For a while, I had taken to being on the other end—the it girl, the hustler, the one who always has her shit together. Someone who could do nothing wrong, who is always on the go. I liked being her. I liked being so busy that she couldn’t feel her feelings fully. But then, it got exhausting living like that. I experienced emotional burnout in ways that interfered with my daily life. And you know what happened next — I turned to yoga !
Fortunately, I found instructors who were gentle with their methods of teaching. Who gave soft instructions like a murmur, and told me that there is no right or wrong way of doing things. That, doing a specific yoga pose will look different on different people, and the only thing that matters is how it feels. Doing yoga helped me center my focus and bring attention to myself and so I didn’t wander off to the past or the future. I began carrying a calm energy with me everywhere.
I returned to yoga this year for the same reasons. I found myself slouching uncomfortably over my laptop every day, anxious about my future and letting thoughts race ahead. I wanted to go back to being gentle with myself, and be present and take the mindful route.
Writing Corner
Divya’s fingers constantly smelled of garlic. The smell emanated from the edges of her nails, and it never went away, no matter what she tried. She tried switching her hand wash, using the one from the store where the pretty lady wore an apron and perfumed lavender scent on her tired, rough hands. It would make them soft, she said. When Divya pointed at her feet, she said that they had a different one for the feet, and she was to apply it every night and wear soft cotton socks before she went to bed.
Divya examined her own feet, now in an open-toe sandal that she had reluctantly bought as an afterthought, on the last day of her stay at her mother’s. She was reminded of her mother’s feet, with cracks on the heels requiring several years of repair and nourishment. Her feet were the most ignored part of her body, but she couldn’t remember when her mother stopped caring. Caring for herself, for her hair that had withered, and the sags appearing on her neck, her broken nails, and her feet that were cracked, rough, and the crevices along the feet that had found a permanent home there.
“It’s buy one, get one, you know”, the pretty lady said.
Divya fought the lump growing on her throat, guilt-laced. Her guilt stemming from her privilege of having access to soap that smelled like delicate flowers in a meadow. Was she trying to be like them? Like the apron-wearing, sweet lady who had the softest hands herself.
“Just one, please,” she replied.
Will this feeling ever go away?
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Learning Corner
New York City hits 100 Degrees this week
Lounge Corner
Read some of my short stories—-
Winter Chronicles: Embracing Chai, City Strolls, and the Holiday Spirit
December gives me an excuse to brew and drink copious amounts of chai. On most days, it is a straight-up Tapri version, runny, watery, and acidic with the slightest hint of milk. But come December, I bring out all the masalas to make a more interesting version. I have a box of dry spices handy for my chai- half a stick of cinnamon, a few pods of cardamo…