Uncategorized – The Gait

Morning of Cyclone Nisarga

Mumbai, India – June 3rd 2020 – 12:33PM

I’ve had a Word Doc with this story open on my laptop in hopes I would put it to use somewhere in my writing. I was three months into lockdown when I wrote this during what everyone thought was an early monsoon but really it was just a cyclone. It was a great exercise in describing the senses the way I experience them. Maybe its today’s persistent rain but somehow it felt like a blog post would make a better home for this material.

Sitting at my desktop by my balcony window, the church bells rang. They ring everyday at 12:30PM. I can hear the bells from St. Theresa’s Church just behind my building. Even in the midst of a cyclone, the church bells will ring. One day I need to remember to ask someone if there is an actual physical person that rings the bells (because in India there is a person for every job) or if it’s put on a timer.

I took me a few tries before I got the name right. Naisagara? Nagarasa? I just came to know its Nisarga. I never would have come up with that combination of letters, ever. It’s another thing that separates Indians and me. They probably got it right on the first try.

Dark clouds steamroll through the sky and there is a soft crackle of thunder.

I can hear the squeaky creaky windows and the gusts of wind as they swoosh across town. I can hear the caws of crows in search of a dry home. I can hear the billowing up of a tarp from a rooftop nearby. I guess it wasn’t pinned down properly. Of even if it were, some breeze would sneak in and fill its lungs with air. I can hear the soft rustle of trees as their branches and leave shake, heavy with rain.

I can hear the honking of cars and the screech of a rickshaw’s tire on the wet ground.

I can still hear the pressure cooker from a nearby kitchen. It could be from any of the surrounding buildings, not just mine. You’d be surprised how far the sound of a pressure cooker can follow.

I can almost hear the sound of waves from the ocean, the thunderous clap of the high tide against the water. A definite roar as it crashes on land and over smooth black rocks.

The wind flaps outside my balcony window. I’m drawn in by its smell; it’s fresh, clean, natural smell. Last night when the rain started falling, Martha and I stepped outside. I could smell dirt with a hint of freshness. Maybe that’s my American sense kicking in, thinking of the Mom’s backyard when we’d stand outside on her patio just before a storm, to take in the breeze and breath in the strong smell of fresh grass, wet grass. Grass. We don’t have much grass in Mumbai so perhaps it’s the waft of a wet tree nearby.

I can hear a faraway horn. Is it a conch call? I can’t tell. I have heard pujas and prayers from up here. I don’t know how far or close they were happening but I have heard a lot of religious sounds from way up here, sounds from funerals and weddings.

Solemn straight lines of men dressed in white suits with white beards. A casket follows. Men and women together in kurtas and pants walk slowly and calmly in the street, following a car that inched towards its final destination.

But then, bangles and drums and whistles and singing, the groom is on his way to the bride! A street full of color and movement, and yet, the wedding moved just as slowly as the hearse.

Martha walks in to begin her cleaning for the day. She starts with the balcony. I remind her to bring the fan in today so it doesn’t get spoiled in the rain. Small droplets have probably already fallen on it but it wasn’t plugged in. It seems she’s taken up a new mission today, cleaning the wire mesh that wraps around the front of my balcony, keeping out the pigeons but ruining my photo opps. The wiring has been dirty for a while. I noticed it more when we did a major cleaning during the lockdown (still currently on) and I told her to clean it. I never followed up with her about it. I want to cheer her on, support her, and show that I appreciate her efforts. That she remembered and did it without me having to tell her. Did the dirty wire mesh bother me? Yes. But did I care enough to tell her to clean it again? Not at all. Up close it was a mess but you couldn’t see it from far away, not even from this desktop.

I don’t hear people, I barely hear people. These days, the people are all inside. Because of a pandemic, corona virus, and now because of the cyclone. Because they are scared to go outside, because they need to be logged onto the computer working from home, because the schools are shut and the kids are home and there is too much household work to be done. Cooking, cleaning, sorting, organizing, praying, exercising, playing and typing and talking and laughing that needs to be attended to.

There is so much to do at home and yet with so little space. Even if you live in a big bungalow or five BHK, your space can feel so small. I have been trying to use and occupy my space better, peer out of every corner and look at every angle. I want to see buildings I never saw before and experience new views. I want to absorb my surroundings and hug every inch of my city. My city of Mumbai, my home, my new home. I want to know every sound and watch every person that comes into my view. Observe their behavior, their body and movements. I can’t see most of their faces at this distance so the larger movements are all I can go by. Except for the rooftop of the building next door that faces my balcony. I’m a little higher up from them but they are the closest people I can see. I can see some of their faces and have a good idea what they look like from a distance. Closer up may be another thing. I wonder if I would notice them on the street? If we were to pass each other downstairs or ran into one another at Liberty Chemist around the corner, a corner we share, would I recognize them?

One woman that stands out reminds me of my yoga teacher. She looks taller than Karishma, my yoga teacher, but she’s got a slim build, walks very upright and has the same hair color as Karishma. A mixture of yellows and golds and browns. She always in fitted athletic wear and ties her hair in a ponytail. She moves like Karishma too. Because of this, I call her Karishma or yoga lady. Then there is a pudgy boy with the glasses and his little sister and I’m not sure who those other people are but there is a lady and another teenage looking kid with them. Then there’s spectacles, he comes everyday to go for a walk. A man, probably in his late forties or fifties, in his joggers with his phone and headphones. He walks everyday. He’s looked up a bunch of times at me and we catch each other’s gaze from a distance but it’s more my who the fuck are you type of gaze. Not a warm gaze. I stare hard at him almost like back off I wanna wear shorts and a dress and be myself without having your eyes on me, you creepy Indian uncle.

Beeping of cars and children in the distance. I can hear the beating down of rain now against the ground.

I hear a train in the distance. Martha stops wiping the floors to look up at me and say, is that a train? We both wonder. We wonder where it’s going, why it’s making that noise. Martha says local trains are running again with limited service. But where is that train sound coming from? she asks herself. SV Road? They haven’t finished building that train track, can’t be that. Bandra Station? It’s so far off, how could the sound travel all the way here? Martha says there aren’t any other sounds outside so the stillness of the city would let a trains whistle travel longer than it otherwise might.

I smiled. If only she listened, she’d hear the sounds.

The Importance of Humor: From Frustrated to Funny

Finding the funny in the darkest of times

I’m reviving my posts from five years ago, when I started blogging for a website by the Muscular Dystrophy Association called Transitions. The posts were written by people with neuromuscular conditions who were in the midst of any life transition: age, disease-related, anything significant that affected his/her life. Starting this off with one of my favorites!

Maintaining a good sense of humor about the various pitfalls I face living with a neuromuscular condition is one my greatest challenges. At first one might ask, what could be humorous about weakening muscles and limited mobility? When I was diagnosed 6 years ago, I couldn’t fully comprehend what life with LGMD would entail and the changes I would need to make to my life. A trip out the door felt like a game of Super Mario Brothers (a testament to my knowledge about current video games) — I had to jump, hop and skip at the right time, be super cautious about my moves, all while having my faithful partner Yoshi by my side for assistance otherwise I’d pay the price: a fall, fracture or worse. I was angry I couldn’t move with effortless grace like other women. Humor came with time and acceptance; I was able to discover the funny in the midst of my frustrations. A sense of humor has helped me deal with accepting living with LGMD and in better fostering my relationships. Instead of spending hours in a downward spiral of depression over something MD related that happened I came to discover time was much better spent finding the humor in these unique life experiences, learning from them and moving on.

Traveling with a disability is certainly not an easy thing to do. I recall a trip the Caribbean I took with a friend. It was our first time vacationing together and even though she was well aware of my physical limitations, I knew going on vacation together would be a whole different experience. The plane landed on the tarmac. Passengers proceeded to exit down the narrow steps. As we waited on-board for my wheelchair, I knew I was going to be carried down. Two disabled service men arrived and I was quickly placed in the chair — standard procedure. What was different this time around from others was that I was strapped in — arms and legs zip tied up. I felt like I was being institutionalized/packaged away for storage. Mildly embarrassed, I thought, ‘Oh God, this is a great way to start our vacation together.” I looked over at my friend, nervous to see her expression. I sensed a twinge of shock mixed with satisfaction that the airline personnel took my care seriously. We immediately both burst out in fits of laughter. We refer to this moment as my ‘psycho exit’. I later came to know it was indeed standard procedure for wheelchair passengers to be carried down in the safest manner possible, ie: securing all appendages in the vehicle. Our vacation turned out wonderfully — a trip to the grocery store became my friend Sam driving me around in the hotel wheelchair as I grabbed bottles of water and snacks from the aisles, dumping them into the basket on my lap. What would have otherwise been intense moments of outrage over my harsh realities became remembered moments for Sam and I. We still talk about the strange nature of some of the places MD has led us (ie: exploring hidden sides to restaurants/hotels/etc so as to access the service elevator, experimenting with whether wheelchairs will roll on the beach and so on). Being able to deal with those moments responsibly and laugh about it was key. It of course makes a difference when you have great friends who support you.

Prolonged staring is a common phenomenon in India. Sure, people are curious by nature but when they can’t make sense of things in front of them, their eyes tend to linger much longer. The stares used to bother me a lot in the beginning. I have my moments now when it still bothers me. What I better understanding now more than ever is that people are just plain curious. Sometimes, it’s none of their business and most of the time, it’s not their fault. Curiosity is a natural human tendency and unfortunately so is ignorance. The best way to combat these two things is with knowledge. The initial look of confusion/curiosity turns into one of understanding. At least, I hope it does. ‘What’s wrong with you?’, becomes ‘How can I help you?’ But not everyone is open to learning more. When staring becomes intrusive or accusatory, I play around with it. One day while visiting family in Delhi, I was feeling particularly tired and so my mom and uncle helped me get to the car. With each one supporting me on either side, an old man on the street screamed out in Hindi, ‘Look at that girl, she’s drunk! And it’s the afternoon!” I wasn’t sure what offended him more — the fact that I was a girl who was drunk or that I was drunk in the afternoon. Just to be clear, I was completely sober but because of my unsteady gait, this man was certain I was in fact drunk. My uncle was quick to correct him but for whatever reason, I found the situation ridiculous and absolutely hilarious. I played along to his idea of my being intoxicated, swaying a bit more than I needed to, my mom, uncle and I in stitches as we gathered into the car. Now I know this isn’t the best/smartest/most mature way to deal with a situation like that, but hey, let’s face it, we have to take those moments when we get them. Humor helped me create memories (albeit, weird ones) with my family and brought me closer to them because I was able to remove myself from the seriousness of the situation.

All this to say, I take my condition very seriously. But I don’t let the weight of it all overwhelm my life. I take pleasure in finding small joys however and wherever I may find them. I used to believe that laughing at my problems was a sure sign of denial or insecurity. That’s not always the case. Humor lightens the mood both for myself and for those around me. And I genuinely find the situations I’ve been involved with very amusing. Remembering to find the funny has been immensely gratifying for me. I’ve accepted many more things about my condition because of the way I look at them now, through smiling eyes.

Opportunity Costs

I was going through old writings of mine and came across blog posts I wrote from MDA (Muscular Dystrophy Association) Transitions. This blog was created to give a voice to people with neuromuscular conditions transitioning from one age group to another. MDA did away with the blog but I have to say I do love what I shared on it, even if the writing style makes me cringe now, the feelings about it remain. I was in my mid-20’s, the peak of my anxiety, when I wrote the below entry about opportunity costs. I still face some of these issues but re-reading this reminded me just how far I’ve come.

“So be sure when you step, Step with care and great tact. And remember that life’s A Great Balancing Act. And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! (98 and ¾ percent guaranteed) Kid, you’ll move mountains.” — -Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

Life is said to be a great balancing act. Humans have been trying to achieve balance since 2,000 B.C. The art of measurement was appreciated in Greek and Egyptian cultures: Dike, the goddess of justice, held tight the balance scales while Egyptian God Anubis weighed the hearts of the deceased to deem whether a soul was worthy of sanctified heaven or destined for the fiery pits of hell. It seemed our decisions and actions came with a cost, some heavier than others.

Why so much thought on balance and scales? LGMD (limb-girdle muscular dystrophy) is such that if you overexert yourself, you’re done for. It demands from you a certain amount of activity and exercise, the perfect type of diet and just the right amount of rest to avoid fatigue. In the past year, I’ve come more and more to a crossroads, picking and choosing between what I want to do, what I can do, what I’m unable to do, and what my body is telling me to do. Which do I satisfy and where do I go? I’m pulled in multiple directions, anxiety and pressure building in my mind. It’s as if LGMD broke me; I used to be fearless but lately I can’t help but feel filled with fear. It can be overwhelming knowing that each decision made will set the tone for the rest of the day, maybe even the week. How do you know which voice to listen to and whether you’re making the right decision?

Being a young person with a disability comes with its own slew of unique struggles, one of which is keeping up with the rest. I was diagnosed fresh out of college when life was meant to be its most exciting. And it certainly was exciting, but not because of my all-star career, dramatic relationships or whatever it was early-20-somethings were supposed to be doing. I was traveling and discovering what it meant to have a neuromuscular disease. Along the way, I learned the tricks and trade of LGMD and attempted to put my best foot forward. But I of course tripped up. Social pressure got the best of me early on and I made poor decisions. I forced myself on solo treks into the unknown wearing questionable footwear, exerting myself physically so many times in an effort to keep up with my peers and prove to myself that I was capable. This usually resulted in me crawling back home a crumbled mess. Back from the parties and excursions where I felt I needed to accomplish something major. Back to my family who always picked up the broken pieces my self. I wasn’t yet able to accept and understand my limitations so I fought hard against them, putting myself in precarious situations. I’m not saying I did this all the time, but in retrospect (which is 20/20), I could have made better choices. Everyone has to make decisions about their lives everyday. But the cost of my actions felt greater, knowing that if I made a wrong move, I might end up paying dearly with a fall or worst yet, a broken bone.

The idea of having to choose between doing one activity over another reminds me a concept I learned about in my college Economics courses: the opportunity cost. It refers to opportunities that are forgone by choosing one alternative over another. Part of the struggle with decision-making is being happy with your choices. What did I lose by not participating in X activity? What memories did I fail to create? Whom did I miss meeting? And what did I gain from not partaking? I wondered what the costs were of my choices and whether I would ever feel satiated.

As I grew more familiar with LGMD, listened to my body and calmed my mind, I was able to identify what my body wanted and what I needed. I understood the difference between physical fatigues and mental mind games. I started weighing the cost-benefit of going shopping versus staying home and not worrying about the opportunity costs. I read the signals my body gives me to help guide my decisions. I ask myself “Is it worth it?” which clarifies any points of confusion about my choices. Some alternatives were tiring and definitely worth it while others simply were not. With time, my priorities have changed and I can say that I am more at peace with my decisions. I still feel overwhelmed at times and try to come back to the scales, the great balancing act of life. It need not be perfect but balance was key.

When I look back on the painful moments of truth I had to experience and still experience, I believe that it’s all certainly worth it — my moments of failure allowed me to build success over time. By sorting through opportunity costs, I figured out which ones mattered most to me. I bought Dr. Seuss’s “Oh, The Places You’ll Go!” when I graduated college to remind myself of the extreme ups and downs we face in life. I won’t always make the right decision but I know that I am not the sum value of my costs. Whether I go for the physical choice or opt out, I know with each step I am moving mountains.

I’m human, not cargo: Navigating the daily challenge of stairs, steps and bad ramps

It was my first night out in my new home city of Mumbai. My mother was staying with me for three months before heading back to our hometown in New Jersey and shrilled with excitement upon discovering my evening plans at Mehboob Studios. ‘Did you know the shooting for Mother India happened there? Of course, that was “my time.”’ I ignored the studio’s fame entirely; my sole focus on the anticipation of witnessing a concert in Mumbai. Clearly, Bollywood appealed to my mother as much as the allure of this new city did to me. I arrived early, as I usually do when checking out a new place, only to discover an already packed parking lot.

I wove through the throng of concertgoers, making sure to place my cane down steadily as a signal to others — I wasn’t someone to be pushed. A security guard emerged from a backdoor. I asked him about the performance. He drew a long finger pointed towards a steep set of steps. ‘Upar hai.’ (It’s upstairs.)

‘Well, shit.’ I stood around for a minute or two with my pre-paid ticket in hand. My friend’s invitation to the show didn’t come with accessibility details, and my eagerness to attend made it slip my mind to ask.

Four years into discovering I had limb-girdle muscular dystrophy, my condition had progressed to the point where stair-climbing was out. Maybe a part of me didn’t care whether or not there were stairs — I was determined to have the experience. There was no service elevator, no secret entrance that allowed me to effortlessly glide into the upstairs studio. My excitement quickly waned. I looked up once more at the long, narrow staircase and promptly dialled Balu, who has worked for my family as a driver for many years.

The guard began to understand the situation and insisted I could be carried up in a plastic patio chair. He’d walk up the stairs backwards, directing Balu and two other men he recruited to carry me up. I hesitated at this large feat: was this too much effort for a concert? Did I want to put myself through this? I turned to Balu, ‘Are you sure about this? Is it safe? There are a lot of stairs, you know.’ I asked myself, is this worth it? At the time, it was. And so up I went, gripping hard at the chair’s sharp edges, trusting nothing would go wrong.

‘Side per reh, side, side, side (Stay on the side),’ the guard shouted on our shaky journey up. The following thoughts ran through my mind: ‘Why am I doing this? Do I weigh too much for these guys? What if they pull a muscle doing this? Can I trust these Good Samaritans? I definitely weigh too much for them. Great, now everyone is staring at me. I hate this so much. Okay we’re almost there. This will all be over soon.’

The men gently placed me down near the studio’s entrance. I thanked them, genuinely grateful for their help. As I sat in the chair for a few minutes more, I hoped the neon lights emanating from the inside stage would soothe any residual anxiety I felt over our ascent.

This wasn’t the first (or last) time I was lifted. The first time was in New York City when I desperately needed to use a restroom. A friend’s brother swept me up and carried me down the basement stairs to the restaurant’s bathroom.

In Istanbul, a dashing dancer carried me up two steep flights of stairs so my mother and I could watch the dervishes whirl.

In Mexico, I was lifted over steep sand dunes to relish the ocean breeze with friends.

At my part-time job in Mumbai, office employees carry me up six steps just to access the building’s lift.

I spend most of the year in Mumbai, a city filled with steps and stairs of all heights: from ridiculously chunky steps to mere two-inch boosts. It’s the city I’m lifted up in most often. When I first moved here, I asked friends why, aside from space constraints, accessible entrances are so rare. Their answers ranged from rising flood levels and architectural aesthetics to complete negligence on the government’s part to either implement or ensure compliance with accessibility laws.

When faced with stairs, I’m forced to make precarious decisions about my body. There’s a level of vulnerability I experience when I walk around with my cane — I’m met with confused stares, looks of concern or pity. I’ve even come to appreciate and enjoy some of it. Hell, the world is my runway. But how much more vulnerable must I be in a public setting, especially when it’s not entirely on my terms?

Was I glad to see the show at Mehboob? Yes. Was I grateful for the support of those who carried me? Of course I was. Except the decisions leading up to that left me with mixed emotions. I had a choice to say no and turn away from the situation. But my desire to enjoy a night out was like anyone else’s — why should I be denied that? I could do without the emotional torment, anxiety and unwanted attention that ensues as I’m carried up. Eyes lingering longer than feels appropriate, on-lookers’ heads moving along my trajectory as they try to dissect what’s ‘wrong’ with me.

There’s a scene from Margarita With A Straw that comes to mind. Staff members carry the protagonist Laila up the stairs when the lift in her college is inoperable. The look in Laila’s eyes is a familiar one — frustration mixed with mild fear and a deep desire for the entire ordeal to be over in a flash. Mostly, Laila seems preoccupied with getting upstairs ASAP to see her boy crush. Still, it’s very easy to feel like cargo in the process.

In Mumbai, for example, most of the accessible infrastructure in place is intended for just that. Five-star hotels have short, steep ramps meant for transporting cargo, not humans. I’ve mastered the art of slowly making my way up these obtuse structures because the alternatives aren’t much fun: getting lifted up, pushing myself to climb stairs with assistance, or turning away from it all.

The fact is that I don’t enjoy the act of being carried upstairs. I understand its purpose and accept it as a means to an end (given, of course, that I have the support of individuals to help me up). I’ve declined/refused the offer to get lifted out of concern for the men carrying me or because I felt unsafe. In these moments, an internal dialogue plays: ‘Is it worth it?’ I ask myself. I don’t always know or choose the right answer. Because other people are involved and a plan is required, my decision is usually time-sensitive. My choice has the potential to invite a host of ordeals: unwanted attention, anxiety, strategic planning, becoming dependent upon the mercy of strangers and being touched by random men who may have ill intentions or are seeking an opportunity to cop a feel.

Having said that, every experience of getting lifted hasn’t been shameful or scarring. It can be a straightforward process that leaves my emotional well-being intact. Sometimes it can even be empowering. I’m not succumbing to inaccessible entrances or washrooms; rather, I am literally rising above them. In those moments, I’m actively choosing to continue living my life on my terms, deciding what’s right for my body and mind, finding a way to ‘make it work’ or saying no.

Upon hearing or seeing the obstacle course I navigate in order to get where I’m going, friends and family members offer their praises, ‘It takes courage to do what you do, you’re a strong girl. Always remember that,’ or ‘If I was in your position, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d never leave the house.’ They tell me they admire my spirit and share how my ‘unbridled fearlessness’ inspires them to push through obstacles in their own lives, no matter what.

I can’t say I’ve made the right choice every time when getting lifted or that I always feel courageous. But it helps when you have wonderfully supportive people in your life. Those people that lift you up — not just physically, but spiritually — and remind you not to feel ashamed but rather empowered, knowing you are living your truth.

Accessibility issues need to be addressed in the city of Mumbai (and all over India, for that matter) but in the meantime, it won’t stop me from living the life I want for myself.

On a recent night out, a friend insisted I join our group at a popular underground club’s basement event space. I heard about the interesting events hosted by the venue and had wanted to explore it for some time. Except it takes navigating stairs, countless stairs to descend into the urban underground scene. My friends assured me that if I wished to go, they’d arrange for me to get in and out safely.

There was no pressure, since I’m past the point of feeling peer pressure in situations like these, only a desire to continue a fun night out with friends. The decision was mine alone. I’d take a look at the surroundings first. When we arrived at the venue, I examined nearby walls, pushing at levers or handrails to test the strength of their support. There was ample space to be carried. I looked over at my supportive friends, standing ready with a chair and smiled, ‘Okay. Are you ready?’

Featured image credit: Alia Sinha

Originally published at blog.sexualityanddisability.org on May 2, 2017.

Birthday Growth

Two weeks ago today I turned 31. That number looks old now that I see it typed out. So instead I’ll call it 10 years since I turned 21. Nope, still feels old.

I had a low-key birthday this year and I wondered two weeks later whether or not I should have pushed myself to celebrate big-style. Perhaps last year’s epic drunk-fest to ring in 30 was celebration enough for two birthdays.

I reflected on the past three weeks. The last time I felt motivated to do any real work was right before my birthday. On my actual birthday, I had a yoga session in the morning. I went to lunch with two friends and perused diamond jewelry. I ordered-in dinner with a friend and delighted in every last drop of birthday love pouring in. This seemed fine enough but I wondered: Did I unknowingly slip into a state of depression hence my laissez-faire attitude? Was this a low-life state or was I playing hard to get? Perhaps I wanted my birthday to be a planned affair entirely orchestrated by someone else. Or maybe I wanted to acknowledge it without going overboard. I counted back to previous birthdays of mine (at least the last 5), trying to remember what I did.

What was this birthday anxiety all about?

There’s almost always a pre-planned outfit involved, a silky smooth blowout, and a fresh mani/pedi. Lunch or dinner or both. Cakes, flowers, singing/clapping. But along with this, a lot of pressure, especially this year. What are you supposed to do on your birthday? There’s really no rule of thumb . You’re supposed to do whatever you want. And this year, it was sitting at home in my pajamas watching Netflix with my roommate. She surprised me with a decadent chocolate cake and candles. It was simple, sweet and kind of perfect.

Birthdays should be celebrated— calls/FaceTimers coming from all ends of the world, all day long, with well-wishes and birthday cheers. A showering of love ensues and because of this you feel a little extra special on your day.

On this particular born-day of mine, my back ached. My body wasn’t ready for all the birthday prep and the stamina it required to dress myself up for a night out. My birthday fell on a Monday so the Sunday before I felt anxiety building inside me. I got in the elevator, official met the sweet South African bodyguard on her last day of work and considered a day at the spa. I felt stress/anxiety building inside me and knew this was a wrong move.

What is came down was this: I wasn’t feeling well and I wished I did.

If I let the birthday pressure get to me, I most certainly would have pushed myself to look the whole part even though I didn’t feel it.

Rather than running away from my anxiety and endlessly denying it, I tried to understand it. Where was this pressure coming from? What would happen if I stayed at home? Would anyone know? (the proverbial tree in the forest) Did I feel too self-important and wished people cared more? There’s no birthday police, no one to force me outside of my cozy Bandra apartment. It was all on me.

I’m in India without my core family and friends around and felt it a little harder today. Plus my back ached.

This year I understood it was okay to not feel in tip-top shape on your birthday and I don’t mean because of a hangover: emotionally. Every year when April 10th comes around, in an effort to welcome the incoming age and shed my younger skin (and take decent pictures of myself), I doll myself up and celebrate the birthday with all of the above. “You should go get your nails done, your hair done, the works!” my yoga teacher shouted. Maybe I believed this was a form of practicing self love on your birthday. This year, that would have been the opposite.

This year, I didn’t force myself into a 3 hour salon ordeal. Growth, I thought. This is growth. I made an effort to do small things for myself throughout the day that acknowledged my birthday without going overboard.

It wasn’t the first time I could actually feel myself grow spiritually or experience newfound internal wisdom. If you’re ever felt it happen, growth is 100% a visceral feeling.

I wanted to my hair to just be. My nails remain unpainted, unpolished and uncut. I wished for my back to feel better and to allow myself to soak it all in the love the came through in the form of phone calls, texts, social media love, flowers and cakes. I let other people do the work this year. I didn’t want to play birthday girl and because I realized this, I felt extremely satisfied. Until a week ago when my back pain eased up and I wondered if depression silently clouded any desire I might have had to get up and celebrate.

This wasn’t depression or a battle of mind over matter. I finally listened to my body long enough to rule out my mind in order to feel my best.

At 31, I finally swapped out sparkly nails and blow outs for cotton pjs and curly hair. This was Birthday Growth.

An Old Sunday

**This post was from a little over a year ago when I re-moved to Bandra. It was written on a Sunday so I’m posting it. I never posted it after I wrote it and I don’t know why.

Sitting in one of the three Starbucks located in the Khar/Bandra area (this is my first time at this specific location). Not mad at it since there’s not even one step to enter, so so rare in this country. The upstairs has more seating and I’m sure it’s much more open. But here I am since it’s close to home. A good way to get out of the house, although I’d be happy sitting in my PJs in my beautiful (albeit, regrettably noisy) apartment. I had Balu come later in the afternoon today, since I woke up late and it’s Sunday. I didn’t feel like starting the day with a packed morning punch I normally throw.

The initial descent into Mumbai was as expected. My body ached but not as much as I expected it to. I slept for a few hours on the flight but the extreme turbulence made me so uneasy. At one point I felt like the plane might go down. I’ve experienced travel/plane paranoia before (see my post Old Gay Love). It’s seriously the worst. I popped a pill and eased my nerves by telling myself that it’s okay, if this was my last sleep there’s nothing I can do. The only thing I might regret would be scolding mom for some stupid shit she said before I left. God, I’m such a bitch. What’s wrong with me? Then I zonked out.

As I traveled through the airport, I noticed the newness of Terminal 2. I saw it when it first opened when I was traveling from Mumbai to Newark in 2014 but I hadn’t seen what it looked like coming to India. People (that looked Indian) took pictures by the modern waterfall. More pictures, more sculptures, more art. Mumbai’s gotten an upgrade. I made a promise to myself to make this time different. It wouldn’t be all about therapies and treatment this time. I would maintain my Americanness. It’s part of who I am. India has a way of changing you but I like the way I am. I know India. It’s not my first time. I would let myself keep up what’s comfortable to me in American and make that work here. I would bow out of some of India’s hard and fast rules.

Some things I would keep for myself included:

-I won’t entertain random uncles or people’s curiosities. It’s too time consuming and I just don’t give a damn anymore.

-Time is important. I won’t waste mine here. Productivity and using my mind for purposeful things is important to me.

-Order (almost) everything online, have it delivered, or have someone pick it up for you. I wasted so much time last I was here running around buying groceries, knick knacks, stupid shit for my apartment. In a way, it helped me explore the city, it’s people and the Mumbai motions, but it was almost always exhausting and a huge waste of time.

-Stick to 1-3 therapies locally, that’s it. People offer their opinions for everything here: from physical therapists to the best carpenters and hair stylists, I’ve learned to way I feel comfortable and my best. There is something to be said about going out of your comfort zone but listen. I’ve been to Mumbai too many times to keep going out of my comfort zone. Also, everyday at least once I am encountered with an experience which is out my realm of comfort. So let me go to Jean Paul Biguine, spend a little extra and feel at home.

Stay open, stay positive but keep in mind you have the experience behind you to know what to do. Allow your past encounters to guide you in a better, more well-balanced life here for yourself this time around. Whatever that means specifically, remember that you got this. It’s not your first time around.

You came here for domestic help, physical therapy and the lifestyle that India affords you. Mainly for the help so let them help you. Do things yourself when you can but for now, till you gain that strength back, allow Jaiya and Balu to be support system right now.

Free yourself from that fear that you have that you won’t find love or mom will be sick or that you will have zero career and serve zero purpose in this lifetime. Time is so precious but you must not be pressurized to get everything accomplished in one days time. Things take time, especially those that are worthwhile take time to flourish.

Back to my airport exit: My bags came out quickly. The wheelchair guy threw my ginormous luggage onto a cart which he wheeled with one hand and pushed me along in the other. I called Balu on the wheelchair guy’s phone. I saw Dad and Balu, Dad looked cooler than normal with his dark washed jeans and loafers. Dad? Is that you? He seemed calm and happy. I was tired but happy. I made it. No one died. I didn’t lose anything. Dad’s safe. I am safe. Success.

I didn’t talk about the apartment, brokers, anything during the car ride. Same old Innova ( no, like its old and run-down now) and same street of Mumbai. A thick layer of smog filled the skies. All I could do was watch the streets. I remember Deepali doing the same when I picked her up from the airport the last time she came to visit me. There’s so much to see. But I feel jaded, unimpressed by the outlandish nature of the streets scenes.

Side-note: why are there people crammed up in this Starbucks? It’s spilling over with people. It’s just Starbucks, people. Calm yourselves.

A breakdown of what’s inside my head: Car ride/Taj/Same people, different year/they remember me, yay!/breakfast at the Taj/owner of celestial sucks/no place to live/back to the hotel/call those brokers/apartment hunting/it’s gross living with a man in a hotel room/can’t wait to have my own bathroom/grossed out my D’s scratching /breakfast/l’amour, yes I need to live here/no monies in the banks/shit/when am i getting out of this hotel/contacting people i know here/ashok/mona/l’amour/i don’t know the answer to some of these questions.

Body Shaming in India, for better or worse

It’s a common phenomenon amongst Indians, commenting on another person’s looks, especially when it comes to their weight. Some think this type of critique is generally reserved for close family or friends, serving as either a compliment or perhaps a cause of concern.

In India, it comes at you from all angles: aunties at a parties, uncles in the lobby, co-workers and friends, and most recently, a maid in the lift of my building. Mind you, aside from my coworkers, I BARELY know these people. I’ve probably had one at max two interactions with them and yet they still find it okay to comment on my body.

My co-workers saw me after 3 weeks and one of them immediately commented on how thin I looked.

“Look at her face,” she told our other co-worker, “it’s gotten so thin. What happened?”

I haven’t intentionally been trying to lose weight, just more conscious about how and when I consume food. I told her perhaps I had; I’ve been doing physiotherapy lately but nothing aggressive.

The next day while entering the lobby of my building, an uncle stopped me to say hello. I had a knee brace on and was walking with my cane so planned to keep our conversation to a minimum. We exchanged pleasantries for a good 5 seconds before he said I had ‘gained.’

“You’ve put on weight, has it? You look heavy.”

I didn’t have an immediate comeback at hand and I bristled at his rudeness.

“No, in fact uncle, I’ve lost.”(I wasn’t sure this was even true but I was riding off my co-workers comments the day prior).

“Oh no, you are looking so chubby. Those chubby, chubby cheeks.”

He made a gesture suggesting expansion had taken place and pulled at his own cheeks. He was convinced I had become nothing short of a cow.

“I’ve always had chubby cheeks. It’s my thing.”

I looked at him sideways, curious with a half-smile. This man sees me in a brace and doesn’t bother to ask what happened to my knee but instead goes for my weight? I walked towards the elevator as he continued on about nothing I cared to hear. There was no room for niceness at that point. I was done being nice for social purposes plus I needed to sit down. I didn’t care what he thought of me. He eventually got the hint and waved goodbye.

I didn’t let the uncle’s comment get to me much that day. In spite of having muscular dystrophy, I can still walk and remain active. I knew my body and I appreciated all that it has done for me. It has let me travel to Turkey, Thailand, and Dubai in the last few years. It’s supported my decisions in going out and staying in and lets me exercise it in a mild manner. I finally reached a place with my body where I’m not criticizing it but rather expressing it as much love and gratitude that I can towards it. But here it was, other people’s unsolicited thoughts over my body flying at me

Later that evening, I had gone out to run some errands and was again, headed towards the lobby lift. A nanny/maid from one of the other floors whom I see on occasion called out to me

“Madam, you’ve decreased no? Lost weight it seems.”

The lift had come at that moment and I was totally caught off guard. I blurted out a response, something to the effect of, “Um, what? I don’t know. Maybe? Yes? Ok Bye.”

I was livid. I know most women (myself included) like hearing people say they’ve lost weight, it feels nice. In my case though, my goal isn’t about weight loss — it’s about taking care of my health. Even if I did lose weight, I’m not looking for outside validation. I didn’t ask for a compliment or to tell me whether the number on my scale has gone up or down. My weight isn’t indicative of a strict diet, upcoming event, or new relationship. Whether I’ve lost of gained, my ultimate goal is remain strong and happy, knowing I’m doing the best I can to stay functional.

The manner in which I handle these scenarios is so mood-dependent. Perhaps because these comment were coming at me back-to-back it all felt too much. I’ve been on the receiving end of much worse when I was younger and chubby from family members in India. It all boils down to your emotional state of mind. After the nanny/maid comment, I was a raging ball of anger. I immediately got inside my apartment and called a friend to rant.

Why is this so normalized? Why do Indians feel the need to comment on my body? I didn’t open myself up to this type of scrutiny. I feel obliged to reply back when I truly don’t want to because then I’m participating in it. Why do we have to arm ourselves with ready responses when this wasn’t a topic I chose to engage in? I don’t want to discuss my body weight with someone I barely know.

For better or for worse, I’m simply choosing to love my body no matter what.

Abracadabra: How we Google to Validate

I’ve been wanting to speak on this topic for awhile. It’s been tucked away in an email draft with the subject: Things I Need To Write About #writerproblems. Some of these ideas never see the light of day/make it through my fingers, though most are good. There are without a doubt terrible ideas I’ve had for pieces that should never come into fruition. Still, I like to keep a record of them if not for making myself feel better that I tried but simply for my own personal amusement over their ridiculousness. #writerproblems.

I’ve written on my blog www.howstraitthegait.com about how technology has changed so many things for us–culturally, socially, emotionally/mentally/physically/, the list goes on. It has it’s enormously meaningful impact on the world but comes with dangerous side effects and drawbacks we’re only now starting to understand and accept.

I’m terribly curious by nature and also extremely anxious/strategic (part of the reason it’s taking me so long to get to this idea #overthinkerproblems). It works both for and against me, this very special trait of mine. I breeze through research, knowing the right questions to ask to get the information I need/don’t (good for journalism). I talk to strangers, socialize often and keep chugging along.

Too often I succumb to the darker side of my anxiety/curiosity and I google the shit out of everything. When I came home from buying a new line of products from Clarins (and after evaluating the products in-store and online), I came home to google, “benefits of X product.” I even remember thinking to myself, ‘isn’t this the strangest behavior? Didn’t I just spend nearly an hour in the mall deciding which products I liked, even got a mini-facial in the process to test said products out? Why do I still need to check this out online?’ It was the first time I really took notice of what I was doing. And last month, I started including more vitamins and supplements in my diet. Most of them need to be taken after a meal. I chose them based on what my multi-vitamins were lacking plus whichever I found would help with muscle/bone strength. Even though I already purchased the vitamins and devised a plan for how I’d space them out throughout the week, I came back to my Macbook only to read about the benefits of each one of those pills.

What are we doing to ourselves? Have we become so dependent on technology for validation that we stop using our brains? I’ve become addicted to reading about the benefits of the choices I make, mainly when it comes to my health or body. I’m less concerned somehow about the risks but I pore over the good stuff–how drinking enough water can completely revolutionize my skin, what a good nights sleep can do for your body and mind, the goodness that comes from a dedicated exercise regimen, how thoughts can positively or negatively impact your behavior and body, and so many other meaningless searches. ALL information I’m aware exists and will continue doing regardless of those benefits yet continue down the bottomless pit of interneting away.

DISCLAIMER: This isn’t solely the result of having too much time on my hands. On days when I’m completely busy with writing, researching, scouring the internet for editors contact information, or just living in India (which requires lots of other types of busy work) I still find myself seeking out this information. I had to ask myself why is it that I keep coming back to this same, silly activity? Is it because I’ve written clickable listicles or articles on the benefits of x thing? Or, worse yet, do I actually care about those benefits?

After all the products have been purchased, the water drunk, the sleep slept, the pills swallowed, the body remains kind of a mystery and no one knows entirely what’s going on inside of it. I suppose its my own fascination with the mysteries of the body that keep me googling but it’s also my inherent desire to be validated–to know that I’m doing something ‘good’ for myself, that I’m treating my body the best I can and heading in the right direction. Its my own congratulatory pat on my back. As we get older there isn’t always someone around to say, ‘good job’ or ‘right on’ or whatever encouraging words people offer one another. We need to believe on our own accord that the choices we are making ARE for our betterment. We validate ourselves and keep moving forward, no matter what Google says.

Googling out our anxieties and fears is the modern version of Abracadabra. We instantly get answers to whatever thoughts/concerns/questions/fears/frustrations/elations we feel, anything we feel! Magic happens in front of our very eyes and before we know it, we’ve got our fix. We instantly feel better or worse, satisfied or left wanting more.

I’ve had to consciously stop myself from googling the benefits of anything these days. Live and let live, I say. I can’t remember googling to validate before the internet existed. It only started about 1–2 years ago. I wouldn’t sum it up to one particular reason but I do believe Google searching has made us so dependent that we forget we already possess a treasure trove of knowledge in our heads. We don’t need the internet to tell us things we already know but we like that it does. And when we start to need it in order to function, we’ve already become addicts.

I remember a book from my childhood (pre-internet) that lived in the study of our house. It was called, “The Big Book of Tell Me Why.” I can remember feeling like I was witnessing something special when I turned its thin pages, privy to information others didn’t have, gaining knowledge to things no one knew. Learning something new was exciting and that book held a magical power over me, something Ask Jeeves or Google never gave me.

Today I caught myself googling the benefits of a new protein supplement I’m taking for muscle growth. I knew I’d be taking the supplement even if I read something suspicious (perhaps I’m also looking for reasons to not partake in said activity or product) yet I still googled away. I guess I’ve reached the point of no return–I’m officially an information junkie, strictly speaking when it come to google searching about the body. Is there internet rehab ™? Someone make that happen. And also credit it to me. Help!

Abracadabra

a closer look @ googling

I’ve written in previous posts about how technology has changed so many things for us–culturally, socially, emotionally/mentally/physically/, the list goes on. It has it’s enormously meaningful impact on the world but comes with dangerous side effects and drawbacks we’re only now starting to understand and accept.

DISCLAIMER: This isn’t just because I have too much time on my hands. On days when I’m completely busy with writing, researching, scouring the internet for editors contact information, or just living in India (which requires lots of other types of busy work) I still find myself seeking this information. I had to ask myself why is it that I keep coming back to this same, silly activity? Is it because I’ve written those listicles or articles on the benefits of x thing? Or, worse yet, do I actually care about those benefits?

I’ve had to consciously stop myself from googling the benefits of anything these days. Live and let live, I say. I can’t remember googling to validate before the internet existed. It only started about 1-2 years ago. I wouldn’t sum it up to one particular reason but I do believe Google searching has made us so dependent that we forget we already possess a treasure trove of knowledge in our heads. We don’t need the internet to tell us things we already know but we like that it does. And when we start to need it in order to function, we’ve already become addicts.

I remember a book from my childhood (pre-internet) that lived in the study of our house. It was called, “The Big Book of Tell Me Why.” I can remember feeling like I was witnessing something special when I turned its thin pages, being privy to information others didn’t have, gaining knowledge to things no one knew. Learning something new felt exciting and that book held a power over me, before Ask Jeeves or Google ever existed.

Today I caught myself googling the benefits of a new protein powder I’ve been taking for muscle growth. I knew I’d be taking the supplement even if I read something suspicious (perhaps I’m also looking for reasons to not partake in whatever activity or product I’m searching about) yet I still googled away. I guess I’ve reached the point of no return–I’m officially an information junkie, strictly speaking when it come to google searching about the body. Is there internet rehab ™? Someone make that happen. And also credit it to me. Help!

Life Doesn’t Frighten Me At All.

“Don’t show me frogs and snakes, And listen for my screams. If I am afraid at all, It’s only in my dreams. I have got a magic charm, that I keep up my sleeve. I can walk the ocean floor, And never have to breathe. Life doesn’t frighten me at all. Not at all. Not at all. Life doesn’t frighten me at all.” –Maya Angelou from the children’s book Life Doesn’t Frighten Me

……….

Today I felt scared. I came across the lines of Maya Angelou’s children’s book in the body of an e-mail, prompting me to return here. It has been well over awhile now. I re-read my post from last year’s Thanksgiving and it took me back to my life in South Florida. I wondered how I did it. Living alone in a place I knew nothing about with no real source of friendship or family ties. I was braver back then, I thought. Braver than I am now.

About a month ago I was at home alone and sought the comfort of an old familiar friend: the face-to-camera interview. I’ve turned to it at times when I needed a pick-me-up, a figurative shoulder to lean on. Something about watching an interviewee make direct eye contact with you releases me from the tight grip of loneliness. “The loneliness is palpable.” I think of this line often because I’ve come to understand it on a core level. Most city-dwelling pre-millennials will know that line hails from SATC’s episode, “Plus One Is the Loneliness Number.” I always remembered that line and come back to it when solitude takes over, sitting heavy on my chest like a small child.

My googling that evening took me to Oprah’s MasterClass, where I revisited the episode with Maya Angelou. As I warmed up my dinner and set the table, I listened to her sage life advice. One of my favorite things to do is watch interviews of people I admire or people I’m curious about. Interviews aren’t real but they are meant to be. The whole setup is so artificial (cameras, lighting, scripts, strangers staring at you on the other side) all so that a person sits in front of a camera to be their true, real, authentic selves. I watched Maya narrate about her early days, dancing (not singing. She said she would never sacrifice for singing), writing and communing with cultural/political/literary icons. I watched certain portions several times over. At this point, I’ve committed to memory her recitations and poignant phrases. Her answers were poetry to me. I savored her lines like an evening desert leaving me satiated for the night. I took notice of the date. It was November 2nd, 2016. I knew the last I had visited Maya’s MasterClass was when I first came across it, about a year ago. Her words struck me so deeply that I blogged them out. Stretch Yourself, she said. The date of that blog post is November 4th 2015. I smiled at my odd timing. How had I come across the same video by chance almost exactly one year to date? Are my emotions so predictable around this time of year?

Although I found it strange that my fingers led me to type out MasterClass or Maya Angelou or whatever it was I searched to land on that video, I loved that I came full circle with it. I can’t say I’m in the same place I was one year (literally I’m not, I moved to Mumbai), but one thing remains is loneliness. Perhaps it’s the reason I sought her out again, the same comforting words she shared with me last November. Am I scared to live alone? No. Never. In fact, I despise people who can’t be alone with themselves or live alone for periods of time. Case in point: my maid(s). I currently don’t have a live-in but when I did, she is always, without fail, scared to be alone in my apartment. Does being alone make me sad? Maybe. I adore my time in Mumbai. I’ve learned more than I ever imagined I would by being here, especially navigating most of it solo.

One day I know I’ll treasure my loneliness, the time I had to myself to explore entirely on my own accord.

The city is crawling with people and cars, it’s relentless noise (I remember 4 years ago I tried to hide in the bathroom to escape it but the noise found me there too) and buzzing metropolitan vibe. It’s also been extremely challenging: mentally, physically and emotionally. In spite of being surrounded by stuff and people and activity on a daily basis, one can still feel hollow. The ups and downs of a curious illness can do that to a person. Meaningless work and relationships can do that too. But instead of succumbing to the fear loneliness brings along with it, I’m choosing to fight back. Life Doesn’t Frighten Me At All.

The dedication in her book reads: for all children who whistle in the dark and who refuse to admit they are frightened out of their wits. I’m adding 30 year-old girl-woman to that.