Poornima Manco

Author

Body

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.

Balance, patience, perspective

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Lately, I’ve been unable to begin any blog post without referring to the Coronavirus that’s affecting our daily living. Who amongst us remains untouched by it in some form or the other? Unprecedented times see us hunkered down in our homes, our only weapon against this insidious virus being social distancing, and no one knows how long this will last and what sort of world we will encounter as and when this is finally over.

But I’m only telling you what you know already!

Today I want to talk about something different, but really related to this time as well. For years, I’d been wanting to return to yoga. The last time I’d practised yoga was in 1998 and that too for a very short while. I remember my yoga teacher being a lovely redhead, perhaps in her 50’s, quite large, but incredibly flexible and very patient with newbies like me. As a twenty-something, I’d come to yoga out of curiosity. In my heart I prized other forms of exercise over it, believing it to be too slow for my young body and wanting the challenge of something more aerobic, something that made me sweat and strain and transformed me visibly. For the seven months that I went to my Thursday yoga classes, I didn’t not enjoy them, but maybe, didn’t take away quite what I was supposed to. When my mother died, overcome by grief, I dropped everything including yoga. And then, inexplicably, I never went back to it.

Well, twenty-two years later, I have returned. In all those years of living and growing, pounding pavements in marathons, jumping up and down in various classes, somewhere within me there started to emerge a yearning for something more soothing, more nurturing for my body and soul. With the lockdown in place, this was an opportune time to return to the yoga I had abandoned all those years ago. This time, all I have is an iPad, a youtube channel and a determination to practise as often as I can. You see, this time I’m no twenty-something limber young woman chomping at the bit. Not only am I older and wiser, but I am also far less flexible and far more life and weather-beaten than before. Yoga is the cradle of comfort I take this rather battered body to as often as I can.

People far more articulate than me have elucidated the benefits of yoga, so I won’t do that here. I will, however, tell you about the little discoveries that I have made. Never the most patient of people, yoga has taught me that nothing can be rushed. There is a time and place for everything. My wanting to plant my heels on the ground in my downward facing dog didn’t happen overnight, my calves were not flexible enough, to begin with. With time, regular practice and patience, I have improved incrementally enough to have miraculously done it yesterday! A tiny, tiny improvement but one that I am immensely proud of, because it has taught me not just what my body is capable of, but also that I must apply this lesson to my life too. I cannot expect instantaneous results, I have to work my way towards them.

Similarly, balance is something we all strive for, whether it is a work-life one or whether it is in our temperament and our response to what life flings at us. I struggle with my tree pose, unable to plant my foot sufficiently high up on my opposing thigh. Yet, yoga teaches me that it is finding the balance between the opposing forces, setting my eyes upon one spot and breathing deeply that can help me stand rooted, tall and firm as a tree. Tell me that isn’t a lesson we can apply to our daily living too?

Finally, even as I struggle with the more advanced positions in yoga, I can’t help but look back and see how far I have come from those early days. If I put in the work, where might I be in a month, a year, ten years? Perspective, after all, is a point of view, and a point of view is determined by where you are standing at any given point in time. 

For those of us who are struggling with the uncertainty of our lives and futures, take a deep breath, find the patience to get through this time and remember, nothing lasts forever. Not even a ruddy virus!

 

The bane of body shaming

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“You’ve gained weight,no?”

A cousin of my husband’s stated this gleefully, looking at me for agreement. She wanted me to say yes and look ashamed, as I had done many times before in the years gone by.

You see, I have had a peculiar relationship with my body. I have gained and lost weight multiple times in the course of my forty odd years on this planet. Each time I’ve lost weight, I’ve felt wonderful, as though I’ve conquered Mount Everest. Each time I’ve gained weight, I’ve beaten myself up internally, seeing it as a failure at the most basic level – my inability to overcome my appetite, my greed, my love of food. So, it is no wonder that people looking for my Achilles heel have zeroed in on this and hoped that a snide comment or a ‘concerned’ suggestion might trigger the reaction they are looking for.

My relationship with food and my body go back a long, long way to my childhood. My mother was, for a period of time, severely obese, triggering that corrosive disease, diabetes, in her. Consequently, she drummed it into my head that being overweight was a state to be avoided at all cost, if I wanted to stay healthy and disease free. Her suffering became my cautionary tale.

My entry into aviation was another reason to stay trim. After all, in the glamorous world of flying, who wanted to see a fat flight attendant? Vanity and a fear of ill health have, more or less, kept me within my ideal weight range. But it hasn’t been without its share of pitfalls and heartburn.

I am not naturally a slim person. My Malayali genes along with my Punjabi appetite is a lethal combination when it comes to maintaining my figure. I wax and I wane, pretty much like the moon of my name (Poornima means a ‘full moon night’).

Lately, I have been waxing more. Whether that is because I am heading towards peri-menopause, or whether that’s because I honestly can’t be bothered to put in the effort into dieting and exercise, I don’t know. What I DO know is that it’s nobody’s business what size I am.

I said as much to this ‘well-meaning’ sister-in-law. As you can imagine, that went down like a lead balloon. Instead of being fat shamed, I had responded by saying that people’s opinions on my body bothered me not a jot! Even as she stuttered and stammered, I felt liberated.

At long last I was in a place where even if I wasn’t the slimmest person in the room, I was happy and comfortable in my skin.

My body, this wonderful body, that has taken me through life, given me two babies and stayed healthy despite the deprivation and abuse I’ve subjected it to, isn’t my foe. It needs love and nurturing, and regardless of what anyone else might think of it, I will give it just that.

My Cup Runneth Over…

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I started my Guest Blog month in the hope that at least 50% of the people I had contacted for articles (people whose thoughts, lives and words I admired) would get back to me with some material. In actual fact, nearly 80% did! Yes I did pester and harangue them quite a bit (SORRY!) but my goodness, the response! I am humbled, grateful and overwhelmed beyond description.

My month overran, once again, like last time. But I didn’t mind and nor did my readers. It’s refreshing to come to a blog and read something new and unexpected. And boy, were the articles different and the topics varied!

André chronicled his unusual life and path in My unlikely journey to fatherhood. It was honest, heartfelt and emotionally uplifting. The response to his article was phenomenal. People reached out to tell him (and me) how much they admired him for his choices. His love for his children and their mothers shone like a beacon, and I hope it allowed other seemingly unlikely candidates to believe that they too can be mothers and fathers. After all, families come in all shapes and guises. It is love that holds them together.

The ghost in the office was Shantanu’s retelling of a mysterious series of events that occurred in one of his early offices. Does the supernatural exist? For a practical and rational person like Shantanu, nothing can explain away the incident he mentions. Spooky and eerie, sometimes there are things that are beyond the realm of our understanding, and maybe it’s best to leave them as is. What did you make of it?

Diya had a cushy existence till she decided to take the plunge and start teaching a group of underprivileged children in My rendezvous with God’s angels. What she found there was more rewarding than she could have ever expected. Their innocence, their eagerness to learn, their love for their teacher transformed her life. She learned to let go of the petty annoyances that plagued her, and immerse herself in giving back. To this day, it enriches her life in ways big and small.

Making mosaics became more than a hobby for Jyoti. It was an unconventional choice of craft and she encountered more than her fair share of problems, from the paucity of tools to the reluctance of other practitioners to share their skills. As a result, she started her own blog with the aim of helping other beginners and amateurs to source materials, tools and provide guidance in the process as well. Not only does she create the most beautiful mosaics, but also believes in the adage – ‘Gaining knowledge, is the first step to wisdom. Sharing it, is the first step to humanity.’ In Why do I make mosaics? Jyoti’s passion, humanity and humility shine through. She is an incredibly inspirational lady.

The Call of a Siren was an article sent to me by someone who wished to remain anonymous. If you’ve read the article, you will know why. The beauty of it is that this man has turned his life around from that lapse of judgement he details, and today he is an incredibly successful entrepreneur. He is also an avid reader and dabbles in the occasional bit of writing. It was my exhorting him to put pen to paper that created this thrilling recounting of an incident from his 20’s. I’m sure you’d agree that it reads like an episode from an exciting television series. My own heart was thumping as I read it for the first time! My friend, if you’re reading this, write more. You do have a gift.

HeartonWheels is Jeanne’s raison d’etre. She spends half her life in these refugee camps in Greece helping children overcome the trauma of escaping from war torn countries and being separated from their families. In extremely difficult conditions, she tries to fill their lives with laughter and with joy. This is not just a part time job for her, it is a calling. She is invested physically, mentally and emotionally in the well being of her charges. Her dream is to provide free education to all children in such conditions and through her mobile bus, which she is raising funds for, she hopes to realise this dream. Do have a read and contribute to her justgiving page if you can.

To say that Mohana has had an interesting life would be an understatement. A straight A student, who, for many years let her academic qualifications dictate the course of her life, then suddenly, on what seemed like a whim, let her art and talent take her on an entirely different journey. Yet, in her article, Life’s Nudges to Eke an Untrodden Path, Mohana explains how the seeds of this journey had been planted many years ago. The daughter of a renowned dancer, Mohana herself was an exceptionally talented danseuse. But it took many years, and many tiny hints from the Universe for her to realise where her true path lay. Unapologetically spiritual, she incorporates elements of her faith in her dance. There is an unalloyed joy that she transmits to her students through her teaching, that elevates her dance from the ordinary to the extraordinary.

Bharat is a writer I admire immensely. His grasp on the English language is breathtaking. He can bend, twist, transmogrify and transmute words into astonishing combinations of sentences, transporting the reader into worlds where these words dance and twirl around one like whirling dervishes. A man whose imagination is so fertile, so fecund that he can trot out poem after poem without breaking a sweat. Yet, a self confessed procrastinator, it took me close to a year to get him to write about his Vipassana experience. For a man of words, how strange it must have been to have none for ten days. A retreat that is a true test of one’s mettle, but also a retreat that helps one to delve deeper into the self. Bharat’s take on it is part humorous, but there is an underlying awe and a deep love and respect for humanity that comes through. A tale of two beards is more than just about beards, it is about man’s search for meaning and silence in a world that grows louder and more chaotic each day.

Finally, the poignant and heart wrenching The Bus Stop was Joan’s tribute to her mother who suffered from Alzheimers for several years before succumbing to it. Disease of any kind strips the body of its well being and dignity, but Alzheimers strips the mind of everything. To not know oneself, one’s own life forgotten, one’s family becoming strangers, must be a horribly scary and isolating experience. Joan’s poem gives words to the wordless. It is an insight into a lost and wandering mind, trying to find its bearings, trying to grasp fruitlessly at memories that are slipping away. ‘Am I a lost article?’ is what her mother asked her once. Maybe we all are, lost in one way or another. But to be lost to oneself… what could be worse than that?

My Guest Blog month hasn’t quite ended. A colleague, the extremely intelligent, erudite, politically astute, deep thinking Joke Brunt is working on a series of articles on Brexit for me. The month of May will be devoted to her take on what Brexit stands for, and what the ramifications will be, to those of us on both sides of the fence. Do keep reading, keep commenting and stay engaged!

A very BIG thank you to all of my contributors once again.

The pencil test

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Yesterday

I put a pencil under my breasts

and when it didn’t fall and roll away

I cried

For in the teen magazine it said that meant my boobs weren’t perky enough

 

Today

I casually stick a pencil in my hair to keep my bun in place

and examine my breasts in the mirror

They sag a bit

But

they are not diseased

and they’ve been the receptacles of milk and love

they’ve fed my children

 

Yesterday

My legs

those skinny legs

those hairy legs

so disproportionate to the rest of me

how I hated them!

 

Today

those same legs have carried me

through life

through marathons

on hills and plains

through scary by lanes

I love them

 

Yesterday

my small hands

those stubby fingers

those grubby nails

those myriad lines on my palms

were not artistic enough

 

Today

they remind me

of my mother’s hands

mottled and aged

roughened with work

I see her in them

and find them beautiful

 

Yesterday

My nose was too big

my forehead too broad

my cheeks too chubby

my skin too brown

 

Today

I have lines

and wrinkles (and grey hair too)

a testimony to my past

to laughter and tears

a life well lived

 

Yesterday

I jumped

I ran

I swam

to get

washboard abs

 

Today

I have a rounded belly

a network of stretch marks

all over it

for it housed my babies

and carried them safely

how can I complain?

 

Yesterday

that pencil that didn’t roll away

told me

that I would never be as beautiful

as the girls in the magazines

 

Today

I realise

No one is.

 

Get your Streak on

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I stumble in my heels, mentally cursing my choice of footwear. These shoes are not made for walking aimlessly around Regent’s Park, trying to locate a gaggle of naked women. My phone rings, and it’s Becca, concerned and distracted at the same time. “Where are you? Wait- I’m just getting painted. Yes, yes, walk towards the fountain with the urns at the bottom.”

As Regent’s Park contains various fountains, it takes me a while to locate this particular one. Forty minutes later, I see an orange arm wave out to me from behind a bush. Then a leg emerges, and then, all of Becca emerges, grinning broadly at me. “You made it!” We air kiss, and she waves off the bemused bystanders with a shrug. She is in a bikini, painted orange from top to toe, completely unfazed.

She leads me to the rest of the group. Conny beams up at me through the eyelashes being painted on her. Jonny is sponging orange paint on Ali’s bum, Sheina is getting a full frontal paint job while Reggi is having her legs striped. Teresa sways over to me, a slinky tigress in a black dress. I can almost hear her purr. “Welcome darling! So glad you could join us.” I chortle amiably. There’s no way I could have missed this.

Many months ago, I nearly did. When this audacious scheme first originated in Becca’s mind (as they invariably do), I was amongst the invitees. Fancy running naked through the zoo with us? A shudder went through me, and I very politely declined. Naked. With body paint. In front of strangers. In a zoo. Nightmare scenario.

Yet, as the months went by, and the charitable contributions poured in, and the Facebook posts got wilder and more exciting, a part of me felt like this was something special. Something different, and interesting, and brave. I wanted a part of it. Even if it was just as a bystander. So here I was, imbibing the Prosecco, and photographing women in various states of undress.

It’s not everyday that you see naked women being painted in a park. Understandably there are many many curious looks. Most people look, and then look away. A few looks linger, a few voyeurs linger even longer. Some take up permanent residence in the tall grass in the distance. A small child stands dumbstruck half a mile away. The music is blaring and then Tiger Feet comes on.

Ali starts dancing. Sheina joins in. Then the rest. They dance in tandem. Some in kaftans, some completely starkers. I snap away, infected by the joyous energy of the group.

We munch on cocktail sausages and crisps. Drink lukewarm bubbles. Swap stories and laugh the afternoon away. Each lady is beautiful and unique and amazing in her own way. They are all different shapes and sizes. The one thing they have in common is a body confidence that is wondrous to behold. Emboldened by each other, dedicated to raising funds for this worthy cause, they do not allow any body anxiety to get in the way of having a marvellous day.

Ali semi squats in front of Helen sans her scanties. Now her bottom bits are being embellished. Slap slap the brush slaps on black paint. Ali winks at me. Such sangfroid. I’m nearly jealous, but rapidly realise that I definitely do not want my parts on display. Such courage I do not have. I resume my role of observer/reporter with relief. Time’s ticking and I indicate to the girls that perhaps we’d better make tracks towards the zoo. A rapid clear up ensues.

Tails and paws emerge. Our tigresses are well and truly ready to streak. But first they must gently trot towards the zoo. Displaying phenomenal feline grace, they hoist their backpacks and pull along their cases. The Prosecco has added a sparkle to the proceedings, and as I bring up the rear, I see them being accosted by the paparazzi. “Ladies, ladies…this way. Pose. Smile. Roar. Claws out.” For added effect, Sheina drops her wrap and gives them an eyeful. This is what sexy looks like! They are still picking their jaws off the floor, while we collect our wristbands and enter the premises.

There are around 200 runners, and roughly about that many spectators. The run is only 350 meters, but it is a streak, and from what little we’ve glimpsed of some of the other runners, some haven’t even bothered with the paint.

There are banners lining the path with cheeky slogans like ‘Llamas rarely wear Pyjamas’ and ‘Ants don’t wear Pants, and neither do You’. Nudity is de rigeur, and much like at a nudist beach, its the ones in clothes that stick out like sore thumbs.

While waiting for the race to begin, the four of us supporters/helpers, sit and chat with one another. We talk about conservation, of the delicate eco-system balances that are being disrupted world over, by raging development, callous culling and complete extermination of certain species. Each animal has its rightful place in the food chain, and contributes to it in so many known and unknown ways. Removing it from the chain affects every link, and ultimately causes an imbalance that affects all of us.

Critically Endangered and present nowhere else in the world, the Sumatran tiger is one of those species most vulnerable to the social and economic changes currently occurring in Indonesia. After Critically Endangered, the next level on the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species is Extinct in the Wild. The next and final category is Extinct. The ZSL’s work in Indonesia is focusing on developing sustainable livelihoods for the local communities, protecting peat forests from destruction and countering poaching activities and resolving conflicts betweens tigers and humans.

“Would you do something like this?”, asks Helen. “Perhaps next year”, answers Michelle,”Yes, I think I would now”. I am reticent. We discuss body issues. How few there are on the Continent, and how riddled we are by them here in the UK. I am no prude but acutely conscious of my shortcomings. Could I do something like this? I’m still pondering it when the announcement that the race is beginning comes on.

We wait in excited anticipation. The curtain goes up and with a roar of approval from the spectators, the naked runners streak past us. Some have cute paw prints all over them, some have nothing but a tiger mask on their faces, others are painted as tigers too. But our girls lead the charge. Seven beautiful, glorious, brave women storm ahead, paws pounding, tails swinging behind them, radiant, laughing, glowing. Ali’s magnificent breasts defying gravity. Jonny’s perky bottom, swaying in rhythm to the music. They wave as they go around. Then come around again and again.

We yell, we scream, we take pictures and laugh. A runner catches our eye and comes over to pose with us. He puts his arm around me, wearing not a stitch but a smile. “Looks like you’ve pulled!”, Michelle whispers conspiratorially, giggling. I laugh and whoop as one runner does his eighth turn, and another runs by with a frame around his naked torso. I’m surrounded by boobs,butts and schlongs, and it suddenly occurs to me that to the animals, we must be the ridiculous species, covering ourselves up with bits of cloth.

At long last it’s over. The runners and spectators are shepherded towards the enclosure of the twin tiger cubs, born in June this year. They can see first hand how their contribution is helping protect this species last numbered at around 300. I bid my lovely tigresses goodbye, and head home.

My Whatsapp is saturated with messages the next morning. The girls are all over the papers, and online news. They are fizzing over with excitement and pride at a job well done.

What’s more touching, however, is the unspoken bond that they have forged through this experience. A madcap exploit that will have them chuckling well into their twilight years.

Postscript: The girls have raised over £3000 with the number still rising.For anyone wishing to contribute, please visit:

www.justgiving.com/fundraising/FlyingTigers