The Rhythm of Our Stories
This month began with me crumpled up in front of the closed door of a dear friendship. I wanted to scream, rant, cry out to the hurting person on the other side, apologize and demand apologies. I wanted to break that door down and reach out to them, hold their face in my hands and say, "We can mend this."
But there's no talking to closed doors.
And then as if on cue to the yearning of my shuddering inner universe,
, and reached out to ask if I'd like to pop in for the Rhythm of Our Stories workshop. I am now wise enough to know that these cues are God's way of looking out for me.Jab ek darwaza band ho aur koi khidki khule, to usse badhte hue haath ko thaam lena chahiye.
(Plus this magically asking me to pop in JUST when I need it has happened before. I'd be a fool to not believe it.)
I'd also be a fool to merely call this invitation a window. It turned out to be a full house peopled by beautiful souls and a chair big enough to comfortably seat my 90kg 5ft 7" humongous frame. Nay, not just seat it, but invite it to sprawl!
I've been writing for three decades and for two of those decades, people have told me that I write well, that my writing moves them, inspires them and helps them process both grief and absurdity. I have not been able to believe any of this for more than two minutes at any given time.
Magar in chaar dinon mei na jaane aisa kya hua ke pehli baar zahan aur kaagaz pe ye line dikhai di, "I am the main character in the story of my life."
Did that feel like arrogance? No. It felt like saying hello to an innately shy person who has always had trouble walking very straight and breathing fully into the wideness and wildness of her form and receiving a warm hug in return.
Aise haq se space lena, hasna, mast andaaz se apni likhai padhna, aur khul ke, ro ke doosron ko sunna, aisa ajeeb sa, naya sa tajurba tha ke main khud se chaunk gai. Ek aise insaan ke liye jo self doubt ka ubalta volcano raha ho, ek saans mei self appreciation ka Mount Everest chadd jaana maujza hi kehlaega.
Aur phir wo dimaagh ke pados ki khadoos phupi, Madam Reality Check aka Don't Trust Your Feelings aa dhamkin. Afsos sab reality checks Indu jaise cool+sexy nahi hoten hain. Mohtarma Aunty farmaatin hain-
"This is not just one workshop; it is the culmination of many snowballing moments that have landed when you were primed, ready and also terrified. You are in awe and gushing because you were in need of reassurance. "
Aage suniye, "Reassurance se sasti koi cheez nahi hoti duniya mein. Ye to koi bhi de sakta hai. Ismei kya hai? Chaar meethe shabd bol ke tumhe khush kardiya. Tum forever validation ki bhooki bhukkaddon ki tarah tareef thoos rahi ho. Badi aain. "
Ye bhi suniye, " Ye kya I, me, myself laga rakha hai? One arrives at a space guided by many hands, held by many stories, prompted by a carefully honed set of challenges meant to elicit something from you. You are a small player in this game.
Waise bhi when one is hurting, one tends to magnify every little joy and hold on to it like a buoy. You're just being your dramatic self. Aisa kuch dhamakedaar hua nahi hai, thode din mei tum phir phuss hojaogi."
Isse pehle ke aunty aur bakwaas kartin maine unke munh pe cellotape laga diya. Manhoos kahin ki always pricking my joy balloon.
Okay fine, some of the things Mohtarma Manhoos said may be true but many just weren't/aren't true.
How do I know this? The workshop week coincided with my monstrous premenstrual symptoms week which usually means all of the following-
1) Everything bothering me reaches a deafening crescendo in my head
2) I cry for no reason
3) My partner can tell I'm murderous from thousands of miles away just by the way I breathe
4) Nothing makes me happy
5) And I am not horny at all.
For women in their foxy forties, to feel none of the above in the days leading up to their great gushing period means some sorcery is afoot.
The Rhythm of Our Stories was that sorcery. In a world where pain abounds and there are very few consistent spaces that allow one to unfurl at our own secret pace, prodded only by loving acceptance. This was one such place.
There's a lot more evidence to support this fact apart from my absconding PMS rage but I'll suffice it to say that sometimes the simplest acts of human kindness, presence and all of the following-
soft dimples on the face of life
yellow chashmas and sparkly earrings
cute microphone drawings
smiles so beautiful that it becomes hard to listen to words
Lots of spicy silver hair
Curly ringlets dancing on heads
A pale blue handkerchief soaked with tears your words evoked
Somebody’s dry lips and luminous eyes
Yellow walls and an abundance of photo frames
Someone’s mum in a pink salwar kameez
A toddler on the beach holding their late grandpa's hand
Ghats of banaras and manifestos for painfully polite women
Scientific metaphors dancing in underwater rooms
Sone ke ande aur biscuit
(Please join the next workshop for your own inside stories)
-ALL of the above-
Are the most life affirming, faith giving, abundant things and people you might ever come across. You may never meet them again and maybe much like you, they're not awesome all the time. But for these chaar din bahaar ke, ham laut aae kai dil haar ke.
Thank you everyone. It was a privilege to dance with you and your words.
This post was originally an impulsive email sent to my workshop mates and facilitators right after the last session of The Rhythm of Our Stories segment offered by
. To discover your own dancing buddies, please join any offering from these lovely people. They have a new course on Leadership and Selfhood coming up, do check it out here . You will be both amazed and terribly tickled at the surprises you find! Pakka promise.
Generous and glorious, you and your words ❤️❤️
I laughed so hard at the cellotape line! Also, loved seeing pictured of yellow chashma and little jhumkis :) can't wait for the videos to come out!