An ode to the ordinary

Whilst figuring out a peg for this blog post, I realised that I have been on this platform for 11 years! 11 years of beginnings and endings, ups and downs, laughter and teas (tears too), new loves and heartbreaks – basically life. SO much to celebrate!

Now, some might say that 10 would have been a rounder figure to commemorate, perfect, even. And that is precisely why 11 is ideal, since “perfection” triggers my anxiety. Also, perfect is an illusion, a piece of wisdom I offer you as I reach YET another milestone – my 40th. Which is next year. In March. See how smooth that was.

I had toyed with the idea of launching a new blog to mark the fact that I survived 4 decades, but settled on a hashtag instead, which I will call an ode to the ordinary.

Why ordinary? I am glad you asked.

For as long as I can remember, Ordinary has been my personal nightmare. Living in a world chasing perfection and its cousin, I found that my choices were either to be the best or nothing. The middle ground was a concept alien to a child finding her place in this word. All or nothing – it was that simple. Every time I stumbled, I took it personally. Unlike fairy tales (or glossed over success stories) I didn’t dust off and carry on. I internalised the shame instead. Irrespective of whether or not I wanted it, a voice in my head kept asking me to be “the best”.

Thankfully, I have more than one voice in my head, and some are even friendly. Lately one of them has been asking, “get better at What? And what is wrong with what we have or what we do? Why do we have to be the BEST when good enough, is well, good enough.”

How about the vast middle of the ordinary that I have lived thus far, and actively tried to outrun.

I know that there are gaps in this narrative. They are not entirely deliberate because I am still trying to find answers. Moreover, I am not sure if filling these gaps in is necessary for this exploration here, in this space. While rich in their yield they are oftentimes personal and likely boring to anyone but me (and maybe my therapist).

What I do want to do today is set an intention. An intention to learn to accept things as they are. Not embellish them with deep aesthetics or deeper meaning. Instinctively I know that the practice is more complex than the words on this page. This year, I learn to celebrate the ordinary. The mundane. The dal chawal of life. My way. Unapologetically.

Q is for…

…Quilt

Dust motes wafting in the waning autumn sunlight.

Not unlike the lint particles dancing in tune to the thump-thump rhythm of the razai* maker’s staff as it magically weaves air into soft cotton wool; binding sterile whiteness to warm colours. A marriage of convenience.

Like a baraat® parading colour and finery, razais decked in deep maroons embellished with golden threads, green leaves and dainty vines, heady oranges – all promising to bring a dreary winter to life.

Warmth made to order.

Unlike its western cousin, the duvet, a razai wears its colours loud and proud – flamboyant, smug even, in its allure, knowing that no matter how far and long the traveller has been, when the cold winter night descends, (s)he is bound to crawl into its warmth, shedding her weariness of the day. Loathe to leave its embrace when the weak sunlight filters through the jaali^ windows, she lies snuggled for five more minutes. Or ten.

*Rajai/razai = Quilt made in parts of the Indian subcontinent (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Razai)

** cotton wool

®Wedding procession

^ net/wire mesh

Note: Somehow I always find my way back to the theme of “home”. Among other things, home for me is memories. This piece is an ode to one. I first wrote it as an entry for a litrary competition.

A celebration

There is so much I want to tell you but don’t know where to start. I hesitate also, to wonder, how does it even matter in the grand scheme of things, what I say or I don’t. In which case, let me say it anyway.

Reclaiming these pages from silence has been my intention for many weeks now, if for no other reason than the fact that I have missed haunting this space. Some time toward the end of March, a dear friend asked me to bring back the joker, and reinject some mirth here. Whilst I will not be doing that today, I was thrilled that my friend remembers and cherishes a part of me that I remember fondly.

I remember too all the hurt that spirited young woman condensed into funny lines and snarky self-deprecation; turning heartbreak into comedy; seeking validation via her art. Today I want to tell her, I am so proud of you. You never gave up on me. Yes we chased rainbows and perfection, but you never stopped believing. Believing that I would always look out for us. That even as we evolve we would never lose touch with who we are, Whilst change is/was constant so is your trust. Why am I writing in third person? Because sometimes, many times, and for some, most times, you need to be your own advocate, your own best friend, your own champion.

So today, I will use this space to honour that person who I was, who people read in these pages, but mostly that woman who kept showing up, rain or shine, striding, stumbling, seeking, sharing, resisting and striking out on her own. The woman I am today, owes so much to the girl I was. And I don’t ever want to forget that.

So whilst we never found the pot of gold at the end of said rainbow, we found something even better; we found us. Messy, unfinished, fulfilled in parts, filled with longing, imperfect, us. An endless work in progress, full of paradox(es?i?), ever flowing, but most importantly, some one who is enough. And who is learning to not be afraid of being enough.

To you who is reading, I don’t know what you may glean from the above, but if you find yourself reflected at any point, I wish for you peace and congruence. Thank you for indulging me, and you are welcome.