Kathakali masks…

We watched a Kathakali performance in Kerala some days ago. With faces painted in bright colors and pouffy costumes, they danced to the booming beat of the drum.

The theme is simple. The makeup is complicated. Faces are made up or rather painted to the point that they appear like masks. We were told that our tickets included a special backdoor entry to see the makeup being done. A long, elaborate process wherein the dancers lay down while their faces are painted. Green faces denote the good guys, while the black faces belong to the bad guys and the protagonist’s face is painted in warm hues. And certain in-between streaks of red and white depict arrogance and such.

Ah… if only people on the street came with face colors… there would never be any guesswork involved I thought with a smile. But again, I personally don’t believe any person to be an all black, or an all green, or a green with generous heapings of red and white. No, I believe each one of us wears all those shades in one lifetime. And with motherhood, I feel sometimes in one day even.

But fact remains that we wear those shades and we wear those masks. And just like a Kathakali dancer’s face - there is no true mask; but there still is a mask. For the dancer’s true face is completely lost in the paint. Only the masked one comes forward and is shown to the world.

Do we all wear masks? Are we all Kathakali dancers? As I watched the beautiful performance, I wondered if I had been wearing a mask on my trip to India. I had worn my widest smile and my toughest I-can-do-everything attitude. I didn’t want to see sadness in people’s eyes when they looked at me; when they remembered the old-me, when they missed the old-me. I wanted to prove to everybody there that the old-me was back. Who knows…maybe a small part of her was back; or maybe she’s never ever coming back. Why then was I wearing the mask? And why had I posted so many vacation pictures with me in sunglasses – were the sunglasses hiding the tired eyes?

Is wearing this mask necessarily a bad thing even? Does it give direction to a certain path I want to be on? A path of life and laughter, vitality and vigor? Is it a display of a positive aura and persona? Or is it all a dishonest cover-up? A silly sham?

Have I always worn a mask? All through my life? All through my illness? On endless occasion, people have expressed disbelief on finding out I was sick. Right before they wheeled me in to the last surgery, the nurse said, “you look great” (!!). I have never quite known how to react to such comments. Bewilderment, cheerfulness, lack of graciousness, confusion…not knowing whether to feel happy or sad… I probably used some kind of mask to veil what I felt.

I doubt I can completely let go of all masks overnight. I doubt it would even be wise to do so. Is there a sense of safety and security in hiding behind it? Or is it a loss of authenticity? Like most things, the answer is probably somewhere in-between. But I can’t help wonder if I would ever dare to take the paint off my face… if I would ever dare to wash it all off…

Snowed in…

My mind and I have been whirling dervishes since our return from India. Operating on little sleep; waking up at 2 a.m. and staring at the ceiling; unpacking, getting my home into order; preparing, planning, accepting the reality of surgery in a few days (yes the real elephant in the room has been discovered).

Mix jetlag with a sense of displacement after a long vacation with family and friends in India, with a certain reality check, with apprehension of an upcoming surgery can cause a lot of jitteriness (even to an already jittery person). Really, who in their right mind plans surgery ten days on their return, I wondered. I got no answers and a feeble one said “me”. Sigh… Oh well... I busied myself, doing things, trying to do everything, appointments, planning, preparing, adjusting… In my jetlagged daze, I turned into a whirling dervish - doing unnecessary things; giving importance to unnecessary things… Yes I tried to avoid facing what was really scaring me. The upcoming surgery.

It was a busy week… and then it began to snow. The skies dumped away white powdery stuff… we watched (and continue to watch) with amazement as the streets outside turned white and much higher than usual. The basketball courts from in front of our house vanished and the basketball hoops stood incongruously in the blanket of white beneath. Schools were closed, few cars dared to come outside, my appointments were cancelled.

It began to snow… and I was forced to calm down. There was no going anywhere; there was no planning anything; there was just being in the moment. And it turned out to be a good moment -- Snowball fights, happy squeals in the park outside, sledding in the neighborhood, endless cups of chai, board games and cards.

I screamed my head off sledding down the slope (ahem…almost crashing into the house at the end of the street. Really, why did they even build a home there?) I was amazed at how much fun I was having. All my running around and getting everything done stopped. All my crazy frenzy and acting like I was not going to be able to do anything after the surgery (ever) stopped. All my fretting and fuming stopped.

Nature was forcing me to slow down; it was giving me no choice but to be in the moment, only in the moment. And the moment was a beautiful one – filled with fun, family, friends and shovels of snow.

Whether I will even make it to the surgery remains to be seen – if nature permits, if the roads permit. But I am thankful for the snow and the fun I’ve had in the last few days and for the slowing down it has forced me to accept. It was reassuring for me to realize that we are all fairly simple and happy beneath it all. And that this forced holiday gave me a chance to appreciate it.

Letting go… of not doing stuff with no apparent purpose...

Just when did life get so meaningful? So focused? So purposeful? As children, we did so many things for no apparent reason or purpose. Such joy.

So just when did we stop doing that? When did we begin our quest for purpose? When did we start examining things, evaluating things – wondering if it is purposeful, worthy of our time, effort and money. In doing so, did some of the joy slip away? Did we allow the joy to slip away?

Writing is one such example for me. It doesn’t take very long for me to write this blog. Maybe one hour. A day has twenty-four. It leaves me feeling better, calmer; sometimes more energetic. My whirring thoughts quiet down. At least one crazy thought has been let out and it leaves me feeling lighter.

Yet it has no purpose. It has no goal. I doubt it serves any greater good. It has a very low priority in the overall scheme of things, my life and my day. I am often surprised the blog has made it this far.

Which brings me to question why we balk at doing stuff for ourselves. Stuff that is solely for ourselves. Stuff that has no apparent purpose. Writing is a self-centered, one-person activity. It does not involve anyone else. It requires me to take the time; make the time exclusively for myself.

When I write, I may drift off; yet I may be aware of a husband or child hovering around hoping for some attention. Most times I give in and relinquish the writing. Not because they want me to or because they expect me to, but because I perceive the writing to have a lower priority. Because I give it a lower priority.

Else if I have zoned out as I sometimes do; or if I decide to steadfastly hold my thought and refuse to stop writing (as I increasingly find myself doing these days), I’m sometimes hit with a pang of guilt. Guilt for not setting priorities right.  For being selfish almost. Yet nobody in my family thinks so. They are happy that I write and have a creative outlet that even poor health can’t take away from me.

Each of us will has something or many things that make us feel good; that are good for us; yet we balk at making the time for them. Exercise, eating well, meeting friends, calling a friend… you know what your list is… you know what your priority is…

Shifting continents

Each time I shift a continent, I want to abandon this blog. But somehow, I come back to it. And I come back to it with a mixed bag of emotions, with an uneasy heart, with confused feelings. Moving from one country to another is a difficult thing to do when you care about both places. Leaving behind so much (both ways) when you travel is a hard thing to do.  

You can prepare yourself for weather, logistics, jetlag and other banalities. You can drive yourself crazy preparing, getting gifts, collecting favorite things, arranging, rearranging, “settling in”. Yes, you can busy yourself in a bid to avoid dealing with the emotional adjustment it takes. Homesickness, a sense of not belonging, faces of those you leave behind, being in one place and thinking of another. The need to adapt emotionally hits me each time. Both ways.

Why then do we subject ourselves to this? Do all immigrants – temporary or permanent feel this way? Can we truly love two places? Two places that may be so different… Two places that we love for entirely different reasons…Is it like cheating on a spouse? And which one is the spouse even? Is there truly only one true love?  

So is it easier to simply never leave? To never explore. To never widen horizons. To simply never change. To simply never have to deal with change?  

For, once you leave, you can never go back to the ‘same as before’. The round peg turns into a square and can never fit back in.  But again, isn’t that true of all of life? Immigrant experience or otherwise. Of growing up…Of moving around... Of change… Of life...

Do we as pegs keep getting squarer? Do we know the squareness of our being, yet remember the round... Or do we not realize the squareness of our being and imagine we will continue to fit in the round…

I have no answers. If you have any, do share them with me. But something tells me that accepting the duality in most situations, and the seemingly bigamous nature of our choices may be a first step…