THE PLACE TO BE

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When I was about five, mum wanted to sign me up for dance lessons. Too inhibited by the suggestion, I said I’d go only if my friend, Sheryll went with me. The matter ended right there. For a good many years after that, the pleasure of grooving to music remained alien to me. During my final year of college, my friends coerced me to participate in a group dance and it occurred to me that dancing was indeed fun. Even then, it was only after I married an amazing dancer that I actually discovered my own rhythm. Living abroad as a young couple, we hosted and attended a lot of dance parties. It was a carefree, fun phase and we made the most of it.

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Over a decade later, we moved back home and our social life plummeted. The focus was more on family and readjusting to life in Mumbai. We settled into an unremarkable routine of Sunday lunches and the occasional dinner and movie outing. I sorely missed the night life we had previously enjoyed; the thrill of live music, the unrestrained boogieing and the light-hearted friendships forged across bar counters and dance floors. Suburban Mumbai did not have that kind of zing for me.

One night, about a year ago, we walked into a new bar in the neighborhood. It looked fine, the food was decent and the DJ was playing some good tunes. At least, there is music to my liking, I thought. A few weeks later, they introduced weekend live shows and boy was it music to my ears! Wish they had a dance floor, I whined. Around 10.30 PM, we could hold ourselves no longer and stood up to dance in the gaps between tables. Like a miracle, the staff pushed around some furniture and a dance floor appeared! Soon the other diners joined in and we had a blast! That night B-103 climbed to the top of my weekend list. Their tag line: ‘The place to be’ seemed perfect to me.

I’ve been to a lot of bars and restaurants, but nothing beats B-103 for me. It’s not just the music and dancing; that might be available elsewhere too. I believe it’s always the warmth and mood of a place that touches hearts, be it a home or a restaurant. The owners with due support from their staff have weaved a magical web that draws people in. The affability with which we are greeted by everyone (not just the owners and managers, but even the servers who are assigned to other tables), the sincere passion with which we are served, the fact that the musical tastes of patrons are mindfully catered to, the generosity of spirit and the family-like ambiance cannot be contained in words. The only way is to reciprocate.

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It is imperative to mention here that this was a time when I was hitting rock bottom. Personal challenges had left me feeling vertiginous. But each time I stepped into B-103, I forgot everything and life flowed through me, leaving me energized. Soon we made friends, some of whom are now like family. Just being with them, banging tables to the beat and dancing with abandon has become my therapy. Dancing, without being self-conscious, is the best moving meditation for anyone who finds it difficult to sit still. It is a natural and universal way to express our joy. Just watch a child dance and you’ll agree.

There is a term in Sanskrit ‘Rasasvada’, which loosely translated means ‘the taste of bliss in the absence of all thoughts.’ Most of us are living life in a blur, chasing things that don’t really matter in the bigger scheme of things. At some point, we must stop and find our own ‘Rasasvada’.  As I go from one day to the next, I realize the importance of a hearty social life and wholesome relationships that allow me to be myself. I discover the irreplaceability of laughter and joy. Like Sadhguru says, “If you are at all concerned about the world, the first thing you need to do is transform yourself into a joyful being.”

 

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THE SILVER OAK

 

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The minute I stepped out of Cochin International Airport, I intuitively knew this was a place that will speak to my soul. Mr. Sudhan, our driver and guide promptly arrived with a wide smile, his appearance as immaculate as the silver sedan he drove. Little did I know then that this man would rule our hearts for the next six days. A walking encyclopedia of not just the history and geography of Kerala, he could discuss any topic under the sun. By the time we reached Munnar five hours later, he had become my Sudhan ‘cheta’, meaning brother in Malayalam.

On the way, he pointed out Adi Shankaracharya’s Keerthi stambha, Kalady, the Periyar river and briefly let us out at the Cheeyapara waterfalls. After stretching my tired back as I got into the car, he handed me a small lime and said, “Madam, scratch the skin and inhale. Zig-zag road ahead. Good for nausea.” When it was time for lunch, we were desperate for the famous roasted beef and Malabar parotas, but cheta politely pointed out that we must stick to light, vegetarian food as our bodies were tired and the road ahead was bad. I was charmed.

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The next morning, we headed for the Devikulam tea gardens. The small village of Devikulam nestles amidst verdant green slopes, the clouds hanging low on the colorful houses and a lovely chill enveloping the entire hill station. On the way, Sudhan cheta started playing some Hindi music to which I strongly protested. “Only Malayalam and Tamil music please, cheta,” I requested. His face lit up and from there on, all the way to the Flower Garden and later the Lockhart Tea Museum, the discussion turned to our favourite music maestros, Illayaraja, Yesudas, SPB, Janaki, etc.  He knew so much about music and movies that it stumped me. At the Lockhart Museum, we learnt a lot about tea, but for me, music remained the highlight of that afternoon.

Later, walking down the Mattupetty bridge in the light drizzle, I met an old woman selling peanuts and fruits. She kept urging me to buy something. “My wallet is in the car, Amma,” I said. She smiled fondly, forced a pack of peanuts in my hand and replied in halting English, “You eat.  Money later.”

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On the first day, Sudhan cheta had told us that Kerala produces 20 varieties of bananas and that every day he would make us taste a couple of them. As he dropped us back to the hotel, he handed us a packet and grinned, “Today, special red bananas.”

The most scenic and beautiful sight was to unfold the following day. Refreshed from a good night’s sleep, we enjoyed the light drizzle on the way to the Ernavikulam National Park. Munnar is full of tea plantations, but the ride through this one, on the way to Rajamala Hills was the most dramatic. As we stepped out at the foot of the hills, the rain stopped as if on cue. The uphill ramble, with the mountain towering on one side and the valley on the other was the most beautiful walk I’ve ever been on. When we stopped mid-way, the view took my breath away. This is what paradise must look like, I thought.

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The fourth day we drove into a dream called, Thekkady. With the quaint Periyar river, the sleepy beauty of the savanna grasslands, the thick deciduous forests and the abundant wildlife, it was the perfect place for a nature lover like me. It is also a heaven for natural spices.

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After wafting for a couple of hours on the glassy river, we went on a spice trail. Our guide, Ms. Sheeba instantly won us over with her knowledge, heavily-accented Hindi and a beautiful smile. By the end of the hour-long tour, we had more information about spices and herbs than our little brains could possibly hold. As we said our goodbyes to Sheeba, she scribbled her name on the brochure and said, “I wrote my name so you’ll always remember me. I enjoyed talking to you because very few people show genuine interest like you did. Come back soon”.  At our resort, there was another spice whiz called Leeba. She took me around the huge estate, pointing at shrubs and trees, rattling off information and generally making a quick entry into my heart. Leeba means love and it is a perfect name for her.

There was more to unassuming Thekkady. That evening we found ourselves in a small, modest theatre watching Kathakali, one of the oldest theatre forms in the world. The performers were excellent with their expressions, mudras and a short mythological presentation. That was followed by Kalaripayattu, a 3000-year old martial arts form, the oldest in the world. We had been tired that day and had meant to skip these shows, but Sudhan cheta insisted on taking us there. Any other man would have enjoyed the free evening, but he was clearly different.  That night I ate little for I was too full of nature, art and love.

With much reluctance, we left Thekkady two days later, to spend the last day in Alleppy. “Cheta, I am in the land of coconuts, and you haven’t treated me to coconut water yet”, I playfully chided. He grinned and nodded. Driving past several tender coconut stalls, he stopped at one. “Only Kerala coconut for you, madam. Best coconut. You’ll know when you taste it”, he boasted. True to his word, the sweet taste of that water was an elixir to my parched throat.

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The main attraction of Alleppy is, of course, the boat ride on the backwaters. I enjoyed the ride, but the real highlight was meeting my Ayurvedic doctor, who I’d only communicated with on phone for the past four years. The graciousness and love he and his family bestowed on us was heart-warming. On the way back, we asked Sudhan cheta how he knew even the by-lanes so well without once using GPS. “GPS in my head, madam,” he giggled.

“One last gift from me pending, madam,” Cheta crooned on the way to the airport. As he made a quick left turn from the highway, the magnificence of St. George’s church left me gaping! It was by far the most beautiful church I have seen in India. Going down on my knees, I offered my gratitude for all the beauty and love that had come my way in that past week. Among all the information Sudhan cheta had shared, one thing came back to me in that moment. Driving through the tree plantations, he had pointed to the tall trees that stood out awkwardly among the neatly trimmed tea plants. “Those silver oaks are planted on purpose, madam. Their roots go deep, hold the soil together and help maintain moisture and nutrients. They also provide necessary shade for the tea plants. Basically, the tea plants flourish thanks to the silver oak.”

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Kerala is called ‘God’s Own Country’ and every place we went to was bathed in pristine beauty and a natural sanctity that made it feel more like a pilgrimage than a holiday. But what has stayed with me is the memory of some wonderful people who like silver oaks held my ground with the warmth of their love, compassion and humor.

 

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A CASE FOR LOVE

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February arrived like a co-conspirator of romance. It’s a refreshing month that softens the soreness of splintered January resolutions. This year, the Mumbai winter with its constant flirtatiousness has added to the mushiness. Interestingly, when it comes to romance, I’ve been intrigued by my own paradoxical behavior. I write dreamy poetry drenched in adulation, but ask me to define love and I’m suddenly lost for words. With so many dimensions to it, it’s an emotion that’s hard to capture in a mere sentence.

Let’s begin with the wider picture. Just last week, Pope Francis became the first pontiff to visit the Arabian peninsula. The visit was in conjunction to UAE’s celebration of the Year of Tolerance, as declared by H. H. Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan, president of the UAE.  Members of my family were fortunate enough to attend the ceremony and receive his blessing in person. What stood out for me though, was the deference and liberalism displayed by the hosts. Having lived in the UAE for over a decade, I can vouch for the open-mindedness of the rulers of this beautiful country. While religious strife continues to tear apart humanity, such gestures of acceptance underline the basis of love as taught by every religion known to mankind. This is a facet of love that needs urgent resurrection in these troubled times.

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There is a beautiful motto: ‘Love for All Hatred for None’ coined by the third spiritual leader of the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community, Hazrat Mirza Nasir Ahmad (ra). Like Pope Francis, he upholds humility as the key quality that can ensure mutual love. He explains how Islam means ‘peace’ and it is only with mutual love and understanding that its principles can be upheld. I do not know much about them, but from what I’ve gathered the Ahmadis strive to be a living example of their motto.

We all hanker for peace and harmony, but are we adding to the mayhem without even realizing it? Stop for a minute and think of all data you’ve shared and received on social media. Add to that the drawing room debates and chat room arguments. Think about how your direct or indirect participation can cause ripples that have far-reaching consequences. ‘Thoughts become things’, it’s true. Why not stop re-hashing the same stories of dirty politics or religious disparities and focus on how we, as individuals can make a difference? Why not direct our energy to the people around us? Do we even know what is going on in our own homes? Do we have the inclination to have real and personal conversations with our spouses, our children, our parents, our neighbors, our friends? Personal love extends into universal love; that’s the connection I’m trying to make.

My daughter often laments that her generation has become so commitment-phobic that it’s difficult to find someone you can trust. Why have people developed a fear for a simple and beautiful emotion like love? It’s true that real love needs courage; it needs us to go past our egos and open our hearts. It involves caring, consideration, passion and investment. Is that so difficult? Does the need for detachment and impersonal love come from fear and resistance?  Where does this fear come from? We, as humans, are meant to love; it is a natural response of the heart. And love only gets bigger as we spread it around.

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It’s the eve of Valentine’s Day, and as I look out at the fiery resplendence of the evening sky, I realize how love sets us on fire, filling us with a rare radiance. How when love is allowed to respond to life freely, it becomes miraculous.  As we celebrate love tonight, let’s pledge to honor and value what we have. World peace might sound ambitious, but once we learn to radiate the feeling to all, the celebration of love need not remain confined to a designated day.

Happy love days ahead to all.

 

50 CANDLES IN HEAVEN

This is a special tribute to an incredible woman who graced my life for a few years and left all too soon. Sometimes, even the briefest of influences impact our whole life. This is one such relationship. Over the past six years, I’ve written her several letters. It is just my way of coping with grief. Today I’d like to share a piece of this unique love with you all. Marie would have been 50 today, and I imagine the heavens might be lit up with 50 candles.

IMG_20180913_16505207 February, 2012.

Dear Marie,

Time slowed down the minute I walked into your hospital room yesterday. The contours of your frail body looked stark against the backdrop of clinically white sheets. But what followed me home was the vacant look in your eyes. It stilled my heart and I felt betrayed. But recognition slowly returned and you whispered, “Looking good”, like you always do when you see me. I have no recollection of my own response because somewhere in the long expanse of those few seconds, time had slowed down considerably.

Later, while feeding bland grains of rice into your reluctant mouth, I thought of all the meals we had cooked and eaten together. Do you remember how I couldn’t handle your spicy food, but gradually got addicted to it? Those flavours, your laughter, our shared dreams and thoughts, they have soaked into my skin.

You were my rock; and now it is I who awkwardly babbles words of encouragement to you. What do I know about your pain? All through it, you sat motionless; then with a sigh you said, “I’m tired”. That was the moment I knew you were giving up. It felt like the setting sun was taking everything with it and we were struggling to breathe.

As I write, I look at the darkness outside and try to understand the one within. Maybe you need to rest. Maybe I should be okay with it. But I forgot to say ‘I love you’, so will you hold on a little bit longer?

R

[Marie passed away on the 9th, before I had a chance to visit her again.]

IMG_20180913_16483927 September, 2015.

Dear Marie,

It seems like another lifetime when we were kissing each other’s flaws, blowing on burning wounds, our laughter spilling the chilled cocktails that you so enjoyed. Or was it just yesterday that we were confiding over kitchen counters, our words falling over each other, flavoring pots of your spiced curries. Time blurs and I lose myself in what was and what could have been. You continue to live in soulful poems, crop up in the lines of tuneful songs, smile from behind flaming orange suns. I step on the shards of my broken memories and the sting takes me back to you. They say closure is found in stillness, but when I try, the silence becomes your voice and it follows me wherever I go.

[Written two and a half years after her passing, on her 47th birthday.]

 

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27 September, 2018.

Dearest Marie,

There is a silence around me as I write; a silence so dense that I can almost touch it. I hear a distant laugh that sounds just like yours, but it halts right outside the window. It’s been over six years and yet there’s an empty space that nothing seems to fill.

Mostly I try to focus on the good memories, but every little pain reminds me of you too.  I have my own little collection of aches and pains now; although they seem ridiculously miniscule to what you went through. I remind myself of how your myopathic heart brought forth your warrior spirit. ‘The best we can do is find spectacular ways of dealing with our tragedies’, you would say. I try to find solace in words; sometimes I curl up inside thoughts and fall into reveries. Most times though, I flow like a river, unimpeded onto my own course, following my covert goals, unconcerned with the world. You always pushed me to be the best version of myself and I think you might have started being proud of me now.

Last week, we stopped by at your resting place and arranged flowers in your memory. The greenery and peace there are so perfect. I recounted how much you had loved my surprise bouquet on one of your birthdays. Maybe I should have sent you flowers more often. Maybe I should have written you letters while you could still read them.  Maybe what they say is right, that regret is stronger than gratitude.

You would have been 50 today and the air would have been redolent with ginger tea, Davidoff, Peach Schnapps and fried chicken. As the evening folds into the night, I shall raise a glass to the sky and whisper, “Happy birthday, Marie”. Surely it’s a myth that people become stars, but darling, twinkle a little brighter if you are one.

R.

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ENDNOTE:

The purpose of sharing these personal letters is just so they serve as a reminder of how we take people and love for granted. Good people are precious. Recognize and appreciate them. Celebrate life and smile a lot. Never say no to love because not everyone will value you and the ones who do will not stick around forever. So love with the wildest abandon while you can. Tomorrow might be too late.

FLUORESCENCE

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Thanksgiving need not be one day in a year; it’s an emotion that must be felt and expressed as a frequent, if not daily, ritual. So, as I celebrate another year of my earnest and quiet life, this constitutes a toast to all that I’m grateful for. A life, by no means perfect or even remotely recommended, but profound all the same. To me, what enables an impassioned, bona fide life is the people who grace it. People who have taught me to sift the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. If it wasn’t for these little superintended tutorials, I would have strayed and how.

Recently, my friend, Gazala, wrote about how they nurtured their bashful little orchid plant that refused to flower. It took a year and a half of coaxing and whispering sweet-nothings for a beautiful white orchid to finally bloom. That’s how people are too; you dust them with rhythmic sprinklings of love and encouragement and they’ll flourish.

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Sometimes, love can feel smothering though; but it does well to understand where it comes from. This reminds me of one of the two times I’ve talked back to my mother. Dad being away all the time made mum over-protective about me. I wasn’t allowed to stay out late and it rattled me to think of all the parties, camps and adolescent fun I was missing out on. One day I got flustered enough to blurt, “What do you suppose I might do in the dark, that isn’t possible in daylight?” She was hurt and I bitterly regretted my outburst.

Around that time, an aunt was giving me stitching lessons. One day, she taught me how to use the basting thread. A basting thread is essentially used to temporarily hold the fabric together and removed once the work is complete. Parents are quite like those basting threads, holding us together until we’re ready to face the world on our own. Like a butterfly that flies in and softly rests on an outstretched hand, the realization settled in on me. Through the years, I became mum’s confidante and she, my anchor.

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There is a beauty in leading by example and I have a list of people to thank. Doting family and vintage friends, no doubt; but the unacquainted too. The ones who came tiptoeing into my life and gifted me fresh perspectives. The ones who inspired me by being who they are, sharing their ideas and fortuitously guiding me to execute my own. The strangeness and magnificence of life is authenticated by such associations. And before you know it, these kindred souls become the flourish to your ordinary life.

A couple of years ago, when I signed up for a songwriting course, I had no idea that I was setting out on a journey to find a part of me that I didn’t know existed. It was a fun experiment that not only reinforced my belief in myself but showed me how a person you never ever meet can influence you. My mentor, Mr. Pattinson opened up a world that intrigued my passionate heart. I became a diligent student who never defaulted on assignments, even while on an overseas holiday. To the procrastinator in me, that was a growth beyond any other.

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As the days get longer and hotter, I draw strength from the Gulmohar tree outside my window which flowers abundantly in this season. Like a Japanese baby’s first hanami (cherry blossom viewing), I’ve always taken this season seriously. The Gulmohar brings back memories of a long forgotten childhood when we used to play under its fiery red canopy and wait for its long seed cases to turn brown and hard, so we could rattle them all day. But what really makes the Gulmohar precious to me is an allegory that I have dearly held on to for years: that the flowering of this bountiful tree coincides with my birthday for a reason. I see it as Nature’s gift to me; a reminder that when the summers of life get unbearable, there is always a burst of hope to cling on to. That even as life hurts me, it hands me the idea that I inherently possess the grace to find my own fluorescence.

Despite my polychromatic weaknesses, I have come a long way. I am beholden to all who walk with me and lend a hand to help me execute this sometimes dark, sometimes sparkling life with a poise that can only come from genuine love. Here’s hoping that a decade from now when I revisit this page, I’d be just as grateful.

 

UNPLUGGED DAYS

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A few years ago, we drove deep into the desert of Hatta. The sand dunes there are luminuous and beautifully astral. We had decided to spend the night, so after a  sumptuous Arabic meal, we found ourselves languidly sprawled under the starry sky. A friend was strumming his guitar and time shimmered like a mirage – palpable and truant at the same time. Moments like these call out to me more often now than ever before.

Of late, I’ve begun to get extremely claustrophobic. There’s a constant need to be out in the open, more precisely, in the lap of nature. The rapidity and uproar of the city is almost pandemonic. It could be some sort of seasonal affective disorder and I refrain from mentioning my restlessness to people around me. Instead I try to manipulate excursions on the pretext of this and that. Even then, my neurosis reveals itself by it’s absence as I sizeably open up the minute we approach the countryside. It’s a transformation that’s hard to miss.

A few days ago, my husband and I drove down to a fishing village about 15 kms outside city limits. The lanes were winding and suitably narrow. Brightly painted houses nestled closely in a disorderly manner, women seemed friendly and men bustled around in carelessly wrapped loin cloths. There was a lack of curiosity in their glances that put me at ease, like the warm but understated embrace of family welcoming you home. That evening, as I sat gazing out at the endlessly inspiring sea, I wondered if it was at all possible to feel displaced from a place one has never known.

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When we headed back home two days later, we were met with some disturbing news. Over 3,000 trees were about to face the axe soon to make way for the Metro car shed in my favourite Aarey Milk Colony. The city planners might have their reasons but I was devastated, to say the least. The Aarey area is one of the few green spots left in the otherwise concrete city of Mumbai and a place that’s always balm to my ravaged mind.

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On the supremely wide girth of these tree trunks are stories of storms weathered and solace gathered. I felt compelled to revisit the tales and hold them close one more time. So we made a trip and loitered around. It turned out to be a beautiful and adventurous day. We chatted up a local and milked out gossip, pretended to be film-makers and explored a film location, hugged tree trunks and discovered spots that we never knew existed. I saw the vast stretches of green wilderness and the expansive blue sky in the middle of a bustling city as analogous to the litter of monotonous moments in our usually busy lives. We fail to see that those are the very gaps that allow the sunlight to stream in and that it might do us good to stop trying too hard and just be. My jaunt through those verdant lanes that day made me nostalgic for the spartan picnics of my childhood. What happened to that rudimentary life?

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Our last expedition of the fortnight, turned out to be the Pagoda that I never get tired of. Just taking the ferry across the muddled waters makes me feel like I’m crossing over to another dimension. It was a stifflingly humid day, but nothing could take away the peace that enveloped me as I stretched out on the grass with the Buddha statue looming and chants resonating in the air. We’re always looking for upgrades in life, but sometimes it serves us well to feel the ground and appreciate the poetry in all of it.

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I relish unplugged days like these that vibrate with unadorned, acoustic sounds. They set the tone for a process of remembering and recovering our real selves. The arcadian charm of such idyllic paths and stolen moments prompt me to reevaluate how I spend my time, who and what I commit to and the why of everything.  The answers turn out to be pretty simple. Our life is whatever we make of it, the only thing mandatory is participation. But one thing is abundantly clear. It takes very little for life to be resplendent.

Here’s to nature that inspires us to grow simply and live a life less ostentatious.

 

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FROM EXASPERATING TO EXEMPLARY

 

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Most nights, the neighbourhood women would gather together after the day’s chores to pour their hearts out to each other. The tales were a jumble of this and that, a tirade so to speak, of the rigmarole that is marriage. There was not one woman in that cluster of huddled heads who would say something hopeful or different. This was a constant feature in the neighbourhood I stayed at while I was inching my way up to adulthood. Compared to this, the fairy tales of my childhood seemed largely phony. The collision of whimsy with reality doused something deep inside me. By the time I turned twenty-two, I was habitually sceptical. That’s the kind of apathy I took into my marriage.

My husband on the other hand, was full of beans. Always buoyant and talkative, he compensated for my lack of words and enthusiasm. The first couple of years were a disaster; a comedy of errors almost. I wondered if the Gods were amused enough with our union because we certainly weren’t. On hindsight, it seems like I was approximating the voices of those women from my past. I had tuned myself to believe the worst. At some point he lost patience and his hot-headedness took over. The dissent and rebellion blurred out the good parts. We were nice people underneath and had similarities too. But much like parallel lines that have a lot in common but never meet, our heads stayed rigidly divided. Even then, there were invisible threads that held us together.

One evening in the middle of some nondescript squabbling, I caught the distraught look on my little daughter’s face. It haunted me deep into the night. Kids are like little sponges, soaking up every little word, emotion and behaviour around them. The next day, my husband and I made a decision: that we would never argue in front of our daughter. It was a quantum leap, one that spurred little changes but ended up having a major impact on our lives. Slowly, but surely the skies cleared and thereafter got dotted only by the occasional cloud.

I gratefully eased into the flow of things and turned my attention to other things; things that were going to eventually change me and bring my distinctiveness forward. One day I came home and announced that my full time day job was no longer interesting to me. Even though we needed the extra income I brought in, my husband did not even blink. His silent support gave me wings and freedom all at once.  With his understated ways, he made me descend into depths of myself that I didn’t know even existed. The words that had eluded me for almost three decades poured out. They gushed out in torrents taking me by surprise and making me feel worthy like nothing else had. Quite suddenly, I was a published writer. I had only ever thought about a pond but he saw that I was capable and worthy of the ocean. That to me was enough heaven right here on earth.

When you start feeling whole and loving yourself, it becomes easy to extend that warmth to all around you. There were instances when my husband made me feel like the best wife on earth. As we mirrored the liking we felt for the other, our best selves started coming forth and compatibility settled in easy and good.

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When we celebrated his 50th birthday, I got him a cake that read: Vintage Dude. Because vintage is not about being old or archaic; vintage is about class, about being first-rate. These words are as much an ode to my husband as it a testimony to what makes a marriage shine and all the years together worth our while.

Ours was neither a classic love marriage nor conventionally arranged. But somehow along the way, we turned it into an exemplary one. The meaning and importance of ‘love’ in life is vast, but when you single out relationships, and one that is as weighty as marriage, then there are other things that can matter more. Like respect, understanding, support and genuine liking for the person you share your whole life with. And the one thing that makes a relationship go from miserly to magnanimous is ‘validation’ from the other. Validation of your freedom to live life on your own terms. Validation for who you are, for what you are worth.

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This story was first published on http://www.bonobology.com/ Bonobology is an online magazine that publishes real stories highlighting the various facets of a relationship. The idea is to provide a platform for understanding, discussing and resolving conflicts by encouraging a fresh perspective. Do explore the numerous stories and discussion forums by clicking on the link above and feel free to leave your comments or join in the discussions.

To find the above story on Bonobology, please click here:

http://www.bonobology.com/marriage/the-married-couple/286-from-exasperating-to-exemplary-in-marriage

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