Never going home

At a certain point in your life you can never go home again. I am not speaking of the home you created for yourself and your family as an adult. I am speaking of the home where you were a girl. Its not about growing up – its more like growing away. Distances of the heart can be quite daunting to traverse. In my case I lost my home when my father passed away sixteen years ago.

My father was a very warm person. He loved being a parent. It was not foisted upon him. His family was his greatest joy. He was not a successful man in terms of monetary savings. His success was that of being a good human being. Caring came so naturally to him that people were drawn to him because they were always assured of love, a hot meal and some good advice or sometimes just a listening ear. I wish my father were around for many reasons but one of the strongest is that if he were here I would still have a home to go to.

Keeping down two jobs – both of different passions – while taking care of two children, one of whom has needs that keep varying and sometimes escalating, is not easy. For many years my husband travelled for more days than he spent at home and so I was the single parent, the one my children knew would be with them no matter want. I was there for their school work. I was there to take them to the doctor when they were sick. I was there to make dinners for them that they looked forward to and were excited by. I was the one to fill the house with laughter and friends so my children would know how important it was to be open-hearted. It is not that my husband did not help. It was just that if I didn’t teach the children about caring, they would simply not know. It is my father’s legacy that I give to his grandchildren. He would’ve been proud at their good-heartedness. That is best gift I can lay at his feet.

I love taking care of others but there are times when I want to be taken care of. And I have no one who would do it unasked. That’s when I remember my father the most. Acha knew before I did when I was hungry. He knew when I needed to hear a certain story to give me guidance. He knew the depth of the inner fire in me that leads me to tackle the toughest challenges. Now, I have no one to go home to. No matter how tired I am, I can’t just pack up and take a break at my home. For in place of that home stands a derelict house – cobwebbed and dusty beyond measure. Even the memories seem to be submerged under layers of neglect. And so I go nowhere.

My husband’s family too is in Kerala but there I feel like a freak – always told by my mother-in-law how unfit I am to be her son’s wife. I can do no right. I do not speak to her on the phone. The reason is simple. One New Year’s day when I bent to touch her feet, she pushed me away and with a look of supreme disgust on her face she said “Its about time you stopped this stupid habit.” I stepped back stung and my eyes filled with tears. This was a habit my father had ingrained in me – to touch the feet of elders when I leave a house or when I greet them. Her pushing me away symbolized her disrespecting my father and for me there was no recovering from that.

In all the years since my father’s death, no one has called me “Moley” the way he did. For the family I married into, I was never “Moley” – I was just Anima. For everyone I was just Anima. There are certain things I can never get again. That is why I feel irrevocably lost when I think of a home to go back to.

The reason I am writing this though is that there was an incident some days ago when I called a favourite elderly friend of mine. He is a wonderful theatre personality and an excellent raconteur. I called to wish him on his birthday. And his delighted “Moley” made my eyes tear up. After so long, someone called me “Moley” in a tone so infused with affection that my throat closed up. For a fraction of a second, I felt very much loved. It was as if Acha had known how badly I wanted to hear it. I felt incredibly blessed. Maybe you can’t go home again but then maybe there may be a new home in hearts that are willing to love and care – with Acha’s blessing, I will always have that.

Straddling Expectations

There is a fine line between expectations and not letting disbelief mar your relationship, be it with anyone. There are those who don’t promise anything and have a very steady, sort of on-the-fringes connection with you. There are those who promise and deliver – they are obviously the ones you trust. I try to be one of those myself because fairly early on I was taught that it was important to keep my word. With my children, I wouldn’t promise anything I couldn’t fulfil. Especially with children, it is important to foster trust because when they are very little, you are the centre of their world.

The other types of people, those who overpromise and under-deliver, come in two variations. One, where they are uncaring of anyone else other than themselves and their ability to gain whatever they need to in that moment. So they will promise the world, if they get breathing space or some benefit or the other. They don’t believe that they are lying because at that moment, they convince themselves as much as they convince the other. Stay clear of those types. I knew a few whom I have cut off from my life completely – they are quite toxic.

Then there is the type I choose to write about today – the fourth type – the type who will overpromise and under-deliver because though they want to give you everything they can, they simply are unable to do it. They promise everything to everyone and then find themselves stretched so thin that they are completely transparent. These are the folks who are difficult to stay away from because they truly want to do everything for you. Their genuineness is their biggest friend and your biggest enemy. They mean so well that they can actually do things for you that make your heart well up for in these times of abject selfishness, caring is not something you come by easily. 

Unfortunately, within a very short time, you feel the ill-effects of letting yourself trust someone like that. With the best of intentions, they fail you time and again. You are left with more cynicism than you started out with. You begin to withdraw your trust slowly till you are left with just a façade -  the façade of being trusting when in reality, you will never trust this person again. It is too tiring to believe and then disbelieve so what you do is go directly to the disbelieving bit and stay there. If you, like me, have been raised to be polite, you will try not to show it and simply distance yourself steadily so that you do not get hurt anymore.

Expectations are best left for yourself – meaning you can expect yourself to do a certain thing or behave in a particular way so that at least in your mind, you are progressing towards a certain state. The moment your expectations turn outwards, you are asking for trouble. Yet every relationship has the other wanting you to trust their words, their actions, their desire to make you happy – it all amounts to the fact that they want you to have expectations of them. They want you to look forward to meeting them. They want you to allow them to care for you the way you care for them. How lovely everything sounds till the ugly expectations raise their heads again! I think we need to revisit our very definition of what a relationship means.

The fine line you need to walk here is actually quite difficult – trust without expecting anything – if something is given, accept it with gratitude and if it isn’t, let it be – detachment is necessary if you want to maintain any kind of relationship. Continue to give if it is in your nature and if it isn’t, try and cultivate the kindness that is necessary to even think of the act of giving. In short, expect nothing, be grateful for what you receive and be happy when you are able to give. That, in my mind, is the secret to making and keeping friends in your life.

Sunday Evenings

Sunday evenings are a relentless blue in my mind. They never bring me any joy and it takes a lot of effort on my part to get through them. I try everything I can think of to distract myself. I sip a glass of wine, I listen to music, I laugh with my kids, I go for a walk with my husband. Nothing helps. I know that the feeling will not abate till it is Monday morning.

The funny thing is that Sunday mornings are my favourite time of the week. Sunday afternoons have a delicious sated yet sensual feel to them so that I always look forward to relaxing and feeling myself sinking into the impossibly warm delight of doing nothing at all. Then comes the evening with its ominous undertones of grey that then turn to a deep dark blue. No activity can make me get through the feeling of loss that pervades me on Sunday evenings. What is it that I mourn? Why is sadness so imbued in the air of Sunday evenings? Why can’t I shrug it off like I can on other days? Its hard to answer these questions. Sometimes writing helps. But today even my words seem stilted and do not flow with easy assurance. Still I write.

The clock ticks ever so slowly as I watch it. I don’t feel sleepy though it is almost 11. I sit in front of my laptop wondering how it is that Sundays can be such a curious mix of pleasure, relaxation and blueness. I wonder why I cannot escape into my words for a few hours so that the night doesn’t feel so heavy around me. And then I think I will give it up and go to bed. Perhaps if I lie still and close my eyes very tight, the night will go by easily and the morning will get here really fast. But no. When I do lie down after my nightly shower, all I hear is the amplified sounds of the fan whirring, the whining of the one mosquito that has escaped the window mesh, assorted cat noises and the snoring of my sleeping husband. I can feel every fibre of my pillow case. I can feel the weight of the quilt on my body. I pull my arms out in an effort to cool them and then the goosebumps start forming because it’s a rainy chilly night. I find no comfort in any pose – even in my favourite shrimp-like curl that I have perfected over the years. So in anticipation of a restless night, I tarry behind downstairs. I don’t want to try to sleep. I should just write.

I envy anyone who can get through days as if they didn’t matter – as if each day did not have its own character that you had to adjust to and then let go of. I envy anyone who can hit the pillow and go to sleep, snoring and blissfully unaware of the person who tosses and turns in annoyance just a few inches away. For me sleep is never to be taken for granted. There were many years when it was elusive. Now it is less so but it still takes work. I cannot assume I will sleep every night. I can only try.

Sundays need to stop in the afternoons. They shouldn’t be allowed to meander into depressing evenings and sleepless nights. Much like relationships that are so full of promise and pleasure initially and then taper into ordinary soul-numbing routine that leaches the life out of them ever so slowly. Maybe that is why I dislike Sunday evenings. They remind me too much of real mundane life.