Nooks and tenants

In August 2018, I moved into a small apartment in Powai, Mumbai. It was a cloudy day, streets damp due to rainfall from the night before. Every coordinate in the vicinity was consumed by a constant cacophony of vehicle horns and screeching traffic. In the small town I grew up in, my ears were tuned to the sound of crickets and cuckoos. This sudden change of pace made me anxious. A nerve within me perpetually urged me to keep up and contribute to the discord. With teary eyes, I bid goodbye to my parents and moved all my stuff into a cozy room that I was supposed to share with another girl.

I didn't realize how light a sleeper I was until that night, when my roommate embarked on her regular night trail to the kitchen, rummaging through a stock of fast food. Settling on her bed beside mine, she began munching on a bag of chips while conversing on the phone in muffled tones, with a friend I presumed. As I failed to drift away to sleep, I decided to move and set up my habitat in an unperturbed nook of the house. The very next day as decided, I moved to the living room (my intolerance clearly knew no boundaries). 

My territory in the living room was outlined by a steel almirah, graciously sold to me at a subsidized price by the previous occupant. My enormous navy blue Dubai trolley bag (that I have been living out of ever since graduated high school) stayed put next to the almirah in the middle of the room, leaving just a small passage for others to enter my living space. Feeling rather satisfied with this setting, I proceeded to buy sea-green floral curtains to divide the room generously between my humble refuge and an assembly of overflowing shoe racks. However, multiple episodes of being walked in on while changing made me realize that they only served as an aesthetic element. 

I was rather proud of coming back to this setting each night after work and finding someone fleeing out of my nook in a rush to give me my privacy. Little did they know that I unwillingly shared this intended privacy with Pinku - the mole-rat who loved startling me in the most unexpected of moments. Leaving the space empty for more than 8 hrs would give Pinku an urge to attempt a hostile takeover by hiding next to my pillow. He would then find the right moment and jump over my head, making my heart come to an agonizing halt for a few microseconds. It seemed unfortunate that I had lived a wholesome 23-24 yrs of my life just to speak of Pinku as the only bastard to have ever made me squeal... oh, that bastard Pinku (a rather unflattering name for someone with his charisma).

My space was left deserted most of the time as I was seldom home during the day (mostly fearing Pinku's unsolicited company). At night, every flatmate who came in staggering through the front door after 1 am was either perceived as a robber or even better - Thanos (looking for an infinity stone) and was greeted with my panic-stricken shrieks of - "Oh no! He has the tesseract!"

In my chaotic little dump, I felt like a queen. I relished my poha and chai for breakfast and I walked out the door every day in my swanky power outfits and classy nude pumps. Ruminating on the deep conversations I had with Laxmi aunty (who so graciously kept me fed), I would gaze out of the rickshaw on my way to the office, wind slapping my cheeks as I admired Hiranandani architecture. 

I found myself narrating my conversations with Laxmi aunty to my friends, as we sipped green tea (or any other nasty concoction the coffee room offered). She left her own chaotic home at RA colony every morning to step into mine, cooked me breakfast, packed my dabba, and religiously dished out the latest gossip from some wealthy Hiranandani house on the block - "That Gupta bhabhi's son is very handsome! He is such a good boy, never leaves his room! I think Mayuri and him will make a wonderful pair!" I always chuckled and made a mental note to inform Mayuri about her prospects. I think I never did though. 

There are tons of things I never got to do. One night, Pinku got caught in a sticky trap drizzled with peanuts (greedy fellow that he was). I woke up to see him writhing and squeaking, struggling to break free. Laxmi aunty marched in and tossed him into the garbage bag and dusted her palms. A few weeks later, I packed my bags to go home for the weekend and never came back for months (thanks to the pandemic). 

Looking back, I know that I can never be 22 or 23 again or see Laxmi aunty or Pinku ever again. But I will always be proud of having lived that life, of calling it one of the happiest phases of my adult life.

to beloved haters

 Let me come right out and say it...

This is not a hate post. I've been fortunate enough to not have received any hate (yet) for my music or any kind of artistic work I put out for the world to judge.

It is about a conversation that left me feeling hurt and disappointed. 

My mother was speaking to someone on the phone and mentioning how she really loved this particular singer from a reality show, whose style reminded her of another famous singer. 

In response, she got slapped with - "He is so terrible and out of tune. Just the way you're comparing him to renowned singers reflects your poor taste"

It sounded like something you would hear everyday. But, I was apalled hearing this statement, since I deem the below ideas unacceptable -

a) Criticising someone's singing and disrespecting their efforts that way, especially when you have no idea how tough it is to put yourself out there for the entire world to scrutinise.

b) Criticising someone's taste or choice to the extent of hurting them just because it doesn't align with yours. 

Sadly enough, these things are said and done so casually that I am probably going to receive hate for even making a tangible deal out of it. But I am going to proceed and justify the dismay I felt upon hearing this.

To start off, even I have never been a fan of this singer that my mom was talking about. I am getting trained in Carnatic music vocals and I have been learning music all my life.

Yet, I would never say such a thing because I don't have the balls to be on a singing reality show. I simply cannot imagine the effort that goes into learning a new song to perfection each week and being given one shot at presenting it in front of millions of viewers.

However, I do understand the mental sacrifices that accompany the choice of making one's bread and butter in this industry.  As the oh-so cliched comeback says, "If you can stomach the love, learn to stomach the criticism". Great. I agree.

But does it mean that, as audience, we have the right to express our opinions in the most insensitive manner possible? Are we that barbaric? Even when we're not criticising someone's work to their face, we're normalising this attitude by rapidly passing judgements. 

"But the person who stated this opinion is a trained singer", said my mother, responding to my retaliation.

"So?"

"So, I guess she thinks she can judge him and say that he sucks" 

"Oh, I would love to see clippings of her performances from a reality show that she participated in. Or the link to her YouTube/Instagram or any channel probably? 

Oh, none of that, you say? 

You say she has never put in the effort to record anything or even sing live? 

Hmm, I wonder what makes her better than this singer and makes her cocky enough to comment on something she has never ever attempted"

Bottomline is, be human and be kind. Before criticising someone's work, understand their effort and their journey. Or just shut the hell up. There is no fancy way of putting that out.

Most hobbies are nipped in the bud and millions of dreams fall prey to insensitive remarks that are tossed about without second thoughts.

Further, talking about criticising someone's taste that differs from yours, be mature enough to understand that everyone has different preferences. Learn to respect their choices instead of voluntarily hurting them and saying obnoxious stuff like "Damn, you got such bad taste" or "You listen to such weird music".

It's a sloppy movie but it brought a smile to someone's face. Isn't that worthy of respect?

So how can you express your criticism better? Just zip it.

OR - How about you try saying things like -

"I am not a fan of xyz's work, but I appreciate the effort. I hope she uses this opportunity to improve"

"I don't understand why you like xyz's music at all but it's commendable how he managed to touch millions of hearts out there with his work. More power to him"

Having said that, I have no right to dictate people or force them to be nice.

If you still love getting off on expressing mean remarks, hurting (and possibly scarring) your loved ones by cloaking it under the umbrella of "brutal honesty", please go ahead. 

I have the power to respectfully ignore your choice.

Adult concept

As a child, my head was always inundated with stories. I discovered writing as a way to preserve and even multiply those thoughts. 

There was always a compulsive desire to lay a piece of my mind out for the world to see; to bellow my opinions out. 

Why don’t I write so often anymore? 

My head is blank. 

Not all the time. Thoughts race my head and scale altitudes that were presumably unattainable the previous day. Somewhere in the predicament of being unable to put these thoughts to ink, I struggle to face another

lurking thought ; “Will I never write anymore?” 

It is on this meandering fear that I blame my inability to write anymore. But also, as an adult  things have begun steering towards reality. Being construed as a person with a full grown brain and wholesome education, society has all rights to misconstrue your opinions and shove unsolicited two cents up your already insecure being. Am I scared of those two cents? 

Then, there is this underlying issue of having no uplifting thoughts to pen down. “I am not a melancholic writer”, I often say to myself with a reassuring chuckle. “But when was the last time I had a chipper thought?” There seem to be enough writers in this world and their immaculate descriptions of sorrow to relate to. I am not something the reading community is in need of.

But most of all, when I set my mind to write, a tide of excuses wash up my process, showing me how the words are right there struggling to break free. Therefore, I don’t write.

Wait, did I just ... 

 

Square One

Smash! Chomp! Chomp!
I take unbridled pleasure in stepping on a swarm of innocuous ants marching on the bench. Dust and footprints lodge on to distemper paint with a stubborn permanence. Who paints these building benches anyway?
I am wearing my buckled bata school shoes without socks. I go announce my formidable act proudly to my babysitter-aai, who is busily looking out for children traipsing around the place. "Ashi ghanerdi tsala noko karu" (Don't do such nasty activities), she pleads, feeling overwhelmed.
 We are waiting to be picked up by our parents. Aai starts panicking as we start a mini game of pakda-pakdi (run and catch), succumbing to the dormant restlessness that hangs loosely in the air. The 5.30pm buses queue up sluggishly , almost mirroring the state of its passengers, uncles (the way we address married/older looking men)  dressed in dull blue shirts.  An array of crushed men. Ants?
Aai cautiously makes sure none of us fall prey to the giant wheels.
Thud..
Little Babuli falls down from the bench trying to mimic me as I crush ants ruthlessly. He doesn't cry. He is a brave 3- year old, I think. He looks at me and Aai, his bewildered eyes moving to and fro. Aai, on the other hand lets out a frightened yelp, checking him for injuries.
Babuli's eyes discover his mother getting out of one of those beastly buses and almost inadvertently, begin producing tears. By the time he is in his mother's arms, he is bawling.
His mother, looking way more composed than Aai, smiles and tells him "How will babuli become strong if he doesn't fall? huh? nai roneka baboo.. mummy haina ( Don't cry, mommy's here)"
I go home and narrate my day's events to my parents as my mother braids my hair into two pigtails and secures a freshly cut yellow rose on to my tresses with a U-pin.
"Yerumba kollardu oru paapam (Killing ants is a sin)", my father's didactic voice pipes in. Meanwhile,  I'm thinking "Do bones grow stronger after a hit? Do bones just know what to do?"  Maybe.
How indeed does Babuli become strong when he falls down? 

A random letter

Dear Mumma,

I know it’s not mother’s day or your birthday. I felt like I don’t need reasons or occasions to tell you how much I love you. Yes, I am going to go all blah blah about you now. You can keep a big towel ready because tissues won’t suffice (the weeper you are).

 Mommy, you know, someone once asked me who my favorite person was. I thought a lot, okay? Not about the answer, but the justification.

I said, “I think it’s my mommy!” I got a very smug “Isn’t that clichéd?” hurled at me.

I refused to the point blatantly. “I think I’d have liked her even if she weren’t my mommy. She is a wonderful person. Everyone loves her.”, I said, with my chin up.

Then I went on and on about you until that person was convinced of how much I adore you despite the fact that every kid is obliged to love his/her mommy. Since mommies sacrifice so much for their babies, trade their dreams and aspirations for the baby’s well-being, in turn, it’s the duty of every baby to return the unconditional love.

But mommy, what if we weren’t mommy and baby? (No don’t imagine and get happy now. You are stuck with this painful human being you gave birth to (ME), forever) BUT yes.  What if?

What if I had stumbled upon you at a party or a marriage? I think I’d still have been drawn to you and felt super lucky to have known you.

Mommy, you are a special woman. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I gape at your achievements, at your cooking, at your success, at the number of people who respect you. I feel proud when strangers recognize me because of you and your good work; when they say “Oh! Aren’t you Jayanthi madam’s daughter?”

But most of all, I stay dumbfounded at your compassion, the love and affection you shower upon people perennially and how you learn to care about every single thing I care about. 

I like the way you can empathize with people. You very well know how I can never do that. I am stone hearted and apathetic and you still accept me for all my shortcomings. Wonder why that didn’t get transferred to my genes.

Reading this, you might feel like a big mature worldly person. But put a brake to your thoughts. You are 44 but you act like a 16-year-old sometimes. It makes me smile and wonder as to where I lost that giggling 16-year-old girl in me when you’ve still preserved her within you.

I keep learning from your brilliance and miss your warmth every second as the clock ticks away. Take care, mommy.

Loads of love, and millions of kisses.

Always yours,

Geethu <3 p="">