Poornima Manco

Author

Poornima Manco

Two things

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As a writer, it is but natural that I overthink stuff. However, two things have struck me as particularly worthy of some navel-gazing.

First, the importance of communication. The number of times I have fallen prey to miscommunication, misunderstanding and misinterpretation are too many to recount. The one thing that I have learnt in every instance is that nothing solves a problem like a good face-to-face chat. Not over the telephone or WhatsApp or any other social media platforms. Face-to-face, where atmosphere, body language, facial expressions, everything comes into play. Why? Because as humans, unless we are presented with all the evidence, we are most likely to jump to the worst conclusion there is. Perhaps it’s the survival instinct that is hard-wired into us through evolution, whereby every unusual situation is automatically categorised as ‘threatening’ unless proven otherwise.

But what if the other party is unwilling to come to the table for a discussion? What if their default mode is retreat and a cutting off of all ties?

Two of my friends are in this situation. One, confused, hurt and perplexed. The other, cold, remote and unapproachable. What could be so awful, so unforgiveable, that a long friendship is needlessly sacrificed at the altar of ego, anger or crossed wires? Surely, if things are hashed out in a neutral location where both parties can voice their anger, hurt and necessary explanations, there could be some mutual agreement on how to proceed further. Whether that’s prolonging or cutting short the relationship, isn’t that the more reasonable/sensible/adult approach?

A lesson I have learned the hard way, and at much personal cost.

The second thing I have been pondering is the price of success.

As a nascent author, I’m constantly immersing myself in the world of craft, writing and marketing. I read a lot of posts of people who are doing exceedingly well in this business, often earning seven figures a year, churning out book after book, month after month, with very little downtime. I admit to feeling a twinge of envy, because, yes, I’d very much like to taste that kind of success too. But at what cost?

At the moment, I consider myself a step above a hobbyist writer, but several steps below a careerist writer. I really enjoy what I do, but I don’t do it to some relentless rhythm that doesn’t allow me to enjoy other aspects of my life. To be clear, I am not dissing the authors who are passionate, committed and willing to work all the hours in a day to accomplish their goals. I’m just not one of them.

I have a day job that I enjoy, and this is a passion that I’m pursuing at a rather languid pace. Because, above all else, I want to carry on loving writing, without it becoming some kind of treadmill I’m huffing and puffing on, in pursuit of somebody else’s goal post.

Success has many definitions, and it is important to identify your own before feeling that you’re constantly falling short.

Communication and Success. These were the two things I wanted to talk about today. What are your thoughts on this? I’d love to know.

So little

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There was a time

When every word

That dropped from your lips

Was a little bit of heaven

 

When your presence

In this world

Was enough

To guarantee happiness

 

There was a time

When I waited

Breathlessly

For you to enter a room

 

But that was before

I knew

How little

I meant to you

 

There was a time

When I changed myself

To be

More like you

 

When all that mattered

Was your approval

Your smile

Your glance

 

There was a time

When everyone else

Paled into insignificance

Beside you

 

But that was before

I knew

How little

I meant to you

 

Today I move on

Without looking back

Without shedding another tear

Over a wasted love

 

Now there are only

Memories that fade

Sepia-toned

Into the recesses of my mind

 

Here I stand

A little broken

A lot stronger

Much much wiser

 

For if love

Only meant

Worshipping at your altar

Then you are no God to me

 

Because

Your arrogance

Your ignorance

Your indifference

 

Merely curdled

All that was

Warm loving

And good

 

As I walk away

From those wasted years

Of adoration

I realise…

 

You matter so little to me now.

*********************************

The value of self-esteem

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I’ve often talked about the ill effects of social media – the addiction, the need for outside validation, the mental health issues, the ‘all that glitters isn’t gold’ aspect etc. But recently I stumbled upon yet another disturbing trend. Young girls filming/photographing themselves in their underwear/bikinis purportedly to support a body-positive movement.

Now, I’m a strong advocate of women of all ages and sizes being comfortable in their own skin, and I will shout it from rooftops if need be. I believe that every woman should have the right to wear what she wants, as long as she is comfortable with the sort of attention it attracts. However, flaunting one’s body on a public platform to elicit the approval of strangers, is where I draw the line.

Firstly, there is the safety aspect of it. How can one monitor who is watching/downloading these pictures? Where are these pictures being circulated? How are they being perceived? Secondly, there is the sleaze factor. To a young woman, body acceptance by way of photographing herself may seem to be progressive and life-enhancing, to the two-bit scumbag salivating over them, it’s just another way to jerk off. Sorry about the imagery! But there is no other way to spell it out clearly.

What has happened to our social fabric where it has become perfectly acceptable to derive one’s self-worth from the most shallow of sources? Yes, it’s wonderful to be young and beautiful and to enjoy the spring of one’s lifetime. But if acceptance of one’s self hinges on what other people think, then what happens when that body changes through life, childbirth, disease, accident or ageing?

Isn’t it time that we taught our children that self-worth and self-esteem need stronger roots than just body acceptance? Values such as humility, charity, empathy and forgiveness, character traits such as determination, resilience, patience and fortitude, are purer sources of self-love than any amount of pouting and preening before a camera lens can be.

Healthy self-esteem needs a healthy wellspring, and that can only come from working upon what lies inside. Yes, outside packaging matters, but only up to a point. If you unwrap a beautiful parcel and find it filled with junk, what are you likely to do?

The pitfalls of social media are well documented, but the insidious nature of its erosion of our children’s values and self-worth will have far-reaching consequences unless we start to combat it now. But first, we need to turn that mirror towards ourselves and look at where we are investing our time and teachings. It isn’t too late to steer our children away from conversations about their bodies, to conversations about their minds and souls. Perhaps then, they will realise that the value of self-esteem is far greater than the cost of self-doubt.

A good life

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“She lived a good, long life.”

When someone dies at ninety-four, you tend to hear this refrain. As though good and long are interchangeable, longevity standing in for joy and fulfilment. As though the very act of having survived for over nine decades is remarkable in itself and death as a consequence seems to be just a footnote.

But what if that long life wasn’t a particularly happy one? What if it was fraught with unimaginable tragedy and loss? Would it still be considered a good one?

 

A woman, orphaned young, brought up by a maternal uncle and his family, not treated well by her aunt with no recourse except an early marriage to a young pharmacist with a promising future. Great start, right? Just when things are looking up and when life seems to be settling into a happy pattern, a division occurs – the partitioning of a nation, the cleaving of land, a clumsy attempt to separate a country by religious belief, asked for by the citizens and granted by the retreating former rulers. Caught up in the tides of her times, she has to leave everything behind, carrying her infant son and escaping with her husband’s family to the Hindu nation of India, all of their lands and properties being absorbed into Pakistan. A refugee, she learns to survive on little, adjusting to a diminished present, but grateful to be alive when so many others perished at the hands of their own brethren. Now life can finally start to get better.

It does, for a while. A decade or so of a happy married life, two more children and she can finally exhale and put her past difficulties behind her. Or, can she?

Losing her husband to a brain haemorrhage before she even turns forty brings her right back to where she started. Except that now she has three children to provide for, one of whom is barely five years old. Once again, with characteristic stoicism and fortitude, she submits to her destiny. She takes up sewing jobs, alterations and tailoring, whatever it takes to make ends meet. She allows her brother-in-law to run the pharmacy in her husband’s stead, hoping that someday her young sons will be able to step in.

Two of her sons stand like rocks beside her, throughout her life. The third betrays her.

Together with the uncle, he cheats and embezzles. An arranged marriage brings an ambitious and shrewd young woman into the family, who wishes to better her own prospects at the cost of all others. Together, the trio tries to usurp all the assets but are foiled at the very last minute. A long court case ensues in which the youngest son tries to get his mother imprisoned, furious at being denied his entitlement.

Estranged from her son and his family, she lives out the rest of her years with quiet dignity, adding this privation to the ledger of losses she has stacked up her entire life. Her other two sons stand by her, through thick and thin and that is the only saving grace in a lifetime beset by misery and misfortune.

Does this sound like a movie? Or a novel? It could be, with all its twists and turns and convoluted plot lines. Except that it isn’t.

 

This is the very real story of my paternal grandmother. A woman whose life was filled with suffering and pain. Never one to complain, she withstood every storm that was sent her way, trying her best to stay strong and uphold the ideals of her generation. She was not a particularly educated woman, but her knowledge of home remedies was next to none with people coming from far and wide to consult with her. Always willing to provide a listening ear or a helping hand, her wisdom came out of her own lived experiences, not out of books.

A lady who favoured plain saris, little jewellery and had her hair pulled back in a bun, her simplicity was her best adornment. Skin like alabaster, she was a classic beauty, completely unaware of and unconcerned about her looks. Outside packaging mattered very little to her and through her the lesson of learning to appreciate what lies within percolated down to me.

In the last decade or so, she had become a prisoner in her own body, her faculties slowly starting to fail her. Unable to see or hear, there was always a dreamy, contemplative look on her face when we visited her. At first, she could tell who it was by touching our hands or our faces, greeting us with a contained joy. Slowly that tapered off too. On my last visit in January, it was clear to me that she didn’t have long.

She left at 1458 hours on Tuesday, the 18th of August. There were just three people at her cremation, two of them her sons and one a kindly neighbour. In Covid days, it was a quiet and unassuming funeral, much like the lady herself.

 

We enter and exit this world alone. In all the time that we spend on this earth, we accumulate family, friends, material possessions, lands and riches. We do good and bad, we create, we destroy and we try to leave some sort of legacy behind. One that declares that we were here and that we led a good life.

But what constitutes a good life?

Is it one that is full to the brim with happy experiences, an easy and comfortable existence, or is it one that forges you into gold by throwing you into fire repeatedly, refining and purifying you each and every time?

If it is the latter, then yes, she had a good life. In her ninety-odd years, she might not have accumulated much by way of wealth, but the love and the loyalty of her two sons were worth more than all the riches of the world. Her legacy, such as it is, is the deep respect, regard and love that we feel towards her. In mourning her passing, I feel not just the loss of a grandmother, but of an age and an era that I will never encounter again. They do not make them like her anymore. ❤️

 

Obsession

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Then there is that dimple in your shoulder, the one that my finger touches repeatedly, dipping in and out. In and out. At other times, it is your gap-toothed smile that catches my attention, a tunnel into that full-bodied laugh. Your hair, a curtain – thick, dark and heavy like the forests of our past. Your smell, like the sea – salty and full of secrets. My hand traces the curve of your stomach, lined by life and children. My eyes try to peer inside your soul. Each time we meet, I rediscover you. Only to lose you once again.

Invisible

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Am I invisible

Because I am old?

Does my grey hair, my wrinkles, my painful joints

Deny me the wisdom of my years?

 

When I was young

You saw me

My hair was like spun gold

My body agile, fertile

 

But my mind was impetuous

Uninformed

Feckless

Reckless

 

Yet, housed as it was

In that body

You listened

You heard

 

Now I know

So much more

Life has taught me

Patience, gratitude, forbearance

 

I could tell you to

Slow down

Take a breath

Think a bit

 

That life is

Accumulated

Through moments that pass

Much too quickly

 

That being present

For yourself

For those you love

Is the most important task

 

That sometimes difficult days

Are given to us as an exam

To teach and test

And pass we will

 

That boredom is

The providence

Of the very fortunate

As is leisure

 

That failure

Is far better

More virtuous

Than regret

 

Would you listen though?

Or, would my words

Pass through you

Like milk through a sieve

 

Has age no meaning

Years no gravitas

Experience no value

Sagacity no usefulness?

 

Because here I sit

In a crowd

Of young ones

And no one hears my voice.