changes

Would you hold my hand..if I saw you in heaven? I’ll find my way through night & day..beyond the door, there’s peace I’m sure: A Love Letter

Standard

IMG_2446

Today’s Mood Ingredients: Angry, Heartbroken, Lost, Relieved.

True Life: I Don’t Process Grief. I pretend nothing ever happened & run to take care of the person who may have been affected the most, and then one day, I feel personally victimized by the Regina Georges of the Kübler-Ross Model & explode all over my nearests & dearests. Here is a hopeful attempt at not having that happen this time around..mostly thanks to my “baby” brother’s influence. “Just write it out”..the Shiv Vaishnav version of UNK. This isn’t for clicks, likes, or shares. This is for my family..& for all of my hearts that are hurting right now as much as I am.

My Ba’s (grandma) letters were legendary. Coveted hot commodities that the whole family would earnestly hope to receive when there happened to be a big event in their lives. The only reason I have ever thought of rushing to get married was so that I could get one of those handwritten scrolls of love, advice, and strength from my best girl. Now, she’s gone..& it’s time that I wrote a love letter to her instead.

Dear Ba aka My Miss Universe,

I’m mad at you. You weren’t supposed to leave me..ever. The educated part of me seems to have disappeared because all I can think of is that you were supposed to be way past chronological aging and live longer than even me. Back to back strokes at 88 and you were up and writing and walking and feeding your crows. Triple hip fracture surgery at 92 and off you were strolling around Gamdevi like you were still 80. You spoiled us; I selfishly thought you were indestructible & that no one would dare take you away from me. 100 was so close & I had already planned everything we would do together for that big day 6 years from now. And then you left more than 6 years too early. And then you left without me. And I’m mad at you.

Married nearly pre-pubescent in a time where women were uneducated, timid, and there solely for procreation, you did more than give birth to 6 children. You taught those children the importance of character, dignity, self-respect, & especially a sense of humor. You taught them the difference between truth and falsities, you gave them principles, you taught them empathy, you showed them how to live with honor. You educated those children, you disciplined those children, you taught them how to be open-minded and open-armed to one and all, and you gave those children unconditional love that I’m sure I’ve seen in every mother, but just somehow not like your special magical kind. And those children have passed along the priceless lessons to theirs and those kids to theirs and so on. You have a strength and a will power I have never seen in my entire life and I’ve been blessed this whole time to be able to feel it and witness it and have pride in it. And I’m mad at you.

You taught me how to not be afraid of fear. You taught me that a woman could do anything with the iron will that you made so infamous in our world. You showed me that tenacity and a pure heart are all you need to get through this life. You made me see that action is greater than intention. You expressed the unbreakable bond between a mother and her daughter and gave me the gift of having that particular relationship with both you and my own momma. You showed me that freedom of speech is more than okay, that it is necessary in this life. You allowed me to see that respect is earned by the life you live and the unselfish deeds you do. And I’m mad at you.

You sang to me more sweetly and with more talent than Lata Mangeshkar ever could. You held my hand when I slept next to you in a single room with a ceiling fan; you being willing to turn on the AC for me even though you knew you’d need extra chaadars (sheets) for yourself. You stood over a hot stove at odd hours because your grandkids wanted only your thepla, no one else’s. You gave me a miniature Hanuman Chalisa because I told you I was suddenly afraid of flying but I’d do anything to traverse the 10,000 miles to see you & to this day, when I’m on a plane I pretend that Hanumanji is holding the plane up & leading it safely to its destination. You told me that marriage isn’t the be-all and end-all because in the words of Beyoncé, “All the women who independent throw ya hands up at me.” (you said that part a little differently than I wrote it just now).  You also told me that I deserve love because I have the capacity to give love..and that’s all you really need (that, and a non-ass significant other). 😛 You tried to read the English headlines of The Times of India while I tried to read the Gujarati headlines of Garvi Gujarat and we both succeeded because we are both stubborn and persistent and obsessed with learning new things. You made sure you lit the deevo (lamp) every time I left Bombay for protection and for safe travels. You knowingly let me walk into a flying cockroach because you thought it would be the most hilarious thing, and it was..to you. And I can still hear that jingly giggle as you watched 17-year old me flail about in abject terror, you mischievous child in a geriatric body. You let me play in your saris..the one I still sleep with..the one I made sure always stayed with your fragrance still lingering within the threads of the feather-light fabric. The sari that used to comfort me for the past decade & a half..the same one that now half-comforts me and half-tortures me as of this week. And I’m still mad at you.

I feel like Voldemort. Like my soul has been torn into multiple pieces, but without the darkness or the whole immortality situation..& definitely not on purpose. You always had blind faith in your Kanha that he would lead you where you needed to be and where you would be peaceful..& you left me and mom during Ganeshotsav..so I’m kinda mad at Them all right now too, for tainting mom’s favorite time of the year. But I must get by and “move on”..at least that’s what they tell me. I think what I’m going to do instead is just listen to your voice in my head over the past 3 & a half decades..& be confident and safe in the fact that you will lead me to the place of acceptance without the anger or bitterness of losing one of my best friends in this universe. I’m a little less mad at you.

You loved me like I love you..limitless-ly, abundantly, inimitably. You have finally been granted your last wish over the past few years..to be yourself again; free, independent, strong, and angelic. Your legacy is something that will last long after my own last breath because all of your 6 children, 14 grandchildren, and 18 great-grandchildren and so on will make sure that no one in any lifetime forgets Ramaben Chimanlal Gandhi, and more than that, no one will ever tarnish this future lifeline that you have built. I miss you more than I can express in any possible medium, and your Krishna only knows when I will be able to return to Bombay again, let alone to your home and your room. But all I can give you now is this..

I love you immensely, Miss Universe. In this and every other life..past, present, & future. And..

I could never be mad at you.

Love,

Siddhi

Today’s Wisdom: “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world & me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another & not to me.” -C.S. Lewis

Today’s Interlude:

 

 

 

“And creativity, it soaks my soul, I ask not to be alone”; The Artistic Struggle Is Real

Standard

creativity

Today’s Mood Ingredients: Unfulfilled, Yearning, Striving, Undone, Explosive.

It’s taken me a long time to feel affected by something enough to unload it onto the internet, but this is one of those long-simmering slow boils that is about to finally pop the top off of the pressure cooker. What is “a creative?” Is it someone who only works in the arts? Is it a social media director? Is it someone who works in public relations? An editor of a magazine? I have no idea as to what concretely defines “a creative” anymore, but I know that I am one. It’s an innate knowledge, probably the only thing I was born sure of, but what I’ve also learned is that at times, it is a G-d damn pain in the ass. Life in the arts, of any kind, is the furthest thing from a smooth ride into a sufficient paycheck & contentedness. It’s definitely easier today than back when I was growing up (and no lie, I’m so envious of these kids attending performing arts high schools and summer dance and drama camps and such, that sometimes I wish I could just be reborn – I’m Hindu-ish, I’m sure it’ll work – and do it all over again).

On any given day, when I go to my routine job in order to fund my passions in design and dance, I’ll be half present. It’s a job that requires organization, work ethic, and some brain power, but not enough that my mind isn’t wandering into my next “masterpiece” of some kind. What’s the strangest ensemble I can put together that I’m sure will push the boundaries of normal construction? What’s the most out-of-the-box movement I can push my body to make in some new choreography? This thought process usually very rapidly progresses to “Why am I not in the arts full-time?” “Why is this not where my life’s funding is coming from?” “Why am I still in healthcare when I quit medical school 7 years ago?” And then come the influx of emotions; disappointment, despondence, whys & what-ifs, sadness, inspiration, rallying, excitement, enthusiasm..lather, rinse, repeat. And those last three words are why as each day goes by, I feel my flame extinguished little by little, slowly but surely.

Why do “creatives” have to struggle to make their contributions matter? We are progressive, we push boundaries, we help people think on alternative planes, we force people to delve deeper into themselves, we sometimes gift people to have the confidence to look deeper into others. So why isn’t creative input as socially important as, for example, a doctor’s? Now, before everyone dumps on me, realize this; I obviously know a doctor has indispensable life-saving skills and they go through a lot to get to that point where their patients trust them enough to literally put their lives in their hands. And yes, of course, a musician or a dancer will need a doctor at some point. But use your right brain for a minute. Have you ever thought about how a musician could possibly be saving a doctor’s life? What about that surgeon in that OR who has been awake for 48 hours not having seen his/her family with someone’s mortality in their hands? What about his/her favorite musician whose labor of love is what they’re playing in the OR to calm their nerves or keep them awake or reach into some emotion or memory or whatever the case may be in order to focus and keep their patient alive & well? We need each other. 

The stigma that an artist is a wishy-washy hippie with no real focus or destination is what keeps us all down, the non-artists included. This creative life is an unforgiving, difficult, lonely, misunderstood, emotionally-turmoiled typhoon..that is also the most fulfilling, evolving, magnetic, identifying, truthful, cathartic, satisfying, authentic one. To not be able to wholly live it is soul-crushing..like a permanent Dementor all up in your face. But those with the tenacity and voracity to live that roller coaster, no matter the cost, are the ones that fly. They are the ones who make change happen, not because they are creative, but because they are full of grit & blind determination & the optimism that tells them everything will happen for them in time.

I want to be that person. I have to be that person. And I’ve given myself a deadline on when I will be that person.

Stay tuned..changes, they are a’comin’.

 

Today’s Wisdom:

“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. No satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.” -Martha Graham

864600070

Today’s Interlude: “Pure Imagination” from Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory

“Don’t Go Cryin’ To Your Mama, Cuz You’re On Your Own In The Real World”: My Advice To The Youth & Slightly Aging

Standard

ImageToday’s Mood Ingredients: Frustrated, Mentor-y, OverUnderqualified.

So, it’s been quite a while since I’ve written a post & that’s mostly due to the fact that life caught up to me & I was too busy making a list of observations to actually have a chance to sit down & write about ’em.

Jobs. We all either have them, need them, or are retired from them. We either love them, hate them, or are apathetic towards them. For some, they’re a means to an end; for some, they’re the only consistent things in life; for some, they’re the greatest love affairs; and for some, they’re the bane of their existence. So, what’s my input? They suck. Unless of course, you’ve known what you want to do your whole life & were afforded the opportunities to strive for success in your chosen field from a very young age. Below, you’ll find my unsolicited, but in my humility-laden opinion, spectacular and priceless, advice to the classes of whatever year you did/will graduate, be they from elementary, junior high, high school, college, grad school, or some other institution. Read & heed, my friends!

DO WHAT YOU WANT. That’s all. Simple. If you have an inkling of what you want to do your whole life at whatever age you are, GO FOR IT. Don’t allow doubts, fears, or pesky little things like crippling anxiety overshadow your passion and desire for a specific route for your life. Live for yourself. It’s always nice to be selfless, but sometimes, you need to be selfish. I found out the hard way. I drastically changed my career path at the ripe young age of 30. I dropped out of medical school, I launched my own fashion line, and I continued to look for odd jobs to support my business. IT SUCKED. I wish I had gone to FIT or Parson’s right out of high school. I wish I had interned for Valentino or Marchesa or Rodarte. I wish I had apprenticed in Bombay with a designer I know. I wish I had done a lot of things, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. So, at the age of 33 with a graduate level education, a creatively obsessive background, and a small business, I worked (until a week ago) at a daycare center. I wiped other people’s children’s poop and noses (not with the same wipe, don’t worry), I cut up hot dogs for toddler lunches, I woke up at the crack of dawn (NOT ideal for an insomniac/nocturnal creature), I stood for 8 hours a day, and I dealt with the worst boss known to mankind. Lucky for me, I adore children and teaching both, so I made the best of what it was. A measly job with minor pay, but it allowed me to go to LA and go to Bombay and teach dance classes 3 days a week. It allowed me time to design & sketch at home, it allowed me time to spend QT with my nephew, and it allowed me time to go back to seriously building my business.

Unfortunately, I was forced to quit last week because that aforementioned “Horrible Boss” (without an ounce of the attractiveness of Jennifer Aniston), did not allow me a day off to attend a family funeral. Bitches be trippin’, yo, and karma isn’t always kind. Anyhow, so now here I am, back on the job hunt while working 20 hours a day on this and what do I find? I’m too overqualified for jobs like a cashier at Target or a counter person at a bakery, but too underqualified for the jobs relevant to my field. Do I have 2-4 years of retail experience if I want to apply as a Fashion Assistant at DKNY? No. I was at a science research program at Marymount. Do I have 1-2 years of previous mailroom experience in order to apply for a MAIL SORTER position at Armani? Nah. I was in medical school in Antigua.

I’m noticing that there are more and more people out there experiencing this kind of rock and a hard place situation when it comes to gainful employment (especially after a career shift), no matter what area it’s in. There are articles upon articles out there about what “experience” really even means in the social media obsessed, Vine celebrity, hired-from-Twitter-feed-to-become-a-TV-writer world (hello, Harvard Business Review!?!), but nothing actually being done about the seemingly ubiquitous situation. So my point of this rant is, until there is some evolution with today’s times, take my advice: START YOUNG. Yes, everyone will tell you it’s never too late. I mean, for the sake of full disclosure of my hypocrisy, one of my favorite quotes is “It’s never too late to be what you might have been” by George Eliot. HOWEVER, if you want to be who you might have been with a little more ease and comfort and a slightly quicker success rate, be who you might have been…..NOW.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Today’s Interlude: “Everybody’s Free To Wear Sunscreen” by Baz Luhrmann