Poornima Manco

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Wrinkles and Pimples

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Was working with a colleague recently, and we were comparing skin woes. Funnily enough, for ladies of a certain age, we bemoaned the fact that while the wrinkles were certainly developing, along with the grey hair and the middle age spread, we hadn’t shaken off the demon of puberty – acne! Now, for most people, pimples are associated with youth, and that awkward stage where you are all gangly limbs and raging hormones. Where do we fit into that spectrum then?

I have tried it all- from medication to topical creams and cleansers to going cold turkey on sugar and fried food. Nothing seems to work permanently. Unfortunately, all that it does, is erode is one’s self esteem. And how much of a woman’s self esteem is tied up with her appearance!

Ageing is a battle we fight daily. All too often I have heard women complain how, once they get to a certain age, they seem to become invisible. All that supposed wisdom one acquires with age is all but ignored, in favour of the nubile delights of a twenty something. Even cultures where age and wisdom were once venerated, are seeing an emergence of the cult of worshipping at the altar of youth.

It is no wonder then that women turn to the more radical forms of re invention. Surgery. Botox. Fillers. Anything to halt the relentless march of time across their bodies. As a twenty something, I had little patience for it. It seemed amusing almost to see them scrabbling for space amongst their younger rivals. I would look at Hollywood actors who had lost all mobility in their faces, and wonder at the desperation it took, to nullify the very thing that gave credence to their craft.

Now, however, I view them almost sympathetically. I understand this need to hold on, at whatever cost, to their departing youth. To prolong their shelf life, so to speak.

Ironically however, and I have always believed this, the fact that you have had “work” done, almost instantly does age you. It puts you in the category of “having needed it” and therefore certainly over the hill. Most tryingly also, it makes you a clone of yourself. And of countless others. Notice how, all surgical wonders and Botoxed beauties have a certain similarity to their look. Whither the individuality then?

So, even as I stare into the mirror, and rue the pimples, the lack of elasticity to my skin, the fading attractiveness of my face, I remind myself to cherish the lines that have sprung up. These are the wrinkles I have accrued over time. They are a map to my life. My own singular journey. And while, I may not dance in joy to see them multiply, I take a quiet pride in them. For I have earned these. And I refuse to wipe them out.

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The Memorial

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We happened to be in New York for Christmas. After the loss of his father, my husband wanted to be far far away from home and all the reminders that Christmas would bring, of happy family times spent together. So we decided that a visit to the Big Apple was in order.

Ironically, however, it brought home to me the memory of another loss.

Our room overlooked the 9/11 Memorial. They are now twin reflecting pools, nearly an acre in size, featuring large manmade waterfalls, and sitting within the footprints of where the Twin Towers once stood. My daughters were curious about them, standing as they were amidst all the sky scrapers and the construction that surrounded these pools of serenity. I gave them a broad overview of what had happened, sparing them the horror of the carnage, the sheer scale of devastation, the disbelief of watching these buildings collapse upon themselves.

Certain events in History have a way of etching themselves into one’s mind forever. Every generation has its seminal moment. People talk about where they were when Kennedy was assassinated, or when they heard of Elvis’ death. 9/11 is another one of those instances. I remember being at the US embassy in London, renewing my visa. Back in the day, it was straight forward enough. There was a token nod to security. Key fobs and mobile phones were allowed in. How soon all that was to change.

My overriding memory though, is of being at my friend’s, and her getting a call from the US, saying, “Switch on the Television!!”. It was just after lunch, a little after 2pm in the UK. Our mouths fell open as we watched the first plane hit the Tower, and then shortly after, the second follow suit. Was it an accident, we wondered. Who could have done this? Why?? Then, as the blaze ate through the innards of these imposing buildings, and they started to crumble, our shock turned to disbelief! The aftermath of those events have been documented well enough. Yet, in that instant, that particular moment, we all felt a shift. A certain knowing that somehow the world had turned on its axis, and things would never be the same again.

I visited the site in December 2001, with some colleagues. We were given access with our id’s. It was still too recent a catastrophe to completely absorb the impact it would have in the years to come. Three months on, there was still an acrid smell of burnt metal and flesh that shrouded the area. We did not visit it as a curiosity. We visited it as a shrine. To pay homage to our fallen colleagues, who had woken up that day to go to work, with no idea that they would never return. We had stood there in silence, holding hands, our heads bowed, an avalanche of unexplained feelings rushing through us.

Twelve years on, I stood in my room on the 18th floor, with a birds eye view of the Memorial. There were queues of tourists snaking around, waiting their turn to walk about , read the names inscribed, exclaim over the events of that day. I looked down upon those beautiful pools of water, and felt the same sadness I had felt all those years ago.

Innocent lives lost to what avail? How many more 9/11’s will it take before we wake up to the realisation that terrorism is not the answer?

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Frape and the debate thereof

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This blog post arose from a funny experience I had last week.  Having been justifiably busy with the run up to Christmas, I was jotting a few random thoughts on my laptop, in the hope of fleshing it out into a blog post later. The thoughts were a jumble on fidelity, constancy, marriage, partners etc. This had been triggered by an interesting discussion I had had the previous day with some old school friends about soul mates.

Needless to say, the ideas were still amorphous, and the post in its absolute infancy. At this point, I did, what no thinking individual should do, with a teenager around.

I left my laptop unattended.

A few hours later, I found the following addendum:

Usually, you may find that that only happens in stories or ‘happily ever afters’ however that is not always true. I have pledged my life to another, a great being who understands me: he just gets me, if you know what I mean. He is my soul-mate, my other half, the one. I have pledged my life to him trusting him with everything, even me and my soulllllll. Thank you, thank you for being such a passionate and loving man. 

I have dedicated this wonderful love paragraph to MIKE ! Thanks babe for being there to feed me all the time (would be nice if u cut down a bit tho ;)). I love you no-matter what and you will always remain my hubby, you are one of the coolest soul-mates a woman could ever ask for. Thank you xxxxxxxxxx

 tehehehehehehehhe mummy like my creative writing?????

I had the biggest belly laugh upon reading this! Immediately I thought about the times I had seen my friends being “fraped” on Facebook. Their statuses being hijacked by mischief mongering sisters, husbands,children or friends.

I wondered if there was a blogging equivalent of the term, and went in search of it.

Wow! Did I open a can of worms?! While never entirely comfortable with the word Frape, I had just assumed it was another one of the teenage slang terminology that circulated for a while, became a part of the lexicon, promptly lost it’s edginess and was dropped just as quick by the aforementioned teens.

However, I had much to learn.

Frape is, of course, a combination of the words Facebook and rape. A violation of privacy, and of status.

Rape however, is no joking matter. By including it quite as widely in our daily usage, are we trivialising what is essentially a beastly attack upon another human being? Feminists seem to think so. And to be fair, I am not too far from agreeing with them.

Words like “Ho”, “Bitch”, “Nigger” lose their shock value over time. They become mainstream. And therein lies the danger.

Reams have been written about gangsta rap and it’s objectification of women and perpetration of violence against them.  Can Frape, a word that carries connotations of violation and abuse be the first step towards legitimising another cowardly misogynistic attitude?

One could argue it both ways, and people have.

However, as a woman, and as a mother to two young, impressionable girls, I choose hereon to NOT use this term. Vilifying it gives it the importance it does not deserve. Ignore it, relegate it to a store of bad taste verbs, and hope that the teens out there are way too smart to let it dictate their code of conduct.

In the meantime, however, sign off and shut that laptop!

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Comfort Zones

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I’ve come across this drawing a few places now. Facebook, Instagram, social media seems to love the simple message it conveys. But is the message really that simple? Dig deep and it is a big ask. How many of us are willing to leave our comfort zones? After all, haven’t we earned this space. Haven’t we clawed our way towards what is, essentially, what defines us now?

As children, even as teenagers or young adults, the world is one that glimmers with the promise of new adventures. Our horizons at the time, are ever expanding. There is little or no fear in exploration of the unknown. There is a belief that one can pick oneself up, dust oneself off, and start again. With age, as cynicism sets in, optimism retreats to a lonely corner. We become adept at defining our parameters. We start to cotton wool our nests. Risk taking? What’s that? The extent of one’s adventurous spirit becomes confined to perhaps trying out a new spirit.

Yet, how does one grow unless one moves or gets shoved out, of that comfort zone?

I remember, years ago, being introduced to marathon running by a friend. For a non runner, this seemed to be an insurmountable task. Still, I forced myself to grab the opportunity. I won’t deny that it was a slog. All the hours I put in, the loneliness of running and having just one’s own thoughts for company, the injuries I sustained along the way. Crossing that finish line was one of the best feelings I have ever experienced in my life. The sheer exhilaration of knowing what my body, but more importantly, my mind, could do, has stayed with me all along.And that’s what it’s about.

Learning who you are, what you’re made of and how much you can push yourself.

So try it. A bite at a time, and life will be so much more rewarding at the end of it all.

A Final Farewell

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The urn is heavy as I attempt to tip it over the parapet of the bridge. The ash flies out of it in spurts. I am scared I will drop it, and hand it back quickly. I watch bits of the ash catch the light and glint like graphite. It falls and merges with the swift flowing water beneath. Element joining element.

This is it. This is where we all end. Whether in soil or in water, in fire or in ether.

All of a person’s life; his joys, his sorrows, his upheavals,his successes are contained in this urn. And once emptied, the urn is cast aside. Life continues. Yet one has just ended.

A circle that carries on ad infinitum.

We head to the temple to pray for the departed soul. Later, the lunch that is served is simple but nutritious. The priest ticks my daughter off for letting the scarf slide off her head. She is nine. All at once, I am in the moment, ready to challenge his pugnacious authority. I check myself. This too shall pass.

The evening prayers are held in a different temple. We are in a small antechamber. I lean back against the wall, and let the priest’s melodious voice wash over me. The Shabd are beautiful. They talk of life, of life hereafter, of being in the service of God, and accepting His will. A calm descends upon me. With a certainty, the origin of which I cannot determine, I know that all is well. Our time on earth, limited as it is, is a very small part of a very long journey. Someday, I will meld into the unknown too. The thought doesn’t frighten me anymore.

I bid a silent adieu to the departed one, and in my heart, create a special corner that will house all the memories that made his time on Earth special to us. That is his legacy. One that I am glad to be a recipient of.

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Incapacitated

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It has been two, nearly three weeks that I have been incapacitated with a back injury. From being in acute agony, to being in relative discomfort, it has been an illuminating journey.

I am not a stranger to ill health. However, I have always been the one standing outside, looking in. Never having suffered from any major chronic complaints myself (touchwood), it has always been an experience once removed. I have seen suffering, incapacity, hospitalisation and death, all caused by various kinds of disease. It has not been the most pleasant thing to watch. Ironically, though, I have lived in a bubble, thinking that none of it is ever going to touch me.

Don’t most of us take our bodies for granted, just a little bit? How often do we stuff that extra slice of cake down, or finish that bottle of wine, or blow off the much needed exercise? Our bodies are amazing mechanisms, but they need an equal amount of love and care lavished on them. Too often, we are chasing our own tails to realise that none of it will be possible without a fully functioning, healthy body.

Which brings me to the point of where does the mind come into play? We have had an extremely stressful time of it, in the last few months. Instinctively, I feel this has contributed to my injury and subsequent incapacitation. Mainstream medicine has accepted how powerful the mind is. In my case, it has literally broken my back. It has forced me to slow down, take stock, introspect and most importantly, let go.

As I am mending my body and my mind, I have reconnected with people I have not seen or spoken to, in years. I have had the time to laugh a little, cry a little and live a lot. So, these three weeks have not been wasted. If anything, they have taught me the lesson of living in the moment. For it is ‘this’ moment that counts. Not the one that has passed, or the one that may or may not arrive.

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