On Loving and Losing Weekends

I recently read the meandering meditations of Rebecca Solnit in her book A Field Guide To Getting Lost. A set of personal essays seeking the meaning of being lost, losing valued places, people and times, and on the sense of being lost in thoughts as well, the book was perfect bed time reading. What does one lose when we sleep? Apparently, during REM sleep our body is temporarily paralyzed which is why we do not move in reality even when we might move in our dream. We are truly lost to ourselves in the night-time, perhaps in a dark cavity filled with symbolism— of desires, dreams, fears and ambitions. What else could explain dreams? Weekends are, I think, the night-times at the weekly level.


It has been a little more than a year since I began my PhD research. Delving into the most darkest dystopias for my research, I have a newfound appreciation for everything simple and bright. How absolutely wonderful that we still have trees! Sunlight! Rain! To think that there could be worlds where there are incessant acid rains, surrogate slaves and a constantly spying government, or a perpetual motion machine that goes around a frozen world, is now just – work. When you take up a long-term project such as this, it is inevitable that it creeps into your time outside work, as well. I have found myself wondering about a possibility or an idea, even a brainwave that restructured an entire chapter, when I am least expecting it– such as in the middle of the night or when I am folding laundry. That is the process.


One day off a week is a useful system when doing a PhD. This has mostly meant that I am losing my weekends to research. One could argue that the post-pandemic flexibility in work timings has made it rather common for weekends to not be the relaxing time they once were. Given that weekends are indeed social constructs, it is only realistic that a global pandemic could also erase the social emphasis on weekends, just as it did with the expectation of working in offices. Could it be that we are witnessing the end of weekends? Or, is it just me?


As a child, weekends for me meant time spent at my ancestral home with grandparents and cousins. Every Friday evening, my parents would drive my sister and me to my father’s house in rural Kerala, a one hour drive away from the mild bustle of Calicut city. My grandfather, adamant as he still is, would open the gate himself and our car would be parked. My grandmother would insist that I wear at least a necklace, or that my sister wear a bindi. My grandfather would ask about school. After the cursory tea and seasonal snacks, my sister and I would slip away to my cousins’ house next door to announce our arrival.


Growing up, visiting my relatives meant being back in the thick of the action. There would be political arguments between my uncles and my grandfather, heated discussion on what someone implied at a recent social event, a nostalgic foray about the past and some quiet afternoon siestas. Those weekends were what I looked forward to after long weeks at school. During the summer, there would be extended time spent with my grandparents. My cousins and I would be busy building our little makeshift hut in the backyard. It was our private hangout complete with a mini-fan, a mirror and some magazines. The perfect getaway from the adults.
By the time I was in high school, these visits began to get harder to schedule. I had weekend tuitions and my sister had her dance classes. My cousins seem to grow quite rapidly during our time away. Weekends were now already a semi-free time with extra demands from school. But that also came with excitement in tuition classes and other events. In college at Buffalo, weekends meant trips to get Indian food. The best haunt was a Pakistani restaurant called Zaiqa with excellent naan sprinkled with sesame seeds. It was on the way to Niagara Falls which meant my friends and I also visited the tourist haunt every other weekend. I consider myself lucky to witness the roaring majesty of the waters of Niagara, to hear it thunder down. You always hear it first before you see it.


Now, weekends are just time to catch up on chores. To do laundry. To plan meals. To order groceries. To buy cat treats. To cook fancier dishes. To read just for pleasure.


Maybe I already lost my weekends to adulthood even before research happened. Or maybe it all just happened at the same time.


But is it not hopeful that for centuries now, humans have just collectively agreed to have two days off a week from work? I know there are exceptions – obviously – but it just says something about humanity that we follow this norm across cultures. It is simply indicative of our collective need to rest. To recuperate. To just be.


I hope this is not the beginning of losing weekends. I like to think that back home there are kids playing cricket on the grounds and closer to Leeds, families having picnics out in the parks. I like to think that some child somewhere is excited to visit their cousins during the weekend. That some teacher somewhere is glad to take a hike and get away from the classroom. I also like to think that at some point, I would enjoy my weekends just as they are, chores and all. I hope you do too.

Today is a Prose Day

Today feels like a prose day. What runs in my veins, what shines before my eyes, a monolith of silence can only be interpreted by sentences, not poetic lines. These sentences are as different from lines as tadpoles are different from silkworms. Tadpoles grow into something; silkworms stay as they are. Both, interesting organisms in the cosmos.

I want to reflect on this week – one of those weeks, where nothing particularly interesting happened on the larger scale of things, but small things changed and therefore changes happened. For example, I finished a teen show called “Never Have I Ever” on Netflix. I don’t know why. It stereotypes the Indian-American experience to the degree where I was rolling my eyes non-stop. But I stuck through. I also watched “Behind the Curve”, a Netflix documentary about Flat Earth conspiracy theorists. I want to say that it opened my eyes to something, but most of the arguments seemed pseudoscientific to me. I think the patronizing attitude some scientists took towards these flat-earthers – that they were potential scientists that fell through the crack – seemed the most interesting to me. Have I been close to falling through the cracks? Or has my privilege, in terms of pills or therapy, always stopped me from going completely cuckoo? What makes me think that any of this is real, after all? Maybe we all are living in a terrarium and not a globe; who knows?

Next week is the Induction for my PhD program beginning at Leeds Beckett University. As you could probably sense, I’m losing my mind trying to stay steady. But I think its okay to be nervous and excited. This is a new chapter; a whole new experience awaiting on the other side. I have two expectations from life as I go through this new chapter – one, that my mind does not play tricks with me as it did a few months ago; two, that I go through this experience with an awareness of all the resources that can help me. These two expectations, or lowkey prayers I am sending out to the universe, contains everything I fear, everything I have buried deep into my psyche, everything I do not want to remember.

Some day I will write about losing my mind. That day is not today.

To happy beginnings and finding new arenas of pleasure. 😊

PhD Admission and other Life Updates

Been a while since I posted anything on here. It’s been a busy time, with the devil-year ending and bringing with it some good news. I secured PhD admission at Leeds Beckett University, UK and is currently in the process of the tedious visa application journey. It is hectic to say the least.

While the initial excitement has died down, (read: waking up thinking “we’re moving to Leeds”) I still find myself looking up Quora posts on PhD life, and Instagram photos of snowclad Leeds. While its too early to say when the move might actually happen, thanks to the new COVID-19 strain in the UK, it is reasonable to expect a February in Yorkshire, as one of my proud and overjoyed former Professor put it.

I would love to elaborate on what I want to be working on, but this blog post might not do justice to the topic. I am still reading around the topic and hoping to gather some kind of foundational basis on the subject, than make a fool of myself in front of my guide. I am also prone to 4 am anxiety, resulting in an hour-long early morning reading and then a guilty, yet satisfied return to bed for more sleep. This has been life for the past two weeks.

In other news, my book launch with The Quarantine Train is scheduled to happen this Sunday, January 10th at 6 PM. Will be posting more details on social media soon.

I have also begun using the Alicia Souza planner, which is bringing me unreasonable joy for a 20-something year old. It has all those cutesy stickers that should not, logically, make someone happy, but want to throw up and yet, its good to have some colour and joy in life. I’d recommend TinyChange planner though – it’s the best one I’ve used.

Qissa Issue 1 and the Literary Lacuna

Those who are following me on IG might know of the publication of Qissa Issue 1 yesterday. A 65-page first issue sets high standards with poetry, fiction and non-fiction in both English and Malayalam. I am so glad that the editorial team was able to pull off this first issue. We were supposed to have it out by November 15th, which was the internal deadline; in spite of the delay, I think the issue turned out very well indeed.

The story of the birth of Qissa is a short one. It arose from the realization that there isn’t a literary magazine that meets the needs of bilingual Malayali readers on the digital level and at a global scale. As I envisioned the literary magazine to be firmly rooted in the Malabar culture, I was determined that it could not simply be a Malayali magazine. It needed a global audience; it needed a global, inclusive outlook. The editorial team, a bunch of great ladies, agreed with me. Sukanya Shaji with her fierce politics and snappy attitude is a great Fiction editor. Aiswarya Sanath and Lakshmi Prabha handle the Non-fiction section with a comfort that comes from being in academia for long. Poetry was the natural choice for me as I’m comfortable with it, any day, compared to poetry.

When we put out the Call for Submissions we did not expect to receive as many submissions as we did. I’d like to thank Inklette Magazine for helping us spread the word in the initial stages. Surprisingly, we received submissions from a demographic I never looked at in relation to creative writing and that was the Dubai Malayali demographic. The writings, filled with “marunaadan” nostalgia was agreeably cliched, but an integral part of the kind of writing we were looking for. We also received submissions that treated topics of caste and sexuality in open, inclusive ways. It turned out to be a mature issue when we began receiving the art that went with it.

What really stood out for me in this issue was the cover photo by Muhammed Sajid. When I came across it on IG I knew it was the perfect fit for the inaugural issue of Qissa. Thanks to the generosity of the artist, we could agree on the same.

At the end of the day, I am thankful to the writers who submitted and the followers on IG who make us feel hopeful about the next issue.

To many more to come.

Writing and Teaching with Mental Health Issues

On the days that I get out of bed late, poetry comes by so easily pouring from the crevices of my mind onto the page. But on some days, like today, when I have woken up in the morning, taken a shower and sat back to write, prose comes uncalled. It is this uneasy distinction between both that I think defines each of them. Poetry arises like some intercranial glue, a waning moonlight that shines onto the page unwillingly, involuntarily; prose writes itself like the borders of a country after war, defines itself in neater terms and takes shape willingly. I keep this distinction in mind and tuck it away for future reference. It is what, in my head, defines my work.

Ever since I left traditional office jobs to accommodate my mental health and emotional well-being, I have been thinking more about the nature of work itself. It is important to note here that in my last teaching job, I suffered like no other person, from high levels of anxiety and a crippling depression that resulted in not having enough numbers to go on to teach for a second year. I could not get out of the bed five days in a row, for two weeks straight. It was as simple as that. While working, I experienced spurts of energy that let me type like a maniac, but when I wasn’t working, I was a blue human under a blue quilt. That blue quilt still remains in my life as a token of all the suffering I underwent during those days.

The signs of suffering from mental health issues are numerous. You tend to go glassy-eyed. You do not tend to register the goings on around you, you numb out. Later, I would realise that these symptoms were also mixed with the side effects of the medicines I was taking at the time, that it was all not me. I remember crying about taking medicines itself; why did I have to go through that? Was there a reason I was suffering from all this?

The truth is, even when I got the job at the prestigious Department of English at St. Joseph’s College, Bangalore I was unwell, and hardly reading/writing enough to do my job well. I took it upon myself to get better while on the job. This not only made matters worse, but built a bad reputation among colleagues. I was perennially the sick one, the absent one. The truth is, that it was my first tryst with mental health issues, and Bangalore being Bangalore had seen a lot worse before me. They tolerated me, like I was a necessary evil, even showed kindness when I hardly expected it. But they could hardly be expected to keep me going for more than a year when my numbers did not show how well I was doing towards the end of the second semester. I even had some wonderful classes that I will remember, but my teaching was not to last. It was a demanding job, including syllabus-making and college-level teaching, but it was a great introduction into the real world after the bubble of University of Hyderabad.

Where does poetry and prose come into all this? Poetry and all kinds of writing had deserted me when this episode came about. I was roaming the world, taking walks and trying too hard to birth that moonlight, but it just was not happening. It was only months later, when I started feeling like myself that poetry appeared. And yet, I was writing – academic writing with no soul, only facts and interpretations. When poetry appeared again, I was a mess, a recovering mess. It came with the rush of suffering, with tears, with so much sadness.

Prose still took time. I was not able to articulate what I felt, even after. I remember crying to my then-boyfriend, now-husband that I was a medicine-taking maniac who could not control her talents anymore. I remember asking my younger sister for advice on teaching. I remember my therapist telling me that I face the second greatest fear of humans – public speaking – everyday with gusto and that I should be proud. It did not feel that way. My students were alternatively kind, sometimes rude, sometimes helpful, sometimes uncaring, as students are wont to be. I remember almost every single one of them and would probably be teased or ignored even now for everything I blurted out in class. It was not a good time, but I can look back and say that I made it through that storm.

Teaching and writing with anxiety could have been better. I could have been more honest with my students for what I was going through. I could not, because I experienced a misplaced sense of burden to behave and act like a teacher, and was nervous like any first-time college professor. But in the end, I am left with the regret that I did not share my burdens with them, even as I know that there might have been one or two, I could have identified with or saved from similar worries. This is what it feels like to teach with mental health issues. This post is late by months, even years, but I’m glad to get it out there. Peace.