Ameya

 I found this random little writeup in my Notes app. It's hard to imagine that I typed this on my phone, because I never write creatively on a phone (I find the phone debilitating when it comes to written creative flow). 

It's from 2018, and I never saw it until today. I remember now that it was a dream that I had, and immediately wrote down upon waking. Having recently gone through (yet another) unraveling of my past, I'm surprised to find that this ghost had been living with me for so many years. 

A sea of opportunities. Taken and missed. One man after another. The one that sealed my fate. At least for those years - and set the wheels in motion. 

Loving, caring parents, who want only the best for her n gently guidew their hearts. Hearts full of love and tears as they watch me go into this downward spiral. Addicted to addicts. And a depression that nearly takes her life. 

Finally in rehab. A familiar face. Clearly he’s a basketball player. “I know you.” He’s pissed off n irritated - more of the same shit. She places it - she names the dorm party that they met at and they danced. It was a dance she could never forget. The sexual chemistry was incredible. But before anything could happen, she told him that she was 17. Despite the rush of hormones, he stopped. He kissed her gently. “Come back when you’re 18.” But she never did. 

The memory awakens a past that is innocent, devoid of all the chaos n destruction that had become his life. He feels pure and clean of all his sins in that moment. And so a new era begins. 

Her life is magical. Wife of an NBA player - she is going to places one can only dream of. Living the life of her dreams. There is a deep sense of caring for one another. Compassion. 

But this too will come to its end. His downfall is all over the media. As if the trauma of the event itself isn’t enough, she must deal w the public humiliation. It never seems to end. 

She is interrupted in the recanting of this tale by a voice behind her. “You didn’t tell them about me?” His voice booms from behind. It’s very familiar, it must be her husband. 

She turns around, but it’s Him. The one that set the wheels in motion of abusive relationships. She feels her muscles tighten, her mouth clamps shut n throat feels dry. She fumbles for a comeback. “We hadn’t gotten to your part yet.” As if it was the best part of her fairy tale life, worthy of the climax of this great tale. How is it that even decades later, in her lucid dreams, he could still have that power over her? She hoped the answer would satisfy him, and that he would leave. 

She had blocked those years out. And she didn’t want to revisit them. She wanted to come back to the present. 

White-picket fence. Rose garden, lush green grass that’s overdue for mowing. Laughter, play, food, love, music, joy, peace. 

She has finally found herself. And the life she wanted. The one that she was meant to have. INNER PEACE. Something she didn’t even know was a thing, let alone missing from her life. Adventures & roller coasters have a completely different meaning now, unlike they did before. 

She has arrived. The possibilities are boundless. 

Ameya. 

My Wednesday

    I have begun taking a writing class with the Moutain View Los Altos Adult School. This is in line with my hope to write more this year. The following is a piece I wrote based on one of the given prompts from the teacher. I've highlighted the prompt in the writeup. 

    My eyes snap open at 7:25am with the melody of my alarm. I fell asleep early last night, and so waking up in the 7’s isn’t as painful as it usually feels. I remind myself to preheat the oven for my son’s breakfast, as I remember that today is the day he doesn’t like the school lunch. What will I give him? Yes -- we had discussed and agreed upon last night’s shrimp fried rice leftovers. 

“Remember to put tissues in your pockets,” I tell him, heading out the door. As we drive over to school, early enough today that I’m not cursing the woman in front of me who’s delaying me because she doesn’t know how to take an unprotected left, I use the opportunity of having his undivided attention to gently remind him of what else lies ahead in the day. 

    “Remember, today is your first cooking class,” I say. He moans -- the perpetual response I get from my newly christened middle schooler. As is with everything else, he didn’t want to sign up for this class. “Some of your friends will be there -- it won’t be so bad.” I list out the two other kids’ names I remember. Who else is in the class? I had texted the moms’ group to ask whose kids would be joining -- no one responded. Maybe I should send them another text when I get home? 

    But of course I don’t remember to do that. In the list of things to be done, this falls in the lowest of priorities.

    Prep for dinner, otherwise you’ll regret it when you come back home at 6:45 in the evening, tired from being on your feet for hours, hoarse from teaching your Gen Z and Gen Alpha students the merits of physical and mental discipline -- all packaged in a cultural context that they relate to only in the color of their skin, their names, and the food that they sometimes eat. Soak the rice now -- but set a 15 minute timer, otherwise you’ll never put it on the stove. Warm up a parantha on the grill for yourself, and set a 3-minute timer to flip it over. Remember -- if you want caffeinated tea, this is your window of opportunity. My saffron black tea vacillates between warm and cold several times in the next hour, as it makes its way back into the microwave, only for me to forget it’s there, and then be reheated again. I have never drank more than half a cup of tea. Something just beeped -- was that the timer on the stove, the oven, the microwave,or the new toaster oven that I’m still learning all the features of? I walk over to the pantry, and stare blankly at the rows of cans, jars, and packets of pasta in front of me. “Must remember to buy more penne. Put it on the list.” 

    Why am I here? Why did I walk over to the pantry? Retrace your steps, what were you doing in the kitchen before you walked over? Prepping the rice, the beans … My shoulders slump as I walk back to the kitchen, feeling like a failure for having such a poor memory. 

    “Kids," we marvel. “Their brains are like sponges! They soak up everything!” True. Our brains are very much like sponges. Except now our sponge brains are leaking out everything new that comes its way. Remember to make our dentist appointments. Pay that overdue bill. Cancel the credit card. Call the bank to inform them the new debit card never arrived. Pay the insurance premium, and make sure the old car has been removed from the list. Reschedule the math tutor. And only after that reschedule the Spanish tutor accordingly. Adjust the automatic sprinkler schedule. Remember that this week is recycling. Send a text to your cousin for his birthday. A phone call would be nicer -- but then you have to remember to do it in a timely manner. A text voice message can be the happy medium. Check to see if there’s extra toilet paper in the storage. Charge your Kindle. Return the library books. 

    Coconut Milk!! That’s what I wanted from the pantry! 

    Too much to remember -- and it's only 10am. 

   

Is Art Not Enough? (101-ish words)

    More often than not, when I look at a grant application for artists/arts organizations, the grantor is looking for not only exceptional art, but it must be sustainable, promote equity and civic participation, be inclusive, tackle issues of climate change/race/gender/sexuality, challenge boundaries and change perceptions.

    Why can't I just create art for the sake of art? Isn't that the purpose of art? 

    A rudimentary Google search of "what is the purpose of art" tells me that art can have five purposes:  ceremonial (ritual/worship), artistic expression (self expression of personal, internal moments, experiences), narrative (tell a story), functional (serving a purpose, like pottery), and persuasive (promoting ideas, philosophies).

    It seems that in our world today, emphasis is not on artistic expression, but persuasive art. 

    I don't want to persuade anyone to do anything. I don't want to be forced into tackling issues that are the hot topics of the 21st century. I want to be who I am, and show what I want to show, and make you feel something. Maybe it'll inspire you, maybe it'll mesmerize you. Maybe you'll get bored. Maybe you'll get angry. Is that not enough? 

(195 words) 

News v. The News (101-ish words)

    It’s “the news” when in paper format, but it’s just “news” when it’s on your phone. I hate reading news on my phone. It’s the most uninspiring way to ingest the written word. The lack of width of columns leaves you scrolling down constantly, which is such an unnatural way to read. Or maybe this generation will find the “scroll read” the more natural way of reading. Huh!

    And then there's the physical, visceral connection between you and the written word. Studies have shown that the tangible connection leaves a stronger imprint in your neural networks. Take that digital!

    When a singular device is the conveyor of good news, bad news, connects your entire world of people, documents your years past ... it becomes a complicated relationship. 

(126 words) 

Being (101-ish words)

    I watch my son's latest YouTuber who sets a goal to attend 4 NBA playoff games in 48 hours. From San Francisco, he flies to Miami, and then to Phoenix. Back and forth he zig-zags across our continent.  We want to be everywhere. Those of us who can't do it physically, we virtually go there with the detailed videos of such YouTubers. 

    Everything, Everywhere, All at Once. That really says it all, doesn't it? The title, not the movie. I am of perhaps the minority who just did not understand what there was to like about that film. 

(98 words)

One hundred and one words

    In an attempt to both write more, and to give credence to the philosophical musings and mini-monologues I run in my head about subjects from the mundane to the extraordinary (mainly mundane) -- I draw inspiration from a friend's blogposts that begin with a 100 words piece - and begin my similar practice. A hundred and one though, because, you know ... shubh/auspicious. 

    I actually have no idea how much or how little one hundred words is. I suspect that my posts will far exceed the said amount. I may have to rename this title with an '-ish' as a suffix. As I type this, I haven't used the word count tool yet (assuming this archaic interface even has such advanced word processing features. That's right, I said "word processing"). The other day I uploaded a bunch of music/video files in a G-drive folder shared with my team, and included a document in the folder called "README." Does anyone remember these?? I realized only after posting it that the Gen Z's shared on this folder would be thoroughly confused as to my choice of document name.

    I went way over 100. 

    And it didn’t have a word count feature.  

(198 words) 

Losing Lahaina

 My heart is heavy - grieving with sadness, anger, hopelessness. Even as I type, I feel a lump forming in my throat, and my vision blurring with the tears that well up in my eyes. As I get ready for my morning routine, I grab my Wakine backpack, and am reminded of the shopping mall, next to the Lahaina Safeway where I bought it, and have treasured it since. I wear a pair of shorts from a small boutique in Napili, which is, thankfully, not burning. I grab my favorite baseball hat - and am reminded of my beloved hat shop, "Chapel," on Front Street. Yesterday I watched images of shops burning on Front Street, and saw the Chapel sign, just mere feet away from the flames. By the time this video had aired, Chapel was long gone. 

I am reminded of West Maui multiple times my daily life. I was married in Maui, have celebrated so many anniversaries, birthdays and holidays there, and in my young adult life, I bought a small vacation home in Ka'anapali (one beach over from Lahaina). It was one of the first significant financial investments I made - with the intention that even if it didn't end up being a profitable one, it gave me the excuse to go out there. It did end up being a profitable investment, and has been a considerable source of income for me and my family for the past 14 years. 

During the pandemic, my parents were "stuck" for two years in their new beach villa in Ka'anapali. "Shelter-in-paradise," we joked. Having my parents living in Maui solidified that it was home. I called it my "maiyka," a term used in Hindi to describe a woman's maternal home after marriage. 

Married in Maui

I have countless memories of Lahaina; more and more keep pouring in as I mourn its loss. The great, historic banyan tree grove amidst the downtown shops - hundreds of years old, magically weaving one into another, making it indiscernible to know which was the original tree that spawned the others. The submarine trip I took my 4 year old on, where he stared with wonder at the deep blue waters, an abandoned sunken ship transformed into a reef, and the abundant sea life around it. My son's first horseback ride. A whale watching trip on Christmas Day, that was great for the first 45 minutes, and nauseating torture for the remaining 2 hrs and 15 minutes, where both my husband and son puked off the side of the boat. This morning, I chose my son's t-shirt for school - bought that same day after the tour, a keepsake whose profits contributed to the preservation of the honu, or turtles, of Maui. 

My son's first trip to Maui

I remember being dropped off the Front street by my husband, so that I could roam the shops at my leisure. For anyone who knows me, I detest all shopping (except for groceries). To me, it's a waste of time, or perhaps, a luxury not afforded to me in my daily grind. But on vacation, I love to shop. The majority of the clothes I wear were purchased while on holiday - and thus the daily Maui wear I find myself wearing each day. I did my Christmas shopping there two years ago - purchasing a beautiful shelled ornament, Maui Jim polarized sunglasses (matching him & her!), custom hand-painted surfer towels that don't get sand stuck in them, and fold down to the size of a hand towel. My awesome braids from a street side vendor; countless meals at our favorite restaurants - FuLin, a family owned Chinese restaurant; Frida - Mexican food right on the water - it felt like you were sitting on a cruise ship, but right on top of the water. Getting bored during my mom & husband's shopping binge, and walking over to the garlic knots restaurant for, well garlic knots, and a local beer. The discovery of an Italian restaurant on the far end of Front Street, Kapena, which translates to "Captain" in the Hawaiian language, run by the retired owner of the "Trilogy" boats, which dominated tourist boating in the 90's, when we first discovered and fell in love with Maui as a family. And Island Cream - by far the best ice creamery in all of the land. 

My son's first time on a beach at Kihei, also suffering from fires. 

But this is just my loss. A rather superficial loss (though it feels like so much more). The real loss is that of the tens of thousands who have lost their entire homes in the matter of hours, even minutes. I don't think it's possible for me, sitting here, safe and sound, typing away at my computer on a beautiful sunny afternoon in Mountain View, California - to understand what it means to lose your home. It's your home. If I'm able to recount so many memories of a place that I  merely visited - how many memories does one have of their home - of their lives? Your home, and your hometown are a part of you - they become a part of your identity. And I say this applies even more for the people of Hawai'i. Unlike my city life, the people of Hawai'i live connected to their land in a way that we only see amongst outdoor enthusiasts - the adventurous rock climbers, backpackers, skiers, scuba divers - and others I cannot relate with, due to my lack of proclivity to "dangerous" sports. I've seen locals track upcoming storms by observing the movement of the clouds. I've never once looked at the movement of the clouds - I've never even thought about the fact that they do, in fact, move. I feel ashamed of myself when I discover that I hadn't even noticed the beautiful full moon, lying low in my backyard sky. I can barely see any stars from our house, and there is no awe for nature felt in my daily life. The Hawaiians live simple lives, compared to our Bay Area hustle. They don't live in big houses with big backyards. Their land is the island - not a fenced demarcated square behind their house. Lahaina struggles with a growing homeless population, as land prices sore, and tourism takes over the island. It is with a tinge of guilt I take pride in my Hawaiian home - knowing it is the ultimate symbol of capitalism, built off the sacrifice of those who once called that same land their home. I justify my guilt by saying that we are bringing tourism and jobs to their economy. 

My awesome braids

And then the anger that I feel. For our self-created destruction of our world. It is a matter of time - a "when" and not an "if," that we experience a natural disaster of insurmountable magnitude in our own hometown. Floods, earthquakes, hurricanes - any one of them could leave us homeless within hours. And I know you're probably saying that California would never get hurricanes. But no one thought that Texas would freeze over winter. Like I said - it's a "when," not an "if." 

Then I wonder - but isn't this the natural order of human life on earth? Natural disaster, and surviving? I think of the natives, who lived on this land long before technology ruled the earth - how they would migrate from one safe place to another. It's not that their uprooting was any less emotionally or physically traumatic - but they knew how to survive off the land, and slowly build a new home in another place with their tribe. Not only do we have no idea what it means to "live off the land," but our society doesn't allow for building a new home from nothing. You need money, insurance, a job, health care, and other countless resources in order to live life in the present-day. Time and time again, I am reminded of how far we have come from our natural, evolutionary selves. We've made ourselves the top of the food chain - destroying everyone & everything that comes in our way - including our own planet. 

I don't know what else to say. I'm sad, grieving, knowing that a beautiful paradise has been destroyed. Knowing that tens of thousands of people will live in a lifelong trauma of their loss, creating a generational trauma that will continue to effect our people for decades to come. I feel helpless, and hopeless about our world. When will we change? Will we ever? Or perhaps this is the modern-day "survival of the fittest," which should aptly be renamed "survival of the richest."