For someone who liked writing intermittently, I havenāt written anything in quite a while. Somewhere I wondered why anyone would want to read what I have to say and that perhaps made me feel like I really had nothing to say. And while that is still true, after living in my head for some time now and finding it as unruly, crowded, chaotic and inefficient as a Sarkari office, Iāve come to the (very obvious) realisation that I need a release. Much like the extended lunch break at said Sarkari office. It is not so much if someone reads it, as the act of putting it out there being rather cathartic. I donāt think I know why.
For a while now Iāve been doing everything that needs doing, very little of what I want to be doing. Every time I justify to myself that I need to refuel and replenish, thereās always a part of my head that yells expletives at myself, basically saying I should suck it up and carry the f*@k on. I come from a family of extremely dignified, selfless, hard working people. My mum worked even when she was grievously ill - asking for her hand to be propped on the table. My dad worked through immense grief after Ma (all the while raising me), working through the night and sleeping while I was at school, so he could spend time with me in the day. My grandfather literally worked all his life, into his late 70s. My uncle held a bank job for 40 years and had copious amounts of leave accumulated when he retried. My aunt is 66 and still works - when sheās not working sheās tending to people who are sick or just feeding people. This ethic had a knock on effect and made its way into our generation too - the prime example being my brother who has worked 16-18 hour shifts most of his life. So when I tell myself that Iām tired, that I have nothing left, it is more a game of convincing myself that it is so, before guilt envelopes me and I tell myself that this is a cop out. Iām seldom sure of myself. I second guess most things I do and self doubt piggybacks on me freely, coming with me uninvited wherever I should choose to go.
The only way I know of to quieten my head is to clean. I end up doing so zealously until I tire myself out. During my cleaning sprees around the house I would come across a magazine cover that I worked on in early 2019. It reminded me of things I didnāt want to remember and every time I tucked it away until I stumbled on it again. This was a cover for Caravan magazine. I wasnāt the designer that they had chosen, but one they settled on. But I didnāt care - I just wanted on opportunity to letter an artwork. It came at a difficult time, when Dhun and I frequented hospitals for treatment. The deadline was super tight and I still remember waiting for Dhun and telling him about the project as soon he was out and we walked towards the parking lot together. With a big smile, he said I must take it. So I did.
I donāt remember too many specifics, but as is the case with most things, nothing went to plan. Dhun and I were very worn out with the year weād had, my anxiety levels were through the roof and worked every spare minute I had. On the last day, I realised that I had put in enough work already to cruise through the day and meet my deadline. I was rudely jolted by an emergency where we had to rush Dhun to the hospital. I couldnāt have cared less about a magazine cover. In fact I wouldnāt have blinked if someone told me my career was over. All I wanted to do was call the client and say, figure it out, because I will not be able to do this so that I could focus on the one person that mattered to me most. We got through the day, like we always did, I came home and started working. In fact a lot of the work I did in the past year was in the waiting room at hospitals. No one knew, no explanations were given and it got done; so in a sense this wasnāt so new. The magazine went to press that night. At 11:30 or 12:00 at night I sent off the final files and Dhun and I sat down to dinner together - heād waited for me till I finished all my work. I didnāt even like what Iād done, but given that it seemed like a miracle that it even got done without the client getting a whiff of anything brought me relief. My nerves were considerably frayed that day and all this cover did was remind me of producing something I was not happy withā¦ and of a lot of heartache. Until now.
What I didnāt mention earlier, was that when I was done, my very exacting father was very proud. He asked for a little jpeg to be sent to his phone. For once, it wasnāt about what I had produced, but who I had become. I had become one of them. For someone with crippling self doubt, I was sure in that moment, that I was my parentās daughter. I know youāre supposed to validate yourself and all that, but somewhere I feel like weāre hardwired to seek validation in some sense and I sought it shamelessly from my dad (even though I probably wouldnāt admit it). Iām always glad to be reminded of the satisfied smile and the enveloping hug that came after what had been a tumultuous time; It assured me that I had risen and grown a tad.
All of this reminds me of a little Mogra in the garden. Every time it grows, something or the other takes it down. Every time Iām sure that this was the last time, it springs back up, much to my amusement and delight. The magazine is on a shelf with my other work now. When I see it, it isnāt devoid of sheer heartache, but for about 3 minutes at least, I am dead sure that in my vulnerability, I have heart and I am resilient. In my sea of uncertainty, I can only be really sure of this - I am my fatherās daughter. For 1.5 minutes, just by extension of being his daughter, I might even be pleased with myself. For now, thatāll do :)
