Poornima Manco

Author

belief

Filling the well

by

 

Exhaustion is a common complaint amongst writers. We are inveterate over-thinkers, tinkering with ideas, analysing themes, past failures and successes, grappling with the imposter syndrome, and never giving our minds the rest they deserve.

This month has been particularly trying for me. Having just released my novel, I’ve worried over it like a fledgling. Will it survive? Will it be well received? What if all that time and effort was for nothing? What if everyone just hates it? Needless to say, it’s doing fine. But I’m so wrung out, I just can’t seem to move forward. Deadlines are looming, but I’m languishing in a state of motionless ennui.

Not all of it is book related. Covid is rampaging through India once again, and I agonize over the state of the country and my near and dear ones. My father, who is still a practicing GP, is older and vulnerable and not very well right now. I think the worst, then check myself. No amount of doom-scrolling or imagining the worst-case-scenario will help, so I try to think positively, praying for the best possible outcome. As do so many of us at a time like this.

Another thing that gnaws at me is book related. It’s silly, but sometimes the people you expect to get whole-hearted support from (friends or family members) are indifferent to your efforts. Aside from a breezy “Oh, good job!” they have barely acknowledged that for me, this is a big deal! But hey ho. On the flip side, I’ve had the most unexpected people step forward and celebrate me. Makes me realise the adage is true – when a door closes, a window opens elsewhere.

In all of this, I’ve felt very depleted… unable to focus on writing with my mind gnawing over all sorts. I feel like giving myself a kick up the a**e! However, I know also that once I’ve finished wallowing, I’ll get back up and get back to the writing. From listening to many writer podcasts, I’ve realised that I’m not alone in feeling alone on this journey. At least I have a handful of people who have supported me through thick and thin. They may not be the ones I expected, but I’m so grateful they exist! So many writers carry on in the face of opposition and indifference and barely any support. My little family, my small group of avid readers and the few friends who have stood like rocks by my side, are more than most people get.

Yet, this listlessness overpowers me.

I’m unable to concentrate on reading, picking up and abandoning books carelessly. To refill that well of inspiration, I’ve watched many movies. One that caught my fancy was ‘Ajeeb Daastaans’. Four vignettes, four stories that show the various aspects of India, each of these tales had a little twist at the end. To me, it felt like I was watching one of my stories on screen. The response they evoked in me was the very response I’ve wanted from my reader. A sense of awe, of disbelief, of “how did I not see that coming?”

Yes, watching this on Netflix has lit a tiny spark within me. I need to get back to writing, just for the pure joy of it. What does it matter if no one reads it? Who cares if they think this a passing fancy, or I’m some kind of fraud parading around as an author? I know how much I love creating these worlds and these characters, and surely that’s all the recompense I need?

Last week I was invited to judge a poetry competition at my school in India via a Zoom call. Reticent to begin with, I finally agreed, remembering what I was like at age 16, and how, back then, I dreamt I would one day be sitting in a judge’s seat. To a teenager, that seemed like an immense honour. Naturally, age and experience have taught me that judging someone’s work is an incredibly arduous task. I tried to be fair and comprehensive. These young teens had poured so much of themselves into their poems, that it seemed almost cruel having to grade them. When I read out the results online the following day, I resorted to that old chestnut – “To me, you are all winners”. In truth, they all were. Perceptive, evocative and compelling, their creativity shamed me into acknowledging my own lack of drive. In my analysis of their work, I hope they took away some valuable lessons. But I took away far more.

Finally, even as I contended with my unproductive and spent state, a conversation about aging produced an incredibly poignant poem from my daughter. The context was how we view aging in physical terms – the wrinkles, the grey hair, the slowing down of the body. But a lot of it is about losing that vibrancy of youth, of the light within us slowly dimming until it eventually flickers out.

Surrounded by all this creativity, I have no excuses to fall back upon. I need to get back to my writing.

Here is the poem. I hope you enjoy it.

FLOWERS

I love you so much, I’m

so scared to see you grow

watch my vision of you

fade away, the petals

of your personality

starting to wilt

the vibrancy in your

eyes, dim

it’s all beautiful, but

that doesn’t make it

easy

call me selfish, I want

you to stay as you are,

always

with me

(MM)

 

What’s in a name?

by

Shakespeare once asked this question through the young heroine of his tragedy, ‘Romeo and Juliet’.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.”

Indeed, a person’s worth cannot be measured by a name alone. In his tale of star-crossed lovers, Shakespeare was highlighting the ridiculousness of a generations-old feud between the Montagues and the Capulets. Juliet loved Romeo for who he was, and if not for his name, they could have lived happily ever after.

While I completely endorse Shakespeare’s line of thought, I must add my own two pennies’ worth here. You see, a name might not be everything, but it certainly is something.

Take the example of the actress Thandiwe Newton. After thirty years of being credited as Thandie Newton in her films, thanks to an erroneous acting credit that dropped the ‘w’ from her name, anglicising it in the process, she has reclaimed her name. Yes, she wants to be known as Thandiwe henceforth, and more power to her!

You see, names are deeply personal things. They have the weight of history and identity, of familial love and cultural coherence behind them. And as such, it is nearly impossible to divorce the self from the name. Unless you really, really hate it. Then you can have it changed by deed poll.

Take my name: Poornima.

When my mother chose this name for me, there was a lot of love, but there was also a significance there. She was from the South of India, from Kerala, to be precise. Hence, my name has the South Indian spelling of the two ‘o’s. In the North of India, my name would have been spelt as Purnima. The meaning is also one that connects me to her in a beautifully intimate way. Her name was Chandra, which meant the moon. Mine means ‘a full-moon night’. I love my name. It’s a tough one to pronounce, and an even tougher one to abbreviate, but it’s my name!

For nearly half my life, I’ve heard my name mangled beyond belief. From Purneema, to Poormeena, from Pooh to Poo, I’ve heard it all. I refuse to let it upset me. In fact, I find it laughable, because in the West, no one really bothers to ask – “Am I pronouncing this correctly?” Laziness and a comfortable sense of superiority allow them to anglicise anything unfamiliar. But woe betide anyone who can’t pronounce a ‘Sarah’ or a ‘Genevieve’!

Indian names aren’t the easiest to pronounce, I’ll accept that happily. But did you know just how much a name can reveal about a person? For instance, a name can tell you which part of India the person belongs to, drilling it down to state, religion and sometimes, even caste. Not always a good thing, but there you have it.

I can’t claim to understand every type of name that exists, or the connotations that go along with it, but I always try. Just making the effort is enough for the other person to cut you some slack if you get it wrong.

Which is why I insisted upon the constant mispronunciation of my protagonist’s name in my latest book, ‘A Quiet Dissonance’. Anu is short for Anupama, but everyone except her Indian family and friends call her ‘Anoo’. There is no emphasis on the ‘u’, but the ‘oo’ elongation of her name is just a symptom of the many tiny little misunderstandings that make up her story.

My editor and beta readers asked me why I insisted on keeping this little, seemingly irrelevant, detail in the book. But how could I not? To me it was symptomatic of a larger issue. One in which a compromise of identity takes place at every juncture in the character’s life. She accepts that to belong; she needs to let them pronounce her name in whichever way they deem easy.

You could accuse me of the same.

 

Trust

by

Val stumbled through the labyrinthine lanes, partially blinded by her tears. Mid-afternoon light filtered through the roof slats of the souk, lighting up the odd piece of jewelled glassware. Hamsas glinted everywhere, open palms offering benediction; the aroma of heavy spices lingered in the air; tourists and locals jostled through the scrum while a cat licked its hind paw. A man ejected a stream of red spittle into a spittoon, and a group of abaya-clad women watched as she blundered past them.

Why had she come here? What had made her rush to this chaotic market when the last thing she needed was noise and confusion? Yet, she walked on unseeing, as voices called out to her, extolling the virtues of their wares.

“Come, come. I give good price, lady.”

“Some babouches for your pretty feet?”

“Cactus flowers, hammam soap, argan oil…”

Shukran and Marhaba hung in the air like two scythes. Streets turned into lanes, packed with tiny shops that seemed to tilt inwards, as though conspiring to collapse on her, burying her alive under stacks of leather goods, lanterns and tagine pots.

Her breath came out in shallow little gasps, and a shiver ran through her. It was hot – a thirty degrees day – but she felt cold, goosebumps lining her arms like little sentinels.

A sudden thirst took hold of her, tears receding as a more elemental want asserted itself. Water, she needed water. But where could she find it here, in this maze of colour and commotion?

She halted, generating a few exclamations as the family trailing behind bumped into her. Apologising, she stepped aside, letting them pass.

Where was she? How long had she been wandering? Would she ever find her way out of this place?

A young man came up to her. Acid-washed jeans and a stubbled face.

“You want carpet?”

“Water.”

“I take you best place. Orange juice. Best in Morocco.”

“Just water.”

“Come, come. I take you.”

She followed him as he snaked his way through the crowds and tangled alleys, whistling a cheery tune.

He brought her to a stall stacked with oranges, grapefruits and lemons, bunches of bananas hanging on either side. The stall owner and her self-appointed guide had a brief chat and a laugh. She spotted a bottle of water behind the owner and pointed to it, but he was already preparing her juice. The guide took a tip larger than the cost of the orange juice. Bemused, she handed over the dirhams, which he pocketed as he disappeared back into the throng.

Ambrosia-like, the liquid quenched her thirst and brought her to her senses. A prayer call from the mosque rang out, and she looked up at the stall owner, who shrugged and made her another fresh juice.

This time she ambled with purpose, stopping now and then to examine a lamp or a piece of jewellery. There was no rush to return, no one to return to. Twenty-four hours had robbed her of certitude and replaced it with the bitterness of betrayal.

She watched the henna lady painting an intricate pattern on the Dutch woman’s hand as her husband commented in guttural tones.

“You want?” The eager young assistant offered to paint her hand, but Val demurred, moving on. A street urchin slammed into her before racing off into a narrow by-lane. The sun had lost its glare, and the air took on a cooler aspect.

Val tried retracing her steps.

Where had she gone wrong? Why hadn’t she seen it coming? How could she have been so naïve, so trusting?

Fatima’s hands beckoned to her from a shop wall. Ward off the evil eye and repel bad luck. Maybe she needed a hamsa now more than ever.

The grizzled old man hunched over in the shop barely glanced up as she stopped to examine his vendibles. There were so many varieties of the talisman: from metallic to ceramic, coloured to camel-bone.

“Which… uh… is best?” She spoke haltingly, unsure of how much English he understood.

He stared at her from under his bushy eyebrows and wiggled his forefinger at the wall.

“All good. Hand of Fatima protect the innocent. Allah eye watch over the pure.”

Val picked out a simple carved camel-bone necklace.

“I’ll take this one.”

She reached into her pocket for the wallet, only to find nothing.

“Oh.”

Colour drained from her face at the realisation of her loss.

The old man shuffled over to her and took the talisman out of her hand, replacing it with a silver one, a turquoise stone in its centre.

“Bismillah.”

She looked at it in wonder.

“May Allah keep you,” he mouthed before sitting back down on his haunches.

Her feet took her home of their own accord.

The value of self-esteem

by

I’ve often talked about the ill effects of social media – the addiction, the need for outside validation, the mental health issues, the ‘all that glitters isn’t gold’ aspect etc. But recently I stumbled upon yet another disturbing trend. Young girls filming/photographing themselves in their underwear/bikinis purportedly to support a body-positive movement.

Now, I’m a strong advocate of women of all ages and sizes being comfortable in their own skin, and I will shout it from rooftops if need be. I believe that every woman should have the right to wear what she wants, as long as she is comfortable with the sort of attention it attracts. However, flaunting one’s body on a public platform to elicit the approval of strangers, is where I draw the line.

Firstly, there is the safety aspect of it. How can one monitor who is watching/downloading these pictures? Where are these pictures being circulated? How are they being perceived? Secondly, there is the sleaze factor. To a young woman, body acceptance by way of photographing herself may seem to be progressive and life-enhancing, to the two-bit scumbag salivating over them, it’s just another way to jerk off. Sorry about the imagery! But there is no other way to spell it out clearly.

What has happened to our social fabric where it has become perfectly acceptable to derive one’s self-worth from the most shallow of sources? Yes, it’s wonderful to be young and beautiful and to enjoy the spring of one’s lifetime. But if acceptance of one’s self hinges on what other people think, then what happens when that body changes through life, childbirth, disease, accident or ageing?

Isn’t it time that we taught our children that self-worth and self-esteem need stronger roots than just body acceptance? Values such as humility, charity, empathy and forgiveness, character traits such as determination, resilience, patience and fortitude, are purer sources of self-love than any amount of pouting and preening before a camera lens can be.

Healthy self-esteem needs a healthy wellspring, and that can only come from working upon what lies inside. Yes, outside packaging matters, but only up to a point. If you unwrap a beautiful parcel and find it filled with junk, what are you likely to do?

The pitfalls of social media are well documented, but the insidious nature of its erosion of our children’s values and self-worth will have far-reaching consequences unless we start to combat it now. But first, we need to turn that mirror towards ourselves and look at where we are investing our time and teachings. It isn’t too late to steer our children away from conversations about their bodies, to conversations about their minds and souls. Perhaps then, they will realise that the value of self-esteem is far greater than the cost of self-doubt.

A good life

by

“She lived a good, long life.”

When someone dies at ninety-four, you tend to hear this refrain. As though good and long are interchangeable, longevity standing in for joy and fulfilment. As though the very act of having survived for over nine decades is remarkable in itself and death as a consequence seems to be just a footnote.

But what if that long life wasn’t a particularly happy one? What if it was fraught with unimaginable tragedy and loss? Would it still be considered a good one?

 

A woman, orphaned young, brought up by a maternal uncle and his family, not treated well by her aunt with no recourse except an early marriage to a young pharmacist with a promising future. Great start, right? Just when things are looking up and when life seems to be settling into a happy pattern, a division occurs – the partitioning of a nation, the cleaving of land, a clumsy attempt to separate a country by religious belief, asked for by the citizens and granted by the retreating former rulers. Caught up in the tides of her times, she has to leave everything behind, carrying her infant son and escaping with her husband’s family to the Hindu nation of India, all of their lands and properties being absorbed into Pakistan. A refugee, she learns to survive on little, adjusting to a diminished present, but grateful to be alive when so many others perished at the hands of their own brethren. Now life can finally start to get better.

It does, for a while. A decade or so of a happy married life, two more children and she can finally exhale and put her past difficulties behind her. Or, can she?

Losing her husband to a brain haemorrhage before she even turns forty brings her right back to where she started. Except that now she has three children to provide for, one of whom is barely five years old. Once again, with characteristic stoicism and fortitude, she submits to her destiny. She takes up sewing jobs, alterations and tailoring, whatever it takes to make ends meet. She allows her brother-in-law to run the pharmacy in her husband’s stead, hoping that someday her young sons will be able to step in.

Two of her sons stand like rocks beside her, throughout her life. The third betrays her.

Together with the uncle, he cheats and embezzles. An arranged marriage brings an ambitious and shrewd young woman into the family, who wishes to better her own prospects at the cost of all others. Together, the trio tries to usurp all the assets but are foiled at the very last minute. A long court case ensues in which the youngest son tries to get his mother imprisoned, furious at being denied his entitlement.

Estranged from her son and his family, she lives out the rest of her years with quiet dignity, adding this privation to the ledger of losses she has stacked up her entire life. Her other two sons stand by her, through thick and thin and that is the only saving grace in a lifetime beset by misery and misfortune.

Does this sound like a movie? Or a novel? It could be, with all its twists and turns and convoluted plot lines. Except that it isn’t.

 

This is the very real story of my paternal grandmother. A woman whose life was filled with suffering and pain. Never one to complain, she withstood every storm that was sent her way, trying her best to stay strong and uphold the ideals of her generation. She was not a particularly educated woman, but her knowledge of home remedies was next to none with people coming from far and wide to consult with her. Always willing to provide a listening ear or a helping hand, her wisdom came out of her own lived experiences, not out of books.

A lady who favoured plain saris, little jewellery and had her hair pulled back in a bun, her simplicity was her best adornment. Skin like alabaster, she was a classic beauty, completely unaware of and unconcerned about her looks. Outside packaging mattered very little to her and through her the lesson of learning to appreciate what lies within percolated down to me.

In the last decade or so, she had become a prisoner in her own body, her faculties slowly starting to fail her. Unable to see or hear, there was always a dreamy, contemplative look on her face when we visited her. At first, she could tell who it was by touching our hands or our faces, greeting us with a contained joy. Slowly that tapered off too. On my last visit in January, it was clear to me that she didn’t have long.

She left at 1458 hours on Tuesday, the 18th of August. There were just three people at her cremation, two of them her sons and one a kindly neighbour. In Covid days, it was a quiet and unassuming funeral, much like the lady herself.

 

We enter and exit this world alone. In all the time that we spend on this earth, we accumulate family, friends, material possessions, lands and riches. We do good and bad, we create, we destroy and we try to leave some sort of legacy behind. One that declares that we were here and that we led a good life.

But what constitutes a good life?

Is it one that is full to the brim with happy experiences, an easy and comfortable existence, or is it one that forges you into gold by throwing you into fire repeatedly, refining and purifying you each and every time?

If it is the latter, then yes, she had a good life. In her ninety-odd years, she might not have accumulated much by way of wealth, but the love and the loyalty of her two sons were worth more than all the riches of the world. Her legacy, such as it is, is the deep respect, regard and love that we feel towards her. In mourning her passing, I feel not just the loss of a grandmother, but of an age and an era that I will never encounter again. They do not make them like her anymore. ❤️

 

Invisible

by

Am I invisible

Because I am old?

Does my grey hair, my wrinkles, my painful joints

Deny me the wisdom of my years?

 

When I was young

You saw me

My hair was like spun gold

My body agile, fertile

 

But my mind was impetuous

Uninformed

Feckless

Reckless

 

Yet, housed as it was

In that body

You listened

You heard

 

Now I know

So much more

Life has taught me

Patience, gratitude, forbearance

 

I could tell you to

Slow down

Take a breath

Think a bit

 

That life is

Accumulated

Through moments that pass

Much too quickly

 

That being present

For yourself

For those you love

Is the most important task

 

That sometimes difficult days

Are given to us as an exam

To teach and test

And pass we will

 

That boredom is

The providence

Of the very fortunate

As is leisure

 

That failure

Is far better

More virtuous

Than regret

 

Would you listen though?

Or, would my words

Pass through you

Like milk through a sieve

 

Has age no meaning

Years no gravitas

Experience no value

Sagacity no usefulness?

 

Because here I sit

In a crowd

Of young ones

And no one hears my voice.