Poornima Manco

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Balance

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It’s nearly the end of January and how are those resolutions coming along?

Years ago, I’d start every new year with a long list of tasks I needed to do, things I needed to change about myself and milestones that needed ticking off. Over the years, that list shrunk to just a sentence or two, until I came to the realisation that even those few items were too fraught with the possibility of failure. So, I settled on a word. One word that would define what needed accomplishing that year. That word has ranged from kindness, discipline, health and relationships to travel, adventure, happiness and contentment. Specific to nebulous, I’ve covered the gamut.

This year’s word is balance.

I am apt to get swallowed whole by my latest venture/hobby/passion. I hurtle into projects, bite off more than I can chew, and spread myself too thin, too often. I never do things by half-measures, and while that can be extremely useful sometimes (like completing a project to a deadline), mostly, it isn’t healthy; it isn’t sustainable and often it leaves me feeling wrung-out and close to collapse. So, what is the answer? Balance, I find.

Balance in all aspects of life. From food to sleep to exercise; from work to writing to travel. To truly enjoy and get the best out of all the above, it is necessary to apply a modicum of restraint to them all. An equity that translates into a calm, even-handed application of self to pursuits of work and pleasure. An equivalent proportioning of the day that encompasses everything with the harmony of parity. No one task is greater than the other, and to each I give the same time and attention.

Easier said than done.

Applying this gentle word to all aspects of my life is proving to be a challenge. Getting carried away is a part of my personality. If I’m writing, and in the flow, how do I just abandon that to get up and mop the floor? If I’m watching a particularly riveting episode of ‘Peaky Blinders’, how do I switch it off to go to bed because it’s 10pm? If the pizza I’m indulging in is really yummy, how do I set half of it aside for lunch tomorrow?

Balance is tricky. It requires a dose of discipline alongside.

There are days that I’m exhausted and can’t get out of bed at the first sound of the alarm, when the snooze button is my best friend, and the duvet a cocoon I refuse to leave. There are also days when I simply cannot fall asleep at will, when my mind is jumping from thought to thought like a manic acrobat, insomnia mocking me from the digital time reflected on my ceiling. There are days when sugar is the only solution to problems little and large, chocolate the only answer to an existential conundrum. What then?

Kindness is another ingredient that needs adding to this dish called balance.

Months can go by when friends are too busy to make plans with me, and then, suddenly, like buses, social engagements can arrive all at once, derailing the month of calm, collected work/life balance I’d planned for myself. Family crises rarely announce themselves in advance, they just occur. And when they do, everything is thrown into disarray, including whatever notion of balance I might exercise in that moment. Flights can cancel; travel plans can change. Health can play hooky, backs can twinge, and coughs can lodge themselves deep in chests. What happens to the harmony of parity then?

Surely, a dash of improvisation wouldn’t go amiss with this balance thing?

Moods are another battlefield. Not naturally sanguine, I’m not always Debbie Downer either. But each day can bring a different mood in its wake. I could go from sunny to stormy in a nanosecond. My hormones can drive me batty at the drop of a… (you name it). I can switch from Glinda to Elphaba on a dime, channel Cruella or the Dalai Lama on a whim, be the fairy godmother or the wicked stepsister, depending on which way the wind blows. Not the even keel I envision when I picture applying balance to my life.

Clearly, balance is a heavy word. Too heavy for me. I’m already getting bent out of shape trying to practise it.

Tell you what: let’s just dispense with this entire New Year, New Me concept. I like the old me. I’ll stick to her and muddle through this year as I’ve done through all the others before.

Now, isn’t that the most balanced thing you’ve read today? 😉

 

Midnight Mass

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I first discovered the horror genre as a teenager. My mother had a vast library of books, which housed many genres. She loved Westerns, Thrillers, Mysteries, Sagas, Literary Fiction and Romance. As a result, I chomped through all these books, trying to discover which genre was my favourite. Some I could not get into and others I side stepped after reading just one book. In all this exploration, I stumbled across Salem’s Lot by Stephen King. As a fifteen-year-old, I did not know who Stephen King was, but decided on a whim that I’d give this book a go.

To say that I was riveted would be an understatement. King’s mastery was in the way he weaved the plot, capturing his unsuspecting reader within the web of the multiple strands of his tale, building slowly, leading one inexorably towards the crescendo of the climax. In the years that followed, I became a devotee. Any new book he released, I was the first in line to buy. Cujo, Carrie, Misery, The Shining, Pet Cematary were read and reread multiple times over. Until, one day, I woke up and was over it.

As a student of English Literature, I had been exposed to Milton and Chaucer, Shakespeare and Donne, Eliot and Conrad, and my tastes started veering towards more literary works. That’s not to say that I discredited King’s writing. Despite his mass appeal, there was something almost reflective in his books, an exploration of evil that transcended its pedestrian credentials. But I’d had enough horror for a while, and for many years after, I actively avoided reading the genre.

With horror movies, I dipped in and out, watching something only if it was universally lauded. Sometimes, these movies lived up to the hype, but more often than not, they were a disappointment. The horror was predictable, the gore disgusting, the plots wafer thin. Somewhere within me, I still yearned for the richness of King’s writing, the multiple layers of plot and character development, the slow build of dread that one was sure would lead to a satisfying denouement.

‘Midnight Mass’, a television show on Netflix, has satisfied this craving. It had popped up a few times as a choice on my main screen, and each time I’d scrolled past, expecting it to be just another run of the mill limited series I would yawn through. It’s not until I heard another indie writer extol its merits on her podcast, did I think to give it a chance.

Set on a small island in a fishing community that has fallen upon hard times, ‘Midnight Mass’ introduces the various characters who will drive the narrative forward. A recovering alcoholic, a newly pregnant mother, parents grappling with the return of their prodigal son, a young priest who has replaced the old respected monsignor in the community church, are some of the many interesting and nuanced personalities that inhabit the story. The horror is almost entirely missing in the first few episodes, except that one can sense it simmering beneath the surface of every innocent interaction, every strange encounter.

Yet, interestingly, when the horror is revealed, it is not so much about the monster that has come to the island piggy backing on an ostensibly good person. It is about the monster that resides in each one of us. All humans are capable of great good and great evil, and really, what it comes down to is the choices we make.

Religion anchors this show, as it explores how often people use it as a crutch to explain away their misdeeds, quoting from the scriptures, granting themselves absolution as they do so. The ‘othering’ of those who are not like themselves, the selfishness of those who accept the status quo blindly, the conscious muffling of the conscience even in the face of evidence that all is not well. This is Salem’s Lot for the modern times.

There is a gentle exploration of what death means to us. Is there a Heaven? And what does it look like to you?

There are good people who do bad things, and bad people who do good things, too. But above all, there are people who make the choice to do a bad thing and keep doing it, despite knowing in their bones that it is evil they are committing. Cloaked in the garb of religion, given free rein, characters are stripped down to their base natures. There are sheep willing to be led by wolves, and then there are wolves in sheep’s clothing.

If all of this seems vague, it’s because I don’t want to give any spoilers. Suffice to say, this to me, was the horror I’d been looking for. It wasn’t about blood and gore (although there is that, too) but an exploration of what evil truly is. Given the right circumstances, the carte blanche to do whatever, without the fear of consequences, would our morality assert itself to guide us correctly?

I am not an atheist, and there has been some discussion that this show promotes atheism. While I can’t speak to that argument, as someone who is spiritual, I’d like to think that this show acts as a moral compass. It leads us to examine ourselves, what we are without the scaffolding of religion and the guidance of words written in a book thousands of years ago.

This dialogue-heavy, slow build of a horror series is not for everyone. Yet, to me, this is the best kind of horror, harking back to those Stephen King books I’d read as a young girl, incorporating all the elements I’d enjoyed then and still do, to this day. Because horror at its heart should be a mirror to society. One that is held up to show what is possible with moral degradation, selfishness, greed, and the lack of understanding and compassion. So, if you enjoy delving deep, examining and reexamining who you might be, what the world around you is becoming, and where it may end up, watch ‘Midnight Mass’. I highly recommend it.

Credits: AI Image created using starryai.

Acceptance

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Lately I have been pondering the meaning of acceptance. For a long time, I believed that acceptance meant defeat. It meant that the person had given up the fight and laid down all arms. But is it really so?

When the Tsunami of 2004 occurred, I remember reading an article about the survivors. One amongst them, a western woman, was appalled to see that many of the local Thai people were not even attempting to escape from the gigantic waves crashing down upon them. Instead, they stood there, arms raised, as if in supplication, and submitted to their fate. She survived. They didn’t.

This was highlighted as the difference between the philosophies of fatalism and free will. In the former, there is a submissiveness to that which is predetermined. A belief that there is no control over destiny. Free will, on the other hand, is the belief that we have the power to choose our actions, and fate and destiny are a consequence of our choices, not a predetermined narrative to which we must submit.

However, with age and life experience, I have come to realise that not everything is within our control. Our sphere of influence extends only so far and no farther. You can act a certain way, you can plan your life ahead, but there are so many circumstances that can upend those plans and nullify whatever reaction you wished or hoped for.

When this occurs, railing against the reality of the situation is a futile exercise. Yes, you can try multiple ways to circumvent that which is, but if all of that fails too, what then?

Acceptance.

Acceptance is the most Zen way of coming to terms with how things are. It is also the most pragmatic.

That’s not to say that one shouldn’t strive for better, or fight one’s corner, or regroup and review how to proceed. But it also makes sense to understand that not everything will align with one’s own desires and dreams. Not every person one encounters will be in perfect sync with one’s journey through life.

As Robert Burton said in his book, ‘The Anatomy of Melancholy’, “What cannot be cured must be endured.”

Coming from an eastern culture, there is perhaps, within me, a certain amount of fatalism too. My semi-western upbringing, however, taught me the value of free will. Today, “acceptance” for me means a marriage of the two schools of thought. A belief system that doesn’t allow me to rest on my laurels, do sod-all to change my circumstances, stay bone idle and expect life to provide for me. But at the same time, it brings with it the realisation that when things do not go to plan, when people do not behave in the way I expected them to, when my body fails me or my mind refuses to concentrate, I must accept this as a part of the fabric of life.

Acceptance is not a passive state, therefore. It is not resignation, but an awareness that everything that we do, and everything that happens to us, is in perfect conjunction. It is how the Universe meant for it to be, and what are we, but infinitesimally a part of its grand design? Our actions make us who we are, but the acceptance of that which is beyond our control makes us a part of a larger consciousness.

 

To shrink or to expand?

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Growing up in a largely patriarchal society, I knew just when to shut up. I knew when to ingratiate, who to impress, how to accept “well-meaning” advice, how to smile through thinly veiled insults, laugh at inappropriate jokes, grin and bear the sanctimony of others, and how never ever to show my true self to anyone except my close family and friends. Why? Because shrinking to fit expectations was the norm. Good girls behaved a certain way, and I so desperately wanted to be a good girl and fit in.

Now and again, a certain rebelliousness would possess me, and quite without meaning to, I would react in an unwholesome manner, a manner that did not befit a young lady from a certain class of society who was ordinarily so good at toeing the line. These aberrations were hastily covered up or apologised for, and all was well again. Strangely, while my conscious self knew that to survive and thrive in my environs, I needed to conform, there was another, deeply hidden part inside of me, a subliminal side, that was starting to chafe against these strictures.

Still, while in my early twenties, I had neither the exposure nor the confidence to speak up and challenge the status quo.

When I moved from India to the United Kingdom, a fresh challenge confronted me. Here, I was an immigrant. A minority who needed once again to shrink and adapt and never raise my head above the parapet. Why? Because it was someone else’s land and someone else’s rules. While all the previous strictures had fallen away, the ones I faced now were more difficult to define or pin down. I was brown, therefore I had to find my place amongst other brown/black people. I’d grown up in India, therefore my accent “othered” me straight away. I did a job that was out of the ordinary for most Asians, and therefore had to reinforce my “good girl” credentials by being even more wholesome, approachable, and down-to-earth.

I really had no idea who I was anymore.

Marriage, babies, moving home, establishing myself in my career took the better part of the next two decades. Slowly, I started to discover myself, to find out what I liked and didn’t like, how much I’d put up with and just where my tolerance would end. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t a linear process. Messy and uncomfortable at times, painful at others, layers of self-applied masks were being peeled away year after year, leaving me raw and exposed. But it felt good. It felt like the real me was finally emerging after years of hibernating, of lying in wait for the perfect moment to show the world that I no longer cared for its boundaries or its pigeon-holes.

But now I wonder if I’ve gone too far?

Suddenly, I’m not sure I like this new me. This me who is combative and a tad too feisty. This me who bristles and snaps back at the slightest provocation; takes umbrage over perceived slights, expects (even demands) respect in every aspect of life. Who is this person who lives in a perpetual state of annoyance at the inequities and inequalities of the world? Who is this person who takes every contrary statement as a personal affront?

Do I even like this woman?

I recognise that years of suppression, of pent-up frustration, have finally erupted in this lava-like anger against anyone who thinks they can patronise, belittle, disrespect, overlook, or discriminate against me. Years of letting things go have morphed into not letting anything pass without objecting or protesting. I stand my ground now, everywhere and every time. And yes, it satisfies and fulfils me on multiple levels. But does it make me happy? Not always.

So, a balance needs to be achieved. I shrunk for years, and I have expanded in the last decade or so. Neither was without its benefits or pitfalls. Yet, here I am, examining who I am once again.

I want to be someone my daughters can look up to. I want to be a peer that my contemporaries respect and like, and don’t walk on eggshells around. I want to be the sort of person I’d like to be friends with.

There will be occasions I’ll need to shrink to allow for peace, when a skirmish will be just that and not worth the effort. There will be times I will need to expand to fight my corner because it’s not just about me, but also who and what I represent. Those moments will be worth going to battle for.

I am a work in progress. We are all works in progress. And if we’re willing to learn, then life is the greatest teacher of all. That much I do know. What I also know is that above all else, I want to grow into a person who I can live with. I want to go to bed with a clear conscience and wake up feeling positive about the day ahead.

Now, that is a goal worth striving for.

 

 

A Curious Incident in the Post Office

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It was a Saturday morning, and I was feeling quite Zen. I’d just come back from doing a Body Balance class at the gym. The sun was shining and life felt good. There was an Amazon package I needed to return, so off I trotted to our local Post Office/ Newsagent, hoping to tick off at least one chore on a long to-do list for the day.

At the Post Office, I stood behind an older man in the queue as he communicated with the Bangladeshi gentleman serving him. I detected an American accent and wondered to myself whether he lived locally while mentally working out what else needed doing after this errand. Meanwhile, I spotted that there was in fact another customer, a pink-haired lady standing to one side waiting her turn after the American man.

So far, so very normal.

Then, the Bangladeshi shop assistant spotted the package in my hand and said, “Madam, the post has already gone for the day. The next one is on Monday…”

I replied, “That’s okay. I don’t mind when it goes out. I just need to drop it off…”

Before I could say any more, the American man turned around and snarled at me, ” I was here FIRST! DO NOT PUSH AHEAD OF ME!!!”

Startled, I responded, “Hey! It was the assistant who spoke to me first…”

He turned around again and shouted, “BACK OFF AND SHUT UP!”

His entire body was radiating rage. If he could have reached forward and hit me, he would have. There was spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth and he narrowed his eyes at me, as if just waiting for one more word so that he could smack me. When I refused to engage, he turned his back on me.

At this point, I noticed that he was shaking while counting the money he had withdrawn. I stepped farther away, sensing all was not right with this man. The woman who had been witness to all of this spoke up, saying, “There is no need to be this rude. She was not interrupting your transaction. The postmaster addressed her first.”

At this, he growled at her, “SHUT UP! DON’T TALK TO ME!”

We exchanged glances, and she mouthed, “Americans!”

Now, before I proceed further with this story, I must add that I have plenty of American friends, acquaintances and colleagues who are the loveliest people. Kind, thoughtful, giving, polite and pleasant. He was NOT one of them.

I mouthed back, “Yeah, an ugly one.”

At this, he snapped, “It’s not because I’m American, okay? You were rude!”

We both retaliated with, “No, YOU were rude! We were just waiting patiently in the queue.”

He went back to counting the money, switching from being horrible to us to being polite to the postmaster. At one point, even the postmaster looked at me and gave a tiny shrug, as if to say, “I don’t know what’s wrong with this guy?”

A few minutes elapsed while the lady and I chatted about the sad state of all the banks closing down in the area. I was still shaken from the encounter, but didn’t want him to sense that he’d frightened me in any way. He was a bully, and I refused to give him the satisfaction.

Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he turned around and said, “I’m sorry.”

The lady looked at him and said, “I get it. It is stressful that all the banks in the area have shut down, and that you need to come to the Post Office now to withdraw money. Even so, there was no need for that sort of behaviour.”

He was still shaking and looking at her when she responded softly, “Alright, I forgive you.”

Then he turned and gave me a supercilious look, waiting for me to say the same. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “No, I don’t forgive you. Your behaviour and your language were uncalled for. That was an unprovoked attack, and no, I won’t forgive you.”

“Fine,” he muttered, “don’t forgive me then.”

When he’d finished counting his money, he peeled off £20 and handed it to the lady, saying, “Here, buy yourself something with this.”

She pocketed it happily, saying, “Thanks, I will.”

He then held out another £20 to me.

I took another step back.

“No, thank you. I don’t want your money! Back off from me right now!” I didn’t raise my voice, but I was very firm as I said this, resolute that this man’s unwarranted behaviour would remain unforgiven, at least by me.

He shrugged, threw me a dirty look, and walked out the door.

After this entire incident, the Bangladeshi shop assistant felt sorry enough for me to take my package for a Monday pickup.

 

My questions are:

Was I wrong not to forgive him in the first place?

Was he trying to buy my forgiveness?

Can money really be the answer to bad behaviour?

 

Upon reflection, I have forgiven him. Clearly, he wasn’t a well man. The problem could be psychological or physical, maybe he has a very stressful life. I’ll never know. But I am proud of myself in that I refused to be bought. My integrity and self-respect were not for sale. Perhaps my refusal of his money will make him reflect, too. Maybe he’ll learn a little something from this incident as well.

People are not commodities. Treat everyone with the respect that you wish to be accorded. A heartfelt apology is worth far more than all £20 notes you might throw around.

What do you think?

 

All of Her

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Somewhere within her there is a little girl of eight. She waits for her mother to return from work, scared of the scolding her report card will beget, yet secure in the love and forgiveness that will inevitably follow. She listens to her father at the dinner table as he talks of his clients and their problems, the gentle wisdom he imparts daily underlined by the kindness flowing through his veins. At night, she weaves dreams around amorphous futures before falling deeply and heavily into slumber’s arms.

Somewhere within her, there is a rebellious teenager of sixteen. She curses her parents under her breath, planning elaborate schemes to hoodwink them and following through with none. Her friends are her life and she spends hours on the phone with them, talking about everything and nothing, all at once. She nurses a crush on the neighbourhood boy, watching him covertly as he walks his dog in the evening. She ignores him on the street when he smiles at her, because “good girls” don’t return male attention. But she is quietly devastated when he finds himself a pretty girlfriend, someone far prettier than her.

Somewhere within her is a young woman of twenty-one. She stands on the threshold of her adult life, ready to embark upon an adventure. Excited, nervous, unprepared, she is sad to leave home but wondrous at the possibilities ahead of her. “This,“ she whispers to herself, “is when I can truly begin to live on my own terms.” It’s not until much later that she realises that with freedom comes responsibility. And bills. Lots and lots of bills.

Somewhere within her is a thirty-year-old new mother, cradling her month-old baby, who doesn’t stop crying. Exhausted, she cries alongside. Surrounded by men – husband, father, father-in-law – who are no good to her at a time like this, she yearns for a woman’s touch, someone who will reassure her that this too shall pass, that childbearing and rearing isn’t an impossible task. There is no one who can replace her mother, who is long gone. She misses her desperately, the hollowness inside threatening to engulf her. Friends step in, clumsily, but they comfort her far more than the men can.

Somewhere within her is a forty-year-old who still looks young and alluring. No longer in love with her husband, she enjoys the attention that other men give her. She flirts – coy and cooing, revelling in the excitement and danger of uncharted terrain. In the dying embers of her youth, she feels alive again. No longer strait-jacketed by society’s mores and values, she wants to soar above the labels of wife and mother. She wants to forge ahead in her career, eager to shed the ties that hold her back – friends and family who caution and counsel her. She wants to define herself as someone important, someone worth knowing, someone others aspire to emulate.

Somewhere within her is a fifty-year-old divorcee who doesn’t know who she is anymore. Her husband has left, the children have moved away; the once dazzling career has fizzled; the paramours have melted away, and no, she isn’t someone important or worth knowing. She is just another anonymous woman living an anonymous life, searching for love on the internet. Her single status has left her friendless, a scarlet letter invisibly tattooed on her person declaring that she might poach on other women’s territories. She is afraid of loneliness, of old age, of dying.

Somewhere within her is a sixty-five-year-old grey-haired granny who is slightly hard of hearing. She, who had made peace with her singlehood before finding love with her husband again. They have both wandered and returned, this time to a quieter, more sedate love, one that will last the distance. Suddenly, her life is full to the brim with children, her children’s children and the school runs and coffee mornings that she missed out on the first time round chasing a career. She marvels at life’s bounty, crossing her fingers daily, praying that her luck doesn’t run out again.

Somewhere within her is a seventy-two-year-old widow, crying over wasted years, bloated egos and stupid, ridiculous, futile arguments. She misses everything about him, even his habit of leaving the cap off the toothpaste tube. Her children rally around her, reminding her of the good times, of what she still has, of what they created together. She wonders how her own father managed for two decades without her mother, how he carried on being a parent while putting a full-stop to being a spouse? She knows that the world still turns and she must turn with it, as others before her have done.

Somewhere within her is an eighty-five-year-old woman with arthritis, a heart condition and two hip replacements. She no longer cares she isn’t someone important, because she knows that in her own small way, she is. There aren’t many of her peers left, but those that are still meet monthly for a long and leisurely lunch. They discuss their families, the state of the planet, their misspent youths and laugh as only the young or the very old can – uninhibited and unashamed. They don’t understand the world anymore, feeling out of touch with everything, but they don’t care what anyone thinks of them, either. They sit comfortably in their wrinkled skins, free from the shackles of youth and vanity.

Somewhere within her is a ninety-year-old woman ready to give up her mortal coil. Life is a drag, and the only thing she looks forward to now are the rare visits from her great-grandchildren. Adults bore her while children delight her. In their innocence, she sees the only remaining purity in an increasingly depraved and insane world. Every morning, she wakes up and sighs that she is still alive. She prays for death; she invites it into her dreams, hoping it will step out of them and into her life someday soon. She waits and waits and waits, her hands crossed in her lap, her coffee cooling on the table beside her.