Today marked the start of a 5-week new writing workshop by
. The group is a vibrant mix of writers - beginners, returning writers, seasoned professionals, and passionate enthusiasts. As excited as I was, my older, less secure self tried to raise her head minutes before the workshop started. She’s been my companion for years, so asking her to shut up can get tricky. Besides, I’m sincerely trying hard to be nice to all parts of myself - including the insecure one. So, 4 minutes into the workshop, I scribble some words and draw little hearts of affirmation around them, sealed with my stamp of love - a smiley.In this group of writers, I’m not a beginner or a professional. Even as a returning writer, I often suffocate under the weight of my own pressure and expectations. My underarms were sweaty and my palms were frozen as I read aloud my first speed-writing essay today.
However, I remain, at all times, an enthusiastic learner.
Last night, I came across an essay by Samira Gupta, where she shared a beautiful lesson from her daughter. Today, as the familiar but self-sabotaging psychological patterns resurfaced, that lesson kept me afloat. The note you see in the picture above is a reflection of her daughter’s wisdom sparkling across the pages of my diary:
“Everything does not have to be perfect. My art is messy and I still like it…”
The other note you see, 'Tum Kaafi Kamaal Ho' (You are pretty amazing), is essentially the language of mature female friendship. 'Own it,' my most wonderful writer friend
advised me as messages of love and support poured in following my recently published interview, leaving me flushed with excitement, embarrassment, and gratitude.So, inspired by Roshni’s encouragement and taking a cue from one of the prompts from today’s workshop, I’d like to jot down a list of why I think I really am a Kamaal of a woman:
I’m a great friend
Yes, I'm not just a good friend; I'm a great friend. Initially, I used to believe I had many good friends because I've been a people-pleaser. However, ask any close friend of mine, and you can be certain that I have always been truthful. In fact, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to liken my honesty and truthfulness to Salman Khan's journey in Bajrangi Bhaijaan - it has landed me in trouble and caused issues for my friends. Not amusing.
It’s not like I don’t lie. But, lying takes a lot of memory, effort, and intelligence and I’d like to reserve my energy for better things than to lie to good friends! Plus, my friends are my safe place. Imagine creating a sanctuary of lies!
I am a great friend, just not a perfect one. I forget my friends’ birthdays, I will mix up their names in conversation, and I will be gone away from the scene for long. But, I can tell you which friend likes what colour of flowers, which one prefers mithayi over chocolate, who seeks therapy, who battles panic attacks, who is tired, who is applying for a new job after a career hiatus, who's learning to let go, who's mindful of her diet yet serves me cake for breakfast, who knows I hate walks so she entices me for a supermarket trip at 5:30 PM in this desert heat. I will forget we made plans but, I will celebrate your big and little victories with childlike enthusiasm. I mean, I will not disclose to you who’s who, but, you get the drift!
I’m a phenomenal mother
“Mamma, you should be motivating me so I work hard for my exams!” my 11-year-old complained to me about my easy-going attitude toward her studies. I wanted to tell her I hadn't shown that level of relaxation to her older sibling, and I regretted it. Instead, I told her, “You've just recovered from a fever. If you don’t prioritize your sleep over exams, you might get sick again. I'd rather you score slightly lower and stay healthy.”
Now come on! You know how hard that is to pull off especially if you’re a desi mum!
“Did you know this is what I just learned in therapy?!” I tell my firstborn. He's the one who had to bear the brunt of his mother not seeking therapy earlier.
I would like to give myself a standing ovation for attempting to break the cycle and change my personal narrative.
I’m an exceptionally patient wife.
Picture this: It's your husband's birthday. You've invited his family, cooked a lavish feast singlehandedly, and taken care of all the preparations, strutting in a stunning hot pink Banarasi saree and heels while he's off playing cricket.
To give him credit, the match was scheduled long before my party plans, and he did intend to arrive on time. So, when he shows up 45 minutes late to his own party, dressed in his white cricket uniform gone muddy, with a bat in hand and a boyish smile on his face, you manage everything, reassuring your Bihari in-laws why you're still together.
If that doesn't earn me the title of Best Wife Ever, then what does?!
I’m incorrigibly Ziddi
Twenty-two years ago, a classmate of mine called me ‘incorrigible’. I didn’t even know what it meant back then. Little did either of us know that two decades later, I would wear the title as a badge of honor! He was absolutely right. I am incorrigible. I am incorrigibly stubborn. It is this madness, this junoon, that led me to change careers and pursue a new degree in my late 30s. It is this same zidd that inspired me to write memoir essays in my 40s and shamelessly chase editors all over the world to get published.
“Just, please, give me a chance and I promise I won’t disappoint you,” I’d beg them in my head after facing multiple rejections.
I have this insatiable hunger for life.
Many moons ago, my father traveled all the way to Pakistan and Bangladesh. By road and by foot. As an Indian. Long before he had a passport. I was naturally then surprised by his anxiety when he expressed concern about his daughter traveling to Karachi years later. In a plane. With a valid passport and visa.
Similarly, while my mother participated in singing competitions until her late teens and loved playing the harmonium as a child, I was confused when she witnessed me purchasing a piano for my kids first, then a guitar, and then the drums.
"Paagal ho beta?!" she expressed frustratingly.
I do wonder, don't they see?!
So,
here I am. Owning it and how! Someone said in the workshop today, ‘Pain is not the only story.’While I intricately weave pain into the tapestry of my narrative, I’d also like to display the presence of joyful hues and shimmering glimmers within it.
Main waqayi Kamaal hun!
Jaan meri ! You are the flame that you are . Hugs
uff chumma for your gorgeous, incorrigible kamaal-ness, Sanobar!