Making love to myself

Everyday and at my will. Slowly and gently… but not always. Some days I pump it up.

No one told me how powerful making love to yourself could be. No one told me that it would awaken nerve endings I never knew existed.

Why wasn’t I taught to do so when I was in school? When I hit puberty and saw only a struggle in the mirror? Why didn’t I realise it when I was old enough to let someone else make love to me? Why didn’t I realise that that’s what one of my favourite writers was talking about…

To treat every morsel I place on my tongue as a caress and not a curse.

To throw my shoulders back and own what I hid behind clutched books and bags, or an ugly stoop.

To make my overbite part of my laugh.

That’s just the beginning… you truly start making love to yourself when every action of yours checks back with what you truly want.

As I look deeper into the mirror, taking in the shape of my lips and eyes; the way my skin changes in colour and texture depending on exposure; how my hair curls and greys; how my jaw goes awry as I smile. I spend time seeing myself. I feel my skin. I touch myself. The smoothness and the bumps. Some days I start making love to myself by feeling who I am on the surface.

Somedays it is by immersing myself in a job well done. I let my brain feel passionately loved. And when it is not a job well done – because that happens too – I don’t lick my wound, but kiss it better. I love it back to well-being.

I make love to myself in a myriad different ways, every single day…

As I pump weights or do a cardio routine, sweat dripping and pulse raising.

As I buy the largest waffle cone at Cold Stone and sit in the middle of a mall slowly savouring every lick, even as my embarrassed daughter looks on.

As I stand at the sink chopping a stack of vegetables, feeling the juices stain my fingers, smelling the chicken on roast.

As I politely turn down jobs because it doesn’t woo my soul.

As I kick my longterm tenant Mr Guilt out.

As I make time for my tears and fears and listen to it without judgement.

Just as importantly, as I make time for all that makes me laugh and gives me joy.

As I binge-watch Scott and Bailey.

As I stand under the shower, with no thought of what next.

As I lie in bed, woolgathering.

As I make fearless plans, without hedging my happiness on its realisation.

As I walk into a crowded cinema alone, because I don’t need company to enjoy myself.

As I look people in the eye, ready to embrace their criticism or praise, making neither about me.

Thing is, I was making love to myself for months before I knew what I was doing. Realisation crept in when I stood in front of the mirror, and saw myself as ‘beautiful’. And finally saw that the best day of my life could only be TODAY.

Bad hair day? So what!

A sudden panic attack? I will do what good friends do . Listen and be kinder to myself.

Skin breaking out? Will just smile wider.

Big breasts? Yes, thank you.

A roll of fat for paunch? Nothing a good jeans won’t forgive.

Too broke for a massage? Well, that’s a little hard to fix…

A bit of heartbreak? I will just love myself more intensely.

This making love to yourself business is not a one-off investment. It’s not easy either. It’s undoing years of doing the opposite. It’s a daily practice of falling in love again and again. One that I am learning from celibate monks.

How do you make love?

Dear Sir/Madam, May I trade my dignity for some food?

A split second’s flash of anger, followed by breaking of eye contact, a visible swallow – of pride – and a hesitant nod.

There’s a pattern to how able-bodied, hard-working adults accept help.

And in that moment when he or she says ‘yes’ to food handout, there’s a shared self-loathing. You, the voyeur, for being privy to what they see as humiliation. They, for finding themselves in this situation.

3613704216_72e268eff1_o It wasn’t for mere livelihood that these men and women travelled thousands of miles. It was for prosperity… a desire to provide their children with a life dramatically different from their own. Just like me. Just like you.

The bunch of straws they are clutching at get pulled one by one, leaving them with useless shreds in their clenched fists. You watch them struggle. Do we pack up and leave? Do we stay on and fight?

In the seconds before they renew eye contact with you they tell themselves this is temporary. This once, and never again. A bag of rice, a few vegetables, a couple of eggs. This once. Never again.

On a wing and a prayer they continue to struggle out of the the gridlock of failed promises, discriminatory laws, and above all, their invisibility.

Forced celibacy (or something like that), leaving loved ones behind, mounting debts… all of that has to count for something, it’s not easy to give up.

Then, the rice runs out, the last of the riyals go into telephone cards, promises are broken, they are lost in a system they don’t comprehend. This time around the eye contact is not broken. Yes, please, a little more food stuff.

It’s then that you go from being voyeur to deceiver. The sympathy (let’s not kid ourselves, it’s not empathy), providing bandaids for a festering wound, and moving on having spent three lattes worth of money on their worries.

You see, when the media (we) writes about exploitation and abuse, about the dead and dying, about the laws or lack of, it swathes it in a blanket of statistics. We forget about their dignity. Their desperate desire to be productive. We forget that accepting charity is emasculating (I use that word for want of a gender-neutral equivalent).

And that’s the last thing that these men and women signed up for. Charity is aplenty in the countries they come from, be it due to the guilt of feudal societies or that of Western powers (aka developmental aid).

Charity shouldn’t be what their lives depend on here. Definitely not while building the capital of the richest country in the world.

Photo courtesy: Flickr

Hitting the dunes, and falling in love with it... a snapshot from 1999, with friends who soon after moved to boring Dubai.

16 thoughts on life in Qatar (or beating the 15 year milestone to death)

Hitting the dunes, and falling in love with it... a snapshot from 1999, with friends who soon after moved to boring Dubai.

Hitting the dunes, and falling in love with it… a snapshot from 1999, with friends who soon after moved to boring Dubai.

“Where are you from” and “How long have you been here” are probably the two most asked questions in Qatar.

I am from India, and this October marks the beginning of 16 years. This is when, depending on whether you are a lover or hater, you exclaim:

“16 years! You are half a Qatari.” Or, “16 years! How did you survive this long?”

No I am not, and I survived really well, thank you for asking.

Here are my 16 thoughts and memories on life in Qatar.

1. A lot has changed in 15 years, a lot hasn’t. When I landed here for the first time, the bleak beige I could see from the plane made me tear up. That beige is now decked out in bling. No tears either.

2. There was never a ‘culture shock’ for me. I come from a country with similar values and mores. Be it intrusive dress codes, or that social don’ts outnumbered the dos. What I had to get used to was calling this the Middle East. This is West Asia, folks. Get over the colonial hangover.

3. And isn’t it time we stopped calling stationery shops libraries. I can still taste the disappointment from all those years ago, running from one ‘library’ to another, only to stare at racks of notebooks, pens and charts. While at it, can we have some real public libraries.

4. Fifteen years ago, you didn’t need to learn Arabic to live and work here. You still don’t. A big part of me wishes this would change. A small part of me that failed to learn conversational Arabic after several attempts, is glad. Qatar desperately needs a good conversational Arabic programme.

5. Where is home? Long ago, I thought Chennai was. It isn’t quite now. Neither is Qatar. And this has nothing to do with the place, but everything to do with what I think of as home. It’s a place that’s populated by people I love and care for. So, I am tempted to say What’s App or Facebook.

6. But for my children, this is home. These are two fairly well-travelled children, and to hear them speak of Qatar is funny, and sometimes a little embarrassing. They compete with narrations from cousins and friends from Dubai, Toronto, Singapore, Bangalore, Colombo… Their fabulous Qatar is a match to all those places. The dunes, beaches, MIA park, Katara, Karak & Chapathi, Mathaf workshops, Mangroves, camping and Inland Sea.

7. Which is why I challenge anyone who tells me there’s not much to do in Qatar. My children have taught me well. There’s plenty to do, and our guests who visit us go back pleasantly surprised. Just put a lid on the comparisons, and move your derriere off the bar stool or your snout off the shisha pipe.

8. However, a pet peeve is that not everyone we love can visit us, even if my husband and I have 32 residency stamps between us, our parents are too Asian and too old to be allowed easy entry. 

9. That probably is the only personal ‘bad’ that I attribute to the country. There’s not anything else I perceive as a Qatar-specific problem. Most are problems that many other countries suffer from too.

10. Still, because it’s not Qatar-specific doesn’t mean it deserves any less censure. Bad things happen in Qatar, just as it happens elsewhere. What we need is more people taking a stand. To quote Rev Desmond Tutu, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.”

And we are not talking about the oppressed outside of Qatar.

11. Which brings me to stereotypes. A popular blogger recently wrote this: “After a belief passes the front door, it usually doesn’t get much scrutiny. It becomes part of your “body of knowledge,” which is just another name for your impression of the way the world is…”

So no, not all Qataris are lazy and stupid. Some are. Some Indians, Brits, Egyptians, *insert the nationality of your choice* are lazy and stupid too. It’s a human trait, not a nationality-specific one.

12. And no, not all expatriates are here only for the tax-free salaries, though for many of us, including yours truly, it’s an attraction. Then over a period of time, one starts investing in the country and community, and it becomes more than just about the tax-free moolah. You find a job you enjoy, a person you fall in love with, or a karak addiction you can’t shake off.

13. Qatar at its best? The 2006 Asian Games when residents regardless of nationality volunteered in the thousands to make it a success.

14. Qatar at its worst? Child jockeys. Brutalised, scarred… the stuff nightmares are made of.

15. By the way, when I complain about Qatar, you have no business asking me to leave if I don’t like it. It’s not your call to make (unless you have wasta at the MoI). After 15 years, my complaints are not about ‘you people’, but about ‘we people’.

16. How much longer do I plan on staying? We came here just for a year, and refused to invest in proper furniture (heil Souq Haraj!) the first 18 months, and didn’t buy a car till 2004; because you know, we didn’t plan on staying long. Now our furniture is of better pedigree, and there are two cars in the garage. But the plan stays the same.

PS: I was asked to do a retrospective by an online news site on the ’15 going on 16 years’ in Qatar. But the too-bloggy post was not quite a fit. So Ummon hosts it instead.

Satya Nadella is right. That’s how we think. We are wrong, we ought not to.

Hey, let’s all bash up Satya Nadella… but first, how many of you women demand equal pay or a well-deserved pay rise? How many of us speak about money and scales with our employers?

I work in a country where I pay a double penalty… first as an Asian passport holder, then as female professional. And truth be told I’ve never negotiated.

If it felt too low, I would just not take it; but didn’t try to argue or sell myself.

I would ask if there was disparity based on nationality. To this I’ve received all kinds of odd answers; from how a cup of coffee costs more in London than it does in Mumbai, hence salary would differ (hey, guess what, but we are paying bills in Doha!) to how Western education was more expensive that what I paid for.

This to an extent I would protest and speak against.

But I was and am too conscious about pulling out the gender-card. Should I draw attention to my sex and be seen as being overly sensitive? Should I remind them that I am a woman…? Should I just quietly take the deal before a man outspeaks me at the negotiation table and walks away with a few bucks more?

Ironically, I continue to feel that a good employer will be fair (karma?) and recognise what I bring to the table… And every time I signed on the dotted line, I did believe that it was so. This rationalisation ringing in my head: When they see my work they will give me more.

And it has happened. It also hasn’t.

My male colleagues were different. They asked, and they got. During appraisals, between appraisals, with a second offer in hand, without a second offer in hand… They continued asking even when they didn’t get it.

I rarely saw this amongst women. Not my peers, not the ones who reported to me.

So when Satya Nadella put his geeky feet in his mouth, was he merely describing the best of us? Maybe the best of his female staff didn’t ask, and were slavishly grateful for the ‘recognition’ that came their way, all the same. So he thinks, that’s the way it should be.

First things first, setting up my home office. Where the magic happens.

Twenty years in the making, my trampoline is ready… let the adventure begin

Twenty years of pursuing what I love, and being paid for it.

Twenty years of stretching my wings enough to take flights of fancy, and always returning to a comfortable nest.

Twenty years of people holding out a safety net, to cushion my fall. Sometimes it’s a trampoline and I bounce back higher and higher.

Twenty years of working for someone else… But, wait. That’s not what I said or believed in. I always worked for myself, even while employed by someone else, right? Right-ish? Kind of, sort of?

Twenty years into your career, you are too old, too expensive, too opinionated, too high up in that damned ladder everyone is clambering up.

Slowly you realise that the nest gets prickly, the safety net wears off, the trampoline is missing a few springs. You realise that you are working for someone else, whatever delusions you might allow yourself.

What you truly love doing will always have to be done within the confines of someone else’s agenda and dream. That ‘someone else’ who pays your bills and fattens you up into a pro lull.

Whereto from there?

First things first, setting up my home office. Where the magic happens.

First things first, setting up my home office. Where the magic happens.

It took me twenty years to dare to take a risk. But for all the risks I consciously shied away from, I unconsciously paid for.

Entrepreneur I am not (and probably will never be). And the only way of living I’ve known and been comfortable with is one that involved a monthly salary and paid vacation.

What do you do then, when your safety net begins to choke you?

So I paused and took deep breaths. I trekked. I meditated. I negotiated terms that in hindsight were half measures, and unfair to all concerned, especially the wonderful people I worked for. So I stalled, procrastinated… and then learned to breathe again, mainly on the rowing machine.

I meditated on the saddle, knees drawn up, pull and release… again and again, enjoying the drench of sweat and clarity; working hard on my core strength, in more ways than one.

What’s the very worst thing that can happen to me, I asked myself repeatedly over the last six months. Not holding a full-time job didn’t even figure in the top 10 worst things that could happen.

Today, on my last day at a full-time job (for the foreseeable future), that doesn’t figure in the top 20 worst things either.

When was the last time I felt as light and relieved as I have in the past month? The freedom to choose and focus on what I love and am good at; the relief of not becoming immersed in what drains my energy; and the overwhelming gratitude for being surrounded by those both appreciative of what I do and supportive of what I wish to…

Gratitude above all. For even when I shied away from risks, I was always in a place and environment that allowed me ownership of my dreams (be it here, here or here). Even when I was full of self-doubt, there would be more than a few souls who would mock me out of my self-pity, and give a kindly kick to my derriere.

It’s time to respect the generous opportunities and trust I’ve enjoyed, time to pay myself… time to tighten the belt, yes, but also to become more mindful of who I want to be. Mindful that no matter how much I fret and try, I can only do one thing at a time, and that one thing should be what I truly enjoy.

More importantly, there’s only one me, and she deserves her very own trampoline.

 

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