready for 2017.

Day 342: Mini breakthrough

Deep down, I knew this uncontrollable swinging from elation to utterly lost, confused and in a daze, was not me. Yes, there have been challenges, and I’ve pushed myself into a corner more often than not, this year. But that’s because I’ve allowed issues to surface, after they came knocking time and again. And rather than shut them out, I’m trying to face them. This, inevitably, has brought more lows than highs. I was prepared and in many way’s even resigned to feeling out of it more often than not. But nothing prepared me for the physically debilitating manifestations that has come with it. I have spent more days stuck, stiff in bed, listless and unable to function, think, or even figure what is making me feel so low. Truth be told, nothing about what I am going through, or my life, or anything in my environment is so catastrophic that it warrants the kind of utter sadness I have felt.

I’ve often confused this plummeting mood with PMS and/or fatigue. On way too many occasions, I’ve given in to the haze in my head, and gone with it. Often, it’s felt like I should just give up and let myself float. Or drown. But most times I’ve chosen the third option. I’ve beaten myself and struggled to stay afloat, at the very least.

The hardest thing has been with putting a finger on a potential cause. My sadness is exacerbated by the fact that I do not have clarity on that one thing that is causing it. Somewhere deep down, however, I have known that this is not normal. It’s not just the situation. It’s not just the transition. It’s not just this kind of self discovery that can cause the blues.

Nothing I am going through warrants the extreme lows in energy, the chronic need to nap, negative levels of motivation and enthusiasm to do anything at all, the intense dislike of social situations and company. This week I reached an impasse. Utterly frustrated with the see-saw between the lows and highs; the transient moments of steadiness and the fleeting clarity that just will not stay. So, I had some blood work done. Some basic blood counts, TSH panel, and essential vitamin levels that are crucial to optimum levels of happiness. While most of it is normal and the numbers are as they should be, it turns out I have severely low levels of vitamin b12. I am not entirely shocked because I have had a hunch (not strong enough to act on) for some time now, I was definitely a little surprised to see just how low it’s dropped. And surprise, surprise, a lack of vitamin b12 has a profound effect on brain function, is known to adversely affect moods and cause moderate-severe depression.

It’s a bit weird how the brain works because the lack of energy and motivation has attacked every facet of my life except exercise. And it is exercise that has been my saving grace. Perhaps deep down, I also knew that endorphins would keep me afloat, would give me the massive daily dose of energy I needed to get from one day to the next. Because, deep down, I knew this was not normal. That it wasn’t just brought on by situations. The intense lack of control I have felt in trying to understand where this abject sadness is stemming from, when nothing in my life or situations I am in can be called a legitimate cause, has doubly affected me.

The test results depressed me a wee bit :P Because it means potentially facing another fear – needles. And it means embracing the other thing I don’t particularly love – raw food. But I was also immensely relieved to know that I’m not fighting a lost battle. That the cause for the cloud over my head is partly physiological, and just knowing that it has a specific course of treatment, and can be corrected is reassuring. This feeling of all matters coming to a head, much of the clouds of confusion parting to make way for clarity, and the road ahead looking cleaner than ever before is playing out with uncanny accuracy. As the year comes to a close, a lot of the loose ends I’ve been untangling for so long now, are coming together neatly. I’d ask for nothing more than to begin the new year on an energetic, healthy and happy vibe.

Day 330: One number mini rant about Instagram

Duuudes, have you noticed a sudden spike in the number of pictures on instagram that are to do with clothes and fashion? I’m not talking about fashion blogging and the world of sponsored fashion for social influencers. I’m talking about regular people like you and me, who are evidently not as regular as I presume, because they go to some serious lengths to curate what they wear on a daily basis. And then they document it. Day upon day upon day after day after day. And I say curate because clothes are no longer just worn. They’re put together, paired, thrown together. Jewellery isn’t just worn, it’s taken out for a spin it seems. Shoes aren’t just made for walking, they’re made for matching, and for purposes of photogenic documentation. And all this is done with a deliberate, casual air that I might have believed if not for the awful lot of effort that goes into what is evidently just daily wear. Okay, that’s just boring old, uninterested-in-fashion-me talking . The first question that always springs to mind when I see these pictures: wow, where is he/she going all dressed up? Because to my untrained, extremely unrefined sartorial sensibility, everyone in these posts always looked overdressed. Or like they’re dressed to go someplace important. But it seems people are dressing up like this all the time, everyday, even if it is only to go to the front of the mirror and drag an unsuspecting piece of furniture into the frame, on which to drape themselves in order to take an adequately descriptive picture.

Has wearing clothes you love and enjoy, and taking pictures of yourself because you look good and you’re cool and confident enough to admit it, passe? What is this new fangled effort to couch good old vanity in fashion blogging a la instagram? Everybody is a fashion blogger these days. Even those who don’t call themselves that, and don’t use the right hashtags and don’t even bother to tag the right brands. Because what’s in a label or a hashtag? Except many don’t even have fashion blogs. Just a lot of vanity, time on their hands and an instagram account. Also, there needs to be a hashtag in there somewhere. I’m not sure where exactly.

Taking pictures of your clothes, the accessories and footwear you’re going to pair it with is the new wedding photography. Or foodblogging. Everybody wants in, and everybody is mediocre. Brand names and elaborate backstories are essential. Without that said fashion (non)blogging (or shall we say instablogging?) is totally worthless. Also critical is an elaborate backstory that has enough nuance and detail about how well-versed person is with the origins of the garment, the exact nature of the warp and weft, every little groove on the block that printed it, and how far it travelled to reach him/her. Stories of friendship, camaraderie, love, family, joy, sadness, hunger, poverty, insanity, that may somehow be force-fit and worked into it are a bonus. How much or how little he/she gives a fuck about the environment can be ascertained by how much or how little they managed to up-cycle or recycle elements of the ensemble. Captions, hashtags, so much coolth dripping from these elaborate descriptions of why the chosen attire made it into an instagram picture is evidently essential.

It’s simply not okay to just say “I think I look lovely today” or “I love this dress” or “I was gifted this saree” or “New shoes, baby!” Instead we are subjected to the misery that is reading these painfully tedious posts that really just come across as unnecessarily roundabout means to enjoy a moment of vanity, or show off their wardrobe. Actually, I lie. I’m not subjected to any such misery. I have the option to unfollow folks I follow who have suddenly taken to serially posting endless pictures of themselves and their clothes, and I’ve taken to using it liberally. But hey, I love instagram and Im not about to let this ruin it for me. So, since I’m also a champ at pruning my social media feeds to suit my ever changing whims and fancies, I’ve also figured instagram out! If you’re tired of the constant stream of this incredibly futile effort at contrived humblebragging, click the three little dots on the top right of every post and select “show fewer posts like this.” You’re welcome.

</rant>

Day 286: When the going is crazy

This is what I’ve felt like going at pretty much everything the last many weeks.

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(Most excellent gif that depicts my sense of purpose, but just will not play. Which, strangely, also depicts the state of things in my life right now.)

This is what I feel like, when I have recovered from ^^

And this is what it is really like around here. Once I’m done with the meltdown for the day, adding a fresh new angle to the level of crazy I’ve brought into our lives these past few weeks. After I’ve given VC a complete download of all the frustrating and exciting things I’ve been up to in excruciating detail. When I’ve made fresh promises to myself and managed to thrill and scare myself simultaneously. When I cannot handle any of it on my own. He stays, patiently listening, probably chuckling inwardly and reconsidering his decision to marry me every single day this month. But still, becomes this picture of calm that eventually rubs off on me.

 

 

Day 281: A picture

If I’d found this picture earlier this week, I’d have bunged it into my September post. Because this frame, right here, taken at the end of August was uncannily a sign of the month ahead of me. 


But. The good news is that from where I ended up at the close of the month, the only way out, is up.

I’m on it. 

Day 278: September

Alternate headline options:

  1. Shitty, shitty September.
  2. Wake me up when September ends.
  3. Good riddance to bad rubbish

Pretty much all of September was eclipsed by Mercury going into retrograde. And I really felt the effects of it completely this time around. Right from a breakdown of communication and misunderstandings in relationships at the start of the month, the inability to think in a calm manner and plan ahead that stayed right through the month, the sluggish energy on the work front with nothing new materialising, a technological emergency that couldn’t be fixed, down to significant sleep deprivation which then has a ripple effect leading to confusion, irritability and overall impatience. Additionally, there were the effects specific to this retrograde: being overly self-critical, especially when outcomes were less than perfect, way too much energy spent in over analysing the changes I want to bring, when really nothing was likely to move ahead until the entire phase had passed. That pretty much summed up my September.

If I’d read any of this before September began, I’d have put it down to knowing too much too soon and being paranoid. But I only found out a lot of this stuff yesterday. It is sometimes is a little ironic, but mostly uncanny when things play out entirely to a plan outside of us and our brains, that we have not too much control over, regardless of how we feel about that lack of power. And that in itself is something I felt resound in my head over and over again last month.

It was such a meh month, that I don’t even want to go over it. But as always, it’s only in retrospect that I am able to connect the dots. And I see now how every little insignificant, seemingly disjointed, shitty event was actually linked, building up to the way things peaked on 30th September. It bubbled over and on 1st October, I made a decision that has been the first step forward, outside of the confusion I’ve been feeling.

Overly emotional and thankful for my friends.

Disjointed thoughts that I gave up on.

So much up and down, and up and down again.

Morning moods. And ruminations.

Just emptiness.

When the self-doubt hit hard, I had thoughts about work, that were more a means to reassure myself than anyone else.

My very own control issues were explored. In not just one, but two parts.

Before I depress myself anymore, there was some good stuff too:

Our eighth anniversary, was the only bright spark all month, I think.

Books. And more books.

This assignment that was a staycation in disguise.

Music and good internet reading here, Coke Studio season 9 best picks here.

In which I also decided to stop being confused, and decided to start working it out.

Decision about doing a 100km cycle ride was taken, and it turned out to be the best decision ever.

OH, AND. I started a newsletter. Which you can sign up for by adding in your email id here.

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Here take, customary happy photo.

Bas, that’s all. Off with your head, September. Be gone, now!