The Roaches Are Here

At around 1.45am I stumble out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I turn the light switch on before I enter, like I always do (it gives whatever djinns and animals roaming inside fair warning that a human is approaching). I open the door and the biggest cockroach I have ever seen walks out. He (I assume...they?) freezes. I freeze. I'm startled but not scared. Despite being bitten by wasps and regularly cleaning lizard poop off my floors I'm not easily freaked out by anything besides rats.
My reason for freezing is I'm polite. I'd like to give the cockroach a chance to gather its wits and make its next move.

At this point, I should mention I haven't really had a human in my home for a couple of weeks. It takes me a while to tell myself that having roaches in the house is not good. In fact I haven't seen one in my house since 2016. I scroll through my database of insect knowledge - why exactly are cockroaches bad? They don't bite or chew through stuff. They don't carry life-threatening viruses (well...they might). Why am I supposed to take my chappal off and squash this guy?

I really don't want to take my chappal off and squash this guy. The cockroach-chappal-squash move is something we've all grown up with and somewhere it's become the automatic Darwinian response of south asians to all pests. But who said that's the only way to deal with cockroaches? What if we let them walk away? What would happen?

I must google this, I think, as the cockroach remains frozen, contemplating its power move. I must also add 'Cockroach killer' to my shopping list although I'm not decided whether to use it or not. Have I mentioned that no human besides me has entered my home in weeks?

Two weeks ago I was attacked by a swarm of wasps. It's not their fault, I'd barged in on them quite suddenly as they were building their nest on disputed property. According to the Indian constitution, I have rights over this building. According to natural law, the Indian constitution can go suck it. It was painful as sin. My arm and back swelled up to theatrical proportions and everything was very tragic looking (and feeling) for a week. The wasps got it worse. The ones that stung me died. The rest had to deal with me for the next 2 weeks as I set upon a daily routine of breaking whatever nest they'd built through the day.
Wasps are exceedingly persistent. To the point of being, in my opinion, stupid af. They will build no matter what. Like robots programmed to execute code with no regard for value of labour or consequence. Despite the fact that I break their construction every single day they return to rebuild. I've taken hits too. The glass lampshade they decided to construct on got smashed to bits because of my indelicate stick manoeuvres. As of today, they continue to build through the morning. At around noon, most of them will disperse (lunch break?) leaving one poor sod behind (to guard the fortress?). I will then sneak up with my stick (curtain rod) and poke at the nest until it falls. That poor guard wasp, the shit it must have to listen to every afternoon when the others return to find their hard work undone. GO SOMEWHERE ELSE, YOU FOOLS! I want to scream every single day. Do you think I enjoy destroying your homes and your chance to build a future, I yell at them like a serial gaslighter. But they never listen. It doesn't matter I guess. Soon the nesting season will be over and the problem will take care of itself.

Roaches, I can tell even without googling, are not seasonal. I suppose at some point I'll have to do something violent to them. I'm still standing outside the bathroom, waiting for Big Guy to decide where he wants to go. Just go anywhere please, I won't do anything to you tonight, I plead. I really need to go to the toilet. The bastard doesn't care (does he know what I did to the wasps? Is this revenge?) so I stomp my foot. Perhaps its Darwinian response is to scuttle when it feels the south asian chappal approaching. It makes a beeline for the living room. For now there is truce.

It's summer in a pandemic. The wasps will soon leave. The roaches are here.

Hat Tip To My Anxiety

I'll say this in praise of my anxiety - it'll try everything once.
It's always got one eye out looking for comfort.

Before the lockdown we would take walks, my anxiety and I. Now it's all downward dog this, chaturanga that. Breathe breathe breathe that newly purified air you muthaloving human, my anxiety chants.

Enough blood to the skull resolves the tightness.
We allow ourselves to become cliches.
We won't read the books we said we would and we won't stay awake as late as we'd hoped.

Cook once, clean twice, binge watch. Then turn them into monuments of functionality.

Things my anxiety doesn't know.
What this post is about it until the first sentence is written.
That it will eat 3 lunches in one day or nap from 2 to 6pm.
Or that this task will be abandoned in 3...2...1.

Making money? We don't do that anymore.
Write more than 3 lines at a time? We don't do that anymore.
Plan? Laugh. Out. Loud.

It's annoying, this brain-fart prose.
My anxiety shortens things. Sentences, breath, ambition. This blog post.
Enjoy.

Older

Aren’t we supposed to get wiser as we get older? I must’ve missed the memo.

The abiding takeaway from this whole advancing towards middle age thing has been: confusion.

I long for the certainty of my early 20s, when this was absolutely good and that was definitely wrong. When of course art trumped the artist and hell yes, we'd yell bloody murder if someone assaulted or cheated on us.

Now? Mmmmmm….ffffff…..eh - I don’t know…

Such a gift. This aging.

I’m in the last year of my 30s so technically – technically – I’m not old. But thanks to the magic of television, the Panic has started. Not really of boobs sagging or fuses going pffft on the ovaries, but of knowing that this is it. I am not Helen Mirren. I won’t be shooting gangsters at 70.

Nope.

I’m going to be broke like a millennial. Gosh that made me feel younger for a minute.

I will tell you this though.

If we age correctly, it won’t be because things get less confusing. It’ll be because they get more so. The cause – our humanity. We may have had all the education, all the cuddles and all the life-lessons handed down to us; we may try really hard not to be a little shit – but a little shit we will be. We will, at different points in our lives, be both perpetrator and victim. We cannot avoid it. Understanding that this is who we are, is hard. 

Into the cracks of these existential catastrophes, we must dive. The waters are murky. There’s no way but to feel our way through the contradictions. Turns out we sometimes lie, cheat and step over another for our self-interest. Turns out, we can be weak. We won’t be the girl who reports her abuser. We won’t be the guy who turns down a job in the tobacco industry. Still. We are the girl who stood by someone’s depression, someone’s cancer. We are the guy, who supported a colleague’s fight against workplace harassment. We showed up for the tough stuff. We let someone down. We risked reputation for the greater good. Sometimes we weren't up for the fight. 

We will grapple with how both versions of self can exist side by side. We will realise that our lives aren't bigger than Life, that complex beast just beyond reach. When we surface, we will feel good. Look ma, I learned this thing. Look ma, I saw.

Not so fast. We merely survived. We didn’t flippin’ triumph okay? Our cave wasn’t the only one. Our learning wasn’t one-size-fits-all. We came out with the Shoulds still strapped to our backs.

So here's the bad news, we might have to dive in again. And again. And again, until we discover the meaning in our contradictions: compassion. 

Because really, there's no other way. We tried judgement, it didn't make us better. We tried debilitating criticism - the self-talk nearly killed us. We held ourselves & each other to impossible standards. We only caused hurt in the end.

With compassion we might be able to tell the difference between mistakes, ignorance and Trumpian evil. We might learn how to discern what deserves our anger and what doesn't. Compassion allows room for confusion. But more radically, confusion, allows room for compassion. And maybe that's why we age at all.

Because there sure as hell isn't any medal at the end of it.

Source: https://adelaidescuba.com.au/continue-dive-training/item/11-deep-diving.html

The Greatest Threat

• 
  
• 
  
• Sherlock: I am without peer. Without sane peer, anyway, which is functionally identical to being without peer, full stop. I can only extend so much of myself to a non-peer, which means I can only extend so much of myself to anyone. I've made progress, of course, but I don't know how much more growth there is within me. If I can never value a relationship properly, then, at what point do I stop trying to maintain them?
• 
  
• Meeting leader: You haven't turned your back on the world yet.
• 
  
• Sherlock: But I am without peer. And that's the greatest threat to my sobriety.
• 
  
• Elementary 
• S02E21

Six Ways To Sunday

For you, you motherfucker 

First was when you said

You’d never love

Never stay

You fucked me one way to Sunday

Second was when you stayed

The night

The next day

You fucked me two ways to Sunday

Third was when you danced

Closer

Then away

You fucked me three ways to Sunday

Fourth was when you kissed

Me to life

Awake

You fucked me four ways to Sunday

Fifth was when you left

Returned

Escaped

You fucked me five ways to Sunday

Sixth was when you stubbed

Us out
like a smoke

After you came six ways to Sunday

22 Feb, 2018

Dance

Dance around the empty page as if it were a wild animal ready to lunge.

Staying still is effective. Sometimes climbing a tree. Sometimes trusting that it won’t care to devour you.

Dance around the empty page like Ali.

Be masterful in technique and quick on your feet. Anticipate, shuffle & weave. Your words, your swirling thoughts - align them into one deft move. Wait until the moment’s right. Ding, ding, ding. It could all be over in a flash.

Dance around the empty page like an unsure contestant on a reality show. 
Carry your hopes & ambitions on your back. Don’t let them weigh you down. Be light. Own the stage. You won’t know if it’s your day until you’re in the spotlight. Hope like hell it is.

Dance around the empty page like it’s a ritual, dark art.

It might fold itself into precise linearity, building itself up to be the sharpest of scalpels, designed to pierce your many skins and make your insides spill out. It might hurt.

Dance around the empty page like it’s home.

Open secret doors that only you know exist. Search fearlessly in hidden corners. Sashay & swing from the rafters. Know that its beams will hold you. You are safe.

http://mohiniyattamdance.blogspot.in/2012/03/mudras-hand-gestures-in-mohiniyattamii.html

Work

One of the first performance reviews I ever received as a professional was, “You bounce too much.” I was 20 and this was my first job in a film production house. I had three bosses, all men. I didn’t know then that feedback on my buoyancy qualified as harassment. At the time, there weren’t too many companies doing the type of work I valued. So I stuck around for 17 more years.

It’s taken me nearly two decades but I’ve grown from intern to the title of ‘Head of Content & Creative Development’. My work is appreciated. I get due credit for every deadline I meet and every product I turn in. I am given a chair at meetings, where as the sole woman in the company I am often referred to as ‘Madam’. Meetings usually begin with stories from my boss’s life. We are expected to either laugh in solidarity or gasp in wonderment. At some point, he swivels his chair towards me and says, “Toh Madam, kya karein iska?” What should we do about this issue?

I then jump in with all the enthusiasm of someone snorting the same stuff Sheryl Sandberg does. I am flush with ideas on how to build and solidify teams, how to make operations more efficient, how to resolve the financial holes we seem to find ourselves in regularly. My boss’s eyes glaze over. I know he is far away now and my voice is white noise. As my designation in this organisation becomes loftier, its men develop increasingly creative ways to tune me out. Typically, there is no real outcome to the endless meetings (why aren’t these men in a hurry to go home? Why do they search for excuses to hang around in office? Are they avoiding domestic duties? Do they equate being in office with being useful?). Within weeks, we hit another crisis. I get called by my boss, “Madam, we should have listened to you. Let’s have another meeting to discuss.”

In the interim, I continue being validated for the films I write. Regularly spaced pats on the head and good-work-gold-stars keep me satiated even as other contributions are summarily dismissed. I conclude that my ideas are bad. I’m an efficient workhorse but I just don’t have the chops to lead.

Then I walk in another door. This time as volunteer at a community project. It is led by a woman, supported by a council, predominantly, of women. In the beginning I decide to stick to my corner, be an efficient worker and go home with the satisfaction of a day’s job well done. When I am given a seat at the table within one short year I assume it’s because I show up and do what is asked. It doesn’t occur to me that the project head thinks I can, well, contribute. But she does. She demands my ideas, expects my leadership and extends support. She finds a 25^th hour in the day to consider my thoughts.

I begin haltingly, often filled with terror and flooded with a sense of inadequacy. Despite that, things work out like I strategized. I marvel at the meetings we have. They don’t begin with the mandatory stoking of egos I’m otherwise used to. People stick to agendas. There is big idealistic talk but it’s mixed with practical strategies. We hold each other accountable and we applaud each other’s achievements. No one swivels their chair and calls me ‘Madam’.

We are busy people juggling home, children, day jobs, passions and this work. We are often tired from other parts of our lives in ways that I’ve not seen men be (seriously, we need to stop being so tired all the time). Time, therefore, is a precious commodity not be wasted, not even on self-doubt. Ideas are converted into reality with great efficiency. I update my CV from workhorse to leader.

I often wonder if these starkly different professional experiences are a function of gender alone. After all, leadership styles differ and it may simply be that to me, one individual is more impactful than the other. Yet, I see similar experiences reflected, time and again, in the stories of other women and I realise they aren’t just mine. I hear about women’s voices being muted, even as their labour is consumed by male-majority groups. I observe women being invisiblized, when they stretch beyond what they’re hired to do. Here we are, us women, ‘leaning in’ to the point of falling on our faces and there’s barely a ripple in the fabric of the dude-workspace.

I used to alternate between despair and shrill outcry. I used to want to show the man. Not any more. Increasingly, there are all-male meetings without me, where I imagine chairs swivel as folks discuss how madam has lost her edge doing ‘NGO hobbies’. Meanwhile, I take my creative energy to new partners. We shake hands on the promise that our talents won’t be wasted. We widen our circle of influence and build new things.

When time comes to review my performance, I know I will hold up well. I may even get extra points for bouncing.

*****

A version of this piece first appeared in November 2017, on The Ladies Compartment - a website that's mysteriously disappeared, which is good because it (my piece) was hacked to pieces by the editor.

The Schuyler Sisters from 'Hamilton'