The Things I Carry

Tonight is my first Beginners' Bollywood dance class. I am 1% excited, 99% scared.

For the past three months, I've been underground, planning and scheming and preparing my three-pronged plan: teaching dance, yoga, and writing. I've designed classes, designed posters, designed a website. I imagined a big party to officially launch this new phase of my life, but life happens so out of order, that suddenly the day of my first class is here, a random Tuesday in the middle of August and there has been no party, just hard work.

For tonight, I have prepared a dance to teach. It is basic, 'for beginners' as advertised. It incorporates elements of classical Indian moves, bhangra moves, and silly Bollywood moves. It is thought out and thoughtful because that is how I teach. I have planned a warm up routine, and a cool down routine. As back up, I've planned a dance that is just designed to play with some fun Bollywood moves. In case my dance routine goes by super fast. It is a fine line between preparation and anxiety. I carry this with me.

I have advertised on Craigslist, at coffee shops and online event calendars. I have harassed friends on Facebook to come to my new class. I've done all I can. 

Yet the voices in my head say I should have done more: I only distributed 250 flyers, I had bought 500. I should have made a meet up group. I should have posted flyers in Berkeley, not just Oakland. 

I tell myself it's not a big deal, it's only a four week class,-if it tanks, it'll be over soon.

But it is a big deal. It's more than this one dance class. It's the start of a journey. A journey which began with me saying, "Fuck it, I'm doing my own thing." 

Here are the stats on what people think of the "Fuck it" model of business: 

80% this think it's a bad idea. That it'll fail. This is not how you live life.

10 % are admiring/envious

7 % are whole-heartedly supportive

3% are on the same boat as me

I carry that too.

I carry remains of the last dance class I taught, over a year ago, through the Berkeley YWCA. At best 6 people came, at a low, 1. 

Sometimes it helps to think out the absolute worst case scenario, so I do: worst case scenario, tonight, no one shows up except Annie, my adorable friend who has agreed to take some photos for my website. We go get coffee next door. After I cry in the bathroom a while. Less horrible: 2 or 3 people show. I've taught 2 or 3 people before, I can do it again.

I think of my first novel. The one I worked on for 7 years, or is it 10. That I sent out to 40 agents, heard no thanks from 10, and then 'gave up'. Do I give up too easily? Will I fail at this because of that? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is not entirely true. There is no real failure, we learn from every opportunity, etc.

The only tiny sliver of hope is the thought that came to mind during this morning's (very fraught) meditation session: I can't not.

I have to do this. I can't not do this because the risk of failure exists. That would feel even grosser than all this anxiety swirling around my stomach does.

So I'll befriend the anxiety, carry it with me, along with everything else. It, too, is part of me, part of this journey. 

For the remainder of the day, I will carry this poem by Rumi, cling to the sliver of hope in the last stanza: 

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.

meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

      

                                                     ~ Rumi

Hustlin'

I have a hustle.

I'm a hustler.

I'm hustling.

"That's not how you use that word," says my little sister with that chuckle the young reserve for the old.

Maybe not, but still, I say:

My hustle: teach writing to older adults, teach Bollywood dance, and teach yoga.

It's a lot. But it's my hustle.

In the last 6 weeks, I've planned and schemed, feeling a bit schizophrenic to have three hustles and not one. But I've decided not to judge the hustle.

Now, the hustle is becoming real: Beginners' Bollywood starts in August (spread the word!). Seniors' yoga has begun, I've got several choreo stints under my belt. Writing is in the works.

I find myself 78% anxious and 12% excited. Math is not my hustle, so don't think too hard on that.

Being a hustler is many things at once:

I don't fall asleep till well past midnight. Either because I'm still working or I'm in bed, mind whirring.

I wake up convinced that no one is going to come to my dance class. Or that they will and hate it. Or hate me. Well, okay, not hate me, because I am adorable, according to (most) people I meet. But they will definitely hate my choreography or see through it and know I didn't grow up learning Bharat Natyam (Oh my God, that's not even how it's spelled!) or kathakali.

But at the same time as I imagine all the ways I will fail, I have moments of excitement, moments of I'm on the right track. Like the choreo clients who say they loved my work. Or talking about the writing idea with friends and hearing their excitement, hearing my own.

Or designing my website. ME. A humble schoolteacher from North Vancouver, BC, designing her own website? But again, I catch myself- because why not me? If I don't believe in me, how can anyone else? And you know what? The website is kind of awesome. I secretly love it. Much screaming and hair-tearing later, I have made my own website.

There is a part of me that thinks I'm dreaming too big. Or to be more accurate: who am I to dream at all?

There is part of me that doesn't think I deserve having things work out. So when things do work out, I don't really trust them. When people hire me for the job I told them I can do, I'm like, "Why are you hiring me?".

But here's the thing: I think part of hustlin' is having your initial idea, which comes from a deep and pure and real place, and then hanging the fuck onto it as you make it happen. Coz on that road from idea to product, these negative thoughts (your inner fear) are constantly trying to derail you.

This morning, I woke up thinking, I can easily cancel the new Bollywood class, it hasn't even been advertised yet. I just mailed the cheque yesterday, I can cancel it, and no one will ever know.

If I let myself cancel this first class, if I give into my fear at this first step, I may form a pattern of it. And then the hustle is over. Before it's even begun. That feels even worse than this pre-hustle anxiety.

So instead, I'm just going to lose a bit of sleep, live for a while with an elevated heart rate, up the self-care by 1000% and keep on hustlin'.

Ex Parade

July Eleventh. Cue the Jaws theme song.

July Eleventh, my ex-wedding anniversary.

Last year was my first ex-wedding anniversary. For months in advance, I fretted. How would I get through it? I ended up spending the morning dancing to Bollywood with one of my all-time favorite people, Shelly.  She does this beautiful thing in her cool down where she asks us to scoop our arms upwards and into our hearts, and at the same time, scoop into ourselves positive energy. In the past, I'd have thought, how cheesy. That morning, I scooped with gusto, biting back tears. After class, she and I shared lunch and laughs.

Then I went to a close friend's wedding that night. Oh, didn't I tell you? My friend announced her wedding date as I announced my separation, July Eleventh. Life thinks it's so funny. So last July Eleventh, I went to her wedding, danced, social-butterflied, drank, drank some more. Only goal: get through the blasted day.

This year, when the Jaws music began sometime in June, I considered what to do for July Eleventh. Beach getaway? Writing retreat perhaps. Then a wise friend asked, "What would feel good?" I realized July Eleventh was a Monday, the day I usually teach Seniors Bollywood Fitness. That always feels good. I decided to stay in town.

Then the ex parade began. A painful conversation with a someone who had once been my best friend- another ex, at least for now. A very painful decision to stop teaching Bombay Jam because my foot is still in recovery and can't handle the high impact nature of that class. I had to give up something that brought so much joy for so many years- another ex, at least for now. A week full of exes. The twin shootings on Wednesday, the fear and grief for this country, its people. Simultaneous pain within and without.

Emergency Kit

I cried from Wednesday through Friday. You know the kind- where you wonder how one body can produce so many tears. When it becomes so routine, you can brush your teeth and cry at the same time and still remember to mouthwash. I spent Saturday on the sofa, blinds drawn- stupid California sunshine- alternating between a silly sitcom (which felt like literary gold at that moment) and the epic, Six Feet Under (because, of course, a show about death really lifts the spirit).

Hooray for Bollywood

Sunday I awoke to the sun streaming into my room. I was afraid of what the day would bring, how many more tears. But even before opening my eyes, I felt inside me that the storm had passed. I was still raw, still moved slowly through the day, but something had shifted. Life continued its hilarity by having me go teach Bollywood choreo to a bride-to-be. But it's hard to be morose when dancing to Lungi Dance, so once again, amen for Bollywood.

My therapist pointed this out: last year, July Eleventh was about survival. This year, it was about feeling it. Feeling the painhurtangersadnessguiltfear. Feeling, apparently, means moving through, which leads to moving past.

Feeling your feelings is hard. So hard, I can only use a pathetic understatement like "feeling is hard". Feeling is crying. Multiple time, multiple days, multiple years. Each feeling storm I find myself in it's the same pattern: crying, thinking it will never end, everything hurting. Then, inevitably, finding myself on the other side. Mind, body and spirit lighter, whether a fraction or a good chunk.

Today, July Eleventh was one step closer to being July eleventh. Today, without too much planning, my day filled up with nourishing and pleasurable events: time with my dear seniors, extra therapy session (obvs), and a conference call with my yoga training group.

It is important to note (to actively seek it out, in fact) that even during an emotional hurricane, there are things in life that are rooted, grounded. Things I can reach out through the tizzy of emotion and catch a hold of, anchor myself, slow down, rest.

Do you love this?

As I trace this trail of exes, I can't help but note that despite all this loss, there is new life. All around. Or maybe it's because of all this loss. Sometimes things need to be let go of. Despite how much we want to hang on.

And so, as July Eleventh moves to July eleventh, I find myself winding down the day alone in my (stunning) apartment. Spending time writing this blog to honor this moment. Honor it, and let it go. At least for now.

Different Life, Different Writing

This blog entry is dedicated to my Uncle Cyrus. He was my most diligent reader. Within minutes of posting a new entry, I would receive an email from him, always about how much he loved whatever I'd written. Once, upon reading an excerpt from my novel, he was thrilled to see I'd named a character after him. I hadn't, in fact. I'd just been poking fun at how common the name is, but didn't have the heart to tell him so. This is the first entry I am publishing without him here to read it.

I miss you, Cyrus. 

         

I see it has been nearly two years since I last wrote a blog post. 

I thought maybe it had been a few months.

Shit went down, y'all. Things that stopped me from writing*. Stopped me from blogging.

Things that felt shameful to say here. To say at all.

Even now, as resolutely as I promised myself to just spit it out and move the F on, I hesitate.

Here goes.

I got a divorce.

How harsh that word is. How crass I sound just blurting it out like that. But to say anything further right now is just too difficult.

All I will do is paraphrase a quote from Amy Poehler's memoir:

"Getting divorced is like taking a picnic blanket, all set with food, etc, and flinging it with all your might into the air, then watching things land where they may."

~~~~~

The last eighteen months have consisted of every last aspect of my life being flung high into the air. Some things landed over there, some are still spinning in the air, some never made it back.

Some days I feel broken. Some days my healing is palpable. How can you be broken and healing at the same time, I often wonder.

At a dinner party on the weekend, someone asked, "Are you still writing?"

My answer was a series of mumbled half-sentences. I'm not working on novel two, not sending out novel one. I am not writing in the way I once was- all day, every day. But I am not not writing either.

Writing is, in fact, one of the very few things that is still the same in my life. I am writing all the time. I never stopped. The reason the question stumped me is that the writing has changed.

For the last thirteen months, I had a full-time job. No more all-day writing. But when shit went down, I had to write about it.

I would wake up many a Saturday morning and, like a diarrhetic person, just barely made it to the page before everything spilled out.**

I hated most of it. I used to write about Pakistan, a country I haven't lived in for 26 years. With a buffer of a quarter century and 8000 miles, it was easy to invent stories, invent situations, have fun. I'm not putting myself or that writing down (or trying not to at least). It was just different.

Now, I write from inside the eye of the storm.

Half the time, the experience I'm trying to convey is not even 24 hours old. Plus, with my new therapist's insights, even my most basic interactions are fraught with part self-awareness, part new questions, part self-confidence, part self-doubt.

When I write about a new interaction, a half-successful standing up for myself or speaking my mind or doing things a fraction differently than before, my heart is still heavy with confusion (transformation is exhausting, y'all).

I don't fully understand what happened the night before. I write about it haphazardly, through a thick fog of half-understanding, half-pain and confusion. Worse, I don't have that pithy closing with which I usually end, that little verbal badoom-choom which used to inflate my ego (and mask my true feelings).

This new writing is frenzied. My hand hurts from writing so fast, unable to keep up with my brain. Most days, I stop halfway and just leave the piece unfinished. Where is this going? What am I even trying to say? It's such a mess. I don't even know what I'm doing with my life, what exactly do I think I'm writing about?

In fact, the fact that I'm writing about me, my life, is the scariest thing of all. Fiction was great. Non-fiction- actual personal stuff- is a scary mother-fucker.

And I don't care. About any of it. That it's hard, scary, shitty.

Some part of me recognizes that this writing, this period in my life, these half-complete pieces, are essential. To what, I don't yet know. I just know they are.

This writing is raw. Unprocessed. Unfiltered. Unpolished. It is- deep breath- imperfect. And it is real. And that's all writing needs to be.

I have never had less to show after a day's writing. I have never felt better.

~~~~~

*writing in the way I used to
**apologies for the number of un-genteel bodily functions referred to all over this blog. Unfortunately, writing comes from the body as much as anywhere else.

The Voices in my Head

Last fall, I was watering my lawn, admiring my garden when an idea hit me so hard I had to drop the hose and run up to my office and write it down. That uninvited bastard so forced her will on me, she kept me chained to my chair till 9 pm on a Saturday night. On and on she went, for days and weeks. She made me work Christmas Day and New Year’s Day. Who does that?

Before I knew it, I had my second novel.

A half-formed embryo of a thing, but a thing nonetheless. Enough to build on.

Then life got hectic. I went to Pakistan for two months. I recovered from that trip for three months. And then I hid from writing because starting a second novel four months after completing the first is like lying in a heap at the finish line of a marathon and being told to lace up, you have five minutes before you start your triathlon.

And then she came back, book two, because she knew I was ready.

I resigned to her will and went to my study to write. Nothing. I jotted down my ideas on post-its. I made a chart of all that I knew happened based on the first draft. Jammed in ideas I had for the second. It was how I’d written the first book. Planned it before writing. Made sure things went my way. But I wasn't actually writing anything.

I was pissed. I was here for book two, why wasn't she coming out already? Though I hadn't written in months, I had been thinking about it the whole time. I knew just what to do.

Still nothing.

Finally, I wrote in my journal: “Why can't I write? Am I scared? Why is there such resistance?”

And then, I wrote perhaps the most useful and helpful of my writing career: "Am I making this all about me? Should I listen to you?"

And then, and I'm not kidding, I wrote: "Okay, talk to me."

I KNOW. I've heard other writers talk about this all the time, about hearing their characters, and knowing them like they're real people. I always rolled my eyes. What a cliché. Not possible. You're the writer. Write. Be in control.

But that day, out of sheer frustration, I gave up control. I listened. And she spoke to me. 

This character started telling me about herself. Things I couldn’t have dreamed of. Things I couldn’t have made up.

I KNOW. I may as well don a drapey dress and tell you your fortune over my crystal ball.

But that’s what’s happening with the characters I met in December- so briefly, like those rain-drenched chance encounters of Bollywood, those instant-connection people you know you’ll be good friend with even at that first meeting.

But it takes time to get to know someone. Long coffee dates. Over months and years.

So that’s what I’m doing. Having coffee. With the voices in my head. The things they tell me! The lives they’ve lead. And though I may have created this world, they live in it, they reveal it to me, slowly, over months and years.

Here's another giant cliché of the writing world that's finally hit home: "Writing is like driving in the fog with your headlights on. You can only see two feet ahead of you, but you can make the whole journey that way- two feet at a time."

It's the scariest thing I've ever done. No post-its. No check lists. No outlines, no deadlines. 

Just blind faith. 

Trust. 

In the voices in my head.

The Man I Love

As promised, the big reveal from the last blog post, the man I love. The love of my literary life is Vikram Seth.

I first saw him on across the room in the center of a bookshelf: A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth. The sheer girth of the spine sent tingles down my own- it took up the space of three books (I have abandonment issues and really like long books, so my "friends" will stay with me longer). Vicky did not let me down. 1400 glorious pages. Family upon family, character upon character who I grew to love and hate with delicious satisfaction.

I first met him years later. The CBC Radio Book Club was hosting a talk with Vicky and you had to write a 100 word piece about why you should be selected. Best writing prompt ever. I arrived an hour early, sat in the second row (you have to play hard to get). It was the most satisfying hour of my life. Better than my first bite of masala dosa dipped in coconut chutney, better than watching the sunset bobbing on a surfboard in Trinidad, better even than the most satisfying series finale ever, Breaking Bad. Every word he uttered was a gift just for me. Every word he uttered made me laugh or cry or grunt with satisfaction.

I searched the crowd for him beforehand and it was a while before I realized the rather unkempt man leaning against the stairs leading up to the stage was Vikram Seth. He could have been a student volunteer, so casual and unpretentious was he. Messy hair, loose, comfortable, slightly wrinkled clothes. And what melted my heart was how casual he was about the whole affair. He admitted right off the bat he was tired from the book tour and wouldn't likely be coherent (not true) and it made me feel so much better that you can be human and still brilliant.

During the Q and A, I found my feet moving to the mic of their own accord.

"Feet," I said, "Sit down this instant. We are introverts, we don't talk when there are more than two people present, let alone in a group of a hundred people at an event being broadcast across Canada." But my feet didn't listen. They placed me before the mic.

I asked Vicky to sing "Awara Hoon," a Bollywood song he'd mentioned in his memoir, From Heaven's Lake. He didn't want to. The crowd made him. His voice was liquid gold. Literally- a strand of melted gold emanated from his body and coated my soul.

Afterwards, as he signed my book, I apologized for making him sing.

"Oh, you're the one," he laughed, and drew a musical note by my name. Bliss.

                                                                    ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Ten years later, in January 2014, I saw that he was attending the Lahore Literature Festival. Though I had been in Lahore weeks earlier, I went again. I will travel to the moon for him, what's a fifty minute flight? Same disheveled hair, same unassuming manner. I sat in the first row (because the organizers wouldn't let me sit in his lap) and as the session came to an end, there was time only for one question. My hand shot up. There is something about Vicky that makes this introvert a ballsy bad-ass ( as proven by the fact I just said ballsy on a blog my mother reads).

I was given a mic. I reminded him of the last time I saw him, ten years before, and the song he sang.
"I'm sure I didn't comply," he said.
"Oh, but you did." Who was this cheeky brat, I wondered, even as I continued, "You proved that your singing is as amazing as your writing."
The audience went wild, began chanting for him to sing.
"Well, if it was in Vancouver, I'm sure I had some liquid courage," he said, pointing to his glass, "In Pakistan, all I get is tea."
I responded, "Don't worry, I've arranged for that, check your tea cup." I didn't recognize myself. I was bold, brazen, like it was just the two of us, not 1500 of us. I had never behaved this way in my life. Love does that to you.

He did end up singing a verse or so but without the gusto he'd had in Vancouver. I worried- had I offended him, made him do something he didn't want to do?

At the book signing, I apologized once again for making him sing.

And then the most wonderful two minutes of my life ensued:

He laughed off my apology, asking my name.

"Phiroozeh."

"Firozi, like your earrings."

Yes, Vicky, you worldly genius, firoze like the colour, turquoise. You see me, you know me. Let's get married.

I noticed he was writing my name in Urdu. We laughed together because neither of us could figure out how to spell the last syllable. When he spoke to me in Urdu, it was jarring because I'd discovered him in Canada,  met him there, loved him there and for a minute, I'd forgotten we were in Pakistan at all. It was jarring and it was amazing. The two spheres of my life connecting through the medium closest to my heart.

The whole exchange was so casual, so comfortable, like we were at home on the sofa, not at a national literature festival being jostled by fans wanting his attention.

I don't want much from our relationship. I'm a realist- I know I'm married and he has a partner. It's not about that. All I want is to live in his left breast pocket and follow him around the world. That's all.

Karachi Made Me Cry

I had no idea it's been this long since I posted. Okay, I had an inkling. Truth is, my seven weeks in Karachi left me with not so much writer's block as stimulation overload. I came home so saturated, I had no idea where to begin. So maybe I'll write a blog entry that is like my hometown: a congested, haphazardly laid out, not-easy-to-follow ode to Karachi that is nevertheless intriguing, charged with an energy unmatched, unmatchable by any city in the west.

Uncle and cuz and beer, a Sunday afternoon tradition

I stayed with my Mama and Mami, my mum's brother and his wife. They had the house painted in honor of my arrival, my cousin cleared out of his bedroom for me, set it up with a desk he thought I might like to write at overlooking the garden. I almost cried. They'd worked till 11 pm or 1 am to set it all up, then awoken at 5 to welcome me to Karachi with hot tea and all my favorites, bhakras, batasas, nankhatai. Later in my stay, I was the one to be up all night, fretting about how to ask them if I could extend my already long-by-western-standards stay by another couple of weeks. Finding the perfect words, I approached them, heart in hands, and they laughed: "Why would you ask? This is your house."

This was my house indeed. They live where I grew up, not my official home, but the one where I spent most of my time. Being there this time was a double mind-bender: first, I could still see my seven year old self playing teacher in this hall, burning rotlis in this kitchen, playing kho-kho here, house-house there, hide-and-seek, hop scotch, cricket, that game with the elastic bands that exercised your gymnastic skills- what was it called? Where was it from? The photo above is taken in a room where we acted out pivotal scenes from Hindi movies we'd seen the night before, me in my Nani's sari, my cousin stumbling around with a bottle of Johnny Walker (filled with water of course), pretending to be a sharabi (because those 80s heroes always were).

Second, so much of this house and this city has worked its way into my writing that being back there was like visiting the set of my novel- Mohatta Palace? You mean chapter 10, scene 4. Saddar? Oh boy does my character get in trouble there. And then, in that same musty dusty bazaar, I heard the vendors, "Madam, madam, come, come, t-shirts,  branded, Gucci, Polo, come come." They said the words, my words, which were in fact their words, scratched into my notebook on my last visit. Art imitating life imitating art in an unbroken, mind-bending loop.

I attended the Karachi Literature Festival and the Lahore Literature Festival. They changed my life- my writing life, so yes, my life. Seeing Pakistani writers onstage day after day, discussing issues I myself had faced or was facing or would face one day, I felt myself tearing up at every panel. Because even though I am as yet unpublished, I am a writer. I am relating to writers. Not buddy-buddying with them, that will come later, but when they spoke at the panels, they spoke to me.

Sadly, this photo, part of the KLF's official FB collection, captures me not
 intellectually considering whatever's being discussed or even shedding a graceful tear but puckered up and bawling.
I've blown it up extra large for your enjoyment.

 My favorite writers were there, writers I had discovered on the impersonal Amazon recommendations page, now before me in the flesh. Writers who had nudged me, unknowingly, to write my own novel, sure you can set it in Karachi, yes, pepper it with Urdu and Gujarati, it's what we speak here. Of course it can just be a story, not a Story With A Political Message That Must At Least Twice Mention Drones/Taliban/BinLadin.

 I shopped till I dropped- from the weight of the books I bought. So many that the security guard stared at his X-ray machine gave me a suspicious look- all he could see was two rectangles, the tops of the two stacks of books in my carry-on.

You can't find books on Pakistan here. And being there, among academics and authors, I developed a thirst to know more, more about this county I left at 11 that continues to haunt my imagination and my writing. I also wanted not to sound like an idiot when I one day was on a panel at the KLF about my own country. So I came home with 110 pounds worth of books that will take me who knows how long to get through.





I tried my utmost to be Pakistani. To speak Urdu. Not gape at things. Undo my accent. I went places alone, places they'd never let me go alone before. I felt a certain thrill. Like I belonged. Then I'd come home and hear about a bomb blast or attack and feel just so naive, so out of my league, an outsider after all.

Not only did I speak Urdu, I was spoken to in Urdu. They thought I was one of them. Then, on the plane from Dubai to SFO, the Indian air hostess greeted passengers, mostly in Hindi, row after row until she reached me. "Is everything okay, ma'am?" The wall clanked down. I was back to being racially ambiguous. It pinched my insides.

The gorgeous Mira Nair

At the Lahore Lit Fest, I heard Mira Nair talk about Salaam Bombay as it is the film's 25th anniversary. My tears nearly short-circuited the iPhone in my lap. She had been a documentary film maker and then, for SB, she used that format that came so naturally to her and lived among the slum kids she would portray, lived like them, learned the nuances of their lives which then made this movie that is still acclaimed a quarter century later. I cried because that's what I am doing in going to Karachi. I live the life that my characters will one day live. I always thought writers should hole up in a room and make shit up, what's this go-here go-there thing I keep doing? But she showed me there is no right and wrong way to do this, this creating business, you just do what you are driven to do.


In my next entry, we will talk about the man I love:

Bonus marks if you can tell who he is from this bad picture of a picture