shilpapillai

[shilpapillai]

Stuck in time

It is unbelievable how stuck we get in life sometimes. Flipping back to some of my old posts have just made me realise that I have aged not one day - post-wise. Look-wise, I am close to 50. And year-wise... well, I will refrain.

So. How is it that we get so stuck in life? There has to be some momentum? Some friction somewhere to sort of pushing us forward. Or even backward, so long as it is going someplace? 

A lot has happened since the last time I badgered the keypad. A lot. But none that I am going to share here. Not because I am privy of my thoughts, but because they are mundane things mostly. One major event was relocating to a new city. And that can be a pain in the god-knows. Packing and leaving can sound as simple as feeding a hungry lion, but it can wear you down to the last cell. 

Not just physically. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually and also intellectually. You begin to question everything - was this the right move? Am I being fleeced for 20 rupees? Am I spending over budget? Is it under budget? What is the budget? Do I need this chair? Did I need that extra plant? Is there a leak in the kitchen? Or was it the second bathroom? 

You have these voices running in your head 24/7. You can scream all you want into that pillow (which was also out of budget) but you are going to get no solace. 

These are the “internal” affairs. Where, dear lord, do I start on the EXTERNAL affairs! The milk lady delivered one too many packets today, the maid didn’t clean the crooks and crannies as directed, the plumber fixed the wrong tap and charged me for it, the electrician soiled the ceiling, the handyman lied to me about the water flow in the apartment, the neighbour says we are paying an exorbitant rent, the painters did a great job - on the outside! and so on and on and on. 

Such issues. All, which make me overlook the beautiful wind that is a constant in this apartment, and not to forget the flood of natural light that hugs every room all day long. The plentiful play area for my son to take three rounds and still not be bored, the close proximity to everything we need including chilled beverages and the raffu-walas. The stability of a working housing society and the warmth of domesticity making us feel at home. More than anything else, the blessed joy of being together, as a family. 

I don’t think we get to choose our battles. Most times. We just end up in an arid land and realise there are artilleries up and everyone is positioned ready for combat. It is up to us to get up and join them or face the risk of being blown by them arrow, bullet or cannon ball. This is it, what we get to choose is just this - what we end up deciding to do. 

I am at that juncture - fallen into a battlefield and wondering which shelter to choose. Or, whether to choose any at all. 

#life changes adaptation mentalhealth positivity anxiety chaos bewilderment movingon

[shilpapillai]

In sickness and in health

In the larger perspective, none of this matters. But as humans we are programmed to choose the minute details, because we have a penchant for them. And that is where the trouble begins.

I have not lived in India long enough at a streqtch to be able to have understood this nation. From a couple of months during summer vacation short brackets of time spent being raised by my grandparents, the longest I have stayed here was while in college for 6 years. During that period I didnt have too much to be bothered about. Or rather, I didn't. I was a student and far away from honouring civic responsibilities. I didnt vote, I didn't follow public campaigns, I didnt join debates, I didnt even read the newspaper. I was as carefree as a singing lark in a bright sunny day.

I'm now repenting that ignorance. Living in India today requires a certain amount of composure, patience and tolerance. If you dont have all of them together, it is very unlikely you can survive in this nation of as many thugs as saints. There is so much wrong with this country as much as right but its human nature to incline to the negative.

After spending much of their adult life outside India, my parents returned to Kerala for a relaxed retirement. What should have been a natural transition became a nightmare for them. Everything seemed to be scarred and tainted unlike anything they had ever experienced. More cheats, fraudsters, liars, and that list could go on. The current ruling party of Kerala is the UDF - union of domestic help federation. The chosen government is LDF though, who is busy drawing investment into the state and drawing massive infrastructure plans while the youth are being targeted in hate crimes and pious nuns are seeking sanctuary from sexual discrimination by unholy holy men.

Crores of rupees are going into developing better health facilities, while no one is bothered to address the underlying cause for this demand - alarming numbers of sick people. Basic healthcare, any citizen's birth right, is tarnished in kerala. The rest of the nation too I hear, but I can only speak if what I experience.

The good doctors are so busy that patients end up getting sicker waiting for their appointments. The bad doctors have a field day because the state doesnt have sufficient number of doctors and so people are forced to meet whoever is available.

Doctors are worshipped in Kerala. Literally. If it were permitted, they wouldnt shy away from doing a sashtang pranamam, dhanvat or complete submission everytime they see the doctor.

The doctors bask in this glorious acknowledgment. They walk with their heads held high up in the air, priding over their significance and throwing about their weight wherever they go. This is perhaps one of those places where the patient is the underdog and the doctor the kingpin.

People have blind faith in doctors and because of that they are mere puppets in a consultation rooms. They bob their heads as the consultant lists out a series of ailments and medication. If anyone asks a question they are glared down and given the cold treatment. In Kerala you dont ask questions to doctors - you only obey whatever they have to say. If they say that cancer is curable then they will he confident that medicines taken over a few weeks will cure them. Or if they said a bout of indigestion will require an MRI and EEG, they will obediently oblige.

There is nothing beyond the words of the doctor. I am bitter, yes. Its not because I have no respect for the profession, it is just that I think doctors who take an oath to save a life yet end up doing malpractices are the worst kind of people who have sold off their conscience to the devil.

[shilpapillai]

Sporting a new look

10 Jan 2018

This is 2018. This year I am going to set some goals. Mostly short-term, which I can complete throughout the course of this year. A few that are mid-term and a couple that is long-term.

So here begins.

Today is January 10, 2018. For the month of January, my goal is to find a sport that interests me and follow it. At the end of this month, I will have a sport to follow routinely, every time I pick up a newspaper or open a news website.

I have not played any sport, not regularly and have never been one to follow tournaments or games. Not even one to follow on peer pressure. It will be interesting to find out what this passion is all about. To understand a sport, a skill, a form of art.

I feel I can do Tennis and football. Tennis because it seems so calm and rigid. It is watching a pendulum on a clock. Time stops yet it is moving. Tick-tock.

Football is constant movement. There is never a moment of rest. You follow the ball, wherever it goes. It builds focus and a strong power of attention. You forget everything else and ignore anything else that takes place around the ball.

Cricket can be quite agitating, and basketball I am clueless about. Rugby or baseball are also not options that I would want to immediately explore because of my lack of knowledge on either.

As a child, I used to watch some sport. At least more than I do now. I would watch the Olympic games – swimming was my favourite. I would also watch some tennis and of course, football – especially the world cup. Thanks to my father, we also got to watch a fair amount of wrestling, which I am not very sure was a good idea.

My school did not provide us sufficient facilities to pursue sports. Only the best were considered and offered the school’s support and facilities. The others, they may have felt, couldn’t be encouraged as the school had neither the means of skilled professionals nor the support from the board to enhance sports amenities. We had a basketball court that was used as a parking lot for school buses at the start and end of school day. We had a wide cricket/football ground that held fairs and musical shows in the evenings – perhaps what it was built for in the first place. I know there was a swimming pool somewhere in the big auditorium facility, but I have never seen it. The indoor auditorium which was used for the school assembly was converted to badminton courts during school hours. There was a section for gymnastics, karate and table tennis too.

The number of courts was shamefully disproportionate to the number of students. While the best of the lot got to continue with their practices, the less fortunate ones, those who didn’t do sports just sat or stood on the sidelines reading comics or engaging in class gossips. There were even a bunch of nerds who would bring textbooks to study during sports class.

Then soft games such as chess or caroms were also there – which I have dabbled in as well. Chess was something I remember playing since I was really little, it could very well be the first sport I played – regularly. Living with my retired grandparents in a quiet Indian town, my only access to these activities was the exposure I got when my older cousins came visiting during their school holidays. My cousin taught me chess at a very early age because he was plain bored at home and needed an opponent to play chess with. This was to my advantage because chess was something that I continued to play through my growing years.

Since I was of a generation that had no cable TV in my early childhood days, I was lucky to explore these activities which build a sort of discipline in our lives.

Having no TV meant that the only way to keep entertained was to go out and find something to play with. Our home and its surroundings become our playground. The neighbourhood I grew up in had very few children. And in this lot, there were even fewer girls. So I never had a doll party or hair braiding sessions or kitchen parties or tea sets and the likes. I only had the local boys to go play with if I wanted to. I used to be hesitant at the start and would watch them play from a distance.

One day, as I stood on the sidelines of a make-shift cricket field, one boy came up to me and told me to take a spot as a fielder. He said, “just make sure when you see the ball flying towards you, to catch it! That is all you need to do.” And well, that is all I did. I would run like the wind to catch it. I am not sure about the exact chronology of events, but I do remember at some point I was used as the batsman and bowler too!

I also played football. I was mostly the goalkeeper, I remember, and would get yelled at by the boys, but I still played. And how I ran! I didn’t care about the world! I would just run and run just so that I catch the ball and toss it back to the field. This one day, a neighbour of mine tried to cheekily get me to babysit her toddler daughter while she tended to her little baby. I cannot remember where the rest of her household was at the time (because she always had a lot of people around her all the time, having just recently delivered a baby). One of the boys shouted out to me as he galloped to the playground that we were going to start a game and to hurry up. But as I left the room after staring at the new baby for a few minutes, the mother called out to me and asked me “are you sure you want to go and play with those boys and soil yourself or would you rather spend some more time with the baby?”

I remember I felt torn. I stood there on the lawn and flicked my head left and right wondering what choice to make. I also remember, at that age (7 or 8), that it was unfair of this lady to ask me to stay back and babysit her child while I should be out and playing. So I took the right choice then and turned towards the main road and ran to the playground. Children always follow their hearts and that is the beauty of their souls.

Kabaddi. I was fire on the court! The neighbourhood boys had no chance of surviving my wrath on the field. The adults used to be shocked at how this shy, plump, Gulfie kid (a term for people who live in the Gulf who are considered to be too spoilt, too fussy and too proud to engage in local play or living) transformed into a vicious, thunderbolt on the ground. That stopped too. It could have been because our next door tenants moved to another place, or because the elders were worried about how I would end up squashing all the local thin, lanky fellows.

Then there was role play. We would play judge-lawyer, cop-robber, teacher-student and so on. I have also run restaurants where we would cook make-belief recipes using sand, mud, stones, leaves and flowers in vessels made of wood and coconut shells. Oh, how I loved them! Our restaurants were always full and popular and we always made the best food in town. Of course.

I have dabbled in some dangerous play as well. This one neighbour kid discovered from somewhere (perhaps other local boy gangs) on how to make mini bombs. He showed me the process which involved a wooden plank, a matchbox with matches and a splinter. I was really hooked! We were huddled up, this boy, his little sister and I, making short bombs one afternoon as my grandmother took a short nap and assumed I was lying down next to her in deep slumber.

The noise woke her up and checked on us from the window. She stood petrified seeing what we were up to and she yelled out to me to get back in the house. My partners in crime vanished before I blinked twice. That was the last I played with that kind of excitement, and with them. This kid later grew up to be quite notorious and infamous for his unruly behaviour. Nip it in the bud they say – this is one example.

It doesn’t end there. Sport also includes adventure and exploring the outdoors – like trekking and mountaineering. Living in the foothills meant that a hill climb is something of a norm. We climbed up the hill to visit relatives or to visit the local temple that was built on top of the hill. At her age, my grandmother would climb through rock and rubble, through dried leaves and thick shrubs to openings during her social calls like it was a cake walk. I struggled initially, tumbling down or stumbling over some long weed or having a plant stalk slap across my face and landing at our destination bruised and sore. But it soon grew on me and as I became more accustomed to the moods and manners of the hills, I was a pro. I would drag my sister and cousins on my expeditions. They would revolt and protest preferring to spend their holidays in bed or slumped in front of the TV and VCR (oh, that word! So ancient now…) but I was relentless.

Climbing up a hill isn’t a difficult task really. If you have a long, sturdy stick, safe footwear and the right spirit, you can run up the hill in no time. I speak with experience. Nowadays I cannot climb up 200 metres without gasping for air and seeing little stars revolving around my head.

Yoga is no sport, it is a way of life. I have done this too, with earnest. I know a lot of the moves, yet I haven’t been able to inculcate a habit out of it.

So, 25 years on, I think it is a good idea to rebuild an interest in sports. I may not engage as much as I involve – but that is a start. No?

#childhood sports memories selfhelp motivation positivity goodhealth goodlife

[shilpapillai]

A note from my husband

Shiva. Our story. It started innocently. We didn't know how much of change it will bring about at that time, but then we are not psychics. Right? Shiva was born as a light weight otherwise normal child. He was quiet, too quiet and very meek. Taking the problem solving approach I apply to everything in life, we fed him as much as we could,. Any advice we got, anything to make him look healthy and become more active, I think we took. Ghee, coconut oil, almonds and what not. We were successful and he did become chubbier and we were happy. As with other infants, he was a darling and feted with great enthusiasm. Things were good. We brought him to Dubai when he was around 5 months old for a visit and then he went back with his mother to India. The plan was to stay there for 2 months as a long break before returning to a busy expatriate life in Dubai. Sometime during this break, Shiva contracted a small stomach infection and developed a fever. We took him to a doctor who said there is nothing to worry and he will be ok in no time. And two days later he did something very strange. He was sitting quietly when he started bobbing his head and stiffening up, jerking himself stiff, lasting as long as a hiccup. And within a few seconds it would repeat. We didn't know what was happening and this behaviour would continue for a few minutes, totalling about 50 to 100 jerking actions in total. He did this again sometime later and we became concerned. Our conversations became centered on whether he had his episodes , when and how many. But we had no idea what these were. We consulted with our doctor and he said it could be febrile seizures due to the fever and it will be alright soon. In Dubai, I was quite nonchalant. What is the worst that can happen? We will find out the problem and "cure" it. My wife sent me a video of Shiva having having an episode. Looked quite harmless - like having hiccups, not to be concerned about. We had recently met my wife's classmate. She was married to a neurologist practising in Dubai. Of all the people I knew, which wasn't many, he was the only doctor I had immediate access to and we thought that even though it might be unrelated to his field, we can check for advise. I was wrong. Dr.Pushparaj saw Shiva's video and immediately advised us to take Shiva to a neurologist and do a few tests. He introduced me to myoclonic spasms. Complex sounding word and very scary world. The world of brain disorders, the largely untreatable and little understood area of medical science where "hope" and "miracles" are equal partners of the treatments. Googled the term myoclonic spasms, did a quick study and I realized we were in trouble. I became frantic. I didn't want to believe the doctor. How could he diagnose something by just viewing a video? It cant be. Maybe we will be lucky and would be spared. Denial. Hope. My wife and her parents took Shiva to a specialist neurologist in Bangalore, recommended by Dr.Pushparaj. A series of tests, blood, MRI and EEG were done. Results showed an abnormal EEG and an initial diagnosis of West Syndrome (Salam seizures / Infantile Spasm) was given. Shiva was put on a regimen of medicine consisting of anti-epileptic and steroids. This on a child who I refused to give paracetamol, worrying about liver damage. Concerns are relative. Like the doctor said, we have to do a Cost Benefit analysis on every action we take. If the benefits outdo the cost, take the action. We consulted more people, other doctors. We got more advice. We researched more. After a few other doctors, we got to know about a paediatric neurologist in my home town of Kochi. He was consulting from a famous hospital there and we got an appointment to meet him. Thus began our treatment for Shiva. His diagnosis has changed from Myoclonic Spasms to West Syndrome to currently cryptogenic infantile spasms of suspected genetic cause. Its all more or less the same problem at a high level. His spasms come on a regular basis, but we have not opted for any aggressive medication to control them. Shiva's mental growth is painfully slow for me. I haven't yet seen any definite sign that he recognizes me but it will happen. Physically, at 4 years, Shiva is a thin boy with normal height for his age, with an excitable personality and slightly unbalanced gait. Mentally, I think he is still a 1 or 2 year old. His ability to communicate is not developed enough for me to judge or know what he is capable of. Only time will tell. I don't want our story to be sad read. What I recounted above has been an account of our life so far with our son. While it is true that we would never have agreed for this fate for our son, it is far from the worst and it is far from over. My eternal hope is genetic therapy, but there is also a good chance that his body can rectify the situation by itself. Each of our day is filled with hope for a solution around the corner. In the meantime, even with the problem, Shiva, by all accounts, doesn't suffer. He is carefree and mostly content, happy and like other children, engaged in serious business of playing. He is curious about things, enjoys his outings in the car and the daily walk with his grandma. So, are we, the parents the one suffering? In a way, yes. Watching Shiva and imagining what he could have been, is torture. Caring for him, a baby for life also takes a toll and will be so for both of our lives. But it's no big deal. Our problems in life, as long as we are able to sleep well at night and be with people we love every so often, are small. It is not a tragedy unless we make it seem so.

[shilpapillai]

My Body is a Wonderland

Today was something else.

All that I didn’t know in the past three weeks, I managed in one day. And also, some things that I have not been doing since the past three months or more.

There is this thing about being fit and active. The endorphins it releases react in so many different ways, like the colours of the rainbow. It’s true – all those emotions all at once.

I took the cycle out today. It has been parked in the hallway for more than– well, for a long time.

The impromptu agenda for today encouraged me to get in the cycling gear and jam the earphones into each ear, music blasting.

I was on a mission – I wanted a samosa, and I wasn’t going to drive to get one. I was going to ride – because I could: the money, the bike and the will.

The weather was dusty and humid – not anything like how the past few days had been. Something I was expecting to find when I walked out of the building. The hot air that blew on my face and the dust exodus that raced into my nostrils was indication – a reiteration that life is what we expect it to be. Ever.

And that was just the first example of the evening. Several more would follow.

Geared bikes are nothing like an ungeared bike. I rolled it up and down a few times to check that all was well – something creaked, something shook and there was a persistent sound of metal over metal – the gear chain and the tyre frame – I couldn’t tell.

But I moved on. I was not de-spirited. I could have been, but I wasn’t. I had to do it – I had chosen to peel myself away from the couch and the least I could do was take a couple of rounds around the building. The least.

So mounting over carefully, ignoring the sound of steel rods and chains, I embarked.

It was hilarious. If I were a resident and I was looking out of my window I would have probably taken a video. The lanes are all empty in this community so cycling like a drunk wouldn’t get you under the tires of some zooming roadster. It also means that you can do just about any nonsense, and the only likely person to see you is one of the Asian building security guards.

Hither tither, left right, screeching speeding, slow and fast. And worse of all, I was panting like a horse. And sweating too.

The thing about humans is that when they set their mind on rebellion, even the most faint-hearted manage to muster courage they never would have thought they had in them. As in this case. I could have easily just dropped the idea, avoided the humiliation, gone back home to my beautiful couch, and Netflixed till midnight.

Easily. But I just kept on with it. If the bike broke down, I though, I would just roll it back home. I was out to burn energy anyway.

On reaching the destination, I strolled in and picked up my samosa. In joy, I also picked up a rum ball. I deserved it, I felt. And on the way out, I also picked a pack of chips. And yoghurt.

Tonight was about balance, you can see.

Right, jokes apart, the main intention to get out and get moving today was because I felt bad for my body. For more than 30 years I have not looked after my health, evident on how my body shaped up. I used good advice from parents and teachers, and taunts from bullies at school with a pinch of salt and a shrug. And that has had severe implications on my health. My general health check-ups are usually fine and I’m in general fine health – usually.

However, what I assumed was just a bad case of acidity, could be something more serious than that. This is the result of scrolling through Pinterest – social media is not all just a curse, and I vouch for it. I have found out that the toxicity in my liver is what’s making me so lethargic, so worn out, so negative in life and so hungry all the time. I am feeding my body with all the wrong things – like we do in a vehicle with adulterated fuel. It will run like the wind for a few years, but the disillusion will wash out sooner than later.

I made an analysis of the things I do and the foods I eat and compare it to the moods I have and the things I do. A healthy body is not just important for us alone, but also for someone we create. The health of our offsprings depends so much on our health.

I know it seems like I have just woken up and swallowed a medical journal, but so what? I knew these facts, but I never realised its effects on me. We read these things, but there is a valid reason to why they speak about it so much or why there is so much written about our health and how we must, we MUST start paying more attention to it. Our health as a whole – every part of our body, from bone to skin.

A lot of the things that have happened in my life now makes so much sense. Why don’t I use makeup? Why is my palm so dry all the time? Why can’t I get rid of my love handles? So on. I have figured out what I want to do.

Cycling is great, but this is not the only thing. I stumbled across the “Elimination Diet.” It is a diet that can help us identify which food/food groups suit us and which doesn’t. By finding this out, we can eliminate those food items that work badly for us, becoming a life-changing solution for several ailments. And it doesn’t take much other than the will to try.

#eliminationdiet goodhealth healthythoughts cycling

[shilpapillai]

Where are your brains?

A few years back, I could open a fresh page and start writing something, anything. I would start with a word, then the sentences would follow and then with the help of my clear mind, I would have come up with a relatively interesting piece of information to read.

That doesn’t happen anymore. I start with a word. Then usually punctuations follow. Then like static, it will create some noise and fizz out. And then its silence. Both from signals the brain and the keypad.

How important it is to keep the mind active. And its home, the brain. We think it is just a part of our body and like everything else in the anatomy of the human body, we ignore the brain too. It is part of life, our being and we take it for granted. Like the air we breathe or the sights we see or the things we hear – all a part of the norm.

How many of us have thought about treating our brain like it was the most important aspect of our life? Like a mother looks after her new born child. You care for it, you nurture it and you watch it grow. Most of us give no considerations to the brain. We fill it with a lot of information, three-quarters of which we don’t need in our lives whatsoever. We torment it with images and videos which it has no choice but to endure because of our whims. We pressure it by overfeeding its limited appetite for irrelevant content like why the neighbours were fighting or why your colleague didn’t smile at you one day or why your friend didn’t tell you about a job promotion.

The brain just silently endures all this, not complaining or protesting.

An analogy – Dr Walter in the television series, Breaking Bad. Here is an educated, respected scientist who has won a Nobel prize for his work in Chemistry. But mid-life, he is teaching waywardly high school students who don’t give a damn about the elements in the periodic table and gets diagnosed with 3 A lung cancer.

Now what.

What would you do if your brain decides to put its foot down one day? What will you do? What if it decides that it doesn’t want to send out signals for the regular flow of work like it does every living second of your life? What if it decides enough is enough and forcefully gets your complete, undivided attention?

What if your brain stops to work? Like it should?

What will you do? What can you do?

Nothing.

Nothing you say or do will make the brain kick-start up and get into action UNLESS the brain feels to do so itself. Only the brain can get things back to normal for us, and make us lead a mentally-healthy and respectful life. If we mess around with the brain too much, we are done for.

The president or CEO of a multinational company for example. All his life he feeds the brain with numbers and statistics and guidelines. First in school, then in university, then at the workplace. He gives the brain no rest or consideration. Even when the brain sends out warning signals now and then with a high-pressure alert or a low BP alert or a high sugar alert. The CEO only notices when the brain stops sending out information through the valves to the heart and the heart chokes and faints.

The brain is like a snake – it hurt you unless you push it against a wall and poke it out of its habitat.

This is why yogis and people who meditate lead such a calm and serene life. Focused and intelligent. They make peace with the brain and they decide to work hand-in-hand. They obey the brain and the brain obeys the. It’s a happy story.

People who are able to find the time to sit down at a spot and not feed the brain with any kind of information, people who are able to sit down and literally focus on a point like meditation gurus preach persistently, they may live longer, they will live healthier and they will die peacefully.

I didn’t have to come to this conclusion with all the drama and diagnosis of the brain. But doing so has helped me reaffirm the true heartbeat of our lives – the brain.

For years I have been tormenting my brain with things that it doesn’t need to deal with and which it doesn’t need to store. I feel it with random thoughts and baseless fears. And when the brain starts coughing up with the pressure, I would knock it a few times, as if hoping to make the brain get going again. The knocks are sometimes punches.

I would think it helps, but instead, it has done some irreversible damages. I understand these now. On hindsight, my life has been a mess because I made it that way. Because I disrespected my brain and never gave it any consideration whatsoever.

Three weeks ago, was the last straw. I fed my brain some toxic substance – prescribed drugs to calm the nerves. That is – paying no heed to protests from my brain, I tried to control its work by administering external force.

I was tormenting my brain for not being able to bring back files from the shelves of memories when I needed them leaving me struggling and embarrassed not being able to recollect something while having a conversation. I have had several instances, in the recent past, where I couldn’t recollect a name, a number, a place or even be able to provide explanations to why I did certain things. I would blank out and stare at the person asking me for this information. Or I would stutter and fidget and avoid their eyes. All making me look guiltier of the accusations made against me than being able to convince my innocence.

What a mess.

Like all my posts, this is a self-enlightening revelation, you may think.

#notatruestory

The rest is true, however.

Until the next wave of enlightenment.

#brain brainpower brainhealth neurology neuroscience scienceofthebrain

[shilpapillai]

Upma soup for the soul

Today is Friday, which means that breakfast is a grand affair. If not at home, it is usually at one of our common haunts that serves everything we crave for.

When I mean grand affair, I mean go through the whole process of clean, cut, chop, cook – rather than make-do with toast and bite. Today’s ‘special’ was upma. It is usually the special when we aren’t in the mood for the other ‘regular’ choice of dosas and also when we haven’t soaked the kadala (black Bengal gram) over night to make puttu and kadala – yet another favourite breakfast for the mister.

Rawa Upma can be prepared in several ways. Some like it dry, some like it soup-y and others like it mushy. I like it mushy while the mister likes it soupy. So we have come to a mutual consent over a grade which falls in between these two categories – thick soup consistency.

While growing up we always had the typically Malayalee way of preparing upma – dry to dust almost, and served with sugar or a ripe banana. Growing up in the Gulf, we used the Philippines’ brand of bananas - Chiquita instead of the usual choice in Kerala, the cheru pazham – small banana. Mummy would even edit a chicken curry from the night before and serve it with the upma on ‘bonus’ days, I remember.

The dry version changed to the mushy choice during my college years. Living in a student city like Pune, in Maharashtra, India, upma was a staple – an egg and toast-kind of staple – all thanks to the many south Indian or ‘Udupi’ restaurants that we had in the city. It was either upma with coffee or idli sambar with coffee – STANDARD.

The mushy upma is a style that is common in the rest of the southern states aside from Kerala, mushy and more flavourful. This preparation includes vegetables – carrots, potatoes and green peas predominantly, as well as a handful of other condiments and spices like turmeric, asafetida, mustard seeds, urad dal and the likes. It is more – elaborate. Time consuming. And definitely tastier, especially when it comes wrapped in some fresh ghee and a curry leaf on top.

The soupy version is from no region or state, it is something the mister’s Ma formulated to satisfy her sometimes-picky son’s taste buds. This is more elaborate than the mushy version. Here, there the calculations matter – how much amount of water is used, how much chopped green chilies are used and how much of the rawa or the semolina is used. The upma is not served alone either. My mother in law would prepare another savoury soup with this upma – cherupayar curry. Which means green lentil curry. Usually, cherupayar curry is made as an accompaniment for kanji or gruel – but not in this case.

The cherupayar curry is made without coconut and has a light consistency. However, it is has more flavour than the version using coconut, because it is slow cooked with ginger, turmeric and green chilies after initially pressure cooking the lentils and mashing it up.

The last step to this course, the upma plus cherupayar curry, is the pappadom – yes, in the morning. As if all this isn’t enough, the mister would also add some gunpowder, for effect. In case you don’t know what gunpowder is, and are shocked at the actual implications, fret not. This is the roasted and ground gram with spices used as a chutney for dosas and idlis. The crunchy kick it gives is a cool addition to this dish.

Upma is best consumed with an accompanying cup of hot tea and good company.

Sadly, I didn’t take a picture of my plate of upma today. Strange of me not to do that, I have developed the habit of taking a picture of my food like how people say grace at the dining table. I will save that for another day then.

Hope you all have a grand day ahead – and a grander weekend!

#indianfood foodie ilovefood instafood instadubai upma upmalover foodporn foodology

[shilpapillai]

Where are my marbles?

This morning, I woke up feeling stressed out.

That is how I have been waking up, off late. For some two years, or so. 

Maybe more so now, under my current circumstances. If I had to explain my situation with an analogy – how Oliver Twist felt in that wretched orphanage, perhaps. Waking up in the morning, dreading the wrath of what each day has to offer.   

[P.S: I first typed out ‘Charles Dickens’ instead of Oliver – strange thing happening with name-recollection today. More on this a later on].

Things were never this bad while growing up. That is probably why I still continue to live in the good memories of my childhood while being unable to handle the present. What could have gone so terribly wrong that even all the right seems wrong?

Who knows.

Today at work, I was about to speak to a colleague and instead of calling out his name, a completely different name came to my head and I almost ended up calling him by that name - ‘George.’ And that’s not his name. Who is George? There is no one in the office by the name George. I have a friend named George, but I hadn’t spoken to him anytime lately and I wasn’t even thinking about him.

Why George? My colleague, nice lad that he is, just shook his head and laughed it off. I laughed too, but it spooked me out.

That is one of the many other strange, random things I catch myself doing sometimes.

I am not shy to admit that I am spaced out – as someone recently pointed out to me – explicitly – and I had to agree completely because I can’t find a better description that matched my current state of mind. And in her words, it is like I take a trip into space, lost somewhere half the time.

Does this mean I need to see the shrink? Perhaps. Will the certified specialist be able to find me a solution that works for my benefit, the kind of solution that I have been receiving from well-wishers, but not being able to follow?

I have the solutions. I know exactly what my problem is. But – ‘they’ are not ready to meet.

It is as though they have some old grudge on one another and refuse to so much as face each other. If the solution comes face-to-face with the problem – well, half the battle is won, isn’t it?

Who knows.

On other less dreary news, I have started to write again. Random thoughts, pointless banter, relentless whining – the usual suspects. But I am optimistic – I will continue to write self-bashing stories, until someday the problem and solution make peace with each other.

Previously, I wouldn’t care to read this post twice – I would just post it as I type it... laden with the typos and the grammatical errors and the missing sensible sentences.

But these days I am taking grammar classes, as well as writing, proof-reading, editing and English language classes. So by practice, I might start paying more attention to HOW I say things.

Which is a good thing, I feel, since I pay no attention at all to WHAT I say.  

We don’t need no education – because - we DO need education.

On that random note... goodnight. 

#selfhelp writing mentalblock writersblock english psychology wordpower imagination

[shilpapillai]

It’s a tough job

I just got an email from Rabea Ataya, CEO of Bayt.com, to ‘personally’ welcome me to his portal where his team will ‘endeavour daily to empower me with tools and information to build my lifestyle of choice’.

I blinked at it for a few seconds after brushing through the email. Then, I glanced across the page, on top, at the 50 other tabs open, applications made to several job sites – some rejects, some external_errors, some random advertisement that opened up in between, my Inbox filled with rejects, my Sent box filled with job applications.

I am 34, and I am unemployed. Ok, that hurt. Not the hammer-on-my-pinky hurt, but the door-jammed-on-my-thumb hurt. Marginally different, but the impact is the same.

If I had a job, I wouldn’t be rambling at this moment. I would either be sitting on a plush seat in a plush office with a great view and freshly brewed coffee in my hand. Or, I would be getting drenched in my own perspiration from a hot-headed bull breathing fire down my neck – which is more likely the case. So while I sit here worried that I am unemployed, such unhappy thoughts could in fact lift my spirits a little.

I am a free bird at this moment, and can easily make a cup of coffee and stare out into a not-so-but-will-do view.

If I had a job now, I would be biting my nails wondering whether my copy was absolutely error-free after the 39 times I read it through, hoping my hawk-eyed Editor wouldn’t see that ONE typo that may have crept in.

As a free bird, and a blogger (I am not a blogger but since I post in my blog, I like to call myself one – it feels sort of cool) with no aim, I wouldn’t even be reading this copy once, lest the remaining 38 times. So there is a typo, so what! Pfft.

If I had a job, I would draw deep sighs and wonder how many more hours, minutes and seconds were left for the weekend. So many productive hours would while away thinking of what all I could do in the many unproductive hours. Being a free bird, I need only to worry about what to make (or order) for my next meal.

If I was at a job right now, I would probably be gulping an antacid wondering why my boss didn’t favour me for the juicy stories, like he/she did for my arch rival at work (who, by the way can’t even spell right). Now, as a free bird, all I need to do is flip through popular blogs and wonderful articles and appreciate them for such good work (any bit of green envy would dissolve in a bucket of ice cream I can easily order from the store downstairs).

If I were at work now, I couldn’t make an impromptu holiday, a trip home for my cousin’s engagement, a puja at home, or so on.  

So you see. I don’t NEED a job. As long as the mister is taking care of things at his work place, I can just sit back, put my feet up, get a tub of choco-chip truffle ice cream and binge on Game of Thrones.

Sigh.

When did finding a job become so difficult? Is it because I am staring so hard at the screen waiting for the call that will change my life and do justice to the dreams of lavish materialism that I often have?

I think the sorry state of unemployment has been prevalent for years and ages. Just yesterday I was watching a movie, black and white, where a man of considerable education waiting in desperation to get employed. Sometimes I wonder if it is the WHY rather than the WHAT we are looking for.

Why do I NEED a job? Don’t I have food on my plate? Yes. Roof over my head? Yes. Clothes to keep me warm? Yes. Then? What else do I need? NEED, not WANT. We need an income. We don’t need a job or a work place. We need an income so that we are able to satisfy our wants, and our needs.

Having a job has its benefits. We can think of a holiday destination, and actually experience it by taking a trip there. We can look at pretty clothes and actually own them. We can stare at great gourmet food photographs and actually taste them.

We can also build a future where we can remain assured of having all the above mentioned at our disposal without having to file petitions to the government or make mercy pleas, or rely on charity.

The state of the world, from where I see it, is moving ahead just fine. The rich are getting richer, definitely, but so are the poor getting more help, and the middle class getting more benefits, and the working class getting more opportunities to green pastures. Everywhere I look there is progress.

The only people who seem to not move ahead or retract their steps are people like me. Those who like to dabble with words, but don’t engage in a more serious art of stringing it together and aiming to make much use of it. As in, those who are all words and no action.

I am not sure if I will get a job anytime soon, or later. But that cannot be the end of me. I can do things that don’t require an income and continue to live until someday I am able to drive some income out of it. When Paulo Coelho wrote that the universe conspires to make something happen, he wasn’t bluffing or saying pretty words. It is true. Things will happen. 

[shilpapillai]

Pala and its palette

Childhood memories are what I hold most closely to my heart. Mostly because of the innocence in experience. Nothing had an agenda, only a child-like admiration to new things and places, or a discomfort in other things of distaste. Life was just white or black; no grey, no indigo, no other shades of melancholy or doubt.

In my memories what I most remember is a side of Kerala that doesn’t exist anymore. The roads and bricks are still there, but they have been worn out by multiple layers of tar, and paint. People have changed, the lifestyle has changed and the demographics have changed. I don’t want to talk about what I think of Kerala today. It is not a pretty, or positive picture. If I was in a mood to rant, which I often get into, I could talk about it, but I am in a mood of nostalgia.

Talking about roads, the most vivid memories of Kerala I have are its flora and fauna - the vegetation, the soil and the weather. It could be from the many road travels I enjoyed with my grandparents. From district to district, from town to town, I was able to see various ways of life even as a child, and most interestingly, be thrilled to learn about them. As a mother and an aunt today, I feel these are the lessons from my life I will most definitely impart to my son and nephew. They are valuable lessons which give us an innate sense of respect for the land our ancestors came from.

Today, I visited Pala. It was a relatively buzzing town, with pretty much everything that an urban Malayalee needs. Cloth stores, mobile stores, food stalls (bakeries), hospitals. This is the new-era necessities. At the heart of the town centre, however, are several gems from the past. Buildings that looked like they have witnessed several occasions in history, like a beautiful school lined with pine trees along its boundary walls, it looked well close to a century old.

And it is. The St Thomas Higher Secondary School campus is more than 100 years old. A little further down the road is a central circle and dip in the road towards the Town Hall. I was trying to find a bookstore, and was directed to this building, visibly another age-old structure. And right opposite was a church that made me gawk. It was tall, ancient, and reeking of age. It had an angel perched on top, and long windows which gave it a gothic feel. The building was moss-hugged, and just as I climbed up the stairs to the Town Hall on the opposite side of the road, the church bells rang.

Pala is predominantly filled with Syrian Christian malayalees. They speak in a crass dialect, have authoritarian womenfolk, and have some of the most amazing fish, meat and poultry dishes south of Goa. The SC cuisine is legendary, and I made a mental note to return and try one of the ‘olathiyathu’ or ‘vazhattiyathu’ before I leave the neighbourhood. That was a little treat I could fantasise after all the healthy, non-spicy, vegetarian food I have been enjoying in recent days.

There is so much more I want to say, but shall keep it for later. There is so much about this state I want to talk about, but be assured that whatever I say is from pages of history. The ink is faded, and the paper too worn to read now. And before my own memory fails me, I hope to document what I experience in what was once God’s Own Country.  

[#pala #kerala #memories #india #nostalgia #childhood 

[shilpapillai]

One Funny Day

In the face of adversity, humour is the Exit door. Old news, I know, but it is something else when you experience it. Like having the sea breeze blow on your face in the onset of the monsoons – fresh, and tangible.

So. I was to be at a place between 9.00 and 11.00 to meet someone regarding something. Both important. I lived far away, but being a Saturday it meant I could be lenient with calculating how much time it would take me to reach my destination.

I relaxed when I overshot my alarm clock thinking I still had time, and could leave by 8.30. Mistake one.

I got dressed and just as I was hauling my handbag, I got a call from the buyer who was going to come pick up an item we had put up for sale. I asked him if he knew the place, he said yes. I said fine then, I would wait for him. I didn’t add “please hurry as I needed to be elsewhere in an hour – across half the emirate at the other end of town. Thank you.” Mistake two.

He reached at 8.15, 3 minutes after calling him to say I would have to step out then. He came with his wife and what should have taken 5 minutes, took around 20.

My glance kept flickering to the clock and I pacified myself that I still had the option for the 10.00-11.00 slot, even if I couldn’t make the 9.00-10.00 slot. Mistake three.

After shaking hands on the deal and locking up, I left.

Quick flashback: I made a mental study of the map. I saved the pin so that I had the map on offline mode. Mistake four.

Sub quick-flashback: My phone had run out of data, and I didn’t think I needed to recharge it a week before its due date on the 1st of July. Mistake (ginormous) five.

So, I left. Unusually I had even dressed appropriately and made an effort to look the part of someone looking well enough to be taken seriously. Hair tucked up neatly too. [score].

Up until three-quarters of the road everything was smooth. Then, on the highway, I decided I knew better and thought I would take a different, a quicker, route. Mistake number six. [what was I thinking].

I was going fine, heaving in pride that I had finally mastered the routes when I realised that I had missed an Exit.

*silence followed by, an eerie sound of a creaking door opening*

I tried not to panic. It was difficult with all the cars zooming on either side, the sun climbing higher in the sky and time clicking faster. Gripping the steering, I focussed on the road with all my might. If someone looked into the car at that moment, they would get some comedy.

I managed to find a familiar road, and realised I was going the same route – that was what the map had shown. Finally, I saw the name of the company I was going to visit, standing proud like a beaming golden egg amidst a pile of grey quail eggs.

I knew where to park. I even chuckled at seeing MTR next doors, which meant I could parcel idli and take home for lunch, perhaps? And ghee roast too. I really hoped they would have puliogare. Mistake number seven, eight and nine.

I parked and felt pride (again) that I managed to find the place without much stress, and I would show off to my husband that I am indeed a cool driver. On entering the building, I looked about and noticed people at their desks, and noticed the security guy on the phone. I walked up to him and waited until he was done. It was 9.30. Ample time. After he was done with the call, I gave the name of the person I had to meet. He looked oblivious but gave a pleasant smile anyway. He started to stutter when I asked him about the department, and mentioned the floor number. Mistake 10.

He said, “yes, yes, go to the 6th floor. The entry is at the back side.” I turned towards the side entrance of the building. Bombay Bites. How cool I would take a vada pav home too. Maybe even a dabeli. Such a feast I was going to have. Mistake 11 and 12.

I jumped into the elevator with a mother and child, both dressed in tracks and sports shoes. Maybe returning from the gym.

The sixth floor had one long corridor with several doors leading to a big, open office at the end. The mother and daughter walked towards the end, as did I. none of the doors had the sign I was looking for. The sporty duo stepped into a room, one door away from the last office from where Bollywood music was being played loud and thumping. The open office, strangely, didn’t have people in suits, as they should have, but instead tracks and sports shoes again.

Confused, but smiling, I asked them where this particular office was. She said, on the mezzanine floor. I said, oh, but the security guy led me here. She shrugged, still smiling, and gently asking me to bugger off. I could feel her eyes, and smirk, on me as I walked away, baffled.

I went to the mezzanine floor. I saw the sign. But the door was locked. i didn’t understand. I turned around and looked at the empty corridor. No sign of the sign.

I went back u. baffled. Stopped a cleaner and asked about the office. “Mezzanine floor, madam.”

Damn it. I went back to M floor and knocked at the door. A man opened the door, which was heavily secured with a secured digital lock. He opened and said that the office is downstairs, this room was off limits to the public.

Time was ticking and I stopped the merry-go-round with this shady building and walked down, into the ground floor office and asked the security guy what was going on. He kept smiling stupidly again.

Then, like a small door that threw some light on my veiled face, it dawned on me to ask, “is this the main branch of XX company?” my heart beat had increased, and I could also have been panting a bit. Growing out of breath. “No, that is in Deira. This is Bur Dubai.”

The door suddenly burst open and a 1000 volt bulb shone on my eyes, blinding me momentarily.

Idi-yut.

I left the office and walked into the sun. The black jacket wasn’t helping either. I stormed towards the car, chanting “typical” under my breath. It couldn’t have been this perfect. Something HAD to go wrong, and it did.

So fuming, with the rotten luck of not having data, and getting at the wrong address AND being late for this crucial meeting, I tried to breathe normally and calm down. The hardest five-minute walk of my life. I reached the car, turned on the AC at full blast and tried to think. What do I do? I tried to put mobile data, it wouldn’t connect. I called the person I had to meet (say, Mr X) and apologised profusely. “I thought you said you knew the route?” I have read about it several times, and finally saw what it means to feel your skin crawl in embarrassment.

I called a friend for help. He gave me precise directions.

I turned around and was about to leave the parking lot. After a small tiff with the parking lot assistant (10 Dhs for 10 mts parking! Even RTA charge that).

Following his directions, I entered Baniyas Street. And I saw it. I saw the first name of the company I was seeking. I said a silent prayer, and sent a silent note of thanks to my pal, and drove towards the building. The neighbourhood had plenty of parking. I parked quickly, jumped out, paid for parking and ran up to the building. Not ONCE looking up to confirm that this was it. Mistake 13.

I ran inside, and asked the security (Mistake 14 – should stop asking security guys details of firms in an office building). He nodded to me when I said I came to see so-and-so at so-and-so company. Before taking the lift, I called Mr X and said I had reached and am at the lobby, coming up. At floor six, I rushed into the office, wondering why it looked like a tropical forest. Panting, I rushed up to the reception and asked her for Mr X. She looked back at me blankly, “who.” I repeated, starting to get that sinking feeling again. She said, this is ABC company, and this is the only office on this level.

That door thing before? That happened again.

I realised I was in the wrong office. So I went to the ground floor, baffled, panicking and just a mess. I asked the guy where this company was, and he just shrugged. If I had time I would have stayed back to punch his lazy eyes. I rushed out of the building, looked around for a human being, saw none, ran into a grocery store and asked the man. Same confused look.

Stepping out, I finally had the sense to look up and realised that I was at the wrong address. Again. I had seen the first word, the rest were different.

I surrendered, and hailed a cab. Asked him to take me to the firm. He nodded and drove on. When he neared a junction he pointed to a building on the other side and said that’s the one. I wanted to cry. Even the taxi driver got it wrong! I was doomed. I said, no, this wasn’t it. They might be from the same country of origin, but I wanted to go to the OTHER one. We broke into a somewhat heated argument. But that was not a solution. I called the same friend for directions and asked for help. So while he searched for a landmark and the taxi driver went in circles, I had reached the pinnacle of frustration and could no longer understand anything anyone was saying.

I kept the phone saying I will try and figure it out and was on the verge of calling Mr X, when he did. Probably wondering what took me so long from reaching the 6th floor, from the ground floor. I didn’t bother to explain, but merely said I was in a situation and that I would try and reach as soon as I could, and if I was delaying him to please carry on ahead. He asked me where I was. I said somewhere on the road in a cab, taking rounds. Then, I asked him to speak to the driver. Can you imagine? I asked Mr X – a respectable employee of a respectable firm to give directions to a taxi driver. I can’t help wondering what a fine husband he must be, with such patience and composure.

The cab driver took me to the same spot and said, “yahin hain”. I couldn’t see it still, but decided it was better to get out and ask for directions. Apparently, it was just a few buildings away, hidden between taller ones. I reached, and asked the security. He nodded before I finished the sentence, and said – “6th floor”.

Well, of course. I reached, and walked straight up to his cabin. Like a true gentleman, he still stood up to greet me and shake my hands. And like a true gentleman he accepted my brief but genuine apology and got started the meeting.

The day didn’t end there. After this rather eventful morning, I ended up being mauled by a toddler, my spectacles getting twisted enough to give me a splitting headache, a few near-misses and severely angry honks on the roads and finally home by sunset.

It was One Fine Day, [Hashtag kill me], and the moral of the story was: when the going gets tough, the tough gets going.  

[shilpapillai]

Rejection

How do you face rejection?

Do you go in front of a mirror and weep until your tear ducts start to send out tenders? Or do you shut yourself in a room for months and come out looking like you got swallowed by Jumanji? Or do you eat a tub of ice cream and grow fat enough to get stuck in your doorway and suffocate yourself to death? Or lie down and don’t bother getting up unless it’s the pizza guy? Or take a pillow and scream into it until you choke yourself with the feathers that were stuffed inside? 

What do you do?

Rejection in any form can rip us into so many parts that sometimes, like in a jigsaw puzzle, certain pieces may get lost and never be found.

In a couple of years I will have reached my mid-career, mid-life. It means, ideally, as per the standards of a career site or corporate self-improvement blog, I should be in the third-tier management role, already planning my child’s university programmes and wedding planners. 

But I am not. I just got off the phone with an Editorial Director of a well-known magazine who said that my application was not accepted.

My pride got hit in the head, so its brain-freeze. My ego is weeping hysterically. My pulse increased to a fast-ish pace and my self-worth just plunged 5000 metres in an air pocket. My self-respect, strangely, hasn’t changed. I am not feeling sorry for myself, but I am feeling sad.

Just this morning, before I made this call, I was thinking of writing a blog today after a long gap. The subject was going to be on how at 33, I have hit “rock bottom”. If these words will mean that in a few years’ time I am going to be as legendary as JK Rowling, then I can relax a little bit. It wouldn’t hurt to be one of the most successful and richest authors of this millennium, now, will it?

How would she have faced the rejections she had, if blogging existed then? Would she still have been such a successful author? Or would she post her moods and depression online, get commented by hundreds of strangers who will compliment or criticise her and eventually live off the popularity that her tears will end up gathering?

Rejection is such a painful word. The very sound of it feels formidable and insensitive. For anyone with any amount of self-respect would feel the pinch for atleast one minute. Not because they doubt their own capabilities, but because they will be provoked enough to want to believe it.

This is something I have been thinking off late – we have been studying Shakespeare or Jane Austen or Emily Bronte or Joseph Conrad for centuries or decades. What would they feel if they find out that the world has ripped their pages to scrutinise and dissect every sentence, every word, every letter to find answers of questions like – what, why, where, how. Why can people not just read and savour the book? Rather than urge students to write essays on them and evoke new meanings? That would be like questioning the intentions of the writer, wouldn’t it?

But that is not the point. We are on rejection. I refuse to read suggestions online on overcoming rejection. I want to find an answer on my own. If I see one more sentence of someone saying “find yourself”, I will do something drastic. Like delete Facebook and Twitter from my phone. I would be peaceful for the 3 days that I will be able to manage that. Then I would want to return and see how well my peers are doing in their lives and sulk more so that I can end up doing no research before a big interview, and face rejection – through mail, on the phone, on the face, or through silence.

But, like my mother said to me once, failure is the first step to success. So today I was rejected, that’s alright. Tomorrow I might be accepted, by something else. Maybe something better and bigger and then when this ED comes asking me for a favour, a story, or an interviews perhaps (dream big), then I would kindly, but curtly, reject him.

#rejection wayoflife career literature

[shilpapillai]

How social media is killing my ideas

I have not been blogging off late because that is all I hear. Successful stay at home mums who started to write about something and then ended up being so popular, they make more money than their blue-collar job husbands. It is good to read about them, but unlike the effect of titles like Chicken Soup for the soul had on our psychological well-being, this internet exodus, and social media carnage is, well, depressing. It is disheartening.

 When I began writing, I did so because I enjoyed it and found companionship in it. I had a blog almost on track when people started to blog. It felt good to be able to say what I had to and let out my feelings or opinion about an incident or situation or trend, and even to get a one-off response from someone. Now, the competition, the race, it all makes my head swirl. Every time I blink, my Twitter account shows 20 new tweets. If I pick up a phone five times consecutively every minute my Instagram post will have at least five new images.

 The harsh truth is I cannot keep up. It is like trying to be the hare while my DNA is structure like the tortoise, hard shell on the back included. I am unable to join the rat race to provide the most sharp, the most engaging, the most crisp content and attract ‘followers’ and ‘likes’ to show good I really am.

 But, would the 3.7k followers you have on Instagram actually read anything on your blog, or rather just find the picture you posted interesting? Are you as a writer, or as a person who likes to write, getting any honest outcome out of this? You grow popular, no doubt. But for what? Because you can take good pictures?

 I am in a huge dilemma. I am a writer but this has been one of the most dejected times in my life that I feel I am not worthy enough. I feel like my ‘skills’ don’t keep up with the glamour to keep up in the race to be a social media sensation.

 I want to be able to go back to writing for myself and not feeling judged as a careful consider each word I type. Even as I type this, I feel like I am talking to an invisible audience. And while I try to gather my wit to write what I have to say my thoughts get intruded with flashes of how this blog could get so popular that people will love my work and I will be an overnight blogging maestro. I feel like I am being watched and that anything and everything I type here will have a direct implication on me as a writer.

 I have considered one particular string of thought, but as I type I keep getting conflicts in the head that argue the direction I have taken. Several voices in my head are talking at the same time, making suggestions and opinions and advices. All which are an actual reflection of comments I have read ‘online’. I miss the days of no internet. Yes, we wouldn’t be able to have access to a lot in life that we are now learning every day, but there was some charm to life then.

 I used to write a diary from all sorts of secluded area, like having a simple conversation with a friend. I used to fill ink in my fountain pen and get it started after a few dabs on paper for the ink to reach the nib. And then in one flow, I write what I feel and express myself completely to be content – with no interruptions other than the sounds of nature and regular domestic neighbourhood clamour.

 The hope remains that I can restart writing sometime soon. Even if I means I had to write a short note on this funny woman I spoke to over the phone yesterday. Or maybe how the grocer always knocked at our door in the most muted manner so that our household doesn’t jump start with the calling bell, waking our son from his sleep, perhaps. Or of how I have been changing our home interiors every fortnight or how I made soya biryani today or how I have started following Kerala politics or how I plan to start a meal plan or how I am killing my plants in the summer heat, or how I have a billion ideas I want to work with – all which come to my mind like an open tap of flowing water, while I do the dishes, and how they all vanish from my head the moment I turn off the faucet and dab my hands dry to get come type them all out.

 Hopefully, things will soon change. Something I have been ranting about for the past five years.  

#writing socialmedia change

[shilpapillai]

Words were all I had

Words used to be my best friend at one point in my life. I could speak anything and they would understand. We conversed through the medium of pen and paper. I used to keep a diary and would write down my thoughts and emotions and worries. It started in 2000. After the first diary ended, I started another one. That one ended and I got a third one. That never ended. I moved cities and there came an end to my writing.

My relationship with words took a more professional tone, like we got into a marriage. It became my source of income, my stability. But soon we started having trouble. We couldn’t understand each other, we couldn’t find anything on common grounds, more so because there was an external force bidding us to dance to the tunes of authority. I wrote what I was asked to write, and how to write.

The distance grew bigger and bigger, between words and me. We were still together only for the sake of a salary slip. Then one day, we decided to move even farther out, like a marriage that took a dull turn when one person walks out of the house. I tried to interact with words occasionally … like how it was, when we first started out. And the medium I chose was blogging. I started a blog, and tried to create the connection that was once magical. But, the bruises were skin deep. Things couldn’t go back to how it was.

The occasional meetings also began to recede and soon faded to once or twice a year. A door of opportunity opened in between but the universe conspired to follow a different plan, and I had to resign again… once again drying up the ink in my pen. We meet occasionally now, only for something official. But how reliant is freelancing? Especially when your relationship with words was much more meaningful, more personal and more intense.

At this precise moment I am writing this short note because I am unable to get words to cooperate with me on an assignment we got. A 700-word article on a trend-setter. Instead here I am, at 2.45, drowsy with sleep, and weighed down with regret. Our relation met its pathetic state because of the pressures of pleasing a fast-paced society. The transition of print media to social media took place at a huge price. A price our broken relationship is paying. While I enjoyed the long conversations I had with words in our diaries, the intrusion of digital convenience splashed ice over fire. And while things were still safe with the transition to Word file from a sheet of paper, the further transfer from folder on the Desktop to finding a niche in the tentacles of the world wide web extinguished the last ray of hope.

Now, everything seems to be lost. The relationship, a career, contentment, accomplishment. All lost. Editors, senior journalists, communication managers, recruitment officers, PR officers – all seem to have one eyebrow raised in question when I speak to them. They try to search my speech for the decade of writing experience I boast. Perhaps they see it too. A void; like an empty promise. How can I prove to them the beautiful and magical days of companionship I shared with words? When, together, hand in hand, we weaved magical stories, explored imaginary realms, trudged over tales of man and his emotions, and so on and so forth. If this has to resurrect, there is a lot of patience and will required. What is to say that will come?

And, what is to say it will not? I keep trying to let the words of JK Rowling inspire me: “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.”

My soles are sore; could be the rocks.

#words ambition writer failure hope

[shilpapillai]

Meswak magic

Have you ever heard about or read reviews on toothpaste? I haven’t; and feel too lazy to check that online. I don’t mean a company’s marketing strategy, but rather a blogger giving an opinionated piece on toothpastes.

It is mankind’s suprabhatham. The actual bite to break your fast, before the steaming idlis or hot cup of chai being brewed while you scrub your precious pearls. And yet, it is so undermined. No respect.

So, here I dedicate a blog to toothpastes.

My choice is Meswak. It has the most soothing, fresh mint-like feel. It is like a generator that suddenly brings a village to life after years of darkness. Like the ignition of a car jolting it to start after two weeks of heavy snowfall. So many examples, but you get the gist.

Meswak is not a common choice. It is one of those brands that are always on a rack in the store but most likely also always ignored. Unless there is an offer running and the more economical domesticity in you prods to reach out for Meswak. 

In India, the current toothpaste market is estimated at Rs 2,000 crores. However, this is not a significant number, especially considering the fact that the usage of toothpaste in India is far lower than most other nations. This is also because the Indian market is split into two – gel and powder, where a good portion, especially rural India, uses powder even to this day. And the concept of oral hygiene is not driven into the Indian lifestyle yet, especially brushing twice daily. There are also villages that still resort to cleaning teeth with the bark of certain medicinal trees or plants.

Colgate is the market leader in India, while Hindustan Lever Limited’s Close Up is not too far behind. Close Up is also the country’s first affair with toothpastes. Pepsodent is the struggling third choice that people pick up for the sake of picking up.

Sensodyne is the choice for the classy, upper echelon. Although that is all name. The tiny tube which cost me a month’s grocery allowance still stands proud in the bathroom, with no shame whatsoever of not turning my yellow stained teeth to pearly whites. Signal is about nostalgia. My brand-loyal father’s choice until the ‘non’ got stripped and he became a Resident Indian. Now he chooses Colgate. Ugh. Also, Signal is not made here, it is usually imported, as is other brands that are popular abroad.

So back to Meswak. Ask me why Meswak. Aaask. I will tell you – clove. Nothing but. The release of flavour that clove commits in your mouth when you consume it is unmatched to any sensation that any real spice can provide. It is like a spice bomb – a bomb of freshness.

Meswak also makes you want to brush your teeth. It will urge you when you get too lazy and hope for caffeine to kill the germs that set base on your teeth. Meswak is Starbucks that way. You will want to drive that five miles into town and grab your favourite cup of Latte with fresh cream. Not that I am fan of Starbucks, but so many actors keep flaunting it, that it almost seems like a Louis Vuitton of coffee shops. Maybe I should review coffee next.

Digressing!

Yes, Meswak. And now like any other review, here is the ‘proof through consumption’. One must experience what one is expected to experience. If you are a reader, albeit irregular, I would recommend that you try it. It will just cost you the same amount to get a plate of bhel puri. They come in two tubes, small and big. Get one today. If not an Indian resident, then try Amazon. They might have it; or eBay. If not, try Flip Kart, they promise to sell everything. Or just ask your Indian IT support to get it the next time he returns from home.

I must also add – Meswak has healing powers. It could be psychological but I will give it the benefit of doubt. You see, I never had a problem with my teeth until three years ago. Nothing – no cavities, no root canals, no dents no nothing. I have over-lapping teeth which I tried to correct while in high school and boasted that I was Iron Maiden. No, I still liked Boy Zone. But, three years ago the dams of control broke and my mouth surrendered to the terrors of a dentist appointment. A root canal, a tooth extraction, two cavities, one tooth surgery due to infection and braces – can you imagine? I survived, although scarred heavily. In mind, rather. That was too much pain even for my steel nerves to handle.

That was Colgate times. If I had met Meswak then, I am sure I would have had a smooth ‘bracing’ period. But, one learns from adversity.

Hey! I just did a Google search on Meswak to give you a company profile or the real meaning to the word and there is someone who calls it a bomb! See! It isn’t just me. I’m so proud.

Apparently, the ingredient responsible for the ‘bomb’ing is Salvadora persica plant. It was introduced by a company called Balsara in the late 1980s but later bought by Dabur, who currently owns it. Bipasha Basu is its brand ambassador. Ugh again.

Meswak or ‘miswak’ is a chewing stick. It is a twig ripped from trees such as Arak, Peelu, olive or walnut. Apparently scientific research has shown that this ‘wonder twig’ has 70 benefits which make it a natural alternative to tooth paste, toothbrush and floss – all combined. Where I come from, people used coal to brush their teeth. That worked too – such perfect whiteness. Like the Happy Dent ad.

As with most things I write about, I have one more bizarre memory of toothpaste. Not one incident, rather one myth people believed in. ‘If you swallow toothpaste, you will end up being black.’ Maybe there is a scientific explanation to this but nonetheless it is absolutely bizarre. Also, applying toothpaste over mild burns can help heal it. This not a myth, though. Toothpaste consists of antibacterial agents and antiseptic properties.

So there. The next time you look at toothpaste as just another decoration in the bathroom, remember that it has as much history as certain languages in the Indian subcontinent.

#toothpaste meswak

[shilpapillai]

Time waits for none

Fed up of hearing complaints during every weekly international call, my grandfather finally decided to try and help.

First, he went to a local herbal medicine centre and bought a pack of pills that helps boost memory. He also purchased a medium-sized bottle of oil for the same purpose, of which a good portion was full fat ghee or clarified butter.

He then sat down at his table, the one I am currently using to narrate this story, and brought out his stationery supplies (explains where I got those genes from) and laboriously sketched out something he must have not done in a few years since his retirement as headmaster. He made a Time Table. For yours only.

Neatly drawn columns filled with basic agenda like sleep, daily chores, breakfast, lunch, dinner, play time, nap, revision, study, bath, and prayer. It was simple and efficient. In his letter to me, along the TT folded neatly within the envelope, my grandfather also advised me to place it above my study desk.

I remember reading the letter and on going through the Time Table, I cried softly for the rest of the night. I stuck it above my study table, very neatly and meticulously. I went to sleep that night, determined. Next day, the 6AM alarm went off but I woke up much later. Too many years in between have clouded the exact time I finally dragged myself out of the bed. The Time Table remained on the wall for a few months, but my agenda hadn’t changed.

The phone calls grew longer; there was the added bit about how I was shamelessly ignoring a perfectly-prepared Time Table by the man whom I loved the most-est.

He didn’t give up. He started enquiring on people travelling to the Gulf anytime soon. He had a package for his Chippy. Urgent.

The clouds of time have again swept over memories on how it eventually made the trip to Bahrain.

I held the two bottles in hand and glanced at it, left and right. I read the letter that came with it. In his calligraphic writing he had written to me about that he was at ill-ease hearing my mother sing my not-really praises and had sent me these bottles so that it could help me remember my lessons.

Because my grandfather was a naïve, kind and furiously loving and doting man, he decided that, once again, I was not the culprit, but my memory was. He accused the food I was consuming (wilfully) and the arid desert air that I was breathing to be reasons for my low grades. It was a debate my mother could never win.

Religiously, I began taking the pills and ghee. One month hence, I had gained 10 kilos and my chin looked like I had coloured it with a black marker. The facial hair had arrived, and the ghee – well, the fat settled down. My body was a hospitable community to settle down and thrive. For posterity, it seemed.

I had failed him again. My intentions couldn’t match up to my actions and so I failed again and again. I had subconsciously decide not to bow to discipline. 

Someone once told me “you never listen to anybody no matter what. You will continue to do what the hell ever you feel you want to do, even if you know it is the wrong thing to do”. I had the audacity to feel offended then. Imagine.

Today, two decades later, I am sitting down to make a Time Table once again. If I fail this time, then I am done for life. I will be stamped incorrigible for life, and will have lost all rights to ‘suggest’ ‘recommend’ ‘advise’ people on anything. Fair, no?

However, if I can follow it, the benefit will be double fold. I will have tarred the bumpy road that currently lie ahead of me, and also erase the unfinished business that my grandfather’s soul may yearn.

#time memory discipline

[shilpapillai]

How to tolerate intolerance?

Sometime back, centuries ago, someone made a declaration of the world being round and not flat. That person was assigned to be killed by the church. It could have been the birth of intolerance. Then a young shepherd lad grew into a phenomenon who sacrificed his life for the sake of his followers when the land’s rulers couldn’t tolerate his ways of thinking and living.

Many aeons later, intolerance still lurks in the corners, watching silently and leaping to attack when innocent souls make a slip of the tongue and say out loud a thought from their logical minds.

When Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminal was renamed from the easier-on-the-tongue VT station, a room mate of mine, true-blood Marathi, had quipped, “Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminal it seems! Why one earth would they complicate such a simple, short and sweet name to something that has such a bhayankar (aggressive) feel to it?” She was lucky no one had smart phones then and that we lived in the second floor or a quiet neighbourhood where lurching Sainiks were unlikely.

Similarly, Kempegowda. Tipu Sultan had a better sound to it – easier on the tongue, see? Bangalore is lauded with foreigners and foreign interest, and Tipu Airport or TS Airport would have been so much easier to convey than KEMPEGOWDA. I mean the very sound of it makes you think of yamraj (god of death who rides a buffalo).

When we were little we had these fun riddles. One was – A drum kept inside a van and under a tree. What is it? Tri - Van – Drum: capital of the southern state of Kerala. What can children play with now? Thiru – vanantha - Puram. Really? Google cannot solve everything.

There is that famous photograph of a Muslim mother, in a burkha, walking with her son for a fancy dress competition it seemed, dressed up like Lord Krishna. It sent ripples of warmth across the country and our chests puffed in pride. Today, we our hearts would leap into cardiac arrest thinking of the fate of that mother and child, if, god forbid, a religious opposition sees them. Forget tolerating, they would come out saying that Muslims were running away with Lord Krishna. The blasphemy!

Which actually happened, by the way. Brutally honest and aggressively bold that she was, the late author Kamala Das made every Hindu’s skin crawl when she walked out of the religion to embrace Islam, but not without a controversial statement – ‘I am taking Krishna with me’. I still remember the fury in our Nair household. International calls, expensive at the time, were sacrificed to discuss the audacity of this arrogant, Hindu traitor girl who dared to speak the unthinkable.

People couldn’t tolerate it. But no one killed her, or attempted to. She lived on and died peacefully with a few thousand fans less.

The other day, I had gone walking into town. On the way was the big Muslim palli or mosque,   which has been here forever; only, this time it looked quite different. I couldn’t help marvelling at the structure. It seemed like it was recently renovated, and it looked quite majestic. A fresh coat of white paint sparkled in the sun, and the yellow chrysanthemums that decorated its high white walls further enhanced the beauty of the building. I quickly took out my phone, ready to take a picture. But I stopped mid-way and ever-so-carefully look about me to check if someone was watching. No one was, and I quickly took a shot and scurried off.

This is what the current intolerance has done to us. Had it been a few years ago when Hindu-Musalman were indeed bhai-bhai, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid before taking a picture of a mosque that seemed attractive to me.

While growing up in Bahrain we were always told to be careful and not use the sheikh’s name in any context. So much that we shouldn’t utter it aloud, lest someone hears it and either jails us or deports us. This was hammered into our brains by our parents and teachers so we were always on vigil. Intolerance from such a place is not so surprising. That was an Arab state ruled by kings and sheikhs, who were descendants of nomadic tribes. Although it is quite bizarre, we would let them get away with these things because we needed the tax-free jobs and didn’t care too much about the 500-word essays that their names were.  

It is hard to imagine that these are the same people who can tolerate open sewage. Unequipped hospitals and schools. Cows in the middle of national highways. Stray dogs that kills children. Inebriated actors that run over people. Dacoits and rapists that win elections. Thieving ministers that stay elected for multiple terms. Choosing capitation fees over scholarships. And so on.

This is not intolerance. This is politics. Nobody would care two hoots if Shah Rukh Khan was best friends with Dawood Ibrahim or Osama bin Laden. Now they care because they want people to think, live and see only saffron. Those who gave hi-fis (to the hand), are now getting their arms twisted to serve the lotus.

Hence the moral is; if you want to live in India you must tolerate all this intolerance.  So if I cannot tolerate people never sticking to queues ANYWHERE I go, well that is my problem and I must find a way to tolerate it. Even if it means gritting my teeth and digging nails into my palm and tolerating the urge to slap the person who has no queue discipline.