Coming out of the Closet

I’ve heard the phrase “coming out of the closet” enough times with reference to people who are gay or lesbian. But I never thought it could be applied to others as well. I recently saw a TED talk by Ash Beckham, and it made me realize something.

We all have closets

We all have secrets

That we want to share

But are afraid to

Our fears

Our hopes

Our lives

But for some reason or the other

We don’t

We prefer to hide

Not because it’s better

But because it’s safer

But safer isn’t better

Nor is it always easier

Because in the long run

We want to be heard

We want to be seen

To be ourselves

To not pretend

To not apologize

To just be

We can spend

Our entire lives

Behind those doors

Peeping through a keyhole

Hiding

Pretending

Alone

Stifled

When what we really want

Is to breathe

Freely

To walk

Confidently

To live

The way we are

But I get it

Those doors are too heavy

It’s not easy

To push them from inside

So let me help you

Let me pull

From the other end

While you push

From inside

Whenever you’re ready

If you’re ready

Let’s do it now

On the count of three

Just this once

Open that door

Step out of the darkness

Show me who you really are

The face behind the mask

The hope behind the eyes

The person behind the closet

And just this once

Don’t care about the voices

Don’t care how they react

It doesn’t matter

Whether you’re met

By condescension or praise

By another mask or face

What matters

Is that you’re out

Is that you’re free

Because

As she said

Rightly so

A closet

Is no place for a person

To truly live

Mr. Slow and Steady

*Re-posted from an earlier blog. Written on 8 November 2012.


Meet Sujal Pawar (I specify Pawar because I have 3 Sujal's in my class!): he's the quiet one, the one who keeps to himself, never gets into trouble, doesn't bother anyone, and minds his own business. He's also the shortest kid in class. But, like my earlier Pawar, he manages to stand out.

Here are a few reasons why:

This picture is over a year old - but he still looks the same!

- During winters (which in Mumbai are quire nice!), he used to walk into class wearing a blue jacket with the hood pulled over his head. Being as short as he is, he looked just like Jadoo (the fictional cute alien character from the movie "Koi Mil Gaya"). That look automatically tugged on my Bollywood-crazed-heartstrings.

- He has the sweetest smile: it doesn't blind you or dazzle you, but melts your heart in a way that you can't keep your own smile off your face.

- He brings the tastiest food in class, with his rotis all rolled up with vegetables which he then proceeds to feed me (a common routine for all my students).

- For a class project on the Winter Season, he was given the role of Santa Claus - sorry, I mean "Small Santa Claus" - which he pulled off amazingly well, adding his own dance routine to the Jingle Bells song. Plus he looked adorable in a white beard!

- His one drawback is that he is painfully slow with writing - he zones out every few seconds and has to be reminded to continue with his work, resulting in him being the last one to usually complete his work. One day, while waiting for him to finish, I told him that I would start calling him a tortoise because he was so slow. He thought for a second and replied: "Then I'll be steady!"

How can you not love this kiddo???

The Hole in the Wall

* Re-posted from an old blog. Written on 27 August 2012.

Tushar excitedly led me through the lanes in the direction of his house. By the time we reached there, I had no sense of direction left.

After walking for twenty minutes in the rain with an umbrella that barely protected the two of us and both our bags, we reached the maze. I call it that because there is no other way to describe it. Scores of homes scattered around, with dozens of lanes running crisscross in every direction. Like a city made for dwarfs. Except it’s not dwarfs that live there.

The lanes were barely wide enough to fit two children, and flanked by houses on both sides. I passed by naked children running along the lanes, sidestepped women washing clothes and dishes in front of their homes, tried to avoid stepping into the overflowing foot-wide gutters, attempted to peek into the barely 8-square-feet houses without being obvious, and ignored the blatant stares of the residents, all the while trying to keep up with the child running freely ahead of me, tracing the way to his home as he has done every single day for several years.

Every 2 minutes we would switch our roles and I would ask the 7-year-old kid leading the way: “Are we there yet?”

And every time I would get the response: “A little ahead.”

After 10 minutes of huffing up stairs, squeezing through the maze, and praying I had lost enough kilos so as not to get stuck between the walls, I finally heard the beautiful words: “We’re here.”

I looked around, trying to figure out where here was. We were out of the maze, in a small courtyard that offered a little more breathing space than its precursor. But I saw no house. I looked in the direction that he was pointing, and all clichés aside, felt my mouth drop open for a few seconds.

Now, I have been to many of my students’ houses. I have been to their chawls, their 8-square-feet houses placed lower than the surrounding ground or above local shops, and their vertical staircases that are impossible to descend from. I thought I had seen them all.

Clearly I was wrong, I thought, as I gazed up the rickety ladder that he was pointing towards.

It was a hole in the wall.

If you’re picturing a rat hole, think a little bigger; but if you’re picturing a cave, think a little smaller: it was a hole just enough for a crouching adult to squeeze through. To enter, you have to push aside the box masquerading as a door. The door to a home: his home, where his mother greeted him warmly as he scurried up the slippery ladder with little effort.

From his doorway, he waved down to me cheerfully, and noticing the lost expression on my face, came back down. He knew I was lost. So he proceeded to lead me out of the maze, consequently nulling the point of me dropping him home. I followed him silently, wondering what on earth would motivate this child to come to school and attempt addition and subtraction and break his mind on a language that makes less sense with each passing day.

*****

Sometimes it scares me, the amount of trust people place on this system known as education. Every morning on the way to the school, I see parents living under a flyover get their children into their school uniforms, walk long distances back and forth to their school, and work endless hours to ensure that their children’s tuition fees can be paid: all this, so that their children can receive an education; so that their children have a chance at a better future than their parents.

It’s scary because I don’t think our education system is quite there yet.

There was a time when the government had to work hard to convince everyone to send their children to school, to convince them of the importance of education.

They’re convinced now. They are doing their bit to get their children to school. If not all, a lot of them are.

The question is, can our system match up to their level of trust and conviction? 

The Impact Model

Re-posted from an earlier blog. Written on 24 August 2012

Do you need to know you’re making a difference in order to make one?

We all want to make a difference in this world. At least, I hope some do.

Do our part.

Help others.

Give back.

Volunteer.

Charity.

Philanthropy.

Kindness.

In kind.

Something to make you feel better.

It makes you feel better about yourself, no doubt about that. But how do you really know whether you’re actually making a difference?

How do you know if that packet of biscuit you offered the beggar filled his hungry stomach?

How do you know if the lives of those children you volunteered with over the summer are better now?

How do you know if the money you donated helped improve the lives of the earthquake victims?

How do I know if these two years in Teach for India will make even a dent in the lives of my children?

Do you need to know you’re making a difference in order to make one?

At the basic level, I suppose not. You can still continue making a difference. By the end of my first year as a teacher, I couldn’t honestly say that I saw a lot of growth in my students.

Maybe it was difficult to act as a fly on the wall observer.

Maybe it was my lack in self-confidence.

Maybe it was true.

Either way, I didn’t feel like I was making a difference – at least, not at the magnitude that I was aiming for. Still, I pushed forward, mixing blind faith with determination and hope. There were enough moments of frustration.

Of depression.

Of doubt.

Still, I pushed forward, repeating the mantra in my head, “I’m making a difference, I’m making a difference” in an attempt to convince myself.

I was waiting expectantly, anxiously, for a sign: something to prove the above. I’m a person of logic – I need proof. Without that, it’s all just hypothetical.

Theoretical.

In my head.

I needed something.

Something to keep me going.

Something to show me that yes, my time and effort here were meaningful.

Like Maslow’s 2^nd level of esteem in his hierarchy of needs, I needed something more.

And now, a few months into my second year of teaching the same group of students, I’m starting to see it.

Their growing academics.

Their increasing confidence.

Their shortening pants.

And those occasional light bulbs turning on, which motivate me to push them harder.

Because the truth is, if I saw no progress in them (as is still the case with some students), I would continue to push them hard. But at some point, I fear I might give up.

On hope.

On belief.

On them.

On myself.

And when and if that happens, the possibility of making a difference will become moot.

*****

It’s not necessary to know you’re making a difference in order to make one.

But it’s definitely helpful.

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.

Skygazing

It happened by chance

I went to the terrace

A cup of coffee in my hand

Met some friends there

Started to talk

And then stopped short

Staring

Gazing

At what lay beyond

The first thing I noticed were the drops

Falling softly

But determinedly

From the darkening clouds above

Landing on eyelashes

Cheeks

Lips

The coolness refreshing

Adding to the calm

From the wind blowing through my hair

Healing

What, I don’t know

But healing

For sure

Next came the sun

Emerging from behind the clouds

Breaking free of the barrier

Unleashing its power in the west

Glowing orange

With steaks of red

And maybe yellow

Forming a colour I can’t describe

But soothing

Radiating energy

Mixing with the drops

And so we turned our heads

Looking for the streaks that should have appeared

And there they were

Streaks of colours

Strengthening over time

Until one end to the other

Became clear

As though someone had used a compass

To draw the perfect arcs

And just looking at it

Smiles broke out

As they always do

No matter how old or young

And as I stood there

Caught between the sunset and the rainbow

Feeling the wind and the raindrops

I felt it

The calm

The beauty

The wonder

Where purpose didn’t matter

Where frustrations evaporated

Even if it was

Just for a moment

A few fleeting seconds

Because time didn’t matter then

Nothing mattered then

Except being there

In that moment

And feeling everything

That feeling of being alive

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.