How Do We Get Over The Fear of Uncertainty?

The time we live in now has a new name. Uncertainty.

Ask anyone about their well-being and you will likely receive replies that vary from ‘so far, so good’ and ‘not bad’ to ‘trying to be positive’ and ‘surviving’. Most responses are variations of a cautious sense of optimism, echoing a never-before kind of anxiety and circumspection about life.

Certainty was never a feature of human lives at any point. There has always been a twist here and a turn there, but uncertainty has never been so obvious and brutal as it is now.

We had never acknowledged the fluidity of our existence as intimately as we are doing presently. It is as if all the zest for life has been sucked out of our being by the unfolding plot of the pandemic.

I recently chanced upon a word, Cherophobia, which means fear of happiness. It seems as if we are all becoming cherophobic, slowly and imperceptibly losing our capacity to laugh and celebrate life unrestrained. There is a constant sense of danger lurking in the corner, and we are forever scurrying to take cover from our insecurities.

Where do we now find happiness when tragedy and transience take over our lives? Whence do we derive our peace of mind in these turbulent times?

For a long time, I had lived under the impression that psychologists were beyond negative thoughts until I met someone who grieved the loss of a parent like any normal human being. It was then that it dawned on me that tragedies could affect even the most stolid minds and what helped them tide over it was knowing how to alter the course of the mind. They probably knew how to tweak thoughts and rein them in. They understood the dynamics of a disturbed mind and employed methods to placate it.

Now, more than any time before, we too have a need to find ways to grapple with this tumultuous streak in our lives.

Just like the psychologist who unabashedly displayed her emotions in front of me, I must confess that I too am susceptible to anxieties, despite the life lessons I frequently serve up. Fear has been the overriding emotion in my heart for a while now, angst has superseded hope, and the way uncertainty has manifested itself around me makes me think there is no tomorrow. Or is there? One would not know for sure, but what one knows is that we have this day and this moment.

As the mind wandered looking for a place to roost at peace, the present moment appeared in front of me asking to be embraced. I made a pitstop there, amazed at how the present moment had always been there for me, but I had not taken notice of it at all. Always yoked to past or yanked by the future, hauled over regrets and anxieties, how I had not savoured the time that laid itself out in all its glory I front of me.

It was always about what had happened and what can happen, never about what is happening right now. Think about it. Haven’t we fretted more about what our children will grow into or how successful they will be in their careers than taking delight in their childhood? Don’t we worry more about our retirement years than enjoy the days of employment? Don’t we look back on what could have been and sigh more often than reckon what is now and rejoice?

The more I pondered, the more I realized that the antidote to my fear of uncertainty lay in giving the present moment its due. But realization is one thing, and its execution is another and how I struggled to put my own recommendation into action!

I am mentioning this here only to stress that it is easy to theorize solutions, but to formulate a plan and implement it takes a lot more spiritual strength, and that strength comes from inside us. The best and the worst of us lies within and knowing this alone will help us in these uncertain times.

I shall not claim that I have tided over my tensions about the future completely; there are occasions when I am ambushed by dismal thoughts, but I can affirm that the present moment now comes to my rescue more often than before.

Carpe diem, carpe diem, I repeat to myself, and when I settle into its essence unconditionally, committing myself to it fully, my fears dissipate, and I am revived all over again.

We Are As Good As We Believe

‘Whoever has a functional knowledge of a language and knows a hundred words can write stories. It is n

o big deal. Anybody can become an author.’

These are the words echoing in my head now as I prepare to release my sixth book. They were said to me by a close acquaintance nearly twenty years ago when I revealed to him that I loved to write, and I was aspiring to be an author.

I found his response to my creative urge callous and hurtful. The seeds of self-doubt it sowed in the wannabe writer in me gradually took devious forms and became deep-seated. In the years after that, although I wrote a lot and evolved much as a writer, I remained very skeptical of my talents. Despite finding a voice of my own and winning the hearts of readers, I was circumspect about my skills.

At some point, despite the subtle layers I had added to my craft, I fell victim to a debilitating ‘imposter syndrome’. Was I a good writer indeed or was I pretending to be one? Did my writing genuinely affect people or was I creating a false aura around myself? Was I a writer of merit or just a narcissistic idiot?

Back then, when I started out, writing was a haloed activity and very few people took it up seriously. The avenues were limited and not many people ventured out as boldly as I did. However, with the advent of social media platforms, the writing scene exploded magically. There was no dearth of good writers and I saw how my acquaintance’s words were coming true. Almost anyone could create a decent, or even a delectable piece of writing.

I saw my imposter syndrome reinforcing itself in the changing environment and suddenly all my creative flair stood on the brink of extinction.

I had a choice—to endure or perish as a writer. If I allowed myself to succumb, I was certain I would. If I had to survive, then I had to have a concrete plan.

Every attempt at self-preservation takes a whole lot of resolve. In my case, it involved busting limiting self-beliefs and falsehoods that people had drilled into my soft head at various times. It meant devising my own paths and maneuvering safely out of the warrens of diffidence.

If any of what I am stating here resonates with you in your own individual spheres, if you have ever felt you aren’t deserving of the distinctions others have conferred upon you, if even your best performance seems like a parody to you, then pay heed. What follows is a five-point prescription that I wrote for myself when the scourge of ‘imposter syndrome’ threatened to invalidate my years of literary endeavours.

For starters, if you can say with conviction that you have striven hard to reach your milestones, then claim it legitimately. Your title and worth have been hard-earned, and you must wear them on your sleeve. Accept compliments and praise that come your way with elan. Know that not all praise is flattery. With time and experience, you will know to separate chaff from grain.

One thing I understood very early in my journey was that to be worthwhile, I must be an eternal learner. It has kept me open to new ideas and given me avenues to improve when I could have easily settled into creative smugness. Allowing ourselves space to grow means conceding we aren’t the ultimate. It is a trait that will serve us well in our personal and professional lives.

Another factor that often puts us off track are unhealthy comparisons with those who are more skillful and successful than us. By that, I mean measuring us against them in a way that makes us feel infra dig. When you compare, make sure the comparison is only helping you to learn and not making you feel inferior. Your talents are unique to you and hone them with any tool you can lay your hands on.

Above all, when the frustrations of ‘being an unworthy imposter’ begin to rankle, turn them into an opportunity to push the pedals harder. Let your dissatisfaction be the cause of a growth spurt in your life. Find the fire in your frustrations. There is no such thing as fake competency. We are either competent or we are not. What makes us distinct from others is recognizing where we truly belong—in a league of our own.

My Holy Basil

It is monsoon in my native place now. For several reasons, people have less love for the rain now than before. There is an unspoken wariness surrounding the monsoon, more so with a persistent pandemic in tow. Rain has slowly stopped being a symbol of love for us. It is, for the most part, a reminder of past afflictions. Strange, how we remember the shadows that time casts on our lives than the light it throws!

Back here, I am wallowing in the swelter of desert summer and thinking of the monsoon with an old fondness that I can’t shake off. The yard around our house must be thriving in green, with new sprouts coming alive from the seeds that had lain underground waiting for the rain. Among them will be scores of tulsis that flaunt their fresh shoots as soon as the earth gets wet in anticipation of the seasonal rendezvous.

The holy shrubs that lace the periphery are subordinate to the queen tulsi in amma’s tulsi thara. The queen gets all the attention and adulation that the rest don’t get. Amma doesn’t water the queen. She gives it a sacred bath with such devotion, careful not to let the water crush its leaves or bore into tis roots. As kids we were taught to use our palm to break the force of the water and make it cascade gently into the soil.

The face of tulsi thara then got a generous rub of turmeric and a dash of vermillion, and a lucky leaf would wear a sparkle of yellow and red soon after. Amma then placed a flower at its helm, lit a lamp at its foot and went around it thrice with a prayer on her lips. It was a heart-warming ritual to watch in the mornings and evenings.

The grand treatment the queen got from amma often made me wonder if it was the dwelling that decided the worth of the dweller. Is it the cup or the coffee that is important? It is an argument I would like to keep for another day.

The tulsi holds a unique charm for an Indian woman that no other plant can ever aspire to match. Every time I return from a sojourn back home, I tuck in a pouch of Tulasi seeds in my bag, and religiously sow them in the potted confines of our apartment in Dubai. Year after year, I have tried to set up my own ceramic tulsi thara several times but failed in it miserably.

The seeds either become sumptuous meals to itinerant birds or they simply fade into oblivion. How something that spills lavishly on the ground and flourishes in one place completely defies its own character in another place is something I have never understood. Maybe, it is a question of volition versus force. Clearly, I can’t force a reluctant seed to sprout if doesn’t will itself to grow. No matter what my stature as a human, I cannot make nature do my bidding. Can I?

Subsequently, I was told that tulsi seeds seldom sprouted in artificial conditions and the easiest way to own a tulsi plant was by getting a sapling from the nursery. Now that was sound advice, but one that I didn’t pay serious heed to. How can an off-the-rack plant match the beauty of a seed sprouting silently when the world wasn’t looking?

I was determined. There was a pouch full of seeds in stock and I wasn’t going to give up until I had exhausted them all. Somewhere, amidst the dry flakes of brown there should be a feeble presence of life waiting to spurt. The flowers of yesterday cannot be so dead and devoid of soul.

And boy, was I proven right!

I remember the day I first saw a bright spot of green in the soil. Is this how a woman who has just got the first hint of a life growing inside her feel? Euphoric and anxious at the same time?

Monitoring the green dot’s growth then became an obsession to me, and I kept a constant watch, watering it carefully, not so much that the tiny leaf gets inundated and dies, nor so less that it shrivels and falls. How is life sustained in delicate times like this? Who knows? Buoyed by a fixation, we simply follow our instincts and hope that we are doing the right thing.

My tulsi is now several inches tall. It has flowered and matured enough to have seeds of its own. They will probably fall and raise a new generation of plants. There is no monsoon here to inspire it, but I help them experience rain with a lavish spray twice a day. There is no ritual other than uttering a sincere word of thanks to it for materializing in my life.

Standing here I imagine the smell of petrichor rising from the pot as the water sinks to its bottom. In my mind, I see the monsoon. I see amma’s tulsi queen in her royal finery and the rest of her subjects thriving around the house.

Home, for me now, is just a dainty tulsi plant away.