Adulting is a tough game. Actually, life in general is. I think it is a given that everyone of us at one point or the other experience bouts of existential crisis. We question everything and all the decisions that we’re making and second guess ourselves. It’s so strange that in such times music is such a savior. I don’t quite know how, but it somehow manages to pull you out of your warped overthinking or a mental zone and just washes over you.

Getting ready in the morning to face a day full of work, listening to Abba’s Dancing Queen somehow gives me more strength and motivation than my morning adrak wali chai. And I would be lying if I didn’t play ‘Raat kali ek khwaab mein aayi’ on particular nights after a chaotic day. And we would all be lying if we said we didn’t judge random people we met based on their music choices when we first met them. Or sometimes it was simply locking eyes with that one person who plays a song at a party, which you absolutely adore and you know for a fact you’re going to end up having a great conversation about music with them.

Whether it’s the right lyrics hitting you in the heart, tugging at all your strings or the beautiful nuances of the notes that just put a smile on your face, it just helps. In a way, music is there for you when nothing or nobody else is. Having lived alone for half my adult life, I realized it was impossible to feel lonely as long as you had a speaker that could blare out your feelings in songs which you could probably dance to and forget whatever it is you were worried about.

There are days when I would be at a loss of words if I ever wanted to express something to someone and just send them a song instead.

So it is rightly said, when words fail.. music speaks volumes (pun intended). Trust the likes of Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift, John Denver or Elvis Presley to know just how to heal your broken heart or if nothing else, put a smile on your face for all the fond memories that could be associated with a particular song. I also know for a fact that I couldn’t possibly chill with my parents without jamming to Hotel California, scrunching up our faces to remember each and every lyric and playing the air guitar alongside.

So the next time, you’re particularly dreading a Sunday full of cleaning (unless you’re Monica-ish like me and it’s something you look forward to) or if there is a pile of dishes in the sink you know you need to wash before bed, maybe just turn that speaker on, put on a Shah Rukh Khan song, crank that volume way up and then get to the chore. You might just end up liking it, no? It might not solve your adulthood problems but like Rancho said, ‘unhe sehne ki himmat aajayegi.’ Go on, start your brand new day tomorrow with a little dance in front of your mirror and ask Alexa to play ‘Kya khoob lagti ho!’ 🙂

Never ever did I think that I would end up writing about this but here I am. Those who are fellow K Drama lovers would be able to appreciate the pun-tastic title I spent the last 10 minutes coming up with. For the others, I started writing about this after I recently picked up a new drama to watch called ‘Crash Course in Romance’ (trust me it’s one of the better sounding titles). My sister was the first person to introduce me to the concept of K dramas back in 2019 and I would have to listen to her talk endlessly about these shows obsessing over the stories and the actors (read – the men). I always tried to diss her off and poke fun at the so called Korean actors she found so attractive and laugh at the cringy names of the shows to watch (would you really keep a straight face if someone told you they were watching a show called Dr. Romantic?)

Then came the lockdown and suddenly my sister and I were trapped in a room together after years of living apart, fighting for the control of TV again. Whenever she would win, our TV would be full of Korean actors jabbering away rapidly and my sister laughing away, buried in her own world. My parents and I were often amused by the range of emotions that could be brought out of my sister by these shows. Sometimes she would be giggling away and the other times she would have a stream of tears down her face. I was concerned at first, then decided to blissfully ignore her.

She would often ask me to give those shows a chance telling me I would love them but for some reason, the more she wanted me to watch the shows the more I was repulsed by them. Why should I bother reading subtitles and follow a storyline when I can simply watch something in English!

One day however I found myself extremely bored with nothing to watch on Netflix and in that moment, my sister (taking advantage of the situation) forced my mother and I to watch one episode of a show with her, promising that it wouldn’t go beyond one episode if we didn’t want it to. And it was then that we saw the first episode of a show called ‘Romance is a bonus book’. Within the first 15 minutes I found myself laughing and smiling because the story was just that good. Never before that moment had I come across a show that celebrated books and claimed to understand the love for a book a bibliophile felt. Needless to say, my sister had a victory that night because I ended up binge watching five episodes, trying to fight the urge to sleep and watch more. As I delved more into the world of Korean dramas, I realized how wholesome they were, with the perfect cocktail of laughter, tears, suspense and feel good moments. I don’t know whether it was the simplicity of the characters or stories themselves that tugged at my heart every now and then but it wasn’t long before I fell completely in love with these shows. I came across unconventional actors portraying their characters beautifully and unexpected storylines that left me wanting for more. My sister came up with all the right recommendations and I saw an absolutely beautiful show about the world of sportspeople and their internal struggles, a medical show about the lives of doctors, and a show about the world of parents obsessed over their children’s coaching tuition centres. The stories had nuanced dialogues and nuggets of heartwarming moments in each episode. I believe I realized I had converted absolutely when I found myself strangely charmed by one actor in particular and gossiping about him with my sister.

It has been three years and while these shows aren’t something my Netflix is full of, I find myself going back to Korean dramas on days I particularly feel lonely. I always thought my favorite books (yes, Harry Potter, yes very cliched I know) were the only medium which could cure my homesickness and make me feel just a little less alone, but I can now happily add K dramas to this list too. Living alone isn’t easy and on the bad days, I know I can curl up in my bed and find my way back to these shows and find myself laughing and smiling again, internally thanking my sister for bringing this bowl of goodness in my life.

There are certain milestones in one’s life… moments you look back on and cherish years later. It could be the first time you ever brought home a pet, your first relationship, the first time you scored really amazing grades in a test.. you get the gist! It has been all of these for me and more, and now I’m about to cross yet another important one.

In a couple of days, it will have been six months since I have been living alone, in Bombay (okay Navi Mumbai, not exactly Bombay… but only Bombay people would care about the difference I suppose!). It’s not as if I had never lived away from home, my undergrad has been full of memories of living in the hostel, complaining about the mess food, dealing with the water shortage and power cuts in the hostel building and sneaking in at night, away from the prying eyes of the warden. So naturally, when I was yet to move again from Delhi to Bombay, I wasn’t quite prepared as to what to expect. After all I had lived away from home, for five years and now I was going to live alone, for the first time, in a tiny flat, in a big city all on my own. How difficult could it be, right?

It seemed like an adventure, one that was too good to be true, and as I signed my rent agreement that day, it felt like a new sense of freedom. What I quickly realized was, that living alone was no joke! I was an insomniac the first few nights, petrified of sleeping alone, wondering what I would do if someone broke in my house. The food I cooked initially was either too watery, too salty or point blank overcooked. I got in the habit of distracting myself from these tiny inconveniences by playing my ukulele, drawing doodles for my walls or putting up pictures of my loved ones in the house. But the teething problems didn’t stop there. One day it was the geyser breaking down, and a week later it was the plumbing of the kitchen sink. Some days it was the air conditioning that seemed to give up in the humid weather of Bombay and on the others, it was the tap in the bathroom that didn’t, for the life of it, want to be shut!

No sooner had I learnt to haggle with the plumbers and the electricians, another wave of troubles came my way, my health issues that had long since been dormant were suddenly back (with a bang, if I may make it sound comical). Before I knew it, I was now dealing with having to take steroids and deal with the umpteen side effects of it all. It was during that time I decided to focus on my work in college, my plants which had slowly started flourishing (much to my surprise, I swear I used to think I would end up killing them) and improving my cooking skills. So while there were days when my medicines used to get the better of me, there were also days when I would be giddy with excitement because my rajma chawal was (nearly) as good as my mom’s or I managed to make perfectly round rotis. I surprised my own self, one fine day, by fixing a problem in my refrigerator that I never thought would have been possible. Before I knew it, I’d gotten in the habit of liking my room spick and span (much to my mom’s happiness and my own bewilderment), cooking my meals every day, washing the dishes, washing my clothes (getting a maid wasn’t an option, as I’d promised my mother that I’d be financially wise – if you haven’t you heard, rent in Bombay is a bitch!) and just being an adult in general.

It seemed like things were finally looking up, with my daily routine of going to college, doing yoga regularly and staying optimistic about my health set in like stone, when one day the floor beneath my feet seemed to fade away. It was in the afternoon I got to know my dog, Laila who had been with us for fourteen long years had passed away. Within moments, I felt like I had never been more lonely (which was strange because I had friends in college, checking up on me, and consoling me). I don’t know how but never did I feel more alone each day as I entered my house after college and hours used to pass like minutes. Little by little, I learnt to deal with the grief that I was facing and cope with the loss of someone I loved more than anything in this world. Whoever has said, time always heals is absolutely, spot on correct and the days became easier.

These past six months have taught me that living alone isn’t as glorified as it is made out to be, whether its in the movies we watch or the books we read. It’s not always parties and hanging out with friends till midnight. It’s learning to manage your expenses, having to wash your clothes on days you feel like lazing around and cooking for yourself even if you’re sick, because if you won’t, who will?

It has been six months now. I still have to take my steroids, I still miss my dog and yes there are days when it gets a little lonely. But then again, the food I now cook has never tasted better, never has my house ever looked cleaner and never have my parents been more proud of me. So yes, there will be days that will be harsh or brutal and cruel but then you’ll have the days which will feel as warm as sunshine and it will be on those days you’ll spend an extra ten minutes gazing at the beautiful hues in the sky whilst sipping your (perfectly made, if I might add) adrak wali chai. The sum of these days is what I’d like to think these past six months were all about! 🙂

A few months back I had written about my asthma, for the mere purpose of hoping to reach out to others and just increase the general awareness. Today I’m writing about another … condition that I have been dealing with since I was 9 years old. It’s been rather difficult for me to talk about it and even as I’m typing it out, I have no idea whether I’ll finally post it and put it out there. So, if you are reading this, I suppose I’ve mustered the courage.

Disclaimer : In no way is this post to generate any amount of pity, I’m writing this for myself because my sister reminded me that the more I talk/write about it, the more closer I get to acceptance.

I was 9 years old, when one day my mom came home from work and noticed that my left eyelid was 70% shut, drooped of sorts. She was extremely surprised and puzzled as it had been perfectly fine in the morning when she dropped me off to school. We booked an appointment with our ophthalmologist for the very next day, and went to consult him. The first thing I noticed then was that my doctor whom I knew and adored, was usually a very straightforward man who used to always be direct with me. Children like it, when they are treated like adults, you know? Which is why I found it very strange when he asked me to leave the room because he wanted to speak to my mother alone. Years later, I found out he had told her to immediately cancel all her plans for the day and take me for an MRI because he suspected Myesthenia Gravis or a brain tumour. Thankfully it was not the latter, and for that I am incredibly fortunate. That day was my first experience of a MRI, and all I could think was, “this sucks”. I think I was more annoyed because no one was clearly explaining to me why I was being put in a machine that makes loud, weird noises all around my head, while I was forced to lie perfectly still. My mom later managed to make me laugh by telling me they were just making sure whether I had a brain or not. What she doesn’t know is I spent the rest of the day being worried that I was actually born without a brain.

When it was soon clear, that there was no tumour in my brain, our doctor sent us to a paediatric neurologist with whom I would soon develop a long term doctor patient relationship. Because Myesthenia Gravis is extremely rare, it is difficult to diagnose without a lot of investigations. What followed was a month or two of extremely unusual tests, that were sometimes too frightening or painful, details of which I still haven’t inquired to my mom. I had to fly to Bombay, for a particular test wherein they stuck 15-20 needles in my face (probably to check for nerve response) or there was this one test in Delhi where they administered tiny electric shocks on my body (again, I still haven’t bothered finding out the name of the test). So you can probably imagine how confused and unaware I was of what was happening to me.

When it was finally confirmed, my mom told me by saying you have something that even Amitabh Bachchan has. And all I could think of was, cool I share something with such an amazing actor. I will now break down Myesthenia Gravis to you. It is an auto immune condition wherein a part or group of your muscles get fatigued or weak or tired. Sometimes it can cause or eventually lead to paralysis.

I was started on my medications soon, and it took roughly 2 years or something for my left eye to open up completely. It relapsed when I was in 8^th grade and because the medications were started very early, it disappeared again in six months. It was then I realized that auto immune conditions have no cure, you can only treat the symptoms. I was 13 by then so I started understanding more about it.

Over the years it relapsed every two three years (more often than not, when I was stressed) and sometimes with a different symptom. The drooping eye lid stopped being a symptom and was replaced with a peripheral double vision, basically seeing from the corner of my eyes gave me a headache as I saw two of everything. As I became more mentally prepared as to how to handle the relapses, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about. I tried one time, in my undergrad college, and was called an attention seeker (behind my back of course, because when do people have the courage to say this to your face! haha) and so naturally, I vowed to hide it from as many people as possible. It worked for a long time too, until now.

For those of you who know me, know that I’ve recently moved to Bombay for my masters. Living alone in a new city, being around new people in a demanding course is overwhelming enough as it is, when 48 hours ago my MG relapsed again. After a couple of minutes of panicking, I knew I had to learn to deal this on my own and sort of handled finding the medicine amongst a sea of chemist shops, and managing to get my hands on it. I even told a batchmate about it and was surprised to see her take it well. I realized I needed to talk about it more, and to learn to not be ashamed about it. This also made me think about what incredible superheroes my parents are. I don’t think they could have handled all these phases any better and every day, I feel incredibly lucky to have them. So, if you’ve stuck till here, it means the world to me. Thank you for reading about my journey. It hasn’t finished yet, and I am still dealing with it, but I think I’ve come quite a long way.

P.S – You know, MG actually affects one in ten lakh people, so when I think about it, I’m literally (and figuratively) one in a million. Who knew! (:

they say it’s a few weeks more

a few weeks more of staying in

a few weeks more isolation

you see

there are good days and then there are the bad days

good days are probably games or movies with the family

the bad ones have me yelling at the same people

on the good days I’m grateful for the air that’s more clean and the sky that’s more blue

on the bad days I miss meeting my friends, hugging them

after all they are just ten minutes away

these days I realise what they mean

when they say, ‘so close, yet so far’ but hey, it’s just a few weeks more

atleast that’s what we tell ourselves for now

so right now maybe, we breeze and laugh through them good days

hold on tight when the bad ones come

we will get through this

we will grow through this

I started working since a couple of weeks at a clinic, which is pretty far, more than an hour away. So naturally, a chunk of my time is spent traveling in metros, hurrying to change the trains and showing up to work on time. Initially, I was just another quintessential millennial with the earphones glued in or a novel clutched in my hands, all throughout the journey. One morning, however I forgot my earphones and my book so I had no option but to sit (alternating with standing) idle in the metro and simple observe the women around me (advantages of a Delhi metro – a ladies coach). I started enjoying, deciphering the moods and personalities of the women around me so much that it became a routine of mine. The music from my earphones would fade in the background and my mind would scour for a different human to observe. Keeping that in mind, I decided to decode the types of women you usually see in a metro (in no particular order). A note of caution – these are pure observations and what I’ve noticed all these weeks.

#1 – The Brooder – This was the first type of women/girls I noticed. You can spot them standing or sitting with a blank face and a glazed look in their eyes. Their minds are off wandering far and probably over thinking till the point they want to cry. Their thoughts may vary from a typical existential crisis to deciding what they want for lunch. These women are usually zoned out and only snap back to reality when the train announces their station name.

#2 – The Two Aunties – I’m pretty sure you would have formed a mental image in your heads as soon as you read it. Yes, these are those two (or three) aunties who occupy the most space on the seats due to their multiple number of bags and gossip the life away. Be it a discussion about their daughter in laws or cursing the relatives who show up unannounced, you hear it all in their talks because they are not really concerned with talking softly or subtly. If they are not gossiping, they are giving you a stink eye because of the fancy dress or the new pair of high heels you decided to wear.

#3 – That mom with the toddlers – More often than not, I tend to feel sorry for these women because they sit there with their tired, exhausted faces looking, with a resigned expression, at their own kid(s) running, shouting, trying to swing from the poles in the metro. If there is anyone who looks thoroughly DONE with their life, it’s these ladies.

#4 – The conventional ‘South Delhi’ girl – These are the girls about whom those ‘South Delhi girls’ videos are made. While every Delhi girl is not like that, they do exist. You can scout them easily because they will be the most fashionably dressed, reeking of expensive perfume, maybe dyed, straightened and freshly blow dried hair, judging everyone else who isn’t aesthetically pleasing to their eyes. These girls prefer to stand rather than be crouched between people on the seats. I did see an extreme case once, wherein she used a sanitizer before grabbing the poles for support (yes, really).

#5 – ‘That’ group of teenagers – These are either school children or freshly into college and the most annoying, according to me. They are the only girls in a 9 AM metro who are enthusiastic, boisterous and full of life. I mean I am as optimistic as the next person, but hearing them guffaw away is a bit much. It’s too early and too cold in the morning to be this happy.

#6 – The Dozer – The ladies are the human version of a koala bear or a panda. It doesn’t matter if it’s a 9 AM or a 7 PM metro, they promptly fall asleep as soon as they find a seat and somehow sleep so light, that manage to wake up as soon as their station is called out. This group of ladies make me envious as I am too scared to fall asleep in the metro, even if I’m sleep deprived because I know for a fact I would miss my station.

#7 – The Bookworms – And finally, we have my favorite type of women/girls. The bookworms. You will always find them engrossed in a thriller or a romantic or a psychological novel, oblivious to the people around them. It doesn’t matter if they have a spot to sit or not, they are happy as long as they have a book in their hands. The advantages of spotting these women? You get good recommendations for your next read!

Well, there you go. And before you ask me which category do I fit into, some days I’m a #7, but on most days I’m a clear, cut #1.  That’s all for this time.

Ciao!

Well, I genuinely don’t know how many of you would relate to this particular one but here goes! So, I have actually been told that I have too many ‘best friends’. The oldest group of friends I’ve had since school (the oldest ‘best friends’, if you will) brought up this topic.

It all started when I moved away from home to a whole new city and in a starkly different environment. Naturally, I made new friends and with time as I grew attached to them, I started referring to them as ‘best friends’ or ‘close friends’, and yes of course like any other 18 year old in college I had my fair share of losing friends and people I never thought would leave. But that somehow never stopped me from calling my friends as my best friends. My school friends jokingly started saying how I had so many best friends and how is it possible, when you’re apparently supposed to have just one. That remark genuinely boggled me, because I had never perceived the idea of a best friend as just one person. And also, I never thought there to be a specific criteria if you want to label someone as your best friend. Who are supposed to be your best friends, according to the general norm? Are they the friends you’ve known the longest? Or are they the friends you may not have known for that long but have been there for you in all your downs? Or are they those who always respond to a call or a text at any given time? And why must you have just one best friend?

For me a best friend is a person who knows you inside out, who knows when you’re feeling low nothing cheers you up more than a long drive and some chocolate cake. For me, your best friend is person with whom even though you don’t talk daily or hangout often, the equation remains the same and nothing changes that. Best friends are home in form of a person. The ones who never judge you and encourage (and maybe even indulge) in your silly antics. Best friends are those people you always find on the stands, cheering for you as you plough your way through the bad times. The people who tell you the brutal, harsh truth when you’re in denial and they are ones who lift you up on days when you feel like giving up. They may not pick up your call at 3 am but there will be a 7 am text apologising for it, and asking about you. They may not know all your secrets or everything about your dating life, but when you need someone to talk to about your break up, they are there, ready to hurl abuses at the person who hurt you. You’re probably thinking those can termed as ‘close friends’ too? But being close to someone for me doesn’t necessarily mean I would share the darkest thoughts I have or the insecurities I feel with them, even though I enjoy their company and time.

So there you go! Because all the above definitions cannot possibly fit on to a singular person, I have my Joeys, Monicas, Chandlers and Phoebes in this world and for that I feel lucky and blessed. Not judging the ones who have a single best friend, or those who don’t believe in the term itself, this is just how my perception of the whole concept is. And you know? No matter how funny or absurd it may seem to some people, there is no other way I would want it!

Oh and also, happy 2020 everyone!

Au revoir!