Wild Writing

 Put the thought/idea out there, and the universe transpires to make it happen. 

I wanted to write more this year. But I knew I couldn't take on the commitment of any sort of creative writing course. I remember trying to do an online writing creative writing course in my mid-20's. This was before Zoom, so it was purely online documents ... actually, I don't remember what the format was at all, because I didn't do any of it. I paid for it, but I didn't do anything beyond the first writing assignment. I had started dating my now husband around that time ... I remember being madly, gushingly in love, and creative writing was great in theory, and that's about all. 

Anyway, I digress. Two years ago around this time I had felt the need to make more time for the artist within, and two things happened that started a snowball of momentum ... I read the book "The Artist's Way," by Julia Cameron, and joined a 12 week "Creative Mastermind" workshop. I had no idea what it was, but liked the idea of spending one hour a week on the idea of being creative, if nothing else. "The Artist's Way" led to writing "Morning Pages" - a morning routine where you hand write three pages of stream of consciousness, non-stop. The caveat is that you cannot go back and re-read any of it until at least six months have passed. There is something so liberating about that. Two years into this wonderful habit, and I have developed forearm muscles that I had long lost, and I don't feel the desire to go back and read previous pages. They are there for me someday when I care to read them. I've gone back and looked at where I was a year ago, and it's mildly fascinating to see the day-to-day worries of your life, as often a year later you have long forgotten them, as they may have hardly left an impact. The "Creative Mastermind" led to a whole lifestyle change - from keeping a bullet journal, to quitting social media, which in turn led to me remembering my love for the "lost art of written correspondence..." Most of us don't think of something snowballing in a positive sense, but this absolutely was that. 

So as this year was approaching, I put it out there in the universe, that I wanted to write more. And so, I happened to read a newsletter I was subscribed to (which I didn't even know I was subscribed to, which is the case of most of the things in our inboxes), written by an old colleague of mine. She used to dance with the same dance company I was a part of. I didn't have any personal connection with her beyond exchanging the usual pleasantries. Although now that I think back at it, I went through a year where my Guru "kicked me out." This was something that commonly happened in my cult guru's teaching methodology. If you didn't acquiesce to what he wanted, carrot and the stick, you got the stick. I "wasn't committing," and was therefore forbidden to attend his advanced level classes. I guess she had also been "kicked out" at this time ... or I don't really know, because I was so bothered by my own situation, I didn't have the bandwidth to worry about others. But I remember us having a short conversation around the time I was nearing 8 months of having been "kicked out." She asked what my thoughts were around it - I told her I was going to commit and go back. She nodded, and shared that she decided she wasn't. And that was pretty my only conversation with her. 

Since then I've followed her on social media, as we often do with people we once had a human connection with. She had chosen a rather unordinary life path, and I am always fascinated with someone who doesn't lead life as one big checklist, as I was taught to do. Her newsletter made it in front of me, and I read about a weekly writing group for women-of-color that would meet for eight weeks, (timing and pricing worked for me) and I didn't need to read beyond that, I was sold. 

Wild writing is totally up my sleeve. It's like the morning pages I've been doing for the last two years, except with a prompt. I'm usually not into poetry, but I have enjoyed the selection for this group. And while I'm usually still half asleep when I sit down at 8am on Wednesday's (definitely in my pajamas), I know I will feel revitalized by the experience of listening, flowing, and sharing in the next ninety minutes ... my nap can wait for later. 

We just did the third week, and this time, one particular piece of writing really felt great to me. I felt the flow, how the message just came naturally in its own way, and I felt centered by the end. I didn't need to go back and share it to feel proud of it - the experience of writing it was the reward itself. 

I will share the wild writing on this blog. And I will not go back to make spelling or grammar corrections, or reword what I'm trying to say - as tempted I may be to do all those things! 

An era passed

This week, the world lost one of the finest Indian classical artists of our time - Pandit Birju Maharaj. I have had the opportunity to witness some of this man's genius - not on the stages of the filled auditoriums to which he regularly performed - but in an intimate 'mehfil,' or gathering. Kathak, a story-telling classical dance from northern India dating back to 400 BCE, was originally performed by traveling bards, or Kathaka's, who traveled from village to village, sharing current events, political news, or stories from the ancient epics. The dance form moved into the temples as a devotional dance, had a renaissance in the Mughal courts when instrumentation and musicality from Persia was incorporated, and prior to its ascension to the proscenium stage, it was performed in small gatherings, or 'mehfil.' It was here that the dancer, musicians, and audience created a triangle of energy. There were no mics, fancy lights, sound checks, or rehearsals. The artists arrived on stage, and let their fierce mastery over the last decades take over. Together, the synergy of hundreds of years of collective experience would create a magic - an experience that could never be repeated, nor captured for later consumption. 

Such was that one magical evening twenty years ago, when I saw Maharaj ji at his finest. Already in his 60's, he sat on the stage with his harmonium (a keyboard instrument with metal reeds). He did not wear ghungroo (ankle bells), and he did not get up from his seat for the next three hours. Yet he enthralled us until the sun went down and the moon rose, with his mellifluous voice singing bhajan (devotional song), thumri (sensual love songs), ghazal (love ballads of loss & separation), scatting complex rhythms, reciting clever kavita (Hindi poetry), and enacting stories. Oh, the stories! I remember laughing, being nearly in tears as he narrated his experiences of trying to understand how to operate water faucets in various sinks throughout the world; particularly his misadventures in a Russian airport when he could not figure out how to turn off the water. His bhaithaki bhao (expressive dance while seated) showed a range of subtle, evocative, and nuanced expressions as he transformed into a beautiful maiden, or a mischievous young Krishna. He melded effortlessly from one character to the next to the next joke to the next song. It was as though he was not 'performing' at all - he was merely 'being.' He had us mesmerized the entire evening. When it ended, we were all left yearning for so much more. Maharaj ji's magic in the room that night far exceeded anything he displayed on the proscenium stage at that point in his career. 

Maharaj ji's passing is particularly of significance not only because of the phenomenal artist that he was, but because he comes from an unbroken lineage of kathak dancers in the Kalka-Bindadin gharana, colloquially referred to as the "Lucknow gharana," dating back to the mid-19th century. (Gharana comes from the word 'ghar,' or home, and Lucknow is the city where the family lived). The Kalka-Bindadin  gharana is the oldest documented record we have of our present-day kathak. Maharaj ji marks the last of a generation where this lineage of kathak was passed on from father to son (or to nephew) in an oral tradition through the guru-shishya (teacher-disciple) tradition. A disciple would traditionally live with a Guru, and learn the art form or craft in a lifelong apprenticeship, like a member of the family. Gurus taught hundreds of students, but the gharana was always carried forward by the immediate male blood line.  

Despite the fact that kathak is practiced and preserved predominantly by women, there are no women acknowledged in this legacy. Even dating back to the origin of the Bindadin gharana, where the gharana was born, in the court of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah (late 1800's), there is barely any mention of any of the over 100 courtesans (women highly trained in music, dance, poetry) that lived and practiced the arts in his harem. One would have to dig around deep into the tattered archives to find the names and histories of the women of kathak.  

Without getting into too much details of the socio-political reasons behind this - British suppression of the highly educated, influential, wealthy courtesans into common 'nautch girls,' post-Colonial confiscation of the courtesans' land, the negative association equating dance with prostitution, leading to the birth of a generation that would never let dance be taught to their daughters ... this simplified list could go on and on. The reality is that the system of the 'gharana' has always been mysogynistic, prejudiced, furtively (or openly) requiring submission to authority, and has led to the inevitable abuse of authority. You would not have to dig deep into any archives to hear the countless stories of aspiring artists, scarred by the 'system.' 

And so, we mourn the loss of a treasured artist - the last of a generation that lived, breathed, walked, slept and emanated Indian classical music, dance, rhythm, poetry from the core of their being. For most of us, we never got to experience the era where arts were given as much, if not more importance than the education one acquired in schools. We missed the era where the title "Maharaj" (great king) was bestowed upon an artist because they truly were like kings - the modern day equivalent of a lifelong-trending celebrity with a touch of royalty. 

And we bid adieu to an era where only men were given the privilege of carrying an artistic legacy. We bid adieu to the artistic monarchy, where bloodline was the foremost consideration as to whether you were worthy of the the most precious teachings of the guru. We bid adieu to a system where "winner takes all," and the word of the doyen is unquestioned, while hundreds of other voices go uncelebrated, unheard. 

Antara Bhardwaj is a kathak artist based in Mountain View, California, where she runs a dance school and company Antara Asthaayi Dance. She sees herself as a kathaka (storyteller), and her mediums of storytelling are dance, film, and writing. 

Childhood Home

My first childhood home has retained a magical quality for me. We lived there from when I was nearly 6, to when I was 10 years old. Only five years, but somehow, that home has remained with me my whole life. In fact, just last week, it was in my dreams yet again. There is an innocence and fascination in that home, which is not in the homes that followed. The only thing I can speculate differentiates that home from the rest is the fact that I was always a child in that home - not a teenager or young adult, like I was in our subsequent homes. 

As often is the case with childhood memories, they are larger-than-life. We had a lovely 'playborhood' culture, a term that didn't exist at that time, because that's how all neighborhoods were - you stepped outside your home after school, found other kids outside, and voila, there was your 'play date.' My school best friend lived three houses down the street - we walked back the 0.4 miles from school home together with her Lolo ('grandfather' in Tagalog) every day from 1st through 4th grade. I don't remember my mother ever coordinating or confirming with their family that Lolo would walk with us after school. I'm sure there were days when we did the walk back ourselves without thinking too much about it. We had other friends in the neighborhood as well - our next door neighbor had three daughters, two of which were close enough to me and my sister's age. And my mother's best friend lived 4 houses down, around the corner. It was the home I would walk to if I came home from school and my mother wasn't home. If that aunty wasn't home, there was another aunty up the street and at the end of the court, a short five minute walk away that I could go to. In the era of landlines, this was the back-up plan. 

One memory that has fragments in my head is of this one particular evening: I think it was close to summer, because it was still bright outside and the kids had already gone in from our after school play. I don't know if my mother heard the sound of the accident itself, or the commotion that ensued afterwards - but we found ourselves outside on our sidewalk, along with all our neighbors as spectators. A car had come crashing into the house two doors down. One can only guess how that happened - taking a turn too fast and skidding out of control? It slammed into the pillar of the garage, and bricks lay piled on the crushed front of the car. I remember nothing further about this scenario, and wonder if my mother remembers this particular evening, as we observed this scene together. Was the driver ok? Were the members of the house ok? Now I can't help but wonder about whose insurance paid for what... 

Cutting to present day - we live in a ranch-style single family home that reminds me a lot of that first home. Size wise, this home is larger than our original home - but I was a kid, so that 1100 sq. foot house felt pretty big to me. We have the closest thing to a 'playborhood' one can hope for in a (sub)urban community these days - my son has friends in the house across the street, around the corner, and an aunty who lives a little further down the street. School is 0.4 miles away, and sometimes I chaperone the walk home with my son's school buddy. 'Sometimes' being the operative word - because aside from the fact that we aren't afforded the regularity of the same schedule every day - we are now in that unique circumstance that all children have been schooling from home for the last year. Our son finally went back last week, in time to experience the remaining nine weeks of third grade in an actual classroom setting.  

There are many parallels I often draw to my childhood in that first home and my son's childhood here, but that's a story for another day. Lately, I have been sleeping in the guest room of the house, because that mattress is best suited for my healing back. The guest room is the front most room, and the window looks out the front yard of the house. I can't tell you how many times I have thought of that car, crashing into the front of the home, and wondered - what if a freak accident like that happened one night when I'm sleeping in the guest room? It's a terrible, morbid thought, fueled by irrational fear and anxiety. And, of course, it stems from the image of the car wreck I witnessed 30+ years ago outside my home. 

It makes me think, just how powerful images, and feelings experienced in early childhood are. Of course, this is a whole huge topic, and the basis of all our human psychology. They shouldn't even call it 'child psychology.' Just psychology. Because EVERYTHING in your life comes back to your childhood. And I truly mean everything. 

And so I bring us to this weekend. Five young children, from the ages of 6-11, and a dog, experienced the magic of childhood in a way that has long been forgotten. They went on a hike in a (backyard) forest with their elder didi (15 years old), went off-path, and got lost. No cell phones, no adults, and they didn't know where they were. 

But they figured it out. They looked around, used land marks as clues, made rational choices, and found their way home. In the meantime, the parents had started wondering if they should be concerned that the hike had gone on for over 45 minutes, and started a search-party. Two of us walked to the exit point of the hike, shouted for them, and heard their excited voices in response (a relief, no doubt). In what I can only describe as exhilarated, I heard a young voice shout, "We just had a REAL adventure!!!" I smiled, my heart full, and took in this extraordinary, precious moment: a happy-ending after the brief uncertainty of which way this story would go. The remainder of the walk home, we heard the various accounts of the kids' adventure, each sharing in their age-specific way. The teenager, empowered by her leadership; the children, amazed by their resilience and deductive reasoning; and the group bonded together by an experience they all shared together. 

And so, the memory of this hike will grow with time. It will leave an indelible mark in their hearts, in the core of their beings, in the fabric of who they are, and who they will become. May we be able to give our children many more such adventures - where they find themselves in amidst the unknown, yet come out triumphant ... or at least come out the other end. 

Heading off into their adventure. The time stamp of this image told us how long the kids had been gone.

L to R: Nishad (9), Aarav (8), Rika (6), Risha (10), Simba, and Ria (11). Not in picture - Simran (15)                              

Why is slowing down so damn hard?

This week was the first week of a new session in my dance school, Antara Asthaayi Dance. We are still a relatively new school - we started classes in Mountain View in 2019. The usage of the first-person plural 'we' is something I am still getting used to. For the longest time, I felt such imposter syndrome when I'd be writing the marketing/promotion materials for AAD with  the word 'we.' There was no 'we.' It was just me, myself, I, doing this all. Happily, there are now three of us who are on the team at AAD. 

Starting a new class takes a lot of energy. The kids are ages 6-8, and unlike past classes, some of these children have barely attended kindergarten, thanks to the pandemic. Add to that, we're all wearing our masks and 80% of the energy I'm giving to the children is lost. I left the first class unsure - was that a good class? I had no gauge. 

I'm barely two weeks out from having thrown out my hip & lower back. I've taken efforts to get all the help I can - friends & family are cooking meals for me, my colleague is driving me to work, another is helping me teach the classes by physically standing in and doing the dancing for me. I am able to warm up the food for us, and do an occasional load of the dishwasher. But after teaching two hours in the evening, reaching home, getting dinner served on the table -- my body is broken like it has never felt before. I seriously can feel all my muscles on the brink of collapsing any minute now. And yet, I push just a little more - going to the toilet, filling my water bottle for my bedside, plugging in my heated blanket ... until my body collapses on the bed, wishing not to have to move for the rest of the night. 

I have a problem with slowing down. I feel like this injury came at a very opportune moment because as the world is starting to look like it's opening up, I am revving my engine at the start line, waiting for the green light to go  0-100 as fast as I can. 

And this is after all my repeated efforts over the years to slow my life down. Well, it's not slow enough. I took a look at my schedule for tomorrow, and it looks insane to me already: get myself dressed up, and the dance studio room presentable for a Facebook live dance event at 8:30am, Zoom into a book club, serve lunch to me and my son, take a taal class with my guru, teach one hour kathak on zoom, and go out to dinner with a friend in the evening. This sounds like a torturous day, I need to figure out what to remove. I will listen to my body tomorrow, and if I cannot do something, I will say no, and cancel. However sad it makes me to do that. Something's gotta give - and it will not be my body or health. 

So, I am percolating in my slowed down state of life -- really, it is much slower. Each evening, I'm in my bed by 7:30-8pm, and I don't fall asleep until after 11. I have 3-4 hours of solo time for myself, where I am reading, writing, thinking, creating, planning, imagining, fantasizing. A movie/mini-series project, episodes for my Patreon page, a new program in the curriculum of my dance school, contemplating non-profit status for my dance school, grants to apply for, prepping an upcoming AirBnB property ... all in various stages of development. Some will come to fruition - like the AirBnB property, and others will remain a figment of my over-active imagination for years to come - like the mini-series. But if it's about the journey, and not the destination, I'm glad to say I am enjoying this journey. 

Update: I managed to do all the activities on that overly packed Friday without further hurting my body. While I am glad that was the case, I will not use that as the metric of the standard of what all I can accomplish in a given day. I must continue to listen to my body, and make choices to move my life in a leisurely pace, where I can continue to enjoy the beauty of all the small moments.

The last agenda item on my packed Friday - dinner with my dear friend Farah. 

       

 

Lesson learnt, point taken.

Remember all those times you swore you would never do 'said particular thing' again? In my 20's, the phrase usually came up in reference to a late-night out drinking. "Let's never drink again." If I could go back to my 20-something self, I would remind her that it's as simple as 1-2-3 - 1) drinking water, 2) filling yourself up on greasy fast food before you crashed, and 3) two Tylenols and one ibuprofen. When you wake up the next afternoon,, you're golden for your brunch mimosas. 

Hangovers - that was the big change going from your 20's to your 30's. “Newsflash - You had your first real hangover.” And then your second. And a third .... until you accepted that your body of this decade would regularly revolt against your insensitive judgements.

 

On a tangential thread, I recently read a fascinating best-seller called "Why We Sleep," written by a sleep scientist. Aside from the so many eye-opening (no pun intended) things I learnt about how imperative sleep is to our existence ... I also learnt that in the maturation stages of the brain, going from child to adult, one of the last areas to mature into adulthood is the area that makes logical decisions. That explains a lot of the choices I made in my 20's. 

Well, now I've hit my 40's, and am learning the next hard lesson of this decade. You cannot physically exert your body the same way you did before. 

Three years ago, the summer of 2018, I was leading my life at full throttle (as always). My newly formed dance company had been accepted into one of the most prestigious dance festivals this side of the Mississippi - the San Francisco Ethnic Dance Festival. I was training, choreographing, and musically conducting 9 dancers, 5 musicians, and myself for this world premiere at the prestigious 3,000 seater SF Opera House. It would be my biggest performance to date. Two weeks later, we were premiering an evening length show, self-produced, featuring 90 minutes of all-new repertoire that I was creating/composing/choreographing, and rehearsing 4-6x a week. In between this, I also met with social media superstar kathak dancer Svetlana Tulasi for a brief 24 hour period, where we choreographed, and shot a music video - immediately after which we both parted and rushed off - myself to another 4 hour rehearsal with my musicians, and she to a 3 hour workshop. 

When you're going full-speed, everything is extreme. Your highs are high, and your lows are low. Being on that grand stage was one of the finest moments of my life. I had never seen an auditorium of that grandeur - at least not from the vantage point where I was standing then. I looked out to the audience, and kept looking higher and higher - it was as if the audience reached all the way to the sky. 

I also remember one of the two days of the SF Ethnic Dance Festival performances, I had a terrible depression. The kind where you can't bring yourself to get out of bed - let alone drive 50 miles, do hair/makeup for seventy minutes, and then dance as if you owned the stage for twelve minutes. I remember a distinct moment, when we were in the last one minute of our performance. I had one last set of spins left, and then the finale. I was so tired. Not because a lack of stamina - I was just tired of talking, smiling, guiding my students, making pleasantries with my colleagues, and going about this spectacular day in the most professional/personable way I could. In that split second moment, I chose to "cheat," and do one less spin than the piece advocated for. This may sound silly to you, but for me, it was indicative of a debilitating state of mental health. 

And it's no surprise when you're pushing so hard, that both your mental health, and your physical health suffer. 

We finished both those concerts that summer, and my teaching calendar suddenly was wide open without any major rehearsals. Always needing to keep pushing myself to the brink, I decided to do a 30-day Facebook Live footwork practice something-or-the-other, where I’d share a live practice session of about 20 minutes of intense footwork each day. Thinking back, this choice was made out of fear. Fear that if I don't have an upcoming performance, I will fall out of regular practice. 

Now, I can't remember if it was already starting to hurt, but I have a recollection that in the first week of this footwork challenge, I carried my then six year boy in my 'godi.' As moms, we all hold our kids at the strangest of angles, while multi-tasking other things. My son was probably close to 50+ lbs, but more problematic was the fact that he was 2/3 my height. It is very imbalanced to hold something heavy that is almost as big as you. 

I strained my left hip. The piraformus. I quit my Facebook footwork series within 8 days, feeling like a complete failure, and berating myself for how weak I am. I don't even know what happened for the next year, but I must have gotten used to a low level (like, 2 out of 10) pain in my left hip. Each time I would amp up dancing (usually before a performance), the pain would come back. This pattern continued until 2020. 

I threw my back out for the first time in 2020, a week after the Shelter-in-Place order. Like the rest of the world, I had to switch my work to Zoom, and I taught hours of Zoom kathak classes sitting in my bed, because the other desks in the house were taken by my son and husband. Throwing out my back was one of the scariest experiences ever. I panicked when I found myself STUCK. Like, I literally could not move, and even a slight centimeter of movement caused pain beyond belief. Like, contractions-labor-level-pain (that is always my metric for pain, bc that was seriously the craziest pain I have ever experienced). My cousin-in-law, who has thrown his back out several times, came to my virtual rescue, and taught me exercises to get out of my stuck. My physician cousin prescribed me ibuprofen and muscle relaxers. I had learnt my lesson - I would never allow myself to get to this point again. 

Never say never. 

Cut-to, exactly a year later. In the last 12 months, my back has gotten to the "almost thrown out" stage at least 3x. Each time, I would slow down, do my physical therapy for a few weeks, and then go back to my normal life. 

The same thing happened two weeks ago. I slept on a soft mattress, and then tweaked my back while showing my students how to do pushups with proper posture (irony at its best). My back was on the verge of getting thrown out - so I took my standard precaution, and slowed down for about a week. Then it felt better, and I amped up my practice and did 4 solid practices in a matter of one week. I was feeling sore after the last practice, and did yoga the next morning - and after a seemingly innocuous downward dog, it happened. 

My body said a big "Fuck you" to me. 

My left hip completely seized up. I couldn't stand. For THREE DAYS. Each time I would stand, an acute pain would emanate from the exact place my original injury of three years ago, and it would spread. Within 30 seconds, the pain would be so much, I would have to sit down, and could feel my thighs spasm for several minutes afterwards. I couldn't sleep, because there was no position in which I wasn't in pain. And from a mental point, I was bored, depressed, and freaked out. My fatalistic thinking took over - what if I could never dance again? It worried me that the pain had not reduced in these first few days - that this time I had really messed it up in a permanent sort of way. But, fortunately for me, on the third day, the pain became ever so slightly less. Over the next few days, I could stand for a few minutes at a time, and stretch a little. I could feel that the pain was just the same little hip injury from 3 years ago, screaming and shouting at me to take care of her. 

 

I am allowing myself to feel the reality sink in. I'm in my 40's, and I have to do things differently. In my 30's, I had to be mindful of alcohol consumption. In my 40's, I have to be mindful of physical exertion. I CAN still do the physical work as my 30’s - but with all the work that comes along with it. 

I have finally gotten a physical therapist, who will be my regular BFF now. Seriously, bc I will be seeing more of her than most of my own friends. Nowadays, there are all these cool apps that help with accountability of doing your exercises. Last time I was in PT, they were still sending you home with photocopied worksheets of what stretches you needed to do. I probably don't need to tell you that I lost those sheets even before I made it home. 

I suppose my 50 year old self would be looking back at me and saying, it's as simple as 1-2-3: 1) warmup, 2) stretch 3) Self-care i.e. REST. Well, I hope I can heed the wise advice of the 'been-there-done-that' version of myself. No, I change that. I'm not going to hope. I AM TAKING THE ADVICE. Three years of ignoring an injury deserves at least three months of my full attention. And so, I focus on fully healing. Once I am healed, I continue to strengthen. My 40's body will allow me do my dance as I wish, just as long as I remember to do the needful. 

Teaching kathak at the park, while seated. 

Perspective

Today is International Women's Day. I only know this because a bunch of people sent me texts wishing me. I'll be honest, it's not a day that has had much importance to me. It just feels like another one of those days that they have created in the calendar. Like National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day. Ok, not a fair comparison, but you get where I'm coming from. 

When I saw the texts from folks, the first thought that came to mind was, "Oh, I should probably post something about this also." This refers to posting on my social media for Antara Asthaayi Dance. It really wasn't coming from the heart at all, and I had accepted that I wouldn't be partaking in the commemoration of this important day. 

Then at my weekly meeting, my team member presented me with this:

I immediately loved it, and the image/message sent my neurons firing away, sparking a desire to tell my story, whatever that was. 

I composed a short message for my Facebook/IG that touched upon my train of thinking - the irony that kathak is performed and preserved predominantly by women, yet our gharanas (schools) are all headed by men. This thought came to me because I was recently teaching my little girls about the Lucknow gharana, and explaining how it was father who passed it on to son, and he onto his son, etc. I added how women weren't really a part of this, because they were expected to get married and have kids. Even saying the words just felt so strange. I'm sure (and hope) it felt totally alien and incomprehensible to them as well.

Further exploring the importance of this day, a friend had shared a creative project with me, where she was listing out women geniuses. She pointed out how the word genius is almost never associated with women. Such a simple point, but so powerful. I started thinking about the women I would consider 'genius,' and struggled with it. I felt resistance when I tried to put Lata Mangeshkar in that category. She is a legendary singer with thousands of songs recorded, has received the highest honor given to any civilian in India (Bharat Ratna), received honorary doctorates from half a dozen universities and arts institutions - and yet I still asked myself, "But is she is genius?" Luckily, Oprah didn't cause that issue for me. No doubt, that woman is pure genius. I began pondering the women I would consider heroes in my life, or 'SHEroes,' as I believe they are called. Again, I struggled. 

I was in conversation with a colleague, discussing a self-help style book the both of us had recently read. At the author's suggestion of how to do a particular exercise, she rolled her eyes and said, "Yeah, that's such a white man's perspective ... not happening, next!" I stopped in my tracks. I had read the same thing, and responded in such a different way. Realizing I would not be able to conduct the exercise the way he had suggested, I took shame/blame on myself - because I was unable to do it the 'right' way. 

This idea of 'perspective' is not something that should be new, but it feels very new to me. Reading interviews with female filmmakers, I hear them share about their perspective on stories, and I find myself scratching my head wondering "what does that mean?" Why or how would a movie or TV show produced or directed by a colored woman be so different? 

Watching Padma Lakshmi's "Taste the Nation" helped answered that question for me. The first episode brought me to tears and a craving for a burrito, at the same time. I had never thought about how much of what we imbibe is colored by the perspective of the white man. And how that, in turn, shapes my own perspective of the world, and my place in it. 

So, I guess I can say, that I am starting to feel the importance of International Women's Day. But really, this needs to be more than just a day, or even a month. Just like the BLM movement, it needs to be a part of our day-to-day thinking. And I guess, that's why more women, and people of color, sharing their stories is so essential to our society. 

I've since added some names to the list of my (women) heroes: Oprah, Ellen DeGeneres, Michelle Obama, Tina Fey, Kamala Harris, Madhur Jaffrey, Padma Lakshmi, Sunidhi Chauhan, Sitara Devi, Gauhar Jaan, Zoya Akhtar, Saroj Khan, Mira Nair, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Greta Thunberg .... and I will keep adding names liberally, as I continue my ongoing education of the incredible women of yesterday and today, while shaping the incredible women of tomorrow!  

Filling up pages - a commitment to myself

 I am revisiting this blog after over five years. How I got to this place ... I'll highlight the relevant points. 

In 2014, I made a resolution: that I wanted to be an artist. I was surprised to find that exact blogpost where I made that commitment to myself. And that inaugurated a whole series of life-changing events, that unfolded over the next few years. I would tear down the current life I was living, and rebuild from scratch. It sounds like a figurative exaggeration, but it really isn't. I was forced to re-evaluate all of the closest people to me in my life - my husband, my parents, my sister, my Guru (not necessarily in that order), and most importantly, myself. Going a little further. back, I believe that my personal awakening began when I became a mother in 2012, which led to questioning who I am, which has in turn led to so many more, ongoing questions, answers, awakenings, and musings. 

2016 Christmas was when I found myself at ground-zero.  I thought I had hit the lowest point I could possibly go to, and then I would be knocked down further. It was one hit after another. My theme song for that time was definitely, "I get knocked down, but I get up again, you're never gonna keep me down." I can't believe I just referenced a non-Indian song. But, of course, I don't know the name of the song, or who sang it. That would be asking for too much from me. 

2018 was the start of the upswing. The good thing about being at the bottom is that the only place to go from there is up. And slowly, day by day, things started to get better. Sometimes you'd have a good hour. Sometimes a good day. Sometimes a good week. And it has now built to a place where I can say that we've had good years in our rebuilt life. 

Slowing down has been a big focus of mine. But, living in Silicon Valley in this era, even at my slowest, I felt like I was maintaining a slow jog, with an occasional sprint when too many things fell together at the same time. It's a great improvement from the maniacal headless chicken dance I did for so many of my years prior to 2014, but still not where I wanted to be, and I could feel it. 

2020 brought everything to a grinding halt. There was no choice about it. It was as if Mother Nature told the whole world - STOP. JUST STOP. STOP EVERYTHING, AND TAKE A LOOK AT YOURSELVES. 

And, oh, we definitely did. The Black Lives Matter movement erupted within three months of the Shelter-in-Place order taking effect. That has been one of the most profound looking glasses put in front of our faces. Racism was no longer a binary check box - racist or not racist. Now we were forced to look at all our implicit racial biases that influenced our thoughts, decisions, perspectives ... which would then effected our policies, laws, etc.

But on a smaller, personal note, I made the decision to do something for my artistic self in 2020. I joined an online master class called "Creative Mastermind." It was run by a college friend of mine, Srinivas Rao, whose Unmistakable Creative Podcast I used to occasionally check out - and I found that I enjoyed what he was doing: highlighting the lives and stories of people who decided to do something different, and make a life out of it. I decided to commit 1 hour a week for the next 12 weeks to just listening to whatever this course was saying it could help me do - develop systems and pr
actices for being my best creative self. 

The snowball analogy is the best way to describe how I have gotten to where I am now, a year later. That commitment slowly led to more reading, introspections, writing, realizations ... and it crept into all facets of my life. I realized I had been fearing to reach out to a wonderful and incredible artist I had had the opportunity to work with the year before (2019) - but now with the SIP order, I thought maybe he might have the time to teach me online? Best decision ever - as this has grown into a beautiful new relationship, and I have unexpectedly found myself in the loving care of a guru. I feel like a small plant, being well taken care of, but constantly poked and prodded to grow quickly and reach for the sun, moon, and stars. 

I left social media in August 2020, as a part of a 100-day challenge I was doing with the online creative network I had joined. Social media was impacting my mental health. In a random, given moment, when you'd scroll through your Instagram feed ... in five minutes, you'd see 20+ posts, and experience 20+ different emotions - varying from happy, sad, angry, envious, laughter, inspired, etc, etc. It's not to say those emotions are bad to experience,  but IT'S TOO MUCH. My mind cannot handle that many varying emotions in that short of a time span. And then be expected to go back to whatever mundane activity I was doing before that.

Removing social media was like detoxing from an addiction. It was a really well-timed detox, as I managed to survive the 2020 election season. It also led to reevaluating my relationship with my phone. 

Now, those who are close to me have often been frustrated with my relationship with my phone. From missing calls, to not having the ability to look up pertinent information bc I don't have my email on my phone -- my attempts at digital reduction were bringing in enough inconveniences that those closest to me (i.e. my husband) were left frustrated with my asinine methodologies. Reading the book "Digital Minimalism" helped me here by figuring out how to utilize technology to support the life that I want for myself - without being inconvenienced and inconveniencing others around me.

The life that I want for myself. That's a heavy question.  

By the way, in four months of not having social media in my life, I read more books than I had read in the last four years. That just shows how little I read in the years prior - not what a voracious reader I have turned into. Though, I must admit that I am proud that I have already read four books this year, and it's only the beginning of March! 

I've decided to continue with the rest of my life without social media. I have social media for my dance school/company, but not for me personally. The things that I liked about social media - feeling connected to others, and sharing my story. I will find better ways of supporting those two aspects in my life. 

I have been keeping a Bullet Journal since June 2020. I've always loved notebooks. I often would have something that I called "My Everything Notebook," which had everything from notes, to personal journal entries, to phone numbers, receipts, etc. Well, turns out someone figured out to make the everything notebook an efficient system of preserving and planning your life. I discovered that I also enjoy doodling and I'm not half bad at it, thanks to an unending supply of inspiration from Pinterest. Keeping a bullet journal has also reignited my passion for calligraphy and lettering, a passion of mine since I was ten years old. 

Writing is something I've always loved to do, and wished I did more of. So, I put the idea out there in the universe - I want to write more. I have become a believer in an almost simplistic approach to life - you put the idea out there, and then the universe revolves around to bring that idea to a reality. Call it the power of the subconscious, call it god, higher power, call it the force - whatever floats your boat. But try it - you'll be amazed at how simple it can be. 

I was approached by an editor to write a piece for their blog, "American Kahani." I was pretty flattered to be honest. I don't consider myself a writer by any means, though I have been paid for the craft in the past. And so, writing for that blog started turning the wheels even faster, as I further began to ponder, what is it that I have to say? 

With this post, I make a commitment to myself - to keep filling up pages. I hope that this goes beyond my morning pages (three pages of hand-written stream of consciousness at the start of each day), and bullet journal - but also to this personal blog, American Kahani, and my creative narrative writing - where I bring to life all the characters and stories that float around in my head on any given day.