Voice

It started with whispers. The whispers themselves were not tentative - no, that is not the nature of this particular voice. Perhaps they sounded like whispers because I was not ready to quite acknowledge its new existence. I might even have ignored it. It was unfamiliar. Different. Not the voice I was accustomed to.

It got louder. Or maybe I turned the volume up, getting ready to listen to it. To use it. To choose it.

It was a bit of a battle. Because, you see, I must reiterate that this voice is different. It is not timid or shy. It's more matter-of-fact, than apologetic. It's ratio of grateful to apologetic is higher than any voice I've had before. It's no-nonsense and a lot less diplomatic than I've ever been.

It's the embodiment of the current me. Which is why it's taken a while to actually hear what it has to say. And to adopt it as my voice. But it's here and I like it. I choose it. I want it.

It frees me.
It acknowledges that I am my own judge and jury before the noisy chatter and clatter of everyone else's opinions and judgements and negations.
It's self-aware.
It stands up for itself.
It is authoritative and hopefully not too loud. I do not want to drown out others.
It has zero tolerance for bullshit.
It does not make excuses for people's behaviour or look for fault within to explain their behaviour. It realises that somethings simply are.
It has cut the strings of duties and obligations and doubts that have mummified my words.
It is unapologetic when it is true to itself.

This voice is also transient, and knows it. It is a work-in-progress and happy to try different strengths and tones and modulations to fit me as I change and learn and accept myself.

It is me.

Reminder

I forget sometimes. Who I was before you. Who I could have been before you. It's not a case of more, or less, but of the different possible me.

I love being us. Most of the time. Probably more times than you! But sometimes it's good to take that time and just let me be me and you be you.

A you without me. And a me without you.

Very Good

The other day I received a pleasant comment from someone in my acquaintance about something I had made. Notice, I say 'pleasant comment'. He did not gush or shower me with flowery praise. He just said it was very good.

Not a compliment to write home about.

Not a compliment to shout about over the rooftops.

Not a compliment grand enough to evoke gurgles of happiness from deep within the part of my heart where joy resides.

And yet, the simple unassuming words brought a tear of pride to my eye. A blush to my cheek. It was extremely hard for me to moderate my voice and behave normally after that. And in the car ride home I was dancing in my seat much to my husband's amusement and bemusement. I danced up the stairs and danced the length and breadth of our living room.

He definitely wondered what he had married. But you see, he didn't understand. The giver of the 'pleasant comment' is usually frugal with his words. Not particularly emotive. And, I have never in the entire span of our acquaintance done anything worthy of receiving a 'pleasant comment'. This was my first, and how delicious it was! That 'very good' was synonymous of having Simon Cowell compliment a contestant in American Idol.

It blindsides you and makes you speechless. And all warm all over. You feel... very good.

Roll Call

People come, people go. Over time, relationships grow and wane and alter their shapes and colours. It's a part of life. I say this with ease, and rather matter-of-factly. Of course, the reality is often a roller-coaster and typical of what this journey of life is about: growth, and change. Some of these comings and goings are subtle... you don't quite realise when someone has lodged themselves into your heart or quietly slipped out of it. Other movements are a little more bombastic, and leave you significantly different with their arrivals or departures. I'll understate the significant shifts in internal joy and sadness, and call it... personal growth?

But you know what I mean.

It's not something I really dwell on, unless it's been one of those remarkable shifts that either seared my soul or set it soaring. I mean, those quiet movements are those that hardly register unless some random incident or memory sparks an internal query: 'Isn't it funny how we became close?' Or, 'Whatever happened to her?'

However last weekend I was forced to take a sort of roll call of the people who I've been privileged to know and love. I was looking through some photo albums for a particular picture and realised there are so many people absent in my current roll call - people I had at one point or another thought would always be around. There were others with whom the entire equation has changed - the closeness has gone. I felt quite sad, and I won't lie: I sat for a few minutes feeling a little sorry for myself, walking down memory lane, and missing a lot of people. Missing the way we were (yes, with Barbra Streisand singing in my head).

As I looked at photo after photo, the sadness dissipated to a bittersweet feeling. I still had some wonderful memories to peruse, and I recognised that in the same way that my position in so many lives had changed, so had theirs in mine. It wasn't a bad thing, it just... was. I had forgotten my belief about people. Whether for a short stint, or for an entire chapter, they come in for a reason. I've been lucky that way. Each person has made me richer, in ways I may not have recognised at the time. I am a little bit of every person I have loved. And the best bit? There's some amazing people still present on my roll call, slowly enriching me, and teaching me. 

How can I be sad about that?

Teacher

My grandfather was possibly the best English Language and Literature teacher that existed. Ever. I don't say this because he was my family. I say this simply because it is the truth. Throngs of ex-students, spanning several decades, will drop everything and rush to verify it should I ask (that's the kind of loyalty he inspired). Under his tutelage you learned the nuances of this often frustrating, rule-breaking language; how to mould your own specific voice and, immerse yourself into a particular text you might be studying such that you'd be spouting references in every day conversation. No matter the roadblock, he would find a way to get into your brain and psyche. He would come to you at your level, with absolute humility, and approach you in the way that worked specifically for you. He got through each of his students in markedly different ways... speaking to them in the context of each individual's experience and understanding. Not only did he recognise that each person understands and communicates differently, but he also managed to get through each person at their unique wavelength.

I haven't met a single other person yet who has that gift.

We lost him last May. Gone, missed and never-to-be-forgotten. While he left behind a tremendous, painful gap, he lingers somehow. Not only did he leave behind bittersweet memories, but important lessons. Going to him to learn English was going to him to learn about life and the sort of human being you could and should be.

My memories of him were given another glorious layer when a few months ago I fell into teaching English a few hours a week. It took me some time to even take it up because of the great example I had had the privilege of learning under, and I knew I wouldn't even be half as good. However, I knew I would be earnest in my efforts, something that my grandfather understood was lacking in a lot of today's teachers.

In attempting to do what he did so effortlessly, every day, I grew more in awe of him. How did he do it? How did he get through to us? He was brilliant and passionate when he taught. I can still see him, eyes aglow and shaking his fist as he reads out the line "...fucking sissies? Queers?" when we were studying Tennessee Williams' 'Cat on a Hot Tin Roof'. I think I went cross-eyed in shock. Understand, I had never, ever heard this soft-spoken man swear before. He had a different persona for every book. He commanded the classroom, and I am reminded of how utterly enthralled we were.

I, on the other hand, involuntarily whisper if I have to say "whore" or "sex" while teaching a book. Gulp. On top of that is the uncertainty of whether what I'm trying to convey has been assimilated by my student. There's no way my grandfather would have had such doubts. I remember reading Shakespeare's texts under his tutelage and it seeming easy. As I gulp my way through 'Othello' I've been coaxing my memory to remember some of his methods to adopt as my own. It hasn't worked so far.

There are certain small things that I know I learned unconsciously from him. His little double tick when you had made a particularly clever point. Or the glorious one-word sentence 'Beautiful.' in the margins for a well-expressed sentiment. This had to be his highest praise. You were elated if you found that written in his signature chicken scrawl on your page.

Without realising it, I found myself using the double ticks. It's when I wrote the first 'Beautiful.' that it hit me, with a quiet, lyrical joy: somehow, even though he is gone, I am being taught by my teacher.

Words. Only words.

It was infatuation - the way it started. A spell I didn't even realise being woven around myself and them. Words. For as long as I could remember they held me in their thrall. Made me safe. Took me away. Freed me. Enabled me to explore. To climb out of my skin without really having to climb out of my skin. To belong, when I so often felt different and unable to relate.

Written words. Words in a melody. Spoken words. I loved them all. I would take them at face value (words in conversation, not the latest fiction novel I'd be totally absorbed in or the catchy lyrics to my latest favourite song). This was more than just my own personal brand of gullibility. It was the weight and credence that I gave words. It was how, personally, it would take every earnest particle I had to express anything remotely emotional such that I almost felt like they were being dragged from my very soul when I said them.

"Thank you."
"I'm sorry."
"I love you."

Perhaps it is this that made me believe that someone else's words were pieces of themselves too - in the same way that mine were little pieces of my very soul. If I said a word... used a word... you could bet your life on the fact that I meant it and there was no hyperbolic use intended.

As I grew older, I grew more comfortable handling these precious pieces of my self. Expression became easier. The words would flow from my pencil, my pen, and then the keyboard - like there was a direct pipeline from my feelings to my fingers. And, being as obtuse as I am, it took me too long to realise that few people had the same respect and relationship with words.

It started with the small disappointments: the cavalier promises made by those I treasured more than my words.

"It won't happen again. This is the last time, I swear it."
"I'll be there, no matter what."
"You'll always be special to me."

I know. You must think me foolish. But I believed.

Every. Single. Word.

I grew more disillusioned with words when they became whispers behind my back, taking another form when they finally arrived as formulated stories to my face. Some grew chasms between myself and others that I fear I will never be able to cross. The thing with words spoken about you, when you're not there, in any measure of innocence, is that the impact grows exponentially hurtful when they are eventually repeated to you. I suppose the good thing is, that by then, I had lost a little faith in the meaning of words, so they hurt a little less. A smaller knife twisting my heart around in my chest.

To add to it, were the platitudes I had begun saying at work - an occupational hazard of being in the service industry and of having at least the semblance of etiquette.

"You're most welcome."
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

Don't tell me you mean these things every time you say them.

My love affair with words dissolved. Effortless expression became a distant memory such that even formulating two sentences for an email became a chore. It still is. I began to regard words with suspicion, examining each one as a potential threat. I clad my brain in armour, and my weapons were scepticism and cynicism. I became scared of becoming spellbound. And then the words stopped altogether for a while.

Oh, I could express the day-to-day stuff. But my outlet had disappeared. I was no longer a jukebox marrying songs I'd heard to a current feeling or situation. And my mode of catharsis - writing - became a tedious chore. I became clammed up - literally. Don't get me wrong, I've never been a sparkling conversationalist, but words began to die on my lips.

The thing is, the fault is mine. I gave them too much credibility. As my love for them returns at a painstakingly slow pace I'm aware that they mean different things to different people, and mean little if one doesn't look at the context of action that they are spoken in. And no two people express themselves in the same way. So, I'm a little lighthearted when I come across words now. A little patient... I wait to see if the actions meet the words. And you know what? It's perfectly okay when they don't. I may not always like it, but I'm better prepared than I was. They don't have that power over me as they did before, which is bittersweet... but hey, they are only words. I do believe there's a song to that effect... (the jukebox is slowly coming back to life too).

Snail mail

'What's your postal address?' A dear friend asked me this question a few days ago, and it produced an instant, heartfelt beam. Don't get me wrong. I'm a huge fan of electronic email. I don't think I would have survived these past few years living away from friends and family without the boons of Skype and email and instant messaging. Within a few seconds I can find out what all 'my' people are cooking in different corners of the world, or if someone is having a bad day, or share a song or article that I like and get immediate feedback. The physical presence of the person might not be there, but you could be face to face sharing the details of your day over a coffee - that's how gloriously immediate communication is today. But getting something in the post? That's a whole other delicious experience entirely. The joy of tearing open an envelope, and reading something handwritten, that's just for you... I don't believe anything in the world feels quite like that. The moment I receive a letter or postcard, I carry it around for days, just to glimpse some inky letters or to have the sudden thrill of brushing against that paper thats all mine, all mine, as I go about my daily business. And when I get asked about my postal address, that means the excitement and anticipation of something coming to a postbox near me really soon. I can barely wait! Hurry up and post the damn thing already...

hashtag tweet hashtag like hashtag brain mush

I've allowed my brain to become mush. Now let's be honest: I've never been the most intelligent or outspoken or articulate of people, but if there was one thing I could do, it was write at length. Not quality, per se, but definitely quantity. That is no longer the case. Where once I could write about lots of nothing in endless paragraphs (pick any previous post on this blog for evidence), it has now become a chore to string one sentence together. I don't think I've composed a decent email or letter in over two years! The story is similar when it comes to reading - sometimes I have to remind myself that an article is more than its headline. Especially now, when the headlines in social media are a bunch of provocative carrot sticks leading one to a whole heap of nothing. Thankfully I'm not partial to the easy-to-read list type of articles... articles that tell you everything from how to clip nose-hairs to why being bad is... bad. Perhaps I don't have the attention span to read beyond item 'one' on a list. I blame myself for this lapse in my reading and writing skills. I became addicted to social media and instant messaging. While several people I know have managed to maintain their communication skills while using these things, I let myself slide into a downward spiral of non-sentence communication, only drawing the line (and haughtily so) at abbreviating to the extent I've seen people do, or shortening words for no good reason (as seen by me, in any case). Why would I write 'gal' when 'girl' will do? And honestly, if you want to wish me a 'had' (an 'hbd'?) don't bother... I'm not sure how much time or energy was saved by shortening 'happy birthday' in that way! I digress. While I didn't get to a very high level of simplification (I do use the 'lol' quite often), I stopped writing sentences... detail... meat... depth... substance. I allowed myself to reach a stage where every mode of non-verbal communication had - in my head - the urgency and required brevity of a tweet, a status update, a quick typing of an instant message. Gone are the days where I could drone on and on about my last cupcake (I'm sure several people are quite glad), and it has reached a stage where I can't find my words. I can't express myself, and it's pretty damn scary. This goes beyond the social media addiction, but it definitely is a big catalyst. I realised deeper dangers when I began using instagram just a few days ago... the pressure to hashtag everything, simplify and categorise had me thinking in snapshots and hashtags the whole day when I first started. It's my fault that I take things to a whole other extreme. I really doubt other people are making up hashtags for everything in their minds, but I guess I'm strangely wired like that. The day of the instagram was a bunch of warning bells in my mind. This stops now. This strange effect I'm allowing to my communication skills. Sorry world, but I'm forcing out the words. ‪#‎conqueringsocialmediaeffectonme

Whispers

There are whispers dancing in my veins... golden and warm like dappled sunlight seen through closed eyelids. They are sepia tones - an artsy movie projected on a silvery screen underneath a midnight sky. Their aroma is freshly brewed coffee wafting into appreciative nostrils. They are excitement and contentment entwined in a tremulously sweet first embrace. They are a lilac bed of Jacaranda blossoms existing only for my viewing pleasure. They are hesitantly hopeful, shy, determined to become a bold voice - just not yet... They are mine alone, and yet universally understood. They are me, but when I am more than me. They are every emotion I have ever felt, and all the ones I have yet to feel - a beginning and culmination in continuum. They are heady whispers floating high... trying to elude the inevitable crash to stark, loud reality.

Moving Day

The last time I moved, it was across countries. I was getting on to a plane, as usual quite unaware of what I was getting into. I'm not known for my ability to look very deep into the future or to fully grasp the consequences of some big decisions. While I love to weigh things, and ruminate, my big decisions are always a snap judgement riding on a wave of emotion. I haven't always been right... but never fatally WRONG either.

It took me a long time to accept that the last time I moved, I was running away. I was unhappy, didn't fit, didn't know where I was headed, didn't feel like I belonged. In retrospect I was unconsciously looking for an escape route; but I honestly didn't realise it then. I had myself convinced I was moving for the sharp increase in salary, and so that I would have enough time to study due to fewer working hours. How else would you explain why someone who had never dreamed of becoming a flight attendant moving to an unknown city and joining of all things an airline?

It's the best decision I ever made. I grew in terms of my personality and confidence (although I've lost some intellectual confidence, which is all my own doing, and I'm working on it), and the sheer number of amazing friends I have made (mainly women) give the word 'girl power' a whole new meaning. Beyonce was right. Girls do run the world. These include the girls I have stayed with in the last five and a half years in this very apartment. They are my sisters here. My family. The shoulders I have soaked up in different times of heartbreak and despair, the ears I have reddened while venting about bad flights, bad haircuts, or simply... bad days. The ones I have embraced this new phase of my life with - independence and maturity. I love them so.

I was so starry eyed when I first walked into this apartment. The very first occupant in a spanking new apartment, in a flashy brand-new high-rise in Dubai. A complete change to the last years of living in a full, rowdy, colourful home in Nairobi; or a sardine in a can of other students in Delhi. You could taste and smell the independence. And I've been here for the last five-and-a-half years. Gulp! Has it been that long? But something in me has been yearning for some sort of change... some sort of movement. And I'd love the taste of just living on my own, for once, for a while. Because if all goes according to plan (and we all know how it seldom does), the NEXT move, will be the move back home.

So, in the next week to ten days. I'll be leaving. I'm excited, but apprehensive too. Happy, but with a catch in my throat. So this is what bittersweet tastes like. And there's panic, and terror: I have so much stuff!