Letting my fingers type this one...

.... I will not let my brain come in the way.

Once, I lent my ears and attention to a civil services aspirant's life snippet. It involved the abandonment of an unfinished examination to take a friend and fellow examinee to medical attention that was suddenly needed. The protagonist later found that his qualification for the coveted spot was left wanting of the paper left behind. I have often, quite often, too often in-fact,  tried to evaluate the heroics and the foolhardy of what had transpired. Also, I have wondered how the situation would play now, and with different actors.

Someone mentioned that her memory of me was that of a person always surrounded with people.    "...in which life?" I asked.

While I grow older and collect more life lessons, I find that my person is in an awkward dance of sometimes an outward unfolding and of others where I crease and tuck away an aspect of myself that does not surface again if I can help it.

In another conversation from the past, I remember mentioning to someone (this is verbatim) "...my honesty is my way of respecting the person that you are..." to which she said (not verbatim) "... not everyone you meet will be ready or able to receive the gift of your sincerity...". I was too young to know fully what that meant.

A few months ago, I confessed to a friend of having forgotten an important piece of news shared with me. While cowering under the fierce lashes of her vitriol, I forgot to provide an appropriate explanation:  that of being overwhelmed with new parent fatigue or of being unable to guess (as I interpret it) that her recent gregariousness was simply an escape.

If you know me well (or know me at all) perhaps you are aware that for me a raised voice is death-by-asphyxiation of a relationship. And that I go to great lengths to protect myself from the possibility of such accidents. So, after about a decade of clean, verbal-conflict-free living, I was trapped and crucified again. The experience was as disorienting as the last one.

In my desperation to recover, I comb through my list of acquaintances, some of whom were perhaps friend once, to find another friend, spreading little electronic notes like spores. It is quite comical - the disconnect between my eagerness and the polite sleepy replies, if at all.

It must be the unnavigable grief of losing a friend that brought me here. I will get better (let me get back to being busy with motherhood.)

noName post

Swadha is 8 months today. I write this as she sleeps on my lap, overwhelmed by the beauty and simplicity of this act of absolute acceptance from my baby.

Such bliss!

I often wish it hadn't taken me so long to appreciate the utility of butterfly-netting thought-butterflies into sentences. Oh well. This moment will have to suffice.

Elsewhere, I feel pressed to release this into the universe, with a hope that I will be able to channel into the answer I get, that I will not lose it in the cacophony of everyday.

Becoming older; it makes the time gone by more distant, like a platform that stays put as the train moves away. With some luck, this space offers the opportunity of dispassionate introspection. I try to connect experiences with life lessons, and to the current version of my being. Sometimes, I am able to make sense of an arbitrary section in my life's tapestry that continues to unfold.

I am often told I am nice. I don't know exactly what that means: am I nice because I am very accommodating of people's interpretation of themselves. Or perhaps I am nice simply because I make room (with space to spare) for HD-display of self-flattering self-images, offering nothing in the form of a challenge.

Recently, I was paralyzed into inaction at a crucial time-point. It is far from a first for me and I am unsure of how much of it is out of concern for inflicting pain or out of an undebatable lack of courage. I also hold myself accountable for legless rationalization for not standing up for myself, or on other occasions, for the person at the poor end of the bargain.

Once, I was onboard a local bus to get to the transport that would help me get to Delhi. The 20- minute bus-ride cost less than 10 rupees. A co-passenger who had paid with a note of much bigger denomination was handed a few coins as change. When he inquired about the rest of his money he was accused of lying and verbally pounded into silence by a volley of insults. I couldn't stop myself from speaking up, having witnessed the transaction. It was followed by a similar deluge of insults and name calling, only now directed at both of us. As a release of my indignance and the shock at the misappropriation, I deboarded the bus.

An earthquake had hit and damaged my innocent confidence in the correct workings of the world. After having reached college, I released my angst in-front of a friend. It was suggested that the victim had it coming to him, given his inability to defend himself. I remained unconvinced and agitated, and writing about it, now, fifteen years since, has airdropped me into my unsettled mind space that I work very hard to keep at bay.

I mention this because I have to find a way to not give this to my baby - the inability to stand up against adversity. It is hard. It needs to be done.