Clearing the Spam.

 Just how much digital clutter have I managed to accumulate over the years is astounding. Specially in an age when we lament the dying art of letter writing, even as we are painfully dependent on instant messaging. How did I manage to fill my inbox to its full storage capacity calls for introspection. 

Not a single mail of enquiry or warmth from a well-wisher, distant acquaintance or friend. The inbox is jammed with real estate promotions, investment schemes, shopping offers and such other digital white noise that makes me feel like both, the product and the consumer. I don't remember subscribing to most of these mails. And a look at the mountain of such unread mails tells me how dangerously reliant i am on WhatsApp- I haven't bothered to check this junk house let alone clear it for months!

What i'm faced with now is a reminder that nearly ninety percent of all equations in this world are impersonal, transactional, forgettable and pointless. And yet we hold onto the spam and let it rule our emotions. 

It's important to reset filters every now and then. To label, star, archive and delete. But address the junk and clear the clutter before you've reached your limit. No matter if it is your inbox or personal relationships.

Hmm. How is that for observation?

2023. Done and Dusted.

What makes me refrain from posting more often? Lack of thoughts? No chance of that happening. The voices in my head can vouch for that. In fact regurgitating what's brewing in my brain might actually lighten the load. But it isn't easy, is it? 

I've asked myself this question so many times in the past and I keep going back to it every few months. A theme-less blogspace, which is pretty much just a storehouse of my personal musings. Thoughts and opinions that don't create a shadow of a dent in anyone's life. So they should probably live between the pages of a personal diary. Well, that's what logic tells me anyway. So then why do I keep coming back? 

The cold truth?- the need to feel seen. Heard. Felt. 

The purpose of any kind of  creative expression is the innate need for us as a people to feel seen and heard. What is the point of storing your emotions in a diary, only for it to be discovered long after you are gone (when it might be tossed into the bin anyway). 

I might as well be brave enough to push my way through the clutter of opinions that already exists in this world. Push, shove, jostle and settle into a sweet spot for myself.  To engage with others and revel in the joy of knowing that I'm not alone. 

Yes, to know you are not alone is a great leveler. The ego is knocked off its high horse and forced to cower into recognizing that most of us are in fact, ordinary. 

And being ordinary isn't a crime. It is comfortable for sure. But perhaps recognizing this, makes a person stand out, if not become something extra-ordinary. 

So why do I feel the need to express today? After all this time? Because this year has been tough. Correction, it still is. 

I've been thinking a lot about grief. Does it exist in all its endless thick dark cloud of suffocating sadness as a whole? Or are there levels to pass through? 

Can a person claim to feel more grief than another because of situations and circumstances, even if your body reacts to it the same way? And what if grief chokes you so hard from within, you arent able to express yourself even though it has spread all over your existence like a bad case of eczema. Would the lack of expression disqualify you from being a griever? 

I feel the loss of something that didn't even exist. And as shattered as it made me feel, I was also slightly relieved at feeling free at last. Guilt, suffocation, loss, anger, numbness, relief, a feeling of being crushed, are the unwanted gatecrashers at a party you didnt plan for yourself. So now you have no option but to put up with them and wait for the time when they will be bored enough to leave. 

You try to tire them out. You ignore engaging with them. You don't let them get a word in. You talk over them and laugh out loud, hoping it will drown out their voice. But the brats just claw you more, don't they? 

I've felt it all this year. My mind is done. But not my heart and body. They are still seeking a closure that will probably never arrive. I've mourned over something I didn't even have. And i've done it by myself. Because it's easier than having to explain the havoc these emotions play inside you. 

I'm proud of the person I've been this year. She feels like a another being raging inside me. One who needs an extra long hug. And she has intruded upon every conversation and interaction i've had this year. She has tugged at me each time i've laughed and punished me for doing so by looming over the thoughts for the next few hours. I'm spent. But i also know I'm strong enough to ride the tide.

And through it all, here's what I have learnt-

1. Grief has no barometer. 

2. Grief has no comparison. 

3. Grief exists. It is an all-encompassing feeling that clouds your body, your home, your perspectives, your life. 

4. The only way to counter grief, is to surrender to it. To swim and float and tumble about in it. With a life jacket of course- a lung full of laughter, a day full of tasks, friends who allow you forget and partners who don't tell you to 'get over it'. I've been blessed to have it all. 

5. Grief is also a great friend. It helps you recognise people who lift you up and acquaints you with your inner reserves of strength. And i'm surprised to find that i have plenty of both. 

2023. I'm so done with you. Cannot wait to turn the page of the calendar. I truly wish I could delete the year gone by.  You were the backstabbing friend I had invited with warmth and open arms. Now, I cannot wait to show you the door. 

Parties and Personas

 Some weeks are chaotic. Not in a headless chicken sort of way. But simply filled with too many people, too many voices and opinions. The introvert in me can only tolerate interactions once a day with a select set of people; the kind I know won't read too much into my silence. And, perhaps a meet-up once a month. But when you have multiple cozy sets of friends, and you need to give each group its due attention, it amounts to a lot of conversation. Moreover, if you are the kind that prefers silence over speech, and would like to generally be invisible at a party, it also means that you need to hype yourself up a bit. Oh, lord is that work!

Of course, parties have their perks. You get to put on a nice dress, pick your jewelry, and such. But frankly, that's it for me. Once you make your entrance, take your pictures, compliment, and thank the host, is there anything else to 'do' at a do? You could quietly slip away before the condensed water from your glass can touch the table. And it would matter to no one!

And let's not even start with the obligation to make conversation. A real party spoiler for someone like me.  Especially, if your idea of a party is brand new pajamas, floor seating, messy, chompy food, and a bunch of close friends. There is also the guilt of being rude if you choose to be silent in a corner. At times, I wish I could hire someone to do the talking for me. The reactions, the interjections, the 'so what do you do' is tiresome after the first 30 minutes. Something that can be easily avoided if it's your regular group of friends. 

Then again, the slightly lacklustre part about hanging out with your friends is that you hardly ever put in the effort to make it seem like a 'something'. These are people who've seen your puffy teary face, food-stained clothes and have guffawed at you because you snort while speaking. The effort to bring out your best for them seems like something they really deserve. But a well-laid table feels too formal for people who are in and out of your kitchen regularly. 'You don't have to be so formal with us,' they say. And you wonder, did the little effort to make them feel special, put in a wedge of distance. Is that how all friends generally are or is it a very Indian thing? 

Which makes me wonder, what would the ideal gathering be like for me? 

Well, for starters, I'd be a grrrreat cook! I'd have the energy and creativity to patiently dish out a fancy fare. The best serveware would be elegantly and properly arranged. Fresh flowers would decorate each room. Gentle music would fill in conversational lulls. Everyone would be asked to come wearing whatever they wished to wear -bling and baubles, jeans or sweats. Whatever the mood for the day demands. Once they arrive, I'd take the first half hour to introduce everybody, then I'd turn up the music, pick up a drink, ask them to help themselves, sit back, and relax. 

Can one be a guest at their own party? It's not a bad idea, to be honest. There is a lot of warmth and delight in hosting. But there is greater fun in silently watching others have a good time. 

Well, that would be my do. Though I doubt how popular that would make me! 

The thing is, parties are stressful. Gatherings not so much. And there is a marked distinction between the two, even if your guest list is the same. 

A party is where a good time is had and you go home feeling heady, tired or perhaps hungover. You collect news without revealing too much about yourself. It is a show where each one puts on a polished performance. A gathering though is where you have intimate chats. There is laughter punctuated by comfortable quietude. The food doesn't make a statement and the heels are kicked off at the door. 

I guess each of us has a party persona. I'd prefer to be an observer at a party and a party person at a close gathering. Truly the best of both worlds then. What about you? How do you survive?

Of Playlists, Subscriptions and Memories

Just like a bookshelf or wardrobe, the Spotify playlist or the YouTube subscription list can reveal plenty about one's personality. Are you the simpy sentimental daily soap junkie, the news-guzzling regurgitator (there's one at every party), the how-to encyclopedia? And how much of this are you willing to share with others?

Who you are today isn't just restricted to what others see on your timeline, but everything you expose yourself to behind the scenes. A playlist is easily shared. Your subscriptions are yours alone. 

The playlist is a collection of random assorted items that may or may not go together. Like a fluorescent highlighter, it is used only to record things that grab your attention, so you can track it at a later time. It could have a running theme to it of course. 'Rainy Day Favourites', 'Afternoon Magic', and so on. Therefore, a Spotify playlist (and this is entirely my personal view) often ends up being an indicator of one's mood. Your personality, on the other hand, is laid bare in your list of subscriptions. 

A subscription spells conformity. You agree with the channel and therefore you choose to engage with it. You allow the content creator to punctuate your days with notifications, new uploads, comments etc. The engagement is voluntary, continuous, and potentially long-term. An extension of your own thoughts and views. 

Naturally, it can say a lot about you as a person. For instance, if you're really a Bridget Jones masquerading as Mother of Dragons, the playlist could say Roar but your true identity might be

The Hallmark Channel. 

Of the many things I have been subscribing to since the onset of the pandemic, silent vlogs has become a favourite.

(My List :) )

There's something so utterly soothing about them. Both the videos and the experience. Calm gentle 'plinky-plunky' music plays in the background as someone goes about their day. The everyday sounds are suddenly amplified and it instantly draws attention to the beauty in the mundane. 

The soft clink of a cup as it touches the saucer, the sound of bubbling water, the click as a switch is turned on and off.  Most of them have a muted aesthetic that enhances the softness and quietness of the videos. At times, it makes me want to spruce up my space and rearrange a plant or two. But at the end of a long day, when I want to watch something not to be entertained or stay informed, but to simply unwind, silent vlogs of people going about their day is my tonic. 

There really is music in the everyday. And a kind of relief in simple unfussy settings. And these videos, that hinge solely on daily scenes and sounds, seem to evoke memories I'd didn't remember I had. 

For instance, the curtains in my childhood home. My mother always hung two. A white lace curtain, kind of a cross between a half curtain and a cafe curtain. These were meant to let in the air and light during the day while retaining some privacy. And another one hanging over it. Printed ones the colour of cream biscuit. 

Afternoons at home always took on a distinct colour when the sun streamed in through this double filter. The room would be aglow in a dull orange hue. A few koel birds in the background reinforced summer, the sound of children playing outside reminded the neighbourhood of the holidays, the crisp sound of paper as my mother turned a page in her book, the 'tak-tak' sound of plastic as I played with lego. This is the summer holiday memory for me. And some of these videos revived this little memory.  A moment suspended in time. The music of the everyday, only amplified. 

Silent vlogs about art journaling, gardening or slow living is my guilty pleasure now. My playlist is currently set to soft Hindi songs. My subscriptions are full of silent vlog channels. And i wonder, what does that reveal about me? 

What does your playlist and subscription list, reveal about you? To you?

The Resolution Virus Grips Me Too

On the brink of the year 2000, the world was gripped with Y2K fever. But here we are in 2023. More than two decades after the worldwide scare and two years since the pandemic. Still going strong. 

2023 is so different on so many levels-

Wearing a mask isn't abnormal, even though we've finally learned to live without it. People are choosing to go back to the office even if companies would like them to work from home. The convenience of online purchases has been a lifesaver for many. And yet, we choose to visit the malls in droves. This is the year of finding the balance I suppose. To recognize the dichotomy in everyday life, and make your peace with it. Well, in my head at least. 

True to the New Year spirit, resolutions have been made, pinned up on the wall, and saved to one's wallpaper.  Naturally, the first month of the year is dedicated to frantically seeing it all through. 

It is a strange phenomenon that grips the minds of people globally.  Irrespective of age, race, language, country, or continent, the fascination for new year's resolutions is something like a pandemic. An invisible virus that is transmitted through social media and marketing gimmicks. There will never be a vaccination for this malaise. One has to simply suffer through the affliction and tolerate the frenzy. The symptoms are easy to identify: hyperactivity, meticulous planning, excessive purchases of green tea and health drinks, and an uncharacteristically bizarre expenditure on journals and stationery. 

One also finds the odd marathon enthusiast who invests more time in online shopping to find the right 'look' than actually running a round about the kiddie park. On average the Resolution Virus survives on the surface of the human mind for two and a half to three months. Thereafter, you know you are getting back to normalcy when the desire to sleep in trumps the desire to sweat it out at the gym. 

And with this, I announce that I too have been rendered defenseless in the face of this annual disease.

Officially diagnosed with the Resolution Virus, I have invested time and energy into setting up my journal, the sleep cycle has been altered and I am unfortunately no longer the night owl I prided myself to be. At 9:30 each night, I find that the virus affirms its grip over my senses and I am unable to stand, function, or keep my eyes open. Therefore, bedtime is now the same as that of the little one. This also means that I am up before the alarm each morning. And this new addiction to a healthier me is already exposing me to its side effects. I am no longer the fun one in the room. Being in my company is a big yawn (literally). I'm curious to see how long this will continue. 

One of these resolutions is to write more often. At its feverish peak, the virus had me delusional and I declared that I'd put out a blog post each day for the next 365 days of the year. One that a shot of warm water with lemon and honey cured instantly (the virus is to blame for this too). It has now been toned down to one post a week. At the minimum. 

What will these posts be about? I really don't know. We live in an age where the beauty of artsy static photographs has been sidelined in favour of mindless reels. Who then would ever have the patience to read long posts? Your guess is as good as mine. 

My posts here have been sporadic. Yet, the intention has always existed. To write, express, voice, vent, reason, and speak to myself and others. So this time, I focus on writing irrespective of its reach. Just because I can. The posts needn't be long. Perhaps a few lines each week (if not every day) about things that cross my mind. And considering that I'm a person of average intelligence, these would most likely be the things on everyone's mind, making the posts that much more relatable (or boring, whatever you choose to call it). 

Well, that is the Resolution Number One. Second on the list is to make my meal times more special. A candle now and then, the forgotten stoneware at the back of the cupboard, the cloth napkin in the fancy holder. Me before my guests. I am happy to report, this is the resolution I seem to be enjoying the most. I now have a tea ritual once a day. I think I enjoy it more than the tea itself. Easy to tell since I've taken the time out to click an unexciting picture of the most enjoyable moment of my day. 

My third resolution is to fight the compulsion to agree with people and their requests even if it inconveniences me. Why should saying, 'No', be such a hard thing? It doesn't have to be rude. And honesty deserves to be rewarded with understanding, isn't it?

Resolution Number Four is to put those early morning hours to good use. Get my butt off the bed and my feet into my sneakers. A good brisk morning walk, ALONE. Followed by the yoga and meditation fix. In hindsight, this should probably be first on the list. 

Resolution Number Five is probably the toughest of them all- to stick with the above and trust that the rest will sort itself out. 

Will the virus leave me by March or will I survive it through the rest of the year? Well, that remains to be seen. For now, this is me. 

Waking Up to Life and Sleep

I never intend to have such long pauses between my posts. But as always, I've been too lazy to pull out my laptop. Do you ever have those moments when a mountain of tasks is staring you in the face and the only way you think it will magically disappear is if you pretend it didnt exist? That's my reaction to my laptop because the first thing that it invariably throws up before me is the inbox from clutter hell. How on earth did I accumulate so much junk?!

The target now is to declutter my digital life. And since nothing that I see in my inbox sparks joy, it must all go! 

Anyway, it is one of the reasons why despite marinating in my thoughts these many months, I havent posted anything here. 

Much has transpired since the move. The two that have affected me the most have been, 

a) the passing of people both within the family and outside of it. 

b) my struggles with sleep. 

The first, a truly sad occurence, oddly fills me with optimism and a greater desire to live it up. Perhaps, even confidence. 

It makes me think less about opinions. For one, everyone has it. Should I then be so bothered about something that is so commonly available?

If witnessing death and what unfolds after, doesnt wake you upto life, then it's a great lesson lost. 

So how do you, no wait, how do I translate what it means to live it up, for myself? -

1. To dress the way I want without asking the mirror, spouse, family or friend, 'Do I look alright?'

2. To be surrounded by positive people, without being attached to any of them. 

3. To uphold the right to remain silent just as much as the right to voice my thoughts.

4. To excercise the right to walk away from a person or situation.

5. To own my beliefs, no matter what others around may think or feel. 

6. To value my time of action, and my time of sleep. 

And the last point brings me to my next great learning over the past six months. Value your sleep, because no one else will.

Those who are blessed with the ability fall into deep sleep in a snap, will never know what it's like to function day-after-day without it. I envy 'easy sleepers'. Wait, can I say I nearly detest them? Well, not them, but their damned gift to sleep even through the apocalypse!

Thanks to the anxiety of the pandemic, I am now a perenially light sleeper. Sleep is no longer an act of relaxation, hardly ever deep and almost never without a struggle. Doesn't help that I am sharing the bed with a kid, and have just 1/3rd of the bed to myself. How does the 3ft tall under tween take up half the king size bed space?! With half my body grazing the floor each night, I am more conscious than ever of my body fat percentage. Clearly the fat in my body demands more room outside of it.  

I've found that what works best is having a routine. A warm foot soak, chamomile tea, the right kind of light, the perfect temperature and of course, a book.  If the eyes won't shut when I want them to, I will compel them to. Nothing better than teeny 5iny font size to force them shut. 

Such an effort to fall asleep, i truly must be ageing. 

So what happens when the slumber that one works so hard to bring on, is interrupted by barking street dogs, loud snores, your bed-mate's nightmares, or even your own disturbed thoughts?- You manifest into a crazy witch out to draw blood. And why not?! 

I believe most witches, banshees and vampires aren't villains for no reason. They deserve compassion before fear, chamomile tea over blood,  and an AC comforter instead of a tantrik. They wander about at night, unblinking and unforgiving. It stems from spending their living years being insomniacs. So now you know what I will be when my time comes. 

Tired of typing. Eyes finally shutting. Purpose served. Signing off. 

Gratitude, oh the attitude!

Gratitude journals are all the rage now. New year resolutions revolve around it. Self-help coaches recommend it. Lifestyle magazines echo the trend. 

I don't know what to feel about it though.  

Before marketing took over, gratitude was expressed in the quietude of prayer, or through the comfort of homemade food made with a little extra attention, or through DIY gifts. And if you didn't have ideas or the time, you could always count on Archies to be the mouthpiece of your heartfelt emotions. Gratitude found its way into our lives without much conscious effort.

However, today gratitude journaling is an extension of 'mindfulness'  (one might think, it is a practice meant to empty the mind and fill the heart, but okay). 

Apparently it is supposed to rewire my brain into being happy. I'm not entirely convinced by that sales pitch but I'm willing to give it a try. You see, I'm a fairly happy person. Not exciteable puppy happy. More like relaxed lazy panda happy. I eat, sleep, admire my paunch and just be. 

But Instagram tells me practicing gratitude with colourful ink pens in specially designed books is going to change my life somehow. I don't want to miss that bus. I mean, what if my life did turn around? I'm pretty sure it would land me in the exact same place (round, get it?). But then, FOMO. 

And so I decided to  give it a shot- one thing to be grateful for every single day. 

Look, no judgements. I think it's a good practice. Considering that our worlds (both physical and virtual) are increasingly being shaped by the stuff we own and the fear of missing out on the stuff that other people own, it's a good idea to pause and reflect. Not very different from counting your blessings really. If it keeps you grounded and satisfied, by all means go for it. And if it has brought about a conscious change, I would love to know. 

Personally though, I noticed a pattern to the things I was thankful for everyday. Invariably, my gratitude centered upon family, access to material comforts (that I'm aware is a luxury for so many out there, hence very very grateful), and on some chaotic days, even the help.  I was grateful for the access to education, clean drinking water, a hot bath, food on my plate and books to read. And then I hit a dead end. There was nothing new to notice and be grateful for. Honestly, it was not very different from what I said in my prayers. But imagine making entries in beautiful calligraphic handwriting, in journals too pretty to be used. 

God, you can really be spoilt for choice here. There's something for everyone- hardbound, spiralbound, dotted, lined, blank spreads, flexible covers, pocket sized, giant sized, leatherette, scented, handmade, recycled, upcycled, cloth covers, with prompts, without prompts, personalized, cartoonized. The variety is mindboggling. So before I feel the gratitude, I must deal with my poor decision-making skills and pick my journal for the task. 

And this is only the beginning. If you realllly want to jump onto the bandwagon, there are other essentials you need to stock up on- a collection of washi tapes, felt tip pens, gel pens, glitter pens, paint, stickers, cutouts, and basically a mini craft store at your disposable. 

Again, no judgments. If this is your artistic space, go for it! But for this to become the norm can be more of a deterrent than an act of freeing up the mind. 

The pressure of living up to the emotional and financial (have you seen the price of some of these journals?!) commitment made towards developing this habit can be annoying. Uff the guilt if you miss a single day of entry! Not only has paisa then not been 'vasoolofied', you question your approach towards everything in life. So much additional stress and FOMO. Was that the purpose of this new trend to begin with? 

So, what makes the best gratitude journal, for me? A little burning flame and 2 minutes of silence on the prayer mat. Gratitude expressed, signed, sealed and personally delivered to the one who is meant to know it all. 

Now, would I then stick with the practice? Hard to say. Perhaps on some really tough days when I need a pick me up, I might turn to mindfully changing my mood. The very act of writing it down then, will do well in helping me switch gears. 

But other than that, I think I'm going to stick with what mummies and grandmummies across most homes and religions have been doing for ages. Easier on the mind, lighter on the pocket, and suits my type C personality well. 

Have you tried maintaining a gratitude journal? Did it work for you?