https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky daily 0.75 2019-09-27 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxxv-mama-mia-here-we-go-again-my-my-how monthly 0.5 2018-05-18 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734350826-STPXXY5GSFVR0AWM5H4D/tumblr_p8wet7r4Gb1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXXV. Mama mia, Here [We] Go Again- my, my, how can I resist you? My mother is my worst enemy- let it be known. Let it be known that I love the outdoors. I love being outdoors. There is nothing worse than rain and snow to impede my mission of spending time outside. I have always loved cardio, exercises to make me warm up because I never did sweat. I loved the high of a quickened heart beat and rosy cheeks, no pore-clogging blush necessary. Still, limiting myself to a treadmill was something I never subjected myself to by choice. Since my anorexia diagnosis, and energy expending movement prohibited, my mother has decidedly become disordered herself. Sure, she is not underweight, but she no longer eats any aromatic food, any fast food, or ethnic foods that even she grew up with. She guards her portions and looks at calories and serving sizes before ingredients. She purchased a treadmill and despite an unfinished basement, had an electrical outlet installed to hook up the machine. She cannot go a day without exercising and blames me for preventing her from working out. She takes off on days when everyone is at work so she can go downstairs in the basement, without the arguments that inevitably occur if I’m at home. This week I am at home, and while I think it is the perfect time to accomplish tasks for my career goals or to rest up for recovery, it is also raining. I am tempted to go on the treadmill, but don’t want to sabotage myself. So I asked her to take off one rainy day when I am at home instead of her designated days when I am at work. She reluctantly agreed. Yesterday, after running my errands we got home late and she didn’t have a chance to do her yoga. With malcontent, she told me that she would not only do her yoga but also go on the treadmill tomorrow, while I’m at home. Little did she know that just a few hours prior I had confessed proudly to my father that I asked her to stay at home so I wouldn’t go on the treadmill - I was moving forward with my recovery. And here she was, sticking it to me. Every time I take steps forward, she brings me backwards. She attended the National Eating Disorder Association Walk with me a couple of weeks ago. The head specialist in Long Island, and one of the best in the world, described exactly what I was experiencing and said that the condition was undoubtedly genetic. I cried and she cradled me in her arms in an attempt to meet onlookers’ expectations, looking around with concern that others would see my contorted face and tears streaming down. I thought she understood what I was going through but instead, she and my father banter back and forth over which genetic pool was to blame before the blame inevitably falls on me. We argued yesterday over her exercise pursuits after she consumed two “extra thin” slices of cheese between two slices of bread and some shrouds of basil, sipping on a Coke Zero. She said she would go in to work and take off Friday - that was her intention all along. I woke up this morning, after she had gone into work. I walked to Starbucks, stomach uncomfortably full from the night before, with rain boots on, my knobby knees knocking each other as I had difficulty walking with my backpack- breakfast packed- and laptop weighing down my shoulder. After sitting for about 2 hours, I thought I could perhaps beat the rainfall, and decided to walk with all of my belongings for as long as I could before going home. The treadmill would always be there. It was already drizzling and the winds had already picked up, but I continued on. In pain and distress, two hours later, I returned home. But before then I had called my mother- trying to decipher how the day would pan out, and if she still held a grudge. Let it be known that I purposely ventured out early today because I had a feeling she would take off early from work to exercise, dipping into my time alone. She came off cold, but that wasn’t at all out of normalcy. I came home, my hair destroyed because of the rain. So I washed it - which I never do on Wednesday - she does. As soon as I came out of the shower, the phone rang and her cell number popped up. I knew it then, she had left her workplace earlier and sure enough, she was on the platform and would arrive by 2 pm. I had not eaten yet- a big lunch I planned, regret setting in. She asked if my appointment I had scheduled for 3:15 but was planning on canceling, was canceled yet. I responded that it wasn’t, and since she was coming early would keep it. She came home without so much as eye contact, changed into pajamas and when I said the appointment was soon, a smirk appeared on her face with pleasure. “So- you can go yourself. I’m not going out. You made me go into work so you wouldn’t have to see me work out. Well now you’re going to see me work out- or you can go out yourself.” I am pretty sure my mouth hung open in sheer shock. She smiled. All that is evil had to have been consecrated in her one being. I had bent over backwards the weeks between her birthday and Mother’s Day- mani/pedis, a limited edition cookbook she would never open, earrings she already hated, pastries, a day out at a fancy lunch which she refused to eat because of comparison to my salad. She ordered a strawberry mascarpone pancake, threw out the mascarpone and maple syrup that she usually orders two of. “I would have ordered a salad too,” she said, and left her food untouched, egging me to eat my own. The anxiety leading up to that lunch with just the two of us was a longtime coming - so much so that my bowels were completely blocked and doctor-diagnosed anxiety-induced diarrhea occurred. Do I hate my mother? No. Do I love her? On some level, yes, I love her immensely. I love her more than I do myself. I love her supple skin, her always refreshing scent, her robust and toned body, her mama bear stretch marks so perfectly imperfect, her ability to straighten her naturally curly hair- unbeknownst to most- the old-fashioned way resulting in the silkiest of locks, her ability to pull together a look worth the most basic of clothing items: a solid t-shirt, jeans, and a puffer vest. I love how photogenic she is. I love her sheer femininity defined: her natural lack of body hair. I love her ability to wake up without hesitation no matter the time, her willingness to do the laundry, wash the dishes, and sweep all at once. I love and hate all of this. I hate her personality. I hate her lack of sentimentality. I hate her insistent need to blame others’ preference for their mother tongue as a personal attack against her. I hate her ignorance. I hate her unwillingness to pronounce eastern names and words the way they should be. Love her or hate her, my father is correct in the text message he sent me yesterday. It read, “Keep your cool with your mom. She is your best friend. Everyone has different personalities, but they can still be your best friend. We are not clones of each other.” I wish he had not sent me that text, softening me when I was high on a mad tirade. But today, with my washed hair and the fact that it is rainy outside, I thought of her exercising and ended up on the treadmill, hating my life all the while. I hated the fact that I had to urinate, but did not want to get off. I hated the fact that I had to defalcate as well. I hated the fact that I grew anxious after the fact and having not eaten enough, successfully scared myself into eating more, but was and still am, hours later, uncomfortably full and abdomen distended, bowels not yet emptied. Tomorrow I have to work early and she has the day off. I have to make sure to sneak my body weight exercises that make me feel better about her working out later in the day, in the wee hours of the morning before anyone is awake. I have to cope with the fact that she will restrict her eating and go on the treadmill tomorrow as well as perform yoga, while I’m still at work. I hate her for this, I truly do. I try to devise a way to stay out after my job so as to walk, but I know I will be tired, if she comes to pick me up, she may catch me walking because she leaves over an hour earlier to places 20 minutes away. I hate that habit of hers. I hate that she won’t eat lunch before picking me up but I will have already eaten. What do I do? My mind is running a thousand miles a minute. I have to empty my bowels before eating my weight in evening snacks. I have to go to bed early to force myself to do some body weight moves at 3 am, sneaking downstairs onto the rug that will deafen any floor creaks. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxix-all-in-good-taste-pictured-one-of monthly 0.5 2017-07-20 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734350827-0H9LL1VU73OI2ZHXBND0/tumblr_otebfw8QEk1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXIX. All in Good Taste - *Pictured: One of Rei Kawakubo’s installation at The MET’s Costume Institute exhibition, Comme Des Garçons. That moment: you glance at the upper right-hand corner of your iPhone and your eyebrows furrow. The battery life is dwindling down, and now you have to ration your use of it until a charger or an outlet becomes available. The battery isn’t so low, but you know you will use it up in no time. And then it dawned on me: I find that amount of battery life to be too low and yet the number is higher than how much I weigh on the scale. Scary times we live in - I live in, isn’t it? I’m at odds for what to do. I’m seeing a fork in the road. I’m seeing twigs stemming from a single branch. I’m taking a double take. I need a second opinion. I am a Gemini. My mind is flummoxed. I want to yell and scream at the world. Why did this happen to me? Why do people say that I did it to myself? I want to eat more, but every time I’m about to, something happens. I get a terrible cramp in my side, I’m uncomfortably constipated, or my darling mother wills herself to workout and not eat breakfast or lunch just to spite me and to feel better about herself for the discipline it took- a character trait that landed me here in eating disorder land. I want to will myself into not being phased by her antics, but I can’t shake it off. I can’t shake off that memory of me wearing the black A-line scoop neck shirt with the striped net panel as the back that she decided to wear today. I cannot ignore the flashback of having worn the drapery shirt on more than one occasion. I was complimented whenever I wore it. I can’t shake off that memory of having gone to a local ethnic market in Philadelphia during college, bending ever so slightly to pull out money from my wallet and then catching the cashier attempt to score a glimpse of my delicate décolletage - It was ever since that moment that I had decided to give the coveted shirt to my mother. Moments like those, when I attracted unwanted male attention, made me feel unsavory and vulgar, in no part due to anything I had done, but it didn’t feel that way. What I would do to endure catcalls again than have to remain circling endlessly around my house, trying to stave off fullness and get in some movement. What I would do to not feel forced to wake up before dawn daily, just so I can squeeze in some time to move before I am monitored. I used to think that the car was my refuge. It was my rocking chair that lulled me into a peaceful slumber. The truth is, my body is exhausted and sitting in a moving car forces me to stay still and gives me some much-needed respite. It was the same during college, when I was sleep-deprived for more valid reasons. Or rather, more socially acceptable reasons - to study, to dance, to earn a degree - body and mind, correct? During those times I would fall asleep anywhere - on the couch in the living room when I came home and of course, whenever I was in the car. My parents would find it sweet to see their baby girl drift off into her dream world. This is no longer the case. They reprimand my tendency to fall asleep in the car. I’m boring now, they say. I need to sleep “normally,” at home and in bed for at least 8 hours. Everything I do is considered abnormal now. I was always considered a hipster before the popularization of the word, or as my father says, “not part of the mainstream.” He seems to think that he should have put a stop to my uniqueness in how I approached everything from putting a vent underneath my laptop to prevent it from overheating, to scowling at men with wandering eyes and setting up rules like not stopping my run on the treadmill until the person next to me had finished first. In some ways he had a point: I always created rules for myself, like some sort of disciplinary boot camp as way to achieve self-actualization, perfection, that would just make things more difficult for myself and less “happy.” As a child, I would give myself conditions, loops that I had to jump through, in order to get at something I wanted: Don’t step on any cracks when walking down the sidewalk, for example. It wasn’t a game. It was an obstacle course. You can imagine the frustration at skipping a beat and stepping on the lines during chalked up hopscotch. I had to be as close to perfection as possible. I never would swear, as in curse. I was considered a “goody two shoes,” back in grade and middle school. Turns out my peers who I still keep in touch with really respected that trait. Now I throw shit to the wind and swear “like a sailor.” Here’s to actually throwing shit to the wind - to eating more and reclaiming a metabolism, an appetite, and life. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/mean-girl-pictured-a-museum-exhibit-on monthly 0.5 2017-08-02 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734350827-KYIANQOABDV1FYKL2FHL/tumblr_ou2vs34oyT1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) Mean Girl - Pictured: A museum exhibit on Barbie, a quintessential feminine identity that fractures the female population, that I visited in Paris, April 2016. I have never seen the movie, Mean Girls. I don’t want to either. I remember in high school, the vice principal - aptly named “vice” as opposed to virtue, had announced over the loudspeaker that a Burn Book was passing around, the vicious contents of which would not be tolerated. I caught a glimpse of the girl with ripped Abercrombie jeans and a tight crop top that somehow made it past school security’s roving eyes. She was smirking and looked at the other Eastern European girl in their clique. All that said, they were always nice to me and everyone else actually. The truth was, they were mean to each other. It was a vicious incestuous crowd. They were their own best friends and own worst enemies.The scenario was also too reminiscent of the phrase, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. In high school, we were not permitted to wear footwear without backs, or slip-ons. Skirts couldn’t be shorter than the length of our extended arms and fingertips when placed by our side. The consequences were dismal: demerits, detention, suspension - the list goes on. I attended a strict selective school where taking classical Hebrew, Latin, or Greek was mandatory and physical education was taught by a national black belt karate champion. Think Chilton from Gilmore Girls. This past Sunday, I was down. My mental space was filled with negativity. I felt upset about the hurdles and roadblocks life had hurled at me, flung at me, giving my emaciated body a dose of whiplash that made my head spin and ears ring - literally. Although the ringing has lessened since I have remained home bound and eat more, circulation is still not up to par as it would be with one who isn’t so underweight and doesn’t have anorexia. I was arguing with everyone at home and when we went outside, I had no desire to be around them, but knew that they were my only means of venturing into the sunlight. I was crying silently, sneaking a minute here and there to wail audibly in the parking lot of the shop they went in. It was like I was a chain smoker- addicted to that need to let it all out, alone, because who could understand? Addicted to that need to feel the air and the outside world; not to be shunned by car emitted, store and home controlled-air conditioning. Addiction is unhealthy. You may be thinking that the addiction to enjoying natural elements and not burdening another human with my profound sadness by letting it all out, is healthy. These actions are certainly not destructive. But the idea of them being addictive, happening repeatedly, is negative. I shouldn’t be forced to sneak in a minute outdoors. I should spend anytime I want outdoors, without having to check my watch or look over my shoulder, or ensure that I don’t purposely walk at a speed walker’s pace to burn off calories when I need to be consuming a good thousand more calories than I do to gain weight. I shouldn’t be crying, feeling down, and grimacing at the unfairness of having an eating disorder that took away my life as my friends get engaged, married, move up the career ladder, become athletes, and travel. I’m addicted, it seems, to believing that I am not deserving of anything. How I wish to feel that sensation of coming home after a long day out, at work. I remember giving myself spa days at home. I remember allowing myself to watch television to unwind or a movie. I am in silence all day instead and my feet are bruised more than they ever had been when I was actively dancing for over 40 hours a week. I’m addicted to projecting into others the self-care and self-love I want and do deserve despite not having an income and only focusing on my health. This Sunday, I gifted to the person who was giving me hell from morning till dusk, even into the next day, and for many days before and after, a manicure and pedicure spa treatment. If there is one luxury I absolutely love and fully believe to be worth it, it is a pedicure. That soothing feeling of exfoliated legs, microbeads caressing ravaged pores and dry skin from shaving, bubbly warm water bouncing effervecently around my toes and jet streams of tepid waves molding around my foot beds, make me swoon. Instead of allowing myself to experience that, I gave it to someone else, who I believe, didn’t deserve it. I went above and beyond, took the manicurist on the side and said to make sure to take care of her. I emptied the contents of my wallet for an upgraded mani-pedi with gel nail lacquer and a lemon peel. I asked myself why I did that, feeling a rush of jealousy and anger directed at myself. After some internal dialogues, i answered, “I projected what I wanted for myself onto someone else, because I am undeserving.” I don’t deserve a pedicure. It’s not like I travel to and from home or that I am consumed by work. It’s not like I dance for hours or pursue academia. I’m only working towards my health- recovery. That word is loaded. Recovery connotes something positive and desired, but it comes with a load of discomfort and struggle. I constantly cradle back and forth on a fulcrum. I voluntarily make a 3-hour-long feast for my parents’ dinner, forcing myself not to move around. I feel my veins pulling all over my body and though I know what it is, each and every time I fear for my life at the sensation and start to eat as if I would suddenly become weight-restored, only to feel full and immense regret thereafter. She’s a mean girl, and I am too. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxxiiia-month-from-tomorrow-its-that monthly 0.5 2017-12-02 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734350822-BIXRPGNMZPRQ7H7ZH74O/tumblr_p0bzt249Iw1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXXIII.A Month From Tomorrow - It’s that moment when I allow myself to “lose control.” I eat my weight in all-Natural nut butter in the evening and early morning hours. That moment when my bowels are so backed up and my caloric intake so high, that night sweats set in when during the daytime hours, my low-body weight makes me susceptible to feeling chills, and having painful gashes from cracking dry skin, exacerbated by late fall elements. I wake up at 5 on the Sunday morning of Thanksgiving weekend, feeling all at once regretful, proud, without anxiety from not having eaten enough but also anxiety from having eaten too much. I come downstairs with a plan: eat regularly scheduled breakfast early on, have the remnants of nut butter that I should have had for lunch anyway but without the accompanying Icelandic Skyr and granola. Then, have a light dinner- falling below the caloric intake I should be consuming - something egg-centric. Eggs are my comfort food - carb-absent lean protein with satiating fat from a decadent runny yolk. Then watermelon and continue on as if nothing had transpired last night and this morning. I’m trying to undo that which can’t be undone. But just as we cannot achieve perfection, we similarly can come close to achieving something. I have begun to embrace recovery which is mainly a disguise for “gaining weight.” I am trying to show myself grace. I have taken on my first real job- minimum wage - but it is my form of self-care. I am in high fashion. I am around aesthetically beautiful things all day long and am viewed as a reflection of these things. I am thought of as beautiful and I feel somewhat beautiful as well despite all the feelings of fat and possibly flab that may develop with recovery from anorexia. Before work, I lay out my outfit on my bed, color and pattern coordinating separates, scarves, kerchiefs, shawls, and purses, socks and shoes. I spray my discontinued, tracked down Jo Malone fragrance in Saffron, it’s intensity kept safely in a dark black bottle that I was hell-bent on saving. I swab on my lips my Yves Saint Laurent lip stains instead of my CoverGirl products. I have shopped more than ever, investing in high-quality pieces. I am showing myself self-love. I am attempting to feel good about myself in spite of the disgust and grotesque feeling for having eaten as much as I have, for finally gaining a smidgen of weight, with a good 30 pounds left to go. I light a Blueberry Sugar candle to offset the remnants of my nut butter binge. I try to walk in circles around my kitchen and dining room, attempting to side step creaks in the hardwood floors and step in tandem to the generated central heat. Though I am trying to work off something- I’m not trying too hard. I head up to my bedroom and lay out a pin-striped lightweight button-down shirt with “100” embroidered on the chest. I am attempting to feel “100,” and not like crap-how I truly feel. This will be tucked into a pair of gray straight-legged pants that waver between a gray and mauve, and has a tie belt around the waist. Next, I grab my lace gray bra and a striped brief-panty in a blue-gray. I take out a pair of knee-high gray socks. Lastly, after at least 30-minutes of idle, non-caloric burning debriefing with the contents of my closet, I decide on a multicolored floral kerchief to keep wound tightly around my neck- it is in an array of burnt orange amber, navy blue, and white. I am expected to eat more and more each day and move less and less, in turn making me feel less and less worthy of anything. If I could work everyday, I would. If I could stay out of my house, I would. And so I devise a way to stay out longer. I want to leave early so that I can first pick up watermelon for later, then head to the job, possibly pick up coffee to fill me up and generate heat and energy since I’ll be outside and nothing opens until noon. It’s some days later now- I have only had one day off this week and that one day was hell. I took up an extra shift, devised my outfit and spread my charm to whomever I encountered: be it as a personal stylist, a confidante, or a sisterly mentor. I feel part of a sorority at my workplace - everyone older; some ever so slightly and other more so; and one or two younger. And without my period for over two years, or curves, I feel more womanly than ever and I feel like a mentally strong women- one who doesn’t compare or envy, but instead, one who lifts up, supports, recognizes others’ beauty without forgetting my own. Do you have a boyfriend? I was asked by my manager - the one male in the entire company. I replied negatively. He said, “this will be your year- I can feel it,” referring to exactly one month from tomorrow. That will be my year. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxvi-saving-my-daylights-your-groceries monthly 0.5 2017-04-04 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734350848-CQAYKCF2IIOVWHJAC66F/tumblr_onwoqqOw4w1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXVI. Saving My Daylights - “Your groceries scream summer,” I told the lady who let me skip ahead of her on line as I held on tightly to my almost 10 pounds of watermelon for tonight’s consumption. On the conveyor belt were burger patties, sauerkraut, shredded lettuce, strawberries, cheese, a pre-made mayonnaise-based salad, burger buns, and to my dismay, a loaf of Wonder Bread. It was Sunday afternoon and she had plans to clean out her garage and barbecue. It is now late afternoon, almost evening, and the sun is shining brightly. The clouds are interspersed. The sky is a pale blue. Two blonde young women almost run me over while riding their bicycles. There is a gentle breeze that possesses an underlying warmth. It feels pleasant if not slightly unpleasant as my silky almost going on 2-day washed hair periodically blocks my vision. In the air is an underlying chill that is laced with the aromas of barbecue and supper cooking. It is April 2nd and suddenly yesterday’s rain, wind, and chill factor that was exacerbated by cloud coverage, seems like one big cosmic April Fool’s prank. It’s Spring after all. I’m wearing fleece sweatpants, a light-knit scarf that I just remembered having literally purchased from the bazaars of Istanbul some years ago. On my head, covering my ears and successfully keeping my long ringlets at bay, is a slouchy, lightly woven navy blue beanie with a preppy University Of Pennsylvania patch stitched on the front that was purchased just yesterday. It pairs perfectly with my hooded wool button-down shearling-lined navy blue coat. I am tickled blue. Summer, my favorite season, is forthcoming. I can feel it’s eminent presence and yet it’s hopeful distance as I continue to race against the clock to become healthy enough to enjoy it. I have lost track of time and so I rush home, formulating reasons for why I was out (not) walking the entire time. I pass by a Muscle Maker Grill, ironically as I deplete my muscles in the process, and a Texas Roadhouse. The smells wafting from 6 two-way car lanes over are strong, as suspected, for dinner service. My lackluster appetite remains stagnant except for a longing for the black bean soup I purchased for my own dinner in a little over an hour from now. I wanted to take the thinking out of the food equation tonight after yesterday’s laborious preoccupation with calories, carbs, proteins, and lack of motility on a long road trip from Hell. The smells blend in well with the seasonality and extended daylight that I have still not yet come accustomed to. Only a few weeks have passed since Daylight Savings. I inhale deeply, simultaneously pining and revolted. I remember all those barbecues from my childhood; my dad’s fiery orange tandoori rubbed chicken legs, his onion mint chutney with the eternal aftertaste made from our homegrown mint leaves. I remember my mom’s boiled potatoes to be tossed with seasonings and crunchy fritters in a sweet and tangy sauce mellowed out by thinned down and cooling yogurt. I remember the fruit shakes she made that I begged for to be thick and slushy. I remember the pasta she boiled, the starchy steam doing well to make the high temperatures rise even more. I remember my June birthdays and all the neighborhood children flocking for hot dogs my parents decided to buy just for this case scenario. I remember hating the clean-up, and then dozing off into a stomach and memory-filled sleep. Those days are gone, long gone, but it is now a rainy Tuesday morning, April 4th, and I feel at peace knowing that these days are gone. I am ok with it. I had always wanted to move on in the past and I have. Of course, I could have never known that I would develop a life-threatening case of anorexia or that I would enter journalism, the profession that I truly always wanted deep down behind the obsession with medicine. I never knew that I would be jobless a year and a half out of graduate school with my 2nd Ivy League degree. All that said, I will come out better for it. I truly believe that, so long as I do in fact come out of this. I have to come out of this. I will come out of this. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxxiv-long-time-no-see monthly 0.5 2018-05-14 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxvii-hold-the-phone-a-constant-piercing monthly 0.5 2017-06-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734350822-E8FVZYEOAZQJ6SP2L30C/tumblr_or4y65l5nl1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXVII. Hold The Phone: A constant piercing ring that I have become accustomed to but is nonetheless annoying pulsates my ear drum. It is a high-pitched assault on my constantly running stream of thoughts. I considered asking my brother, a surgeon, who could not pinpoint a reason behind the ringing the first time I had heard it. It had come and go and a simple web search confirmed it to be a harmless commonality that affects a sizable population. But I have also been experiencing other symptoms that are alarmingly (no pun intended) similar to the ones I had been feeling 2 years ago before my parents had to take me to the emergency room at 2 am before my 25th birthday. My chest felt heavy, my veins seemed to be constricting, my breathing felt shallow, a tingling sensation raced throughout my body. Oh no. No, this can’t be- but it can. I - I stopped writing this a week ago, today. I had scared myself and couldn’t continue without experiencing extreme unease. I pick up today because the tip of my right index finger is no longer depleted of blood and void of any color except a tinge of yellow. My knees are no longer buckling. My skin doesn’t feel as though it is stretched tightly across my face. In fact, creases are disappearing and making way for cheeks floating up the surface of my face. My hair is growing. Open wounds from unknown sources are closed now and are slowly healing. I do, however, continue to experience a strained walking experience such that my hips jut out a little too much for comfort. Although my blood work came out “normal,” I find myself feeling slightly light-headed at times, off kilter. My head feels heavy and light, all at once for periods of time. Just yesterday, I had this feeling. I have picked up this post again. Update: I fell forward about 6 inches from the top of my house’s’ curved staircase such that my face made full impact with the top step’s edge. I was in shock. A deep red liquid came flooding out through my nostrils. My father called my name upon hearing a large thud, came running, screaming and crying, cursing himself for not coming upstairs earlier as he had planned. My knobby knees were folded underneath me. I had no pants on, revealing my stick-thin spindly legs. A pool of blood formed around me that camouflaged all too well with our maple hardwood floors. My glasses were strewn about and I started screaming. My senses had escaped me and I headed to the Emergency Room. After a vitals check, medical history roundup, catscan, an IV insertion, and a Tetanus shot, I unleashed a bloodcurdling scream while the reconstructive surgeon worked on my nose. This surgeon who also has a daughter who attended the University of Pennsylvania with me, a year my junior, had placed a stint on my nose with the adhesive power of a Biore pore removal strip. He lodged bloody gauze up both nostrils and I was sent home with medications recalibrated for my low weight. I lost so much blood that I feared the worse - a blood transfusion in sight, again, almost 2 years to the day: to my birthday. I returned home, head pounding, heart racing, breathing labored. The next day I was caught working out and all hell broke loose. What is wrong with me? I’m dying, and yet I cannot fathom not working out. The day after, with ultimatums set and fear high, I looked under my left foot- yellow. Shit. I cannot end up in a hospital. Not again. I can’t stay unemployed, homebound, depressed, any longer, watching my life wither away. I ran a web search regarding my yellowing feet that were also so flat it felt difficult to walk. Yellowing feet go hand-in-hand with high liver enzyme levels, which I have: A characteristic of severe anorexia, longer hospitalization, necessary and immediate medical intervention, and an indication of multi organ failure. So, I phone home. I look to old albums and see a dancer, a girl, and adolescent, a budding woman. All I see now is death - an oblong shaped face, too large forehead, markedly dark circles circling my freshly-fractured broken and bruised nose. And I see supermodel, Gigi Hadid, “phone home” as well in Harper Bazaar’s June/July Anniversary issue ; Her cover story editorial spread was shot in Kennedy Space Center. Her arms are full, cylindrical as opposed to carved, and her thighs are curved not cut. Hold the phone. I press the tip of my right index finger onto my earlobes and hear a faint ringing in both ears. Wake Up is calling me, and I am holding the phone. The call hasn’t dropped and I haven’t hung it up. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxxi-let-it-slow-let-it-slow-let-it-slow monthly 0.5 2016-12-18 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734355419-8PF4J8GYIIG9DOEV2JFS/tumblr_oieksgQj8K1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXXI. Let It Slow, Let It Slow, Let It Slow: When it snows, it forces the majority of the population to stay indoors, to cancel plans, and to slow down. It forces many to be in close quarters with others. Company is welcome, but not the one you have. I realize as I type this that I, in this moment, do not appreciate the company that I keep. The truth is, there is so very little to appreciate in the way of this company. They’re all in a foul mood, flipping everyone off left and right and yet I yearn for something else, someone else, but not to live with or necessarily speak with, but just to be around. We’re social animals after all. Enter: The brother, the surgeon. He has 24 hours to be at home before being whisked away in a sheath of white, his white coat. He is someone who is my kin, who I can live with, but is also someone I hardly ever see or converse with. So I stopped what I was doing, in the other wing of the house, away from my parents, to serve my brother food and to chat it up for the duration of his eating. I got my mother to take in an earful, rarely getting out a word from her, while she was having a sorry excuse for a lunch: two pieces of not so much toasted as warmed up toast. I try not to get locked into the comparison trap of what the other woman in the house is eating as compared to what I eat. Although, yesterday was the first time I saw her order off the “lighter menu” at one of those God forsaken chain restaurants she favors and then not even eating half of that. Comparison may not be verbalized, but it sure is internalized against my better judgment. My brother was unsurprisingly quiet, releasing bits and bobs of acknowledgement between swallows and sometimes throwing out his characteristically exasperated, “why” and unflinchingly annoying “I don’t know - you choose.” The white outside is seeping into the crevices of window panes and shutter slits. The brightness had woken me up around 4 in the morning and continued to taunt me until I ultimately got out of bed before 6 am on a Saturday, exactly one week before Christmas Eve. Better for me because I get to mill around the house as some form of cardio before anyone became privy. Not better for me because the lack of routine and hustle on weekends that I hate with an undying passion, feels prolonged. The saving grace is that one-liner from the Bracebridge Dinner episode from Gilmore Girls. I paraphrase: there’s no such thing as a quick minute because a minute is always sixty seconds. Well, the same goes for there being no such thing as a slow day because there is 24 hours in a day for better or worse. But today feels impeccably slow. I just want Monday to come, but that brings a whole slew of other issues. One: I’m closer to having my lone time without partaking in forbidden activities like walking, depleted for about 10 days. Two: The ultimate truth of how much progress or lack thereof I have made in recovery will be revealed. That said, there is a flip side that sidelines positivity and instead focuses on reality, just as with time always being defined by a certain number. I’ll be closer to having the anxiety end and having the time pass until the new year when everyone returns to work. No matter what happens in the doctor’s appointment, it won’t change the fact that this will be how much I weigh and how well my organs function, even if I had not gone to see the doctor. I can’t change nor do I have control over it, so expending any energy on it is to no avail. Just like I cannot change my parents. They will eat or not eat, take off from work or not, and exercise whether or not I like it. Allow this to resonate. Let this slowly sedate your anxiety until it passes. Let this newfound space conquer and fill it with all your hunger, desires, wants and needs. The snow had stopped. The freezing rain too. The temperature has increased by a few degrees, but the damage is done. Sheets of white still cover rooftops and streets still promise to buckle underneath pockets of ice. But time will pass. The more adventurous or rather, impatient citizenry have begun to drive. I can hear the soundtrack of crackling snow underneath tires. They are helping to clear the path for those who deem it impossible to exit the confines of their house. Insert my family here. If only I lived in Manhattan, or on my own, I would have been layered up and out the door hours ago. If only I lived elsewhere, I would not be prone to comparing: cataloging every meal consumed, or not, by my parents, calculating their every calorie, cringing at their every cardio and sculpt exercise. Time will pass. Tomorrow the brother will have left before sunrise, the temperature will have increased by twenty degrees and the rain will pour, effectively wiping out remnants of Saturday’s snow. If only the rain could wash away the emotional detritus. Emotions aren’t solidified concepts. They’re meant to be embraced, could be ignored, but in no way house the truth. And so with time, we’ll be spared of the emotions from now and retrieve a new set. Seasons Tidings. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxvii-friday-night-sweats-saturday-night monthly 0.5 2016-11-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734356515-KKCFKQNEAXL6283HC82L/tumblr_og6cb2lMW31r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXVII. Friday Night Sweats & Saturday Night Fever make for Sunday Night Solace - Excuse me, but have you ever tried this hummus before? It was the first time I went outside all day and it was after 4 p.m. on a Saturday during perfect fall weather. The air was brisk, the sky clear, the sun rays falling universally so that one didn’t have to dodge an extremely cool patch, type of day. The next day, Sunday, I interviewed someone for a story and it was amazing. I was content. I felt my old self emerge, completely drawn into the story and what my subject had to say. I left with a smile and entered into a car that was filled with tears. It was Diwali. I didn’t light any diyas, not even a candle. I didn’t shower until that evening. I never went to temple. I ate something unmemorable. It torrentially rained. I neither distributed nor received any customary confections. There were no calls and no messages. It was like there was a death in the family. To be honest, I felt deadened inside. I didn’t want to celebrate. I did, but I didn’t. I’ve lost my faith. I don’t remember the last time I went to temple or sang/listened to hymns. But I haven’t lost - I cannot pinpoint what it is. That is to say, I overheard my father say he would possibly go to a particularly sacred temple west of India. Growing up we had always planned to make that pilgrimage together, but I am not in the equation. I don’t care, but I do. It’s not like I’m healthy enough to make that trip regardless, but it is what it is. I never was one to not want to live with my parents, but when I see people in their fifties thriving: wearing nice clothes, having to buy new things, working out, going outside even if just for work, eating a salad or sandwich but scowling if I ever mentioned doing any of that… it’s mentally exhausting feeling as though your Lindsay Lohan and everyday feels like a Freaky Friday. As it is, I hate Fridays and the ensuing weekends in which I cannot go out or do anything for fear of my parents. I hate that I feel as though I am 50- not allowed to move around or pick up groceries, and it seems they’re in their twenties. What child hates their parents for living their best? Not me. But I am pissed that I mentioned washing my hair and doing my nails at home yesterday, only to be convinced that I should put it off - again. And then the next morning, lo and behold, my mother washes her hair and does her nails before I wake up. I hate that they woke up earlier than me. I hate that I convinced myself that my body requires more rest and more time in bed- especially my throbbing right knee. I hate that they manipulate me. I hate that I let them do it. I hate that everyone mentions good intentions but I don’t see it. I hate that I sat down to dinner yesterday and caught her make a nasty upturned-lip smirk, confronted her, and then had to hear that I’m crazy and I’m making it up. I wasn’t. But it’s so easy to tag the anorexic as crazy, loony. Like this morning. All hell broke loose. They wanted to go out for bagels. They made that plan yesterday and I was happily not included in it. And then suddenly, I’m asked to go. More like, I’m forced to go, but I don’t want to go out for breakfast. I am full and usually don’t eat until later. They know this. I refuse and I’m once again labeled the anorexic. The crazy psycho person who needs help. I want to be outdoors and leave this hellish house but that means going where they want to go: out to eat or shopping- car, indoors, car. I hate that another beautiful day is gone. I hate that I can’t enjoy the outdoors. I hate everything about my life. I’m writing all of this so that people can know. I want you to know what I am going through. So now they’re staying at home. He’s not eating anything and she ate less than 150 calories’ worth of pie. I would have rather them eat the more caloric bagels. I hate that I fake apologized so they could resume their normal plans of eating said bagels. I hate that they could care less. So here we go again. A weekend of comparisons. I hate weekends and I can’t shake it off. I hate that she told me it’s a long weekend for Veteran’s Day, so now she has off on Friday -again. I hate that it’s only 8 am on Saturday. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxix-youve-got-a-handle-over-this-her monthly 0.5 2016-12-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734356284-FMV1EA323HNVLSP11FGL/tumblr_ohiyhp0Qf11r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXIX. You’ve Got a Handle Over This - Her hands smell of buttery goodness, but her skin is parched- dry and cracking. Auburn desiccated blood outlines the cracks in the skin. I wake up and bake cinnamon streusel muffins. I disregard the “healthy” swaps of egg whites for the eggs, water for oil, and zero-calorie PAM spray for the stick butter that lines the indented muffin tray. I am not going to eat these. Last night, I roasted potatoes and carrots in the oven for my parents and brother. I used my hands to douse them in olive oil, garlic powder, oregano, rosemary, ground black pepper, and salt. The result was a lovely aroma, perfectly textured vegetables - the definition of a roast. I drizzled some more oil on after, just for the hell of it, and then justified doing so by seeing Mario Bartalli do the same on The Chew. I had always wanted to roast vegetables for myself: cauliflower, broccoli, rainbow carrots, asparagus, fennel, and brussel sprouts - but I would have to buy my own true olive oil- cold pressed. I would put a much less amount than that described above and I would have to purchase pink Himalayan sea salt. Also, I would have to eat in bulk to ensure calories. I would have it with a poached egg perhaps, or hummus, but I wouldn’t be privy of calories, and that, for whatever reason, disturbs me. Am I eating too little? Too much? I know there is no such thing as the latter until I put on 20 pounds and even then, there will be no such thing as too much. As I was sprinkling the salt with my bare hands, suddenly they stung horribly. The salt went into the nooks and crannies of my dried skin. I washed my hands but without success. The stinging lingered, and what is worse, is that I am stung even today. “I was going to get that for you for Christmas, for your stocking.” She was referring to a color blocked leather passport holder. I just looked at her. I had no words. I’m not even permitted to walk outside for more than 30 minutes and I sure as hell don’t go anywhere else. What would I do with a passport holder in my possession? It stung. It stung that I, who once had a travel bug, slowly but surely lost all desire to satiate wanderlust, especially without an income. That lack of desire, combined with my need to gain weight, makes it almost impossible to travel. It stings not being able to enjoy returning home at the end of the day because I am at home all day, everyday. It stung that she would even think of gifting me a Passport holder. Please don’t get it for me. It will just make me more depressed. I told her this and then I thought to myself, what an idiot. I can just see myself, pulling out the chic leather accessory from my stocking on Christmas Eve. I have tunnel vision and cancel out those standing around me. I don’t jet-set like the rest of my friends do. They go on spontaneous trips, with minimal luggage, and yet somehow seem to be put together without any worry about expenses. It stung when I was lied to regarding a quote unquote, concerned, relative. It stung that this person didn’t want to be revealed. It stung when my own blood goes behind my back, calling up a confidante, under the auspice of me having given the phone number myself. It stings that I am faulted for everything that goes wrong. Sometimes my hands seem healed. I have forgone that annoying pet peeve of waiting around for cream to dry. I want to honor myself. I want to honor my hands. I remember reading about medical school anatomy lab in Mary Roach’s book, Stiff. The hand was the single piece of anatomy that signaled human emotion. The hand gestures, it comforts, it expresses pride when it pats a back, it’s placed on sacred texts to validate vows, it touches and it feels. It’s tactile. It makes you who you are. I want my hands to be silky smooth. And just when I think my incessant lotion lathering is working, the spaces between my fingers feel as though they are about to wither away. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxxv-this-past-weekend-today-i-went-shopping monthly 0.5 2018-07-17 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734350829-QT7Y5U0KQYE3VQNA9S4D/tumblr_pc0piosrzs1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXXV. This Past Weekend- Today I went shopping - reluctantly. I love spending my days outdoors, amongst the light breeze, in the humidity, rain or shine. And though I cannot tolerate cold temperatures, I seem to thrive under the heat, balmy and dry alike. The former - the humid days - are a newfound treat- perhaps out of the regrowing out of my hair post-fasting state while with with anorexia or perhaps it of my age-acquired experience for knowing how to nourish and care for my hair, that I no longer have to fear humidity’s affect. My hair, at most, develops wild ringlets that soften and straighten out a bit later on after I wound it into a messy bun atop my head while at home. Today I decided on self-care to a small extent: I still got less than 4 hours of sleep in order to sneak in a body weight routine, go up and down the stairs a certain number of times, and do a set of hellish lunges. But this time, I watched television with my mother. I took the time to make my bed and then took a shower in the morning despite not working today. I agreed to a manicure and pedicure first thing in the morning, and ironed my wrinkled denim jumpsuit beforehand instead of slipping on my one time used Stella McCartney for Adidas exercise leggings and a collegiate sweatshirt. I still restricted my eating but I went out of my comfort zone, let curiosity win out, and ate the higher calorie, palm oil and maple sugar-added, roasted instead of raw, cashew butter. This should probably be a snack, but I had it as lunch. I ate my favorite Panera black bean soup, that they, for once, skimped our on the amount of beans and didn’t throw away all of the bread. I have a long way to go from my relapse. But today, my mother and I bonded. She didn’t do her yoga - at least not yet. After all, we were on our feet all day long. She hasn’t gone on the treadmill and has not remarked on how much weight she has gained. Then again, it is raining tomorrow and she knows I will be at work. That’s just it: I plan on driving myself to work instead of walking a mile and a half after being asked to be dropped off by my father who secretly agreed to drop me at the cafe over 5,280 feet away in hopes that I might acquire an appetite or return the favor by eating more. I plan on wearing a new floor-skimming dress that will be destroyed if I were to walk in the rain. I also plan on not only finishing up an assignment last minute, but also writing up an application to a grant for anorexia treatment also due tomorrow. But today, my mother ate and enjoyed the chocolate marzipan “Scloaf” I baked for her. It is a trademarked hybrid between a scone and cake loaf created by newly minted Food Network host, Molly Yeh. She too is a native New Yorker, a graduate of a prestigious university, and a blend of eastern paternal and western maternal roots. Yesterday night she let me cook her a basil cheese omelet on pan-seared country white bread. Today we went in and out of shops. She agreed to try on clothes and actually smiled at what she saw in the mirror. I know she was satisfied with the way she looked because she called me over to the fitting room two times to see how she looked instead of shooing me away or refusing to come out. I cooed and guffawed over her- and it was genuinely heartfelt. I was so moved at my mother’s beauty, her feminist defined, her supple beautiful skin and figure that I began to cry. She knew why I was crying even though she asked. She said I needed to gain weight and that I would fill out the clothing as a women should. In the nail salon I stared at other mothers and their daughters. I stared at young women my age, thighs bare and rounded arms peeking out of sleeveless tops, shiny hair cascading over shoulders not carved out like bones. I longed to look like that, but more so to feel like that - normal, healthy, capable of walking without reliving flashbacks in the hospital as I see my feet turning yellow. I still see my old self in their reflections. I feel haunted. I feel scared. It’s an it-of-body experience when I observe my self in people who aren’t me, who are without my mind, my family, my memories. I am not soulless but it’s difficult to fathom when looking at my gaunt face. I purchased an organic SPF-50 sunscreen fragrances with mango and decided to use my points at Sephora for an organic Korres pomegranate moisturizer. I also purchased a shirt my mother chose from J. Crew. It was exactly my aesthetic: quirky-prep. A short-sleeved white button down in lightweight by starched cotton with alternating highlighter neon green and pink on the collar and sleeves. It was in XXS but still fit loosely. Then again, my mother purchased an XS Shawl collar cardigan from J. Crew despite being almost 50-pounds heavier. This weekend was eye-opening. I’m hoping many more days are like this to come, without anxiety of my feet giving it beneath me, without restriction, and without a reflection of someone dying both inside and out. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxv-i-dont-know-about-you-but-im-feeling monthly 0.5 2017-02-10 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734352872-N8KNVPMNWJSS1NLFYVYA/tumblr_ol6i7rFFzp1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXV. I Don’t Know About You, But I’m Feeling Red, White, and Blue - I certainly don’t feel like I’m 22, a month after graduating from college with the world laid out in front of me holding so much promise and yet, so much foreboding. At 26, I crept out of my house, cold to the bone, as soon as my parents took off at 12:45 pm on the dot. I had to be back by 2:45 pm to eat lunch as per my schedule. Yes, perhaps the coldness was amplified due to not having showered, setting aside that down time for later when I didn’t have the house to myself and couldn’t part take in forbidden activities, like walking. I made sure to prepare myself to enter the cloudy world of winter. I packed on sweater leggings underneath fleece college sweatpants. I had on a pajama shirt - my dance team’s annual show shirt - underneath a University fleece crew neck sweatshirt. I had on my wool shelled, hooded shearling navy blue coat. I let my long hair hang on both sides of my face and entangled the silky locks into the threadbare plaid scarf my parents gifted me during my first month in college almost 5 years ago. Atop my head was a ribbed knitted Michael Kors beanie in forest green. I had lost my Suede-fur UGG gloves - the only pair of gloves that kept my fingers from frostbite - but luckily my mom’s pair was lying around so I scooped them up to put on immediately after I locked the door from outside. Earbuds in, despite not listening to any music and already having heard my downloaded podcasts, I just wanted to remain as handsfree as possible so that should a call come, I wouldn’t have to freeze my hands holding my overused, oversized, IPhone 6 Plus to my face. I took off and observed my surroundings. The sky was completely overcast. Cars were trailing in and out of Church parking lots. It is Sunday, after all. It is also Super Bowl Sunday, and devotees of both a divine presence and heroic football players alike clogged up the main arteries of the neighboring Long Island villages and towns. I enjoyed seeing the movement from a world larger than my own, but one that I also shared, one that I too inhabited. I walked in an effort to mimic cross-county training or a treadmill inclined walk, I strove to step on and off hilly terrain. I think the approaching couple thought I was trying to avoid them. I wasn’t and looked the older man in the eye, surprised that someone other than myself had initiated the “hi” with a smile, which I graciously returned. It was just enough interaction to keep my social animalistic instinct satiated. I walked on. I smelled oil, chicken, and potato skins wafting from houses. I walked on and smelled freshly laundered linens. I walked on and saw cars lining up to enter and exit drive-thrus: the CVS pharmacy, the car wash, Burger King, the bank. I walked on and passed by a bakery with Valentines Day decorations on the window front: pinks and red colored hearts. I saw Indians dressed in traditional garb enter a Persian restaurant, feeling a closeness to a culture and cuisine familiar to their own. I encountered two brownies and their mothers hawking passersby to purchase Girl Scout cookies. My instinct was to avoid eye contact and dodge any verbal offer, but I was ambushed with a freezing cold momma bear. I smiled, said “No, thank you,” and then added, “but I was a Girl Scout too. Good luck!” We smiled. I made my way against the wind and my energy was renewed. The sun started to peek through and I was warming up. If I didn’t have to eat - God knows I was not and still am not hungry - I could have walked on forever. I decided to turn around and entered the Stop & Shop on the way home. Lacking an appetite and sick of food in general, I was curious to see if people were flocking the grocery stores for last minute football food. Sure enough, the lines were lengthy. The deli counter looked as if Brooklyn brownstones were being auctioned off for mere dollars. A man was carrying a veggies-dip tray in one hand and a plastic container of ready-made chicken wings in another. I passed by the hummus aisle to see it less stocked than usual. The crowd could have been part Super Bowl, part regular job- and school-going Americans who were simply prepping and stocking up before the work week resumes. I felt so at home, in this place, this nation, because it is my home. I was born and raised here. I am American and I am proud to be American. There is nowhere else I would rather be. Yet I am unhappy. I want to be employed, to write, to report, to interview- I have so many ideas. I want to be wanted, just like all those universities had wanted me. I want for good health, just like I used to have when blood tests weren’t prefaced by anxiety about whether or not the extraction of the blood would be an easy one or a struggle. In some ways, I want my youth to return. I want to daydream again. I want to believe that hard work does pay off and that I will be successful. I want to remember how much I treasured and took care of my mind. I held my brainpower on a pedestal and honed my artistic creativity with the belief that these treasures would be appreciated and lucrative, as well as helpful to my community. I was a Girl Scout, president of my high school’s community service honor society. Participated, ironically enough, in countless number of walks for different causes. I played piano and dabbled in violin, saxophone, and chorus. I traveled on subway cars and buses for unpaid internships. I’m not owed anything, but I deserve something - a chance. And as American as I am, I cannot for the life of me understand how this is the land of opportunity, the land where dreams come true, because all I see are my dreams crashing and burning. And it burns. Low white blood cell count or not, it burns, but they’re slowly healing, save for the marks, that according to my mother, look like “cigarette butts were rubbed in.” And that burns too, if only just a biting sting. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxxii-a-belated-diwali-note-letting-go monthly 0.5 2017-10-25 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734350820-CUCI8YOETD61G0CK9E7H/tumblr_oydps74p0w1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXXII. A Belated Diwali Note: Letting Go -Disclaimer: It has been 6 days since I wrote this, and since then, I have felt that I let go more than I anticipated. I’m letting go and I don’t know how to interpret this phenomenon. It has always been rather difficult for me to let go, or rather to unclasp the grip on myself. You see, I believe there is a difference between not letting go and preserving in memory. The latter is involuntary. While I may remember an awful experience, I won’t hold a grudge. It had taken me a while to foster that character trait - one in which I move on and do not dwell on one’s actions. I am still far removed from that place of wholeheartedly accepting 30 or more pounds of weight gain. I still cannot fathom eating outside at unplanned times and unexpected places, places that can’t possibly alter their menu items, or forgoing my watermelon for a bar or a banana, notoriously high in sugar as it were. But with those foods I have deemed ok to gain weight from with limited activity, on a mission to retain a body type I can be comfortable with as extra pounds are added, it is getting easier to eat with uncalculated abandon. I am referring to all natural nut and seed butters, granola, and hummus, such that the initially measured out portions are for naught because I continue to dip into the containers again and again- first with shame, and slowly, without the shame. The serving sizes taunt me, haunt me, as the contents of the disposable wrappers decrease well before they technically should. Still, weight is not being put on at all or not nearly quick enough. Perhaps it is because my newfound favorite season, fall, is finally having a presence in the weather, the plant life and death - leaves strewn across Long Island’s buckling sidewalks, reminiscent of a post-modern type of cobblestone, that make me less regretful for consuming untracked calories. Perhaps it is that I have again begun to walk outside while my parents are away at work, observing newness, basking underneath the sun, and gulping the tepid air. Maybe it is that I fell sick yesterday, suffering from one of my notoriously unpleasant and painful bouts of sore throat that I would incur every year since early childhood. Perhaps it is that today is Diwali- the first of many holidays I celebrate during this festive season. On this day, I had it out with my father after he worked out for an hour in the basement-turned man-cave. He went down before 5 am, so I too woke up, walked a little and did some silent floor work for 10 minutes that made me pant excessively and beg for mercy. I suddenly realized that he had snuck downstairs yesterday morning as well. I usually don’t sleep through his workouts, not feeling well about the inhabitants of my small world being more productive than a sleeping Reshmi- barely sleeping - running in less than 5 hours of sleep daily. But then I softened. I washed the coffee pot, brewed a new batch, made his coffee, heated and cut up his muffin, laid out two traditional Indian sweets of cashew fudge - Kaju Katli - lit a candle and my gift to him: a Ralph Lauren box with leather boat shoe loafers inside. Growing up, Diwali was always my favorite holiday, primarily because I would dance every year, dressed to the yards - literally. The dancer’s skirt was voluminous with yard upon yard of fabric weighing my svelte but robust and healthy body down to the ground as I resisted gravity- a workout - while pirouetting. I would indulge in many sweets, pass along sweets unto others, eat a full meal at the local temple, an elighten earthen clay lamps. I would attempt to decorate the house in makeshift decor: garlands of flowers used for my hair during dance shows and colorful scarves doled out. I planned outings to the theater to see an epic Diwali-release. When in college, I made a trip home every Diwali. During my senior year, I lived in a dorm that had a significant South Asian population. I purchased chocolate and wrote notes with well wishes that I compiled into a gift package alongside the quintessential earthen clay lamp. I dropped the items off outside of my peers’ closed dorm doors, like a half-Indian elf hellbent on preserving a tradition for fear that it was on the brink of extinction. Today, after two years, I am going to light Diyas and go to buy all of two or three boxes of sweets for a close family friend, my treatment team, and a neighbor I don’t know. I want to reignite traditions, forever laying claim to hosting Diwali as an adult just as my mom would over Christmas. With threadbare relationships on the Indian side of the family and my father not particularly remembering traditions we could continue, I managed to extract some valuable information. My mamaji, my late paternal grandmother who I remind everyone of, and who my dad has entrusted in me to continue on with her legacy, used to cook up a “sweet bread,” as my father called it. He described it as pieces of toast cut into triangles, fried and soaked in syrup used to make jalebis, another Indian confection. Upon researching a bit, I dug up the traditional dish my father was referring to: Shahi Tukra - a Mughalai-derived dish consisting of crustless bread cut diagonally, fried in ghee, dipped in a saffron and cardamom spiked simple syrup and garnished with either sweetened boiled milk and/or pistachios, almonds, and cashews. I still am looking forward to surprising him with this most unhealthy form of fuel that was probably metabolized by that demographic at the time and was nutrient dense in so far as their activity level. Clearly, I have not let go fully. Nevertheless, I was also going to cook a meal but I still feel sick and the idea of caramelized ginger, garlic, onions, and masala infusing into my skin’s pores and sore throats leaves me nauseated. That and because I don’t actually eat what I cook leads my parents to believe that I am sabotaging their weight goals. I also plan on partaking in the Hindu-oriented tradition of rangoli - colorful geometric patterns that welcome Goddess Lakshmi home to provide good fortune - wealth and otherwise. I plan on picking up some sidewalk chalk for my first attempt rather than the traditional boiled and dried, naturally dyed rice grains, colored powder, or sand. I also asked my father to buy traditional Punjabi food from our go-to restaurant miles away for him and my mother. We would make a trip to temple as well. Already, I have consumed breakfast: organic poached eggs with sprouted flaxseed toast and organic decaf coffee. But I have also dug into the almost finished raw cashew butter jar aside from the allotted 2 Tablespoons to have at lunch. I feel energized, full, but satisfied. And I am walking, unintentionally getting lost on the way, dipping into my scheduled walking time just as I dipped into the jar without conscious regard. I still have to go in the opposite direction to buy the chalk, hope my parents don’t magically appear or call, and venture home so I can perhaps go to pick up sweets and witness others actually celebrating a holiday that I am so desperately trying to celebrate as well. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxviii-the-culinarian-writer-and-journalist monthly 0.5 2017-07-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734350828-QTYW6VHJZE2RTQFPMTV2/tumblr_osqjl836a91r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXVIII. The Culinarian Writer and Journalist - “It’s beautiful,” my father said looking down at the pasta bowl in front of him that was moderately filled with what I cooked that evening: An off-the-cuff kalamata olive-caper, diced tomato and basil bucatini dressed in olive oil and butter. I had volunteered to cook something as an addendum to the Italian marinade chicken skewers my father was grilling on the charcoal barbecue in the backyard. It was a pleasant day outside on Independence Day. How poetically tragic that I am anything but independent, instead having only my parents to chauffeur me around. How poetically tragic it is that only they can bring me into the outside world, just as they did 27 years ago. I’m repeatedly being conceived; given chances to recover so long as my organs do not give out. And that is poetically beautiful. On July 4, we did not go anywhere. We stayed at home, which for me is daily. My pent up frustration surfaced and I wailed my dismay at having to spend another day in the four walls of my house. I became nostalgic, grasping at shards of past times when my Independence allowed me to look forward to returning home, to sitting down and watching a long movie with my parents, to spending the summer day outside- bike riding, rollerblading, walking for miles under the sun. To think I hated having to shave my legs for how much time it took and all those extra minutes spent inside when I could be outside. To think that I loved that I took the time out to care for my legs so that I could walk out in shorts and feel the warmth against my skin. I was conflicted then and suddenly it dawns on me that so much foreshadowed this anorexia diagnosis. Even the horoscope I was born with, manifested somewhere in the Indian subcontinent, had stated that I would endure this illness at my birth. The key word being “endure.” Endure meaning that I will pull through this. “Pull” meaning that I actively open the door to my life instead of pushing it, exerting energy in resistance from the door’s force vector going against me. What I would do to have that minor conflict of interest back, of wanting to be outdoors but having to delay the pleasure. I just purchased a new pair of shorts that were amazingly priced, of great quality fabric and print; it was the last pair of its kind in “my size,” a size 0, to fit this body now, on the off-chance that I’m outside long enough to warrant wearing shorts. Even the size 0 is slightly large, floating around my waist in such a docile manner so that it doesn’t look too bad but it has to be nipped and tucked just so to look any sort of good, meaning, not dressing something resembling a corpse. There is a new conflict of interest now and it’s point of origin is in the kitchen. I hate having to constantly mull over what I’m eating- the measuring and weighing of everything from sweet potatoes down to the hundredth of an ounce and the conversion into grams. I am annoyed by the time-sucking careful ladeling out of Tablespoons of nut butter and hummus, to the calorie counting of it all, especially when a ravenous animalistic quality rears its head and I go back into the nut butter jar and the hummus container for a little bit more. I can’t go on without the numbers. I want to escape from them. This is now when during a period of body positivity, new regulations require supermarkets and restaurants to list calories, as if that’s all that matters, whole foods versus processed edibles be damned. I refuse any meal-support therapy because I don’t want the eating disorder to consume my life anymore than it already does. I count the hours till my next meal, and make sure to pack up my lunch immediately after consuming breakfast should running an errand “outside” - from car to shop - last until way past the 4 to 5-hour interval I try and keep between meals. I relish my time in the kitchen. I love that I planned my lunch yesterday to a tee: Pumpkin fig granola mixed into my high protein plain Icelandic yogurt with the dietiatian-mandated fruit. I chose strawberries, heated up, separated from their juice for a not too sweet-and-tart flavor that I then balanced out with a glob of thick salty -molasses-like in consistency - sprouted pumpkin seed butter. I enjoy digging the spokes of a fork into the garnet flesh of a baked sweet potato balanced by the briny Mahi Mahi burger as my protein source and dollops of warm hummus for a calorie boost. I don’t enjoy thinking in macros and calories. I don’t enjoy eating when my body is slow to digest. The truth is, I enjoy cooking, particularly for others. It’s a project, a task, a contribution - something larger than myself, with a deadline, something that is being looked forward to by others. In this scenario, as a culinarian, others are depending on me. As a culinarian, I am honing my journalistic skill sets while homebound and in recovery. I don’t just follow recipes, I research the recipe maker, I take care to create ingredients when I can, by hand, and sourced locally. I do more research - I gather second opinions, if you will - for similar recipes. I improv by smell and feel, adding more or less, or something altogether different. I pay attention to whether the top of a baked good has a matte or sheen finish. I look at portion sizes with a tendency to compensate for someone who may have been more active that day and may need more fuel. That is my eating disorder, I suppose a my attention to activity level and food. I photo-document the stages and the end product. I haven’t written on this platform because I have not been stimulated while homebound. But I have been stimulated by cooking, going so far as to write up a profile of a paleo-cookbook writer for a magazine. Here is my official launchpad into writing via cooking. Bon appetit. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxvii-hear-ye-hear-ye-photo-tiziano monthly 0.5 2016-11-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734356565-LF3V553JO8KBTX8T71KV/tumblr_ogah2wqzhk1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXVII. Hear Ye, Hear Ye - Photo: Tiziano Vecellio, Titian - Maddona and Child with St. Catherine Venice, 1576 - taken at the Louvre, Paris, France on the eve of my mother’s birthday, April 16, 2016. In spite of any attention that my last post received, I want to clarify and make transparent - as any journalist does - that my mother is my best friend. She is my ride or die. She is my comrade and confidante. She is the woman I aspire to be: solid limbs, limber gait, feminine, groomed - beauty defined. I admire her and I don’t. I want to improve her. I don’t want to be her. I want to embody her ideals more than my corporeal form already does, being born from her. Without her, I cease to be. She made me promise that this wouldn’t be the case. I don’t want to break that promise and that is why I want so badly to regain my health, so that I can commit to carrying her legacy of a strong woman. You, my mother, are everything to me. As the religion I was born to asserts: without woman, man is not born and kings do not exist. Without my mother, this Kaur, this so-called princess, does not exist either. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxx-conservative-cleavage-my-mind-goes-one monthly 0.5 2016-10-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734356890-6FOU4200ECLRTSU16AKU/tumblr_ofoan68CsG1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXX. Conservative Cleavage - My mind goes one way and then the other. Eat more, you have less than a month until your next weigh-in. No, eat less. If you gain, fine, but eating this much isn’t sustainable. What if they make you eat even more? It’s hellish and uncomfortable. People who undergo the uncomfortable come out with amazing results. They’re always happier for it. Do it. If you’re not uneasy, you’re not doing something right. Recovery is supposed to be difficult. I don’t want a nutritionist. I don’t want a “plan,” or just another way for my autonomy to be taken away from me. Your autonomy isn’t being taken away from you. You’re letting it slip from you. It’s all you. Let me eat this entire bar, all 300 calories worth, every single day, so I can get out of this hell and start working out while fueling myself this time around. But you’re going to be flabby and dissatisfied with your body. Who knows how long it will take to reclaim your body? But at least I’ll be able to do what I want and on my own terms. At least I’ll have endorphins kicking in. Do you want to keep incessantly walking around in circles on the sly around your house or do you want to explore hiking trails, climb and clamber over hills, and see the scenery change? Or use a treadmill that isn’t completely parallel to the ground? I looked in the mirror while at the mall and I saw a glimpse of Reshmi shining through. For a fleeting few seconds, I saw her. But then I suddenly saw her disappear into that offensive jawline, and pesky vectors formed by skin on either side of her eyes when her face wasn’t in a resting state. Just then I remembered having viewed a beauty blogger’s video journal entry about her pregnancy with twin girls. She said she was gaining a good amount of weight, which was medically advised. The one good thing, she said, was that her face was filling out and any indication of fine lines forming during her late twenties had evaporated. Her face was smooth, her skin flawless, and then there was the quintessential glow. Should I pretend I’m pregnant then? Should I incentivize my weight gain for another’s life if mine isn’t valid enough or if I cannot succeed in bridging the mind-body disconnect? I think I should. It seems to be working- just barely. I slept in until 7:20 today and I feel rejuvenated aside from the massive bloat and constipation. But then I see him working out for hours and I transform into a monstrosity of a person. I feel as though I’m dying inside - lazy, weak, handicapped. I am so devalued by sleeping in, by eating, by remaining sedentary and consciously undoing the widely held belief that 10,000 steps a day is necessary and worth it. I want to move. I don’t want to gain. But I do want to gain. My mind’s cleavage is at odds with the innate bilateral hemispherical one. It’s just so uncomfortable to gain while everyone else, it seems, is losing. Join a support group and you’ll see how many need to gain. But I don’t want my life to be consumed by this eating disorder. I don’t want to be around them. I do not want to talk to them, but I want to. A little advice: Eat what you grew up eating. You’ll want to eat more. I just want to see you healthy and happy. I want to eat what she’s making, but I don’t. The smell and the taste is omnipresent in my mind’s eye but the smell is also pungent, plunging into the threadbare fabric of my first collegiate sweatshirt that promised so much: Harvard, Ivy-bound. Been there. Done that. Now what? The taste is marred by the after-taste. Why are you trying to reach point B and dwell on point A without the in-between, the present, the here and now? I want to be mindful. But I want motility. And I want to stand or sit in time and be one with time. I don’t want to race against the clock anymore. I don’t want to fight my body. It’s tiring me out. And yes, I want to talk to those victims, those who are recovered. They already went through the in-between phase; the phase I want to bypass, the body of murky water I want to cross without floating, but instead soaring, flying above, as an if out-of-body experience, and then landing lightly unto the ground beneath my feet. There I’ll walk. I’ll never be the same coming out of this experience, but that is not a bad thing. I’ll be better than before - improved. But it takes time. And I have “now” in my possession. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxxii-shrouded-in-secrecy-on-christmas-eve monthly 0.5 2016-12-25 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734354466-TWLHQ0ERIV7WS2IC14U4/tumblr_oiqwlrZFlO1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXXII. Shrouded in Secrecy - On Christmas Eve I woke up with the usual stomach impediments. I’ve been pursuing my recovery full on since I found out I still have almost 30 pounds to gain. Here’s a snapshot: A 9.5 pound watermelon, 200-calorie bar, and over 300-calorie handful of organic Maca maple (crack) cashews before sleeping. On Christmas Eve, I made sure to get in some movement before anyone woke up, which was short lived. But I did not sit down, instead keeping on my feet for as long as I could. It’s a miserable existence, really. You secretly walk in circles, up and down the stairs, trying in earnest to stave off the uncomfortable feeling of fullness. I ended up eating breakfast later than usual and kept according to my plan to take it light- almost as a way to undo yesterday’s calorie intake. I suppose my recovery is lacking here. That said, I got out of eating at the Italian restaurant my parents’ made reservations to because I would have to modify a dish three times’ over for it to come a little close to my liking. In the process, my parents would get frustrated, the waiter would likely be confused, and I’ll be dissatisfied regardless. That and I’ll be eating out at least four more times over the next week, so it was a compromise. Or maybe it was Christmas Eve and my parents did not want to participate in another argument. Speaking of which, I felt my old self peeking through. I wanted to be around family. I wanted to take it slowly and live in the present. I crouched down, butt off the ground, uncomfortably full and constipated, to help wrap gifts by the tree with my mother. I went to Whole Foods Market where I bought the higher calorie-muesli in cranberry cashew and a cup of pumpkin fig ancient grain cereal. I was pursuing recovery. I had the opportunity to exercise at home, alone. I had already doused my hair and applied an avocado butter hair mask. I was set to stay home. The yoga mat occupied my mind as much as it did the top shelf in the closet. I wasn’t going to perform yogic poses. I was going to do a set of mountain climbers, and a bit of core work. Nothing really, but something for me. Instead, I decided to go with them and packed up my low-calorie lunch that I wasn’t hungry for, and hardly walked around the crowded shops. My hair was dripping, droplets of avocado soaking my water resistant wool coat. I found myself getting frustrated and walked up and down the staircase in the mall multiple times, feeling slightly off kilter, weak, and light-headed. It was the exact time that I met up with my parents who planned on not eating anything later that day. The comparisons, were kept at bay though since I was in fear about feeling as crappy as I was. I thought my skin took on a shade of yellow. I ended up having a larger dinner than anticipated since I had “worked for it,” despite not being hungry. I was satisfied and full. Then I got scared and ate an organic bar. Immediately the regret settled in. I woke up this morning at the same time as my parents. My father is working out and my mother is starting to cook a chicken dish since my brother is arriving for a little over 24 hours. Despite my belief in my indulgent overeating that is actually still less than what I should be eating, I pushed through, trying to have Reshmi reappear. So I left low-calorie cookies on the counter that I clearly designated for Santa. Still, I have been trying to avoid my mother so I can try and walk off that cursed bar. I then asked her if I should cook breakfast for her and father, like I do every weekend. To my surprise, she replied no but I knew she had coffee already. And she doesn’t have coffee without a nibble on something. I understood then: she ate one of the lower-calorie cookies that I left out for Santa. It may be 40-calories. The gesture of leaving a plate of cookies and cup of milk for St. Nicholas, was an attempt at reclaiming my old self- the old Reshmi who indulged in her dual Catholic-Sikh upbringing. But she ruined it. My mother ruined it. Her breakfast was a 50-calorie cookie after no dinner. My father hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon and just lifted God knows how many hundred of pounds in weights for an hour. Merry Christmas. My mood is off. I am pissed. I am full. I am walking in circles on the sly. The bottom of my feet ache. I have to make another visit to the podiatrist because my body went into survival mode again and developed painful callouses on the top left quadrant of my left foot to prevent my bone from directly hitting the ground. Merry Christmas. I have to devise a plan on how to eat today to undo that bar and start over. I refuse to resume with plans to cook and consume a full-fledged black rice and salmon bowl or my organic chickpea-tomato Basil pasta dish that I had planned on eating. I sabotaged myself with a desire to recover and I’m sabotaging myself with a desire to eat less than my active parents. I hate that she’s not sitting down and is instead standing up and expending calories by chopping vegetables. I hate that she caught me walking around in circles. She asked me how I prepared the potatoes for a dish I made for her, my father, and brother. “I don’t remember,” I just told her. I lied. l could care less. I do remember. I hate that I am squandering my talent for cooking on everyone but myself. Merry Christmas. Whatever little excitement I have for opening my presents is extinguished. Most of the gifts are clothing and I feel as though my stomach is about to explode, rounded as it were in an uncomfortable bloat. I had no chance to perform my plank exercises to work my abdominal. I won’t be able to engage in these exercises until 2017 and that scares me. Whatever small meringue peaks of Reshmi that were appearing, has immediately melted into a piling heap of liquid egg whites- I’ll have to scoop those up and scramble it for my breakfast in a few hours. Breakfast: I don’t think she is going to eat anything for breakfast. I don’t think my father will have breakfast. I know my brother never has breakfast. I am going to have to eat breakfast and I hate it. I hate this. I hate that it’s beautiful outside and I cannot go on a long walk. I hate that she just asked my father to ask my brother who he is picking up if he wants me to make handmade French Toast. “But that is lunch. What’s breakfast?” I asked after eavesdropping. “No,” my father said. “What your mom is preparing is lunch - and dinner.” Great, so they’re going to have one meal. “Concern yourself with you,” my mother said. “Just look at yourself.” “You don’t know how much we ate yesterday,” my father said to my mom’s agreement. “But that was yesterday. It’s been digested. And yesterday is yesterday, today is a new day. Isn’t that what you always tell me?” Hot tears are streaming down my face. I am frustrated. I want to walk into oblivion. I want to walk into nothingness. “Forget it,” she said. I’ll just make eggs. Hell no- hell no. I am going to cook that French toast and load it the hell up with all the calories that I have to consume. The batter will be eggs and vanilla extract, cinnamon, and nutmeg. I am going to sprinkle my pumpkin fig granola on top to make up for the lack of strawberries. I am going to douse that grill pan with copious amounts of butter. I hate that she bought the bread from Whole Foods, suddenly piggybacking on my healthy eating philosophy. Still, the loaf serves 8 and for three people, the calories in the bread itself will equate to my bar and breakfast. An even playing field is what I am after. Game Changer. My dad left so it’s just a matter of navigating around her. She’s been on her feet nonstop as well- cooking and cleaning. I want her to stop. I want her to stop expending calories after not eating so that she works out more while I gain weight - which hasn’t been happening and yet it feels like I’m packing on the pounds. It’s getting closer to the time I have to eat. The sun is shining outside and I wish I could absolve myself in its light on this holiday morning. I wish I could leave this house and let my freshly washed hair out and bask in God’s glory. I lost my faith, but there has to be a God. Unfortunately my mother turned off the television so my footsteps and the creaking hardwood floors are revealing my endless walking. I’m stuck. I’m stuck and I don’t know what to do. I could ask to go outside but I know she will take that opportunity to workout while I’m gone and I need to see it. I need to know that she is working out. I need to torture myself and I don’t know why. I think she tried to make good this morning by asking me if I wanted to open up my presents. No, I will wait for my brother I answered. Flashbacks of last year’s Christmas morning: it was the first year I was not at all excited to open up presents. I was in a foul mood and my mother reprimanded me for something. I remember glaring at her and hating everything. And this year, it’s happening again. When my brother arrives, I’ll have to eat. I’ll have to make their food, unidentified as being neither breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s not going to eat and they in turn, will tell me not to make the French Toast. In which case, they’re not going to eat at all. She’s working out on an empty stomach now. I hate her. I hate her with every fiber of my being. I do not want to eat breakfast. I do not want to open up presents. I don’t want to spend this week with her. I don’t want to celebrate. I just want to walk out of this house and into another life. I can only hope that the phone will ring so she can’t workout. I did mentally prepare myself for her working out. I knew that it was too good to be true if she kept going on over a week without exercising. Yet nothing prepares for you the present. The here and now. “8:52 right now on this Christmas morning,” I hear the newscaster in the background say just as my mother confronts me with my walking around and says, “Kill yourself.” 8:52 - my birth time. I was born at 8:52 pm in June, three weeks past my due date. Is this a sign that I am in peril? Is God trying to tell me something? Am I deserved of such sacred attention? Is this just a coincidence? When I began writing this, it was entitled something different. It was meant to have an altogether festive tone and a positive vibe. But this is real life and in real time, I am telling you what transpires and why recovery is so difficult- why this illness has the highest mortality rate or of all the related illnesses. And that scares me. But does it scare me enough to eat more and move less? My skin doesn’t seem yellow anymore. I think my eyes were deceiving me yesterday. My feet seem like pillows instead of aching and bruised skin over protruding bones. I could walk on forever. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxviii-familiar-unfamiliarity-every-time-i monthly 0.5 2016-11-16 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734356276-0T4EBSDI117Q1HFV6HXA/tumblr_ogr9zawZee1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXVIII. Familiar Unfamiliarity - Every time I pass by the town deli, I catch wafts of bacon sizzling, cooking, rendering. The smell intoxicates my nasal villi. I breathe in as deeply as I can, almost tasting the smell. I consciously decided not to eat meat years ago. I never cared for the taste or texture of meat. It’s as simple as that. I have no ethical qualms against butchery or those who consume meat. I am well aware of the nutrients it provides, especially in the way of protein. The last time I ate bacon was when my mother cooked it years ago in the Queens apartment we lived in that was owned by Trump, the president-elect. The last time I ate the crumbly strip was when I was 5 or 6 years old and it was likely a Saturday morning. I remember the frozen rows of crinkly air-tight plastic-wrapped bacon being left out to thaw. I always recoiled at the taste of it. I still remember it’s briny, salty flavor and rough texture. I remember the contrast in the all-too-chewy middle and the crispy, crumbly ends. I remember the color- best described as the color of dried up blood or a scab that had not yet healed. But that smell reminds me of simple times past. It’s like the smell of coffee for some people. They relish those roasted coffee beans, that dank, musky scent from a drip brew. But when it comes to taste, they describe coffee as sharp, chalky, and acidic. That’s me and bacon. It made everything better as I was heading home from a forbidden walk. I felt full and lacked an appetite before my lunch. The same goes for when I pass by bagel establishments, although I remember enjoying the taste of those Eastern European delicacies. The smell of the carb-loaded donut-shaped breakfast and lunch item, when toasted, leaves me in a trance. The flaky innards having absorbed the glistening butter creates so strong a smell that I can almost recall tasting it. I remember dismissing the plain bagels and preferring sesame over poppy. I salivated over the delectable spinach bagels from the longtime defunct Manhattan Bagels in Forest Hills. On weekend indulgence days, I opted for deli ham slices, scallion cream cheese, or jam - strawberry, in between my bagel slices. I sometimes had the chocolate chip bagels out of kiddish desire, but I never really cared for the taste. A bagel wasn’t meant to be cake. These smells evoke a sense of the familiar. I don’t feel deprived. If anything, they conjure up an otherwise lacking appetite. Nearby where I live, there is also a popcorn factory. I never cared for the taste of popcorn. Popcorn was always too dry, oftentimes found residence in the crevices of my teeth, and sometimes seemed to get caught in my throat. I particularly never cared for the kernels that didn’t pop, sometimes unexpectedly making their way to the back of my throat, forcing a gag and scratchy swallow. These kernels sometimes threatened to chip a molar. Popcorn never seemed to satisfy my tastebuds either. Even the Christmas variety tins that had caramel and cheddar cheese flavored popcorn did nothing to placate my left-for-wanting palate. And yet I purposely would pass by the popcorn place if I was allowed to go on a walk, because the smell revs up my appetite. Looking in the mirror, I am starting to see a familiarity. Cheeks are plumped up a little. I tried on a winter hat and didn’t see a deflated face underneath a cable knit rimmed fabric. It has been a long time since I could say that. My healthy face is so unfamiliar to me in the short term, and yet it resonates with the familiarity of a bagel shop. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxxiii-sitting-it-out-on-the-eve-to-new monthly 0.5 2017-01-02 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734354142-700W7EWL8MJ6MUDQA67G/tumblr_oj6d2yX5kT1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXXIII. Sitting it out - On the eve to New Year’s Eve, I spent the most amount of time sitting than I ever have in almost two years. From morning until evening, I was sitting - in the pickup truck, in the house, in the truck again, and then briefly and succinctly, at home because I had to eat dinner. My legs felt stiff and my bones felt sore. My abdomen was distended, stomach on fire, as if the lack of motility exacerbated the backup in my intestines. I was expected to eat every meal as I always do. Without an appetite, or an option to stick to my schedule, I tried to adjust - less carbs and less calories - which I accomplished without much effort since I wasn’t hungry. By evening, the time I reached home, I had to eat dinner and I ended up deviating from the original null-carb plan by eating one of the best sweet potatoes I had ever had in my possession. Smaller than usual, so less carbs and calories, but still satisfying, the sweet potato’s innards were like custard. The flesh was a bright, deep, opaque red-orange. I could almost touch the detoxifying affects that came with its promise of vitamins A, C, and other. As I swallowed it with regret because of my lack of hunger and therefore appreciation, I could almost feel the pores in my skin contract so that the much talked about beauty effects of the low-glycemic root vegetable seemed to be working its magic as I was consuming it. That is how amazing that sweet potato was. But yesterday, as tortured as I was with my protruding stomach jutting out of my 80-pound frame, and my complete and utter lack of movement, was also blessed. I saw my brother and I reflected in my baby cousins: An older brother and younger sister. I saw us growing up. I saw me gathering my dolls, and he sitting on the floor, legs sprawled beneath him as he fiddled with plastic figurines and video game controllers. I saw us in our pajamas on a day off from school watching cartoons. I heard my mother when my aunt asked if they were hungry and wanted pancakes for breakfast. I saw them eat with abandon. They had chocolate marble coffee cake and cereal. They had apple juice and chicken nuggets and a cheeseburger with fries that were actual potatoes fried in oil derived from something other than olives, avocado, or coconut. They chomped on m&ms and sipped on soup. But they were mobile- running back and forth: She was pushing her cabbage patch doll in a stroller and he was running to and fro, crouched, to pick up pieces of his toys. They were both so volatile, almost levitating above ground in spite of the food. The food was their fuel. Why couldn’t it be mine? My parents and I left the house before sunrise to travel to the off-the-grid location of my aunt’s place where it snowed every few hours. I packed up a hard boiled organic brown egg and snack pack of dry roasted edamame for breakfast. They stopped at the Dunkin’ Donuts to buy coffee and breakfast. My mother picked up a coffee roll - a serpentine piece of fried and glazed dough shaped into a circle. My father picked up a coffee cake muffin - a spongy body that was spotted with caramelized cinnamon sugar and a muffin top laced with confectioners sugar, the crumble most likely solidified into clumps with butter. “I always used to buy these,” my father said. I remembered eating them once in a while as well- feeling full afterwards. We all reminisced about the days my father would drop my mother and I off to work and high school. The Dunkin’ Donuts employees of yesteryear knew our orders by heart. We spoke about how amazing the bagels we had in the deli next door were. They were slathered in butter and roasted on a metal flat top, lending an old school flair of toasty goodness from the antiquated heating mechanism. I couldn’t believe how many more calories they were consuming for breakfast. I grew anxious- was I sabotaging my recovery? I never questioned my more holistic choices of food and never once considered having what they did, but I did question whether or not my decision to eat less calories was warranted. At lunch, my mother had a carry out fish sandwich with the same French fries my cousins had. I saw my aunt carving through the on-site-baked cake we brought from our local farmers market. Everyone was eating and for the most part, sitting. I reluctantly swallowed my pumpkin spice-spiked 0% Icelandic yogurt and then my 2 Tablespoons of raw cashew butter. The flavors were delicious, but I lacked an appetite and there were at most 12 g of carbs. That’s why I opted for the baby sweet potato for dinner: balance, I thought. This entire week, I have sat it out. On New Year’s Eve, I decided to wear something other than the joggers and Johns Hopkins Medical School crew neck despite the fact that I had no intention of removing my new heavy wool coat. I put on a boxy heather gray cable knit mock turtleneck and a pair of white and grey printed sweater leggings. Perhaps due to the massive bloat or the significantly less movement over the last eight days due to my lack of privacy at home with people having off from work, the sweater leggings were not slipping down, instead slightly contouring themselves a little more to my still underweight figure. But then my parents left for less than an hour and I bolted outside, walking with abandon but stressed, racing against the clock to arrive home before they came back. The nausea and bloating were dissipating with every step I took along the winded paths of the town where I lived. And for the rest of the day, the leggings were not only threatened, but were slipping down, my hand permanently fixated at my left hip bone to prevent a wardrobe malfunction. Most likely the leggings’ waistband stretched out a bit during the day, but I still feel I gained. Reframe this: I gained energy to walk. I gained a clarity that enabled me to go through the motions of New Years Eve relatively unscathed by the usual arguments. I gained an inkling of faith: I made two pit stops, one at St. Bernard’s where I dabbed my forehead wth holy water, knelt in prayer, and lit a candle, and one at Gurudwara, bowing, folding my hands in prayer, and serving sacred offerings to other Sikhs before braving the task of consuming a bite-size of the offering made from equal parts ghee, sugar, atta - a stoneground wheat flour, and water. I planned to consume less than what I should be having for dinner today. Treatment keeps being brought up, but I’m adamant to not undergo it. This all begs the question then, with only a little more than an hour to spare until dinner: will I go through with eating less than I should be? Or will I recover sometime this year? https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxx-rocking-around-the-christmas-tree-im monthly 0.5 2016-12-08 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734355832-9IW63C13QAXXI8PBOVQ5/tumblr_ohw0vcMN7e1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXX. Rocking Around The Christmas Tree - I’m off kilter, rocking back and forth during the days leading up to Christmas. My routine is thrown off on occasion and my days seem to be filled with the unfamiliar, something that was once familiar, to the old Reshmi. I am talking about spontaneity; Spontaneity you that is brought on either by conscious choice, or, and more times than not, by the company I keep. Washing my hair according to my scheduled holiday functions means transitioning from a weekend wash to the in-between, sometime midweek, and eating my 9 pounds of watermelon at 9 p.m., an hour later than usual. All of this has made me uneasy. The longer weekends - I will no longer have the house to myself every Friday until 2017 - have made my incessant social media checking sparse. Yet the break away from a pixelated screen is welcome in spite of the anxiety that rushes in later when I realize how many posts I missed and feel as though I have to catch up on it all. I have to admit that sitting down in an enclosed heated car with the late fall sun reflecting through the glass and bouncing off the metal, does well to lull me into a lovely slumber. My head falls, my eyelids close in tandem, and I am rocked to sleep with the faint sounds of radio-play in the background. I have to admit that the incessant quietude I am otherwise used to, punctuated by bouts of road rage and the latest songs, phone taps, and commercial jingles during car rides that are part and parcel of my long weekends, is a Godsend. I feel connected to a larger world and my legs can rest instead of moving without support on the hardwood floors at home. I am still so unused to uncarpeted floors. I had an emergency run to the podiatrist after my large toe nail broke in half after getting snagged onto my comforter in the dead of night. The resulting cliff hanger nail caused a dreadful pain that made walking nearly impossible. Prior to the nail fiasco, for three whole weeks, I felt discomfort on the bed of my foot. Upon turning my foot it over, I saw a small white dot surrounded by, not surprisingly, dry skin. The skin was hard though and my mother swore something had gotten stuck. She tried to convince me into thinking a foreign object had gotten stuck and would become infected. The podiatrist clipped off the rest of the nail and said that I had developed a callous under my foot. Apparently, when there is little fat or cushion to protect the bone and keep it from hitting the floor, the skin around it begins to form thick layers as a makeshift guard for the bone. It was clear - my anorexia had made my body run into overdrive again. To keep me upright and functioning, thick layers of skin began to form. The podiatrist shaved it off, leaving a small indentation where the callous was. I think I have another one now, this time on my left foot. It’s odd. Throughout all my years of dancing, pounding on dirty floors, showering in dormitories, swimming for years and traipsing around the locker room, I never developed any foot problems that would send me to a podiatrist. Even after my senior year dance show in college, all my toenails that had loosened and were bloody, had quickly healed. So my feet literally leave me off balance and I’m rocking. I’m off balance. Sometimes my body becomes a furnace, especially during the night while I’m in bed. Other times, most of the time, my body is ice cold. In fact, I relish burning heat in order to feel any warmth, making the living room’s fireplace my favorite part of the house. I sit close to the glass for long periods of time until I’m satisfied with my warmed up body temperature. Afterwards my body aches. I look in the mirror and see my arm hair singed. I see red blotchy patches of skin. I’ve been slightly burned but my reflexes deceive me. My body is off balance and I’m rocking. I open up the oven, struggling to turn over my roasting squash when my wrist hits the metal interior. I’m able to withstand the struggle more than anyone else in the house because I don’t get hot easily and just then, my reflexes deceive me once again. I jump in pain- my wrist has been burned. That was almost a month ago, and yet it’s still not healed. I’m rocking. This weekend we’re picking out the Christmas tree. Remember- not a Friday to myself until the new year, so my weekend begins tomorrow. After a morning appointment, I’ll have breakfast and then spend a good chunk of the day with the mother Christmas shopping. Saturday we’ll be on the move - Long Island, Queens to Manhattan and back east. Sunday is the day we’ll pick up our temporary in-house resident - the tree. Bits and baubles will be strewn until the branches have settled. The vacuum will whizz incessantly to pick up the pine needles. I bet at least one stray needle will come into contact with my foot. I don’t know what to expect from this weekend or the upcoming ones until 2017. All I know is that I’m rocking around the Christmas tree. I’m rocking. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxxiv-youre-full-of-it-pic-a-somewhat monthly 0.5 2017-01-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734353590-OP3KJURH2K67A0ABVRZW/tumblr_ok92hi9dKL1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXXIV. You’re Full Of It - *Pic: A somewhat full or rather empty jar of live probiotics. Yes, it does taste good. Fullness is a symmetrical concept. There are two sides to feeling full: positive and negative. As a sidebar, I just deleted the content following the colon because I thought it more prudent to have “negative” precede “positive” as a nod to alphabetical logic. Then I thought, what made me type it out as I originally did? Do I subconsciously associate fullness with feelings of positivity? That pans out nicely then because I want to explore all the reasons why it is not only ok to be full, but that it is only beneficial to sit with fullness. Fullness: fulfilling, fully- (wholeheartedly). The derivatives of fullness include possession and pursuing something with everything you have, another possessive reference. When we’re full, we’re not lacking. We have material things which we can call our own. We have energy to carry out tasks with eagerness and abandon. To be fulfilled then, is not synonymous with accepting the status quo. Instead, it is equivalent to having enough fuel to keep pushing forward. One who is fulfilled occupies a temporary state of being, burning off that fuel in the process of seeking out the ever changing ebb and flow that is fulfillment. I, however, have always perceived feeling full as a stagnant phase, a peak in the bell curve of life, and a stage of being settled, of being satisfied. I thought fullness was a sign of mediocrity and laziness, when instead fulfillment is a milestone leading up to a peak that can go as high as you choose before it makes its way back down just as mortality is to gravity. Fullness is temporary, yes, but it symbolizes something achieved, something possessed. It is a phase of being, the pinnacle of presence, such that you can sit with fullness and enjoy the fruits of labor: be it attaining a seat of admission at a prestigious institution, landing that job, or having food to sustain yourself. When we associate food as a fruit of labor, oddly enough, we say “bread and butter.” Well, both fruit and bread are carbs- a macronutrient I have come to find cringeworthy, associating it with fat deposits. When I took my premedical courses, however, I only ever associated carbs with energy, necessary for cell function and the building block of the human corporeal form. In fact, I still remember giggling when actor Scott Peterson as “Luke” in Gilmore Girls replied to a bunch of lawyers who asked him if Lorelei Gilmore was his lawyer, “No, she’s carbon-based.” In other words, lawyers weren’t human - they neither emoted nor dabbled in straight talk, instead manipulating realities in an effort to reach a pre-determined goal. Fulfillment is to achieve goals, yes, but goals hat aren’t laid out for us. They form as a result of our living, our experiences. Now let’s turn to eating. We eat until we feel full and sometimes past fullness because to feel full is to feel euphoric, so we may go overboard at times in an effort to exacerbate that feeling. We eat until fullness so that we can move on with our day without ruminating over food. We eat to fullness in order to stave off hunger, essentially starvation mode. And so we eat until we’re full in order to remain alive. In that way, being full is to be alive. I don’t have a death wish, but I have an issue with feeling full. I cannot sit with fullness. I cannot stand not to stave off that feeling of an enlarged stomach - the organ - and the belly - the physical bloating. I know he stomach wall is elastic for a reason, as is our skin, in order to stretch and accommodate the adequate amount of food our body needs. Hell, even a woman’s birth canal and cervix can stretch to accommodate a human body to exit and make its entrance into the world. Yet I fear that if I am full, I will not enjoy my next meal. I remember visiting college immediately after being diagnosed with anorexia. One of my closest male friends mentioned that he was full. He said that he had heard somewhere that it’s good to take a walk after eating. I immediately quipped in saying that that wasn’t healthy. I think only part of me believed that. Now, I believe it but I don’t apply it to my own life. I walk Post-meal if I can help it. “Why can’t you sit after eating,” my grandmother asked me. I looked into her eyes, silent, without an answer. I observe people around me sitting after they eat. I admire their ability to be present- enjoying a television show or participating in a conversation, and I am befuddled as to how they can do that so comfortably. I wonder why I am so uncomfortable with the concept of not moving after eating. Why can I not trust my digestive system to break down that fullness in time for my next meal? It’s as if my body fears it will be starved again. Maybe feeling full is a good thing because it allows us to edit out what we do not have room for. It is allows us to declutter our life. Fullness is the Mari Kondo of 2017. The negative then rears its ugly head. Recovering, I need to edit but not cut out any food. Instead, I must add continuously and that is also why fullness as something positive is so illogical for me. I cannot trust my body - not yet. I don’t have reliable hunger and fullness cues. I enjoy volume-eating. I like my 9 pounds of watermelon and my whole squash but apparently, these low-caloric foods feign fullness at a much lower number than other less bulky foods. That’s why eating healthfully, real and unprocessed foods is so gratifying and satisfying, but for me, gratification and satisfaction from eating cannot surface until I begin to gain weight. So if feeling full of food is negative right now, I can choose to see the positive of feeling full. For one, my metabolism will repair and thrive because my body will not have to fear a lack of food in the future. I can also sit with the food, trust that it will digest without conscious effort - motility. I can be present after eating and enjoy what is around me. I have fuel to go where I have to. I used to be that person who enjoyed eating the roasted garlic naan and charred red onions garnishing those Tandoor - clay-oven cooked Indian dishes. I used to indulge in my order of six garlic knots. I loved the concept of an after-taste to my parents’ dismay. I never enjoyed mints- they still give me headaches - and I never enjoyed risking the washing away of spices that mingled on my tongue Post-meal with a beverage. I loved having that fullness sit with me, lingering on my tastebuds. Now I have an extremely low tolerance for flavors that stray away from the natural taste of food. Should I have an aftertaste, I immediately brush my teeth, a minimum of three times daily. Once in the morning, once after dinner, prior to my watermelon and snacking, and once before bed. I don’t like that remnant of fullness to stray and seep into my next meal. I am pushing fulfillment - pushing its motility to my liking instead of letting it pass. But it’s worth remembering that with time, everything comes to pass, and “in stubborn mindedness, one is ruined at last.” https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxxi-gossip-girl-here-pictured-an monthly 0.5 2017-08-22 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734350986-4AQJEBYHLDWYZBMM3QKO/tumblr_ov3yx87Npf1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXXI. Gossip Girl, Here - *Pictured: An associate’s vacant desk space at ABC Carpets & Home in NYC. My mother caught me power-walking around my house, which I denied. She said, in her most sarcastic and evil voice: “yeah, work it out girl.” The day before I had apologized for losing my temper - rightfully so - the night before. We exchanged ugly words for the hundredth time. Of course, there is no exchange of “sorry,” because she can do no wrong. Are mothers always correct? Humans aren’t perfect. Is she human? She’s certainly not a goddess. Is it too outlandish to suggest demonic as an adjective? I apologized by text. This time, I followed up the apology with a quasi-explanation that was partially my way of hinting that I was not sorry. Rather, I wasn’t so much apologizing to her as I was to me. I’m sorry to myself for having tarnished my upstanding character, for falling prey to external pulses, for acting out of impulse, for not showing self-restraint, for not exhibiting will power. Then again, recovering from anorexia means no longer restricting and no longer holding back. It means that I let go of that will power to consume less and exercise more. I’m a full grown ass adult, I feel like telling her. But that doesn’t sound like me. That’s not me. I’m a woman. I’m proud to be a woman, and I would neither say “full grown,” because that is grammatically incorrect, nor would I say ass because it is incredibly unpolished. So instead I text her, “I know I live at home, but you have to understand. I’m a woman, mom. I’m 27-years-old. You have to stop criticizing me for everything.” I think she understood, but she did not reply to the text. At least, she read it this time. I checked her cell messages when entering in directions in the GPS. I then skimmed past another text message thread - one between her and her colleague who always buy each other breakfast or lunch. They constantly discuss how they need to lose weight, and I know for a fact that my mother does not need to shed pounds. She’s at a normal if not less than normal weight for her height, age, and activity level. Her appetite is well-balanced, intuitive, and voracious. It’s so odd to me that having grown up underneath her influence, I had never adapted the 3 meals-a-day-lifestyle. I always threw away the lunch she packed me in high school and came home ravenous. I was still healthy then, however, never thinking twice about eating a samosa or two in one sitting, enjoying the fried exterior shell more than the cumin-seed spiked mashed potato and pea interior. On the text message exchange between her and her colleague, whenever the latter asked if she wanted a muffin or roll, my mom always opted for the roll because I suppose the plainness and lesser amount of calories amounted to a healthier choice. She always opted for a McDonald’s English Muffin breakfast sandwich as well, which she may have for lunch, because she and I can look up the calories online and see that it comes in at around 280-300 calories only. Her colleague asked if she wanted pancakes instead, and my mom replied with “the pancakes probably have more calories,” or a no-go to he pancakes. I just looked up the calories for pancakes, and sure enough, it is higher in calorie by about 50. Am I gossiping? Now I am because I am telling you all of this, but I was sneaking as I read this text exchange, my fury growing with each passing moment. I have come to accept, rationally, that I have to eat more - a lot more. Those in recovery usually leave the cooking to someone else. They usually supplement with high calorie drinks and food if they don’t eat enough. And if they refuse supplementing, a feeding tube is the next step. I love the “supplement” I have chosen: an all-natural organic bar with superfoods, high protein, and requisite high calorie. I love the taste, the texture, and the healthy composition of ingredients that make it up. What I don’t love is the feeling of gluttony that overcomes me after having eaten this; that feeling of consuming over 300 more calories. Yesterday, without an appetite and feeling full, my mother suggested with her antiquated logic that I eat rice with an egg on top. I say antiquated because she thinks rice will automatically put on weight. I eat black rice which is higher in calorie than the white basmati rice she cooks, but also packs a ton more antioxidants and vitamins. It’s fiber content is sky-high, such that the grains pass right through my bowels and float on the surface of toilet water. I asked my dietitian if I had undone all the work of eating since the rice passed through. She quelled my anxiety and assured me that all the energy was stored in my body before it passed through. Prior to anorexia, I wasn’t privy to calorie counts. If I had those Whole Foods Market-bought bars in my house growing up, I would likely have eaten more than one in a single sitting because it tastes that good, and I would have done so without reluctance, repulsion, or regret. I would have enjoyed it and dwelled in my good fortune at having those pricey treats in my possession. At the same time, I was incredibly active. I danced for hours, took long leisurely walks, had a rigorous physical education program throughout my high school years. In my summers home from college I either had a gym Membership or went on long hikes and exercised at home. I can’t remember if I had eaten to the point of indulgence as a result of restricting throughout the day, or because I felt that my level of activity compensated for my intake. Gossip girl, here - My mother asked me to make her French Toast this morning with the leftover batter I made yesterday, only this time with her low-calorie sliced bread. I cooked it up with love and served it. Immediately after she declared possibly not eating later and having to work out - all because of breakfast. Now if she’s only “allowed” to eat and enjoy when she exercises, then why do my treatment team and as my father says, “the only people who care about me” - him, my mother, and my brother tell me that food is not meant to be worked off? Why do they partake in hypocrisy and tell me that food is fuel and not to be compensated or enjoyed only when and if a workout is planned? Here’s some gossip: Those who care are those who preach. Those who can, do; Those who can’t, teach. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxv-the-hunger-games-mind-edition-when-you monthly 0.5 2016-08-17 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734359654-O80KGCOVVSYNTH55STY2/tumblr_oc2rnzFcDV1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXV. The Hunger Games: Mind Edition - When you catch sight of two things: 1. Your mother measuring out less than a cup’s worth of Cheerios (below 100 kcal) and then ultimately deciding to have a cup of watermelon (46 kcal) instead. She decides to do this in front of your face immediately after you have declared a vow to eat above 2000 kcal a day while remaining sedentary. You take off on a walk, packing the 3 pounds worth of caloric protein shakes that you hate, so that you can return them once and for all. You want to get away from her. You want to scream at her and raise hell. You want to gently slap her hand that clasps onto the measuring cup handle. You want to, but you leave instead. 2. Upon reaching your destination, or just about, you see your reflection in storefront windows just as dusk is setting in. Spider-veined legs that could be mistaken for wooden stilts had you not been only 5 feet and 4 inches, shine in the setting sun. You flinch. You’re terrified of yourself. You turn back home, debating whether or not walking the few more feet to drop off the 3-pound load is less detrimental than lugging it all the way back. You decide on the latter, reevaluating how much you should eat for dinner after settling on something less than what you had planned before the first sighting. And just when you thought you made up your mind, you become aggressively upset again, replaying over and over the image of Cheerios falling and then settling neatly below the 1-cup mark. You go back to the original plan of eating a less calorically dense meal. You justify it by saying how you’re not fickle-minded. Instead, you stick to your word. Except the hyphenated word, calorie-consumption, preceded by 2000 and up. Confusion sets in. Now what? Another day in fear? You remember the mantra you wrote in that new planner you bought and only today bothered to scribble in after deciding you would sit down during the day: You Do You. You remember seeing a weight restored anorexic captioning her Instagram photo with the words, “Recovery never tasted so good.” You want to spite your mother so that while she suffers from lack of a tasty meal, you get to indulge in something delicious. In yo’ face, you think. You want to go home now. You want to be by your mother’s side, in the safety of her God-given maternal instinct. You regret not agreeing to sit with her and pass the time by flipping through the newest J. Crew catalog, which you had planned on doing before her restricted dinner. But you know that immediately after the bonding experience, she is going to do her yoga. “Life is complex,” is not just an understatement, it’s a lifestyle. It’s routine. It’s a cycle. It doesn’t end. Complexities don’t end, but surely an eating disorder does. Either that, or your life comes to an end. You’re frightened by this idea. More than anything, you want to go home now. You want to rewind to actually sitting it out all day, to not have undone the little that was made in the way of progress. You do you. You do you. You do you. You keep telling yourself this as you make your way back home. You do you. You do you. You do you. You plan on heating up your dinner upon entering the house, but you’re still not sure what you’re going to eat. You tried to distract yourself from walking incessantly by actually turning on the television this afternoon. But every time you try, something comes up: the television was not turning on. You think back to your breakdown yesterday - your soliloquy, when you kept asking God why this was happening to you. You remember telling God that you never in a billion years expected this to happen to you. You reminded God of your daily excursions to temple, something you truly loved to do and did of your own accord for years. You asked God what you did to deserve this. And just when you’re getting angry again, you remember breaking the pact you made to yourself yesterday- to limit walking and to eat even more, no matter what. After all, your mom got married. Your mom gave birth. Your mom has lived her life. Have you? You’re home and you’re pissed. Sure enough, your mother is doing yoga while you go heat up a lentil stew with a side of cheese. All of this before your nightly 9 pounds’ worth of watermelon and snacks. After the eating deed is done and waiting out the stomach pain before finally laying horizontally, you open up the pantry, feeling as though you could eat more when during the day, this isn’t the case. You come face-to-face with your mother’s shelf, filled with the goods that she always loved and managed to eat without gaining an ounce: Devil Dogs, Junior Mints, and Godiva macaroons. You see the new box of chocolate cupcakes that have the baseball mitt-design frosting, which she bought a couple of hours earlier, ripped open. You peek inside and see that two individually wrapped cupcakes are gone. She probably packed them to take for breakfast tomorrow morning, you think. So you look in her undesignated lunchbag only to find a sweater and some paperwork. You then explore the inner canals of her purse without finding anything in the way of food aside from breath mints. It dawns on you: she may have eaten the two cupcakes when you were out on your walk. So you look inside the garbage, throwing to the side all of your disposable plates and watermelon rinds. Sure enough, you spot a cupcake wrapper. Unsure of yourself, you keep looking until you find the second missing wrapper. “Food is fuel,” you think to yourself. You realize you don’t know the whole story after all. You tortured yourself about her not eating as much as you, when in fact, that wasn’t the case. It is the next morning. You talk to her bright and early, fearing she may go at it again with you. Instead, yesterday’s arguments seemed to have dissipated. She tells you she might buy bread to have with her butternut squash ravioli today. She tells you to buy a scale just for you, and doesn’t force you to stand in front of her. You think maybe she understands, or is at least trying to help. You’re on a walk while talking to her because well, you ate too much last night and you feel disgusting, but you want to enjoy breakfast when you go home. You hope the long walk will help. It does - eventually. Or maybe it took you to eat more to finally relieve yourself. Later in the day, she makes a comment about your weight. She decides to eat a cold cut sandwich instead of the pasta, but you don’t care. You think you don’t care. You do care, but not so much. You think this is progress, but it isn’t really. You try to avoid anything that may cause her to talk about your weight, but her grimace and comment - “oh my God” - weighs on your mind. You do you. You do you. You do you. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxii-mirror-mirror-on-the-wall-everyone monthly 0.5 2016-07-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734360597-GHMQHD1E2OPS61B09VDV/tumblr_oaxhmcG5sn1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXII. Mirror, Mirror on the Wall - Everyone who is everyone that claims to feign over fashion attests to loving Zara - that European clothing brand that hopped on over across the Atlantic with its faux suede pinafores and patent leather pleated skirts, quirky bags, and multifaceted capsule collections. The truth is, it’s a cheap, low quality production assembly line of clothing. At least I think so. My mom calls it the sister to H&M, a store we share a mutual hatred for. It’s doing a poor job of piggybacking off of my beloved - The United Colors of Benneton - which formed my conceptions of European lifestyle while growing up in the heart of New York City. It’s where my parents purchased the heftily priced 100% sheep wool forest green hooded, wooden barrow-button downed coats for me and the creamed fur hat I longed for as a way to emulate the Russian aristocracy. The hat was what I associated with the svelte Eastern European Olympic gymnasts that I saw on television. It’s where I purchased my first and only beret: So très chic. But I cannot deny that some of Zara’s designs are quite ingenious and though it’s a shame that production budget costs create a dearth of quality textiles from which to create the garments, the integrity of the designer’s brainchild remains in tact. I recall admiring the outfit an international peer from graduate School would wear. It suited her and I had not known that she was donning Zara apparel until her boyfriend remarked how she would only buy expensive clothes, from Zara, when we we were reading about analogies made to the journalism business. I let the “expensive” misconception slide because I secretly fancied her boyfriend: handsome in the old Hollywood way except he was South Asian and bore a striking resemblance to the late actor, Shammi Kapoor. I was content knowing that he sat two seats over because the surnames of him, his girlfriend and I were juxtaposed alphabetically, but I digress. I cannot deny the therapeutic quality of purchasing a new addition to my wardrobe nor can I deny the prospect of having somewhere to wear it to. I cannot deny a good investment that also happens to be at a great price, and so I walked into Zara, picturing the handsome fellow grad school peer turned associate producer, approving of my decision with his trademark overbite smile. This daydream admittedly made me laugh in the girlish way of my high school days. I felt happy and let my preconceptions of the massive store go by the wayside. I picked up a bottle green minidress with an asymmetric neckline bordered by four large tortoise shell buttons. There was a nifty pocket on the left panel. The fabric was not suede but polyester, yet it looked otherwise. The last one left, I clasped the hanger and made a beeline to the fitting room. It looked just like me: unique, able to be worn for all seasons. I could wear it now, during the summer, as is because it was short-sleeve and above the knee, and the fabric was not too heavy. Yet the fabric was heavy enough to be worn in the fall with a light cardigan or jacket thrown over it and opaque tights with my distressed brown leather knee-high equestrian boots. I could wear this with sweater tights and a chunky buttoned down sweater and UGGs in the winter. The dress was more dressy than casual and seemed the perfect attire for a fashion conscious magazine journalist to wear in an office setting, should one exist. The deep green and spotted buttons would allow me to switch off between any of my three glasses frames that range from black to taupe to a ombré tan. This was an investment piece. And though the dress seemed all too perfect, the full-length mirror revealed what nothing else could. I was still too skinny. I still looked emaciated. There was nothing attractive about my stick figure. Visions of the dreamy video journalist evaporated. I flashed back to the weeks before my grad school graduation when he caught sight of me in the hallway. I saw a wave of shock contort his face while I tried to avoid his gaze, spinning on my heel and walking away in the opposite direction. I was not as bad as before, but I was nowhere near to what I was before this sickness ever befell me, or rather, before I ever did this to myself. I still needed to get my period. I still needed to have my thighs be closer in proximity to each other. I still needed my spine and shoulder blades to not jut out so much. I was determined to stuff my face later. The dress was slightly form-fitting on my gaunt frame and despite not filling it out, I know that as soon as I put on the healthy weight, this dress would no longer be an investment piece. I would refuse to wear it because I don’t like wearing curve hugging and constricting clothing. It would be what I called my “anorexic clothing.” That is, the disordered clothing that are staples in my wardrobe because I would strive to fit into then despite the fact that they were old and made for a much younger body. Perhaps I should keep the dress. It would do good for me - I could gain a good 15 pounds and still fit comfortably in the dress. And who knows, I could perhaps meet not that crush I had, but a true companion, a future husband. Ultimately, I have decided to return this dress. All because I know that the quality is poor. It’s parachute-like fabric does not reflect me. I opt for quality. I air on the side of aristocracy. I would rather purchase the classic and q quilted Chanel than the trending “NERD” engraved pleather clutch. Mirror, mirror on the wall. I’m regaining not only my body, but I’m regaining my self, my identity. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxviii-in-this-body-i-will-trust-i-thought monthly 0.5 2016-10-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734357872-L7GVWCQ3PYWMX0BOUVT5/tumblr_oemygamNOp1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXVIII. In This Body, I Will Trust - I thought I would be wearing an engagement ring on my right hand’s ring finger. I thought I would have my male relatives dunk red and ivory bangles in milk before they ran my hands and wrists ever so daintily through the hoops. Instead a ring made just for me has been dunked in milk and I’m wearing this coral, almost fittingly, pumpkin spiced stone on my right hand’s ring finger. This is a game changer; and when I say that, I hope that it is a game changer in more ways than one. The stone touches my skin no matter how it falls. It feels large and foreign. I keep swiveling it around and around, and I attempt to remove it before remembering that I’m not supposed to. That and my knuckle is a kind of speed bump that prevents it from slipping off. But I do end up taking it off, without fully realizing it, because it feels so strange on my finger. I guess this is good practice for a wedding ring. They tell me I’ll get used to it. Keep it on always, they say. Keep it on in the shower too. I haven’t showered with it on yet because I had to bathe before I could wear it, which was yesterday morning and it’s still dark outside at 6 a.m. I thought I would have mustard yellow turmeric paste applied to my skin to achieve that bridal glow. Instead, I’m lamenting the fact that Kiehl’s turmeric skincare only includes a mask and not a facial moisturizer. I’m on the hunt for a new face cream to prevent my naturally dry skin from drying out more during the upcoming months of cooler temperatures. What this ring has given me so far is an odd affinity for my Indian identity. The stone’s saffron color does well to place me squarely in the princely court of actor Ranveer Singh for his award winning performance in Bajirao Mastani, which I only just saw a year later. Standing in the eastward direction while putting on the ring made me feel as though I was performing surya namaskar, a sun salutation that when performed in the morning must be done facing eastward and on an empty stomach. Yesterday morning I had successfully emptied out my rotund anorexia-recovering stomach somewhat prior to putting on the ring. Too much information? Not enough, never enough. You’ll never understand. I’m hoping my finger plumps up a bit if and when I gain so that the ring doesn’t swivel so much. It feels like an extra appendage. And whenever that day materializes, we’ll make another trip to the highly Indian demographic locale miles away to have the band stretched and molded. On that day I’ll include myself in the dining experience at the local authentic Punjabi corner joint. I’ll eat the vegetable filled circular bread that is pan fried in nondescript oil, just as I once did. Hopefully then I’ll trust my body. Trust that it won’t blow up out of proportion. In my body, I will trust. Trust that it will stave off hunger and signal satisfaction. Trust that if and when I do gain, that extra mass that’s not really extra because there is no such thing as being superfluous, will aliquot itself to where my body needs it. This ring may have no start and no end unless of course we see it from a bird’s eye view, in which case there is a start an end from the top and the bottom. And that gives me hope, because my eating disorder had a beginning and it most definitely has an end. I have to end it, but hopefully this ring will do as they say and aid me on this treacherous path. In my body I will trust, that it will stave off fullness by means of contracting colons. I will trust it to pack on pounds, hell, an ounce, where it sees fit. In my body I trust to keep my hunger at bay - to not reach the point of SOS in the form of a whining and wheezing stomach that sounds more akin to a sickly leper than a tigress’s growl. I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I am the “Mai Bagho” of my family. She was a female warrior who later became the bodyguard of the tenth Sikh Guru after going into battle on a cohort of 40 against the Mughals. If Sikh men are considered lions, the literal translation of the surname, “Singh,” then the women are at par. And I need to growl. I trust that my body will growl. I trust that my body will not only fight, but lead the fight, even that one waged against my mind. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxvii-falls-first-im-falling-into-line monthly 0.5 2016-09-22 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734358112-LPD9ILA0MP5VG6URU3VO/tumblr_odxd9ijj6p1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXVII. Fall’s First - I’m falling into line. “To hell with it,” I start telling myself everyday. Eat the god damn second slice of bread. Buy a second container of the god damn 80-calorie per cup milk instead of the 25-calorie per cup cashew milk. If you don’t do it, if you don’t gain, you best believe you’re headed toward inpatient hospitalization and over there you’re going to have to consume the chemical-laden Ensure drinks that are always on sale at the store. Over there you’re going to have to consume 2% whole milk that isn’t low-carb and high protein. Inpatient means gaining as quickly as possible by any means possible. That is, gain on their terms, that which is not financed by your parents. The one that doesn’t think it’s financially sound to buy 36-pounds of watermelon a week, everyday, even when it’s off-season and priced at $0.99 a pound. Today is the first day of fall. My parents bought a metal-wrought Jack-O-Lantern that when hooked up to our electric line, will have burnt Amber flames erupting from its toothless smile and soulless eyes. We found a metal, bronze colored Jack-o-lantern, complete with handle, in which to put treats in for the costumed children. My mom and I have a plan to sit outside on those Adirondack chairs, both of us wrapped in our red, black, and white plaid blankets, to greet the passerby and dole out not candy, but solid name-brand, hygienically wrapped chocolates, on the 31st of October. The day before is Diwali, so we’ll have little lanterns lining the perimeter of our manicured lawn in addition to the aforementioned light-up pumpkin and a couple of real pumpkins we plan on picking up from a farm out on the North Fork of Long Island. I’m buying those acorn squash like there is no tomorrow because tis the season. To hell with feeling immensely full after eating. The flesh inside is golden, with just enough body to not feel too starchy and yet not end up a puddled mess of fibrous pulp. The flavor is all at once sweet and nutty. And so I eat it because I leave it undressed, without salt, butter, oil, or spice and hospitalization requires it to be doused in any combination of tastes so long as it achieves high caloric status. I’m seeking out sweet potatoes for the same reason. They’re in season and the bright orange innards are so sweet but not cloyingly so. The consistency lends itself to having a nice runny golden yolk running through it. The rivulets of which cut the starchiness, no salt needed. I’m throwing caution to the wind by agreeing to go out to eat. I choose a place beforehand, planning out my order, because having someone do it for me means meeting scientific requirements that doesn’t lend itself to the experience of taste. If it weren’t up to me, my salads would be drowning in dressing, and whatever isn’t absorbed by the micro greens will just have to be sopped up by crusty bread with a spongy interior, and my beverage would be a nice tall glass of milk. And when I say nice, I mean anything but that because who in the hell would have milk with their dinner or eggs-any-style brunch? Sure as hell isn’t me. I’ll have a coffee, black, oh and decaf because I have accepted the fact that having caffeine and being underweight is probably at par with intoxication. I’m not a rebel,but I am willing to fall. What better time than now, today, the first day of fall? https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxi-mother-may-i-im-26-and-i-dont-need monthly 0.5 2016-07-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734360991-3RKRMO1KZGGJEVNI0TQU/tumblr_oask2mHJkg1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXI. Mother, May I? I’m 26 and I don’t need permission to go out. I don’t need permission to do this or that or anything else that I want to do, and yet I think deep down, I don’t want to venture out on my own. I don’t want to waver from routine. I’ll just end up reprimanding myself. My friend told me that this penchant for routine is akin to being habitual about something- being robotic about something. To be able to adapt this way of life- doing the same day after day is a form of therapy. It’s meant to put one on track. It’s meant to take the overthinking work out of the equation. He needed that and I needed that. I need that. I think I do. I think I do. I think it’s not ok for me to skip dinner and just consume my 9 pounds of watermelon. It’s not ok yet. But I did deem it ok to eliminate the caloric protein shakes in the dead of night that helped me to gain whatever I have so far. And then I grew anxious and purchased six more bottles - there are five left - after I finished over 40. I plan on returning the rest. I saved the receipt. I can’t do this anymore. For no reason other than its complete abnormality. I bought my mother a “skinny” vanilla latte today - far less in calories than my organic protein shake. I heard her say that it tasted nice. She took several sips before dumping more than three-quarters of it down the kitchen sink. “I’m full,” she said. There went four dollars and change, down the drain, quite literally. My mother would rule me not eating dinner as out of the question. She would snicker and form that half-protruding pout - “the evil smile,” I call it. And yet she’s full off of less than anserving size of farmers’ market cherry pie and less than two pounds of watermelon, even after working out: a combination of yoga, squats, glutes floor work, and crunches. “Go ahead. Skip dinner,” she said, taunting me. It was a dare, not an ultimatum. So let’s play a little game of Truth Or Dare. Dares don’t apply to me, so truth it is. Here we go. I can’t help but feel gluttonous, especially due to the fact that I neglected my workout for her sake- we had plans made Thursday evening, that she decided to debunk Saturday morning- the day of said plans’ execution. My routine was thrown off once again. Anxiety ensued but I went with the flow. We decided to look at charcoal grills. Why? I have no idea. There are no plans to have people over for a barbecue, like we used to. I wouldn’t enjoy eating because while everyone else is fasting for the feast, I’ll be chomping away all day. Just like today. I told my mother we should go out - bask in Summer’s soon-to-end glory. I was met with a scowl, and a triumphant declaration of heat causing fatal repercussions- especially for someone like me- underweight, she said. I am known for loving and thriving in conditions as hot as 110-degrees Farenheit and especially as someone who doesn’t weigh as much as before, I love the heat more so. I don’t feel chills. Warmth is preferred. And so we made our routine trips- from air conditioned house to car to storefront-one being the farmers’ market which is owned by a man who exclaimed that I was my mother’s daughter and that he sees me here all the time. Yes, I am a glutton. But to the man working on the construction of a defunct cleaner-tailor storefront, I’m the woman who walks a lot. I didn’t tell my mothe that little tidbit, but for a full three days, I stopped taking my walks, fearful that I may be overdoing it. Fearful that I may have lost weight even though my face looks fuller, my hair is healthier, my legs have stretch marks and jiggle a bit, and the car now recognizes me as a human - the light for “passenger airbag off” is no longer enlightened like an ambulance. So we’re in the parking lot of the place I frequent for my watermelon, sweet potatoes, and acorn squash. Today I picked up a new one-serve, 17-gram fat-filled packet of sunflower seed butter as well. A woman in her 50s or 60s, roundabout my mother’s age, emerged from her blood-red Ford Mustang. I saw her before my mother did. She was anorexia defined. Her physical state surpassed my original low weight by leaps and bounds. This woman has zero-body fat. All the sinews of her muscle can be seen. Her legs are stilts. I don’t know how she can walk. I wasn’t disgusted, but I was empathetic and I observed with a mix of mild curiosity, unfortunately, some kinship, and fear for her life. Then my mother saw her. She was shocked. She was disgusted. She gasped, called on God in the way that agnostics do, and immediately bowed her head and threw one hand over her already obscured vision from the chic Burberry aviators I wish I could wear had I actually bothered to put on contact lenses or to approve of the way I looked without glasses. Before she covered her face as if Paparazzi were all over her, I said, “I know. I know.” I was never as bad as that, I told my mom. She replied incredulously, “you don’t want to be like that.” She said this in an accusatory manner. As if I fancied the opened-coffin look. The woman offended my mother and yet, ironically, my mom seems to emulate her by fasting from 2:30 pm until tomorrow morning when she’ll again sip on coffee and dine on an anorexic sliver of cherry pie. I’m 26 but my mother still slights me for going out for less than an hour without a car because God forbid I walk. I don’t need to take it, but I cannot deny my ears nor the fact that one’s children are expected to obey. I’m 26 and yet I feel imprisoned. I flipped when she told me she wasn’t going to eat because she had a few bites of watermelon and ate lunch “late,” before I ate my own lunch. I could have avoided the argument, but part of me relishes the fact that I don’t have to seek approval for taking off from the house for longer than 45 minutes when we’re on talking terms. Part of me relishes the fact that I’ll be left alone so that when I eat, despite not being hungry, over half of my food intake for the day, I’ll be alone. No one will have to see me be the glutton. What irks me though is that my mother keeps saying that she’s not [insert low weight here].Because I am no longer that skinny. I gained and I feel that because I am no longer that weight, I shouldn’t be eating as much as I am counseled to eat. What irks me is that she wants to eat outside and buy dessert but will just have that meal all day - a treat - while I’ll have to keep consuming more and more. What irks me is that she seems to empathize with me: “gain the weight and then you can kickbox again.” It’s as though she doesn’t really think that will ever happen. She’s just feigning support, to placate me. Mother, may I? May I understand where on Earth you’re coming from. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxiii-time-energy-love-self-care-is-now-a monthly 0.5 2016-02-14 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734363874-O4KGQ458PRKJS2DVYMYH/tumblr_o2k1r7SFqW1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXIII. Time + Energy = Love- Self-care is now a “thing.” So is self-love. Now that’s a game-changer if there ever were one, especially for today, Valentine’s Day. Self-care and love, or Thing One and Thing Two, are as quirky as their namesakes in Dr. Seuss books. With flaming fluoride toothpaste- blue colored hair and bright red onesies, Things One and Two don’t care about their weird appearance, even as full-time residents of the all-too-weird Whoville. They’re in love with themselves. They love to do for themselves. Doing for my self is something that is hard to fathom. I cannot bring myself to have a mani-pedi done more than once a year. Having both luxuries performed at the same time is even more indulgent. While my wardrobe has expanded exponentially over the years, I always waited for prices to come down and in the mean time, lost out on discontinued designs. In this respect and many others, I am not my parents’ daughter. I grew up with the idea that quality trumps all, no matter the price. I, however, have always held fast unto money. I always wait for my one-cent penny as change. I don’t mind going back into CVS to adjust the price of an item I already purchased because I forgot my coupon at home. I always compare the prices for necessities among competing pharmacies. Ironically, my nuclear family thinks I’m wasting time and expending an unwarranted amount of energy calculating costs, traveling, attempting to manicure my right hand with my far less graceful left one. That unused Christmas greeting card that I never remembered to return still haunts me to this day. I don’t even remember the cost but I do know that it was the equivalent to those consumer-beware clauses on almost all over-the-counter medications: I could have purchased my out-of-season 99 cent/pound watermelon for the day. I don’t mind spending money on food, otherwise known as fuel or nourishment for the body. Still, I think more than twice about buying that black bean soup when I could have my maybe $2 meal of a roasted sweet potato with an egg-white Swiss scramble or my slightly higher-end meal of a 4 oz. piece of salmon (that comes in packs of 8) with my organic black forbidden rice ($4.99 for 7 servings which I could stretch to 8.) My version of self-love is one that doesn’t mind spending extra in order to deter hoarding or abundance. That is to say, I buy what I need on a day-to-day basis, like fruit, so as not to over indulge while also ensuring freshness. I buy my GMO-free nut butters, when I can, in individual one-serving squeeze packets instead of the jar. It’s not a matter of convenience, you see. I don’t mind scooping out from a jar and measuring the number of tablespoons per serving. I don’t mind using a measuring spoon, a butter knife to level-off any excess, and then a serving spoon to transfer the resulting amount onto a plate for consumption. I buy these packets out of self-love; so that I don’t have to fret over whether or not my serving size is accurate. One less thing to over-analyze about. Time is the crux of self-love and self-care. It takes time to love yourself. After denying myself the trending 2016 planner and calendar stalls and kiosks at every corner amongst resolution-abiding citizens last month, I finally caved in yesterday and have accepted that yes, I do need an agenda to schedule my life. Hustling does that to you. Interviews, socializing, dinner reservations, deadlines - working from home on both the familial and professional fronts is a legitimate job: Enter 2016. As for jobs, well. I decided to splurge on the self-care front with a double whammy before one of my biggest interviews to date: I straightened my hair and had an extra-long wearing manicure done. Update: the interview was rescheduled and my insufferably flattened out hair and scuffed up black nail polish in only two days’ time are making me rethink this newfound self love regimen. All that said, I have made peace with this because I’m better for it. My cuticles are no longer painfully chafing and I had a good dose of much-needed serotonin. Still, I’d rather do for others. And so I purchased a gift for a friend. The issue here was not that, but that I, who lives within walking distance of Citibank and its ATMs had, in deference to staying active and prepping for job interviews, had counted on someone else to drive me to withdraw cash before buying said gift. I ended up having to use a multi bank ATM and paid a $3.50 fee to pull out my own money. The self-loathing kicked in. Not one to self deprecate - I never put myself down and always carry my head up high - had thought that if I could only go back and had done this and/or that, this would have never happened or that could have happened. Self-love is not equivalent to having pride in one’s self: keeping one’s back erect, and believing whole heartedly in one’s capabilities. There is a clear and definitive difference in those two concepts and I’m just beginning to realize this now. Giving back and contributing to society requires energy and that internal force is a direct byproduct of caring for one’s self. Just like It takes money to make money, investing in your corporeal form pays back manifold. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clx-spidery-spirit-animal-on-all-fours-and monthly 0.5 2016-01-14 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734365399-ED0HEDCDTQRGCS3AZ8Z2/tumblr_o0x20bbLen1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLX. Spidery Spirit Animal - On all fours and meticulously inspecting my sheen white tiled bathroom floor for inevitable specks of dirt - (I’m suddenly finding non-carpeted floors high maintenance to the nth degree) - I had caught movement in my periphery. The offender was brown, a dark brown- a hazelnut brown. I’m allergic to hazelnuts. The fiend was a spider. A small spider with an enlarged midsection not unlike mine. I’m constantly bloated in my recovery from a year of restrictive eating habits. The spider also had spindly extremities. So skinny were they that the limbs seemed longer than they actually are. This was also not unlike my veiny arms and legs. I once had voluminous thighs reminiscent of my Latina side and solid arms that evoked those of my bangle-decorated Indian ancestral matriarchs. Now my limbs are considerably deflated and give off the appearance of being lengthier than they actually are. That spider was mocking me. That spider was me anthropomorphized. I was shocked by the sighting. My parents had built this house from nothing- we went brick by brick, hinge by hinge, knob by knob to erect this customized house. It was brand spanking new. It was in a league all of its own. This house is not a Tudor nor is it a colonial. This house is a post-modern millennial. I suppose arachnids are natural to the suburban habitat we moved to. Our neighbor has a mini animal farm in his backyard after all. I quickly did the deed I hated to do and flung the balled up paper towel in the receptacle as soon as I had checked to make sure my spirit animal was caught. It was. I had been caught too. I am caught in this anorexic limbo. I sometimes forget what my face is supposed to look like. I sometimes forget that it’s possible to feel the burn of a strenuous cardio workout. I sometimes forget that I had used to enjoy sitting for over two and a half hours watching a Hindi film in the theater without having to expend energy and burn calories so I can work up an appetite. The next day I had also forgotten all about the incident between me and the magically appeared spider. And then I remembered for the sake of small talk. That spider-appearance was one of the more exciting things to have happened to me during my days that are consumed by sending out resumes and cover letters, applying to magazines, and washing dishes and planning and cooking up protein, carb, and fat-proportioned meals. I told my mother about the spider. For some reason I expected to hear something along the lines of the lack of cleanliness despite the fact that everyone knew my unofficial domestic duty was to constantly ensure that dirt was absent and to notify anyone who would listen when dirt was present. “You know seeing a spider is good luck,” my mother said. “That’s what grandma always said,” she continued, referring to her own mom. Suddenly I replayed the event in my head and the spider now seemed to take on a new hue. I was Charlotte, that fictional character in the classic children’s novel that is mandated by so many a classroom curriculum. It was kind of random. Perhaps the spider was good luck. It’s a new year and I need luck on my side. Old wives’ tale aside, logically, spiders weave webs. Webs are sticky, gelatinous spider-discharge. It functions to catch all that come in its vicinity. Hence the phrase, “caught in a web of lies.” How then could a web-yielding spider be fortuitous? How could it be a sign of being freed from my anorexia? I don’t know what to think about 2016, except that I will be turning 26, am still unmarried, still not yet engaged, still underweight, still - at a standstill. It’s just the beginning and as of yesterday, I have 6 months until I’m officially past my mid-twenties. One thing is for sure, my spidy senses are tingling and I’m itching to move on. Here’s to weaving my own web. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxix-there-is-nothing-to-see-here-when-you monthly 0.5 2016-10-13 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734357366-N09B1KAU2MC1SBYS6M66/tumblr_of0byyqKD11r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXIX. There Is Nothing to See Here - When you trade in something, you get something in return for something lost. What is lost is not necessarily found, and what is returned is not necessarily equivalent - as in an even exchange - to what is acquired. So there’s that. One thing is for certain, however, that which is acquired is not lesser in value. In fact, a trade in is governed by two parties. It’s not a one-way street. If you don’t want to trade in something, you don’t have to. It is your decision to do so, should you find the other party’s possession desirable. I’m trading in my eating disorder - the power to control how much I weigh - for something bigger than myself. I’m trading it in for a reclaiming of that power I had when I contributed to society in my own small way. I used to confront men who stopped to stare, leer, and make sexually charged remarks at me. If I could even get my point across to one person, that’s all I needed. I cringed at the idea of unwanted attention by men, as do most women. No one enjoys a catcall or having eyeballs plastered to their rear end when wearing anything but harem pants. I remember going onto the Queens-bound F train platform at 63rd and Lexington after my internship. I was wearing a pair of straight-legged jeans with a small hole on the right knee, the result of having fallen face forward while wheeling my small red suitcase along the cobbled path of Locust Walk after a weekend trip home. I had on a short sleeve button-down David Bitton Buffalo plaid shirt. My hair was pulled into a side ponytail. I was wearing my “at home” glasses frame- a plastic black frame with a neon interior. I felt put-together in a casual summer day kind of way. I didn’t expect to be approached by a large unwieldy man that day much less anyone else. As I was about to pull out my withering stare and go off on my feminist spout, he looked me in the eye and said, “You’re beautiful.” His voice and eyes were so genuine in spite of his outward appearance. “Thank you,” I replied before entering the train. I remember purposely wearing baggy shirts during the warmest summer days when going for walks because I wanted to hide any curves from the wandering eyes of landscapers. It was a reflex for me to cross the street as soon as I heard the whirring of lawn mowers in the distance. I remember my grad school crush smiling at me and our occasional catching glimpses of each other in our peripheral vision. I remember dropping pounds, wearing a dress that no longer hugged my thighs and wearing audible heels, walking the streets of Manhattan. I remember men turning their heads at the sound of the “clip, clomp,” only to be met with a straight-edged figure without so much as a bump aside from knees and shoulders. “Nothing to see here,” I thought, smiling, on the outside and inside. They turned their gaze to the next heel-wearing woman, someone who met their expectations - a body that menstruated. I remember seeing my crush’s face contort and jaw drop when he saw me 4 months later and 20 pounds lighter. I remember feeling hurt, embarrassed, confused, and a tiny bit regretful. Again, there was nothing to see here. I’m not told I’m beautiful anymore, but I also don’t get that unsavory attention. I don’t need validation, but I am human and hearing compliments does well for my heart and mind. I’m trading off my eating disorder at the risk of being approached by undesirable men but will also have the chance to be complimented and admired again. I’m trading off curvy thighs for the ability to become a mother, the ability to run, to bike ride, to ride against the wind’s direction and feel as if I’m levitating as opposed to feeling as though I’m suffering a blow to the face and gasping for air. I’m trading off what has become a very small, closed off world to the one with problems in the most obsolete pockets of civilization that I had once felt weighed on my shoulders as well. It’s a trade-off, but it’s not immediate. There is a lag time and that period of waiting is proving almost too much to bear. It is so very uncomfortable to remain sedentary, to stop myself from enjoying the weather, to try and pass time with immobile affairs that have the potential to flex the mind- or not. I remain awake and refuse to slumber. And of the four times that I have committed to laying horizontally, only twice did I feel it justified. The other times I felt weakened, hopeless, and deadened, and yet it was an accomplishment because it was one step closer to recovery. One less calorie expended. I need to get my liberal college of arts & sciences ass on the level of my undergrad peers groomed by Wharton - I have to go to the stock exchange and make that trip to Wall Street on my own. I need to trade in this hell for another hell- one that I can sideline, one that I can observe, one that I can avoid and help others to avoid as well, one that does not have to be lived. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clvii-a-casual-causal-affair-note-written monthly 0.5 2015-11-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734366289-G1A22QSY7FCYFMIEUYHN/tumblr_nx56mbSpyT1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLVII. A Casual, Causal Affair - *Note: Written yesterday. Today is Halloween. I think I’m going to dress as myself, as an off-duty, university sweats-dressed, model. I think I’d like to complete my get-up with my slouchy knitted pom pom beanie. The weather certainly calls for it. You could have been a model, my father said. I scoffed. You could have modeled- you were perfect: flawless skin, a lean, athletic and yet feminine frame. Now I can pretend to be a model since I’m not her anymore. At least not yet. I was always a witch. Out of competitiveness in the academic arena for as long as I could remember, I was, and continue to be, power hungry. I indulged in the concept of supernatural witchcraft. To exercise power by using intellectually crafted language via spells, a form of writing, was right up my alley. I thought that the idea of using chemistry to create potions and tonics was so stunningly cerebral. And the popular Steven Spielberg produced television series, Charmed, appealed to my young girl hood. I lived vicariously through those on-screen characters who were so fashionable. They were three sisters and I only knew of brothers. I went into a Long Island Target last week with my parents after convincing them to join me in shedding off these past years of stress, anxiety, and constant obsessing. That which is life. I wanted to embrace the autumnal spirit spearheaded by Starbucks’ Pumpkin Spice Latte. I purposely prefaced “Target” with “Long Island” because the geographic location of a franchise is directly correlated to the inventory they carry. Keep this in mind. In years past, my mother would voluntarily escort a large group of my friends from the neighborhood to go trick-or-treating. There was the guy across the street and a little down the way who gave out King-sized candy bars. There were the South Indian Christians, parents to Freddy and Bobby (cousins) who bonded with my two male cousins and brother, a couple of houses down. Their house was directly across the street from The King. Their parents would open their own respective doors since they lived in separate spaces within a two-family house. Without fail, both sets of parents were dressed in sleepwear. The mothers were dressed in floor-length Victorian-like nightgowns. The fathers wore pajama sets: V-neck button down shirt over wide-leg pants. They always gave us money- mostly change and sometimes bills. There was the house around the block that although a tad bit creepy, housed a warm-hearted, now faceless and gender-less person who handed out snack-sized chips of all kinds. There was the house that gave out the candy-apples in either a caramel-nut combo or a jelly-coconut flaked duo, and then there were the houses that gave out the most economical treats: the minis. We knew who were most likely to be our proxy parents, those money conscious job-going adults who empathized with kids enough to hand out a notch above those 25-cent machine hard candies and to buy brand-named favorites like Skittles, m&ms, Hershey’s, Whoppers, and Nestle varieties. We were privy to those house dwellers who were handing out old-school brands to the candies for which our generation lost the taste for: tootsie rolls (both the lollipops and chewy bow-tie wrapped caramel-cocoa concoctions), and Mary Jane peanut brittle. We knew who felt bored enough to not mind being bothered with trick-or-treaters but who were also dismal failures in our assessment, surpassing mediocrity because they opted for those hard-as-a-rock yet colorful candies, including those off-holiday sugary hearts neatly lined up in a row so reminiscent of the chemical chains that make up their composition. These were the bulk candies, those that filled up our bags and that our parents disposed of first. And then there were the incompetent: those house-sitters who dared to sprinkle loose, not packaged candy corn and other such items made for social consumption indoors. Even prior to the anthrax scare of the early 2000s, these treats were not disposed of by parents, but instead littered in the streets immediately after being received. Suddenly the leaf-strewn blocks in my village- believe it or not, where I live is a village by definition, became a makeshift Candy Land game board. Back in Target: I had to forgo hiking, farm gallivanting, apple picking, and pumpkin consuming (self-imposed), due to my anorexia. That being said, I was on a mission to part-take in the fall activity I could actually participate in since it was home-based- doling out treats to costumed children. Always predisposed to creativity - let’s just say I favored Barney over Sesame Street - I wanted to part take in a Do-It-Yourself project. I wanted to make goodie bags with anything but your run of the mill treats. I wanted to put healthy snacks in them, not crap. In Target, there was an entire aisle dedicated to healthy and organic treats to hand out for Halloween, including balanced fats, protein, and carb combinations housed into little bunny rabbits and goldfish shapes. They were, of course, three times the price of the adjacent 4 aisles that had your go-to Halloween favorites. As I wandered into the lone organic aisle,  a recovering anorexic, my parents’ speechless balking was palpable. Parsimonious person that I am, I thought, “I already have so many expenses what with eminent weddings, grad school loans, a new house and I don’t have children yet. Why should I spend money on the few and far between trick-or-treaters? Why should I push my ethos on anyone else?” So I settled for pretzel packages. My father then said, “Kids like chocolate.” I had a flashback of myself, separating the solid chocolate from the rest of the candy. My mother said, “They’re just going to throw the pretzels out and it will be a waste of money anyway.” I saw myself throwing away all the treats I did not care for. She had a point and I did not want our money spent for naught. We bought a large bag of favorite chocolate items. This bag was not as expensive as Annie’s Organic Bunnies, but was the priciest among the regular confectionery options: Cookies in Cream Hershey’s white chocolate, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, a regular Hershey’s bar, and Whoppers. This selection epitomized a good Halloween when I was growing up. This year we kept our door open and the lights on for a full two hours before closing them and locking up as we used to. Only some children came by: Less than 10 said, “Trick or Treat,” and even less were dressed up. We have a metal mixing bowl filled with the leftover chocolate at the foot of our stairs. I dare not venture down those stairs lest more of the cold air that seeps from the gap underneath the door touches my skin. I dare not venture down those stairs, far too early to venture out before I embark on the first day of my first job of my life, of my career. I am one flight up and I think it best to keep climbing. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxv-fri-nay-counting-down-the-hours-until monthly 0.5 2016-03-28 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734363296-Y6G9BMIQAZW2HZAD28VJ/tumblr_o4r8yyvG8r1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXV. Fri-Nay- Counting down the hours until Friday comes around is my weekly dreaded chore. I must be the only person to absolutely house unadulterated hate toward the concept of the weekend. It all began in college. Weekends were when the campus would become a ghost town and though I had plenty of friends, I never felt more alone. I would rejoice at the Sunday crowds in the depths of the libraries, right before classes would begin the next day. Throughout the week dining with a meal plan was not at all deserving of its less than favorable reputation. All hands were on deck, and my veggie burger station were all systems a-go. I relished the special black bean burger on days when the more “structured” in texture, miscellaneous veggie burger was not available. Additionally, a new stash of soup crackers would be piled high in the bowl that I zoned in on while trying not to attract attention as I fished for my favorites: The Keebler rectangles and oyster pouches so that I would always leave a heaping mound of flaky saltines left behind. After college, I came to enjoy weekends as I once had, in the depths of my childhood when school, Girl Scouts, piano lessons, and dance practice would take a backseat to 3-hour long Hindi films and going out with my parents to dine and shop. Since this past year in graduate school, however, weekends at home was a major shock to my system and my way of doing things. Suddenly my disordered eating habits were on full display. I no longer felt like I had earned the right to sit and enjoy watching a film or have an appetite for delicious food when I had not fasted and/or could work it off. I no longer danced or had physical education. I read. I wrote. I rode on the subway. I attended graduate school. I analyzed. Weekends are still like this, despite the fact that I now eat a solid three meals and a snack that is my weight in fruit. My daily breakfast of protein-no batter-pancakes is scrutinized for its time-consuming and smoke-inducing quality while cooking. As the weather is opening up, I’m beginning to harp back onto my childhood which was largely spent outdoors. I’m finally accepting, rather than realizing, that phases in life exist. That is to say, so what if I no longer play street hockey on roller skates or that playing tag now counts as an invasion of space equivalent to harassment? So what if being active is now slotted for a certain time as opposed to sprinkled with abandon? Who cares that my metabolism isn’t that of a child’s? Who really cares? These changes are part and parcel of growing up. Isn’t this what I always wanted? It is. I remember fire drills and half-days, reminiscing about being an adult who can appreciate the outdoors during the daytime and can hear birds chirp like I can now. Last Friday my mother took the day off and while I know her doing so is ultimately to wind down and actually use one of her accumulated vacation days that her bosses have been pushing for her to use, I believe that she, in part, wants to spend time with me. I’ve been selfishly pushing everyone away, dreading the Friday I no longer have for myself.I’ve been counting down the days and mentally preparing myself for when I have to share that last vestige of alone-time before I am fully exposed on Saturday and Sunday. That Friday, while pleasant, transitioned to Saturday. Another hellish weekend day. Yet again an argument. Yet again, a sinking feeling in the gut. Yet again, a desire to break away from all the shackles of a hard adulthood and wholeheartedly indulge in what could be. The adulthood I always dreamed of was one that isn’t this no matter how hard I try and make it out to be that way. Yet again, no offer from a job I am more more than qualified for after passing rounds one, two, three, and sometimes more. Yet again, no response to my email and an impression of my tweet but not any human reception of said tweet. I came to know early last week that this past Friday, my mother again had off. This time for ‘Good Friday.’ I thought today would be well and good, especially after our heart-to-heart on Thursday, however, it wasn’t even 11 am before a scuffle had ensued. That was to be expected. What wasn’t to be expected is that she again has off this upcoming Friday. I’m taking this with a grain of salt. After all, it is kind of my prep for the upcoming week abroad. That’s right: A week in which I will be sharing a room and every passing day no longer by myself. We’re headed out and I can only imagine what is to come. At least it is Monday - let the mental prep begin. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxvi-pillsbury-dough-boy-personified-i-took monthly 0.5 2016-05-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734362965-B4PSRT3F1HJ9P466P2FD/tumblr_o6pkt6kvHV1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXVI. Pillsbury Dough Boy, Personified - I took days off, weeks in fact. It was a break - a much needed one. I was straddling the mislabel of physical therapy with a workout. It sure as hell worked me out. I saw cuts and I felt aches - decreasingly so as time went on. The concept of rest days was no longer a foreign concept, nor were the twin identities of protein and power, and carb and cardio. I was determined and developed a routine that inadvertently altered another in-place routine. The after-effects were like tremors before a full-fledged earthquake. My ears were sticking out again. My set of meticulously cared for white teeth, no plaque in sight, began to protrude once more. How can the body be so fickle and yet so robust? So I went in the other direction - Immobility and upped the food intake. The concept of gains reared its head, but not in the way of Kardashian-inspired baggage: the hard shell exterior. This baggage was the far more functional one - the canvas one that has an extra zipper with the option to expand your luggage, increasing the space it takes up by a couple of inches, enabling it to weigh more. Sometimes I’m happy to be the Pillsbury dough woman. If all it takes is a poke to make me giggle, to make me laugh like I used to, then white chef’s hat I shall don- no questions asked. Other times, I don’t want to wear the all white suit with a pouch that sticks out and that rolls with every waddle-like movement. Then again, I’ve been accustomed to a waddle. It’s some new sort of gait that is so unlike me but is required because of the gap between my thighs. I don’t want to start from square-one: to mold and carve new layers of protrusion into something more straight-edged and 2-D. Also, is it a coincidence that the color white is worn when honoring the dead with last rights? Then again, I just purchased white attire for a summer wedding because of its light and airy vibe. So here I am- going back and forth about what I want.There is pent up energy that has to be unleashed. And that’s what I want. I want to be that Pillsbury cinnamon roll or biscuit cylinder. I want to be unwound and stretched out, my internal layer to be revealed. I want for all of it to take, like a poke of a finger to make me laugh, a fingernail to slit the interior cardboard cylinder, releasing the pressure and exposing the glistening dough inside. The pros far outweigh the cons in this instance. Pillsbury it is. And when all is said and done, mark my words, I’ll be dressed in a cute white chef’s hat, a button down white shirt tucked into white pants with an equestrian-style thin blue ribbon wound around a neck (without the Adam’s apple) for Halloween this year. I haven’t dressed up in a costume in far too long. I haven’t laughed in just as long. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxiv-dear-father-advice-to-an-anorexic monthly 0.5 2016-03-03 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734363627-8TCBBZ4EVNM69IC5HRWT/tumblr_o3fsylx9Or1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXIV. Dear Father - Advice to an Anorexic begins like this: “White foods: bread, potatoes, rice, ice cream…” 10 minutes later: “Oreos!” Pause “Beer- Then you’ll become like me.” And all I could say was “thank you” and smile. Something about this eccentric man gave off a paternal essence. I said thank you and this is coming from a person who hails from a strict non-drinking household aside from using cooking wine and my brother and parents’ occasional consumption of Ba Ba Rum from famed NYC bakery, Veniero’s. This is coming from someone who refuses to consume any type of refined sugar; from a person who eats fiber-filled whole and ancient grains and the lower-glycemic versions of starch known as sweet potatoes. I am a person who went from eating zero-fat, denying my body the ability to absorb whatever little nutrients I was getting from throat drops, crackers, tomatoes, ginger ale, and coffee, to stave off hunger, to a person who fell in love with healthy fats: nut and seed butters, fish, olive oil, and luscious egg yolks. I met this man at a place where I voluntarily chose to walk the risky path yet again. I decided to reconstruct muscle while trying to put on weight. He was wondering what someone looking the way I do - stick-like - was doing in a place where healthy bulges and rotundity was commonplace. He asked me what my ethnicity was and proceeded to talk nonsensical chatter about someone else he knows who hails from India after finding out my father was from there. This was all after he kept confusing Pakistan with India. I was insulted to say the least, but mostly just unamused by his need to categorize all Indians as tough and oppressive. Since then, he’s always initiated a “hi, how are you?” And most recently, “have you been gaining weight?” He told me had a daughter around my age. “She weighs 130-pounds at least,” he said. This man is white by the way and apparently, his daughter, who I’ve seen around the gym, is either adopted or mixed, and is beyond pretty. She is 130-pounds all lean muscle from what I can tell. Her arms are cylindrical but not flabby. Clear of face, rosy pigmentation that surmises good health, and seemingly of a hybrid race like myself from one of India’s neighboring Southeast Asian countries - she reminded me of my past self. She reminded me of the girl who could lift 20 pounds while doing crunches or who could sprint up stairs without being winded. She was his daughter. And with this realization, I felt as though I had, in turn, become his daughter as well. My father had given me the same advice, minus the beer part. He told me to eat bread and rice. He scolded me when he found my mother’s bag of 35-calorie pack freeze-dried apple crisps because he thought they were mine. He grew happy when he found my mother’s pack of Oreos a couple of days later, again, mistaking them for being my own. He was losing his patience and so too was my proxy daddy who asked with angst if I was putting on any weight at all. I am losing my patience as well. It’s the first of March and I have a little more than three months until my next birthday- until that anniversary where I was made to sip on my first 365-calorie beverage, Ensure, to have my first blood transfusion, my first time going into anaphylactic shock, and my first time since birth that I was home-bound for the entirety of my favorite season: summer. The abdominal bloating started before I increased my increased food intake but will remain for some time until weight restoration and redistribution . I went from avoiding hugging my parents so they wouldn’t have to feel my bones, to avoiding having to feel self-conscious about the water-retaining cushion around my midsection. I miss hugging. “Speed this up as much as possible,” my father pleaded. “Then you can work on your body the way you like- with cardio.” “The longer you take, the worse it is.” This last statement caused me to believe that it was for his own benefit - the selfishness, am I right? No, I am wrong. That sentiment is of course ridiculous. My father doesn’t want his daughter to be fat nor does he want her to become healthier and stronger only so that his family unit wouldn’t be ostracized by the quote unquote community. He wants his daughter to once again laugh while watching late-night television. He wants her to be compared to the old-world Hindi film beauties of his youth again. He wants her to indulge in the cuisine that he had grown up with, to eat the food she once did and that her ancestors did. He wants her to swap out black bean soup for dal and whole grain muffins for atta or whole wheat rotis. He wants her to ditch the pounds of fruit for ghee-laced confections. “You’re not eating the food that you’re meant to eat, which suits you,” my father said. I asked him what he meant. “You eat either Indian or Spanish food because that is what you are,” he said. He wants to see the dimple in her chin again - the same one that his mother had. He wants her hair to be feral yet tamed again as opposed to being thin and scalp-exposing. He wants her to be fertile so she can start her own family. He wants her to find love and to get married. I want what he wants. Rather, he wants what I want. I’m selfish. So, father, I have a confession to make: I’m the selfish one and I am sorry for being so. This is my time one way or the other. I just have to flip it in the direction I want to see myself in. Thriving as opposed to surviving. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxvi-women-are-strong-my-mother-told-me monthly 0.5 2016-08-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734359335-53EBUYB3S70M7B1GM162/tumblr_ocoop93Xzz1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXVI. Women Are Strong - My mother told me this yesterday after I admitted an obvious relapse. She reprimanded me first, as is the norm and I don’t know why I would expect anything else, but I again mistakenly thought she would softly assure me that I would get through whatever it is I needed to get through. She’s not that type of mother. You have to have will power. It’s all a mind thing, she told me. You see, I went through an unhealthy weight loss that wasn’t considered anorexia, years ago, back in freshman year of college. Back then, I had only lost 10-12 pounds, but I rapidly put the weight back on. I had lost my period and was taken to my pediatrician who threatened to send me to rehab. I was so naive and vulnerable. I was scared shitless and I was so happy to be home and eating my favorites again that I ate, and ate. I stuffed my face, dismissing my shrunken stomach - the result of not eating. I ate until nausea consumed me. I ended up throwing up at times, but hating the bodily discomfort of trembling that accompanied it. I hated how throwing up felt like I was being possessed, head over the toilet, and I avoided it all costs. I would rather suffer from a stomach ache and have the contents of my stomach come out through my rear end than through my mouth. I also didn’t want to undo all the work of eating to gain. So my father would walk around the block with me, in an effort to make my body acclimate to the enormous amount of food. Eventually the weight I had lost was part of me again and my stomach was open. I say that the weight was a part of me again, as awkward as that sounds, because my body, as is everyone’s, has a set point - a weight necessary in order for our hormones to function properly. This is how much space we’re supposed to take up, lest we’re dead. I didn’t think about how many carbs I was eating when I ate toasted bagels with butter. Hell, there was no other way to eat a bagel than with butter. I never thought about the fried crunchy bits on chaat - a sweet and savory popular Indian street food. I never thought about the starchy boiled white potatoes or the added sugar from the cloyingly sweet tamarind chutney. I never thought twice about savoring the Betty Crocker muffins my mom made, substituting the oil and eggs it called for with water and egg whites. I thought that was a healthy choice. Kudos, mom. That George Foreman Grill of the 90s did well to make us privy of healthy eating. I never did like granola bars, though I took to Kudos, the brand of sticky cereal bars that had traces of chocolate chips, more than any of the others on the market. I would look forward to pancakes, made from boxes, filled with refined white flour, with added blueberries and a slice of glistening butter melted on top. The past couple of days, I have felt as though my heart was going to give out. It felt fatigued. My breathing had begun to feel labored. My veins bulged along my arms and legs until they physically hurt. My sunburned skin felt taught. I felt as if death was eminent. I had anxiety and panicked. I burst out crying. I called an eating disorder specialist at NYU for who a consultation cost $600. She said my eating should be medically supervised. She said, “that’s why so many people die of this.” I don’t want to die. I don’t want it to end like this. I also don’t want to pay $600, but the direness of my situation having dawned upon me by this Johns Hopkins medical school-educated woman, my brother a fellow alum, was all it took to put me in my place. The fear she instilled in me was enough, no fee necessary. Yesterday I ate more and did not move lest I expend energy. My mom asked me to eat a bagel. I refused, so she left without picking up one either, despite the fact that she wanted one. I knew I had made a mistake when I told her to go to the bagel place that I walked to, to buy her bagels. It’s about an hour walk away from my house- figure 3-4 miles coming and going. She flipped and my secret was out. She asked me to eat a slice of pizza for lunch after I couldn’t breathe again yesterday. I again refused. I made her muffins this morning. I know she loves them. She asked if I was going to eat. Again, I refused. I had already felt disgusted with myself for eating so much yesterday, for having that dreaded protein shake this morning. She refused to eat the muffins. I took her by her hand today and vowed, regrettably so, not to move. I self-imposed house arrest. I hate that I did that, but I have to. After our argument was patched up, we decided to sit outside in the backyard and look through the 800-page September issue of Vogue. A bee was trailing me. Now, for your point of reference, I don’t react to wild creatures outside. I don’t so much as flinch when a bee comes near me. Pests, on the other hand, like those creepy crawlies that rhyme with “coaches,” scare me to no end. So the bee would not let me be. At this point, I lost my yogic stance because there was a high probability that I would be stung. And in the Darwinian case of predator and prey, being the latter, I stared to bob and weave in spite of my weakness, lack of energy, and bulging veins. My mother’s maternal instinct revved up and somehow she made contact with the bee on her first kick, knocking the wind out of it so that it fell to the ground, and then swiftly stepped on it. “There,” she said, stoic, strong, and satisfied. That was my momma bear. She is the epitome of a strong woman. She is doing her yoga now while I eat and sit and sit and eat. I am pissed. I feel like she is egging me on, taunting me, working out in front of someone for whom working out is off limits. But she was willing to let me buy the bicycle I wanted yesterday and she stood in line at customer service just so she can show the manager the organic superfood bars I love to eat, but that they sold out of. A part of me felt like she did it because of their high calorie count. But then again, she didn’t complain when I opted for black bean soup and whole grain toast instead of the Italian food my father and her planned on eating. And she got me a subscription to Health Magazine, knowing fully well that a good deal of its contents revolve around exercise. I think those were her ways of giving me a little happiness in my world of darkness. We went to a women’s undergarment shop while looking for additions to our wardrobe for fall. We both noticed that the quality of the shops products increased since the last couple of years when we decided to peruse their shelves only to leave disappointed. I know I keep coming back here, but I really like this place, I told my mother. Especially since- I paused, leaned in closer to her and whispered - they support eating disorder awareness. My mom knew how serious this was. Hardly anyone knew anything about the dire health risks of anorexia aside from victims, their families, and specialists. “They do?” my mom asked. Yes, I replied. Don’t you remember last year at the walk? They were one of the sponsors and gave away tote bags. After having paid and prior to leaving the shop, my mother went up to the store manager without my knowledge. She thanked her for supporting the National Eating Disorder Association. She left the store smiling. I’m in a hole and I want out. I want out so badly. I want to travel, to write, to work, to live. Laughing is so foreign that it physically hurts on the rare occasion that I do. I can’t live like this anymore. I thought this “can’t” made me weak, but in reality, it makes me strong. It makes me a strong woman. Maybe I’ll dress as Rosie The Riveter this Halloween. Maybe I’ll have the energy to hand out treats to the costumed children. Maybe I’ll be able to laugh without doubling over in pain. Maybe I should just do this and forget that I let a year pass without progress. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxiv-options-how-are-you-doing-he-asked monthly 0.5 2016-08-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734359911-QHHQRVMJOI8272O8356C/tumblr_obkbbr5epV1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXIV. Options - “How are you doing,” he asked me as we were walking by each other. He asked it with all the inflections of someone who is engaging in cool small talk, with a particular affinity for the Long Island accent. There was no verb after the initial inquisitive “how” and the all too deceiving double vowel ending of “you” was substituted for the first letter of the alphabet, still deceiving because it was produced as a short vowel u. The second verb in the gerund form became two words blended into each other: do and in. “How ya doin?” I replied: “Good. How are you?” I was surprised at my own chipper tone. I’m not well. Not in the least. Arguments from last night have rolled into this morning, bulldozing what I was building up in my head to be a new, good day, and flattening the crux of this pleasant summer day into nothingness, before pummeling the end of the day into a dark oblivion. It’s an alternate world, my world. There is neither a calm before nor after the storm. This week is predicted to be a stormy one and today was supposed to be the sunny, pleasant Bon Voyage to the weekend. This week, the girth of the storm, will be our calm. That is to say, the upcoming work week will promise a timetable of errands. There, in turn is an unspoken compromise that lends itself to our pantry being stocked with the necessary groceries and having the mailbox emptied of its contents. The idea of not have to expend energy on petty domestic affairs after a long day at work - that’s the calm for us. Weekends are deviations from my robotic routine and as I’ve mentioned before, are not looked forward to. Weekdays, however, come and go. While I am always appreciative to see time pass, that’s just it. I’m seeing time pass. I’m not living. Or so I think. Because as I walk and occasionally catch shade, tilting my neck up and away from my phone screen, I see rabbits hopping away from the intruder, cats glowering all the same, three women conversing at a yard sale, two boys on scooters, cars driving by, leaves rustling, and shadows being cast before again making way for the sun. I need to escape. I need to look beyond and get away from this routine because while it can be cathartic, it too can be toxic. This is a dilemma. It’s not just that life is complex and quote unquote, shit happens. It’s not just another bump in the road. It’s anything but that. Shit is hitting the fan and it’s spreading everywhere. It’s the picture in chemistry textbooks that are used to describe diffusion of gas particles or entropy, a state of natural disorder. My disorder is unnatural. It’s abnormal. It’s one big set of prefixes before words that can stand alone. The turmoil I find myself in is all on me. My burden has become the burden for one and all, and while I deny my father’s declaration, I will admit to the idea that if I have to suffer - if I have to be reprimanded for going for a walk or not eating this, that, or the other, then it’s only fair that everyone else should be miserable as well. Let them reap that which I am subject to. That may sound ugly, but it’s how I feel and I cannot hide from it. I believe this is known as bitterness. The other truth is, I don’t find this bitterness sweet. I find this sentiment altogether horrendous, though understandable given the circumstances. I want this all to end. I want the brief honeymoon period, erected on fake dispositions upon my brother’s homecoming, to last forever instead of ending after a short 4-day span. We were falling back into the sights, sounds, smells, and conversations. A semblance of that which you hope never changes or comes to an end, was making itself known again. But all that had resurfaced just as quickly disappeared. And I’m trying to escape. I’m walking away and returning. I go back and forth and reprimand myself. I’ve become a prefix and called my father to pick me up so I wouldn’t have to walk back before walking again. I’m mulling over getting a bike instead. At least living will be mandated then- I won’t be staring at my phone and typing this while riding a bike. There are always options. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxi-the-writing-room-i-now-have-a-library-in monthly 0.5 2016-01-21 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734364827-TMC1OUHNYTLIBODJOBCK/tumblr_o1bkjgmZJJ1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXI. The Writing Room - I now have a library in my house. I have a place to put that nifty heavy-weight trinket made of metal that has molded pens gathered on top and an engraved quotation about how writers think and do. Manhattan has some place called “The Writing Room,” where alcoholic beverages are imbibed, culinary repertories are primary and is thus reflected in the prices, and the vestiges of writers’ lore are solely reminiscent in decor. There are now writers’ colonies - clubs in the city - that aforementioned borough - where one can burrow away in steadfast thoughts of fictional worlds or nonfictional memories, transcribed interviews, and creative expression. My writing room, I believe, has always been in my mind. Now, it has shifted into the crevices of my inner being even more so. Maybe that shift is a result of my post-lowest weight daily Omega-3 and -6 overload from salmon, egg, and nut consumption. Do I meditate? I was asked this earlier today. I replied that no I didn’t. Sure, I tried, however I’m too in my head to practice something so contrary to my being. Meditation is to produce a numbing sound and I always thrived on music. Meditation is like being in that scientifically-proven soundproofed room in which someone’s eardrums could burst because all that person hears is their blood vessels dilating and constricting, their blood flowing, and their heart thumping. It’s like hearing the annoying second-hand of a clock. Is anyone out there though? Does anyone read this? I never cared as to the answer- as far as this blog is concerned. This platform was and is for me. Still, my writing in the pixelated public domain has catapulted me into social media abandon so that I’ve become familiar with skill sets not easily taught. It’s placed me into a social context both casually and professionally. My posts have been a conversation starter more than I care to admit. It has been the source of family disturbance. It has opened the door for many an internship into the journalism world when I was starting out as a recent liberal arts graduate who was, up until then, a walking smorgasbord of politics, historical and sociological health practices, and premedical topics. Now, however, my blog is no longer a recreational indulgence that I once found myself fully engrossed in while on campus. I never felt more like a millennial, intellectual, Ivy League- attending student, like the fictional character, Rory Gilmore, than when I blogged. This fortuitous venture just happened to coincide with my last year of college. I would have the urge to blog about something altogether different than that last post I wrote, immediately after having published it. I had to pace myself. I needed to engage in the self-discipline of not having my readers, my peers, be sick of consecutive posts. Also, I needed to actually finish coursework. I used to occupy my free time not spent walking to and from classes, or criss-crossing campus for dance practice, by sitting down in a campus cafe. I would settle down, no longer toting around my laptop, and sip on a latte in hand whilst writing on this blog. Now I blog on-the-go. Right now I am typing on my iPhone’s notepad feature whilst walking around my empty house. I don’t dance anymore. I don’t burn energy at all. Clearly, every topic that my blog posts of late promise to adhere to, eventually end up at the same place - I’ve been diagnosed with anorexia. I’m not allowed to burn calories and even if I had the chance to engage in cardio, I am too true to myself to do it when I know I have to pack on pounds. Back to my writing and the question, does anyone read this? I have been transparent and made it quite clear that I am no longer the chirpy, curly-haired, voluminous-facial-cheek possessing, Indian music-loving girl who would order the foods she loved without measuring and without a clue as to the calorie count. In fact, this saddening (at least to me) fact has been plastered all over my Facebook wall. I don’t tweet about my published posts upon them going live nor do I have a public Instagram account. Still, this blog is listed on my resume, in my Twitter profile, on my publicly viewed LinkedIn profile, and is listed as a caption to more than one public Facebook profile picture. That said, my friends and the people who have had direct access to my new blog posts are unaware of what I am writing about- of my current state of being. I find myself having to explain to them why I ordered my entree with appetizers and am eating before they ever receive their own course. “My blog,” I say. “Have you read it?” I ask as a preface to telling them about my temporarily new self. Why should I expect them to read it? Is it because they used to? Is it because acquaintances have mentioned that they read my blog or that I have received maybe a couple of direct messages sent to me from a friend of a friend who happened upon my blog and enjoyed reading it? Perhaps this temporarily new me is also a different writer than before. Prose has definitely replaced the more poetic language I once used. Humor is dark as opposed to quirky. I have noticed this too. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clix-non-sticky-bandages-bandages-better monthly 0.5 2015-12-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734365527-SR4MR9Y9ESHC1SMX49VK/tumblr_o051y1r5o81r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLIX. Non-Sticky Bandages - Bandages, better known as Band-AIDS, are meant to be ripped off. The act of using your fingernails to detach the ends from your skin once a dry scab has formed is unpleasant, but it is also necessary. It’s like pulling off the sticky price-tag on something you’re gifting. Ideally a band-AID should be time-sensitive: Be sticky enough to let blood-clotting work it’s magic and keep out infection, and be non-adhesive enough to come off easily without the finagling of having to scrape off the leftover glue from your skin, only to then apply bandages when the aforementioned scratching is no doubt unsuccessful. Unfortunately for us, bandages are like what sticky notes, better known as Post-It’s, should be. That is to say, they stick to you at their own discretion instead of eventually falling off. As a result, our hair is pulled out from their follicles and our skin is stretched so that both males and females feel that wrath of a localized pregnancy. In other words, the stretching of your skin as you try in vain to peel off a particularly stubborn bandage. Therein, someone somewhere has coined the analogy, “rip it off like a band-AID,” which does well to insinuate that despite any hesitancy we have in pursuing a task, we’re to do it anyway. Might as well get it over and done with. What lies beneath the bandage is a sign of both trauma and healing. After all, bodily trauma ignites an inflammation stage that triggers the blood-clotting process - for the non-hemophiliac population that is. A hemophiliac is someone who inherited the genetic mutation which prevents blood from clotting. Not too long ago I was cutting up my daily evening snack of a 6-pound (or more) watermelon. The knife slipped and I did not know that I had cut my finger because I didn’t feel any pain initially and it was not until I saw the blood seeping out that I realized I had been cut. The blood kept seeping and it wouldn’t stop. Hemophilia was not the cause and I presumed stitches were necessary. With 25 minutes until one of NYC’s last remaining open Urgent Care centers was closing and with hopes to dodge the ER, I got to the center with 5 minutes to spare. I didn’t need stitches, but the cut was deep enough to warrant a never ending stream of bright red fluid so uncannily reminiscent of the sweet, product of summer-melon. I ripped off my bandage the next day- always impatient with having a foreign object wedged between the tactility of my fingertips and the world around me. What remained was a gaping cut that didn’t close up for another 10 days so that I felt a dull pain with every encounter the wound made with the elements. I ripped off the bandage and yet there was no calming effect or one-button recovery as the analogy had promised. Recovery isn’t a fast-track. It’s tough and goes beyond the physical. It’s counter-intuitive and contradictory. It’s seemingly courageous but also seemingly cowardly. It’s an alliteration of the letter c because it is so comparable. It’s crappy and not at all dissimilar to my city’s brainchild: the cronut - it’s ridiculous but appealing. The hybrid confection of croissant and donut is something that is crazy, but is just crazy enough to work. Recovery from anything is a science. Scientifically speaking, it’s crazy that the process of recovery is riddled with its own set of problems and yet eventually is the only proven path to attain the coveted outcome - and in my case, that is to gain weight. It’s so ‘cronut’ to me that I have to eat despite not feeling hungry. It’s so cronut to me that I have to feel gluttonous and feel as though my belly has expanded beyond capacity and yet everyone else sees scrawny arms and spoke-like shoulder blades jutting out. It is so cronut to me that I am constipated at all times and in an attempt to rid myself of this fullness by pacing around my house, I’m actually delaying any recovery from occurring. I’m stuck between a coagulated rock of sugar and a hard shell of a donut that has hidden inside a buttery soft croissant; that is to say, I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place, better known as: The “cronut.” https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxviii-real-time-real-talk-i-used-to-take monthly 0.5 2016-05-15 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734361756-QWCB6UT8BT65YANIXU36/tumblr_o78pi25k2U1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXVIII. Real Time- Real Talk - I used to take for granted my parents, brother, and I all being at home at the same time. I used to be so immune to the aroma of sautéed onions and spices in the large metal kadahi, or large concave wok, inhaling deeply without knowledge that this smell would be fleeting if ever present in the near future. The warmth of security in company and pungent cooking smells, powerful kitchen exhaust aside, was something I never fathomed going away. It was part of me and it still is. On this unusually cold day for mid-May, my brother has returned home for a little less than 24-hours. My dad doesn’t have a business meeting to attend to and my mother finished cleaning, washing, and cooking before the brother’s arrival. Both my parents and brother are now indulging in some much-needed self-care. I suppose I am too in writing this. She’s blowdrying her hair while flipping through pixelated pages of a novel on her Kindle, all after doing yoga. The father is in the basement powerlifting and cycling. The brother is showering after his second consecutive 24-hour surgical shift. The aroma of the meal my mom prepared for my brother’s rare visit, but that I won’t eat, a meat dish, is delicious smelling and invokes my childhood memories. Yet it also provokes my pre-existing nausea and that ill feeling, causing my face to contort, trumps all. So now a candle has been lit. It has a musky cedar wood scent left over from the holiday season coinciding with December. It’s May, but I’m cold because of the overcast skies and blustery breeze and also because I haven’t yet showered; It is Sunday and I only get 5 or less hours of sleep a night, so taking a late warm bath seems comforting and smart. My reasoning is as follows: I can go to bed smelling of fresh fragrance and body soap essence, my milk and honey body lotion and feet cream and my rose face moisturizer. The next morning I can go to the gym for a less-than-intense 20 minutes, still feeling fresh and then cleanse after. It all works out. In fact, it almost seems effortless. And it’s times like these where appreciation for such effortless tasks trumps any irritation associated with problems. It is this feeling of gratefulness that in turn makes me feel warm, cozy, and grateful. I feel my youth returning to me in these moments. I wouldn’t say it’s a flashback. There is no going back. Rather, I would call this nostalgia of a more tangible variety than the pining that comes part and parcel with it. And then I snap back to the here and now. My brother is sleeping. My father is likely on his iPad. My mother declares that she’s “too full” from a sandwich and won’t eat the dinner she cooked. Essentially, the dinner is for the men, the sex that requires more food. The comparisons and self-consciousness starts again. I ignored the English Muffin she had for dinner yesterday despite the fact that I had an entire roasted acorn squash with Mahi Mahi that I cooked. While higher in calorie, my meal was made of wholesome, healthy foods- more nutritious than the enriched flour of her English muffin, that’s for damn sure. Clearly the comparison is still lingering in the back of my mind. Like the day before yesterday, when I went out to eat in front of someone who didn’t. Or the day after, when someone else said they would watch me eat because they weren’t planning on eating themselves. My life has suddenly revolved around food again because, irony of all ironies, I seem to be the only person who (insert expletive in the form of a gerund here), eats. I’m frustrated. I’m upset. I’m determined - to do what, I don’t know. Survive or live? I know the answer is the latter but why isn’t it happening? My God, why is it taking so long? Why must everyday resolve and devolve into something less than ideal? Hell, less than just mediocre? I’m doing what I have to do. I am. Neither self-entitled nor attention-seeking; I’ve never taken a selfie. I apply and apply and apply some more, my skill sets squandered in the eye of the hurricane that is this millennial generation. I didn’t have to walk 80 miles in the snow in wrecked shoes, but this generation of mine is more difficult, I promise you that. Sleeping, driving, watching - and here I am, hours later, in circles, I am typing silently for you. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxviv-happy-haunts-there-are-things-that monthly 0.5 2016-05-18 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734361504-7313TW2O7M4HD5V6QGU9/tumblr_o7eaqso6Zr1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXVIV. Happy Haunts - There are things that make me happy, but that also haunt me. For example, having a song playing in your head that you associate with a particular time in your life. While it may evoke beautiful memories, it also evokes something altogether terrible. I find myself on occasion singing in my head the rhythmic beats of a non coherent language. It goes a little something like this: “boom, boom, shh, shh” followed by “Now drop!” Each syllable is matched by a bodily movement. The “drop” is a split second jump-squat. The song is part of a Zumba mix I used to practice daily as an at-home workout during graduate school. I practiced this routine so much that I still remember full sections of it after not having glanced at the YouTube video in over a year. Sometimes your life’s soundtrack isn’t terrible but does cause your vision to blur because that time can’t be brought back. Another happy haunt for me are basil leaves. Yesterday, my mother decided to make my father’s recipe: An avocado-basil pesto with white wine mixed in with spaghetti cooked in butter. I think pasta is a wasted carb that takes up room in your body for no reason other than to satiate, so I didn’t eat it. Then again, I’m allergic to avocado, (insert gasp here), so I couldn’t have consumed it anyway. As I took out the bunch of basil leaves bought at our local Fairway, a waft of sweet and sharp herb scent swept me away to another time. I saw snapshots of my old house, of my old backyard enlightened by a summer sun. I heard my mother cackling from the second-story window facing the backyard as I dodged bumble bees while trying to clip basil leaves from the burgeoning green basil plant growing in our yard. I felt the heat of the sun tanning my forearms and felt the creeping of embarrassment redden my already rose-hued warm cheeks because I had the sneaking suspicion that the brothers who lived next door and who were also my peers, caught stealing glances of me hopping around with scissors and leaves like a forest nymph. “I smell my childhood,” I said out loud yesterday. I remember the basil leaves being made for pesto, or thrown into a plain pasta. I remember the basil leaves being planted between a folded onion-tomato omelette on a summer Sunday morning. And as I’m typing this, a part of me wants to let out a cry, but only in my mind’s eye. My eyes are dry. My hands are dry too now that I think of it. Actually, my scalp is dry as well- I was just searching for a conditioning hair mask earlier this morning. There is a lingering faint smell of garlic bread in my brother’s wake. He’s off to the O.R.and the baked loaf still sits in its entirety on top of the seemingly pristine granite island. It came out warm and fresh from the local farmer’s market yesterday evening, and so the condensation soaked through the wax white paper bag, causing me to place it in the plastic produce bag and then again in two other plastic grocery bags. It looks like a packaged organ that my brother must have seen during his time on the hospital’s transplant unit. I was in charge of the bread yesterday while he went to wander the market aisles in oblivion, a therapeutic activity he never has time for. I was not privy to the garlic bread condensation that moisturized my patchy hands until they began to feel unfamiliar. That is to say, my hands began to feel unusually smooth, lubricated almost, and certainly dampened. I looked down at them and then inhaled deeply. And all I remembered were the garlic knots from the corner pizzeria in the neighborhood I grew up in - a favorite treat of mine. I’m happy to say that I am developing new happy haunts. The birds that chirp here are varied. There aren’t just two fighting one another. There isn’t a single pigeon, instead there are bright red birds, black and orange ones with pointy beaks, birds with crowns atop their head, and small black Ravens. I’ve seen rabbits hopping along instead of squirrels scurrying. There is the sound of lawn mowers that are mostly being wielded by homeowners as opposed to laborers. The laborers here don’t ogle me, instead throwing up their hand in a friendly wave or nodding in acknowledgement of human-to-human interaction. There are the sounds of kids voices at the nearby school, but not from fighting or harassment, nor are there any profanities, so commonly heard of in New York City. There are school buses pulling up and adolescents exiting with backpack straps on both shoulders and pants above their hip bones. There is a corner deli that smells not of charred bacon, but of gourmet styled sandwiches. There is wood paneling inside and a nice umbrella seating area just outside. Instead of satellites and window air conditioning units jutting out of identical houses from the exterior, there are manicured lawns in front of uniquely different looking single-family homes. Roofs are covered with solar panels and there are white picket fences without any graffiti in sight. Culs de sac replace dead ends. And I am coming around the bend as well, moving along without a dead end in sight. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxx-picture-perfect-a-red-bubble-a-number monthly 0.5 2016-06-02 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734361188-ENZ6FY5MYRBUBNXI6HZ3/tumblr_o85j15wXSr1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXX. Picture Perfect - A red bubble, a number, and a tap later revealed something that the mirror did not: a snapshot of an imperfect life. That seems contrary to the culture we’re used to,doesn’t it? A culture in which photos on social media show only the times where we’re rosy-cheeked. Like that time someone had not posted anything on social media until a magazine profile of herself came out and then disappeared again until the next time something fortuitous came up. In my case, however, I saw a sickly, deathly, person with spindly arms in the picture. The teeth were exposed in a foreign smile. The face stretched out for a body too small. The smile rehearsed. Unrecognizable and yet in an instant, identifiable. I went from person to number, and still not yet a statistic. One can only hope that I will never be one. This picture motivated me to eat 300 more calories before I went to sleep the day before yesterday. This picture motivated me to eat a carb-heavy organic bar with a spoon dipped into a new jar of all natural sesame-cranberry peanut butter and then 2 tablespoons of the same with a few bites of a protein bar the night after. “Do you know how many calories are in a teaspoon of peanut butter,” the man at the gym had asked me when deciding I had not gained. I did know- all too well. I have a confession: I love nut butters. I switch between raw cashew and almond butters, 2 Tablespoons daily until yesterday when I had just about 4 tablespoons. My Memorial Day buy was organic honey sunflower butter after trying it courtesy of the Penn Station GNC. It was a last-minute purchase before embarking on a trip without a kitchen. I figured that as long as I had some sort of carb-vessel, I could slather on my favorite condiment and make a sandwich. I remember the nutritionist who I abandoned last year, telling me to eat 4 T a day if I so desired. That scared me: I know it’s healthy, but that much fat content? And just as soon as I finished eating beyond fullness, suddenly regretting the consumption, I looked at this photo again. My picture did not justify my eating beyond fullness, beyond satisfaction, but instead proved to me that I can and that I have to. I do have to eat more than he, she, and most anyone else has to. In the picture I saw some attributes I liked: my big eyes reappeared, perhaps a bit too large for the face at the moment, but at least they were no longer snake-like slits struggling to open and close due to the lack of skin elasticity that was once an issue. I saw my teeth - straight and a bright white with dark black crevices peeking through, a sign of gaps between the teeth, void of any plaque buildup due to my meticulous flossing and brushing. I saw my skin, and although slightly burned and tanned over the weekend when I neglected to apply my vitamin C enriched face cream, was pretty clear - a testament to my exfoliate, cleanse, tone, and moisturize regimen that is always on repeat. I’m looking at this photo while walking and instead of trying to find the sunlight, I’m dodging the sun rays from cloud-parted skies in an effort to find shade. I’m no longer cold in eighty-degree weather. I’m not quite boiling, but I have always had a high tolerance for heat. I’m dodging the sun so I won’t turn ashen. Suddenly I realize, I’m making strides but my kin doesn’t seem to notice or acknowledge them. Maybe it’s a case of being too close to notice. Maybe they need a picture to look at. It turns out that move is picture perfect. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clviii-recovery-part-iv-holiday-hell-its monthly 0.5 2015-11-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734366001-E5I0HJV7QX3CNU7Q6U1H/tumblr_nyel8epadh1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLVIII. Recovery Part IV: Holiday Hell - It’s the holiday season. In my house, and in many others, this means two things: Food and family. For me, this includes one more thing - fear, only adding to this alliterative context. Diwali has only recently just passed. We usually buy a small box of mithai - sweets - just for us, in addition to buying for others. For those who prefer the non traditional route, we buy pastries at the Lower East Side Italian bakery that my parents frequented before my older brother was born and that my mom went to before ever having met my father. This time around, my parents bought pastries for themselves. I opted out of a baked item. I don’t even think they bothered to ask if I had wanted anything. This year, everyone opted out of the box of Indian dessert, however, we received a rather large box that was from a famed sweet seller in Jackson Heights. My father decided to keep it at home. Inside the box was a large variety, including some of my favorites. I couldn’t bring myself to eat any save for ¼ of two, so ½ of one over the course of a week. Today is the birth of the founder of Sikhism, Guru Nanak Dev Ji. At the Sikh temple, you’re not only given prashad - a token blessing in the form of halwa or a confection made up of equal parts sugar, wheat flour, and ghee - but you’re also given, should you want, langar - a full vegetarian meal. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and this year there will most likely be a Punjabi spread at the dining table, almost identical to what is found in the temple save for extras in the form of fried appetizers, meat dishes, and desserts galore. Added to this, I’m moving into my family’s new home this weekend. After two years of building from scratch and designing my bedroom alone which entailed ordering wallpaper from England, discovering a handcrafted bed carved from mango wood and inspired by Myanmar, and hanging a Turkish lantern above said bed, there will be nary time to utilize the new kitchen much less the old one. Take-out will be a given. Recovering from anorexia and having to eat more than I have ever ate in my life, I have been trying in earnest to balance my carb, fat, and protein intake. I can’t skimp or skip a meal nor can I workout to stave off fullness like everyone else can. That is why I am so fearful. I fear my stomach will burst. I fear that I will never enjoy my holidays much less life should I eat any extra morsels. Constantly without an appetite and bloated: I know this to be normal. I know all the weight will disproportionately go to my midsection - always flat for the entirety of my life up until now, ironically, when I’m almost 30 pounds below what I should weigh. I know it will take upwards of eight months before the weight redistributes from my abdomen to the rest of my body. I know that in order to feel hunger again, I have to increase my intake so as to rev up my nonexistent metabolism. Easier said than done. I know all this and yet it is so difficult to swallow - no pun was intended but I guess that since I have decided to leave the wording as is, the pun is intended. Truth is, in the past I ate without a care and without planning, because subconsciously I knew that I had not eaten much or anything else and so I could indulge in that second serving of dinner or that piece of pie. I enjoyed taking a fistful of prashad, not minding the ghee that left my hands shiny from its oily fatty content. I ate all those delightful seasonal specialties because I deserved it - I had worked out or ate nil in anticipation of “splurging” on the expected tasty nourishment that came with days off from school and work. My mother and I used to go to the bakery on weekends. It was sort of our bonding time. I remember how pleasant it was. We wouldn’t argue about how much I or she was eating or how full we felt or how much we had to work out after. We would both order a caffeinated beverage. I would either have an apricot hamentashen or apricot-amaretto marzipan-covered “railroad” tart. She would usually opt for the traditional Napoleon or cannoli. I remember both of us heating up the lemony-ricotta flaky sfogiatelle pastries the morning after my father brought them home from Manhattan. That was our breakfast. I remember calling the local bakery everyday between the end of September and Thanksgiving to see if their inventory now included pumpkin and sweet potato pie. A week ago, my mother asked if I would eat any of the pies should they have them. I adamantly answered that I would not. So she opted out as well. My parents love sweets and so the steadfastness was short-lived. To make up for the absence of Apple, pumpkin, and sweet potato pies, my mother bought a pumpkin cheesecake yesterday for her and my father. She picked it up from the bakery section of the supermarket. I was horrified. Parish the thought: a post-modern confectionary concoction made on the premise of a supermarket, that while lovely, is by no means equivalent to one of the artisanal bakeries that my mother, brother and I had grown up with. Our palettes are much too refined for a supermarket-buy. I then felt terribly sad. By refusing to share in the holiday spirit, I had denied my parents of enjoying the holidays as well. I then felt good- disciplined. I am 25-years-old and I decide what I put into my body. I consciously left my mom alone yesterday when she was cutting a slice of the pumpkin spice - latte inspired cheesecake. I heard her dismiss it. The distaste was audible. It was terrible. She had to nullify the terrible aftertaste and so I heard her reaching for the next best thing she could find in the kitchen to mask the artificial flavors. Toothpaste just wouldn’t cut it. This morning when I went to make my oatmeal, the cheesecake was gone. Its resemblance to toxic waste caused her to dispose of it in multiple bags before being placed into the large garbage bag, sitting in a bin on the side of my house. I remember eating bagels and preferring them sliced and toasted outside instead of at home and on the stove. I remember asking for extra butter. I remember sopping up the requisite mess with the pillowy bagel instead of patting it with napkins. The same napkins I would use to hide balled up pieces of bread that my parents tried to make me eat whilst I began this journey of losing weight and in the process, losing myself. Al this I remember. I remember us fighting leading up to, during, and after holidays in the past as well, but for different reasons that did not revolve around me or my health. Despite the cheesecake fiasco, the mood was relatively light. We were watching one of the many piled up DVR-ed shows that we hadn’t had time to watch. We ate different dinners. My mother made penne a la vodka with traces of ham for her and my father. A buttered baguette would accompany it. Vocalized regret ensued, not surprisingly. We all have become incredibly anal about our food choices. I was to make my white wine-seared salmon on a bed of black rice with low-sodium soy sauce and a couple of egg whites. And then all hell broke loose. Not about our differing dinner plans, but about an unknown number on a scale. About the stupid God Forsaken “passenger airbag off” light that flashes on the dashboard even while I’m sitting there. It was about all these inanimate things. What is scary was that the terrible ambience in my house, only hours before Thanksgiving, is about me - considered inanimate by cars and everyone else but me. I’m scared and I am fearful, but I am so much more than that as well. “I am Kayak, hear me roar.” Because Emily Gilmore from Gilmore Girls knows what’s up: I’m not a canoe. I don’t need to be steered by two paddles manhandled by two separate persons. I’m a kayak- all I need is my own self to steer my own course. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxii-be-still-in-sophomore-year-of-college monthly 0.5 2016-01-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734364592-YLMNNJXA5ZMCII5XNB7R/tumblr_o1enrrknm11r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXII. Be Still - In sophomore year of college, I was part of history. The University of Pennsylvania announced a snow day. Even more earth shattering was that the time off from school and work, associated with the most pleasant memories of childhood abandon, like building a snowman and having piping hot pancakes for breakfast, toasty cookies in the afternoon and a hearty pasta dish for dinner, lasted two consecutive days. That’s right. Two snow days In a row. You could imagine the amount of snow that fell. That year, every inkling of magic that snow seemed to possess for me, had changed for the worse. Snow and I were never the same. We still haven’t made amends. That is why this eminent snowstorm is wreaking havoc on me. The anxiety I am experiencing as people post photos of snowfall in the surrounding northeastern provinces, like D.C., is making me antsy. And so it has begun. A sparkling blanket has appeared on the street outside my house. I am staring down at it from the alcove at the top of my stairs. I remember when my mom used to host annual Christmas parties at our house - parties that weren’t catered. My parents made vegetable kofta from scratch and improvised bread-crumb coated aloo tikkis - potato patties. I remember when she and I wanted to wear red that day. I wanted to wear jingle bell earrings, and I did. That year it snowed. It was magical. It was the white Christmas all those carols refer to. The songs materialized. Music was tangible. All that seemed out of reach had suddenly become tactile. The taciturnity of the snow and blessed day was pierced by giggles and the sound of polyester down jackets getting wet as my friends on the block laid flat against the surface of the snow-covered ground to create angelic footpaths. One day in high school it was snowing mid-afternoon. By the time I was dismissed in the late afternoon, the buildup was considerable. Waiting for the city bus that likely would never come, was hellish. I remember my ill-equipped rebellious adolescent feet, housed in mere ballet flats, being submerged in ice. My extremities felt frost-bitten. It was Valentine’s Day and I was daydreaming about a faceless prince all the while. I was also enjoying being in the company of my peers and other New Yorkers. The shared suffering was akin to huddling together for bodily warmth. The snow created a community. I’m only human, a realist, and a temperamental New Yorker and so my patience was quickly expiring. Just then, my father’s car pulled up sleekly against the curb where the bus should have come but never did. I slid into the backseat, engulfed by the warmth of the heated car and the paternal feeling of love. Those were the days we didn’t argue- when hurtful exchanges weren’t made. Those were the days relationships weren’t in disrepair. I knew my dad would come early from work that day regardless of the weather because he would take my mother and I out for a Valentine’s dinner. My brother was away at college. Always ravenous, especially after school, and always that kid who relished non-home cooking, I was excited because I knew that the wait to sit at a dimly lit restaurant wouldn’t be long. What I didn’t know is that I would have a gift waiting for me in the backseat of the car. Turning to my left, I found a gift bag addressed to me. Inside were a variety of sweet confections. He didn’t have time to go to Godiva that year, but there were Raisinets and other theater-going chocolate. A red envelope with a card was also inside. Oh snow- it does wonders for the soul. Flash forward to that fateful day in college. The university neglected to clean the front of my dormitory building, one of the oldest on campus. Just when I was getting used to not being in one of the high rise campus apartments due to the lottery system, I was snowed in my dorm for more than two days. As a personal, self-imposed rule, I never kept any food in my room. I feared I would become fat if I did. I only ate my meals from the dining hall, which was closed because of the storm and once it had opened, I found nothing suitable to eat. For those three days I was starving and without food. If not for the kindness of my suite mate, I would have gone crazy. She offered me hot chocolate - a caloric beverage I never would have consumed. That day, however, every drop soothed my being. I hated the snow for all it was - I hated its gaudy crystalline appearance so similar to the cheap diamond renditions of cubic zirconia. I hated it with all my being. And I still hate the snow to this day. I hate the long lines in the supermarkets. I hate that even though we’re quite stocked up on everything, I won’t be able to buy my fruit fresh which I do daily. I made sure to buy enough for two days but I just dipped into what was supposed to be tomorrow’s supply of fruit and now I feel not only bad for caving into a perfectly normal and human craving, but also anxious about the idea of rationing. I have everything I need for this weekend’s snow storm: I have my protein packed salmon in the freezer, my multigrain bread, my unsweetened cashew milk, oats for days, cinnamon, vanilla protein powder, my raw almond and cashew butters, my spinach and artichoke hummus, my extra-large free range brown eggs, and two large sweet potatoes. I have my beta-carotene, protein, carbs, fats, and multivitamin on hand. Hell, I even have a double stock of hair, skin, and nail vitamin. Both of these supplements are fortified with extra vitamin C to stave off any illness that this weather may cause. We’re locked and loaded, and yet I’m anxious to not have the option of venturing outside and absorbing some of that all natural Vitamin D. I’m Jodie Foster in The Panic Room. When will I get out? It’s times like this that I itch for Spring. My adult self longs for the lengthy bloc of a month, void of any holidays, known as March. The month that all school-goers detest because it seems an inordinate length of time to be without a break off from school. For me, however, March is the month when Spring seems to make itself known. Egg coloring kits and chemically- derived marshmallows in an array of neon colors and in the shape of birds, for which kids should be carded at the register, are piled high on store shelves. I still have fond memories of my mother hiding little Easter baskets with crinkly pastel-colored cellophane that hid plastic eggs with m&ms inside, mini shortbread cookies, and malted chocolate egg-bites. Spring and I are on good terms - for now. I can only hope that I’ll be close to weight-restored when the sun’s warmth is as potent as the light it sheds so that I can bike ride and picnic, mull around for miles in beautiful weather and visit a vineyard or hiking trail. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxxiii-the-sisterhood-of-the-expanding-pants monthly 0.5 2016-08-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734360295-XNIRCFOJGV7KHCMOL2YT/tumblr_obgdzstizS1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXXIII. The Sisterhood of the Expanding Pants - When a recovering anorexic fits into a pair of maternity jeans from the GAP, all hell breaks loose. I had no idea the sale denim leggings were for a budding mother. There was no indication on the tags. After all, the size translated to zero and they looked tiny. I ventured to compare the price I paid in store to online as soon as I came home, yet I could not find the pants anywhere. It was not until I googled a description of the pants that something almost identical came up for the maternity section, and yet it was not the same as the pants I purchased. It was close enough though. I wasn’t sure if the pants were for the pregnant or not. It’s like when medical professionals advise against looking up symptoms on web search engines. The results are not reliable. Still, I was so disgusted by the idea of me buying a pair of maternity pants when I haven’t had my period in 2 years, that I ventured to return them less than 24-hours later, picking up the wrap denim skirt instead. I had been eyeing the skirt for a long time. For one, it was almost a carbon copy of a denim wrap maxi skirt my mom used to own. It was also right on trend with the 90s scheme- my childhood and preadolescent era. It is timeless, classic, and a staple piece for my rustic-contemporary wardrobe. It personifies Americana. George, the cashier, said that the pants were not maternity, and yet I couldn’t muster up the courage, If that’s what you call it, to keep the garment which wreaked so much havoc on my mind in the several hours that I owned the pair of leggings. The skirt was not an impulse purchase; I had wanted it for a long time. The size of the skirt was xsmall. I don’t know what to think anymore. I put on spandex leggings for the first time yesterday and my mother suddenly had no desire to speak to me. She thought I had lost weight. I didn’t. I gained. I think. She tapped my shoulder blades that poked out from underneath my sweatshirt before announcing that she was going to the car, away from me. I went out with the same leggings today and the amount of stares cast in my direction was unsavory to say the least. The leggings, my mom said, were the reason for the stares. She advised me to wear dresses or skirts to cover up my legs. I asked her if she was embarrassed. She responded that she wasn’t, but that if I did not want to be stared at, it would be wise of me to not wear close-fitting clothes. All that said, I’m back in my sweats and just in time for this unexpected cool-down in temperature. The less than 80-degree Fahrenheit highs in combination with the cloudy overcast skies, and my nightly watermelon eats that is equivalent to an internal AC, have made me feel like it’s fall. Catching glimpses of the supermarket aisles, I saw bags of candy corn, plastic pumpkin baskets lined up in varying hues of Halloween colors: smoky grey, majestic purple, acid green. I saw faux foliage of ashen yellows and glowing ambers, next to cutlery in the same color scheme for Thanksgiving. I am overcome with sadness. A wave of whimpering threatened to escape my slightly parted mouth so that I could remember to breathe while preventing dryness. Another outstanding interview, another person hired “internally” from within the company - someone who already knew all the senior editors. Another disappointment. Another prospect collapsing in on itself. Another season coming to its end without a task to complete. As much as I am enamored by the fall season, I want for expectation. I need to look forward to something. I am not entitled but I can say that I deserve this much. “Make it happen,” I said, he said, she said, to no one in particular. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clxvii-bobbing-around-im-bobbing-around-the monthly 0.5 2016-05-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734361911-7DW7EIP29FHMCRB5Q0CG/tumblr_o736uaTWKO1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLXVII. Bobbing around - I’m bobbing around the truth and I’m bobbing around while living truly. I’m bobbing around the fact that what once were misshapen Bobby pins, stretched out in an attempt to tame my thick hair, strewn about bathroom floor tiles, are now replaced by new-as-can be Bobby pins. These Bobby pins slide off of thin strands of straight hair. These Bobby pins are not survivors despite having tried in earnest to hold on for dear life. Brown Bobby pins now replace the black ones. My hair is growing out in that same dusky brown that gets lighter in the sun from when I was a baby and didn’t know about styling products and other hair products with chemical altering properties that may have contributed to making my hair appear darker. I never skipped, but I have to increase. Dear me, It’s like agreeing to settle. It’s like agreeing to stay average, to just barely pass. So what makes you tick? Excelling, that’s what. Going above and beyond is what makes me tick. So increase then, and think of it as a cap in your feather. A dear friend for whom I am grateful for, articulated that increasing was deserving of a pat on the back. Why? Because you’re that much closer to your goal. The point isn’t to compensate for eating by partaking in any mobile activity. No, the point is to eat so as to refuel for all the ways that life is meant to be - enjoying and pursuing non-sedentary activity. Because let’s be honest: spicy and palette-tickling food burns calories, delicious caffeinated coffee makes your heart work, burning calories, and that gut-provoking laughter burns calories. Living burns calories and if I cannot burn calories, than I’m not alive. The caveat or the solution, rather, is to eat and eat and consume and consume. That may sound gluttonous but this is a case of semantics. Logically, one could substitute the verbs eat and consume with live. Doesn’t that sound motivating? The solution to living is to live. It’s that simple. It’s truly that simple. I’m not idiotic enough to believe that life is simple, because it’s not. But in order for complexity to surface, life must be present in the first place. When that happens, 20 or 30 pounds down the line, complexities will arise, but I can’t think about that now. I need to think about life. I need to think about living. I need to think about living in order for me to not have to think about living. Life should just be. It should be a given. Perhaps that explains why I believe meditation is so ridiculous a pursuit. We’re not naturally composed to concentrate on breathing. We’re just supposed to breathe. Our body knows to breathe. My body, ravaged by an internal storm and external feud, knows to breathe. I don’t find death to be natural, especially when people want for it, ask for it, and suggest it. I never liked when kids picked flowers growing from the ground or causally brushed against fragile branches with leaves in order to display some sort of superiority in strength. I never cared for those people who spot an ant trekking across the pavement and then proceed to step on it. I find those acts vile. Life is meant to be lived, and there is no bobbing around that fact. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxxiv-the-simpleton-is-simplicitys-scion monthly 0.5 2014-01-22 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734370038-210MUCTSE0TLX12F5VR0/tumblr_mzrl9keiv91r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CXXXIV. The Simpleton is Simplicity’s Scion - Since the beckoning of the year 2014 and the onslaught of two distinct polar vortices, a term recently excavated from old meteorologic textbooks that has now entered Americans’ daily lexicon, I have been without working internet and land-line phone service. “This couldn’t be more of a blessing”, was my primary thought. After all, it is almost impossible for me to embark on a job in a field that calls for years of experience that I cannot acquire without an external force; graduate school, which, God willing, will materialize within the next several months. Furthermore, I am trying in earnest to not intern yet again. I can no longer work such that my resume connotes a willingness to forever work for muft, the Urdu word for ‘free of charge.’ I use the Urdu word because when verbally stated, the sound better translates the exasperation I’m feeling; Refer to the English speaker’s transliteration of a sigh: Ugh — Bleh — Uuff. Without my hours in transit during the throes of Fall’s interning season and void of any new comedic sketches, online news streams, and the influx of melodic Hindi and Punjabi tunes I only know how to access via YouTube, time emerged to make the seemingly far trek to the newly opened library in my locality, (that I had shunned due to a trivial loyalty to my college library), a possibility. I now had the time to read books. I ventured beyond the non-fiction shelves so that I could immerse myself in a fictional narrative taken from a character whose heritage could always be traced to nothing west of the Gulf region. I also had no excuse to not exercise on a budget, or walk miles from home with the primary goal of returning less saturated with calories than I had been previously. The walking paths I took, adjacent to avenues, alongside highways, parallel to boulevards, and dangerously close to intercepting the path of oncoming automobiles while bypassing snow-laden slivers of sidewalks, eventually caused me to become nonplussed. Perhaps I had too much time to think to myself because of my rationing use of the 4G data plan on my smart phone, thereby causing my legs to move in step with the frigid winds rather than percussion beats from tablas inherent to the composition of Shabads and Sufi kalams. My walks began to feel as though I were not exercising but ambling about in an ill attempt to conjure up an active lifestyle of the dancer I once was and to compensate for the just-starting-out journalist who had mastered the language of email and Boolean logic for optimized web searches in order to fight every editor who continues to hold onto the reigns of their age-old tenure; feeling threatened by the promise of my shrinking youth as it were. Without access to my social media platforms and online research hubs, I felt an ignorance begin to penetrate my being save for the saving grace that was the Columbia Journalism writing admissions exam. I managed to prep and sat down for the exam throughout the weeks that I found myself under a rock despite stepping on more miles of rock than most New Yorkers on my daily walking expeditions. I became a simpleton in these weeks of simplicity. It has been simplistic of me to suggest and believe that my knowledge-bank would form bad credit due to a couple of days without my favorite news anchors posting real-time tweets. The days seemed censored of every amount of productivity I had when not validated by the keyboard under the tips of my fingertips. In parallel, it has been simplistic of me to believe that denying myself of any cuisine that isn’t salad, sauteed vegetables, and unsalted crackers, would cause me to qualify as a contestant for The Biggest Loser. The simplicity has caused me to regress - the exposed ribs of skeletons’ past reflected in my own, so well known to me while meandering to and from courses and corners of cafes that housed the crackers I lived off of on the beaten path of cobblestones. My first wave of relief and reprieve from the simpleton I feared I was becoming came in the guise of Wi-Fi waves yesterday. Despite the welcome addition to the household once more, I decided to dwell a tad bit longer in the realm of printed words, television sitcoms, walkable weather, and the winding down camaraderie amongst the public at the end of a long-weekend. Last night, a commercial for an internet provider I had never heard of before was broadcasted. Their conclusion to the mini narrative was something along the lines of Internet no longer being a luxury, but a necessity. The keyboard is strengthening my phalanges as my thoughts in entropy are no longer stringed into forced words for the sake of taking pen to paper. Simplicity begets the simpleton. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cliv-part-i-serious-about-serotonin-im monthly 0.5 2015-08-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734367458-1AWBG0395XFOP60QZFDE/tumblr_nsxu6p9eP11r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLIV. Part I: Serious about Serotonin- I’m seriously starved of serotonin. I’m starved of that euphoric enigma that I would experience when entering a basement in Jackson Heights from which obnoxiously loud bhangra music is bound to be blaring. This lackluster feeling is  temporary, so there is no need for concern. I’m currently dwelling on the lining beneath that silver one, but a cloud is but a cloud. Fluffy and soft and fluid - It’s malleable beyond belief, just as our bodies are robust. There are times, like today, when the sun is shone so brightly through the windows I would look out of as an Ivy-League obsessed youth filled with wanderlust, and I feel good. I’m smiling on the inside. I have a content place - a “happy place” or a “happy” medium - which I have occupied on occasion. It comes and goes and mostly dwells in the future that could be - that will be. It dwells in hope, which I suppose is its own enigma: Time will pass eventually. This hurdle is quite tall, no doubt. The lack of exercise is making time seem endless despite its obvious finality. Most of the time I am in a flux. I’m seesawing on a fulcrum that waddles between despair and dogmatism. The fulcrum itself is “determination,” personified. I am determined, no doubt, to walk the path ahead of me, faltering be damned. For my journey is crooked enough. I think I have acquired lessons and experiences that a successful person (evidently) is required to have in order to have some sort of perspective that qualifies them to have their memories and achievements bound, read, and distributed. Where there is depth, there is reach. I do not want to occupy the depths of hell so famed by Dante. After all, I was never one for classic reads. I fancy myself a hipster before the Bushwick Brooklynites replaced the borough’s once heard of baseball team, The Cyclones. So here I stand, or rather sit, unabashedly basking in the glory of not having to travel underground or on buses. My bones wouldn’t be able to bear it. A slight jab, for me and all those who have traveled this hellish path, is the equivalent to a punch in the jocular. We would have the wind taken out of us - our breaths light and airy as opposed to a healthy person’s panting, heavy by nature. It’s that feeling that some of us have been unlucky enough to experience. That feeling known as a “food coma.” Quite literally-speaking, a food coma is a severe drop in blood pressure that immediately results in blacking out after the consumption of caloric units. In other words, someone like me becomes weighed down by energy - caloric units - which for someone else - that “normal” person who I once was, or never really was, is known as fullness. The concept of being ravenous, blacked out, awakened, and then adjusted to a new-found set of hunger pangs after weeks of no appetite, paves way for a fullness that never goes away. The appetite is lost while being built up. You’re continuously sated, but never satisfied. There is this disconnect between the mind and the body, one created by the self, that must now repair itself. In actuality, I must repair it. I did the damage. I must go past the fullness and learn to consume, to hydrate, to nourish myself - everyone else be damned. I must eat more than a grown man who works out. I must eat more than I want. It’s a race against the clock to recalibrate a never-fully calibrated metabolic clock. The kitchen has now become my domain. It’s not only the heart of the household’s dynamics, it’s also the grim reaper’s abode - the epicenter from which plans to annihilate all that is right and well for a family’s dynamics. It just so happens that my kitchen has two elevated stools with cushioned chocolate-colored leather seats. They’re perfectly crafted for my once-fluid-filled feet that reminded me of the water-bags I would toss haphazardly with friends who were also neighbors. I would run around all day, or roller-skate, bike ride and race on foot, hide and then would seek, before coming back inside for a bowl of pasta, a childhood favorite my mom would agree to make. These leather seats protect my exposed frame to the wooden structure beneath it.These stools are, when not used, tucked neatly underneath a protruding slab of granite that looks out onto the living room/dining room of my youth. I would always fear sitting here. Just like now, as I am typing this, my forearms and elbows are impolitely resting on the makeshift table/granite slab, especially during the act of eating. What if this huge piece of granite, weighing upwards of hundreds of pounds, were to succumb to the force of gravity and in turn the force vector from my arms - my own weight - only to crash on top of my legs? Now I am not fearful of this happening. If I sit in a passenger seat, the light on the dashboard will still be flashing “Passenger Airbag Off.” The smart hybrid of a car does not detect a human body present. And yet I still exist. I’m here. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxxvii-down-n-out monthly 0.5 2014-03-11 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxliv-thats-just-how-i-roll-this-is-how-i monthly 0.5 2014-05-07 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clii-control-or-lack-thereof monthly 0.5 2015-01-21 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxxviii-admission-made monthly 0.5 2014-03-21 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cli-house-arrest-out-of-commission-that-is monthly 0.5 2015-01-10 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734367616-OJEVM5UM6HJIOFQUKV7B/tumblr_nhxxk8Kwkl1r1o875o1_r1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLI. House Arrest - Out of commission. That is the phrase I had used a couple of weeks ago when my gut was possessed with some untimely spirit that had made it impossible for me to make one of my cross-country treks. It was a trying time but I thought it was my body’s way of justifying the need for a rest. Take a day off, after the days off you were coerced into taking due to another spirit, this time emanating from the collective, faith-neutral noun, “the holidays.” 

I’m out of commission again, for days on end now. The temperature is frigid - even with my fleece-lined university sweatpants and sweatshirt, my hooded wool, water-resistant navy blue coat, my knee-high socks and platformed-tie up Swedish rain boots, one of my one-of-a-kind shawl scarves collected from trips that I have not taken to India, my vintage woven black slouchie hat, (the only one left that exists in the world I’m sure), and my threadbare gloves from England that need to be disposed of immediately. The gloves have stitched on them an appliques of an Egyptian Cleopatra eye that I cannot bring myself to toss away.

 One of my youth-transcendent qualities is an intolerance for the cold. Though I have cherished memories of summer months’ frolic and intellectual abandon via internships, research, and self-promoted reading, that would also mean having to forgo the automatic rosy cheeks and milky porcelain tinge of non-color my face would naturally develop during cold weather. It is an aesthetic I equate with the pinnacle of beauty. 

I’m under house arrest. 

At first I thought it apt for the living-as-though-you-were-under-the-weather type weather to coincide with the new year. I need to be forced into change: Stop stressing on missing an opportunity to walk. Sit it out once a while. Place getting work done in a leisurely fashion on a pedestal. Trust in your metabolic rate’s ability to burn energy. Caloric build-up will be kept at bay for at least a day.

 I’m a tree whose trunk-like bottoms are holding up a bark of considerable width, finally dwindling at the neck, past the just as wide shoulders. The tree-top is my hair, glorious in its width insofar as thriving healthily, untouched by heat and extraneous product going out may otherwise have warranted.
 Sunlight is filtering in through blinds mostly closed so that I can partake in aerobic exercises as best as I can without an audience, at least a visible one. The tenants can feel the tree being sawed down. Vibrations and creaking floors are a testament to that fact. 

Amidst laughter and high-cheekbones that I seem to have not inherited in as chiseled a manner, I am told to walk around my living room, navigating the coffee and dining tables for two hours. It’s the equivalent to my hours-long walks outside, he said. I caught myself giggling in a lamenting manner. Laughter is healthy, it works some abdominal muscles, but it also seems to represent an elasticity, a not as unmoving determination to release endorphins in the way that would enable me to possess those rosy cheeks I so adore on myself. Peering through my window at the peak of warmth, I ready myself to go out. A windblown tree later and swirls of white cloud my vision and judgment. Maybe not. Maybe I must prepare myself to once again do a grapevine step behind closed doors and window blinds, numbed by the same melodies, counts, and whoops of freeing fatigue by the teacher’s background dancers in that YouTube video playing full-screen on my laptop. I don’t even need the screen at this point. The moves are etched by my mind’s eye. I’m under house arrest and downing my second cup of coffee - less black and more brown. The milk swirls around with melted raw brown sugar, mocking me in its intrepid interpretation of the snow outside.
Winter just began and it’s foolhardy to wish for its demise so soon. The characteristics of wintry seasonality superimposed onto holiday fanfare  exacerbate the horrid season’s duration. I’m under house arrest, and yet in no time at all the outside will be so arresting as to cause me to seek out the no-shoes interior that enables a face mask, a seat by candlelight, a coffee pot, and a few blocks away from a place that provokes deep-seated faith. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxlii-ulta-%D8%A7%D9%84%D9%B9%D8%A7-upside-down monthly 0.5 2014-04-15 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxlvi-game-changer monthly 0.5 2014-07-11 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clv-part-ii-recovering-uncovering-walking monthly 0.5 2015-09-20 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734367363-ODPCKQABZ9PJDEUTKT05/tumblr_nuznju1w6M1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLV. Part II. Recovering & Uncovering - Walking this morning,the Sunday that marks the week on which the first day of fall falls, it feels as though I am making my way to the bus stop, headed to high school where I can expect to hear classical music play every hour on the hour. The sky is dusky - a twilight of early morning slumber before daybreak. The breeze is cool but smells slightly of salt, as if the air just made its way off the Long Island Sound, especially for my borderline Queens village. It feels that way, except for the fact that today is a Saturday, or rather, Sunday and the sidewalks are empty. Except that I mixed up Saturday with Sunday. In high school I dutifully documented my endless amount of tasks in a planner. Oh, and except for the fact that I am now in my mid-twenties, finished with both college and graduate school. Not to mention that prior to leaving my house this morning, I whipped my freshly washed naturally curly hair into a high messy bun with a single, thin black band. This was unheard of during my time at a high school where plush, velvet Juicy Couture bags lined lockers and custom-made BCBG gowns were tailored for prom at Tavern on the Green. My hair would always be pin-straight, well past my shoulders in length, and a good deal thicker albeit more damaged. I would always have my hair pinned and bound just so and a thin black band never did suffice. Even the crickets sound different as I am walking and typing this. That’s another difference. I am writing whilst walking, my portable smartphone in hand. (And while I still have no patience to manicure my nails, I made sure to succinctly clip, file, buff, make smoother, and shine them before heading out this morning. Too much time had passed since I took off the chipping away high-end nail polish I had on for my cousin’s engagement two weeks ago.) Another difference - I still go on a walk for inspiration but I no longer have to rush back home and make a beeline to my desktop computer in order to document my curated stream of thoughts. Today, before I left, I lathered and then exfoliated my face, toned my skin with aloe Vera, rose-infused witch hazel from an organic foods market before moisturizing with a heftily-priced facial skin cream that promises to work beneath the surface and prevent currently nonexistent sun exposure with a high SPF. Today, I whipped out my ATM card to withdraw cash for my father’s birthday present, which is not so different from my usual gift-giving tendencies. Except that I now have money stashed away in a bank account as opposed to the porcelain, hand-painted piggy bank at the back of my closet. Today I never boarded the city bus to take me to the largely Eastern European area where my school is located. I don’t even think I saw a bus pass. Today is Sunday after all. I’m passing by a fruit stand that never existed before as I make my way back home. The watermelon season is officially over. I’m surprised to say that I’m slightly saddened by this fact. Yet I am even more saddened by the fact that I still place fruits on a nutritional hierarchy. I now profess fruits as my dessert. I never did before. I am now battling anorexia and working towards eating intuitively. I never did have this battle before. I never had to. I was a dancer, a Harrisite forced to run on the track and drop and give 50 push-ups, sit-ups, and crunches day in and day out. I didn’t have to have a body running on empty now either I suppose. That was my wrongdoing. I passed the Dunkin’ Donuts where I used to purchase a buttered and toasted bagel or a blueberry donut with a medium (not grande) coffee - light and sweet, meaning lots of milk and at least one teaspoon of sugar - before high school. I had abs and a stomach as flat as a surfing board regardless. Then again, I never ate lunch then, but at least I had hearty meals and snacks. Food was fuel for my active day ahead. Now food is fuel, in much larger quantities, and is for my survival. It’s the only way I can be kept alive. It’s the only treatment I have. Now I’m headed home to a steaming bowl of oatmeal with banana, granola, and a dollop of cashew milk and generous sprinkling of cinnamon. The one thing that hasn’t changed is making mistakes and living through them whilst remedying them. I am looking at the time frantically instead of truly enjoying my walk because I cannot be expending energy while trying to house as much caloric energy as possible. I can tone later they all say- thirty pounds later. Too much time has passed. I feel fine, but I fear the upcoming reprimands. I still have a couple of blocks to go before I reach home. I’m anxious and defiant, at peace but also in discomfort because of how full I am from yesterday. I’m almost there. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cl-time-better-spent monthly 0.5 2015-01-04 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/clvi-part-iii-breaking-bad-bread-food monthly 0.5 2015-10-20 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734367134-F989MAUM98L3O460I766/tumblr_nwimhf2uC31r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CLVI. Part III: Breaking Bad Bread - Food boggles my mind. Inspirational quotations on Instagram include something along the lines of, “Eat Well and Travel Often.” Of course you have the ever famous movie adaptation of the book, “Eat, Pray, Love.” Then there is the Food Network and Canadian-import, The Cooking Channel, both offering competitions for the home chef, the dismally doomed cook willing to nourish one’s self without the aid of pre-made, packaged foods, the aspiring culinary students in their youth, the hipster-entrepreneurs who want to express their creativity through a gypsy lifestyle as a food-trucker, and celebrity cooks who continue to build on their career. Even on the rightist FOX network one can watch Masterchef and Hell’s Kitchen. On Bravo, there is the ever-prestigious Top Chef hosted by model, Padma Lakshmi. Models who eat, and more over, those who cook, are in vogue. Karlie Kloss’s organic “Perfect 10” cookies sold at the female-helmed Momofoku Milk Bar packs a double dose of good-doing with its philanthropic price tag and healthy ingredients. Padma Lakshmi and Victoria Secret Angel Camilla Alves both appeared on the TODAY show on separate occasions to lead their own cooking demos as a testament to their pasts as novice models trying to survive on nil job-payments and harping on their primal instinct to recreate meals familiar to their cultural palette: Laskmi made lentils and Alves made a chili carne. Let’s not forget Chrissy Teigen, the Sports Illustrated, Doppelgänger of domesticity defined, who curates a food blog and is currently working on her cookbook. Hell, this past Tuesday, the 13th of October, a new episode of Chopped aired in which all of the contestants were not only professional cooks but also models: two males and two females. The latter contingent happened to have suffered from anorexia and bulimia. Recently, Michael Kors launched a t-shirt collection that raises awareness and funds for children facing hunger. Food is fuel. Food is necessary for survival, yes. But a relationship with food? What is that all about? Only up until a week ago did I find the phraseology altogether wacky. I was upset by it: To me, it seemed that our tech-centric generation had reached the threshold for scrolling through food porn to such a degree that looking up from the screen and forming relationships with other human beings was a foreign concept. Then, as a journalist who houses opinions but is judicial by nature, sought answers by speaking with others, especially experts. These primary sources,combined with actively reading (we’re talking Post-It accessorizong here,) through a secondary source- a book assigned by my nutritionist - I wavered in my stance. Or rather, I side-stepped and did a Step Aerobics’ inspired pivot. I no longer had a stance and instead became a knowledgeable and altogether unbiased journalistic human- a hybrid professional who has not fully withdrawn from the human race. According to my source, a practicing registered dietitian and nutritionist, a relationship with food is not uncanny because their is one animate participant and one inanimate player in the equation. It’s just like having a relationship with a season or a place. She had a point. A wordsmith, I believe I got caught up in the literal semantics rather than the the philosophical component. In theory, we make associations between smell and sound and tangible goings on in our lives. My relationship with food has altered. Since beginning a routine of three solid meals a day, which I haven’t done since perhaps weekends during the time I was in middle school, I’ve developed a love for the taste of eggs. I love white fish and indulge in the healthy omega fats found in salmon and all natural nut butters. Fruit has become an indulgence that seems so much more juicy and forbidden than those baked concoctions scattering New York City’s artisanal doughnut shops and traditional Italian trattorias. It was only this past June that I didn’t know how to make an egg much less know what it tasted like. I was told by the head nurse to “take it easy” when eating a boiled egg. One boiled egg. The egg was cold and shiny, sitting perfectly in a plastic container with an overpriced tag from the hospital’s Au Bon Paine. I thought I would bite into it and it would taste like a fluffy marshmallow. I was ravenous ever since being diagnosed with anorexia, as is normal with the initial days of re-feeding my body after a year of deprivation. I quickly took a small piece with my plastic, sterile white fork and bit into the gelatinous textured egg. Instead of the fluffy texture I imagined it to be, the hard-boiled egg was rich and dense. The yolk was so different from the white- it was so savory and weighed so heavily on me. Take it slow I did, then. Without me having to search, so far my day has been filled with ideas and thoughts of food: From scheduling a long overdue appointment with my nutritionist, to making breakfast plans with a peer, to visiting Facebook only to find my friend sharing a New York Times Op-Ed about our generation’s rampant gluten-free eating habits, and yet another friend tweeting about a familiarly culturally culinary experience. The New York Times article is riddled with harsh, albeit, necessary words to the hipsters that don’t appreciate masterfully savory and sweet donuts, (although even these indulgent food choices market greener, environmentally-friendly choices). We’re a society coaxed into thinking food intolerance is normal and commonplace. Gluten, historically partially responsible for species going from nomad to settler, now has a bad rep. We’re reverting to “paleo” now. You might say this is an example of learning from history, but it isn’t. Never before had people, even myself in the 90’s, dabbed away at pizza or refused to eat complimentary bread, or even imagined eating egg whites as opposed to a full-fledged omelet, a true yolky-yellow color and all the bells and whistles of fresh, chopped tomatoes and basil grown in my backyard. This society, while relearning that the full egg is actually good for you and creates a protective layer of healthy fat around the liver as opposed to the midsection - thank you, #yolkporn - is not learning from history. Our generation is re-adapting the past instead. History by definition is a change over time. Just as we changed from nomad to settler, from squatting to sitting on a chair or even toilet once indoor plumbing came into existence, we’re grabbing at a state of time - the past - as opposed to the changes made over time - history. We’ve traded in chairs for stationary bike-desks. Sometimes our bodies need rest and our bodies always need nourishment. I have relearned this and now it’s just a matter of applying it. So here we go, I’m on a mission to gain weight. It’s an uphill battle living in a society where my fellow millennials are rocking Lululemon yoga pants, taking selfies of themselves flexing in overpriced- gym mirrors, and being applauded in the most self-deprecating manner of flattery, also known as, “#goals.” Excuse me, but I’d like to think of myself as having my own goals, thank you. I have to gain. Everyday will be fairly sedentary. As it is, I have been cooking breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner. I can see stretch marks appearing across my hip bones and pelvis, but I’m still dangerously underweight. I can see my skin shedding on my upper arms as the circumference widens, yet my extremities are still bony. I’m gaining, but only ever so slowly and it’s now a race against the clock. I have to learn from history: the only treatment proven to help treat - there is no cure for anorexia, is to consume 2500+ calories a day without any movement. I have accepted this. I can say with certainty that a gym membership will be awaiting me after this is all said and done, which, admittedly frightens me. Not the gym membership - my God what I would do to feel that burn, that surge of serotonin again - but the fact that I won’t be active for months and lose my once defined and toned body, which I already lost because of my anorexia. This is my relationship with food, now. And like history dictates, it will change over time. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxlix-ignorance-de-stigmatized-the-top-image monthly 0.5 2014-10-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734368191-CHJ1HXLNH177TY5634PW/tumblr_ncmsdmGcOR1r1o875o2_r1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734368538-TR7VPPVA70DCTLGHYBM9/tumblr_ncmsdmGcOR1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxlv-true-story monthly 0.5 2014-05-27 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cliii-three-and-thirds monthly 0.5 2015-07-18 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxii-ive-taken-to-reading monthly 0.5 2013-08-13 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxv-air-out-that-dirty-laundry-picture monthly 0.5 2013-09-08 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734370325-9YIUHKU038CT16H0F19K/tumblr_mstcvnz30U1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) CXXV. Air Out That Dirty Laundry - *Picture: Residing in a world with dryer and washer abilities myself, the act of airing out laundry on a clothing line was a shock. The old-world charm compelled me to take a photo. The lack of humanity, empathy for the other person without regards to race or faith, is increasingly prevalent in today’s day and age. With the recent “rape culture”, bursting out the seams of India in particular: burgeoning across the frontier of the northwest, the tropics of the east, the coast along Arabian Sea, and the heart of the capital itself, the lack of respect for and among humans is nauseating to say the very least. I was watching some old Hindi films songs shot in European countries the other day. I realize that whatever I was watching occurred on the sets of a movie. Regardless of this fact, the locals of the country were all smiles seeing a rosy-cheeked, erratically moving, but ever charming Shammi Kapoor shimmying among their populace. I didn’t see spite or racism welling up in the eyes of the onlookers. I then asked my father, a fully bearded Sikh, how he lived in Italy, back in the early 80’s. He said there was virtually no racism. People we were much more accepting back then. It certainly seems that way. Call it mean, but my first deed of the day today, when my sleep was broken at 6 AM, was, with some deliberation, to delete a Facebook post I wrote with birthday greetings to a person I had been friends with in college. I saw that she had answered a bunch of people’s messages, thanking them profusely. She had even thanked another person, whom she absolutely hated and told me so on more than one occasion. She didn’t respond to my post and I know better than to give her the benefit of the doubt. Bonding over our New York roots during sophomore year of college, by junior year she had transformed into a fraternity-pledging,secretive cult-type of person, rebelling against her parents by going out with someone they wouldn’t approve of, and whom she stays with today. I didn’t judge her, although silently, in my head, I suppose I did. She, however, chose to judge me. I was too “old-fashioned” she said as I honestly told her when I wanted to get married, the whole husband kids scenario. After attending the show my dance team put on, she met my smile with a grimace and said she thought we didn’t dance well, certainly not as good as the other team on campus whom she was besties with. She called herself their “groupie.” She criticized the dancing my fellow dancers and I spent well over 40 hours a week perfecting, despite the fact that the hundreds of other attendees commended our technique and despite the fact that her BMI index is evidence of her never having danced a day in her life. About 8 months after graduation we decided to meet up. She was still judging me. I was too sheltered, living with my parents. I was too sheltered, not having a paying job. I never want to have the displeasure of speaking with that financial-job-holding sell-out who had originally wanted nothing to do with the business world, ever again. _________________________________________________________________ We all have flaws, but the lack of civility among people today has reached an all-time high. When I send an email, I expect for that email to be returned. If I ask a question, answer “yes”, or “no.” If you have time, feel free to elaborate on your answer. The point is: answer my email. One of my editors asked me to send 2 paragraphs pitching a story before this past Friday. I did just that. I took time out of my day to research and write the email based off the research, not to mention the proofreading. Today is Sunday, I have received no answer, and I could lose this story seeing as how what I want to cover will be ending this week. Another editor asked me to cover community events in the area. I’ve traveled to, spent the day at, interviewed, transcribed, and took photos for 3 events. Only one of my stories has been published so far. He has not acknowledged the other two stories I spent days working on. I’m trying to scale a wall that is 90 degrees perpendicular to the ground. Gravity is resisting me as I try to reach the elite status. _________________________________________________________________ I wanted to cover a grand opening of a new fashion design house, conveniently, not too far from where I live. I saw a compelling story here: They were opening up their new business in New York and the only other business was in the Midwest. Also, they showed at NY Fashion Week this year. As a New Yorker, I’ll be the first to say that if you can make it here, you can most definitely make it anywhere. I called both the designer and her business partner. Two phone calls, two missed phone calls, two voice mail messages and an unacknowledged Facebook message later: I was finally contacted less than 24 hours before their supposedly grand opening. The lady on the other line seemed reluctant to have me come in and ask questions/take photos. She asked me where I lived - why, I still do not know. She then asked when I could come in. Common sense dictates that I would come when it starts, at 12 PM. I guess she lacked common sense or was just confused - we settled on 12:15 PM. After I had said I’d be there, she quipped in: “I’ll talk to so-and-so and get back to you to see if you can come in.” She said that, I swear she did. I then replied, “Please please get back to me.” I have witnesses. Anyhow, she never got back to me. On the day of the event, I announced that I would never be at the mercy of someone else. No, I am not going to cover this. I am not going to prostrate at the feet of people. No one is inferior or superior to me. Over an hour after the event already started, I received a phone call. I picked up the phone, quickly exchanged pleasantries, and in a slightly more exasperated pitch than I was going for said, “I was waiting for your call!” “I think there has been some kind of miscommunication,” the lady on the other line said. “Yesterday I said you can definitely come in. I confirmed it yesterday. I said I would call you only if there was a problem.” LIAR - She was lying to my face. I was not about to partake in a “No you didn’t/Yes I did” type of an exchange so I just said, “Well, I’ll try and see if I can make it”, not that I had any intention of going and showing up when everything ended. What an inauspicious way to begin a new business. Karma is a you-know-what-profanity-to-insert-here and I do not plan on being on the receiving end of this linguistic equation. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxiii-dr-house-is-my-homeboy monthly 0.5 2013-08-29 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxviii-the-heuristics-of-success monthly 0.5 2013-07-11 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxxvi-a-writers-apptetite monthly 0.5 2014-02-23 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxvii-zoning-in-on-zen monthly 0.5 2013-10-03 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxx-taking-things-in-stride-the-cross-section monthly 0.5 2013-08-02 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxx-recovery monthly 0.5 2013-11-07 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxiv-talk-to-the-wall monthly 0.5 2013-09-04 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxl-putting-into-practice monthly 0.5 2014-03-26 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxxi-is-mea-culpa-just-a-fancy-way-for-saying monthly 0.5 2013-12-01 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxviii-charitable-mockery monthly 0.5 2013-10-22 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxxiii-untethered monthly 0.5 2013-12-30 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxvi-gaudiness-galore-negativity-implores monthly 0.5 2013-09-26 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxlvii-stressed-to-impress monthly 0.5 2014-08-15 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxliii-a-hairy-situation monthly 0.5 2014-04-29 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxxv-she-resides-on-a-mountain monthly 0.5 2014-01-26 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxxii-for-i-am-the-daughter-hear-me-roar monthly 0.5 2013-12-05 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxix-wronged monthly 0.5 2013-10-30 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxi-constants-are-in-an-origins-coordinates monthly 0.5 2013-08-08 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxlviii-synonymous-subconcious monthly 0.5 2014-09-01 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxlvi-a-a-letters-worth-of-explanation monthly 0.5 2014-07-14 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxxxix-technologys-invisible-hand monthly 0.5 2014-03-25 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxix-proactive-passive-aggression monthly 0.5 2013-07-18 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/civ-homeland monthly 0.5 2013-03-17 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/ciii-with-firsts-come-lasts monthly 0.5 2013-03-03 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xcvi-a-consequence-of-choice monthly 0.5 2013-01-25 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxxii-human-independency-syndrome-his monthly 0.5 2012-11-08 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cv-a-series-of-aging-events monthly 0.5 2013-03-23 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cx-marketing-yourself monthly 0.5 2013-04-26 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxvi-gossipy-gabbing monthly 0.5 2013-06-16 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxiii-the-rebel-child-a-thing-of-the-past monthly 0.5 2013-05-23 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxxi-o-mind-reform-yourself-and-forsake-your monthly 0.5 2012-11-03 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734373940-2V9QVAKIM5ZAV6I5EJVN/tumblr_mcwywj2F5O1r1o875o1_r2_500.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) LXXXI. O mind, reform yourself, and forsake your aimless wandering. During the summer months of 2012, there was a cleverly narrated doodle that was going viral. This doodle was a Princeton graduate’s explanation for how most students got admitted into and graduated from, the Ivy League. Indeed, the humorous simplicity of the explanation almost perfectly reflects the complexities needed to attain a seat at such a prestigious institution of higher education. The parts focusing on parenting was fairly identical to my own experience. Growing up, we dream - a lot, and we also have a lot of nightmares. Keep in mind that I am referring to dreams in the most colloquial and base-sense. I am not going to delve into the semantics of dreaming being to the intangible verus “thinking catalyzed by ambition” being to the tangible. More specifically, I am referring to daydreams. I would discuss some of the daydreams with my parents. I would discuss the next steps I would make that would take me from here to the coveted elite status. I want to be a contributor to society! My daydreams show me what happens when I do contribute. There is a flux of acknowledgement by kin and strangers alike. I want to leave my positive mark, be interviewed for TIME Magazine, own that Bentley, and live on that Manhattan city street. I want to go back to India, to a house in Punjab, so that my kids won’t be devoid of culture and legacy. I am going to have kids -yes. I will fall in love with an amazing intellectual and handsome, preferably Sikh Punjabi. The love will obviously be requited., and… These are the day dreams I feel less inclined to share, by the way. Anyway, he and I will get married. The full customs will be carried out just as they have always been. At my sangeet, day of dancing and singing festivity prior to marriage, all the female guests of all ages will have mehndi applied to their hands. There will be no rehearsed and staged performances. No, all the dancing will be organic. The females will be doing traditional Punjabi dance, giddha, and not masculine bhangra moves as is forced by the Indian-American dance culture. (I am still irked by how my Punjabi culture is being butchered by dance teams across the nation. Our, asli Punjabi, dancing is not robotic or violent and I absolutely hate that my own peers are doing this, but I digress.) My husband and I will have our honeymoon in the best country in the world, India. Our marriage will be blissful and pure and so completely perfect. I will become a mother and the first time around I will be pregnant with twins: one boy and one girl; Perfection. Reshmi! There is no hot water! You’re using it all up! GET OUT - The above scenario played out hundreds of time up until I moved away from home to the iridescent isles of the Ivy League. I knew my day-dreaming was partially what caused my need to constantly go up some self-constructed ladder - to keep striving for higher rungs. However, I also knew that it was time to keep day-dreaming to a minimum. __________________________________________________________________ 5 years ago: I was going off to college… There will be so much to do and accomplish. You’re going to have to be in charge of your dietary schedule and the quality of what you eat. You have to do laundry and clean your own living space. No time for day-dreaming Reshmi. You have to save hot water for your roommates! Yearbook planning time came around during my senior year of high school. Us seniors had our own mailboxes on the senior-designated floor, the 3rd floor, decorated with the senior color, blue. In each of our mailboxes was a form that had asked us to write our name exactly as we want it to appear next to our senior picture along with any quotation of our choosing. I wanted my quotation to be taken from my heritage because I still cannot harbor any type of sentiment or connection to an anglicized couplet or transcendentalist poem made by the well-read white man. I then concluded that in the next phase of my life I would increasingly rely on my faith, just as I always had. And with that, I had decided to turn to gurbani, and find a fitting and guiding idea that I could take with me.This would be my yearbook quotation. O mind, reform yourself and forsake your aimless wandering. __________________________________________________________________ 2012 - Present Time: The past 4 years, day dreaming was kept at bay.I believe the whole aspect of daydreaming had been non-existent these past 4 years. At some point, crestfallen, I thought that daydreaming corresponded to the ages of 13-18 and that I no longer qualified as a daydreamer. In fact, only until a couple of months ago, officially a degree-holding graduate, did I realize that I still had the ability to day dream. I am again reprimanded with taking a bath last because I use up all the hot water. I am day-dreaming again… I saw myself in salwar kameez, light and airy. My hair was in a sublime stupor of layered waves, covering my already covered shoulders by my dupatta, or scarf. I was traversing the Punjab in Pakistan, revisiting the galis, winding paths or alleys, that my ancestors had traveled. With my leather book-bag on, I crossed the border by train, or was it bus? Now I am in Amritsar, and I see myself looking around. I look around to make sure no one sees me and then I swiftly swipe the fingertips of my right hand on the earth below me, and just as swiftly swipe my fingertips across my forehead. Jai Hind - My writing career is based in Northern India and I am primarily covering the states of Punjab and Kashmir. __________________________________________________________________ The day dream was put to an end by myself. I am still a daydreamer yes. However, I think I am a matured daydreamer. Perhaps my mind has heeded the gurbani. That is to say…. My mind has reformed, perhaps, such that my wandering is now just short of aimless. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxvii-bonafide-bouyancy-a-trip-abroad monthly 0.5 2013-06-26 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxii-the-culture-of-consumption monthly 0.5 2013-05-14 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxv-its-rhyme-time monthly 0.5 2013-05-31 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxi-subtitles-excoticism-the-such monthly 0.5 2013-05-02 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cxiv-travelers-discourse monthly 0.5 2013-05-30 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xcix-americans-and-portion-size monthly 0.5 2013-02-08 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/c-thats-the-roman-numeral-for-100 monthly 0.5 2013-02-18 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xcvii-a-page-turned-over monthly 0.5 2013-01-29 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xciii-a-little-adversity-never-hurt-anyone monthly 0.5 2013-01-11 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/ci-contradiction-nation monthly 0.5 2013-02-20 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cviii-who-let-the-dogs-out-into-the-workplace monthly 0.5 2013-04-13 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cvii-for-practicalitys-sake monthly 0.5 2013-04-07 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cii-there-is-no-chance-in-internship-why monthly 0.5 2013-02-26 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxxv-shopping-schematic monthly 0.5 2012-11-29 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxxix-tweet-baby-tweet-baby monthly 0.5 2012-12-21 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxxvi-urban-mythology monthly 0.5 2012-12-01 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxxiii-my-minds-tongue-%D9%85%DB%8C%D8%B1%D8%A7-%D8%AF%D9%85%D8%A7%D8%BA-%DA%A9%DB%8C-%D8%B2%D8%A8%D8%A7%D9%86 monthly 0.5 2012-11-17 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xciv-antiquated-ecstasy monthly 0.5 2013-01-15 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxxvii-old-is-tarnished-gold monthly 0.5 2012-12-09 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cvi-political-painting monthly 0.5 2013-03-30 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxxviii-im-a-claw-crane-arcade-game monthly 0.5 2012-12-13 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxxiv-the-life-of-pie-imagine-if-there-were monthly 0.5 2012-11-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734372961-O239QDQMZPG8NRFEML92/tumblr_me0fh99bpG1r1o875o1_400.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) LXXXIV. The Life of Pie - Imagine if there were pies filled only with pie crust. Imagine if muffins only consisted of the tops. ______________________________________________________________ In the above picture, I was sitting outside of my house the Friday after Thanksgiving, imagining that I was elsewhere and alone. My webcam was on and captured my expression, overwhelmingly pensive, slightly stressed, and approximately eighty minutes before a phone interview. I was cold too. The air was frigid. With the cement underneath me and the canopy blocking out any sun’s rays that may have peeped through the already cloudy sky over head, my body was shuddering in my self-inflicted challenge to escape. Wearing pink pajama pants that grazed the cemented porch, gray knee-high socks, a University of Michigan sweatshirt that was given for free at my brother’s college orientation 8 years ago, and draped in a large and soft shawl, with a tortoise-colored hair clip, holding my side-swept bangs away from my face, I was sitting outside. I was sitting outside and I was escaping to a place where I was comfortable, more-so than uncomfortable. However, this place still provided a level of discomfort; enough for me to be an explorer traversing a new and unexposed landscape. I was in a place where people were just as ambitious as myself, to the extent of them perhaps having been called a ‘dreamer’, once upon a time. The place lacked obligatory socializing, so that I conversed with people who cared to make gutsy and politically incorrect commentary, just as much as they cared about watching the newest episode of Top Chef. These people do not sensationalize their humble beginnings or alternatively flaunt their hand-outs, and these people absolutely do not wish to remain in the aforementioned niches which they apparently seem to love having occupied, as it were. I don’t want to be around people who have no desire to move up, on whatever ladder that may be. I hereby admit that I want to forever walk around in constant surrender to all things beautiful. It is times like this one in the photo, when I miss the ivy-covered campus. Then again, college was what it was. Just like that, for the past four years, myself in reality or my 3-dimensional self, was identical to the 2-D, square photo in the upper left hand side of my university student ID. I was safe in the status that was bequeathed to me by my University Card. A couple of days ago, the same day captured in this photo, I was sitting outside. I was starting to work on a study abroad application. Who knows what the outcome will be? After months of pondering over whether or not I should even attempt to try, I knew that to not do so would be worst than being met with rejection. You know, the classic case of would have, should have, could have. Taking in the periphery will not be a priority. I don’t want to keep chipping away at the apple pie just to consume the crusty shell. I don’t want to feel guilty at spooning away the cholesterol-saturated sweet potato filling covering the well-baked hidden treasure of a crust underneath. I don’t want to have to buy an entire muffin knowing fully well that I will turn the muffin upside down on my plate and proceed to cut off the body of the muffin in one fell swoop. I don’t want to dirty a spoon just after I have dirtied a knife, to scrape away the vestiges of the cake-like texture of the muffin that is covering my coveted crusty and delicious muffin-top. Modifying these baked goods is a daunting task. Imagine if there were pies filled only with pie crust. Imagine if muffins only consisted of the tops. Imagine if we are able to live our life the way we wanted to because why not? Why not do everything in your power to get to where you want to be? Forget acknowledgement and just perhaps, shoot for proving someone wrong - it’s a most lovely feeling. Remember? I surrender to all things beautiful. Let’s disconnect. Does that sound severe? Oh well, so be it. Let’s disconnect from the extraneous. Exploring the new does not mean peripheries have to be taken into account for a more expansive landscape of novelty. Ignoring the periphery can make exploring novelty a lot less daunting. Ignoring the periphery under the muffin top and fillings in pies makes for better taste, makes for a better experience, and is a lot less daunting. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xcviiidepersonalized-disposition monthly 0.5 2013-02-05 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/cix-to-that-person-in-college monthly 0.5 2013-04-15 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xcv-the-culture-of-the-cold monthly 0.5 2013-01-22 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xc-the-rarity-placebo-effect monthly 0.5 2012-12-28 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xciifictional-escapism-way-back-when-in-fall monthly 0.5 2013-01-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734372402-8DNRQW0LLDVMTHJPQ6AT/tumblr_mgd8lutBeC1r1o875o1_r1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) XCII.Fictional Escapism - Way back when, in fall of 2012, I had volunteered to write a short children’s story. All I knew was that I had the opportunity to write for a conducive and tangible project. The whole idea of the story being for a child or even fictional, had skipped my mind. I have never been a fiction writer. The closest I ever got to writing fiction was for my philosophy of bioethics course that I had taken the summer before my senior year of college. For the course, I had to write using thought-experiments. If you have ever taken a philosophy class you would know that thought-experiments frequently use aliens as their subjects. Clearly, aliens are fictional. Every time I went to the library growing up, I would make my way to the new nonfiction shelves, completely walking past the fiction novels.  As a child I would pick up nonfiction books in the children’s section; mostly books on world cultures and religions because dinosaurs and plant-life were not particularly interesting topics, in my opinion. In fact, I somewhat involuntarily, still make a conscience effort to walk briskly past the new fiction shelves. It was as if the newly excited air currents would upset the fiction novels, which would be to my liking. This Christmas I received 5 blank notebooks; Leather bound notebooks, a reporter’s pad, a lined notebook with a nifty string-closure mechanism too. I was a solid paper-and-pen writer until my junior year of high school when I came to realize the pages and words were far too many and the transition from what I wrote on paper to the word processor on my computer would cause me to lose sleep unnecessarily. I am still that writer who would take a walk around the block, or when I got to college, take a walk to the Starbucks on campus, and formulate a blueprint for what I wanted to write. I think those Christmas presents I received put things back into perspective. If I want to be a professional journalist, I may not have my heavy laptop, charger, and flash drive with me at all times. I need to take note of what happens as I observe it. I need to stop making the excuse that I am a perfectionist who can never keep a diary because I will re-read what I have wrote and  will inevitably rip out the entries until I am left with the front and back covers of a notebook filled with vestiges of ripped pages. The above was the primary reason for why I have chosen to utilize this platform to post and access my writing. However, if this truly were the reason, could I not have just re-read what I wrote, disliked it, and easily click on the trash bin icon to delete my post. Deleting a post on tumblr is easier than ripping out a page in a book, is it not? There has to be other reasons for why I post on tumblr, or on the internet in general, and I still have not yet formulated the full list. I think one of the reasons is that my writings, published as a manuscript sitting in my room, will not reach anyone. What I post online can reach more people. As a result more conversations can occur on any given topic that was written about and therefore our minds can expand, together. This reason goes hand-in-hand with the idea that my writing published on tumblr is anything but fictional; it becomes more real when I can talk to others about what I had relayed from my head to written prose. The written word on paper, when not read by anyone but myself, suddenly seemed too intangible. That is to say, what I wrote seemed too intangible to be read by anyone but myself and dare I say it, fictional. No matter what, I will never favor fiction over non-fiction, whether it is reading, writing, or otherwise. I even prefer documentaries save for my separate love for fanciful Hindi films. I needed to write that children’s story. I was rethinking the whole prospect and said it out loud. “You have to have integrity. You gave your word; that you would write that story. Get it done.” - Said by someone who shall remain unnamed. In an attempt to sit down and get this story done, logically, I went out for a walk. It was not unusually cold since it is winter. The sun is in hiding and the air is brisk. My new preference for leaving my hair out and about without any hair-tie is wreaking havoc on my vision. Clearly, it’s windy outside. I take about an hour-long walk and am motivated to write the story. My muse was not the weather. My muse was the beginning and end of my walk. At the start of my walk, I dropped my new iPhone 5, my first smart phone ever, on my sneaker. Yes, on my sneaker. When I picked up my phone, the entire screen was cracked. As I walked, every time I looked at the veins of a leaf, or the sidewalk, I saw the cracks on my phone screen. If only I could turn back time to 1 second go. If only my phone didn’t fall. I don’t care for the iPhone, honestly. I felt horrible because this was from my parents. I saw the cracked screen everywhere. You know how you if you stare at the sun too long and then look away and close your eyes in an attempt to gain some relief, you end up seeing lines whenever you blink? Well, that was how I felt. I ended up seeing the cracked lines of the phone screen every time I blinked. If this were a fiction story, I could just re-write the events. This fiction story isn’t looking like such a daunting task right now. I made my way back home. When I walk home I have to pass a particularly green and lush area. Growing up, me and all the other children on the block called this area “the jungle.” Remember, it is winter, so “the jungle” should technically be non-existent, and it was, save for the picture included with this post. Those spherical blue-purple things growing on the backdrop of those green leaves are not fruits. They’re actually budding botany. Imagine if this were a fiction story and the picture was actually of grapes. Yes, these are grapes growing during the summer and it is not cold and dreary but sunny and light. This fiction story wasn’t looking like such a daunting task right now. No, it was not a daunting task at all. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xci-universal-uniqueness monthly 0.5 2013-01-02 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxix-rooted-in-my-ruby-shoes-my-personal monthly 0.5 2012-10-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734374490-K1CBANGB3R4RU3MNCCCW/tumblr_mcdfg15YrB1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734375211-2PWXLR7QMI1EZS6YEMHM/tumblr_mcdfg15YrB1r1o875o3_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734374957-838PB5R3AAJCD10DQNWW/tumblr_mcdfg15YrB1r1o875o2_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxvii-the-door-to-domesticity monthly 0.5 2012-08-07 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxviii-respects-invocation monthly 0.5 2012-10-18 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxvi-fatalistic-fate monthly 0.5 2012-10-11 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxx-in-the-know-fulfilling-summer-reading monthly 0.5 2012-08-25 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734375847-RS8P4N6AAV53YFK6CF2A/tumblr_m9bqhcVTyO1r1o875o1_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) LXX. In the Know - Fulfilling summer reading lists and part-taking in library book clubs have been the tasks of the parents of grade school children since the efficacy of Flintstones Vitamins reaped only a 90 percent on that last spelling test. When the school-year ends, naturally, students tend to veer away from the book case and head straight toward the fashion district to purchase a new and shiny pair of over-sized glasses frames, with or without prescription. The parents feel Punk’d as their children, now armed with slightly stylish smart-wear, still do not venture out to the library. I was beginning to feel like that parent. I am unmarried and childless Still, after college I searched for books via my New York City borough library database. I searched for contemporary historical-novels based in south and central Asia. I also searched for non-fiction war commentaries, bound in poetic prose. I needed to read, lest academia escape from my pores. However, now well into the fourth month of the summer vacation that breaks up the academic year, I don’t feel like a complete dummy. No doubt, I can definitely read more often and continue to sharpen my brain with drill exercises. However, I feel in the know, without any drill exercises save for writing I suppose. Truth is, I had discovered that I feel in the know… yesterday, August 24, 2012. The past four years in college I did not watch any news streams nor did I bother to pick up a paper that wasn’t published on campus. Making the NY Times website my homepage was a death sentence; headlines would catch my eye and one click would entail a series of more clicks due to the ingenious lower-right hand pop-ups entitled more articles [that might be of interest to you]. I did not have time. I needed to read my single-spaced, size 10 font, course packs, online uploads, and paperbacks. Now, however, now I am in the know. I am effortlessly following the 2012 campaign from the sidelines and am cheering for Fareed Zakaria’s reinstatement while simultaneously shaking my head in disagreement for Lance Armstrong’s impeachment. Though I will not be walking the stony paths of campus next week, I also will not never again experience back-to-school shopping. Well, that was one awkward sentence; two negatives in a sentence! But, I wanted to make a parallelism. I am a dummy! Oh no! What I mean to say is that despite those catchy Target back-to-school commercials not applying to myself this upcoming year, that is not to say that they won’t ever apply. I will be going back to school in the near future. Truth is, I cannot wait to continue my formal education again, in a lecture hall, on a campus, preferably in the vicinity of my beautiful NYC. College was a bubble. I used to think the aforementioned statement was derogatory. Here’s to self-improvement; must be less cynical. Indeed, college was a bubble- an ever-expanding bubble that housed knowledge, awkward acquaintances that may or may not make for future Facebook friends, potential beginnings of bad credit scores disguised among two-hundred dollar books, and the opportunity to mature an outdated childhood dream. Post-grad life is another bubble. Rather, (and this applies more universally), life outside of the school year, even if it is just summer vacation, is another bubble. In this bubble, we are subjected to vulnerability. If we forget our cell phone at home, we are made vulnerable because a blue-light emergency pole is not located every several feet. Furthermore, in this bubble, outside of school, wearing your new Michael Kors, Anthropologie, and Sperry ensemble is seen, more times than not, as impractical rather than fashionable. In other words, appeased pairs of eyes will be lacking. So be it; it’s time for those peeps to answer the Dial-America calls and subscribe to Marie Claire. In this same bubble, wearing those “2012” university sweatpants aren’t seen as chic. Regular viewers of What Not to Wear are scrutinizing you and analyzing the sweatpants as some unfashionable way of you trying to deny stress. So be it; it’s time for those peeps to recognize that you are not an adolescent and that your are not an experienced adult, but a twenty-something-year-old, impatient, degree-holding citizen who wants to change the world for the better. I feel like a polymath more than I had while surrounded by ivy for the past four years. I am no longer compartmentalized into Health & Society and Political Science. I too can read literature and gain what you had Miss/Mr. English major. I too can understand the excitement behind every new Apple product thanks to Time Magazine’s most recent issue on how cell phones are changing the world, OK Miss/Mr. Engineer! I too can understand why Samsung owes Apple $1.05 billion in that patent court case, alright Miss/Mr. Pre-Law? I am in the know and am trying my best to not get out of it. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxi-a-to-be-punjabi-and-an-aspiring-globetrotter monthly 0.5 2012-09-01 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxiii-a-dosage-of-this-taking-that-in-stride monthly 0.5 2012-09-16 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxix-the-individuals-use-of-social-media monthly 0.5 2012-08-15 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxx-diyas-lesson-light-that-fire monthly 0.5 2012-10-30 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxii-a-memoir-in-a-collection-of-cassette-tapes monthly 0.5 2012-09-06 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxvii-the-real-world-called-they-want-their monthly 0.5 2012-10-13 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734375291-FSN34EKMMWU8NNZMO8OX/tumblr_mbslc6qjvM1r1o875o1_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) LXXVII. The Real World Called & They Want Their Blazer Back - I should make a Google Alerts, keep my flash drives by my side, write up cover letters, keep track of references, make connections on LinkedIn with calculated measure, and make sure to use my fingertip every once a while to tap on the phone’s e-mail icon. I tap the keyboard furiously and with authority, channeling my energy into my cover letter, as if a pleasant scent that gives off, you can count on her to be well-dressed, thoughtful, hard-working, and punctual, will begin to emanate from me electronic submission. My vestiges of clipped nails and skin, are tapping continuously while I read over all my application materials, each individually tailored as they were because recycling does not do justice to my value. As I sit at my desk, an unpaid intern, frustrated with the isolated times when inactivity presents itself immediately after I have completed my previously documented tasks, I think to myself: I am not being graded. Why am I stressed? It’s not like I have to mentally prepare myself every time I open the bookmarked pagethat stares me in the face as it is forever and always on my browser, the browser that is open so long as my laptop is on. School suddenly seems like you’re being proactive in reaching that ultimate goal. Sitting in that library, behind that desk, cocking that pen ever so gently amongst those non-tapping fingers…This all succeeded in displacing me to a place but a few miles away from that long awaited income. I thought my blazer would have the same effect, but it doesn’t. The blazer dresses me up, makes me feel executive-like. The blazer dressed me up, even when I was wearing my “2012” Ivy sweatpants and walking around campus after midnight. The blazer is quite luxurious, yet it seems to hold in the cold more than it heeds the law of physics which mandates that the friction between the blazer’s lining and my skin, provides warmth. The blazer is like the real world - both are blatantly ill-conceived identities. __________________________________________________________________ The real world called and they want their blazer back - Though I felt closer to the career goal, ideal income, and perfect standard of living, while a student, that too was ill-conceived. This is the real world: you can keep the blazer. Thanks! __________________________________________________________________ Midway through this first dual, post-grad-internship season, and preparing for the next two seasons, it seems that the education, graduate school, which cues in career can only be attained via: the accumulation of subway stories and lapses of time where my e-mail is refreshed every two minutes in anticipation of carrying out the boss’s spontaneous demands. The blazer brought me outside of the daydreaming realm, the realm in which studying into the wee hours of the morning(s) induces a delirium where I am having pseudo-interviews in war-torn countries, writing in a home-office with a wedding band on my right ring finger, and am sooner or later reading an acceptance speech for winning the Nobel prize. The blazer has brought me into the borough of Manhattan, physically closer to the goal then before. The blazer has set me apart from the errand-going crowd using the New York City transit system - So, no matter how young I look, I am still a twenty-something-year-old working (unpaid) woman in the land of my birth, my home forever, and the center of the hybrid professional-academic world, New York City. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/li-summer-lovin-whinin-me-i-cannot-wait monthly 0.5 2012-06-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734379680-AZ0EG0K06I1KWP6PCLQ3/tumblr_m53xbxE62r1r1o875o1_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) LI. Summer Lovin’ Whinin’ - Me: I cannot wait for Fall! Mom: Well that’s because you haven’t seen it in a while. Me: What? Mom: At home- You haven’t been here in the Fall since you begun college four years ago. ____________________________________________________________________ You’re right mom. Now my anticipation for fall has just been magnified by twenty. Fall at home: There is this one main two-way, but really should be one-way, street that is always leaf-strewn with the crunchy kind of leaves that make the perfect noise under your fearless and guilt-ridden foot. Halloween over here takes you back to the medieval Halloween era, even though since I turned fourteen, my house door has been locked shut and the lights have been dimmed and blinds closed to deter kids from coming to our house. It helps that our doorbell no longer works and where there was once a button, only a hole exists. There is no alcoholic flamboyancy as there is on campus, and there is no vulgar costumes on people of age to whom trick-or-treating no longer applies. Diwali in late October/November is welcomed by gusty winds that almost sacredly fails to exterminate the wax-lit diyas, earthen lamps, and other candles lit by myself on the house’s stoop, covered in an embroidered dupatta, shawl, under the gaze of my parents, on our way to Gurudwara, temple.  ___________________________________________________________________ However, even if this were not the case and I had experienced fall at home all along, I know myself and I would never have been satisfied in the moment. At that moment I was in a vehicle with black leather seats that were absorbing the June sun’s rays. This attribute of never being satisfied has dwindled considerably though, and nowadays, really only rings true in the context of seasons. Many of us have these seasonal associations. In March, we cannot wait for summer to arrive so that we can shed the coat that is necessary since it is 40 degrees Fahrenheit, but in shielding our torso from the chills, the collar only succeeds in baking our necks, targeted as they were by the sun. In the summer, we cannot wait for the hustle and bustle of the backpack-conceived-hunch-back children amongst the working adults (pronounced “Ahh-dults”, with an emphasis on the first syllable), clogging up the morning and mid-afternoon/ early evening traffic. In the summer, we cannot wait for the NYC winter holiday tourists who cause throughout-the-day traffic delays: Traffic on the road and on YouTube since their nonsensical stopping on the otherwise seemingly, from a bird eye’s view, mobile sidewalks, causes the locals to record and upload these tourists’ shenanigans as payback for making the lives of locals’ more difficult. I know it is technically not summer yet, but for the academic crowd, ironically, (since we thrive on being technically correct -always), we refer to the time between the end of one academic school year and the beginning of the next one in a single clear and concise term that gets the point across: “Summer”. I have taken advantage of the mango season and had many a long walk to take advantage of the weather. I know it’s not my birthday yet, but getting older at a faster pace, (in my head at least since time cannot truly go “faster” and/or “slower”), is no longer welcoming. My parents are not planting the basil leaves this year and since I always, without fail, binge on the resulting pesto pasta from said basil leaves, no basil and therefore no pesto pasta, is not a bad thing. My metabolism isn’t getting any faster. Summer, it’s been great so far but I think it’s time for me to set up camp in the library again. Fast forward or rewind to you, me, sitting at a desk with work in front of us and it is week one of the not technically referred to Fall season - the season of the academic year’s return. We know we’re not pregnant, unless we are, and we know we’re not so ego-centric as to not give a care that we are contradicting ourselves purposefully when we change our mind about wanting Fall the day after it arrived, unless of course we are ego-centric and illogical creeps. We’re not though - So we sit at our desk and give ourselves a pep talk. I can’t speak for you but here’s a sample of my yearly pep-talk: “It’s Fall Reshmi! It is finally that time of year. I am ready to work- oh yes. I just have to get adjusted to the newness of it all and rejoice in the oldness of it all. Been there, done that - I know how to study! I got this yo. I got this. It’s not like I won’t sleep; not tonight at least, it’s the beginning of the [academic] year…all-nighters are later.” ___________________________________________________________________ “Summers are devoid of holidays and cheer.” Yes, post pep-talk, we start justifying our desire for Fall to make its way… “Ever heard of the "dog-days of summer”? I mean, hello?“ "Isn’t layering awesome? Oh I just love hats and scarves and gloves and mittens and furry slippers. Oh, I hate snow though. I don’t want snow, I just want brisk air.” “I mean, I don’t want to sound like an ingrate and all. I’m grateful for the break, but I just want to be busy again, you know? It’s addictive…” “That Ice Cream Truck song is getting annoying yo -” ___________________________________________________________________ The hoodlums middle school and high school students in NYC didn’t even finish their school years yet. Do you feel like you want Fall to come now too? The summer really only just begun. Summer loving is still there but the summer whining in anticipation for Fall is inevitable. Who knows, if I whine about wanting Fall enough I may just walk out with this ensemble: Winter hat and spaghetti strap tank. Holler at your homefry- https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lix-nostalgic-trespassing monthly 0.5 2012-07-07 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxv-the-gridlock-privilege monthly 0.5 2012-09-26 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xlvii-gymn-like-a-villain monthly 0.5 2012-05-26 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/on monthly 0.5 2012-07-26 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xlix-the-modern-day-tease monthly 0.5 2012-05-31 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxvi-education-enforcement monthly 0.5 2012-08-06 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxv-an-oddly-beautiful-day monthly 0.5 2012-08-02 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxiv-happy-happy-joy-joy monthly 0.5 2012-07-30 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/l-me-myself-and-you monthly 0.5 2012-06-02 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xlvi-a-making-good-on-repetition-elimination monthly 0.5 2012-05-09 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xliv-smart-is-beautiful-beauty-doesnt-live monthly 0.5 2012-04-21 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734380494-N338AJ7G2XHYSCT04RVW/tumblr_m2lib67SRv1r1o875o5_r1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734380351-I7KBXHDS2E55K3I20VM8/tumblr_m2lib67SRv1r1o875o2_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734380193-3M4EOKVV664CO86F4PE5/tumblr_m2lib67SRv1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxi-globetrotter-conditioning-oh-this-suits monthly 0.5 2012-08-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734375587-1VNEVYE2ACF0IS739EVU/tumblr_m9jcr5dLRU1r1o875o1_r1_500.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) LXXI. Globetrotter Conditioning - “Oh this suits her. It’s good for her. She likes to travel…” - Mom My mom has been saying this a lot lately: on the phone, in person, and by text, with regards to my recent decision to pursue writing, print media, and in short, journalism. Whenever she would say this I would become slightly upset. I was partially upset about the already informed people who would not leave the matter of Reshmi’s-life-change alone without milking every last drop of detail. I was also partially upset because I am not allowed to even ‘like traveling’. I don’t have opportunities to travel. All I know is Queens and the east side of Manhattan, really. I like the idea of traveling. I would like to act out said idea and make it become a reality. If she was more technically correct, she would have said: ___________________________________________________________________ “She loves the idea of traveling. When we would go out on our many walks she would peer into the metal grated barrier, on the overpass, not taking her eyes off the cars whizzing below on the highway that led to greater things, other places and people, and novelty.” “When we would walk she would look into the sky, catch sight of a plane that was taking off or landing from JFK or La Guardia Airport, and would follow it with her eyes until it went out of sight. Hoping and praying that she too could travel.” “When she came home from Penn during breaks she would tell us about her classmates and where they traveled to, as if the packing and ticket-acquiring processes were non-existent, so that they took off on a whim.” ___________________________________________________________________ Yesterday I went on a walk with my mother. Becoming increasingly anxious as the new academic year will be arriving next week and I will not be attending any type of school, I had to vent my pent up energy. With that, I began to wade through the murkiness that had occupied my mornings, afternoons, and nights by talking, rather than conversing. I was telling my mom and myself of my master plans that did not include back-ups, but instead, alternate routes. I was the Map Quest and Hop Stop for my own mobility, navigating my own life. My mom listened, or so I think she did. I tend to talk endlessly on our walks so it is not always a given that the she will be following along to the very end. At one point I tell her that if I could pursue this one thought of mine it could set me apart and provide me with invaluable experience. I then confessed that I felt extremely uncomfortable just thinking about this thought because it included me living in another country for a period of time. Furthermore while I could understand the language spoken in the country, I was not at all comfortable speaking it. My parents, I think, are used to my brother and I conquering a lot, but by no means conquering everything. As a result, I think my mother was conditioned when she told me this: “Reshmi. I told you to keep up with the language! Speak to your father at home, you’ll be able to speak it!” In all of my 22 years, Dad and I have never conversed not even a single full sentence in any language other than English. About to pique into an argument, the topic was dropped. The next day: This week is the beginning of my weaning process before I completely stop going to the gym. I never had the intention of going to the gym, everyday, for the past 3.5 months. However, I felt obliged to go since I was not busying myself with any other task. Not going to the gym has proven exactly as I thought it would: I have gained quite a bit more time to myself than I would otherwise have had, what with getting ready to go to the gym, exercising, traveling to and from the gym, and then freshening up. I still needed to be active during the day though. So, I have resorted to my characteristic long walks. Today, the most pleasant of days this entire week, I knew I had to get out of the house and walk. To where? Upon my mom’s suggestion to walk to the large Barnes & Noble located near the campus of a private university that is attended overwhelmingly by locals who commute, (my attempt at not disclosing location), I refused to go. Upon reconsideration, however, I realized that the walk was far, but by no means was it out of the spectrum of reality. I had walked much farther distances than this one. The Barnes & Noble is one that I had passed numerous times while on the bus, or in the car. I never had actually walked along that route. Determined to go today, I realized that I was anxious. This was anxiety that I was familiar with. It was the kind of anxiety that I felt when I was about to leave home for Penn and I wanted to cherish my surroundings as much as I could before heading off. I smiled to myself and then just as quickly as the smile had appeared, it had disappeared. I smiled because I did not have to leave for Penn ever again in the foreseeable future. I would go on the walk along a route that was etched in my mind from five years ago. I would be returning home after. Don’t worry your mind, Reshmi. My smile went away as soon as it came because I knew that for my professional life and in order to know that I would love to travel, I had to stop feeling anxious and take in everything around me when I could. I had to learn from my college life and embrace the new, non-NY surroundings. If I ever wanted to be that globetrotter I had to move past the college experience, which was not really traveling anyway, and embrace the opportunity to go out on my own. This walk was remarkable. I felt like a determined adult with a destination and it is (still) absolutely beautiful outside. I look down at my Blackberry and see the background photo that reminds me of my desires to see new places and people, to travel - it is a picture of a vintage book filled with photos of Kashmir that my parents brought back with them in the late 80’s. Here is where the Jhelum River flows from within the Potohar Plateau, the origins of the Oberoi. Kashmir: the first place I so wish to travel to. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lvii-beingsilky-the-writer monthly 0.5 2012-06-30 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xlv-triggering-a-memory-is-not-reliving-an monthly 0.5 2012-04-29 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lii-the-introverted-socialite monthly 0.5 2012-06-07 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxviii-well-arent-you-chivalrous monthly 0.5 2012-08-13 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxi-maybe-the-world-should-stay-in-place monthly 0.5 2012-07-18 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lx-formulaic-entrepeneurship monthly 0.5 2012-07-16 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lviii-argumentation-clap-clap-clap-64 monthly 0.5 2012-07-04 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lvi-there-is-such-a-thing-as-guilty-pleasures monthly 0.5 2012-06-21 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/liv-the-real-world-as-seen-by-a-post-grad monthly 0.5 2012-06-14 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/liii-a-catalog-of-thoughts monthly 0.5 2012-06-11 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xlvi-repetition-elimination monthly 0.5 2012-05-07 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxvi-a-richmond-hill-ny-gurudwara-c-1997 monthly 0.5 2012-08-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734376590-UJM7LOOP2PD2EDUXN3PB/tumblr_m8covzXut11r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) LXVI A. Richmond Hill, NY Gurudwara c. 1997 #Mistakenidentity - Calm & Collected - It is necessary to distinguish between, and emphasize the difference between, Sikhism and the faith that it is being mistaken for. The Sikh Coalition Board Chairman, Narinder Singh, said: “I grew up here in the United States. I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio and I remember from the first Iran hostage situation to the first war in Iraq, to of course 9/11, and in each case we became a symbol of the other…. and it’s not about mistaken identity, this shouldn’t happen to anybody.” This is mistaken identity. Like you said, we are “the other” in the United States. But why? Who is an American? What does he/she have to look like? Furthermore, the Iran hostage situation, Iraq War, and 9/11 all have one thing in common. The “enemy”, or the other, were all predominantly of the same faith who we are being mistaken for. —- https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxii-what-yesterday-hath-brought monthly 0.5 2012-07-21 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lv-blank-canvas-the-new-years-countdown-is-no monthly 0.5 2012-06-17 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734378670-R6HBN8MECWFCUX75068Z/tumblr_m5s462KjVZ1r1o875o1_540.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) LV. Blank Canvas - The New Years’ countdown is no longer that climatic point in time (at least not for me). I guess the whole idea of hipster-chicness has diffused into every part of our lives. It is no longer personal when the whole world decides to make a promise or some kind of resolution that will commence being carried out at 12 AM on January 1st. The blank canvas traverses holidays. On my birthday this year I counted down the seconds to my actual birth-time, constantly staring at the Satellite TV clock; A cringe here and a contract there, with rare spurts of giggling at the sheer stupidity of it all. 3, 2, 1 - When I turned 22 I came to the realization that this was my new year and it could have acted as my blank canvas. I was ill prepared to say the least, and so the day after my college graduation acted as the true blank canvas, (refer to the four improvements made in my life from the last post, Post LIV.) Blank Canvas - def., n. The idea of starting anew, fresh, and on a completely unfurnished ground. Having a blank canvas invokes a ruthless restlessness in all of us. Just present a child or perhaps a minor in middle school with a blank paper. Odds are this child will immediately place their writing utensil to the paper out of excitement and may then become dissatisfied with the no longer blank paper in front of them because the initial fire ignited in them caused them to produce something without thinking that as a result, will most probably cause the youth to ask for another paper. Two days ago my glasses frames broke. After the initial swearing session I could not help but feel lighter, as if a past burden had been disposed of and the prospects of a new glasses frame made me all too giddy. The new frame would be the equivalent to a blank canvas. This reaction disturbed me… had I subconsciously caused my glasses to break so I could purchase another one? Disregarding the above I realized that reading too much into stuff is no doubt what caused me to lose many a point on many an exam, but I digress. The blank canvas idea is so intriguing to a human because it is not change. Most humans do not favor change or the unfamiliar; hence the objective of settling down and the downfall of nomadic times. The blank canvas can, however, be a change, or not. The blank canvas is a modification that is made on our own terms and so we’re not surprised with the outcome and instead gain a feeling of accomplishment for doing what we wanted with our blank canvas. For example, the blank canvas that is space: I’m moving pretty soon and will be leaving behind my room that, in my totally biased opinion, is the room with the most character in my house. Despite leaving the room where I had developed thoughts, and had churned out some of my finest moments and suffered some of my worst flus, I am so incredibly excited to be moving. I am so incredibly excited to have a new room, a blank canvas: I will choose the paint color(s), put up a vintage black-and-white, tapestry-like poster of a dancer that I found recently in one of my blog-searches, and one other wall panel; (* A montage of which is provided with this post.) Suddenly “DIY”, Do It Yourself, an abbreviation I kept having to look up on Urban Dictionary, is now as common to me as is “lol”. The idea of transforming old fabric into a cell phone holder no longer strikes me as trivial - Who am I kidding? I’m a New Yorker not a Kansas native without a neighbor and too much time on her hands - White-Out is much too obvious. Erasers inevitably smudge. All we want is a ‘Blank Canvas’. https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/lxxix-self-inflicted-strife monthly 0.5 2012-09-23 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xlviii-notes-from-a-non-vegetarian monthly 0.5 2012-05-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734379771-7FC9PDVZC6256GAF0LM9/tumblr_m4s5itoo1B1r1o875o2_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) XLVIII. Notes from a non-vegetarian- mixed-message-sending-pacifist-cynic. Preface: In past posts I have wrote about differences - from Post “III. The Human Paradox” up until 40 posts later, Post “XLIII. Possession, Application, and Quirkiness”, in which inherent individuality was elaborated upon. I think some of us stray away from the mainstream more than others. I myself think I am pretty mainstream in terms of what music I listen to. ___________________________________________________________________ Mom, while we were shopping: “This is you. This is so you! Look at these pants!” Reshmi: “They’re nice. (Trying to not smile). I have been shopping way too much nowadays. (Truth).” Mom: “I’m getting it for you and I don’t care how much it is. It is so you -” ____________________________________________________________________ So me and so out of any concept of a normal price range for a pair of pants. Determined to save for future consumerism on a less consistent schedule of buying, they were rejected; But tis’ fine because just as oddly beautiful a pair of pants, high-waisted with a white background to a green and yellow floral print, was bought on sale, for less than half the price of the other pant. My fashion sense is pretty different from most people I come into contact with as has been validated by recent interactions with relatives who refer to my outfits as “how Reshmi styles”, or as my father says, “you know how to carry yourself”, referring to what to the odd ensemble I literally threw on yesterday: Genie pants and an oversized printed shirt, with bangles running down one arm. ____________________________________________________________________ My family is also largely made of meat-eaters on both the Punjabi and Puerto Rican sides. This is why myself prior to college, me- shying away from, but always coerced into eating meat, to myself post-college, me -full-fledged avoidance and rebuttal of aforementioned coercions, always leads to a never-ending played out topic of discussion in my kitchen: “Why is Reshmi not eating chicken/turkey/pork?” (my family doesn’t eat beef). Self-considered “full” Punjabi, I knew that the whole Indian identity and common vegetarianism wouldn’t fly as a reason for my recent meals not consisting of meat. India, as we all (you all) should know, is not a monolithic identity. Rather, “Indian” is a unifying identity. Within India there are twenty-eight different states and over 1500 different languages spoken. Punjabi Sikhs tend not to be vegetarians. I still do not call myself vegetarian but I have consciously not eaten meat in maybe a month; perhaps just short of a month. Clearly I have not been keeping tabs on the number of days I have not eaten meat because meat is not some kind of evil, addictive, noxious substance that after having been consumed one must be de-toxed from. My name is Reshmi, and I do not have any spiritual, religious, and/or philosophical reasons for not eating meat. It makes sense that animals, us humans, eat other animals for nutrition. For that is biology and there is no foul play within the realms of logic. Why have I chosen not to eat meat then? 1. Meat is hard to chew no matter how well it’s cooked. Honestly, my jaw feels like it is going to fall off every time I chew it. 2. The possibility of pieces of bone lodged in my throat is not appetizing. 3. Even if chicken was tasty, it is always because the marination and/or sauce and not the actual chicken. The meat, like “0”, acts as the place holder for tastiness to be dumped upon and therefore has no significance in my meal - in terms of taste. I am aware of the nutrients bequeathed by the skinned dude/dudette. 4. Whenever I eat meat I feel more lethargic and weighed down. However, when I refrain from eating meat, still consuming proteins in the form of lentils and beans instead, I feel more lively and light in a non-pounds-seen-on-the-scale sense. So: I still do not call myself a vegetarian. I still eat the sauce from a meat dish. I still eat eggs. I do not mind if a spoon used to serve chicken is used to serve another non-meat dish, as long as said spoon was not inserted in anyone’s mouth and is used for the sole purpose of serving. I am not a vegetarian and I am not trying to be rebellious, my concerned parents. The above four reasons are cumulatively the sole explanation for why vegetables, (not raw), are now the contents of would-be-caricatured thought bubbles over my head if I were hungry. What about other vegetarians? Most regard poultry and beef as they would the abortion debate: It is a living thing that has died and therefore, it was living, but humans also die and it would be “inhumane” for a human carcass to be eaten- right? I do not know, but I would answer no; not right; wrong; false. Plants are living too because they are cell-based and breathe, no? (Rhetorical). How do you explain the flower in full bloom in comparison to the flower(s) you have ripped from the ground in an attempt to symbolize your pacifist self? Those dandelions in your hair are now dead, and you killed them. (It’s OK though, you didn’t eat them.) Take that to court - https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xlii-famous-vs-infamous-the-possible monthly 0.5 2012-03-30 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734380945-ZVQ8XAAHC9QTCD2KSXUD/tumblr_m1mcgojCTC1r1o875o1_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) XLII. Famous vs. Infamous - The Possible Intersection B/N Being Positive and Making a (Positive) Difference “Famous” and “infamous” are essentially one and the same. To be described as either is to be known, dually noted — to not be unknown nor obscure. These adjectives differ in their connotation, however. POSITIVE: When you are “famous”, you are celebrated, illustrious; you are commemorated and conferred  with acclaim. NEGATIVE: When you’re “infamous”, you are disreputable, notorious, and scandalized. ___________________________________________________________________ *Note that being famous and/or infamous cannot be neutral. ___________________________________________________________________ NEUTRAL: To Make a Difference - Never Reflexive and absolutely no self-gain. Making a difference neutrally is by practicing philanthropy, giving monetary donations, and getting your hair trimmed, (that is to say, less than an inch of hair is cut, such that the hairdresser does not make a profit since a more drastic and costlier haircut cannot occur seeing as you are getting your hair trimmed.) POSITIVE: You can make a difference positively by either: 1. Preventing OR 2. Advancing. Preventing an inhumane act from occurring and advancing a discipline of study through work ethic, commitment, discovery and advancing the day or life of someone else by comforting someone, offering moral support, opening the door for someone holding the average American amount of grocery (a lot), are all positive ways in which a difference is made. NEGATIVE: When you are attempting to make a difference but instead are serving no one but yourself, acting on a micro-scale, and are successful only in attracting attention, stirring emotion, and causing temporary controversy; temporary because your claimed cause for which you are acting is completely out of context. (I didn’t realize that my university, situated in the Northeast of the United States of America suddenly shifted to the fulcrum between what historically is regarded as East and West.) Don’t you want to make a difference? A penny cannot make a difference and traveling to the most underprivileged of places and afterwards making a Facebook album of you surrounded by little kids in raggedy attire and matted hair cannot make a difference. Instead, you’re paving a path for a self-fulfilling prophecy: Time to update the Resume! Sometimes Every second of everyday I wonder how I can make a difference and contribute to society. The long-term and most profoundly fulfilling answer for me, is to practice medicine. Visits to the hospital growing up were plenty but nowhere else did I have the peace of mind to know that I would be good as new just as soon as the person, hanger to the white coat and adorned with the stethoscope, would exam me. Though this is not how everyone who falls ill feels, it is certainly what everyone who falls ill knows. Regardless, how else can a positive difference be made if one did not want to become a physician, did not become a physician despite possibly wanting to be one (at first), and those like myself, who will not state the Hippocratic Oath for some time? There are indeed plenty of other ways to make a positive difference. The valid question is: Is making a positive difference preceded by the pre-requisite to be positive? Even as far as medicine is concerned, being positive is considered a healthy mental state. Constantly feeling unhappy is certainly not conducive to anything but making time seem prolonged so that the days seem to drag, causing headaches and irritability. Laughter relieves stress, causes our musculature, especially our facial muscles to become elastic, relaxed, and consequently stretch, and causes us to breathe heavier thereby increasing our pulse that in turns circulates oxygen more efficiently than before. I ask this question because I feel that in the past four years of college I have not made a positive difference and seeing as I am not going straight to medical school nor do I have the finances to travel and congregate the necessary resources that are required in making a positive difference, I feel I have arrived at a stalemate. I have only acted within these four years in order to advance my intellect as well as establish a place in the realm of academia. As I continued to dwell upon my inability to make a positive difference since being at Penn I realized another consistent theme since my dwelling became a box-like dormitory room: I have been/am not very positive. Is there a connection? Does society not respond to a lack of positivity? It is true that when a stranger smiles at you while walking on the sidewalk, you smile back at them, despite two seconds earlier supporting a palpable grimace. I think that, and this(below), are the answer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5ya8J-jyK4 Holler at your homefry- https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxxv-please-leave-your-name-and-number monthly 0.5 2012-01-14 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xli-the-inspiration-wall-we-all-know-what monthly 0.5 2012-03-21 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734383443-AC3WL3ELDKNZ2RN1BOUR/tumblr_m15xqbIbcO1r1o875o5_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734383789-607QP9XA09VALD852A54/tumblr_m15xqbIbcO1r1o875o6_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734383090-VGO7JYRCAQAHQ5VMC016/tumblr_m15xqbIbcO1r1o875o4_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734382600-YZTAN9U52ZEKUEJFWWEV/tumblr_m15xqbIbcO1r1o875o3_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734382991-ZLXF3X93AA3YZP1R8LDK/tumblr_m15xqbIbcO1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xliii-posession-application-and-quirkiness monthly 0.5 2012-04-05 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxxvi-the-pretty-ugly monthly 0.5 2012-01-22 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxxii-i-am-her monthly 0.5 2011-12-25 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxix-the-bane-of-my-intellectual-existence-the monthly 0.5 2011-12-04 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xl-wait-so-sarcasm-doesnt-exist monthly 0.5 2012-03-06 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxi-to-be-an-uprooted-tree-that-couldnt-take monthly 0.5 2011-10-28 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734390786-NSQ3G5CE229MD9GM0RGZ/tumblr_ltse2uEPLr1r1o875o2_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734390731-QGN2Y9I6KO9PXZXTFXRK/tumblr_ltse2uEPLr1r1o875o1_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxii-the-tale-of-how-halloween-lost-its-innocence monthly 0.5 2011-10-31 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xli-a-the-inspiration-wall monthly 0.5 2012-03-22 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxxiii-a-cliches-still-pesky-in-the-new-year monthly 0.5 2012-01-01 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxxviii-ready-willing monthly 0.5 2012-02-21 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxxvii-sharing-is-caring monthly 0.5 2012-02-01 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxxvi-what-qualifies-as-hypocritical-i-see monthly 0.5 2012-01-25 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734383900-N32TIYDZ2S83E7VEUS1U/tumblr_lybyu773G31r1o875o1_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) XXXVI. What Qualifies as Hypocritical? I see you. I see you inhaling your entire being inside of you; so that the built up pressure of air that was internalized causes your eyes to bulge and dilate. This is what you were going for. You want your pupils to be dilated, creating a pseudo-concern, a concern to stall - to keep avoiding me for as long as you can before you pass out from lack of air. Your brain, concerned with the self-inflicted lack of oxygen, causes your pupils to be directed so that your line of sight is straight in front of you… …defying the concept of periphery… … and denying the fact that someone you have known, to the extent that is just shy of friendship but cumulatively much more than an acquaintanceship, is not there. I am not there. But she is there. I am there, I was right in front of you and you will forever be irrelevant to anyone else who you play this little game with - forever to blame for making life more complicated than it should be. __________________________________________________________________ I understand that one can be oblivious to someone they should acknowledge by means of greeting or at least making eye contact and shaping one’s mouth into a slightly upturned vestige of a smile. There are many a time when I may not see someone until the very moment that our profiles are almost exactly parallel to each other - that is to say, the moment before we pass each other. Sure such last-minute eye contact will result in an awkward turning of the head over the shoulder and a scream-like “hi, how are you” from both persons. Both will continue to walk, most likely in opposite directions, and both parties will not expect an audible answer akin to, “I’m fine”, from the other… …but, it’s a mutual awkward obligation that also satisfies the primordial human need for non-combative human contact. I also understand those times when you consciously try to avoid someone. More times than not, I have avoided people; I was aware of their presence nearing my own self. Sorry, but I was not in the mood to communicate. Hypocritical much? No - I’m not in any mood to communicate a blatant lie about not feeling as I truly feel - whether that be upset, helpless, homesick, unsure, contemplative, or more positively- giddy and/or dreamy. I do not wish to communicate with you in a way that would cause you to believe that I am reacting to your being, when in fact, I am predisposed to the circumstances that were- prior to me coming into contact with you… … but I don’t blatantly, in front of your face, under your gaze, or in your periphery, ignore you. __________________________________________________________________ I dislike socializing and small talk, but I also do not wish to make life more complicated by creating an awkwardness. In this situation, you would probably indulge in the idea of taking the initiative to adhere to what is accepted as correct social propriety, and so you acknowledge him/her - that irrelevant person who you really could care less about- You give him a simple nodding of the head, a semi- smile, or a blink that successfully satisfies their need to be noticed - In their defense, to be noticed is a universal human need that has to be satisfied. (The degree to which it must be satisfied is what differs from person - to - person.) So you acknowledge that person who is someone you neither love nor is in anyway related to you = he/she is irrelevant. All the while this irrelevant person, with the dilated eyes, is exerting energy into firing brain-derived synaptic signals for the sole purpose of deciding how to deal with you - You - that unwelcome an/or unexpected passerby-er. __________________________________________________________________ That person who had held his/her breath - you know who you are. Yes, I am talking about people like you, (maybe like myself too but since I am aware of the likes of you I no longer find mysef in your company), and maybe you thought I wouldn’t. Don’t feel special though- you’re irrelevant. Yes, I allowed my red, streak-strewn face TO take the initiative to acknowledge you. In all honesty, it was a mistake. I will NOT acknowledge anyone anymore. Why? Because I am a disciple and follower only of One. And so, I willed myself, successfully until yesterday, not to acknowledge your presence, much how you did when you held your breath and pretended not have a peripheral vision. Maybe you should get some help for that carpal tunnel problem you have - Was I ‘hypocritical much’ for willing myself to not acknowledge you as you had not acknowledged me? Yes - - and yet I did acknowledge you. It was a reflex for me to look up, make eye contact, and acknowledge the likes of irrelevant people like yourself. __________________________________________________________________ How telling such a reflex is, the reflex to wave…   ….such that even my hypocrisy has abandoned itself - https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxxi-one-of-those-days-my-windows-vista-clock monthly 0.5 2011-12-18 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734387775-V3H5RFSYM55EBGF4WY12/tumblr_lwdurnXkwr1r1o875o1_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) XXXI. One of Those Days - My Windows Vista Clock reads 11:00 PM. In one hour, it will be tomorrow - It will not be a day like today was. That is to say, today was one of those horrid days and there is no chance that I will embrace the vulnerability to enable tomorrow be as today has been. Remember - it is still today…. You wake up late - midday- and you are woken up by someone other than yourself. As a result, you already feel as though you have lost control over the day ahead of you. Suddenly you don’t know what to wear. For some reason your hair looked an infinite amount of times better before you went to sleep and right after you woke up, than it does when you’re getting ready and are about to leave. In an attempt to conjure up a new, pretty-looking you, an hour passes and you still are standing in front of the mirror, all the while reflecting on whether or not you are shallow to be worrying about how you look, only to be going to the library. I won’t say what happened later during my day - there was nothing dreadful, nothing good - just a day of nothingness. If I were to provide details, it would be as though I was venting and personalizing a situation that applies to more than my self - there is a larger context than my own day. After all, “one of those days” is the epitome of ambiguity and specificity - we know what “one of those days” specifically connotes and refers to, but who experiences it and how they experience it, is ambiguous. In short, my narrative is a a part of a collection of narratives. My day was analogous to the bathroom doors on third, fourth, and fifth floors of Van Pelt library… My day, in one image, was the bathroom door that says “Vacant.” This is a paradox because usually these one-bathroom per person type bathrooms are  always “occupied” and so the following scenario ensues: Once someone in that bathroom turns the lock to the left so that the bathroom now says “Vacant”,  the person waiting outside the bathroom staring intently at the door so as not to miss the sliding of the little sign go from “occupied to “vacant”, aka the caffeine-induced bladder-possessing student, (who has abandoned his/her belongings under the supervision of a fellow headphone-wearing student who is probably busy straining there eyes on their monitor screen thereby causing them to close their eyes periodically and thus causing them to be oblivious to the state of your belongings), becomes a very happy camper. Breakdown: “Vacant” bathroom + Student waiting to use the bathroom  —> Student = Happy Camper. Suffice it to say, I was not a happy camper today. This day - the equivalent to a vacant bathroom door. Here’s to tomorrow:    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yop62wQH498 Little Annie, I never understood you better than I do right now - https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/viii-mythical-adulthood monthly 0.5 2011-08-26 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xvi-i-can-scare-the-stupid-out-of-you-but-the monthly 0.5 2011-10-05 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xiii-an-hour-a-day-keeps-the-regrets-away monthly 0.5 2011-09-19 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/vi-the-senior-sensation monthly 0.5 2011-08-18 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xxxiv-when-the-air-is-heavy monthly 0.5 2012-01-08 https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xix-note-to-ourselfves-fall-term-is-such monthly 0.5 2011-10-11 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734391507-Y41MKDT05XAJ0YK2BSJS/tumblr_lswnct50W11r1o875o6_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734391289-2BAXKWEVZ9UD6HCKML3L/tumblr_lswnct50W11r1o875o5_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734391633-3OXALN0YDJ2CA6VR1EZJ/tumblr_lswnct50W11r1o875o7_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734391055-HOYG0OVTNRBW88GZZRX4/tumblr_lswnct50W11r1o875o4_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/xv-au-natural-because-you-guys-are-way-too monthly 0.5 2011-09-29 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734394370-DMGLAWLOPABD42HNTHQQ/tumblr_lsaiyw1SEI1r1o875o1_640.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) XV. Au Natural - (Because you guys are way too freaken talented and can read backwards -) When you walk into CVS or any local pharmacy supplier, there is a good chance that you will encounter a myriad of organic products. Similar to organic food, organic body products, are also overpriced, have been aliquot in small quantities, and packaged in a manner that seems almost haute-couture compared to the tacky bright/shiny acid green packaging of Garnier Fructis or the hauty bright red Old Spice deodorant (hopefully guys can relate to this more than Garnier.) I increasingly find myself being paranoid when it comes to chemicals, mostly because of the International Union of Pure and Applied Chemistry’s (IUPAC) rules for naming the chemical compounds and molecules. Legit, yo - See, I’m not ignorant as to the significance of the chemical names and the large amount of chaos that it prevents as a result. The fact that there are rigid rules for naming these chemicals, enough to get you a good twenty-five points off your first organic chemistry exam, however, is reason enough to cause me to be intimidated by said chemical names. Humans - whether we are the boons to the universe given by your choice of divine authority, or the product of sin, and/or are the remnants of monkeys - we are and have always been, the essence of all that is natural. If not for societal restrictions, we’d be running around fulfilling our natural tendencies, which according to the high-school English assigned novel, The Lord of the Flies - includes us putting heads of pigs on pikes and carrying out the necessary burdensome tasks for our survival, (such as preparing food for consummation), only after we have done whatever we want to do for fun first. Even in high school we are forced into being made cognizant of the interchangeability between the words “natural” and “human.” Cell - Tissue - Bone - Eye - Nose- Arm - Leg - Neck - Plasma - Vessel - Us humans function as a working assembly of one and two-syllable terms that are linguistically user-friendly - In sharp contrast ot the likes of chemical names such as, phthalates. Phthalates…Four consecutive consonants - - really? As topics of the natural tendencies/capabilities we possess as humans have become less taboo and more transparent to me in the process of growing up to my current twenty-one year old self, I now do not go straight to the same product I have been purchasing. I no longer pass the fancy intricate artwork seemingly hand-painted on that $10.99 4 Fl. Oz Moroccan Argan Hair Oil bottle. I have resorted to buying the organic product, even if it means spending slightly more. Perhaps it is because of my time at the lab bench - a good amount of years that transcended adolescence and permeated the years marking my college-adulthood - whatever that means. Working in a lab made me so paranoid as to question if I was taking every necessary safety precaution in order not to develop some sort of malign illness - those skull and bones all over the lab no doubt have haunted us science research folk at one point or another. After this summer in lab, however, I grew even more paranoid - who knew that was possible? It is probably because for almost every procedure I had to carry out, one of the scientists would chime in - “Remember - so-and-so is very, very toxic. Be careful!” Suddenly being 21 doesn’t seem all that swell and dandy when no one takes responsibility for you anymore. One day in particular I smelled something unusual. Without thinking I placed an unlabeled Falcon tube, filled with solution, up to my nostrils. Next thing I knew I felt a rush of air going in though my nostrils. Yes, I had inhaled. I inhaled a strong, rancid odor. Sensitive to smells of all kind and alarmed to a degree surpassing the alarm that I feel after I have inhaled nail polish remover, I notified one of the scientists of my horrible lack of discipline- giving into my natural tendency of curiosity. In his broken English, (expected - internationals invading all U.S. labs), I managed to parse out the following: “I hope you didn’t inhale that! It’s Toxic…” As a result, all summer, every single day, I scrubbed my hands until they looked like the hands of a seventy-year old women who had given birth to well over three children and who was also, quite possibly, on dialysis. After that traumatic experience I now own olive, cactus, and almond hair oils, (yes I do have crazy curly hair), organic contact solution, organic dish-washing soap organic/Ayurvedic eyeliner, and organic face wash shampoos, and conditioners. I’m not saying splurge and buy the $30 and up bottles. If the product is even $5 more than the brand you usually purchase- get it. Trust when I say that the natural route guarantees a peace of mind and those organic goods that emanate hippie vibes are well worth the investment. Here is to #notbeingtheavergageAmerican = not being so filled with preservatives that you are the equivalent to a microwaveable meal and possessing skin that can glow in the dark from excessive cheeto-esque snacking. Holler at your homefry - https://www.reshmikauroberoi.com/beingsilky/viia-science-vs-fashion-i-just-finished-reading monthly 0.5 2011-08-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b69a53e36099b5142f9ba73/1533734395348-EJX7OV3LFSJZLOI2FDEX/tumblr_lqg9mv8W3U1r1o875o1_1280.jpg Personal Writing (2012 - Late Summer, 2019) VIIA. Science Vs. Fashion I just finished reading this novel this morning. I decided to read it because it was my type of book. Formula: Published within the last 10 years + not a classic + not read by a large population + highly acclaimed by reliable sources + significant to my life (varies) = Reshmi’s type of book. The writing is  unlike anything else I have ever read. The intelligence of the book can only be communicated via its extreme simplicity. To do otherwise would cause the reader to be lost in translation - the profundity is just that deep. Despite the transparency of the English language, the totality of the narrative is anything but effortless - it is a wonderfully crafted use of the English language. Writing, in my opinion, is a craft, and if it does come off as effortless, it probably is not worth reading. Anyway - that was my short introduction of this book. I am not writing a book review or summary but instead want to discuss a thought presented by the writer that also happens to be a prevalent point of contemplation in the daily happenings of my life and most probably in the lives of others as well. DISCUSSION: “But that’s science: it isn’t enough to just think a thing, you must try to verify if it’s true. Otherwise people would say and think what they like… fashionable people… who liked thinking, and especially talking, but who hated verifying.” (137) I do realize that some of you will argue that “fashionable” is being used as an adjective that can be made synonymous to “popular” and/or “in trend.” Those of you who are arguing this may (or may not) make this distinct from my use of “fashion” in the context of my last blog post. However, “fashion” is only a single word that may be used in a distinct fashion , (yes that was intentional), from time to time, but still means the same thing each and every time one traces the derivation starting from how it is being used… Otherwise, linguists would have made a new word. Imagine having two streets with the same name in the same town - confusion would persist and society as we know it would be non-existent so that our definition of a modern-day Renaissance Fair would no longer be a staged role-playing diversion that occurs in the abandoned parking lots of suburbia, but instead would be a true rendering of daily life. And so, this quotation reads such that fashion and science are conflicting entities that cannot coexist. I’m sure you already know that I disagree with this proclamation. Fashion is an idea that is closely associated with females. Why? Society recognizes and accepts the blank canvas that is a woman. Women can paint their nails, have they’re ears pierced, wear skirts and dresses, have hairstyles where they can have long hair and bangs framing their face, wear jewelry regularly, carry around different types of purses, etc. (While men could do all that was described, doing so would be going against all that is considered natural, accepted, and in the overwhelming majority.) Working in a lab since I was sixteen, my first P.I. (Principal Investigator aka Head Scientist), was a female. She was tall, lean, had her hair parted down the middle and nonchalantly covering her shoulders, and made everyone shiver at the slightest news of her arrival in their midst. Her presence, curriculum vitiae, leadership, and frankness to the point of being harsh, was unlike that of any other female I had come across before, (with the exception of Hilary Clinton who I only saw on the news.) A year ago I decided to practice my laboratory pursuits in a new place - across the street at Weill Cornell. I was the undergraduate intern, there were two medical students, and a technician - all of us females. My new P.I. was the only male. A couple of months ago I decided to research at yet another lab. Here, me, the technician, and one of the only two post-docs were female. The P.I. was also female. (There was one male.) The P.I. and I seemed to share a love for fashion, silently accepting that we were mutually sizing up one another’s outfit of the day as we greeted each other. I was in awe of her; A brain cancer head scientist at a leading lab, a mother, a globetrotter, and a trendsetter all at once. Since being a part of the science scene, I have been confused by the male:female ratio that I saw because it conflicted with the ratio that I had heard. Having seen mostly women in the field of science which was long claimed to be the “all boy’s club”, seemed to me like witnessing a modern-day women’s movement. And yet, all of the women I have come across have not been akin to those nominated on TLC’s sitcom, What Not to Wear. In sharp contrast, these women of science, physicians and scientists alike, were all fashionable and aware of their sense of fashion no less. I have met the classicists - the women who wear sophisticated dresses with the perfect bolero, pearl studs and necklace, and the most dainty of shoes, (closed toe of course- keeping with lab protocol.) I have also seen the modernists. Those women, most tend to be on the younger side,  keep up with the going-on of the runways and what’s more, can afford to splurge on these fresh off the runway items. There is also the androgynous power woman look: ideally tailored suits and collared shirts with her choice of loafer or oxford. Though in the minority, I have also seen the urban-chic/Greenwich village-esque/laid-back Soho look - perfectly professionalized with the naturally tousled hair cascading over exposed arms, or the once exposed arms that are now covered by a white coat. Last time I checked science-oriented peeps like to think and talk  just as much as they like to verify, probably because: THINKING + TALKING –> VERIFICATION. 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Falling For Fall - The air is cool and my hair is billowing about as I sit face-to-face with the Penn pendant - the gargantuan monument to Penn. I remember now, why I wanted to come here - solely for the campus - it comes very close to fulfilling my childhood dream of jumping into a pile of multicolored leaves. Fall Break is some days away. Once it arrives,I’ll walk through the leaf-strewn campus to the train station where I will stare intently at the ceiling-bound board informing the duffel-swung college students, the briefcase bearing men and women in business-cazjh,  hands-intertwined mommy/daddy-and-me couples, and anxious-first-time train ticket-holders, of the train schedule. I will not want to blink so that I can be first in line. I will no doubt be staring intently at the shutters flipping from “5 min”, to “boarding”, fighting the urge to go to Dunkin Donuts and get my coffee that they will inevitably make incorrectly - too dark and which will detract from my odds of being first in line. Not knowing what my level of will power will be days from now and whether or not I will make multiple trips to Dunkin Donuts until my coffee is made well. I only know that I will be met by a beautiful New York City morning in the fall - the air will be crisp and be laced ever so subtly with the warm and salty smell of pretzels, and if I’m lucky, roasted nuts - but that’s more characteristic of late November/early December. I’ll see my dad’s car parked and we’ll stop at a nearby street cart. The proprietor of the cart, permitting that he is one of the Afghans situated near the station, upon seeing my dad will inevitably say, “Bhai-Jaan, what can I get for you?” My dad will hand him 75 cents and I’ll have my perfectly made coffee in hand. I’m smiling to myself now - Almost home, I’ll see Halloween decorations in the windows of local shops. Candy Corn will be a mandatory buy during the next supermarket trip. I’m pretty sure every American experiences this fall-time foliage. Nothing compares to a Northeastern fall. Fall brings out my maximum level of patriotism as an American. Fall is midterm and assignment saturated. Fall time is lattes and long nights in the library. Fall time is cozy - cozy clothes and cozy candle smells- pumpkin spice, cinnamon, maple. If an alien landed on Earth (typical teacher prompt to make students think about anything/everything), and didn’t know what Fall was, no worries. If it’s sometime between late September and late November, take the him/her, (do aliens have genders?),to Pier One - the smells, the colors, the ambiance, the shop = Fall. 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