tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34431434298502851972024-03-13T14:54:29.899-07:00'Cause Pigs can FlyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger259125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-51829968642286483552024-03-12T20:40:00.000-07:002024-03-12T20:40:13.973-07:00The survival of friendships<p>I’ve been thinking a lot about the survival of friendships
and why some last longer than others. Friendships sometimes feel stifling to
me, like the other’s presence shrinks your lungs, while at other times,
friendships feel like all the good things: freedom, love, joy, kindness,
effortlessness.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That kind of friendship, the easy kind, is something I have
been blessed to have in life. Remember that moment in Fleabag, when the Hot
Priest talks about how scary love is, making it something we don’t want to do
alone? Well, love is scary, but I’d also like to point this out: “The world as
we know it mostly focuses on how hard love is – all suffering and sacrifice and
so on – but no one really speaks about how easy love is when you get it right.
Because love is easy when you get it right, when you are given it right.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This was how the <a href="https://www.themorning.lk/articles/61VRKCgBnoPH1VGQB8e3" target="_blank">‘Slices of Life by Marianne David’ </a>column
began in The Daily Morning last month, and this is something Marianne and I had
spoken about before the column made it to print. You see, within our friendship
is that ease. It’s not tedious. It’s not a job. We talk about things without a
fear of not just judgment but advice. And I think this is what friendships
often get wrong.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After a certain point of life, you are old enough to know
right from wrong, good from bad. And if you choose to do the wrong or bad thing,
you are conscious, at least at some level, of it. You know that what you are
doing will come back to bite you in the ass. And so you don’t need your friends
to tell you that you are being stupid or that you’ll regret something. You need
friends to be there for a laugh or a cry or just a quiet drink.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course, there are exceptions. There are the ridiculous
hypothetical scenarios that this doesn’t apply to, but in an ordinary life context,
friends can care for you, make sure you are safe, inquire about your happiness,
but they can’t mother you. They can’t force you to be the person they want you
to be.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And it’s this pressure, this expectation, or even this hope
that drives a wedge between people.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was talking to one of Amma’s friends recently. He was
recalling a moment from the past, and said something like: “I was 27 at the
time, your mother was 20…” And I thought about how she is 60 now, their
friendship having survived four decades. That’s more years than I’ve been
alive.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She also meets her school friends every couple of months. I
once commented on how I never meet my school friends as regularly, despite
leaving school just 12 years ago. Of course, her friends are retired, the kids
grown up, whereas I am at an age where our batch mates are at different points
of their lives. Some are bringing up children, others are building organisations,
some are a bit lost, others are taking it a day at a time (and yes, some are
doing more than one thing at a time).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But perhaps 30 years from now, we will find more time for
each other and then, perhaps, we will find new forms of friendship.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back to the question of why some friendships survive and others
don’t, well, obviously there are a thousand reasons, aren’t there? But I think
one of the main things, for me at least, is space. My mother doesn’t talk to
her friends every single day. They don’t get too involved in each other’s
lives. There is a sense of respect towards decisions and choices and even
silence.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You understand that people have shit to do. That sometimes
life gets overwhelming and days and weeks have gone by before you realise you
haven’t spoken to your friends. But you don’t beat yourself up about this and
you don’t hold it against your friends.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You let friendships breathe. That’s how they survive.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m thirty now, an age where I feel young but also realise
that I’m not. People my age are getting married, having kids, sending their
kids to school… Others are pursuing higher education in the masters and above
way. Some are discovering new ambitions, drives, and goals. I’ve been a bit
directionless, to be honest, these past few years. I’ve been feeling a bit
uninterested in life, I suppose.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And yet, I have friends I’ve known for most, if not all, my
adult life. This is nothing compared to, say, the friendships my mother has,
but for me, it’s been a miracle. Sometimes I think about these friendships, whether
I met them in school, at work, or online, and can’t believe I have such good
but effortless friendships in life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m not one to plan too much into the future, but if I do
make it to 40 or 50 or 60 or whatever, I do hope that these friendships
survive. That this love and affection and connection remains.<o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-60647245768308087672024-01-12T10:11:00.000-08:002024-01-12T10:11:56.714-08:00Thirty<p> And so I turned 30.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few years ago, I was convinced I wouldn’t make it to 30.
It didn’t seem like I was destined to live a long life. And I didn’t want to. I
have never really thought about my future. I never thought about life ten,
fifteen or twenty years from now. I didn’t think about life post retirement. I
never planned around old age, like some people seem to do.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The closer I got to my 30<sup>th</sup> birthday, the more I
realised that I was likely to make it to 40. It still felt far away, but it
also felt like I would live to see another decade. Anyway, here I am, living
the first day of my 30s.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Two people asked me this morning if it feels any different. Leaving
my 20s, and welcoming my 30s. And I said it doesn’t. There’s no magical element
to birthdays. You are still the same person, with the same problems or concerns
and the same life. And while I do have those odd moments of realising that I am
getting older, I’m actually looking forward to my 30s. I feel like life is
getting more enjoyable the older I get. I’m more willing to break out of my
safety zone, take chances, and just live life. I don’t know if I ever cared
about what other people think or expect of me, but in the last few years at
least, I haven’t really cared.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve actually liked life these past few years. Today,
pictures posted by three friends wishing me for my birthday reminded me of how
good things have been, of how much love and joy I have felt, of the people I
have met and loved.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And this is what I want for the rest of my life, regardless
of how long it is. I could die tomorrow or I could live to a hundred, but I
hope my every minute is full of love.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been dealing with some health issues, and friends,
family, people ask me how I’ve gotten through it. Not just the physical aspects
of illness, but the effect it has on your mental health, the never-ending
thoughts of mortality (no, I’m not actively dying). And I’ve never had a proper
answer, but I think what gets me through all this is the promise of the love
and joy that awaits me. A countdown until I can see my favourite people, do my
favourite things, get drunk and sing along to songs I don’t even know, stay up
all night while on holiday. It’s this that has kept me going, even when it has
all seemed so distant, even when it has felt like the world is moving forward
without me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today, I thought: “What a blessing it is to have people I
love and people who love me.” It seems like such an ordinary thing. Love. And
yet, it feels like a gift, something not many are fortunate enough to have. The
older we get, I feel, the quieter we let our love get. Words and gestures of
affection are put on a shelf to collect dust. We allow love to be something
understood and not expressed. And yet, here I am, turning 30, with a life that
is neither a good one nor a shitty one, just an ordinary person, who gets to
love people, gets to be loved by people, and not in that quiet way of a mutual
understanding, but in a way that reminds me that regardless of what happens
tomorrow or the day after or next week or next year; today, in this moment, I
am alive.<o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-77924395302312296432023-09-13T20:14:00.003-07:002023-09-13T20:14:56.156-07:00Availability, dating, love, etc.<p>There’s a line in Sally Rooney’s Conversations with Friends
where, towards the very end of the book, one character says to another: “You
know, I still have that impulse to be available to you.” This line struck me
when I first read it, because it seemed to describe simply what love is: an
impulse, a desire to always be available for a person.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, when I first read the book, I hadn’t really dated, but
later, when it happened, I saw how this simple need to always be available to
someone wasn’t love. Not necessarily. Not always. It was sometimes a sure-fire
way of hating yourself and perhaps even hurting others.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t like dating; I’ve vowed to never date. And the
reason is this sense of availability, this sense of giving it my all. I haven’t
particularly liked any of the, let’s see, two people I can say I dated, even
though it’s a stretch, really. But in both instances, there was no real
attraction to the person. They were available and bored. I was available and
bored. Quite romantic, right?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But this isn’t some pity post. It was a matter of
convenience, a way to not be lonely. And we do a lot of things to not be
lonely, don’t we? We choose people who can give us anything in the line of
intimacy or company or affection. It’s nice when you get it, and beggars can’t
be choosers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, back to the point. Despite not liking these people,
or perhaps because I didn’t particularly like them, I always felt this need to
do whatever I could to make sure they would stay. In the first instance, it was
a matter of proving that I can in fact date. In the second, it was… well, I
haven’t really given it that much thought. I think it was boredom, plain and
simple. And I don’t say this to be spiteful; it’s just the truth.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Being available to them meant putting aside my work, my
feelings, my bad mental health days to listen to them and be there for them and
help them through certain things in life. It meant smiling through hurtful
things they said that made me feel small. It meant putting them first at all
times, because I felt like I didn’t have the right to demand anything, to ask
for anything, to expect anything.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And this works for a while. You make it work. But soon, you
get exhausted. And you realise how much of yourself you have given to someone
you don’t even really care about. There is shame and guilt and a deep sense of
sorrow. And once this hits, it’s difficult to shake off. Sometimes, the person
does extend some kindness your way and ends things before you can force
yourself into an even smaller space in their life, accepting what little they
give you. Other times, you become cruel. You hurt them. You disregard their
feelings.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I promised myself I wouldn’t do this to myself anymore. That
I will practice some selfishness, I guess. Or rather, let myself want things,
ask for things. Let myself make decisions, without just accepting what comes my
way (which is easier said than done when not a lot comes your way).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then, recently, I was talking to someone about the
possibility about some casual hanky-pankying (no, I did not use this word when
actually talking to them. That would have been an instant no) and I heard
myself saying something along the lines of: and if you find that you are
interested in someone, I will step aside. This kind of thing doesn’t bother me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And god, it hit me immediately. I was doing it again. I was
telling them that I saw myself as so insignificant, so small that they could
just push me aside as soon as they wanted to, and that I was okay with it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was this doodle on Instagram about wanting someone to
be able to fit in their pocket. When I saw this, perhaps because of the way it
was drawn, I thought about how I make myself that small, just so I fit into
what little space someone can give me. I make my needs and wants smaller and
smaller just to give people a reason to pick me and want me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Which is a very unsettling realisation to have about
oneself, but as I said, this isn’t a pity post. It’s just me putting some
thoughts on to a page in hopes that I can revisit this when my current,
temporary isolation makes me think it’s a brilliant idea to give dating another
try.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And see, this is why I don’t like dating. I know that I can’t
resist this behaviour, so might as well avoid the problem entirely.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To add a bit of positivity to this post, since people keep
telling me to hold my head high and be positive, I only hate this when it comes
to men or dating or whatever. But when it comes to friendship, I like being
entirely available to people. Obviously, you need to be picky and you need to
put yourself first when it comes to certain people and situations, but I think
the impulse to be right there when a friend is upset or struggling or just in
need of company is love. It’s also love when you want to be with them
regardless of what they are going through, to just watch a movie, listen to
music, talk about the stupidest things.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is love and I’m grateful that I have been taught this.
That I have been shown this.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been thinking about this past year and a half a lot
lately. There are certain things going on in life at the moment that I haven’t
fully processed yet. That will happen later, but for now, I try to forget the
bad things and the sad things. I hold on to those good, happy memories. Wine
and Anne with an E. Karaoke at god knows what time in the morning. Lying on a
sofa and listening to your friends talk and laugh and be happy. Looking at a
roomful of people and realising that you have people you care so deeply about. Looking
at a friend and realising that no matter what, you will always have them at
your side.<o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-21006137027672436002022-12-30T21:49:00.000-08:002022-12-30T21:49:39.352-08:002022, a year of loss and other things<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>(Before we go any further, I do need to say that this post
isn’t meant to hurt anyone or remind them of things of the past. It’s not meant
to be mean, or make subtle digs at anyone. It’s not meant to lead to
conversation. This post is for myself, in hopes that by the end of it I will
see that 2022 wasn’t an entirely bad year)</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Things wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t reflect on 2022 like
everyone else, so here goes: A look back at a year that was peppered with more
than just a pinch of loss. And not just in the form of death.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It started at the very beginning of the year. Literally. A
friendship ran its course, and of course, if we had both been perhaps kinder to
each other, this would be a story for 2021. But we waited too long, so while
the year will not be forever remembered by this particular incident, it will
always remind me of it, which isn’t ideal, because this has been a year of
forgetting. Forgetting people, drawing a blank when people say we’ve met
before, not remembering a single thing from a night out, trying to piece
together the snapshot memories I have of an incident, being made to doubt my
own sanity because I couldn’t trust what I remember.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, back to the point: I promised myself that I would
not let things simmer and stew again, that I would put all parties out of their
misery and deal with things then and there. I can’t decide if this promise was
one worth making to myself, because towards the end of the year, I found myself
carrying a lot of guilt over a similar incident, but one where I didn’t give it
time, not in hopes of things improving, but in hopes the universe would
intervene.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>(I know there is a certain withholding of information when
talking about everything that happened in 2022, but that’s necessary and so, we
must go on ahead without dwelling too much on it. If I ever come across this
post years from now, I may struggle to remember what and who I was talking
about, but there is nothing we can do about that)</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I think I broke out of the shell I had let harden around me
sometime in April. Or perhaps it was before that. When dared to do things, when
made to face the truth, instead of doing the usual hiding away, I stepped into
these opportunities (this is the wrong word, but the right one escapes me). I
didn’t do anything crazy or wild or adventurous, which maybe disappointing, but
I did more than I usually do and this was enough. I’m satisfied with who I
became this year. I didn’t become a new person, I didn’t even change
significantly, but instead of sitting in silence and hoping for something, I
somehow or the other got them.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The hurt, the guilt, the shame, the uncertainty, these were
let go of to some extent, which is a pretty big thing for this overthinking,
anxious potato. It was more than I’ve done in the past few years. Reaching out
to people, asking for answers and explanations, opening other doors instead of
standing outside doors firmly shut.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course, there was disappointment, in life, in other
people, but most of all, in myself. Feeling like I will never be good at my
job, freaking out over the realisation that I’m absolutely screwed if I ever
have to find employment in a different field, feeling like I could never be the
daughter my parents want me to be, feeling like I wasn’t enough. And there was
a lot of self-doubt, a lot of marshmallow brain, a lot of self-loathing, a lot
of loneliness.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And these are feelings I will carry with me into 2023 and
beyond, but I think that more than other years, in 2022, I understood that
there is no shame in feeling this way. Of course, working on changing things,
improving your life, your mental health is always good, but pretending that
things are hunky-dory won’t help anyone. It won’t help you to carry on, and
push through the days.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There were good things about the year too, of course. I
graduated (I think that was this year), we didn’t travel as much as we used to
but it’s been one of those years, hasn’t it? We shared moments of joy and love
and happiness and, most of all, kindness. We laughed, we talked, we sat in
silence, we understood more about each other.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But what I wish I did more of is prioritising myself.
Spending less time on people who don’t do me any good, and instead giving that
time to people who do. I wish I did more to take things off my plate, things
that weren’t even mine for the keeping or eating. I wish I set clearer
boundaries with people. But there were moments, telling people to not pressure
me about doing more with The Flying Pig when I could barely find time to
breathe; forcing myself to stop pushing things when others showed no interest
in making things work; accepting that there was nothing I could do about how
people react to or feel about situations; understanding that not everyone has
my best interests in mind and that, just as I could be mean or rude or say and
do hurtful things, so can others.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But now we get to the hard part. The worst part about this
year. The biggest loss.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Calvin.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Amma’s day, which begins before mine, would start with
Calvin outside her bedroom door, demanding a bowl of milk. He loved milk, and
bread. He was a chatty, mischievous cat we loved so much it hurt, sometimes. He
fell sick, his gallbladder targeted by a vicious cancer, his bladder
ballooning. He powered through, recovering from a surgery that the doctor told
me he had only a very small chance of waking up from, but that that was our
only option. He took his medicine, he ate his food, he loved and he loved and
he loved.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then he fell sick again. He was patient as we went to the
doctor’s every day for weeks. He complained but dealt with the needles and the
pills and the injections and the low protein diet. He demanded his creamy treat
at 2 p.m., he wanted his milk, he ate his fish. He looked apologetic when he
vomited, watching as we cleaned it up. And we soon developed a system. A few
disinfectant wipes, a plastic bag.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then one night, he seemed weaker than usual. He slept in
a laundry basin in my room for a bit, before finding refuge in a cardboard box
under a sofa. At around three, I woke up, and realised that this was it. Calvin
was dying.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So I took the basin near him. He dragged himself into it and
let me hold his paw while his body slowly shut down. I wish I could say it only
took minutes, but we sat there for five hours. I told him how much we loved
him, how much joy he brought us, and that it was okay to let go. Gingie gave
him one last bath, a kiss. I tried to remember what I could of various sutras,
before Amma, who woke up at around five or six, sent me a recording of a
gathaa, which I played on repeat. Funny, isn’t it, how we turn to religion in
such moments.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Aiya and his wife, who for some reason extended their usual
weekend stay with us by an extra day, woke up at around seven and we all knew
this was it. Calvin started having seizures. We moved him to my room. Covered
his body with a cloth so he didn’t have to suffer the indignity of being seeing
when his body did things he had no control over. At 8.30 a.m. we called his
doctor and asked if they could do something to ease his pain. I changed out of
my pajamas and came back to find him lifeless, his body hard and coarse. Amma,
Aiya and Aiya’s wife buried him. I couldn’t bear to be there. My little boy was
gone, our house quiet, Gingie by herself, after spending close to five years
with her dear darling son in our house.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then, because life is cruel, Aiya, who, to be fair, had
moved out last year, decided to migrate. I can’t and won’t hold it against him,
given the state of our country, but I don’t think I was prepared. I don’t think
I had it in me to deal with his departure properly. So I packed it up in a neat
little box and put it with everything else I haven’t dealt with, and I will
take it all with me into 2023.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t deal with loss that well. None of us do, I suppose.
So I don’t know how to deal with these absences in my life. I don’t know what
to fill the silence with. And maybe I will, as I continue to grow and learn and
understand things about this world. Perhaps there is hope. Perhaps there will be
a day when things hurt less; when there is less unpacking to do.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And so, here we are, at the end of 2022. I will remember
this year in moments; day-drinking with someone I have spoken to every single
day of this year; going from pharmacy to pharmacy looking for Calvin’s
medicine; singing along to Sweet Caroline while being that perfect level of
drunk; watching someone walk away when I asked them to stay; realising what a
lot of love I have in my life as I share a quiet moment with a friend who I
thank the universe for every day; feeling a tear or two escape my eyes while
waiting for the bus because I don’t think I’ve ever not felt tired this year; sitting
with friends and realising that if this is as good as it gets, then I’m fine
with it; games of Taboo, conversations with cousins, rare moments of intimacy,
delicious food, lots of booze, and life; the good, the bad, the ugly, the ups
and the downs, the expectations and disappointments.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And so, to bring this post to an end, I don’t think I want
to categorise 2022 as good or bad, amazing or awful. I don’t think it’s fair to
do so, especially given what we’ve been through this year; fuel lines, power
cuts, political instability, a fleeing president, protests, economic collapse,
the bad getting away unpunished.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And maybe because the past few years have taught me that
planning is pretty useless, 2023 won’t be anything in particular, so you can ignore
my tweets about what I plan to do next year. 2023 will be whatever it wants to
be. Zero expectations, zero hopes, zero goals, zero promises.</p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-77672834698432748402022-07-12T09:49:00.006-07:002022-07-12T09:49:59.329-07:00Monsoon<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Before the monsoon rains come really hot days. They are
unbearable. Amma would look at the sky, heavy and grey, and say, “It’ll rain
today.” King coconut water brings some relief, but usually the days are spent
with a certain restlessness. You sit in front of the fan, realise it does no
good, walk to the veranda, hope for a breeze.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then finally, like a crack of thunder – and sometimes,
accompanied by thunder – the clouds finally surrender and unleash torrential
rains upon on us. By then, it’s a relief, even though we know floods await us.
Weather warnings will keep the fishermen away from sea. The gloom and doom of a
rainy day will only be brightened by umbrellas of all colours.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You feel the cold, the damp in your bones. There’s a dull
ache in your joints, and your pace slows. There’s no point in rushing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That relief you felt when the heat finally let up? It’s gone
now. You are impatient for those warm, dry days, when buses didn’t splash muddy
water on you and you didn’t have to worry about catching a cold or getting
caught to the rain before you got home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then, before you know it, the sun is back out and things
feel a bit better. You feel like you can breathe properly for the first time in
weeks, your stuffy nose all cleared up. You find yourself standing in the
middle of the garden, arms stretched out, soaking in the sun. Relief.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But that silly, nuisance of a voice in your mind
reminds you of those monsoon days that will soon return, bringing with them the
weight of a wet pillow and a heavy heart.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyjNwyq_T1V4-JQ7ny24qzMdetW3gpyUCut68BJATQMJCLv-z9YTbp9og0UkYrjuQopBk6srKQoL4ICVBVI9iZ-4hxUu59WrydSbmuoUvlkt8foqOIcKQlDnWi0DzdtsBPvivncPdEKhiWlF6h6a9Fno6Oyg8nmmrWECh1jtSi1r_VG2TJ5ZIxngJq_A/s603/monsoon.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="603" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyjNwyq_T1V4-JQ7ny24qzMdetW3gpyUCut68BJATQMJCLv-z9YTbp9og0UkYrjuQopBk6srKQoL4ICVBVI9iZ-4hxUu59WrydSbmuoUvlkt8foqOIcKQlDnWi0DzdtsBPvivncPdEKhiWlF6h6a9Fno6Oyg8nmmrWECh1jtSi1r_VG2TJ5ZIxngJq_A/s320/monsoon.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><i>Word of the day: Monsoon</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>the season during which the southwest wind blows, commonly
marked by heavy rains; rainy season.</i></p><p></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-80072175632215512402022-05-20T02:28:00.000-07:002022-05-20T02:28:03.076-07:00hootenanny (On dating and figuring things out)<i>Word of the day: Hoontenanny</i><div><i>An informal session at which folk singers and instrumentalists perform for their own enjoyment</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Let's talk about dating.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had issues with physical contact and intimacy for the longest time. Just two years ago, I stood in front of the mirror, tears in my eyes, coming to terms with the fact that I was probably going to end up alone. I thought I was asexual and while asexual people can be in relationships, there was also a lot to do with commitment, romance, love and a fear of heartbreak that complicated things in my mind.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is obviously a personal post, and I may even revert it to drafts. But I think this is something I need to talk about, for myself. To make sense of things.</div><div><br /></div><div>I spent my mid-teens and most of my 20s not really dabbling in dating or relationships or anything like that. There was obviously the lack of opportunity (I'm man-repellent) but there was also a fear of disappointing the other person or misleading them. I felt like it would be unfair to put someone in that position.</div><div><br /></div><div>So anyway, I've now reached a point in life where I still don't know for sure what I want or what kind of person I want. But a few months ago, I realised that I may want something that is fun and casual, where there is some level of commitment, so you check in with each other, you spend time together. But you don't have to go on dates or invest in the relationship. You don't, in a sense, owe each other anything.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then my lack of experience as well as age (getting closer to my 30s) made this seem less like something I wanted to try out and more like something I needed to cross off a list.</div><div><br /></div><div>It felt like I needed to find a man -anyone would do- just so I didn't end up basically being a 40-year-old virgin. And this made the confusion and disappointment and everything else of making my way through the dating world a lot more difficult, I suppose?</div><div><br /></div><div>Because it no longer felt like a fun thing to do. It felt, it feels like a job I'm failing at. Their lack of interest in pursing anything, it not being the right time, or whatever other reason that actually makes sense became my fault. It feels like a weakness, a shortcoming. It feels like I have to try harder, be better, fix myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's this weird pressure to do the right things and say the right things and in some ways put up with a lot of shit from other people just because it seems like, if not, you may lose the one opportunity the universe has presented you. I'm not proud of ignoring my own needs and feelings and expectations just because it felt like I needed to put every ounce of energy I had into making something work.</div><div><br /></div><div>And this makes me hate myself. You sober up, recover from the hangover, remember everything you did and didn't do and you just feel disgusted about yourself. I hate this feeling. I hate what this does to my brain.</div><div><br /></div><div>You know how people talk about how hobbies or passions stop being as fun when you try to make a career out of them? How, if you like baking cakes and then start a little cake business, the whole process of baking a cake is no longer as fun as it used to be? Dating feels like that sometimes and I want to change it. I want to have fun. I want to enjoy the last of my 20s without feeling like I need to get through a checklist.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want things to be easy, you know?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-79502382334017283922022-05-16T07:32:00.001-07:002022-05-16T07:32:35.973-07:00Friendship, as an afterthoughtFriendship has always been something intense, requiring a level of commitment and investment. You give your friends your time and energy. A part of your heart, space in your life. You spend time with them, even there is no purpose for that meetup. You care about them, look out for them, and remember things about them.<div><br /><div>Maybe this is a rather childish idea of friendship. Do adults really have the time or energy for this sort of thing? I'd like to thing that some of us do. This is why I sometimes have trouble making new friends. If we share a moment that so clearly paves the way for some sort of future together and you don't make an effort to reach out, I will take it as a sign that you are not worth it. If you can't understand the expectations and elements or components of friendship, then one of us is going to deal with more hurt than the other.</div><div><br /></div></div><div>But to some, I'm realising, friendship is almost an afterthought. They are flippant about it. They won't invest as much time and energy in it. Friendship is convenient, there when they need it, shelved when they don't.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I told a friend about this, they told me that it depends on one's personality. And perhaps there is truth to this. Maybe the way we navigate friendship is something that depends on the people we are, the personalities we have cultivated over time.</div><div><br /></div><div>And maybe this makes it okay that some people don't treat friendship the same way that others do.</div><div><br /></div><div>And maybe it is our fault for expecting anything from anyone, even when we are looking at a friendship that has made it through quite a few years and several speedbumps. Maybe friendship, as transactional as it is, can never be expected to be so.</div><div><br /></div><div>But expectations are part of human nature, aren't they? Regardless of what you say, you expect -and hope- for people to return your feelings, be there for you, like similar things, or text back. You want certain things from people and when they don't meet these expectations, you are disappointed and you feel hurt.</div><div><br /></div><div>This disappointment and hurt can be easier to move past when you haven't put in much time into building a friendship. But what happens when the nature of the friendship changes as the people involved grow up and slowly become different versions of themselves?</div><div><br /></div><div>Is a friendship still salvageable in such a situation? Can we hope that one is made aware of the other's expectations or that the other doesn't let their disappointment or hurt get in the way? Or do you strip that friendship off anything special or binding?</div><div><br /></div><div>Do you become friends who can spare time for a drink once in a while but never stay long enough or dig deep enough to really get to know each other?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-37620691863931020202022-01-29T09:41:00.003-08:002022-01-29T09:41:34.605-08:0024 December<p>TW: Suicide</p><p><br /></p><p>On the 24<sup>th</sup> of December, a man died. To be
precise, he killed himself. I don’t know the details. His age, the
circumstances that led him to do it, whether he knew he would die that day when
he woke up in the morning. All I know is that a train was involved.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A train that had come to a halt somewhere between Panadura
and Moratuwa, closer to Panadura, where I was headed after a long, long day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was in a three-wheeler and was headed home after lunch
with a friend. It was a day of endings for many people, I think, this man and
myself included. But for me, it was just a feeling. For him, it was whatever
happens to the human body when hit and run over by a train.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was exhausted. The previous day had been spent on my feet,
baking. I had Christmas orders to be delivered on the 24<sup>th</sup> and I
went to bed at 4am, only to wake up at 7am. It was around noon by the time the
deliveries were done and despite thinking I was done with baking until after
Christmas, a few last minute orders had come in for the 25<sup>th</sup>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I decided to get the booster dose that day, thinking the
pain would set in the next day. The worst would be missing Christmas lunch but
I’d survive that. So arm feeling a bit stiff, the lack of sleep catching up on
my, the formation of a thought in my tired and drained brain, all these things
led me to nap on my way home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At some point, the driver woke me up with exciting news. A
man had died. Killed himself. Was the body all over the tracks? What was it
like? Was it really, really bad? The driver asked people standing outside their
homes, watching the crowd gathering near the end of the train.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was a weird sense of excitement in the air. The kind
you’d expect from kids the next day, when they found presents with their name
on them under the Christmas tree. There were kids watching, teens, people in
their 40s, old women who couldn’t stand straight.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They weren’t shocked or sad. They were excited.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t speak. The only other time I had been so close to
death of this kind was when I was in my mid-teens. We were on our way back from
school, only three or four students left in the van. Then too, we were on the New
Galle Road, somewhere between Panadura and Moratuwa. A lorry was slightly ahead
of us, on the other lane. A man ran up a small road and lay on the road. The
lorry came to a sudden stop, just in time. The man indicated with his hand that
the lorry should run over him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few men ran over and pulled the man off the road. The
lorry started moving forward and the man ran on to the road again. The driver
once again stopped the vehicle. The men were able to keep the man away from the
road until the lorry and our school van drove past. I don’t know if this man
succeeded that day or if he lived for a couple more years. I don’t know if he’s
still alive. Maybe he is.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But sometimes this memory comes back to me. In flashes. It
still bothers me. Makes me feel sick. Unsettled.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Christmas eve incident makes me feel the same way. I
think I only told one person about it. But I don’t know what affects me the
most: the fact that a man died that day, the excitement people felt about it or
how I felt more about this stranger’s death than I did about my life and people
I was supposed to care about.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For someone who talks about her feelings quite a lot online,
I don’t know why I have trouble with this one thing. And as unfair as it may be
to the people concerned, I do need to try and get this off my chest.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">See, that day, from the very beginning, I knew something was
wrong. Something was going to happen. I didn’t know what but I knew something
would.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Later that day I realised that someone who I thought made me
happy wasn’t making me happy. I later realised that I was being too hard on
myself, putting so much pressure on myself to feel the right things and say and
do what I thought the world expected from me. So I convinced myself that I was
happy.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The newness of friendship, the excitement, all this made me
happy…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, on the 24<sup>th</sup> of December, I realised that
none of them did. But I wasn’t ready to accept it, so I decided that the
uneasiness I was feeling was due to tiredness and the booster and just the
usual and now this man who killed himself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, I didn’t have to do this for long because a few days
later, said friendship came to an end. And it was all very underwhelming.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I forced myself to care. To feel something. But I couldn’t.
And I still can’t. I feel indifferent about the whole thing. Like being told
the restaurant doesn’t have the beef dish when I had no intention of ordering
it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And this scares me. It makes me feel like I’m not alive.
Like I’m losing my ability to be human. Like I’m forgetting how to exist in
this world. It’s like noticing a scab on your leg or arm and wondering when you
hurt yourself and why you didn’t even feel it.<o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-12201422973966051632021-11-15T18:49:00.000-08:002021-11-15T18:49:56.563-08:00glass<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">There
are various things scattered around me. Some just a metre or two from where I
stand. Others further away. Boxes that hold their shape, blobs that look like
jelly. Different colours and different sizes. They all represent something.
Work, studies, love, friendship, a house of my own, the kind of life I want to
live in, pets, wine, money, good mental health, freedom to do whatever I want,
a space of my own.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">Some
of these things I want, others not so much. But there they are, scattered on
the floor around me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">They
all seem like things I can have. Things I can just walk up to and pick up. If I
choose today that I want a house of my own, all I have to do is take those five
or six steps towards that purple blob and pick it up. So simple.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">The
first step is not a problem. But with the second, I hit a wall. Strange,
because I see no walls. I reach towards the invisible barrier and realise I’m in
a glass box. A few things, boxes and blobs, are inside. And I can pick them up.
I can have them. A job. Friends. A house to live in. Family. But other things
that I want, they are on the other side.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">Always
within sight, but never within reach.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-37313283746031574292021-09-28T08:56:00.000-07:002021-09-28T08:56:02.054-07:00rout (part 2)<p>When I was 21, a boy – or should I say man? – I wasn’t
particularly fond of told me he liked me and because beggars can’t be choosers,
I decided to give it a shot. When my mother got wind of this or maybe I just
told her, she discouraged it, saying he was not suitable for me. She had a
point.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We were seated in the veranda when we had this conversation.
It was past 7pm and too dark for us to see each other’s faces. A blessing,
really, because I already felt so exposed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I remember saying, “I deserve to be happy.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few days later, I told this boy I didn’t really like him
and we ended things and he went on to find happiness elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Prior to this, I had only had one other person show any interest
in me and he too, found happiness elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Since then, I’ve mostly remained by myself, convincing
myself and those around me that I didn’t need a relationship or love.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I kept searching for happiness, because by then, the
unhappiness I had felt since my teens had become a companion who never left my
side. A few years ago, I was asked how long I have been sad for. I don’t know
what I said, but sadness now feels like an invisible conjoined twin who left my
mother’s womb with me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The thing about this unhappiness is that is not necessarily
caused by anything. Despite not working at the same place for more than three
years, for the most part, I’ve loved all job opportunities that have come my
way. The degree I took an additional two years to complete gave me with a sense
of purpose. Friends I made along the way have filled my life with love.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But somehow, whatever happiness I felt never stayed around
for long.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Somewhere last year, when I, like many others, were going on
our fifth or sixth week of strict curfew, I looked myself in the mirror and
realised that this unhappiness was here to stay. Perhaps it was linked to my
bad luck with romance. Perhaps my sense of self-worth was linked to how much I
was desired by another.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I remember telling myself over and over again that I was
giving up this search. That I was accepting defeat.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few weeks ago, the loneliness of yet another lockdown made
me rethink this decision. Perhaps I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. Maybe I
had just a little bit more fight left in me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps refusing to accept defeat was the only way I could
get through what seemed like a never-ending lockdown.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All this sounds ridiculous because I am yet to complete
three decades of being alive and everyone keeps telling me that your life doesn’t
really end when you hit 30. It can begin at that point, who knows.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But something my mother told me comes to mind.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In your late-teens and early-twenties, you have all these things
you look for in someone. They must look a certain way, have XYZ interests, read
the same authors you do. You have this image of The Perfect Person in mind and
compare those you meet with this image. Of course, this leads to disappointment
but at that age, you can afford to do this.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As you near your 30s, your requirements boil down to
availability and interest. Who is interested in you just enough to give it a go
and who is available? This can feel quite disheartening, especially if you
spent most of your adult life thinking you had time later on to pursue romantic
relationships. This is what I did. I thought I could see what the fuss was
about when I finally decided I wanted to.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps I could have if the pandemic hasn’t taken two years
off our lives. Perhaps things would be different.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So what does any of this have to do with rout? Rout is the
dictionary.com Word of the Day and I have been doodling or writing about these
words since the beginning of the month as a way of challenging myself to get at
least one thing done during the day.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qqj08NQAoTo/YVM6_uQmftI/AAAAAAAAbKw/g7LaqPNo8_IcxIY2_hY8C_T7YZzZYnM9wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1046/rout.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="567" data-original-width="1046" height="173" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qqj08NQAoTo/YVM6_uQmftI/AAAAAAAAbKw/g7LaqPNo8_IcxIY2_hY8C_T7YZzZYnM9wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/rout.png" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rout means ‘a defeat attended with disorderly flight;
dispersal of a defeated force in complete disorder’. It also means any
overwhelming defeat. This is the definition I’m looking at.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I looked at my reflection in the mirror recently. I saw someone
who was badly in need of a haircut. Her belly is fatter than she would like it
to be. Her face looks tired. Defeated.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maybe I have reached that point of life where I just don’t
have the energy anymore, where I need to accept defeat and get to know that
conjoined twin known as Sadness a bit better.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Or maybe I just need this lockdown to lift so that I can
busy myself with friends and outings and some version of the life I once had.<o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-32640329660335397962021-09-20T22:01:00.002-07:002021-09-20T22:01:17.033-07:00serotinal<p>Summer is not a season I’m familiar with. Autumn, winter,
spring, none of them are. We have the monsoon and the warm weeks leading up to
it. Perhaps the end of summer is like those final weeks of unbearable heat
before the skies unleash on us rain and thunder, making us long for those drier
days.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">We have been in lockdown for a month. This month feels like
a year because during the weeks leading up to it, there was some form of
self-imposed lockdown most of us practiced. With the exception of a handful of
outings, to drop off food, visit my father, get vaccinated, or buy groceries,
my life has been limited to the rectangular plot of land we have lived on all
my life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Walks to the back of the garden to burn trash or pluck a
lemon, running to the gate to accept a delivery, these are the extent of my
travels. I even missed the occasion of my brother’s marriage because it would
have been wrong to go.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I have been telling myself that all this was done because it
is the right thing to do. I was listening to the health officials of the
country. I was doing my part.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">But to be honest, I’ve reached a point of having had enough.
I’ve reached a point where I can’t take this anymore. It reminds me of that
sense of restlessness that emerges during those weeks leading up to the monsoon
rains. It becomes so hot that all you can do is lie on a sofa and stare at the
ceiling. Water takes on an off-taste. Your clothes cling to your body and beads
of sweat drip down your face.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">You sit in front of a whirring fan even though it doesn’t do
much good. Nights are spent restlessly tossing and turning in bed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Even the smallest disagreement turns into a massive
argument. Everyone’s on edge. Tempers rise at the utterance of one wrong word.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I find myself becoming difficult to be around. I’m always
looking to pick a fight with someone. And then I spend hours unable to do much
because I don’t have much energy left in me. There is this itch within me, it
makes it hard to breathe sometimes. It makes me want to tear my skin into
shreds.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I just need one day, to go out, meet people, live. Feel
alive.</p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-26958636912443861702021-07-06T09:41:00.000-07:002021-07-06T09:41:25.749-07:00Personal #1The truth is, I want to feel the same things that other people do. I want to be able to date people or be in a relationship without frantically looking for exit signs from day one or fearing physical intimacy because it makes me feel like I'm not even human.<div><br /></div><div>I want to be able to flirt without worrying about mixed signals and I want to be able to enjoy a quiet night with someone without my mind cranking up the volume on my inner thoughts.<div><br /><div>I want to be able to feel something, anything when someone touches me. I don't want to think of a future alone, deprived of one of the simplest joys in life.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>The truth is, I really do want to build a life with someone. I want to love and be loved. I want companionship, someone to talk to when it is 2 in the morning and I can't sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to know someone inside out. I want to love them so much it hurts. But I want to love them so much I don't want to leave, to run, to flee.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I want to stop having to pretend I'm okay with the cards life has dealt me. I want to scream that I am not content with them, that I want more in life.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-75794333447168698652021-06-16T05:29:00.001-07:002021-06-16T05:29:35.372-07:00Sometimes when we touch...<p class="MsoNormal">We are all lonely, a friend once told me. It felt like a confession.
Admitting to one’s loneliness becomes somewhat difficult as one moves towards
their late 20s. This is, of course, based on mere observations and experiences.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Admitting that you are lonely is somewhat easy when you are
in your late teens and even your early 20s. It’s easy because you either claim
you are a lone wolf and prefer being by yourself or you still have some hope
that these difficult years will lead to better times. There’s somewhat of an
invitation in that “I’m lonely.” You are inviting people into your life,
challenging them to prove you wrong.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is also the difference between feeling lonely and
being alone and the line is blurred when we are younger.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But when you get past your mid-twenties and move towards
those years where people expect you to settle down, get married, or start a
family, admitting that you are lonely is more a confession.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It can be an admittance of failure of some kind. It’s a plea
for something to work out, someone to come along. It isn’t easy to admit to
being lonely because, quite frankly, it feels like there’s something wrong with
you.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">How is it that all your friends have found someone but you
struggle to catch someone’s attention, talk to them, make a move? Why is this
mating ritual so darn hard when you are human?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But perhaps loneliness is something we all feel regardless
of our relationship status because it isn’t always permanent. It comes and
goes. It increases in intensity sometimes. It is caused not only one factor.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There has been a lot of talk about loneliness among my group
of friends. Some find it easier to admit to these feelings outright. But for
others, it takes long conversations into the early hours of the morning to
admit their loneliness. You can hear it in their voice. And because you must
now rely on applications and software and technology to communicate with each
other, you can’t walk over to them and offer some comfort.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been thinking about my own loneliness these past few
weeks. What is usually a passing feeling of regret or desire once a month for a
romantic or sexual relationship has been a common occurrence as of late. I do
blame the pandemic for it, but I haven’t been able to figure out exactly why.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My friends are still my friends. I still love them with the
same intensity and they love or care for me the same way. So why was this
sufficient before in hiding that need for something else, something more
intimate or romantic, but isn’t anymore?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I think the answer is the physical aspect of any
relationship.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Physical contact comes in various forms. You shake hands
with a stranger you are being introduced to. You may instead opt for a quick
hug. This hug lasts longer when it’s a friend. When you sit next to someone,
talking about life over drinks, your leg rests against theirs. Hands touch.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For me, this has always been enough, especially at this
point of life. I don’t want sex or anything leading to sex. Or perhaps, it is
more accurate to say that whatever needs my body had were being met with by
these moments of mostly platonic body contact.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But take all that away from me, like the pandemic has, and I’m
left with nothing. I’m left with needs and desires that are not being met.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And this is why the loneliness has been worse than before.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Two years ago, I could watch one person in the room walk up
to another, strike up a conversation and let out a sign of relief as they
realise the attraction is mutual. I could watch my friends fall for people who
fall for them. I could watch relationships slowly mature over time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This could happen around me and not bother me significantly
because I, in turn, looked around at my friends, people I love with all my
heart, and be content with what I had. I could be content with life because I
had something.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Quite a few of us met right before Sri Lanka went into its
first lockdown. At that point, we were already concerned about the pandemic. A
few were working from home. But I don’t think any of us knew what we could
really expect in the next few weeks, months, and perhaps even years. That day,
one of my closest friends hugged me, despite it not being something we do every
time we meet.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This got me through so many moments in the following weeks.
The loneliness and isolation that came with the pandemic could be tucked away
in a corner and ignored for the most part because that moment, for me, was one
of such joy and love and connection.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few days before the second wave, we met again. We danced
that night, again, something we never do. The happiness we felt that night was
uncontainable. Anything could follow and it wouldn’t matter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The third wave wasn’t so kind. It’s been over two months
since I last met a friend. It’s been over six months since I spent time with a group
of friends. The love, affection, support, encouragement, and kindness I
continue to receive from them keeps me afloat. But I’d be lying if I say I don’t
miss the physical aspect of those friendships.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What this long, pointless rant comes to is this: If I ever
say I miss my friends, I am not implying that those friendships couldn’t make
it through the pandemic. They have and I am eternally grateful to my friends.
But what I am saying is that I miss their physical presence in my life. <o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-36415819631390678202021-02-28T00:18:00.000-08:002021-02-28T00:18:26.567-08:00Dear 16-year-old me<p>I've never understood why people do this. What good does writing to one's past self do? They can't change anything. They can't prepare for what's to come. But I think it's less a warning and more a reflection. It's more about talking about your life, your feelings, your experiences, your mistakes from a different point of view.</p><p>You create these different people. Characters of a story. Sixteen-year-old you is just a character. Present you is just a character. And you talk with honesty because it's a conversation between two characters. You are a bystander in this situation. You remove yourself from the equation.</p><p>So here goes.</p><p>You wrote this in 2016.</p><p>"<span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's sad when people go from being part of your daily routine to someone whose life you only know through their Facebook posts. It's even sadder when you realize that the distance between you and people you once considered part of your life was created not by them but by you, through your fear of further disappointments and heartbreak, your fear of people and interaction and mostly, your inability to trust people, love, and have control of your feelings."</span></p><p>It may seem like a long time into your future but it feels like a long way into my past. And yet, it was pretty recent. A year after Athamma passed away. I think back to that time. Who was I friends with? About whom did I write this?</p><p>I can picture myself, scrolling down my timeline and seeing a status update from someone I used to be irl friends with. But I realise we no longer talk. We have been demoted to Facebook friends. And in that moment, I type this status, publish it, hope they would see it and know it's about them.</p><p>But now, in 2021, I have no clue who this person is because there are so many strong candidates. Half my Facebook friend list are people I was once close to. People I used to talk to regularly. People who knew me.</p><p>I'm 27 and I don't really have anything real to talk about in terms of relationships of any kind. None of them last long enough. All I have are snapshot memories. Thoughts of what could have been.</p><p><br /></p><p>I slipped into old habits recently. It's not that I stopped trying. I didn't sit down and make that decision. I just didn't try. I didn't do my part in making a friendship work. Every single morning, I would wake up and tell myself to reach out to this person but then morning would pass, afternoon would pass, evening would pass, and night would pass. I repeated this day after day after day.</p><p>And then, instead of realising what I was doing - or rather, not doing - I had let weeks pass since our last proper conversation. And I thought, hell, I knew I'd done something to hurt them or push them away but I never actually considered what I had said or done and what I could do to fix this.</p><p>I accepted that I had possibly lost the most precious thing I had in life and it hurt but it was all too familiar. I was used to people leaving. I was used to friendships not lasting. I was used to this.</p><p>But they didn't leave. They gave me time and then knocked some sense into me. And I'm trying now. I want to make this work. I want to put in every morsel of energy I have into making this work even though love and friendship of this kind is not a chore or job. And I can't thank this person enough for not letting this ship sink.</p><p>And now, I can't help wondering about all those ships that have sunk since I was in my teens. What if I had tried? What if I had held on to people instead of letting them slip away?</p><p>Would I have more than these snapshot memories?</p><p><br /></p><p>So this didn't work out. This two characters having a conversation, removing myself from the plot move. But because tying all this rambling together is important, let me tell you this, 16-year-old me.</p><blockquote><p></p></blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p>"One of our greatest freedoms is how we react to things" - Charlie Mackesy</p></blockquote><p></p></blockquote><p>Throughout life, I have remained passive to the things happening around me. When Mami, Ammi and Aiya came back from the hospital and it was obvious that Athamma had died, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. But Mami, meaning well, probably knowing my tears will unleash his own, told me to open the door for them without crying. So I didn't cry. I held it in. I didn't react to the greatest loss in my life.</p><p>When Thathee left and I got home after school and saw how empty his room was, I just stood there, took it all in, and accepted it. I didn't react to the fact that our family was in shambles.</p><p>When this boy leaned into me and his hands reached out to me, I just sat there. I didn't feel any of that burning passion books and movies talk about. I felt detached. I felt like a bystander.</p><p>I've let things happen to and around me all my life without ever actually reacting to them. I just let them happen and move on. And this may seem like it works but it only causes a buildup of emotion and questions and fears and sadness in you. It clogs your arteries. It hardens in your throat. It collects in the pit of your stomach.</p><p>And as this buildup filled my insides, everything on the outside fell apart. Friendships never lasted long. Relationships weren't even a possibility. I walked away from opportunity and hope and promise.</p><p>So here we are, in 2021, wondering who I was talking about in 2016. Thinking about the people we knew at 18. Thinking about the people we knew at 16. All of them people of the past because I didn't do anything to make them people of the present.</p><p>So much lost because of a failure to act.</p><p>I can't change the past. And I won't attempt to drag the past into the present and future by reaching out to these people and apologising. I will let these people be. But I can change the today and tomorrow. I can be more than a bystander. I can react to the things that happen in my life.</p><p>And more than being able to, I must do all of these things. Instead of accepting that people always leave, I need to make things work. I need to fight for people.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-50745541084366090302021-01-12T22:16:00.000-08:002021-01-12T22:16:01.686-08:00Family<p>For most of my teens and perhaps my early 20s as well, I hated that my parents weren't together. I was somewhat embarrassed as well, because until my late teens, I couldn't even talk about it openly. Family was always depicted as parents who are together and their children. It didn't even have to be an opposite sex couple. Whatever combination of male, female, nonbinary, cis, trans, etc. the parents were partners.</p><p>So I felt like my life would never be complete because my parents were not married to each other anymore. They got divorced when we were kids. And for most of my life, all I've known is living with my mother and visiting my father. Somewhere down the line, his wife entered the picture.</p><p>As I got older, not having parents who are happily married became acceptable. In fact, it was rarely that someone would say their parents are still married and still happy in that marriage.</p><p>Now, as I embrace my late 20s, what I can say is this. My parents aren't happily married. They aren't even married to each other. But they are happy. And our entire family, mother, father, his wife, my brother, myself, we are all happy.</p><p>My parents get along well. They talk. He is always welcome at our place. They work as a team, especially when it comes to Aiya and I. I don't have to worry about my mother feeling betrayed when I spend time with Thathee and his wife. I don't have to feel guilty, because she is okay with it. Amma has cooked food when they moved into a new house. Thathee's wife always tells us to check what Amma needs when we visit her.</p><p>It's easy to have parents who are separated because they make it easy. If they weren't talking, if they hated each other, if we had to walk on eggshells around them, Aiya and I would be filled with a lot of hurt, confusion, and anger. We would hate our parents.</p><p>This way, we can actually love this little imperfect family of ours. We have three parents to watch out for us and care for us and love us. We have three people who always give us priority. We have three people who make sure we are safe and happy.</p><p>In my late teens and early 20s, I wrote a lot about my father. I directed all my anger at him. I don't think I can ever apologise for any of that. But I feel it was necessary. That I needed to go through that period in life, where I thought it unfair that I didn't get to have this perfect family. Because now, I can take a step away from our family. I can look at it as an outsider. And I realise that I wouldn't change anything about our family.</p><p>If I could stop time and rearrange things the way I like, I wouldn't change a thing.</p><p>I may never tell them this because I am their kid and no kid can admit their parents are actually pretty darn cool, but I'm incredibly fortunate to have them as parents. They are honest and have worked hard to get where they are. They gave us the world without making us feel entitled. They gave us a good life without ever making us think life is easy.</p><p>And most of all, they taught me that even adults make mistakes and they do the wrong thing sometimes but that they grow and learn from their mistakes.</p><p>Amma wants to learn how to use piping tips to make the cutest meringues and frosting flowers. She recently made meringue by herself for the first time and has been sharing them with everyone despite making them for the brownies. This time last year, I wouldn't have trusted Thathee with making rice. Last night, he treated us to garlic rice, baked fish, and avocado and egg salad that was amazing.</p><p>They've shown me that my 27-year-old self hasn't run out of time to learn and be better. They've shown me that I can learn new things in my 30s, 40s, 50s, and beyond.</p><p><br /></p><p>So what's the point of this post? It's a reminder that I have family (as well as friends but that's a whole other post) that loves me. I promised a friend that I would make an effort to remember this more often this year and I think this is a good starting point.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-52588996303401322582020-11-30T18:57:00.003-08:002020-11-30T18:57:28.497-08:00Athamma<p>I was going through some old files and came across this document from March 2015. I don't know if I posted it here or on the personal blog I had back then. The writing is from five years ago but I want to save it here so I don't lose it.</p><p><br /></p><p>Athamma</p><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Athamma, my grandmother, passed away last
week. Sunday night, we all had dinner together, we all ate well, spent time
together. We went to bed. An hour later, she woke me up saying she wasn’t
feeling well. Asked me to call Amma, my mother. She said she couldn’t breathe.
That she was dying. She held my hand. She rested her head on Amma’s shoulder. I
couldn’t be there. I couldn’t watch her. She passed away a few minutes later.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I never saw her body. But Mami did, and he
said that she looked like she was fast asleep. We left the coffin closed. She
didn’t want people to see her body. She didn’t want people to see her once she
was older and ill. The coffin was surrounded by flowers. It was beautiful. So
elegant. Like the person she was.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">At the cemetery, while gases were released
and flames lighted, her body, in the brown coffin, slowly burnt and turned into
ashes. Above us, the gray sky took away the brown smoke. She was gone. The
ashes swam with the fish in the ocean. She left us. We let her go.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">That moment I realized she was gone, I
couldn’t deal with how sad I was. As the hours passed, as we had to keep
telling and retelling the story of what happened and explain that no, she
wasn’t sick, yes, she wanted the coffin to be closed, no we didn’t expect it
and of course, yes, we do miss her, we miss her so much, it became a reality I
accepted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">A week later, I have my moments, where I
forget she’s gone or I suddenly realize she’s gone, but I thought these moments
would come in a few months’ time. Isn’t it a bit too early to not feel sad?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Amma told me that she felt the same way,
and her explanation was that people cry or feel immensely sad because in some
way or the other, they feel guilty. They know they could have done more. It
makes sense. But then, I had no responsibilities, I told Amma. And she told me
that I did my share to make her happy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It sounds narcissistic of me to say this,
but as a family, even in my own way, we made sure she was happy. If a doctor
studies her diet during those last few months, he would blame us for her death.
She ate all the food she loved, despite them not being the best for her.
Whenever I went to the store, I would buy her lollipops. She loved lollipops.
She would pick a flavor and then struggle with the wrapper. So I would help her
out, and soon, she’ll be enjoying the sweet, sugary treat.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Athamma also loved chocolate. But she
didn’t like chocolaty food, like chocolate cake, brownies or chocolate milk.
Whenever we could, we would buy her Revello and she absolutely loved it. In fact,
she was a child when it came to food. When we got back with groceries, she
would look in to the bags to see if there was anything for her. There was
something, always.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Amma was good like that. She can never ever
wonder if she wasn’t a good enough daughter. She didn’t ever say Athamma
shouldn’t be eating so much sweets. She never stopped buying sweets for
Athamma. This isn’t because she was oblivious to how bad these foods were for
Athamma. Amma knew. But she also knew that Athamma was old, and if she didn’t
get to eat the food she loved now, she never would.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">That night, I made spaghetti and fish.
Athamma doesn’t like spaghetti, so I served her an extra piece of fish. We
never dine together. That day we did. I set the table, again, something we
never do. We sat, Amma at the head, Aiya to her left, Athamma to her right, and
I was next to Athamma. This is how we sit for Avurudu. And I remember thinking
that this was the first time we were having dinner together since April, 2014.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As much as she hated spaghetti, that night
she had a second helping. She took some from Aiya too, who claimed I had served
too much for him. This wasn’t because of my great cooking skills. This was
because she was in a good mood that day. Once we had emptied our plates,
Athamma said, something sweet would be perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Athamma made the best coconut rock on
earth. They were the perfect pink and the perfect size. They weren’t hard.
Soft, gooey and melted in our mouths. They were amazing. Close to avurudu, she
would start making her coconut rock and aluwa. She would help Amma with milk
toffee. And when I was small, she was the one who made milk toffee. When Aiya
and I would disturb her, she would threaten us saying, if we don’t go away, the
gonibilla would take the milk toffee away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">That was how she was. But there was more to
her than food. She loved to crochet, and would make little toys, bags and
whatnot for us. She would make them for our friends too, some people she never
met. Most Sundays, I would write or read, while she counted as she crocheted.
As soon as she made a mistake, she would remove the entire thing and start
over.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She wasn’t comfortable with hugs and
whatnot. She didn’t like people touching her. I get that from her. But we were
close, so whenever I complained of aching feet or a back ache, she would rub
balm and make sure I was okay. When I get my period stomach cramps, she would
lie with me, hold my hand and tell me I’ll be okay. She’ll fill bottles with
hot water, get me lime juice or thambili, sometimes even force brandy down my
throat and tell me stories so I would feel better.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Quite honestly, we were friends too. I
could tell her about boys I liked, how I was scared of commitment and was
afraid I would never be in love. We spoke about romance, and she would advise
me. Her life wasn’t easy. Marriage, divorce, financial difficulties, workplace
issues. But she used those stories, experiences to tell us about life. She
never made us believe in this perfect world. We were told the world was a
terrible place. But she also told us, constantly reminded us that, we were
strong enough to fight our way through.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Athamma worried about my inability to have
male friends. I only had to mention a boy’s name and she would ask about his
surname, family, school and what he was doing; studying or working. I always
thought this was because she assumed every male friend was a boyfriend. But no,
it was because she worried I won’t find someone. And she always said she wanted
to see one of us getting married. That wish never came true for her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There’s so much more to write about
Athamma. Pages and pages. She was the kind of person whom you have so many
stories to tell. She was the best.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">But that’s not how this post started. This
post is about how I’m dealing with her death. And even while writing all these
things about her, I didn’t feel extremely sad. It isn’t because I did my share
and have no reason to feel guilty. Instead, I think, it’s because I always knew
she would die. And I also know that she wouldn’t want us to cry and stall our
lives because of her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">During her last few years, Athamma’s
interest in Buddhism/Dharma increased. She understood that death was part of
life. You can’t have one without the other. And we talked about death. She was
good that way, she made sure we were ready. So thanks to her, I’ve accepted
Athamma’s death. I don’t wish she could have lived longer because she hated
being old and falling sick. She hated depending on people. She would have hated
the day she couldn’t walk without any help. She would have had to go see a doctor,
take more pills than a pill for her blood pressure. She would have hated that
part of her life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Athamma, my darling Gugi, passed away when
she was still the person we knew her as. She was active, lively and happy. She
could get things done on her own. She didn’t have needles poking at her skin.
She didn’t have to spend all her time in bed. She lived a good life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I miss her. We all do. But more than being
sad about what we have all lost, I’m thankful we were lucky to have her in our
lives.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-13256190036076540752020-11-26T21:54:00.009-08:002020-11-26T21:54:59.625-08:00I asked for a day off<p>I've been working from home since the beginning of October, when Sri Lanka was hit by its second wave of COVID-19. I left the house once for a work-related event but I've been blessed with a job that gives me the option of working remotely.</p><p>To be honest, I don't feel like I'm doing as much work as I used to back when I did got to office. I feel guilty about this. I used to work on at least two stories a day but now I usually send in only one. I also get to work in my pajamas, from the comfort of my bedroom, and I don't spend 2 1/2 hours on the road, travelling to and from work.</p><p>I feel like I'm saving money because I don't spend on transport or food.</p><p>I put in less effort because I don't have office clothes added to the laundry basked every day. I take three steps at most from my bed to my laptop. I don't have to wait for tuks and trains and buses or walk from one place to another.</p><p>Given all of this, I felt guilty about asking for a day off. But I also knew I needed one. I have been working evenings and nights for two whole months and it came to a point where I couldn't type a word without making a mistake because lifting my fingers off the keyboard took too much effort. I struggled to string together simple sentences because words felt like soap bubbles that burst before you could touch them.</p><p>I would feel this intense anger welling up inside me whenever there was an update and I had to do what felt like even more work but was actually a paragraph at most. I would feel tears threatening to spill from my eyes whenever I even looked at a Word document.</p><p>It got to a point where I was spending an extra hour on work that honesty should not have been taking that much effort.</p><p>And I would pay data bill after data bill and struggle to juggle work with whatever I had to do at home.</p><p>So after complaining about being extremely tired to way too many people, I finally decided to take a Sunday off so I get an entire weekend to do nothing. And I didn't do any kind of work that weekend. Well, sort of. I cooked all of Sunday and we had company in the evening, which meant that I actually didn't get much of a break.</p><p>But I didn't switch on the laptop once on Sunday.</p><p>And I'm glad I asked for a day off. I'm glad I didn't give in and work instead. And I'm glad I dealt with that feeling of guilt by convincing myself that I deserved this.</p><p>Because we all do. We all deserve a break. Yes, even when we are working from home.</p><p>Being in your PJs, snacking while working, or not leaving the bed does not mean that you are not working your butt off day after day. It does not mean that you don't need to recharge. In fact, for some of us, it means we need to recharge more often.</p><p>Our outlets to let off steam are gone. I haven't met my friends or gone out with them in two months. I can't read because I can no longer focus long enough to get through a single page. There's nothing to look forward to. Nothing to keep myself occupied with. So all my anger and unhappiness and frustrations keep building up. And I keep ignoring it because hey! I am one of the lucky ones who has a job, an income, the option of working from home.</p><p>But this does not mean that I shouldn't take a break once in a while. Not only do I deserve it, but I also need it.</p><p>And you do too.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-32384612092154789572020-11-11T21:58:00.002-08:002020-11-11T21:58:29.838-08:00On this particular day #2<p>It was a few minutes past 3 a.m. and she woke up, drenched
in sweat. The fan was blowing hot air at the bed but none of it reached her.
She pulled away the mosquito net, hoping that would help, but it didn’t make
much of a difference.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She winced as the cramps in her stomach got worse. They
weren’t painful, but the discomfort was not something she could just sleep
through. She tried to ignore them, but the wetness and coldness she felt when
she wiped away the sweat on her forehead using the back of her hand scared her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She rolled out of bed and switched on the light. Opened the
second drawer of her dressing table and took out a pad. Rarely had periods been
pain-free for her. She knew that other people had it worse, but she also knew
that that did not mean her pain wasn’t real.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When it was really bad, she would toss and turn in bed,
cramps in her lower tummy area, pain in her back and calves. She would run to
the toilet to vomit the water and painkillers she thought she could keep down.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When her grandmother was still alive, she would be given a
hot water bottle that soothed her. Her grandmother would make her sour lime
juice to drink after she had had a nap and the cramps were gone. Her
grandmother would sit by her side and rub balm onto her back.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She would talk to her about the past, her own pain from
decades ago. And now, whenever she felt those cramps in her stomach, she
yearned for her grandmother. That love she had received in abundance had been
snatched from her without warning one night and even though the years had passed,
the pain of her grandmother’s death was yet to dull in intensity.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And now, as she felt more pain, she exhaled and inhaled and
exhaled and inhaled. She wondered what day it was. Was she supposed to get her
period today?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her period had been consistent for close to a year and then
that consistency had been lost, perhaps to the uncertainty and stress she felt
during the pandemic.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nevermind that, she thought, walking to the toilet. But once
she got there, peed, and cleaned herself, she realised her period hadn’t even
started. And just like that the cramps went away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She had always imagined symptoms and pain. Headaches. Fever.
Cramps. She knew they weren’t real, they were made up, and yet she would take
the occasional painkiller or drink hot water or gargle with salt water.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All of this made her feel like a crazy person. “What’s wrong
with me?” she asked her reflection in the mirror. But she didn’t have an answer
to her own question. Maybe her therapist could be of some help, but she hadn’t
left the house since March and she was terrified of doing so.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was also terrified of asking for help and felt that
pretending to be all okay whenever her therapist spoke to her made her feel
better about everything going on in her life. She knew how bad this was but she
also knew that figuring shit out and dealing with herself was not something she
had the energy for.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not now, at least. Not while the entire world had been
turned upside down.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She went back to bed and tried to fall asleep. But it was
still so hot and her body was sticky. She scrolled through Twitter, retweeted a
video, liked a tweet.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of her friends had posted a picture from a bar the
previous night. She felt a tinge of envy that he was going out, meeting people,
and living a life that was incredibly close to what he lived before the
pandemic. She still couldn’t do this. She couldn’t leave the house. The thought
of walking into a pub made her feel sick.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then she started thinking about one of her favourite
days. They were at a bar that stayed open till the early hours of the morning.
Everyone was a happy mixture of drunk and sleepy. Everything was funny to them
and they didn’t want the night to end yet.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She had rarely felt such joy in life. But now, when she
looked back at that day, she realised that none of them wanted to go home not
because they were having so much fun but because they all had their own demons
awaiting them at home. Under one bed would be heartbreak, under another would
be regret. Under her bed would be loneliness.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The kind that made her burst into tears while doing
something as mundane as slicing onions or crushing garlic. The kind that made
her heart ache in a way that made her feel like she would collapse to the
ground. The kind that made her want to hold on to what little she got from
people, even if it was bad for her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On that particular day, after they had finally decided to
head home, she had called a cab. Four of them had piled into it, giving
directions to their various houses. She would be the last to get down, being
the one who lived the furthest away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">During those ten minutes or so that she had to herself, she
had struggled to not burst into tears in the vehicle. This unexpected and
inexplicable need to cry always took her by surprise. She could never predict
when it would happen and it made her feel vulnerable.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But she managed to hold in her emotions until she got home
and closed the door behind her. And then, because she was so tired and the
house was so quiet, she couldn’t stop the tears or the sobbing. She sat on the
floor and just wept. And when she felt like she couldn’t weep anymore, she
rubbed her eyes, got up and had a glass of water in the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next day, waking up later than usual, she felt that
usual sense of exhaustion she felt after nights out. She felt drained and could
barely manage to make herself a cup of coffee.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But she reminded herself that it had been a good day. She
had been happy. And what more could you really ask for? Someone to drop you
home? Make sure you are okay? Hold you close to them?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She didn’t deserve any of that. She wouldn’t know what to do
with so much love. It would drive her crazy. She would not be able to
accommodate it in her life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And yet…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She felt a great desire for such a life. And lying in bed at
3-something a.m., sweating and uncomfortable and unable to fall asleep, she
didn’t have the energy to deny this. She didn’t have the energy to pretend that
she was happy with the way her life had turned out.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She closed her eyes and whispered into the darkness, “I’m so
fucking lonely.”<o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-58716175303316791132020-11-11T21:58:00.001-08:002020-11-11T21:58:13.817-08:00On this particular day #1<p>Mornings used to be easy. Her body would force itself out of
sleep somewhere between 6am and 6.30am and she always joked that she never
needed to set an alarm. Even when she was on holiday, she would be awake by
6.30am, savouring those moments of quiet before the people she was sharing a
room with woke up. This had changed in the last few weeks. Now she had to force
her eyes open and it was always past 7am when she was finally able to focus her
eyes on the clock that was only two metres away from her bed. Then she would
lie there, on the bed, beads of sweat forming on her forehead and right above
her upper lip.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not fully awake and not exactly asleep, she would imagine an
alternative life. She didn’t know how far in the past it was but she knew it
was not set during a time of phones and computers. She lived by the sea in this
fantasy. A small hut, thatched roof, yellow walls. She didn’t particularly like
yellow as a colour, especially not on walls, but her hut by the ocean was
always yellow. And in it was a single wooden chair and a small bed. On some
mornings, she pictures herself walking to a green hut and exchanging a pie she
baked for some rice or fish. She saw herself exchanging berries for potatoes
with the old lady in the pink hut.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In these fantasies, she never had a name. No one did. And
none of the faces belonged to the people she loved and cared for. She would
indulge in this fantasy for a few minutes before she reached under her bed for
her phone. A few messages on the family WhatsApp group. A notification on
Twitter. She skipped through a few Stories her friends had posted on Instagram.
None of this interested her anymore.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will she ever be happy, she wondered as she brushed her
teeth. This question was always on her mind. Will she ever be happy? It would
be immediately followed by another question: Did it matter if she was never
happy?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The quiet and simple life by the ocean that she made up
during those first few minutes every morning came back to her on her way to
work. She loved taking the train because the railway line was along the coast
and she could either look at the waves crashing into each other, spraying white
froth over rocks, or observe the lives of people on the other side of the
railway line. Lives in huts and small houses, sure, but lives that were not
simple. Men who looked like they did nothing but drink and gamble away what
little they earned. Women who looked tough and tired. Children in faded and
torn clothes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But these were lives she made assumptions about based on
what she had read in books or seen on TV. They were not assumptions she made
based on what she had learned from them. In fact, whenever she pictured these
lives in this way, based on stereotypes, no doubt, she felt an immense amount
of guilt. And yet, she couldn’t help herself from weaving these made up lives
for strangers she would never see again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Inside the train, too, there were people to observe. The man
dozing off, a black briefcase on his lap. The old woman chewing betel. The
woman in a sari reading a novel. The old man licking his lips as his gaze rests
on a young girl in a floral dress. A young couple whispering and giggling. An
older couple discussing their children.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She sometimes tried to imagine what their lives were like.
She wondered if they would fit perfectly in that life she fantasised about.
Would any of them survive for long without a phone or social media or an
internet connection? Could they survive on rice and fish and potatoes?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She knew that she wouldn’t be able to last in this fantasy
of hers for more than a week. The simplicity and emptiness of that life would
make her tear at her skin and be overwhelmed by the voices in her head, the way
she felt when she was alone at home for more than six hours. She wouldn’t
survive without her phone or social media. How weak, she thought.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She realised the beginnings of a smirk were forming on her
face and she quickly reverted back to her usual expression. A friend had once
said to her, “You know, your default facial expression is a mix between ‘I want
to kill someone’ and ‘I don’t want to be alive anymore’. It’s this weird mix of
anger and sadness.” She didn’t mind this. It never bothered her because her
default facial expression stopped people from approaching her or paying her any
attention.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">However, sometimes, and she would never admit this to
anyone, she hated that she looked so angry and so sad. That the way she felt
inside was visible to the world. That even a stranger who doesn’t spend more
than a few seconds looking at her could figure out exactly what she was
feeling.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She didn’t have to be at work until late on this particular
day. She was used to working until 8PM or 9PM. One day, she checked her watch
and realised it was almost 10PM. She liked working till late. She liked having
something to do with her life. But sometimes, she wanted her life to be more
than what it was. It wasn’t that she was unhappy at her job or didn’t enjoy the
work she did. She did like it all but she also couldn’t help but want something
else, something more. An escape from how ordinary and boring she was.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today, she had to meet friends for dinner and drinks. These
were people she liked and people she loved. They made her forget how lonely she
was. They made her have at least an ounce of hope about the future.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She sat on the floor, along with a few others. Glasses
filled with arrack and coca-cola. Bowls of manioc chips and guava with pepper
and salt. They were trying to decide between pizza and koththu for dinner, even
though it was too early to order. It was just past six and most of the group
were still on their way. She felt herself relax with every sip she took. It
warmed her, but it also made it easier to talk with people, to laugh, to enjoy
herself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her phone started ringing and she looked at the screen.
‘Amma’ it said. Her mother was probably calling to check where she was and if
she was coming home for dinner. She walked out to the balcony with her phone
and drink.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Ya, Amma?” she said, making yet another note to stop
answering calls this way.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Are you coming home for dinner?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, I told you. I’m meeting people for dinner.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh. I thought of making pasta.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Okay then. Leave some for me. I’ll call you when I leave.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Will you be getting late?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Okay. Let me know then.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Okay.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In some ways, she was thankful she had a good relationship
with her mother. But in other ways, their relationship was strained. She was
terrified by the thought that she would someday have to live a life that her
mother was not part of but it also terrified her that she could never leave her
mother. She could never move out of that house and live the life she wanted. It
made her feel conflicted and this train of thought always left her exhausted
and miserable.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A friend had once asked her what being free meant to her.
And she had said, “I think it’s having the freedom to leave, whether or not you
actually leave.” And this was something she still thought about. Her mother
would not object to her moving out but she also didn’t want to leave her mother
by herself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She stood there, at the balcony, and took a sip from her
drink. Her friends’ voices and laughter soothed her. She would join them in a
bit but she wanted to stay here for a while longer. It was peaceful. And it was
also beautiful.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She loved this time of the day. It looked like the world was
on fire. Everything glowed a warm shade of yellow. It looked magical. She was
always taken aback by how beautiful the world looked when the sun was setting.
And it was never something she waited for. Unlike the times she had sat outside
while on holiday to catch the sunrise. Or even the times she watched the sunset
at the beach.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This was different. The sun was never to be seen. The sun
didn’t steal the show. Instead, it bathed the world in its glow, making it look
like a place that had the potential of being better.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She stood there, with her eyes closed. Her phone was in her
pocket. Her drink was in her hand. She inhaled and exhaled. She heard footsteps
approaching her, but no one said anything. She felt someone stand next to her.
She didn’t have to see their face or hear their voice to know who it was. This
was someone she loved with an intensity that sometimes scared her. She had once
said, “I need her in my life” when describing this particular friend to someone.
And she wasn’t embarrassed by this want or need she felt and the vulnerability
that came with it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They stood there, in silence, not knowing what the other was
thinking. And as let her mind wander, that question of happiness came back to
her. She pictured them, next to each other, ice melting in their glasses, the
sun slowly setting.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And she realised in that moment that this was what it was
like to be content.<o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-48712836230043446412020-10-20T03:58:00.003-07:002020-10-20T03:58:55.311-07:00On back fat and big bundis<p>Remember that incident where Bhoomi Harendran wasn’t allowed
into The Love Bar? Well, in the video, the bouncer mentions the word ‘rupaya’ and
the word stayed in my mind. Of course, I understand that the incident was more
about transphobia and less about what this post is about. I’m not taking away
from the fact that the LGBT+ community continues to face a crap tonne of
discrimination and hate in this country and the world.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But that word rupaya and the bouncer’s use of the word made
me think of how we tend to judge people and make assumptions about them based
on their appearance, mostly because, a few weeks ago, I felt my rupaya or appearance
being judged when the bouncers were considering if I should be let into a
similar establishment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I think about a woman in a short tight dress at a high-end
club being judged by one standard and a woman in similar attire standing on the
pavement in the night by another.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We look at people and stick so many labels on them based on
how they look. These labels range from sexuality to career to social class to
background. We judge so much about a person based on how they look.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been coming back to this again and again over the past
few weeks. What is it about someone’s appearance that reveals so much to us?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This incident that took place months/years ago comes to
mind. I, unfortunately, can’t name names because I still work in the same
industry and there are certain things I don’t want to deal with. But I handled
three youth tabloids from 2014 to 2019. The work is different to the reporting
I currently do, with stricter deadlines and more responsibilities.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Whether they were 16 or 20 pages, I had to find content to
fill all pages week after week. It was fun, challenging, and interesting.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of these pages was the cover page. The cover is a big
deal because people may not judge a book by its cover but they sure do judge a tabloid
by its cover. There have been times when I haven’t had a cover a few hours
before the deadline. There have been times when I have paid a photographer with
my own money to have a cover picture taken. There have been times when I’ve had
to use cover pictures I hate just because someone wanted that particular person
on the cover.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But an incident that I wish I didn’t have to deal with
stands out. I featured an extremely talented person on the cover of one the
issues and didn’t see anything wrong with it. The individual in question was
female, dressed well (mentioning this because a sneaky bra strap appearance was
once made a big deal of), and had quite a following. The picture was taken well
too. I thought everything was okay but the day after the issue was in print, it
became the topic of discussion at an editorial meeting.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was told an inside story would have been fine but that she
wasn’t suitable for the cover. Why? Well…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It took them a few minutes to get there, but the problem was
plain and simple. Said individual wasn’t thin. She wasn’t even a size 14. So
there I was, someone who kept gaining weight by the day, listening to quite a
few people dealing with various weight issues tell me that this incredibly
talented kid shouldn’t have been on the cover because she was “well… umm… you
know… not to be rude but… fat.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I’ve never felt so disgusted and defeated at work ever
before or ever since. I was told to select pictures of women who look a certain
way, even if all they did was upload a few extremely filtered pictures on
Instagram. This takes some skill and talent, sure, but not all of them were
cover material.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I no longer handle tabloids. I don’t want to. And one of the
reasons is this. We talk about fat shaming and body positivity on our personal
platforms but we promote this image of the perfect woman who is slim and fair
and feminine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We look at someone and if they don’t tick these boxes, we
hide them in the inside pages of a tabloid. We tell them the club is at its
maximum capacity. We whisper about them behind their back. We laugh at the way
they wear clothes that are not suited for someone their size. We laugh at their
confidence which may very well be a defence mechanism against how awful we are
about appearance and size and shape and complexion.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Looking around me, looking at people struggling to fit into
the world’s unrealistic beauty standards, I wish we see more tummies and fat
thighs and back fat. I wish we can see these things without being told they are
flaws or problems or things to be embarrassed about. I wish we can look beyond
a person’s appearance.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I wish, more than anything, that I had taken a firmer
stand back when I was pulled up for featuring someone who is doing amazing
things with their life. I wish I had the guts to do that.<o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-83091887871139088162020-10-12T11:26:00.001-07:002020-10-12T11:26:42.563-07:00On loneliness.<p>Whenever I feel lonely – and I feel this way often – I am
overwhelmed by a sense of guilt because I how can I be lonely when I have
amazing friends and a wonderful family? I have people who actually love me, who
reach out, who are there for me without me having to ask them.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And yet, it could be when I wake up or when I’m in the train
or when I’m coming home after work or when I have dinner by myself or when I lie
in bed, tired, but awake. It could be at some random moment. But I’ll feel this
deep loneliness that sometimes feels like physical pain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And as silly and embarrassing as it is, this loneliness
stems not from a lack of friends or family. It stems from a lack of romantic
relationships.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s the truth. As much as I am okay most of the time
about being alone, there are moments that take me off guard and make me hate
myself for not being able to be enough for anyone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And before you come at me with your plenty of fish in the
sea or it will happen at the right time nonsense, zip it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You don’t know what it’s like to be the only person in the
room who doesn’t hit it off with anyone. You don’t know what it’s like to never
be the person other people choose. No one wants your company. No one thinks you
are worth their time. No one asks you out. No one falls for you.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When other people complain about being lonely, you listen to
them. And you tell yourself that your feelings are not as important as you
think they are because hey, everyone is lonely, aren’t they? But then these
people find people who love them and want to spend time with them and you
realise that as they go through partners and the years go by, you’ve always
been by yourself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So you pretend that you are way too stubborn and independent
and busy for a relationship. You claim to be way too old to be going on dates. You
say you don’t even bother with expectations because you have commitment issues.
You convince yourself that you are fine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And you are. For the most part.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But then there’s always this moment when that guard falls
apart. When you stand there, naked, your loneliness exposed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So you occupy yourself with other things. You eat. You
drink. You sleep. You work. And sometimes, when no one’s around, you cry. You
let it out.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And sometimes, you write. You pour your feelings onto a page
and hope no one reads it. But you still put it up somewhere, in hopes someone
does read it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This post comes not only from loneliness though. It doesn’t
come from sadness alone. Tonight, it also comes from the memory of something
that was so incredibly good even though it was a fleeting moment years ago.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s weird how you go about your day, completely lost in the
present, when someone from the past comes back to haunt you… or, in this case,
remind you that once upon a time, you felt all the feelings you crave now.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Someone wanted you. Someone wanted to spend time with you.
They made time for you. They made you feel like the centre of the fucking
universe.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course, they also broke your heart. They gave you so much
in such a short time and then took it all away. And sure, you still carry that
pain with you, as pathetic as that is (because let’s be honest, they don’t even
remember you) but you also treasure those amazing moments you shared. You wrap
them in silk. Lock them away in a wooden box. Hide the key somewhere.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And when things get really bad, when the loneliness is
unbearable, when it hurts to breathe, to pretend everything is okay, you take
those memories in your palm and you relive them until you can stand on your
feet again. Until your hands stop shaking. Until you know you can get through
this moment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And you know you are okay, that you’ll be okay, when the
truth about those moments comes back to you. The pretending. The lying. The
deceit. These things you tell yourself they did because you cannot bear the
thought of getting your hopes up. Of expecting the same out of someone else.
You can’t afford to be that vulnerable again.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: x-small;"><i>All I want is nothing more</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: small;"><i>To hear you knocking at my door</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: x-small;"><i>'Cause if I could see your face once more<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: x-small;"><i>I could die a happy man I'm sure</i></span></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-4325627591066567342020-07-31T22:55:00.003-07:002020-07-31T22:55:47.952-07:00The perfect cup of tea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2zVp9iSQsK4/XyUDpVDFv0I/AAAAAAAAULk/u7BIn4-DW7UKLra7W_k1cTHbgT_rvaZjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1101/IMG_20200801_112336.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="1080" height="328" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2zVp9iSQsK4/XyUDpVDFv0I/AAAAAAAAULk/u7BIn4-DW7UKLra7W_k1cTHbgT_rvaZjgCLcBGAsYHQ/w322-h328/IMG_20200801_112336.jpg" width="322" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">We have three stainless steel jugs at home. The smallest
holds a cup of tea, the medium two, and the largest, three. I always use the
biggest. Three tablespoons of tea leaves, boiling water up to an inch below the
rim. Cover and let it sit for ten minutes. Add six spoons of sugar. Milk until
it’s the right shade of brown.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This isn’t how you make the perfect cup of tea. The tea is
too strong (“Kahata wadi,” Amma would way, wincing at the bitter taste.) When
Athamma was alive, she would add more sugar to it. It doesn’t taste good and I
know it. But it’s the cup of tea I make.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A cup of tea means a few things in life. In the morning, it
helps me wake up. It makes me feel relaxed and helps me to shrug off the usual
feelings of dread that accompany the act of waking up. In the evening, it’s a
nice way to take a break from work or life in general. Sometimes, it would mean
going back to my childhood by dipping Marie biscuits in hot tea.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few years ago, tea meant a break during work. At my very
first job, a temporary stint at the school library, they would serve tea for us
in clean white cups every morning. At my first actual job, they served tea at
10 a.m. I used to let it sit in my cup for hours, sometimes. It would be cold
by the time I drank it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tea also means family and togetherness to me. Visiting
someone for just a short while, staying for a cup of tea and ending up chatting
for hours is a Sri Lankan thing to do. A ginger tea while travelling is
something I will never say no to.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I never had plain tea until a few years ago. I had my first
cup during an assignment and a few years later, a friend taught me how to make
plain tea that doesn’t taste awful.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Two friends from my first real job work for the same company
as I do now. We met up for tea one day and stood outside, watching kittens
snooze and people walk past.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are many more happy tea moments in my life, but lately
I’ve been thinking about how women are always expected to make tea at home. It’s
usually the woman who wakes up before others and makes tea for the entire
family. It’s the woman who rushes to the kitchen to make a cup of tea for
visitors.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I’ve been hearing more and more comments along the lines
of, “Wonder what kind of wife she’ll be. She can’t even make a cup of tea.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Comments like this always shake me a little. As a woman, it
is strange knowing your worth is reduced to something like a cup of tea. It’s
strange knowing that people talk about marriage like a cup of tea and the
ability to make it can make or break it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And so the cup of tea that has always brought me such joy is
now starting to represent a life I don’t want for myself. I don’t want to get
married, settle down, wake up at the crack of dawn every day to make tea and
then breakfast and then lunch and then dinner. I don’t want someone to ever
reduce my worth to my ability to make a cup of tea. Or cook. Or have children.
I don’t want my value to be simmered down to nothing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I want to be able to enjoy a cup of tea without thinking
about any of the roles carved out for me; whether it’s the dutiful housewife or
the bossy working woman. I want to be able to make a cup of tea without people
being surprised that I can manage a thing or two in the kitchen or add it to
the list of things that will make me A Good Wife.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But until we stop expecting so much from women, until we
tell people, regardless of gender, to learn how to make a cup of tea, for their
own good, even the perfect cup of tea will taste bitter to me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">(This post is not a man-hating post. It’s not about men not
being able to make a cup of tea because so many of them do. Quite a few men in
my life cook and they cook well. So this post is actually about women. Women
who put other women down because they don’t fit the traditional moulds created
for women. Because they reject gender roles. Because they can’t make a cup of
tea.)<o:p></o:p></p><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-31950350636658545732020-05-31T07:25:00.003-07:002020-05-31T09:08:45.902-07:00A few things about cooking
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>So I’ve been cooking for a few years now and my family is
used to my garlicky soup and oversalted potatoes and baking meltdowns. But like
most other people, curfew/lockdown gave me the opportunity to cook more and try
out more recipes. While I have always cooked, I rarely strayed away from the
usual pasta, pies, and meats. My baking was usually limited to brownies and
cookies and date cake.
<p class="MsoNormal">But I’ve spent the past two months at home like the rest of
the world and I’ve been busy. For one, I was told to handle dinner every day.
This made me realise how much effort goes into planning meals on a daily basis,
especially with what you have at home. I don’t know how my mother remains sane
after doing this for years.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, back to the point. I’ve been cooking a lot and I’ve
been posting pictures of what I make. But as I posted a picture of a pumpkin
pecan pie a few days ago, I thought about how much is left unsaid in those pictures
and captions.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Added to this, I had a conversation with a friend recently
and they told me that they’re reluctant to try out new dishes. My initial
reaction was “why not!? Cooking is no big deal.” But can we really say that
when we leave out the trial and error process and only posts about dishes that
come out well?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So here it is. The slight fuckups that don’t make it to
Instagram.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2a1uLjYsQxg/XtO-LD6b8yI/AAAAAAAATas/LGAl9kNZUB47acXy8J-UZ5LZjje-VKHQgCK4BGAsYHg/76767503_757049051423757_1782840855850123264_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="671" data-original-width="957" height="448" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2a1uLjYsQxg/XtO-LD6b8yI/AAAAAAAATas/LGAl9kNZUB47acXy8J-UZ5LZjje-VKHQgCK4BGAsYHg/w640-h448/76767503_757049051423757_1782840855850123264_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Sourdough bread</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few weeks into curfew, I decided that this sourdough starter
nonsense was worth a try. I named my started. I fed it. I kep</p><p class="MsoNormal">t notes. I also
spent a good week thinking I’d killed Wilbert. But it passed the floating test
so I baked bread, we had it for dinner, and I threw away the starter because it
just wasn’t worth it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So here’s what they don’t tell you about sourdough starters.
They smell like the paappa you left out overnight after pasting paper on Vesak
kuudu. It requires discipline. Yes, feeding it once a day and maintaining notes
on growth and whatnot requires discipline. It’s messy as hell. Try stirring a
gooey flour mixture that’s in an old jam jar.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And the bread itself. Heavens. All the videos I watched had
so many folding techniques that I just didn’t have the energy for. I ended up
trying out this Bigger Bolder Baker recipe and it took me close to a day of on
and off kneading. And in the end, I overbaked the bread to get a darker colour
and it tasted like cornflakes but I just prefer instant yeast loaves.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <br /></p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Kadey paan</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">And so, once I had acquired some instant yeast, I tried out
the Ape Amma kadey paan recipe. The first was tasty but didn’t rise as much but
the second one did. It’s tasty, super simple, and goes well with anything.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So the Anita Dickman bread roll recipe that I follow now for
pretty much anything uses the old method of activating yeast separately and
then adding it to the flour mixture. So happy with my kadey paan and pizza and
bread rolls I was sort of okay with skipping this and just adding the powdered
yeast directly to the flour. But the universe intervened and I tried the
traditional method and the yeast was old/dead and didn’t activate and get all
frothy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So ya, it’s safer to activate your yeast before adding it to
the flour. Also always test the temperature of your water. And also activate
your yeast in a big enough bowl. I once put the yeast+sugar+water mixture in a
tea cup and came back to it 15 mins later to find that the yeast froth had
overflowed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Mint truffle</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve had two bottles of peppermint flavouring I haven’t been
able to use as much as I thought I would so I was flipping through Anita
Dickman’s cookbook and came across a recipe for mint truffles. It’s super
simple and tastes great. The first time I made it, it was gooey and had to be
licked off the cupcake liner I poured it into. The second time I made it, the
chocolate seized. But I went ahead with the recipe and the truffle was gooey
but pillow-y. It was easier to get out of the cupcake liner and tasted
absolutely delicious.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes the fuckups work out well in the end.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Ginger bug</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">I started a ginger bug somewhere last week. Grating ginger
is fun! There’s a slight burn throughout the process and you risk shaving off a
good bit of your fingers. Anyway, this isn’t about the ginger itself, which I
actually do love but about quantities.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So when I first decided to dry out a ginger beer recipe that
didn’t use yeast or cream of tartar, I watched Bon Appetit’s video where Brad
makes ginger beer. It needed 500g of ginger but I remembered it as 400g when I
ordered. But I didn’t get 400g.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not paying attention to any of this, I decided to switch to
Joshua Wiseman’s recipe once I got my ginger. So the quantities changed and I
had enough for the ginger bug but not enough for the ginger beer. So I had to
order more.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Everything worked out but it was a reminder to figure out
quantities before placing an order and making sure you actually have everything
you need before you get started.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I also tried <a href="http://icookandpaint.com/2016/01/14/lemon-lime-soda-using-a-ginger-bug/" target="_blank">lemon lime soda</a> without the lime and it tastes
like bitter lemon. So good! But I had put my ginger bug in the fridge so I hadn’t
activated it on time for the lemon soda. It all worked out but if any
ingredient needs activating, do that first.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Tepache</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is more about self-control. So I can’t consume a lot of
pineapple because I end up getting these painful mouth sores that need to be
calmed down with sago and king coconut. But I also made a huge jar of tepache
and drank most of it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s delicious, easy to make, and you can eyeball most of
the ingredients and quantities. I found some old jaggery in the fridge, used
white sugar instead of brown because local brown sugar is a lie, and added
cinnamon leaves because I ran out of sticks.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It gave me my second mouth sore during curfew.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But guess who has another batch fermenting in a jar?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Chocolate cake with peppermint frosting</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">This was a Mother’s Day treat for Amma. Bon Appetit’s
chocolate cake and a buttercream frosting with peppermint flavouring. So we had
this with vanilla ice cream but the margarine I used was quite salty. I didn’t
realise this when using it and the cake and frosting were just a tad bit salty.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not in an oversalted soup way but in a salted caramel way.
It still tasted good but it was a good reminder to know my ingredients and
brands.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Cheese</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of the first curfew meals I made was pizza. We didn’t
have cheese so I topped it with white sauce. It tasted great. But it wasn’t
cheese. So I set out to make cheese. The first attempt was a failure because I
didn’t heat the milk enough so I ended up with vinegar milk that separated. The
second time, I made paneer. And the third and fourth, I made cream cheese which
didn’t ball up like the videos.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m trying to get my hands on some raw milk to try that out
but the cheese experiment drove me mad. I wanted to get it right but there was
so much that was going wrong.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But this is what cooking is. You end up with quite a few
failures but that’s how you learn.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You learn that you must always start with a small quantity
so that you don’t end up throwing away half a carton of milk.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Choux pastry</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">Amma has been telling me to make choux pastry for ages but I
always thought I lacked the skills. Turns out, choux pastry is pretty easy to
whip up. But this was not the kind that held its crispiness for hours on a
bakery counter but the kind that is soft but still delicious.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While the choux pastry worked out, my one and only rubber
spatula snapped in half and died on me. Now I struggle to scrape food or
mixtures out of bowls using spoons and it’s just not the same.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So take care of your equipment, especially during these
times when you can’t just waltz into a store and buy whatever you want.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But not having a spatula made me realise how much can go to
waste when you can’t scrape bowls clean. Athamma always told me to use the side
of my thumb to scrape mixtures off bowl and this is what I've been doing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Dalgona coffee</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">I hated on dalgona coffee because I thought it was wasteful
to use so much milk in a cup of coffee during the first few weeks of curfew.
After things had settled a bit and it was easier to access goods, I decided to
make a sponge cake with a coffee whip.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And it tasted great. But I ended up with a huge bowl of
coffee whip. So we made dalgona coffee for a few days. Milk, a bit of sugar,
brandy, and coffee whip. I’m not lying when I say that this is what the gods up
in the clouds sip on while they gossip about us earthlings.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But this is about getting your quantities right. We had a
use for the extra coffee whip but sometimes, you end up throwing away food
because you made way too much.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Blachang</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">We bought prawns a few days ago and I wanted to use the
shells to make chillie paste. Except that all recipes I checked either used
dried prawn or koonisso or didn’t use prawn at all. So I decided to follow the
Anita Dickman blachang recipe. Except that the recipe was for 900g of dried
prawn and I had 20g of dried prawn shell.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So I decided to go rogue. I added various things to the
mixture until I got a brown paste that tastes great but is neither blachang nor
chillie paste.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Lemon, garlic chicken</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">On Saturday, I decided to follow a recipe for a savoury dish
for the first time in my life. The only changes I made was that used karapincha
instead of rosemary and added more garlic than the required six cloves.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And it was nice to taste a dish that wasn’t my usual spice
mix and soy sauce flavour. I tend to stick to the same things when I cook and
this made me stay on course and realise that with lemon and garlic and onion to
add flavour, salt and pepper was adequate seasoning.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Shakshuka</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">Somewhere in February, a friend invited a few of us over for
lunch and made us shakshuka. It was incredible. Last week or so, I decided to
make it myself. I made the sauce instead of using store-bought tomato paste.
And it was good but it didn’t look that good and the eggs went everywhere.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I posted about this, the friend who invited us over
told me that I could have just checked with him about it. And it was a good
reminder that cooking should be about sharing recipes and tips and helping each
other. I only have one recipe I don’t share with people and that’s because my
granduncle made me promise I won’t share it with anyone.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But anything else, I’ll happily share with people. I don’t
know much about cooking but I’d love to figure out what went wrong with people.
And most of all, I love to share food with people.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Cooking with people, sharing food with people, it’s one of
the best things you can do. It gives me so much joy to cook for people and one
of the worst things about curfew has been that I can no longer share food with
friends.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because cooking is about filling your tummy. It is about
experimenting and learning. But it’s also about making something and sharing it
with people you love. This, to me, is the joy of cooking.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">(Of course, it’s always best to give your friends some
pepto-bismol or gripe water along with your food).</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Notes to self</h4>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few things I would keep in mind when cooking:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Take down quantities when you are trying out something new
or combining two or three recipes. I once made a good bibikkan that came out well
but I never wrote down the quantities or process.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Watch the cooker/over. Recently made pizza and the pie was overbaked
and cracker-like. Once forgot a pancake on the cooker and it ended up looking
like that black moon emoji.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You can add more salt but it’s difficult to take salt out of
a dish.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Don’t be afraid to improvise.</p>
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mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
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mso-style-priority:99;
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mso-para-margin-top:0in;
mso-para-margin-right:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:8.0pt;
mso-para-margin-left:0in;
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mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
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mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;
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mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;
mso-fareast-language:EN-US;}
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<![endif]--></p>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footer"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been fucking up quite a bit in the last few weeks. Not
in a major way. I’m still responsible. I ensure my safety in all situations. I
associate with people I can trust. People I feel safe around. But there have
been three or four times when I’ve forgotten to inform my mother about my
whereabouts. This has resulted in her panicking, calling my father, and
worrying about my safety.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, once I explain what went on to my mother, she has
accepted my words as the truth and I appreciate that. I appreciate the fact
that I can tell her if I stay over at a male friend’s house. Or if I stay up
all night talking to someone. I think the fact that I’m honest about my
relationship with these people (it’s never romantic or sexual) puts her mind at
ease but there still is a lot that is said and accepted based solely on trust.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’m grateful that I have a mother… that I have parents
who trust that I will always do the right thing. Parents who will forgive me
when I screw up. Parents who will listen and give me the time and space to
explain myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not everyone has this relationship with their parents, I’m
realising. So Ammi and Thathee, I may not tell you this (assuming you are
reading this) but I’m truly thankful that you don’t try to force me into a
mould that you carved out for your daughter. Instead, you let me grow as a
person. As an individual.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this post in a blog I rarely update anymore is here for
a different reason. During one of those recent fuck ups, my father sent me a
message that went along the lines of “think about if Athamma would like it that
you are going out so often.” And I’ve been thinking about that a lot today.
What would Athamma think about the person I grew up to be during the past five
years?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To take a short detour, there’s a reason why I’m thinking
about this today. On the 1<sup>st</sup> of March in 2015, Athamma, who was my entire
life, passed away. We didn’t see it coming. I didn’t think she’d actually leave
me. But she did. She died and it felt like a part of me was lost.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When people die, it feels like your life has been put on
hold. It feels like you can’t move forward ever again. But life is strange that
way, because even if you don’t move on and get over the loss of someone, life
goes on. You find ways to get on with your days. Things to hold on to when you
feel like you are drownings. Things to do when you can’t breathe. Maps to read
when you are lost.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You find ways to survive, not because you want to but
because you have to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Athamma died, I was a kid. I was 21, sure. I had a
fulltime job. I had just started studying for a degree. I had a few close
friends. I went out a bit. But I was immature. I was scared. I had no clue what
kind of person I wanted to be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what she saw of me was someone who was rarely out past 9pm.
Someone who had maybe had two cocktails in her entire life. Someone who had
five or six friends. Someone who let their life be limited to work and home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then Athamma died and I carried on being this person for a
few more months. Quit my job. Found another. And another. And another.
Travelled, both with others and by myself. Made friends with people who didn’t
belong to my usual work/school circles. Got to know more people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I slowly started becoming someone who did things they
wanted to. Someone who knew what and who they liked and disliked. Someone who
identified things they were comfortable with and situations that made them
uneasy. Someone who built a safety net out of people that cared and loved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I’m now a different person than the kid Athamma knew.
And it breaks my heart sometimes that I’m not the same person. That I changed.
That I am someone my grandmother isn’t here to see and know and love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I don’t know if she’ll like what I’ve become. I don’t
know if I’ve become someone she can be proud of. But I hope that I’ve become
some version of the person she hoped I would become. And I hope that if the
universe had been kinder and let her live for a few more years that she would
like this person I am now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But here’s what I can tell her. Life has its massive downs.
There are times when taking the next step takes more energy than I have. There
are days when I withdraw from everyone and everything. When I can’t talk
because I know I can’t do so without crying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are times when I long for company that my parents,
brother, or cats can’t give me. When I seek the warmth of people I didn’t even
know when my grandmother was alive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But as bad and horrible as life can get, there is some good
in it too. I’m coming out of my shell. I’ve met people I love with all my heart.
People who take care of me. People who listen and understand and accept my
truth without judgment. People who my grandmother would have loved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’m making a life for myself. One that will have space
for my parents’ expectations and dreams for me but is still what I want out of
my time on this planet. And this life, it may take years and decades to build.
Twig by twig, I will build it up. I won’t give up, even when the wind carries
away those twigs. When other creatures scatter those twigs everywhere. Even
when the rain washes everything away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in that life I eventually build for myself, there will
always remain a part of the person you knew, Athamma. And my only hope is that
if you ever do see me now or ten fifteen twenty years from now, that you are
happy about the person I’ve become.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because, please know this. I miss you terribly. I wish you
didn’t have to leave me so soon. When I was so unprepared. But I’m finding my
way in this world. I’m figuring out life without having you to run to when
things get bad. And if you dig deep enough, you’ll see that beneath all of
this, I’m happy. There’s joy and love in my life. And that’s all you can hope
for, sometimes.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443143429850285197.post-61930952958837654362019-09-05T02:04:00.000-07:002019-09-05T02:04:02.533-07:00Survival tips: Taking a long-distance train in Sri Lanka
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s easier to be a travel blogger than it is to take public
transport in Sri Lanka. And this is saying a lot since I absolutely love taking
the bus or train. Photoshop skills help because then you don’t actually have to
visit a place to blog about it (and by blog, I do also mean Instagram Stories
and whatever else the kids are up to these days). It helps to have a personal
photographer, preferably someone who knows a thing or two about filters. But
besides a few basic skills, you don’t really need much to become a travel
blogger.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because I’m supposed to be putting more effort into doing
things I love (writing) and I consider myself quite the expert travel blogger
(don’t challenge this. I’ve looked at a minimum of two dozen travel
destinations this year alone), I thought of sharing some of my wisdom with you.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Travelling by train is an excellent way to reduce the cost
of a trip and drastically increase travel time. Trains can take you to a lot of
places and the rest can be travelled by bus, tuks, or foot. It’s convenient and
fun. And the biggest perk of train travel is that you have access to a bathroom
(good news for those of us with tiny bladders). No more hoping the bus would
speed up so you can go pee or get your vehicle to stop by a somewhat deserted
area so you can go behind a bush.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So if I’ve managed to convince you to take the train to your
next holiday destination, here are some tips to surviving a long-distance train
journey.</span></div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<h3 style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">1.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span>Reserve tickets in advance</h3>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not all trains come with a reservation option (no, not even
if you pester or sweet talk some poor man at the Fort Railway Station) but some
do. If you don’t want to run to the train and fight for good seats, make a
reservation in advance. If I remember correctly, a single connection can only book
tickets worth up to Rs. 4,000.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you reserve tickets via your mobile service provider, be
sure to take down the reference number they give and not be a gob and go to the
collection centre with the hotline number you called instead. If you are bad at
talking over the phone, make a note of your travel dates, destination, and
number of travellers before dialling. Also be sure to double check the route
(apparently, you have to take the Colombo-Batticaloa train to Pasikudah and not
the Colombo-Trincomalee train). You can also just go to Fort and reserve
tickets. The people there are quite helpful.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mJBl_VZFPjo/XXDOj1dPOFI/AAAAAAAANrk/9o9aB3iepUgXXV8X1TSNRFXWPgFSg562QCLcBGAs/s1600/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1161" data-original-width="1600" height="232" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mJBl_VZFPjo/XXDOj1dPOFI/AAAAAAAANrk/9o9aB3iepUgXXV8X1TSNRFXWPgFSg562QCLcBGAs/s320/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you can’t reserve tickets or waited until the last minute
so now have to take a chance with regular tickets, get to the station early.
For Batticaloa, we were told the tickets are sold an hour before time of
departure.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you are travelling with a few others, go in separate
directions. Find seats to accommodate your group and gather the troops. Invest
in walkie talkies for higher success rates of finding the best seats.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<h3 style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">2.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span>Plan your meals and snacks</h3>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you are taking the night mail, you will need dinner and
breakfast (depending on your destination). For dinner, short eats, sandwiches,
etc. would do, but breakfast is tricky since most food goes bad overnight. The
solution is to take a slightly unhealthy path with manioc (chips), kadala (easily
found in cocktail mixture), and biscuits.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you are travelling during the day, you will be constantly
hungry. We recommend ¾ savoury and ¼ sweet items. Marshmallows and kisses are
great, cake cravings are real, and Tipitip is the best. Those tiny packets of
biscuits are excellent too. Remember to pop your snack packets in advance if
you are headed to the hills. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Put all the snacks into a big bag and keep it with you. Have
another bag for all the trash that will accumulate. Don’t be the asshole that
throws plastic out of the train. Once you get to your destination, get rid of
the garbage in a responsible manner.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Note: If you are travelling to an area that doesn’t have a
fancy supermarket, take your snacks and beverages to be consumed during your
stay with you but don’t dig into them in the train.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fMIio6eCs7Q/XXDOjONY9fI/AAAAAAAANrc/VAZv5TIAbBsmREzuBW_-nsJq-t4h84v1QCEwYBhgL/s1600/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1100" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fMIio6eCs7Q/XXDOjONY9fI/AAAAAAAANrc/VAZv5TIAbBsmREzuBW_-nsJq-t4h84v1QCEwYBhgL/s320/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_3.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<h3 style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">3.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span>Stay hydrated</h3>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Carry plenty of water with you, but it’s easier to have a
small bottle with you and a large bottle in your main travelling bag. Trains
have a few long stops during which you can refill your bottle as needed.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We also recommend a citrus or ginger drink because by the
end of the trip, you will feel grubby and dirty and only ginger or lime can
make you feel a bit better about yourself.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jy026bIrmXk/XXDO1Cyu9CI/AAAAAAAANr8/Mt9YhEi5dB4N-68gXOm8n3Uzd6YD41wNACLcBGAs/s1600/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1112" data-original-width="1600" height="222" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jy026bIrmXk/XXDO1Cyu9CI/AAAAAAAANr8/Mt9YhEi5dB4N-68gXOm8n3Uzd6YD41wNACLcBGAs/s320/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<h3 style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">4.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span>Don’t forget toilet paper</h3>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Listen, train toilets smell. You can’t travel without that occasional
whiff of piss. But unless a fellow passenger was hit by explosive diarrhoea, the
toilets are somewhat clean. If there’s anything that needs washing, carry a
bottle of water with you. Take toilet paper too. Waiting for a long stop at a
main station is ideal for a bathroom break because you don’t want to accidentally
make contact with the toilet seat.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Keep the toilet paper near you when seated because most of
the snacks listed above require hand wiping. We recommend having wet wipes and
hand sanitizer too with you but we’ve never remembered to take them during our
many (two) travels.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<h3 style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">5.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span>Sleepy times</h3>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The night mail is perfect if you want to sleep on your way
to the destination so that you get there ready to go exploring or whatever. It’s
nice to have at least one journey during the day (preferably return). You can
sleep during the daytime train too, depending on the crowd and route.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ways to keep yourself occupied during the journey include:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-71f1EudAORI/XXDOiaiKFpI/AAAAAAAANr4/SykpbiJZbPYo9QcExHOAGWYafiDxCsJoQCEwYBhgL/s1600/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-71f1EudAORI/XXDOiaiKFpI/AAAAAAAANr4/SykpbiJZbPYo9QcExHOAGWYafiDxCsJoQCEwYBhgL/s1600/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 16px; margin-left: 16px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1157" data-original-width="1600" height="231" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-71f1EudAORI/XXDOiaiKFpI/AAAAAAAANr4/SykpbiJZbPYo9QcExHOAGWYafiDxCsJoQCEwYBhgL/s320/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Talking with your friends</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Snacking</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Reading</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Listening to music</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Enjoying the scenery</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Watching a movie</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">6.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span>Clothing</h3>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you are taking the night mail or travelling to a colder
part of the country, carry a hoodie or jacket with you. Wear your comfiest
pants. If you wear a bra, sports bras make things a tad bit more comfortable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While shoes can be annoying, we’ve always worn them so that
no toilet water gets on our feet. It also hurts less when people stomp on your
feet.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ReizBupyaA0/XXDOiP0k49I/AAAAAAAANro/7ToV7UkDL1AKbxDUwMu9zXOQrTo8zzkpgCEwYBhgL/s1600/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1348" data-original-width="1508" height="286" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ReizBupyaA0/XXDOiP0k49I/AAAAAAAANro/7ToV7UkDL1AKbxDUwMu9zXOQrTo8zzkpgCEwYBhgL/s320/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">7.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span>Personal space? Wat dat?</h3>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From stinky men standing right next to you to conveniently oblivious
achchis taking up ¾ of the seat, there’s no such thing as personal space in the
train. If you sit by the window, you are lucky but if not, prepare to have
vendors and passengers bumping into your shoulder every few seconds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We have no tips on how to survive this. Sorry!</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-17nb1mcjStg/XXDOiblaxBI/AAAAAAAANrs/2oAwiwlXaTI4LTCF3_GV3KglbtCs6kmRwCEwYBhgL/s1600/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1497" height="230" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-17nb1mcjStg/XXDOiblaxBI/AAAAAAAANrs/2oAwiwlXaTI4LTCF3_GV3KglbtCs6kmRwCEwYBhgL/s320/New%2BDocument%25281%2529_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you take these tips to heart, taking a long-distance
train will be as easy as becoming a travel blogger, so book that hotel, take
that train, enjoy your holiday, and stay safe.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0