The Clouded Mirror

There’s this object I own

An artefact, of sorts

Rather plain to look at

But the envy of lots

Don’t be fooled by its name

It’s not just a mirror, you see

Because it only shows

The very best version of me

The kind I want to be

The kind I want to look

The kind for which in my dreams

I am often, mistook.

And it’s not just me

My friends feel it too

One feels fairer, another, thinner

And one swears her breasts even grew.

And we stare at it for hours

Lost in a state of bliss

Because without that image

Everything feels amiss

Try and make us step aside

And you’ll see a state of despair

Because how we dream to look

Is all that of which we’re aware

We were told, after all

Since our very first birthday

That we want to look beautiful

And beauty only looks a certain way

So why would we bother

To even try to look otherwise

To be happy with ourselves

And treasure our bodies – what a vice!

To actually listen to that murmur

That’s coming from deep inside

Urging us to step away

And actually open our eyes wide

And see that what’s in the mirror

Is actually just a trick of a cloud

Blurring the image that is real

Of the one we should’ve been proud

But our response is outrage

Calling out the murmur on its lies

And we continue to gaze happily

While we drown it out with our cries

Because there’s a small secret, you see

That I haven’t shared with you as yet

We actually know all about the cloud

It’s kind of like our safety net

We put it there ourselves

To bring our ideals nearer

So we wouldn’t have to cringe each time

We decided to look at the mirror

Because each time we step away

Is a reminder of who we are

That we’re not good enough this way

That the journey ahead is far

And so we keep going back

To gaze and gaze all day

Because in that clouded image

We feel like we’re okay

Because the mirror doesn’t just show

The very best version of me

But the version the world’s convinced me

That shows how I ought to be.

I entered a writing challenge this week, wherein I was given a word that I had to weave into my writing. But the thing is, I knew what I wanted to write about long before I saw the word, because it’s something that’s been nagging me for a few weeks [*cough* years *cough*] now.

Acne.

Yea, I know. In an age where we’re faced with countless global problems encompassing humanity and our planet, the thing that’s been bugging me lately is the little pimple on my face. Okay, fine, it’s not really little. And neither is it singular. More like a break out. The kind that’s in [on?] your face. And a little hard to ignore. Because of the incessant pain. And also because it…you know…doesn’t look so nice.

So, for a little context – I’ve had acne problems well since my teenage years. It’s the kind of phase you realize isn’t actually a phase in your case – more like, a perpetual state of being. A partner in crime, if you like. A shadow. An incessant pest. The kind of friend you just can’t get away from. Okay, you get the picture.

And an occasional hazard of having such visible pimples on your face is that it comes up a lot in random conversations:

Me: Hi! How have you been? It’s been so long!

Other: Oh you poor thing. What happened to you?

Or

Me: Alright, let’s order some food?

Other: You’re getting a lot of pimples, you know?

While a lot of people limit themselves to random exclamations of pity combined with a look of being in pain themselves, some others feel that it’s their duty to give you advice on how to deal with acne: like that kind gentleman in Bhopal who stopped his scooter to ask me for directions, before sprouting advice on how to deal with the scarring; or the taxi driver in Mumbai who made me take off my ear phones so I could hear his remedy; or the fellow customer of a grocery store waiting at the counter line who thought it would be a nice way of passing time to hand out advice to strangers.

Hey, I’m not complaining. I live for this stuff – it keeps me laughing for hours afterwards. 

But see, the thing that a lot of people don’t realize is – telling someone a remedy for getting rid of the acne is also, in a way, telling them that they should strive for skin that is acne-free.

No, wait! Before you go all ‘duhh!’ on me, think about it. Yes, people should try to have clean skin, but most people who are prone to acne actually wash their faces far more often than others to strive for that cleanliness, which kind of takes away from the whole 'healthy skin' line of argument. So when you tell someone they should try everything possible to get rid of their acne, you’re really telling them – you’re not good enough the way you are.

Have you tried this product? It works really well. You’re not good enough the way you are. You’re going for a wedding? Make sure you put on some foundation and concealer. You’re not good enough the way you are. Hey did I tell you about this friend who managed to get rid of all their marks in just a few months? You’re not good enough the way you are.

And somewhere down the line, the person starts believing you. They stop looking at mirrors. They avoid posing for photographs. They’re afraid of drawing any kind of attention to themselves, because they think that the first thing others would notice about them is how hideous they look. Eventually, they’re even hesitant to be seen.

Basically, you can be sure that their self-confidence takes a major hit.

All because of bloody pimples.

Sounds a little ridiculous.

But it hit me these last few weeks, when I had the worst break out of acne I’ve ever had, and I reached a point where I cringed if I saw a picture of myself, and even considered backing out of a sports tournament because I didn’t want people seeing me. That was next level. That, and a question my friend posed to me: “Well, as long as the pain goes down, that’s all that matters, right?” And I couldn’t respond – couldn’t say out loud that while it should stop mattering beyond that, the fact is, it doesn’t.

And that’s kind of when I realized how messed up it is to live like this.

Granted, sometimes I myself go around asking people for advice, or seeking sympathy for my condition, but unfortunately, I'm a product of this bloody world too. But these last few weeks have convinced me that at least now I know that this isn't what I need in my life. I need to not care about the marks. I need to be okay with how I look. I need to stop striving for an ideal of how I’m supposed to be. I need to just start being happy with who I am.

Okay, that one really does sound ridiculous. It’s ridiculous that being happy with yourself should be anything but a perpetual state of being.

But I’ve been having a lot of conversations with friends lately about physical looks, and whether it’s possible for us to not care about them. Fact is, I don’t think I’ve ever come across someone who isn’t conscious about some aspect of their body, or else doesn’t care at all about how others look. But I’ve met enough people to inspire the hope that it’s possible to get closer to that ideal. And that’s a place I know I want to strive towards – the place where I’m beyond caring about how I look, or how others look at me; the place where my confidence isn’t controlled by every little dot on my face, or flab on my thighs, or the tan on my skin.

Basically, the place where I don’t care.

The Green Sofa

It first caught our attention several years ago, seeming a little out of place in its environment. It sat there, royally, ignorant to all the hustle-bustle around it. The green was not bright enough to be flashy, yet its dullness was somewhat dimmed by the largely duller surroundings. Its seat looked really soft; the kind that tempted you to want to jump down heavily on it. Of course, we didn’t know at the time that the sofa was a mascot for the ‘appearances can be deceiving’ slogan. It was one of those things you had to find out for yourself, apparently, as you massaged your rather disappointed behind.

Okay, I don’t know why I’m talking like this. I mean, let me say it straight up – I hate this green sofa. It’s a sofa situated in the departure terminal of Kuwait’s airport, and is the sofa that my family tends to sit on and have a last chat before the final farewell. What started as a pleasant surprise soon turned into a tradition, and I found myself, with every departure, grudgingly making my way to this sofa. Why grudgingly? That’s a little hard to explain. I think it has something with not liking those final conversations; there’s an air of the looming departure hanging over your head, so ever little bit of talk seems really forced. It’s as though you are suddenly sitting there to have a few more minutes with each other, but the price of those few minutes is awkward conversation. I’m not a big fan of long drawn-out goodbyes, so I found myself hating that particular sofa with a vengeance.

That green sofa is long gone from the airport, and here I am, sitting by myself at my departure gate in Kuwait for the last time, writing what sounds to me almost an ode to that bloody sofa. Who would have thunk?

It’s weird. Kuwait’s not my home. It stopped being my home 9 years ago. The country is alien to me. Every time I visited, I was much happier inside the house than outside. If anything, that house where my parents live, where I used to live, is my home. And I’ve just spent the last few days packing up every little piece of that house as my parents prepared to leave. Yesterday, we were staring at a house filled with cartons packed to the brim. Today, it was nothing but empty walls (and the stuff that wouldn’t fit in the container). That’s 13 years’ worth of our lives stuffed into a container, or dispersed around. 13 years. That’s more than half my life. See, now that is what I should be writing an ode to. The house. My home. That sense of belonging.

But no. Instead, all I can write about right now is a bloody green sofa. No, I don’t miss it. I don’t even like it. But I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe because the last 9 years, every time I have come to Kuwait, it was with a sense that I would soon be leaving it. And every time I sat on that sofa, it was with a sense that I would soon be back. But this time, there’s no going back. That’s a weird thought. It’s not happy or sad. It’s just different. Weird.

I tell you, these departure lounges have a weird effect on me. They make me introspective in a way similar to sunsets and all that. Of course, by the time I post this, I would be too far away from this gate to actually care, so I thought it would be best that I wrote this while the sofa was still hovering around my mind.

Adios Kuwait.

A Case of Split Identities

You know you have issues when you relate more with He-who-must-not-be-named, Greek and Roman gods, and Frodo Baggins than with the people around you.

You also know you have issues when you get more excited by Nanook of the North than any other blockbuster running around you.

It’s funny. Throughout my time in Canada, I was always on the lookout of anything that reminded me of India. Of back home. In class, often being the only brown kid in tutorials, I was inadvertently made the expert on South Asia (because, clearly, I represent all the God-knows-how-many-billion people living here). But I think I rather enjoyed that; it felt like a validation of where I was from.

Today, sitting in Bangalore, I was supposed to be reading for sociology. I was browsing through the readings, looking for the one with the least number of pages to begin with, when the words “Nanook of the North” shot out at me. The next thing I knew, I was on page 5. But seriously, Nanook of the North?! (This is a short film – possibly the first one – made on an Innuit group in northern Canada – a movie I was shown during my first year in Canada) – a movie that I can barely recall. But despite my fuzzy memory, there was something so familiar about that phrase that I couldn’t stop myself from reading further – it was as though this one article was able to connect me back to my memories of Canada.

I don’t get it. When people say I randomly switch to a Canadian accent, I usually make a face, but inwardly I feel really pleased. And when I was in Canada, I would love talking about India and what it was like ‘back home’. I didn’t want to get a Canadian citizenship and give up my official status as Indian, but now I can’t stop saying “But in Canada we did…” Never realized I like Canada so much (although, to be fair, I never realized I liked India so much either until I went to Canada).

Confused much? I think so too.

Basically, when I lived in Canada, I loved being identified with India. And now, when I live in India, I love being identified with Canada.

Sometimes, I seriously feel like Voldemort, with my soul split into multiple pieces (I mean, we can’t leave out Kuwait and the multiple cities in India, right?). I’ve left a horcrux at each location.

At other times, I feel like those Greek and Roman gods, caught between two different identities, unable to decide between them (Percy Jackson fans will get this).

Or, for you Lord of the Rings fans, it’s like being Frodo – you can’t really go there and back again, because you’ve changed so much on the journey (Yes, I’m relating Canada to Mordor. No, it wasn’t a bad experience).

I feel more connected with characters from fantasy novels and movies than the people around me.

I think I have issues.

My City

Bombay. Mumbai. Whatever you want to call it. For the last two years, I called it my city. The monsoons, Worli Sea Face, Dadar station – it was all part of my city.

So when I got a chance to re-visit the place after a six-month gap, I jumped on it. Bangalore had been great the last few months, but it just couldn’t compare to Bombay. The excitement I felt in the days building up to the trip was quite palpable. The whole ride in the plane I was thinking – I’m returning to my city.

Then the plane landed.

And in the words of Russell Peters, it turned into your city so fast…!

For starters, it took me a while to get cell phone reception, which left me quite flustered. Then the humidity hit. Next, the cab ride to Powai (chosen specifically because of its proximity to the airport) took over an hour because a pipe burst on a road causing a major flood and an even bigger traffic jam in the middle of all this heat.

Basically, by the time I reached my friend’s house, the first words out of my mouth were “What is wrong with your city?!?!”

I should admit upfront – I had a great time in Bombay. I met several friends, and spent most evenings in a less-than-sober state. But while one of the major reasons for visiting Bombay was to meet old friends, a big chunk was also because of the city itself. Mumbai had charmed me. It was the place where I had known genuine freedom, the place where I could sit for hours by the sea and feel the wind, where I actually found the weather pleasant. So unlike Toronto, which I visited over the summer, this trip was not just about the people. I wanted to feel that wind again, hear the waves, sit by the sea, and feel at home.

All I felt was sweat.

It was hot. And humid. And would rain randomly like crazy. And continue to be hot and humid when it stopped raining. To make matters worse, Worli Sea Face had no wind. The tide was low. The waves minute. The air stifling.

Basically, I think the city was showing me its worst side, and it made me realize something. As a kid, I had visited Bombay several times. Each time, I hated the city. Then I lived there, and I fell in love with it. Now that I came back, it was as a visitor. And so, the tradition had to continue.

I am just a visitor to Bombay now – and it’s no longer my city. That’s a rough pill to swallow for me.

Anyone who knows me well would know that I strongly resist change. I try to hold on to what was until the last possible moment (that’s probably also the reason why I haven’t switched to a smart phone yet). These last few months, I’ve spent so much time missing Bombay and comparing it to Bangalore that I think I might have missed out a lot of moments in the present. The fact is, I don’t live in Bombay anymore. I’m just a visitor. And I need to let go.

And since life likes to whack you in the head just to make sure you’ve got the message, my farewell from Bombay was as warm as my reception. I had collected a few posters over the last several years that I absolutely adore, and was desperate to get them from Bombay for the last six months (I like keeping old stuff, remember?). I went to Bombay. I picked them up. I held them in my arms. And then I forgot them at another friend’s house just before leaving for the airport. If I wasn’t standing at the check-in counter at the airport when I realised this wonderful fact, I might have actually punched myself.

But with the urge to smash my head also came the realization that…I guess I really do have to move on. Focus on life here. Accept that Bombay is no longer my city. And possibly go buy some new posters. (That doesn’t mean I’m switching to a smart phone).

******

Learnings from the trip:

·         Do not visit Bombay in October. Or April. Or May. Or the monsoons if you don’t like rain.

·         Always carry an umbrella. Because you never know when the monsoon will decide to revisit. Just for the heck of it.

·         Have a shower often. Or don’t. You’ll be sweating within five minutes regardless.

·         Prioritize your day. Happy hours go on the top.

·         Be thankful for the meter – and for drivers that actually use them.

·         Hanging your tongue out like a dog does not actually help you cool down. Nor does it look very attractive.

·         Put your posters in your bag, not next to it.

Domicile

6 years in Dehradun

6 years in Bangalore

4 years in Kuwait

2 years in Bangalore

4 years in Toronto

2 years in Bombay

…and that’s 24

****

“Where are you from?”

I cringe every time I hear that question – not so much for myself, because I personally love the answer. But I feel bad for the person asking the question, because I’m sure the answer they receive is far longer than the one they had bargained for.

As a kid, I used to complain often about moving around (by grade 2, I had attended five different schools. And no, I wasn’t kicked out). Being socially awkward, it took me a long time to get comfortable in my new surroundings and make friends, and it seemed like every time I managed to settle down, it was time to move to a new place again.

Somewhere along the line, things changed. Or I changed. Because the last few times I’ve moved, it’s been out of choice. I spent four amazing years in Toronto, making friendships that I know will outlast me. Yet by the end of college, I was ready to leave and go back to India. Similarly, my two years in Bombay were better than I could have even imagined, but towards the end, I wanted to move to something new. That kid who loved normalcy and comfort and hated change suddenly became the one eagerly packing bags and changing homes every few years.

A while back, I was filling out an application that had a section for ‘domicile’. I had no idea what that meant, and actually had to look it up. Apparently, it means residence. Abode. Home. Dwelling. Etc. Not something I can fill out in the 3-centimeter space that the form provided. It’s definitely not a one-word answer.

Sometimes, I think it still bothers me – not belonging anywhere. Not staying anywhere long enough to become a part of a group of friends that’s closer than family.  Last night, I watched over 40 people take time off from their work day to come home and celebrate mom’s birthday. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it – that feeling of knowing that you’re surrounded by people who would be there for you no matter what. I do have family and friends like that all over the world, but that’s the thing: they’re all over the world. And Facebook and Skype can only do so much (and yes, that includes smartphones).

But it’s a fleeting moment of doubt, because at the end of the day, I have thankfully never regretted my decisions to move till now. I’ve been happy at every place that I’ve called home, regardless of the longitude it was at. And to be fair, two months ago I was with friends in Bombay; two weeks ago with family and friends in Canada; today with my parents in Kuwait, and in another two weeks, with more family and potentially more friends in Bangalore.

Can’t complain J

Besides, from what I've heard:

Home is where the hugs are.

And there are hugs all around!

Ruchi Mittal, officially 24 years old, at home with all the hugs, signing off!

The Toronto Chapter

Closing Toronto. That was what this trip was supposed to be about.

While I have never regretted my decision to move to India after studying in Canada, every now and then I found myself missing structure in the midst of Indian chaos, missing the snowfall when wading through the monsoons, and missing old friends while trying to make new ones.

So when I decided to visit Canada after a two-year hiatus, it was in part to visit old friends, but largely to wrap up the country once and for all – to assure myself that I had made the right decision by leaving; to find closure; to close Toronto.

And I think I did accomplish that. I realized that some friendships of the past had become just that – friendships of the past. Other relationships that had ended bitterly were given a second chance. And the campus where I spent four years of my life – while still bearing old memories – hardly felt like home without all the familiar faces.

But while I was basking in my closure, life was still moving. I met old friends and acquaintances from different walks of my life, and could feel the beginnings of new friendships. I got a chance to spend time with people who will soon be a part of my family, and to build new relationships. I met friends who have always been there in my past, and will continue to have a solid place in the future. Most importantly, I got to spend three weeks with my brother – something that I now realize I haven’t done in the last 8 years.

This trip was supposed to be about closure. Then again, closure is overrated. At the age of 24, this is hardly the time to be closing chapters in my life (not that I think any particular age is appropriate for that). Nobody said it had to be either or. Beginning life in India doesn’t have to mean ending my time in Canada. I think there might be just enough space for me build relationships in Bangalore and in Canada. With a foot in Kuwait. And another in Dehradun. And of course one in Bombay (let’s ignore the bizarre anatomy for now, shall we?)

I had intended to write that with the end of this trip, I can now officially close the Toronto chapter of my life. But instead, the last few weeks have seen the strengthening of so many bonds, and the creation of so many new ones, that I feel the chapter of Toronto is far from over.

Perhaps – to be continued?

Of Chauffeur-driven cars...

Disclaimer: For the purpose of my satisfaction, a taxi does not count as a chauffeured car in this blog.
Disclaimer 2: In case it's not evident, I don't drive.

Well, holiday season is over. No more waking up on my own time. No more demanding breakfast. And no more chauffeur-driven cars.

Because that's literally how I spent my vacation. Surrounded by now-affluent family members, I was lucky enough to have 17 days of complete relaxation, both in Kuwait and Bangalore. And now, I'm back in my house, wondering when to call the landlady to pay the rent, setting an alarm to get to work on time, and trying to put this house back in a a live-able condition.

It sucks to be back.

Then again, there's something that's been nagging me for the past few days, something that just didn't feel right. I've boiled it down to chauffeur-driven cars.

Before I begin my rant, let me put out this disclaimer that I have utmost respect for anyone who lives in Bangalore and survives that horrendous traffic. For those who can afford it, these chauffeured cars are life-savers. Even for me, having family members spread out in all possible corners of the city, these cars were a blessing. I didn't have to think about traffic, directions  or potential brain-damage from navigating those roads.

In fact, I didn't have to do anything.

Having gotten used to catching buses, hailing taxis, daringly entering local trains or unashamedly hitching rides with friends, the process of just sitting in that backseat was rather wonderful. And unnerving.

I didn't know what I was supposed to do.

I was comfortable and idle. And that can be a troublesome combo, because as much as I was put off by the idleness, I was easily getting used to the comfort. The comfort of not having to do anything. It's easy to get sucked into that lifestyle. After all, who doesn't want comfort? Why would anyone take public transport when they have this amazing facility available?

Because it can get addictive, and I don't think that's an addiction someone my age should have.

And hassling as it might be, I feel like there's something liberating about discovering the routes of a city and getting around on your own. In fact, I couldn't keep the smile off my face as I sped past the roads of Mumbai in a pre-paid (by me) taxi, breathing in the lovely, garbage-filled air of the city, heading towards a house where I have to pay an exorbitant amount in rent every month out of my salary.

Independence sucks, but it's totally worth it.

The Ahmedabad Diaries - Please Tell Me

I walk into your home, bearing

Blankets for the cold

Food for your stomach

Water for the thirst

A smile for hope

Yet as I look around, the smile falters

Your home is not a home

It is a piece of the ground

Marked off by sticks and plastic

There is nothing outside

Nothing inside

Except people

People who step out from all directions

People who stare at me

Their gazes filled with a myriad of emotions

I can only try to guess

Is it happiness for the company?

Is it hope for the gifts?

Is it sadness at the reality?

Is it anger at the divide?

Is it disgust at the charity?

Is it envy at the unfairness?

Because the question that remains unanswered

The one I want to ask but am afraid

The one that plagues me constantly is

Who am I to you?

Am I a guest, to be invited humbly and treated with respect?

Am I a celebrity, representing a part of society that has evaded you?

Am I God, bringing the hope of relieving you from your misery?

Am I a philanthropist, trying to make myself feel better about the injustice?

Am I a snob, coming over to look down upon you and your neighbours?

Am I a friend, willing to provide a shoulder to you when you need it?

Am I a stranger, pretending to be your friend today to never see you again after this?

Am I a helper, offering you aid?

Am I a hypocrite, saying I understand when I really don’t?

Please tell me, because I don’t know

Tell me

Who am I to you?

And who are you to me?

A friend I genuinely care about?

A piece of charity to assure myself of my goodness?

A receiver of my gifts?

A giver of love?

A passing phase I use to “gain an experience”?

A needy person I try to help?

A project to test my skills?

A person I want to learn from?

An alien I truly cannot understand?

Because like I said, I really don’t know

So please tell me

What do you feel when you see me passing through your makeshift community?

Who am I to you?

Who are you to me?

And while we’re on that subject

Also tell me,

What am I supposed to feel?

Concerned for your welfare?

Nervous about the encounter?

Troubled by your reality?

Touched by your affection?

Humbled by your warmth?

Guilty for being rich?

Confident for being educated?

Scared of being offensive?

Indifferent so as to be detached?

Hypocritical at my pretence?

Unsure about my actions?

Happy at the connections?

Hopeful about the future?

Cynical at the world?

Angered by the government?

Upset at the unfairness?

Faithful in the God up above?

Satisfied at having made a difference?

Did I do that?

Did my blankets, food and water change your lives?

Did my visit bring you out of poverty?

Did my presence alleviate your misery?

Did my company make you happy?

Did my words bring you solace?

Did my actions bring you comfort?

Did I make a difference?

Please tell me

The community we visited - standing in front of their bamboo-tarp houses