Let us find comfort in each other in these not-so good times

(First published in Khaleej Times, Dubai)

Apart from the vaccines, we have taken refuge in two other things to beat the blues of our present situation. Hope and optimism.

Picking from where I left off in my previous column on how to embrace the present moment to defeat the fear of the future, I mulled over the efficacy of the twin recipes of hope and optimism as a coping mechanism. How far are they actually helping us now, and is there anything else that we could administer to make our lives better in these not-so-good times?

Of course, hope is our driving force for the future. It is what propels us and makes us fix our gaze on a brighter tomorrow. But what of today? How genuine is our present sense of hope and how is it bolstering our lives? Is it reinforcing our strengths or is it giving us a false sense of well-being?

I have been hearing numerous reports of lives being snuffed out owing to stress caused by the pandemic among people of all levels. News about suicides and heart-attacks triggered by this global calamity have shaken the calm that the word ‘hope’ seemed to arbitrarily offer. Hope has reduced to an emotional prop, too broad and vague to find practical solutions in, and it is apparently not delivering the best results.

As I thought about better ways to cope with this inclement weather, my first realization was that there may be no quick-fix solutions to any of our present predicaments, but what we have is ‘each other’. When we are on a rocky boat, what do we do? We hold on to each other, not because we think they can save us from the storm, but that clutch on their hand will give us a reprieve from the fear of drowning.

The whole world is now afflicted in one way or the other, but some are more severely hit than the rest. We are in a state of relative stress, the difficulties differing only in degrees. It is as if the pandemic has suddenly exposed all the challenges of being mortal. There is no sorrow we don’t understand, no fear that we can’t feel, no failure we can’t relate to. It is as if all the woes of the world have evenly permeated into our lives, making us equals.

It is this egalitarian nature of suffering that must unite us and make us reach out to each other. Of course, none of can have a final solution to the other’s problems, but what we can have is a willingness to share our stories.

For the longest time, we have been taught to keep our sorrows private and look chivalrous in public. ‘Smile, for the world hates tears’ is a maxim we have lived by, and we have pushed our anxieties to the deepest annals of our being. We have veiled our woes because we believed that ‘no one understands’.

But trust me, the world now understands every tear and sigh of mankind. Heartbreak and hardship are not alien experiences happening only to some. They are part of our shared destiny. Knowing this is very liberating at a time when we are all under duress. It will embolden us to release our pain and be candid about it. It will also make us more generous to understand their stories. It is in this exchange of hearts that we will find our succour.

During conversations with friends and relations, make a genuine attempt to know how they have been faring and feeling, and if you sense something amiss, give them an opportunity to vent their story and listen to it with true compassion without dismissing it lightly as a passing phase. Offer them legitimate suggestions if you have any. Tell them you understand, and you stand by them morally, although you have no immediate remedy to their problems.

On the flip side, when you are willing to partake in their stories without judging them and when you realize that we are in this together, you will feel more confident to share your own deepest concerns with others. You will then not wallow in them alone and be sucked into the blackhole.

It is, admittedly, not easy to bare our soul to others. But it is about time that we gave this ‘I am OK, you are OK’ habit a break because none of us are OK today. Let us accept it and come out of our inhibitions. Let us reach out and connect more often. Let us show up to each other. Let us listen and talk. Let us strive to become a combined source of palliative care to each other.

Why We Shouldn't be Shy to Showcase out Skills

(First published as a column in Khaleej Times, Dubai)

When I first started writing more than three decades ago with a serious intent to become a purveyor of words, the world was a totally different place. I wrote, often got rejected by editors, and all my writings went unread into a box folder, which slowly became a relic of sorts on the table.

There were no means to spread a word about my literary flair and ambitions to people in those days. Even when I published my debut novel in 2009, I had no clue about how to propagate the good news, except through e-mails to people on my lean contact list. Facebook was still in its infancy, and I was petrified at the idea of foraying into something so alien and obscure to gain traction.

To me, advertising and marketing were corporate concepts that required huge cerebral and financial investment. I remained ignorant of their overarching effect in my literary pursuits for a long time and stayed in the closet, largely hidden from the public eye. And then the social media scene burst into a million possibilities. But it was not enough. It took longer for me to realize that the spotlight doesn’t fall on us organically. To be seen and noted, we must walk out and stand under it. With panache. With confidence. With a guarantee to give value.

It must be said that in the initial days of my newfound insight, I was hugely conscious and embarrassed to step out and do what I considered was a form of ‘narcissism’. I don’t remember when and how the idea got nailed in my head that it is a writer’s virtue to be reclusive. That she has to be self-effacing and perform in the shadows. That claiming a moment in the sun reflects downright conceit. That letting people know about your talent and hard work is counterintuitive to creativity. That self-promotion, in short, is a disgraceful accessory to a writer.

But slowly, as I began to view my craft and my work in a different light, it began to dawn on me that most of what I believed were mere fallacies.

For starters, over long reflections, I convinced myself that I am my own brand ambassador. What I did as part of my profession is not important to anyone else as it is to me. If the big companies can flaunt their wares for the world to take notice and buy into them, so can I.

If they don’t feel it is shameful to sell what they have honourably created, then I need not behave as if I have egg on my face when I promote a new book, post news about an accomplishment, or share my writings on social media.

Advertising and marketing are not scandalous terms. They tell people what is on offer and what choices they have to make their world a better place. Seen in that perspective, an artist or a writer is within their rights to present their best creatives for the public to lap up. If there is a good product to offer, let people know about it.

Next, as part of the process of tweaking my psyche, I separated my writing from myself. In metaphysical terms, this can be defined as the de-egotizing of one’s special talents. Let me deconstruct this for you.

A very talented young musician that I closely know recently said to me how he felt very ‘shy’ to post his music videos on the social media. It was a pity that the young man’s talents were going unnoticed because of acute self-consciousness, but I knew the space he was coming from. Fear of judgement, of falling short, of being labelled a show-off had made him conclude that self-promotion was a reprehensible act.

Having been there and come out of it successfully through conscious deliberation, I shared an insight with him, which I hope will work for each of you.

As a devoted artist or writer, it is not about us anymore. It is about our creations, our art and our craft. When we hesitate to share them with others whole-heartedly, when we deny them the exposure they deserve, we are in effect refusing to celebrate our God-given abilities. We are failing to be in gratitude. Let us not be so full of ourselves that our creativity stalls within our fortified egos.

Set your genuine talents free for all to see and savour. Put the flags out and celebrate your inherent abilities. Let your name be just an incidental tag that goes with it.

A Bed-time Story

My sleep pattern has gone for a toss. It has been so for a while now. My eyes remain peeled long into midnight - till 1.00, 2.00, 3.00…and the mind works overtime.

There is no dearth of things to dwell upon, you see. Life has made sure that we spend more energies on planning things that will ultimately go awry if they have to, on stretching beyond our physical thresholds and on striving for things we ourselves can’t determine.

Thanks to these sundry human inanities, sleep has not been a great aide to me of late. ‘Not a good sign’ - I get warned every time I speak about it to someone. Hitting the bed at 2.30 and 3.00 AM can confuse your internal processes, I am told. In the long run, it could disorient you.

Perhaps.

With time, it could result in inner chaos of a different sort. Night and day may fuse, and my body will work anticlockwise. I don’t contest that theory. It could wind me down and render me inactive, but when the sadness of humanity overwhelms and fears of the most indefinite kind rob the spark from life, when old pains return to haunt the senses, what do I do?

When sleep is unrelenting, and it stands outside my door like a wayward child, what do I do?

I let the quietness of night inspire me and tap my deepest instincts awake. I step out to stand in the balcony and gaze at the remains of the moon so deeply hued that I will be forgiven for lamely comparing it to a peeled half-orange.

When did the moon change its colour and acquire such an endearing amber tone, I wonder.

Is it a pair of tired eyes playing tricks on me or is it the illusion of a meandering spirit? Is it the magic of the night sky or the changing views of my inner landscape? Is it the moon indeed or the sun out on a secret summer date?

Which one is real, and which one is a disguise? The sun or the moon? The day or the night? Me or my shadow?

The moon has no time to answer me.

As the chrome specter gradually slides into the sea, I creep into the bed. I have no memory of the moments that followed. Within seconds, I must have conked out. I vaguely remember having a dream – of a deep yellow moon cruising in the immaculate night. My sleep must have happened somewhere on its murky periphery.