Category: Anjali

She stood naked against the cold bathroom wall, silently watching him struggle over and over in front of the dressing mirror. Walking to him, she stretched her arms out towards his neck. She knew he would flinch at her touch. But she couldn’t help herself.

Deftly she adjusted the knot of his navy silk tie. A birthday gift from her many, many moons ago. When things between them were uncomplicated, and the sight of her wet dripping body aroused in him desire, not distaste.

He strode out of the room without a word exchanged. The emptiness of the evening stretched before her. Her mind racing far too fast to be able to pick up a book or turn on the TV.

Her thoughts drifted to her father. The only other man in her life that she hated more than her husband.

She could remember the smell of him – stale, rotten, and old. A mixture of urine and decay lying on the hospital bed, helpless yet arrogant. Still, hearing him moan in pain, she’d bent forward and adjusted the pillow under his shoulder in a blur of empathy and disgust.

We seem to do some things almost involuntarily, or merely because we cannot not do them.

Adjust a knot in a tie, prop up a pillow, straighten a painting hung slightly askew; that last glance at our hair in the elevator mirror just before we enter a party …

These and a million such actions make up our day, which we rarely ever give any thought to. It’s simply what we do. Who we are, and how we like things to be. Adjusting ourselves and the universe around us inch by inch, moment by moment – adapting, inventing, and defining as close as an approximation of a comfort zone as life will allow us to create.

Indeed, there are times when our efforts and intentions just plain and simple fail. When the weather plays hooky – a torrential downpour instead of a lazy afternoon brunch by the poolside, or the noisy little child that howls throughout the entire flight when all you’d hoped for was a few moments of shut-eye.

Adjusting, readjusting. Doing, undoing. It’s second nature as we know it. No big deal.

At some point in the night, she fell into a fretful sleep. Tossing and turning. Shifting between dream and wakefulness and the piercing realization that her husband was still not home.

Their mornings together followed a ritual of a totally different dimension. A façade of politeness replaced the apathy of darkness. A casual exchange of the day ahead made them appear like almost a normal couple – familiar at least, if not friendly.

“Could you please stop by the post office on your way back from work this evening?” he asked as she opened a new pack of coffee beans. His words faded under the grinder’s noise and the air in the kitchen alive with the bitter-sweet aroma of the Kenyan brew. It was their favorite – strong, pungent, and perky.

It’s ironic how couples continue to share similar tastes, habits, lives even though the love and care that once was the essence of their being haven’t left even a trace of its existence. Or do we not discount the currents of passive aggression that flow slow and steady – what is hate if not the absence of love?

“I’m sorry,” she said, with her back turned to him, her face bent over the kitchen sink. “I have a yoga class this evening, so it won’t be possible for me to pick up the parcel.” A mysterious package had arrived for them by certified post. From India, addressed to the Mr. & Mrs. Who on earth could it be from? It had them both equally curious, wanting to know what it contained. But equally, both were unwilling to make a change to their rigidly planned schedules – give in, change, compromise, these were not words they reserved for each other.

 Of course, he’d expected her to have some excuse handy and deny his request. Leaving the plate with the fried eggs uneaten, standing on the breakfast counter, he headed out the door.

Yes, they negotiated mornings under a veil of composed pretense, but it did not prevent the inherent breakdown of their relationship from oozing out at the seams.

The energy just wasted, spent on remaining self-centered and stoically unavailable.

The sound of a message interrupted the vacancy of the space. “Hi, have to cancel our class. Mum isn’t feeling too bright, so I want to be around in case she needs me.” There it was just like that – not even an apology, never mind a total lack of professionalism. After all, she was paying top dollar for the wretched sessions, and for crying out loud, her mother wasn’t even that ailing or incapable.

So, what should we call such an action – where someone changes things around, drops something reasonably important merely to be present for a loved one?

Shall we refer to this as an adjustment in schedule, a compromise, or a sacrifice?

Or shall we not think about this at all? Put it down to one of the things individuals do when they feel like it. What when they don’t?

Language has given us precision. The right word for the right thing.

You adjust your seat belt, but you sacrifice your afternoons to read to the blind. And yes, used in this context, they seem totally appropriate.

But ask someone to alter their plans just for one day to run you an errand. Is that then an adjustment to their routine or a compromise to make you happy, or stretch vocabulary and emotion to the extreme? Is it a minor sacrifice?

I just don’t know. What I do know is that adjustment – to adjust, to alter, to shift, to change, to put into order- that is suitable and pleasing seems what we do with most of our innate actions.

So, when does adjustment morph into a big ask? When does it become a big deal?

When hate replaces love or is it when adjustment turns into a compromise that resentment raises its ugly head and everything someone else wishes from us feels like the most begrudging sacrifice?

All just words, emotions, and this only writing and thoughts. But true, thinking about what we do, giving attention to the ordinary is a contemplation perhaps worthy of the minute, of the hour.

Examining the unexamined is where answers rest, where questions dissolve, and the barriers that language generates become clearly visible as signposts on the map of negotiating this journey of life. Without a map, I’d be lost, but if I stick only to the map, where then is the space for wonder, to imagine what my world would be like if I chose the uncharted route.

To center home, what would it be like if I skipped my yoga class upon my husband’s asking, no matter how much my dislike for him tugged at my heart.

What is in the package from India?

This series of blogs has been reviewed by Drishya Warrier, Aditi Iyer, and Pratishtha Bagai, of Symbiosis Centre of media and Mass Communication, Pune. We are students that have completed our first year. Through this NGO Internship Project at MHAT, we explored the field of mental health while pursuing our interest in creative writing.

On a ledge in the corner of our guest bathroom sits a bunch of white roses in a tall blue ceramic vase. They add a pretty relief to the otherwise functionality of the space, which also houses the washing machine hidden neatly under a marble enclosure. But not quite. The front is open to sight.

As my gaze moves from the machine to the flowers above, I register the energetic feel each item lends to a space. Necessity, need, purpose, or purely a decorative presence.

The flowers, however, have no fragrance. The petals never wilt, nor do the buds blossom. They are artificial. A skillful simulacrum of the real thing crafted out of fine silk fabric. Every once in a while, the dust just has to be washed down, patted dry, and there they are as good as new.

Walking the aisles of the famous fresh food markets in Tokyo, I looked upon the tantalizing display of exotic dishes – the greenest of broccoli, tossed with Shitake mushrooms, garnished with burnt garlic, and grated orange carrots tossed over a bed of rice. Made my mouth water even after a full breakfast. Indeed, the spread extended to stir-fried shrimps, baked crab in the shells, and a whole grilled yellowtail tuna. Being vegetarian myself, I could only but imagine the impact this sight would have upon the appetite of a hungry tourist excited at the thought of savoring these world-famous Japanese delicacies.

But as we passed by the restaurants along the crowded street, the broccoli looked just identical, and the crab, I could swear, had a twin! Yes, masterful replicas made of some fancy resin composite.

The world has mastered the art of faking it. A specialized, lucrative industry that has perfected the process of reproducing almost anything of such close resemblance to the original that it’s almost impossible for the naked eye to differentiate the real from the not real.

“How are you today?” read the message from my friend. “I’m good,” I immediately texted back. I was faking it too. I actually wasn’t. I was bored, fed up, tired, and really not good.

“Hello,” waved my next-door neighbor as he crossed me on the street. I flashed back a wide smile. But the smile never reached my eyes. A reproduction of the original may be missed during a casual interaction, but an almost imperceptible difference is evident to a discerning, sensitive gaze.

Like the things around us, we all exude energy. An aura, if you will. A bundle of feelings and emotions accompany our presence. Strength, fragility, charm, or even a sense of wariness that you sometimes experience when a total stranger enters a room. A person whom you’ve never before set eyes upon leaves you cold and on edge.

But we cannot always portray what we are really feeling deep within. Situations demand expected responses. Societal and cultural norms encourage us to always put on a brave face and pretend to be just right. Like the artificial roses that look pretty, we do too. But neither does the fragrance of our heart breathe openly and permeate the air that touches our soft skin. Withered, old, faded, and wilting – sadness, melancholy, grief, and to stretch even despair has an impact that is perfect in and of itself.

It allows for an expression of an unapologetic vulnerability. Of a primal experience in the journey of living – pain – that is as majestic, unadulterated, pure other than for the interpretations of the mind.

So yes, the semi permanence of the artificial flowers have their own place in the universe of things. Yet these too shall fade away someday. But the beauty of a sigh that escapes a heavy heart is eternal, universal, and uniting.

We each have our own burdens. Perhaps sometimes it’s okay to say I’m not okay. And yet at others to laugh out aloud with unabashed abandon when you look in the mirror, and you’re just having a bad hair day! Sometimes we just look funny. And that’s okay too.

This series of blogs has been reviewed by Drishya Warrier, Aditi Iyer, and Pratishtha Bagai, of Symbiosis Centre of media and Mass Communication, Pune. We are students that have completed our first year. Through this NGO Internship Project at MHAT, we explored the field of mental health while pursuing our interest in creative writing.

A little update/thought on our upcoming Ladakh trip.

It is presently snowing in Ladakh, so we expect the temperatures to be cool. Daytime around the low 20’s and nights will be cold, even nearing 0 degrees. The hotel has heating so you will be plenty warm.

Do carry adequate warm clothes; a nice thick jacket or shawl is great for sitting outdoors under the star-lit skies. Early morning is chilly too. Before the sun comes up. Under the sunshine, the UV rays are very strong, and you need proper sun factor lotion. I recommend ‘SunBan.’ Available at any local chemist.

My feeling is not to plan this visit like a standard tour guide Ladakh holiday that crams in daytime visits to the monasteries every consecutive day. Many are at least 2 hours away, so the day ends up feeling more like a bumpy, winding car ride to and fro rather than anything else!

Also, given the Covid situation, many monasteries aren’t allowing visitors inside the main hall where you actually get to see the ancient wall frescos. Hate to say it, seen one monastery, you’ve kind of seen them all!

What I have in mind is a more intimate, authentic experience that allows you an opportunity to meet, interact and get to see the inside workings of a traditional Ladakhi family. Almost every family has given over a son or daughter to their local monastery. In this respect, Ladakhi Buddhism is similar to the Christian tradition of one child often becoming a priest. Indeed this system is in flux. The young kids do not want to adopt a religious life and prefer to leave Ladakh searching for a more urban existence. The grass is always greener on the other side. So too in this community. The younger generation has long forgotten their priceless farming methods, water irrigation methods, storing food, and surviving winter without being dependent on the daily army flights that bring in fruits and vegetables from Srinagar though at exorbitant prices.

So day one after we fetch you from the airport we can just go to the hotel, get you’ll a nice breakfast and allow you to rest as long and as much as you need. Even if you feel a bit energetic, it is advisable to simply remain in and around the hotel grounds. Alternatively, as our home is just across the road, you could walk over for some hot mint tea and just put your feet up in the sun. You’ll have taken an early morning flight, so I’m sure you could use a few hours happily curled up under a warm duvet.

I thought dinner at the home of a local vegetable pasta soup and some momos would be a simple finish to the first day of travel. Of course, for Div, we will cook his special favorites.

 I know Anirudh wakes early, he can have his morning walk just down the road, or I can walk with him up to the main market area. A leisurely breakfast and then the chance for each of you to decide what you feel like doing with the day ahead …

For Udbhav, D&D, they can wander up to Changspa, Div knows his way around some nice little coffee shops, and they can do a little of their own exploring. Perhaps check out the notice boards for the evening parties and music events. Again, the pandemic means that the usual melting pot of Western tourists will be missing. Still, the young Ladakhi’s are quite the eclectic breed too.

Anirudh can spend a little time with my friend Namgyal and plan a mini trek for a day or two later when he’s properly acclamatized to the altitude. Kev and I will gladly join him on the trek. Several close-by sites holding a combination of astounding natural beauty and a monastery at hand. Depending on your energy level, we can take off to any of these places at short notice.

I would really like to take you’ll to a monastery school. Not sure how many little monks are around, but it’s a delight to meet these naughty boys with their snotty noses, mischievous smiles, and a hundred questions!

Equally, the joy of sitting out in the garden overlooking the snow-clad peaks is not an experience to be underestimated. The vastness and scale of the Ladakhi mountains are a perfect antidote to the racing city mind. The peaks and valleys both calm and challenge our usually busy-body thought process and can nudge one to a more introspective space of a quiet peace and content if one allows oneself to be guided by their strong, majestic presence.

Dinner at Bon Appetite ( if they too have suddenly shut down doors), there is an ample choice of locations for a wood oven pizza huddled around a bonfire.

So on the days can unfold, leaving a little gap for a serendipitous encounter or a drive out into the countryside as the heart wishes at the moment. There are walks into the market, a little shopping, a piece of hot freshly baked bread and tea at the local stalls frequented by the taxi drivers, etc., etc., etc.…

Would be super if you’d let me know of any special requests in advance. Udbhav, anything, in particular, you’d like to try – kayaking, ATV?

Also, your choice of drink would be great to know so I can stock up accordingly. Archana, I know, Anirudh tea, just Udbhav if you tell me your favorite spirit, that will be super.

A few monk friends I would like you’ll all to meet. They are simple wise men. Probably will be a tad shy at first, but if you spend a bit of time disarming their reservedness, you get a special insight into the life of a monk. We will go to some of their homes, and you can see how wonderfully they live and function from the tiniest of hermitages.

Some rooms are pristine and immaculate, while others are as messy as that of a teenage university student. Full of junk, tins of condensed milk, and a big fat TV! An iPhone too! Yes, the internet is well entrenched into Ladakhi society, and like all technological advancements, it has its plus and minus. Overall I’d say a visit to Ladakh is a win-win experience. Some of its hardships, like the inhospitable weather, lack of basic infrastructure, allows us to appreciate our creature comforts when we return to our busy city lives. But it is the generous, warm, open hearts of the people that leaves an indelible mark and a host of incredible memories. At least it did on mine. I first visited in 2003 and have never stopped since.

On the unfortunate chance that our country goes into a lockdown and we can’t make the trip this year, we can just save all of this away and revisit it again. As T.S Eliot famously said –

“Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.”

Jullay, God bless and see you soon.

This series of blogs has been reviewed by Drishya Warrier, Aditi Iyer, and Pratishtha Bagai, of Symbiosis Centre of media and Mass Communication, Pune. We are students that have completed our first year. Through this NGO Internship Project at MHAT, we explored the field of mental health while pursuing our interest in creative writing.

In these days of an isolated living, I have vivid dreams. Concerns replay themselves; unresolved past issues keep raising their voice and I often wake with a pain in my heart.

But I’ve been here before and the pain has passed. The particularities change, new anxieties replace the old and the tiniest discord of the moment seems hard to discount.

Dreams occur in the dark of night. The day brings simple joys. I smile at a stranger in the market and receive a grand wave, I let an old lady ahead of me in the queue and she responds with a warm thanks.

These gestures are so easy when the heart isn’t caught up in itself, and is able to be present to whatever is in the very now.

But all days do not play out with such grace. Often the slightest things are infuriating, and its almost like I’m being predatory and looking for someone upon whom I can unload my irritation.

And yet, and yet underneath this shadow dance of varying moods there are always encounters of nourishment. A sip of a delicious sweet hot ginger tea, a waft of cool breeze upon my clammy neck, the naughty little puppy who insists on following me with his big soppy eyes – these and a hundred more.

But these and a hundred more are what I take for granted. I crave the extraordinary – the affirmation of someone important, an invitation to a gala ball, a million-dollar lottery.

Yes, I’m exaggerating, but its only when expectation is seen in its extreme that the ridiculousness of desire makes itself visible.

Otherwise, what we want appears to be so rational, achievable and necessary. Little does one realize that in chasing unsubstantiated ambitions all one does is create friction. We live in battle between what we want and what we need. Just what we would simply like to do.

Gosh I’d really love a slice of hot buttered toast, but I’ve just gotten off the scale and the two kilos I’ve gained feel like I weigh a ton. Stress.

God wouldn’t I really love to curl up and read all day. The inconsequential to do list can wait for another day. But no, my perfectionist self won’t let me be.

These are merely the tiny fragments of pain that gather around my soul gnawing away at the essential lightness of being. With a burden of ideals I carry into the day, when dusk falls and the night is near, the more serious matters get ready to surface and haunt.

I’ve spent the day trying to logically look at solutions, brainstormed and sought counsel but there is no solution that seems evident other than the wisdom of time and patience.

Could another word be acceptance, or perhaps surrender …? I don’t mean that in a defeatist sense but rather as a response of a mature person whose lived life and seen its ever-changing hues and faces.

Even the most taunting dreams must be endured, and even the faintest inner voice which sometimes says my best is not good enough needs nothing other than to be acknowledged. I don’t need to respond to the vagaries of mind. Then pain passes like time. Unbeknownst to me. Like each breath I take never knowing I do.

The human heart understands how to endure struggle and strife and yet remain ever open, giving, loving, caring. All I need to do is step out of its way with my petty insistence on instant resolution and immediate gratification.

A long peaceful night’s rest is the way of nature. Its disturbance is the work of misunderstanding our place in the universe of things. In separating myself from the all-encompassing current of consciousness I create division where none is necessary. I build a dam and then ask why the river does not flow to sea …? I want to remain a drop and then ask why I cannot experience the vastness of the ocean …?

I am only but a child of this magnificent world, not totally independent, not utterly sufficient and self-sufficient and certainly never will I be its master.

In the interconnectedness of family, friends, acquaintances, strangers, society, country, continent we become a whole. Individual, distinct but indivisible.

Then the demons of the night pass like dark clouds on a stormy sky, and the rain that touches my naked skin is filled with the promise of benevolent grace and forgiveness.

Desire and wants dissolve and I find myself just standing upon the earth unafraid and for once content.

Isolated but not alone.

This series of blogs has been reviewed by Drishya Warrier, Aditi Iyer, and Pratishtha Bagai, of Symbiosis Centre of media and Mass Communication, Pune. We are students that have completed our first year. Through this NGO Internship Project at MHAT, we explored the field of mental health while pursuing our interest in creative writing.