The dust, the humidity, the heat, the traffic (!), the bad roads, the garbage…there is a lot to complain about. But isn’t that true of most cities in the world? Especially megapolises? Then why does Chennai get so much hate? Why this almost coordinated campaign to malign a city that did literally nothing but exist? Anyway, here I am, on the other side, trying to answer this question.

I do not romanticise Chennai. For me Chennai is home. Home from the time of Madras. Cliched as it may sound, Chennai is a name; Madras is an emotion. “கந்தல் ஆனாலும் தாய் மடி போல் ஒரு சுகம் வருமா… வருமா…சொர்க்கம் சென்றாலும் சொந்த ஊர் போல் ஒரு சுதந்திரம் வருமா… வருமா…”

That is Madras aka Chennai. Marina Beach, Kabali Koil, Karpagambal Mess, Keera Vadai, Coffee…the quintessential Chennai. And more recently, drives down ECR for the heck of it, Besant Nagar with its beach and quiet neighbourhoods, OMR (yes OMR) with its chaotic traffic and metro construction…everything stands testimony to my journey from infanthood to now. And no matter how many things are wrong with Chennai, it will always be home.

My heart holds emotions that my mind can’t express. My intelligence and my vocabulary fail me as I grapple with a number of emotions ranging from insecurity to love to sheer joy, all at once. How do I explain how these conflicting emotions constantly jostle for space in my heart, one sometimes overpowering the other? Perhaps this is life. A complex combination of joy and sorrow, of confidence and insecurity, of love and loneliness, leaving us with no choice but to live it. 

As time goes on, the grief seems to get more unbearable than before. A sense of despondency surrounds you and before you can stop yourself, the tears begin to flow. Appa’s loss is something I’ll probably never be able to reconcile with. As I sit back and think about the years I’ve spent without his constant, reassuring presence, the stronger the sense of loss seems to get.

Perhaps his is a void that will never be filled. So, today, as I remember the man who made me who I am, I recall his most favourite of Tagore’s poems.

”This is my prayer to thee, my lord—strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart. 
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows. 
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.”

And then I see others, mostly men, tell me they go jogging, work out at the gym, train for a marathon or pick up a new hobby and I wonder where I am going wrong. Why am I unable to even read a book or write a blogpost with any amount of consistency when others are out there, conquering the world, setting up parallel careers, running extra miles to train for a half marathon and investing in the stock market? Do I lack the capability of being more than a corporate employee? And make no mistake. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being a corporate employee. There is nothing wrong in having a 9-5 job that pays the bills and being consistently good at it. But this sense of inadequacy stems from somewhere.

This gets worse when people I speak to learn of my academic credentials, my language skills and my writing. “What the hell are you doing in a bank? This is not where you should be,” they tell me. Then where should I be? Why do others get to decide where I should be and what constitutes success for me? Why this expectation of me to go above and beyond?

When I sat down and thought about it, I realised something important. Most of these people who ask me these questions, who make value judgements on how much I am doing with my life, are men. And no matter what we say, many tasks are still gendered. Running a household is still very much a gendered task. Women carry the mental load of running a household, even if it is a single person household like mine. For some reason, women give a lot more emotional energy to maintaining the house and making it a home than men do. Maybe it is social conditioning.

When I think of my own parents, or my ex, I realise that my mother and I ran the house almost all the time. Making lists, sorting through groceries, chopping vegetables and prepping them for the week, organising the kitchen…it was all us. When Amma passed away, I took on that role almost unconsciously. On the other hand, when I left my marital home, it took a while for S to realise that I was doing all this and start doing it. He had to wake up one morning and realise he ran out of sugar to take on this task of planning and prepping. He has learnt over the years and today, I am sure the mental load on him is equal to the one on me in running our respective households. Sadly, that is not the case with most men I know. They never really get around to doing any of this because there is always a woman around to take up the job: mother, wife, girlfriend, partner or even sister. And unless this changes, women will continue to perform that emotional labour of keeping a household afloat.

The point of this rant is simply this: if you are a woman, be a little kinder to yourself when you drop the ball on something. It’s ok to be imperfect. It is ok to hold “just one job” and do nothing else. It is perfectly alright to sleep in on a Sunday morning and do absolutely nothing, even if that means the kitchen stays dirty for a while longer. This epiphany is the result of a day of rumination and self-loathing. But that’s a story for another day.

A similar, but very different creative outlet is music. I am no musical genius. Most of the time, I cannot even hold a tune properly. But, I love to sing. For years, I sang. I never held back. Not that I performed in concerts or sang professionally, but I did sing. I sang while cleaning the house or cooking. I sang when folding laundry. I sang in the car. I’ve never been able to drive without music. It’s a distraction, it’s what keeps me going. Not being a fan of podcasts and audiobooks, the next best thing was music. And when I drove, there was nobody to judge or criticise my singing.

But slowly, over time, that changed. I don’t quite remember when or how. I don’t know when the singing stopped. But somewhere in the seven years I was married, the joy of singing went away slowly. So slowly that I did not even realise it was happening.

When I think about it now, I think it started with a word here or there. An occasional snarky remark. A throwaway comment about my song being technically weak. Somewhere between the stress of keeping a failing marriage alive and trying to find meaning for my very existence, I stopped singing. I’d still listen to music. Of course it still kept me company on drives and at home. But I stopped singing along. It’s been five years since I left that house and that family. I have tried restarting several times. But something has held me back each time. Is it fear of criticism? Is it a trauma response that I completely shut down? I don’t know. This is something I need to address. And I am speaking out at length for the first time. Maybe this will prove cathartic. Maybe the music will come back into my life. Just maybe.

Five minutes later, I head out into my living room. The scene in front of me makes me pause a second and brings a slight smile to my face. I see him settled at my dining table. He’s put beer into the fridge, popped open a can and poured himself a drink. He’s retrieved a glass from my crockery shelf, got ice from the freezer and looks quite contented with the glass in front of him.

There’s something very intimate and domestic about the whole scene. Something that feels good. As I gather him into my arms and plant a kiss on the top of his head, I realise that it feels like home.

Fifteen months later, I got some feedback. Feedback that I did not expect or anticipate. I got what I can only call constructive, even if it did not feel quite so constructive when I received it. “You got me invested in the character and gave me nothing in return,” he said. It felt like an attack on my writing. Like he had unreasonable expectations of me. I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to tell him I’m not Margaret Atwood. That my story was a simple one. One of love. I stayed upset for some time. But then, you cannot really create something if you are not willing to learn from those experiences.

When I think back to the process of writing, I realise some very important truths. My story could have been better. The narrative could have been tighter. I could have said the exact same thing in 4 pages instead of 14 or 24. I could have been brutal in cutting out unnecessary embellishments and pointless storylines. In hindsight, there are a hundred things I could have done that would have made my book (for want of a better word) more readable. But I also realise that when we write, we invest a part of ourselves in it. We tell stories inspired by our own experiences and observations. But what we fail to realise as writers, as creators and as artists is that our characters are different from us. When he told me that my protagonist disappointed him, I took it to mean that I disappointed him. That his estimation of me as an individual had somehow fallen because of his response to my writing. And in that, I am completely wrong. While my protagonist may have some similarities with me as an individual, we are actually different. And unless I learn to dissociate myself from the characters in my book, I am never going to be able to put myself out there and write another one again. Nor am I going to be able to take that criticism that comes with the turf.

What I understand today is that I need to be happy that I actually put something out there for people to read and comment on. That it may not be perfect, but it is a part of me that I cannot deny. While I have let go of that piece of writing, I need to retain the lessons if I am to ever tell another story in my life. But isn’t that what life is about? The process of learning and unlearning. The ability to hold on to the lessons while learning to let go of the emotion.

Today, I have grown. As a writer. And hopefully, as a person too.

Today we’re in a cafe just across the beach. You casually lace your fingers around mine. Like it’s not a deliberate thing. Like it’s muscle memory. From some previous lifetime. I let you. I enjoy the feel of your fingers as you continue to talk to me. Your fingers tease the inside of my palm. Gently. Absently. And then suddenly, you stop talking. I look up at you, puzzled. You lean forward in your seat and look into my eyes. I can’t stop myself. I lean towards you. You caress my face gently. I close my eyes. And I feel the warmth of your kiss. At first gentle. Tentative. And then more urgent. More needy. And I savour the experience I return your kisses. That’s the beginning. Only the beginning

The next day is uneventful. You’re unusually busy. Your number is unreachable. Except for one text in the morning, you’ve been entirely incommunicado. As I wrap up my work for the day, I find myself getting restless. I check for notifications, just like I have every hour for the last six hours. Nothing. The doorbell rings. Who’s this now?

I open the door. I freeze. My eyes must be playing tricks. I blink several times. I shake my head as if to clear it of the fog. You’re still there, this time looking at me with a very amused expression. “Hi baby! Are you going to make me wait at your doorstep forever?”

The haze lifts. It’s replaced by a joy. An inexplicable joy at having you back. You step in and take me in your arms. Your lips seek mine almost involuntarily. I kiss you deeply. Your arms come around me as your fingers seek my curves. I press my body against you, not able to take one more inch of distance between us. And you gather me into your arms in an embrace that’s both loving and lustful. We both know it. There’s going to be very little sleep tonight.

You take my hand in yours, your thumb caressing the inside of my palm. “Really? I’m not going to ask again.” I nod, gently tilting my head up to meet your lips. You kiss me. A kiss unlike any other. It’s a kiss that tells me how much you want me. Your arms grip my waist and draw me closer. I lose myself in that kiss. My fingers seek out your bare skin. I fumble with the buttons on your shirt, half wishing I could rip them apart. You smile into my neck as you caress and kiss. Your touch grows more urgent. More demanding. I know we’ve crossed a line and there’s no stopping now. I yield to your demands.

Your kisses make me want you more and more. Your hands work their magic on my hips and breasts. I run my fingers through your hair, silky smooth and incredibly sexy. And then, I run a fingernail along your back, biting your earlobe at the same time. Your demands get more urgent. I’ve pushed you over the edge. I know that. As you position yourself over me, you look deep into my eyes, asking me for permission one last time. I nod and lift my hips to offer myself to you. You take me.

As we lie spent in each other’s arms a few hours later, you whisper into my ear, “I won’t let you go. Ever.”