Defeat, Pain, and Progress

I am extremely exhausted today, I managed to fall asleep without writing a post, finally waking up just now, at 2:20am, to write this. My brain is still half-asleep and my hands are weirdly typing around, it feels quite stupid to be writing this. But then, that has always been the deal with all my posts on days I was completely exhausted. Part of the experience is the weirdness I feel in doing this, the times when I feel like I cannot feel the tip of my fingers and every word comes out with an error that my laptop’s autocorrect finally corrects for me. Sometimes, I feel extremely demotivated by the comments of others, when they point out the pointlessness of my whole blog. People don’t really understand why this blog matters to me, why I put myself through a lot sometimes, just to write these posts.

I have stayed awake until stupid hours, I have fallen asleep and woken myself up at ungodly hours, prioritised this sometimes at the cost of doing my readings, I have written this blog through times of intense writers’ block that ruined my mental health, I have put myself through a lot to boast now of having done these many posts. But people don’t get it, they tried but they didn’t get it. There had been times when my blog had become somewhat of a joke, something to tease me about. Sometimes, I don’t really get it too, why I am writing this blog, what made me hold on so desperately to it, made me write every day for nearly 8 months. It is inexplicable, it is beautiful, it is painful, but it is still an experience very uniquely mine.

That is actually my definition for my whole life. Life inevitably ends up having heartbreak, having pain, having spellbinding beauty and grace, having inexplicable joy. Despite its many contradicting tendencies, everyone’s life is an experience, unique to their predicament, unique to them. It follows then, that it is useless to compare yourself with someone else, no matter how tempting that can be. This is with respect to everything, but especially with progress, because it is with respect to progress only that most comparisons take place. You perceive yourself as having done the same amount of work as someone else, with half the results, or (quite less frequently) twice the results. It is useless, petty even, this exercise. I want to learn to play an instrument, I am learning the keyboard by myself and I realised today that I had made some insane progress, more than what ‘others’ typically have. While that was extremely flattering for my ego, it was also harmful, to compare. There is a difference between being confident and being arrogantly confident, arrogance makes you someone who cannot accept it when things don’t go your way. And the last thing I want to be is arrogant (even though I am guilty of being arrogant many times).

Arrogance makes it difficult for you to learn anything at all. I want to learn to play the flute and I read that learning to play the flute was difficult, especially flutes like the Carnatic flute. That immediately threw me into doubt, I didn’t know if taking the course this semester was a good idea. The thing is, there is also a singing co-curricular that I am interested in, Carnatic vocals, and that is what is causing my confusion at the moment. On one hand, the opportunity to learn an instrument, one I have always wanted to learn, starting from absolute zero level, an instrument that is said to be difficult to learn to play. On the other hand, I have the opportunity to continue with a course I have already done before, starting from a comfortable level of singing, one I have always wanted to learn but can learn in other ways as of now, that I didn’t really find difficult. In the spirit of university, I am going to go with the Carnatic flute, and I am hoping I won’t regret my decision.

In fact, that is part of my arrogant self speaking, it cannot bear the thought of being horrible at something because it has drawn a comfortable dream in its head, of being at least somewhat good at the instrument. It perceives that it is good at singing, hence it has it as a plan B, if it fails miserably at learning the flute. But I hope I won’t leave the course even if I embarrass myself beyond repair in the first class, because it is important sometimes to accept crushing and humiliating defeat, for it helps you improve and to progress. In fact, that is something I have taken into mind now, especially after a few things that have happened, that are happening. With respect to my blog, despite these horrible timings, I am not ready to accept my defeat yet. In a way, I have accepted defeat by admitting to my flaws in keeping up with this blog, the problems I faced and continue to face. But it is not time to give up yet, I shall fight and push and progress because I have realised that there is no other way I know to live my uniquely defined life. That is adequate, I suppose?

And that’s my memory for the day.

Cherish the Tools and the Talisman

It was a busy day today, not much work but it still felt that way. I started reading whatever I had written, my story, making a few changes and additions here and there. I am not even done with the story, I still am clueless about what the plot is. I think I am worried that this effort that I have put to write the 4800 words would go to waste when I figure out that I cannot write anymore. But I think, it is during times like that I remind myself that a few years back, I had done the exact same thing and had left my story where it was. That I have grown up now, I can do this, I can finish it. Sometimes, motivation is hard, just like writing this post right now.

My brother got started on unpacking his toys box today, it had been put off for long enough. He got scolded by my parents and he finally set out to do it. For me, this was a great thing, because he pulled out my pack of Uno and few other things like that from the box that I had my eyes on. I managed to get my pack of Uno cards and a fidget spinner from him, overall, I had a pretty good success rate on that front. I have always had an inexplicable affinity for any kind of childish toy or game. I spent a large part of my childhood holding dear so many of my toys and dolls, taking care of them as carefully as I could. There’s something about any kind of childish play that invigorates me, keeps me going. Added to that is my love for talking, I can talk a lot, I do talk a lot. Even today, I spent quite some time talking with my friend over the phone, playing the keyboard for her and just being generally enthusiastic about my keyboard.

I cannot help it, but my keyboard gives me a lot of joy, it makes me really happy. I was telling my brother today that the keyboard, or any instrument for that matter, must be treated with respect and care as befits it since it yields to your ministrations to produce something as wonderful as music. You have to treat any tool for that matter with a lot of respect and love, for they all work to enhance our pleasure in life and the world. This laptop, for example, has to be touched and handled with love and care because it does the wonderful job of connecting me with people. It helps me write and listen to music, among many other things. I think that is one thing people forget to do, cherish and be grateful for the things that give them pleasure in life. It is not easy to find someone who you focus your energy and love on, who will reciprocate it with the same intensity. So when you do find people like that, hold them close and cherish those relationships because they deserve no less.

Today I posted a story on Instagram addressed to my juniors. It was partly about the class 12 results, but I also intended to move beyond that. I had recently seen quite a few stories on my feed, talking about how scoring less in the board exams was not the end, that people were fine after that happened. Now, I had actually scored really well so I could not have possibly said anything like that. Moreover, I wanted to tell people that scoring great was again, not the end. I was a science student in 11th and 12th standard, now I am pursuing English in college. I wanted to reach out to the juniors, tell them that I was there to help with doubts, queries, or just to talk in general. So I put this three-part story on my Instagram.

What I wasn’t expecting though was the sheer number of responses I got, the number of people I talked to and ‘helped’ (at least I think I did). It was surprising and I was honestly humbled when people messaged me saying that they felt reassured reading my story. I was humbled that what I had thought was a small message, not a very well-written one but a message nonetheless, would prompt such a response. There were people who wanted to talk to me, for they were feeling quite bogged down by the results. I felt mature, older and experienced, like I had something, some wisdom, that I could share. It was a great feeling, a feeling of being useful and worthy.

It is not often that I have felt that, but this time, when I did, I took that feeling and stashed it away in a safe spot deep inside my heart. I like to believe it would be my talisman when there come times in the future when skeletons threaten to break out of the closet. These are my tools, words and my passion, the things I shall cherish and protect with all I have, come what may. Sometimes it seems like words fail me. There are times when I feel as impassioned as can be, when there seems to be no hope, nothing to keep the fire burning, to power the engine, so to speak. But I realise that’s not true, my tools will not betray me for I have cherished them and respected them. There are times when they seem to move away, but I have come to understand that they shall return. This realisation becomes my talisman in those tough times when tools seem just out of reach. The talisman also becomes something to cherish now, doesn’t it?

And that’s my memory for the day.

Dancing Hearts, Flying Spirits

I kept on procrastinating writing this blog post for quite a long time. It has become quite a hard job, writing these posts every day. I was quite an ambitious person when I started, I guess. But here’s the thing, I managed to write every day during some of the most trying times in college. I have worked on this all this time that to stop now would be a grave injustice to myself. I am going to make myself do this for the entirety of this year. I owe myself that, I owe the Yashasvi, who, in her completely blocked mind found the energy and will to write a post. I owe the Yashasvi, who, when in a particularly low point in her life, still found time to write on this blog. I owe the Yashasvi, who, right now, despite the procrastination is still typing this blog post with eyes that are closing but she’s still fighting. For this Yashasvi, and all the Yashasvi’s before, and all the Yashasvi’s after, I will continue fighting, continue writing.

It is actually quite funny how I started writing in the first place. I had another blog, I started it when I was 14. I had been in tenth standard at that time, it had been our Puja holidays. Puja holidays were a 10 day holiday that came during the month of October. They would be at the time of Navratri, ending at the time of Vijayadasami. Vijayadashami was the day when school would reopen, it is considered an auspicious day for beginning any kind of educational/creative pursuit. Classes would start their enrolments on that day, my dance class would have a big event on that day.

My dance class also had a music class in it, so the students from there would start the function. The teacher and the students would sing a Ganesha song, and this would be followed by the dance class students. All the batches would go to the class on that day, we would present our ‘salangai’ (anklets, kind of) to our ‘gurus’ (teachers), get them and then the batches would dance for a few minutes. It was a symbolic beginning, it was beautiful. The higher batches would perform songs, while the smaller, starting batches would dance some ‘adavus’ (basic steps) only. It used to be beautiful, everyone would come in their best uniform, wearing beautiful dance jewellery (not the entire ensemble of course). This would be followed by students leaving, but they would be given this small package just when they were leaving. There would be a sweet (mostly mysore pak), a pen, a pencil, and an eraser. It was a small cute thing, and we used to take them back home with us.

I remember the first time I joined that dance class, it was after nearly 7 years in another class. I joined my first dance class when I was three, and when I was nearly 10, I changed. I changed styles too, from one different kind of Bharatanatyam to Kalakshetra style Bharatanatyam. I was very scared because I knew steps but I did not know their names, I felt simultaneously alien and familiar. I remember how I joined a few weeks before Vijayadasami, the Vijayadasami function was my official induction/initiation of sorts. I had never been to anything like that before. I felt like I was a ‘senior’, but I also was not a senior. I was in a very confusing position. I was also very worried, very troubled, apprehensive, not very sure if I could do this.

Kalakshetra style was different and more difficult for me, it required much more of me than I thought I had. All the other students in my class were doing so well, while I struggled. Moreover, it was the start of feeling fat, I was one of the bigger kids in class. My older class was not in groups, we didn’t have batches, we used to have one on one classes. I personally don’t want to enter into the debate on whether groups are better than one on one or vice versa. I find those debates to be quite pointless, both have their own benefits, and cater to different kinds of people. It does not make sense to compare, at least for me. But coming back to this, I could very easily see how I looked different, it hampered my confidence a great deal. I was already lost and almost ‘vulnerable’ position, this did not help matters for me.

But one incident that really stands out for me is the fact that it was during Vijayadasami, when, after the dancing and all batches were done, I finally made my way down the stairs to collect my package and leave for home. I went down with my parents, and I saw my dance sir there. He was giving the packages, he gave me one and he spoke to me and my parents for nearly 10 minutes. That conversation really soothed my anxieties, it gave me the motivation to try my best at this. I would say that my desire to dance and make him proud started there. I wanted to prove myself, show him that his trust in me was not in vain. He was a phenomenal dancer himself, his performances have brought people to tears, he was that emotive and good. But I did not see much of him during the initial periods. I saw more of my dance aunty, who also I adored but who used to fat shame me quite a bit. I grew used to it, almost, until I started resenting the treatment. I still struggle a lot with weight and body image issues.

I still am fat, still overweight, a fact that I am reminded of every time I see people around me. It just throws me back to the times when I used to be so scared of the dance costumes because almost always, there would be some problem. They would not fit, they would have some issue or the other, I grew quite tired of that whole ordeal. This was another difference from my older dance class since we had our own costumes there. We used to perform quite a lot solo, maximum of three people, not more–we could afford to have different costumes. But here, each batch, when they performed, they did it together. We rented out costumes instead, so there was the reason why I had so many problems.

Looking back, dancing was one of those things in my life that gave me so much joy. I loved the thrill of the stage, the thrill of the emotion, the music, the whole process. I thrived there, I used to love it. Cut to me now, who fears the stage so much that she becomes nauseous and dry heaves before any performance. It has been nearly three years since I left my dance class, and there are so many days when I wonder what would have been my fate had I stayed with it. I keep on wondering if I could probably retry, think of this as a break, a long one nonetheless, and get back to dancing. It seems quite plausible for me, it might actually work I guess. Sometimes, thinking about dance makes me feel so happy, like right now when I recalled these memories. They are beautiful, there’s something beautiful with stuff that set your heart’s flight mode on, isn’t there?

And that’s my memory for the day.