In which I finally understand my father's music

 It is that time of the year again, when my heart feels that it is being squeezed to the point of agony, the day I lost my father approaches again, and all the regret of things left unsaid strikes again. This year though, the pain is accompanied by all the sweet memories that I shared with him. 

I had a difficult relationship with my father, but he was a towering figure in my life and a staunch supporter, who encouraged me in all my pursuits. I inherited my love for music from my excellent mother but, I now realize that it is a trait I share with my father too. 

My mother has an ear for the great masters of classical music and, encouraged me to explore the genre, my father, on the other hand preferred the quieter tunes from old Hindi films. I have been listening to the tunes that he loved and it struck me that they all have gorgeous lyrics accompanying serene tunes. There are so many layers to these old songs; so many meaning to the poetic words. 

I read somewhere that we all eventually become like our parents, it is our curse....I think that there may be some truth to it; I find I understand my father better as I age, I even see the point behind my mother's quirks, I may not agree with either of their viewpoints, but I understand them better.

This is especially the case with my father, who is no longer around to argue or explain himself, in that scenario, the music he listened to, has made me understand him so much better. To hear the powerful words written by great poets who worked as lyricists in the 1950's and 60's and truly know for certain, the things that they wanted to convey and, my fathers preference for such melodies; make me wish I had more time with him. I might not fully turn into my parents or follow in their path, because they have different lived experiences, but their music makes me understand them better. 

Music is also a companion that has proven to be a balm for my hurts and, provide solace through my continued grief about my father's absence. It makes me feel closer to him. Plus on a brighter note, beautiful melodies with poignant words are always a great way to spend dreary autumnal afternoons. 

 The heart hurts every single time people are mean to you, but you put on a mask and pretend to be extra nice, extra polite, or after the bitterness in one's heart becomes a poison; you preemptively strike and say something nasty about your own self. But alas, the masochist in you waits.... just this once someone might disagree with your harsh judgement of yourself, but they never do. 

So the question is why is it that self harm in the form of emotional damage is not the mainstay of topics. World Mental health day just passed and everyone talked about it and how important it is, but how does one get over hatred towards oneself?

I say this because I have noticed the phenomenon where self depreciating humour can easily turn into statements of self loathing. Therapists can only talk about tiny steps but in this day and age affording therapy is also something people don't talk about as well as the privilege attached to being able to afford the treatment.

So again how does one get over the chaos within oneself? 

Why does the size of our bodies make the society around us deem us worthy of notice?

 It is raining cats and dogs outside, and instead of the joy rains usually bring to my heart all I can do is fret about how I can't walk today. One year ago I went to the doctor due to unusual weight gain despite engaging in regular exercise, and not being a heavy eater, in fact I am your usual run of the mill vegetarian. After a long series of tests, the doctor, who turned out to be a kindhearted and unbiased person (she believed me when I said I exercised regularly!) told me in no uncertain terms that I had PCOS and my body was effectively working against me. She promptly put me on the required medication and, forbade me from running for the time being, as I was in my quest to lose weight destroying my joints by putting undue strain on them. Thus started my transition from avid runner to reluctant walker, and fat person to not so fat person ( I still don't meet the ideal of society accepted thinness). 

I confess, that I still run, perhaps 30 mins once a week (like an addict, I need my fix although carefully rationed), but the rest of the time I spend walking and listening to podcasts and music from diverse genres such as Indian classical, fusion music, western classical, K-pop, and rock and roll. As boring as I find walking, having run seriously since the age of 12, I find the activity much more conducive to indulge in my passion for music. 

The positives of  discovering world music aside however; I have realized how different it is to be who I am as a person now. I have seen aspects of myself and have made unpleasant discoveries about my discomfort in my own skin. I had absolutely no sense of self worth. As if being fat and plain made me invisible. I know, on a cerebral level, that I matter, however, on a deep level, which stems from my emotional self, I did believe that I was worthless. These feelings came to the forefront when after a year of perseverance I managed to lose more than 25 kgs. I could see that the woman staring back from inside the mirror looked slightly different, but I didn't feel different. 

However, the reaction of the world was so drastically different, as to make me sit up and take notice. The well meaning of course commended me for my perseverance, these were generally women especially older women, the male gaze though was drastically different. Most of them seemed to view me with consternation; they looked at me with questioning eyes, as if wondering 'was she always attractive? or did we never pay attention?' Needless to say all these bizarre reactions solidified the great inferiority complex that I seem to have harboured in my mind for decades, which I only noticed now. 

To be honest it is hurtful, my own self loathing is deeply distressing, but what made me angry was the total and utter difference in treatment by the world around me. I feel like a fraud for the pretense that I indulged in for nearly half a dozen years; espousing, what I believed were feminist ideals of acceptance and body positivity, when all I was doing was running from the true feeling of self hatred and discomfort in my own skin. Was I always so superficial? I still don't believe that I am beautiful, but the fact that I am constantly being told by random people around me that I am suddenly attractive makes me feel as if I have lost the battle somehow. As if my quest to improve myself constantly, specifically my intellect, has somehow failed. I send this final question into the void then....Why do we always feel subpar as individuals due to our looks, why is our sense of self not satisfied with out intellectual capabilities and character? 

In which I muse whether I can still call myself a 'writer'

 A couple of weeks ago I met a remarkable woman, who is doing her all to preserve and, in some cases revive the otherwise moribund traditional arts and craft scene in India. Over a long discussion about our shared interests, which included books and music in addition to art, she suddenly asked me something that gave me pause; she asked me if I wrote and all I could say in reply was state bashfully that "I'm not clever enough!".

In my last post I had reflected over the past twelve years of maintaining this blog, which I have done so in opposition to my own personal demons, and crippling bouts of depression, physical ailments and grief, through sheer stubbornness. I finally came to a realization, one that left me bemused: I no longer feel confident enough to call myself a 'writer' ; compared to the time twelve years ago when it was all I could think of calling myself, it used to be my ultimate goal even back then whilst I was a trainee journalist, all I ever wanted to be was a writer, and write something meaningful, that would enrich the life of my readers. 

I even had the conceit to address this blog to my 'Dear Readers' in the vein of literary greats such as Charlotte Bronte...... What was I thinking? Perhaps, that the dream in which my words could be on someone's dusty shelf would come true, like a self fulfilling prophesy. Like so many of my oft berated generation, 'the millennials', I too started this blog and maintained it with the hope that one day I would amass followers who would acclaim my writing as the next big thing! Alas, like so many of my peers we cannot even lay claim to being called a 'writer' as we are only self published on our tiny corners of the internet where I suspect our only audience is the great void that is modern internet. 

Still, that one question: Do you write? and my hesitant denial... made me realize how the loss of aspirations and confidence in one's abilities has replaced ambition and hope. I don't mean for this to be a downer of a blog post, however, when did I change so much? What brought about such a dramatic turnaround? Will I ever return to confidently calling myself a 'writer' ? I send all the questions into the void...I know, I may never receive a reply. Yet, the hope that I can solve my own conundrum springs eternal. 

In which I look back at the past 12 years of this Blog

It has been twelve years since I started this blog, twelve long years where I've gone from an idealistic Journalism student to a jaded woman, older but definitely not wiser. This blog began as an assignment that was part of my journalism course, and as I never ever had any readers or anybody who cared enough about my writing, this has now become a personal journal of sorts, one that I send out into the great void that it the internet in the third decade of the 21st century. 

There are many things that I have shared through the course of my journey, but I saw that most of my posts have been about my great loves, reading, music, family, life etc. Despite suffering from depression for the better part of two decades, I still have great loves you see, and dreams that are still meant to be realised..... Life is bad and can get better....but I still love life..... Rain, good food, the company of my mother, great music, recently Kpop dance videos etc make me happy albeit for a small amount of time, but I still have the ability to seek happiness in small moments in life. 

This random entry is by no means the great feat of literary hijinks that I aspired to, when I began this blog, but the ability to write a coherent sentence is something that I've come to appreciate more and more as I advance into my 30s. It is a confusing decade, that has brought about some unexpected pitfalls not related to the usual process of aging that plagues us Millennials. 

But the reason for this post is to remind myself that despite everything, I have still managed to keep up this blog for 12 whole years, which to my mind has been a great learning experience for someone like me, I see that my style of communicating has changed and perhaps become more of a reflection of who I am as a person, whilst when I began this it was more about following a given assignment with a guideline. I hope that I can keep this up for a long time, perhaps be more regular. So here's to another twelve years of writing this blog.