the birthday post - 38

38!
37 has been such a hugely transformative year that I don’t even know where to start.
I’ve changed so much.
I’m not sure if others notice it (or if that matters) but I do.
And how!
Change often happens beneath the surface.

This year has seen the Return of the Ramya. Hohoho.
It’s not as threatening as it sounds.
I’ve returned to being someone hopeful.
Someone who chooses to trust foolishly.

I have stars in my eyes all over again.
I hope that never changes.
I hope to never become a cynic.

I’ve been writing these posts every year since I turned 21.
I’ve been drawing a comic strip for 15 years.
I’ve been playing the piano since I was 7.
People get impressed by these numbers.
But doing something for a long time doesn’t mean you’re any good at it... :)
It just means that I've been lucky enough to have had time for these things, time to drift, to dream.

Time to drift is important.

I met lots of new people this year.
The Return of the Ramya movie also means that I make stuff for people. Greeting cards, paintings, playlists… All of this can be seen as too much, too intense. But surprisingly all the new people I’ve met have received me without judgement. I haven’t been made to feel like I’m weird for doing these things. It’s liberating.

Having a safe space to express yourself is a privilege that will hopefully become a right in all parts of the world.

It’s what kids need: to be told they’re not crazy for feeling “too much”.

Apathy is more of a problem.
I’m trying to resist it, but it grows on you....

But NO. I refuse to cross over to the dark side.
There is hope everywhere.

Even after a decade of living in the UK, I still miss India.
I miss tropical drama: lush green fields, waterfalls pounding on moss-covered rocks, the insects.
I never thought I’d say I miss insects as I’m terrified of them.
I just miss being surrounded by life.

I wrote a children’s book this year, about rain.
So much about the arrival of the monsoons is a soundtrack to my childhood.

I fell in love with rhododendrons this year. To really see it you have to see the full-grown trees in bloom, their red petals carpeting the forest floor.
Forests. I miss those.

I also saw a Himalayan griffon this year: my first sighting of a vulture since I was a toddler (they’d perch on the buildings of my school and we were told they’d pick us up if we misbehaved).

Signs of life excite me.
Lugworm poo on a beach.
Fallen flowers. Paw prints on a forest path. Rapidly disappearing food in the bird feeder.
Digging soil to find earthworms. Oh earthworms how I love them.
I saw dolphins in the wild for the first time standing at a beach in Goa. Just yesterday. Dancing, gliding. Endangered.
Such an incredible and fragile planet.

I’m still swimming.
How can something that needs so much of body-mind-hand-leg- breath coordination be so relaxing?
I was recently at the pool at 6 am. It was dark outside and the water was shining under the warm yellow light.
Seven people were already in the pool, swimming up and down, up and down, like little toys in a simulation.
I suddenly thought how pathetic it all was.
The sincerity of it. The conviction.

Maybe that’s what we are.
Pathetic, attention-seeking, desperate individuals hanging on to any sign that we matter, devoted to our repetitive meaningless patterns. Anything that will drown out the suggestion that we are insignificant.

Up, turn around, down. There’s a rhythm to it. A kind of escape.
Time and time again, I confirm that avoidance is the best way to live life.
All problems disappear if you avoid them long enough.
Hoho. Look, wisdom.

This year has been all about friendships.
Old friends have anchored me, stepping in without knowing how much I needed it.
New friends have nourished me, allowing space for all of me to exist.
A friend of mine welcomed me with open arms this year after we weren't in touch for 20 years.
I've hosted friends and been hosted, travelled with them, cooked together, swapped ideas, stories, songs.
Friends are lifelines.

I shared something vulnerable with someone new this year and they responded with kindness.
My nervous system absolutely crashed with overwhelm because I typically brace myself for awkwardness or distance.

I like walking towards people.
The minute someone walks towards me I start retreating.

I am learning to stay put.

I find it so easy to be myself with strangers.
Ironic, because that’s when I can be anyone.

But with the ones I hold closest, I struggle – wrapping myself up in layers and layers, awkwardly communicating, flaring up, never quite finding the right expression.
Working on that okay?
For the Return of the Ramya Part II.

Interesting things I heard this year:
From a cab driver, when we asked each other where we're from at the same time: “I was just going to say that! It’s like we have advanced Bluetooth!”
From a chai-stall owner: “Sit for a few minutes and have some chai. Jaldi kya hai (what’s the rush)?” From a friend, “One creates art for posterity, not for the present.” From my partner, “You have so much music inside you.” From another cab driver, “It's not all about making money, it's about having a life. Let's face it. None of us are ever going to be millionaires. As long as you can pay your bills and afford a holiday once a year, all is good.” From a colleague, “I can't imagine you ever being nasty to anyone.”

(I immediately deflected saying haha, but hey, I want to be nasty .) One day I would like to accept a compliment without flinching.

I like weeds and wilderness over manicured gardens.
I like chaos over neatness. Spontaneity over plans.

I like crawling into my own world.
Even if that world is just – or especially is – a piano.
If I could do it all again, I would be a musician.
I think I said this last year too.
Do I still have a chance?

I’ve realised that I live for little moments of connection with other people.
But frustratingly, you can’t manufacture them or force them.
You just have to be patient and wait for it to happen organically.

Life seems to be an awful lot of that.
Waiting.

I showed up for someone this year. Consistently.
I thought I was showing up for them but I was actually showing up for myself.
It made me feel responsible, accountable and full of joy.

I think I would like to do more of it.

To give someone your attention is the greatest gift you can give.
That’s my mantra for 38.
To show up.
To notice. To pay attention.
To leave things to chance.
To love.
To give up control.
To receive.

To get over the fear that someone might actually love me back.

To accept that while I can’t ever manufacture the magical moments of connection that make life worth living, I can keep my eyes and ears open for them.
They’re always just around the corner.

38, are you ready for the Return of the Ramya?
Here I come.

the birthday post - 37

37!

My favourite number. 

In school I liked the numbers 3 and 7. So 37 feels like a double bonanza. 

Seventeen years of writing my birthday post! I started when I was 21. 

I deserve an award. Give, give. 

I am becoming extremely self-congratulatory as I become older. 

I pat myself on the back for every little thing.  

I’m learning to provide for myself things that I would like from others. 

I had an epiphany recently when I realised that I could simply just enjoy life. 

I always thought I had to work hard and have something to show for my existence. You know, do something incredible, something that will reinforce my worth, something to display as my justification for taking up space on this planet. I felt this gnawing, urgent compulsion to create a grand piece of work…

But now I’ve concluded that the work is me. I’m the grand piece. 

I can treat myself like a work of art and keep sculpting, painting, cleaning, remodelling. 

What an idea sirji. Give me another award I say. 

After an abysmal dip a couple of years ago, my self-esteem has now rocketed back up, as is evident.

I’ve revised narratives of the past and changed them to better suit a higher level of self-confidence. 

Isn’t it amazing that we can look back on the past and change the bits we don’t like?

Gatekeepers of culture, religion and history have been doing that for years. 

I have frequently been told to live in the real world. 

I’ve realised that there is nothing called reality. 

Or maybe there is, but it’s outside of what our brains can construct. 

Reality is all fabricated, isn’t it? 

Your reality is not mine. And that’s why it’s incredible that we can actually relate to each other and connect with each other at all.

Do you think there are a finite number of feelings which keep getting recycled? If we curated every feeling that has been ever been felt, will there be only those to pick from going forward? Or are there new ones being constantly added to an endless catalogue?

I took a break for five months this year. 

I have nothing to show for it except (what I hope is) a new and improved version of me. 

But then again, that goes back to the narrative that time must be used usefully, productively. 

If I didn’t use that time to write a book or change the world, surely I should have at least worked on myself. 

What pressure, I say, so much self-created pressure. 

During the break, I did whatever I felt like. 

And that was perhaps the best use of my time. 

Embracing spontaneity, that long-lost friend, was a reminder of an alternative, less stressful way to live.

I don’t feel 37 at all. 

I don’t know what it means to feel like a number.

I still feel like I’m in my twenties. 

But I don’t really feel like I’m in my twenties, if you know what I mean. 

I’ve amassed the wealth of so many more experiences, feelings, relationships, conversations.

Interesting things that I heard this year: 

From a taxi driver in India: 

“I came up on my own, nobody helped me. You know, I’ve realised that you need people to tell you to be fearless, to be courageous. You need someone who can backpush (sic).” 

A travel guide in India, who insisted we take a picture on the beach – I couldn’t tell if he was sarcastic or not: 

“Ghumne ka matlab kya hi hai? Photo le lijiye, apne digital friends ko dikhane ke liye.” 

A tour operator in Andamans while describing the tribal people on the islands, whom most people otherize: 

“Same, hamare jaise hain. Ditto.”  It warmed my heart. 

From a friend, as part of an impassioned speech: 

“Grow. GLOW! Let others feel your radiance. How long will you hide under the shelter of safety? You have the ability to create magic. Be a magician!” 

My dad, while he was watching a movie and eating ice-cream: 

“You should know how to enjoy life.”

​Being in the UK makes me feel calm and collected; being in India makes me feel like a wild child, happy, laughing, bubbling over with energy.

I gave up music at age 15 to focus on academics, it was my own decision. 

While speaking about my journey at a school recently, a 15-year-old asked me if I regretted giving up music when I was 15 (my unwise choice to trade it for focusing on academics).

Unexpectedly, I felt my eyes swell. “Yes,” I said. 

It felt good to say it out loud. 

You keep hearing people saying they have no regrets blah blah. But it’s okay to have regrets. It’s okay to dream of what-ifs. But only in little doses okay? 

If I could do it all over again, I would devote my life to music. 

Then again, I still can. 

I can be really defensive sometimes. 

When someone tries to categorise me, I am quick to resist.  

If someone calls me an airy-fairy dreamer, I want to pull out something they don’t expect: I want to say hey look, I’m actually a grounded, practical data analyst. 

And anyway, why can’t I be both, huh? 

Recently someone asked if I play tennis, I said, “No, but I swim.” 

It was unnecessary. 

I want to let go of the need to prove, to justify, to compensate.  

I want to be OK with the idea of letting people form whatever opinion they want to about me.

I need not have everyone know all of me. 

There’s no hurry to expose myself. 

It’s nice to let something brew. 

Slowly. 

A nice, strong potion.

I have many triggers. 

Sometimes when men in tech explain what they do at work, they look only at my techie husband. It makes me bristle. 

I used to get annoyed when people made assumptions about me. ​

But now I've started​ to find it amusing,​ and I grin to myself ​l​ike I've got a precious secret. They have no clue. Ha!

I’m incredibly lucky to receive the love of so many people who simply give without expecting anything in return. 

I used to feel slightly guilty, but now I accept it with gratitude. 

No time for guilt, no.

I’ve known love. And how! 

I’ve been lucky to have experienced being in love. 

The relationships I’ve had have had a profound impact on who I am. 

I’m lucky to have intimately known some extraordinarily kind, intelligent, weird and wonderful people. 

I’m lucky to have friends. 

As I grow older, I realise and acknowledge that friends choosing to stay in your life is a blessing. 

I’m indebted to those who choose to stay – including my family. 

I crave intimacy as much as I fear it.

I’ve changed so much.

 

I'm a great target for marketing campaigns and pretty packaging.  

I​nstead of salted crisps, if you say ​hand-cooked sea salt crisps made from gently roasted potatoes​ harvested in our small farm​ in a nice handwriting font, I’ll buy it.

​Product design excites me.

I am content. 

But I want more. 

More variety. More depth. 

Those two needs often conflict.

My heart aches for more: new experiences, new feelings. 

A deep connection with a place. 

I’ve always been a person of diverse interests. 

Sometimes I think I broaden my interests because depth can be daunting.

I’m running from the intensity of diving deep into something and finding it’s an endless world to explore. The thought of it is daunting enough to keep me from chasing it. 

I want to be braver going forward. 

I want the thrill of the unfamiliar.

I can be a cynic as much as an optimist.

I enjoy being cynical sometimes. It feels out of character. 

I love out-of-character experiences, because it makes me wonder if the outliers are actually normal. 

The problem with life is that it’s so short. 

By the time we figure out who we are, half our lives are over. And that’s if we’re lucky. 

Maybe that’s the joy of it. 

Maybe not knowing who we are and what we want is what keeps us alive. 

I hate when people associate age with some degree of having “figured it out”. 

Comments like, “Well he’s 35, he’d better have figured out what he wants from life by now” really really annoy me. 

What you want from life is at best a moving target; a something that keeps evolving and renewing itself.  

And that's not a bad thing. 

Things that are slightly out of reach make you stretch a bit more.

Stretching can be good. 

Weirdly, stretching makes relaxing easier. 

I can be damn good at something if I try.

But I want the magic without the hard work. 

I feel uplifted easily. 

Buoyancy is a feeling worth chasing.

I have the power to slow down time. 

Slowing down time... a phrase I used in a poem years ago. While waiting for sunrise after a sleepless night.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

Memory, how grateful I am for you.

​​I hope I never lose the ability to be amused.

I hope I never lose the ability to put into words and pictures how I feel. 

I hope I never lose the ability to feel. 

Here’s to another year of living and loving and being loved. 

Next year, my double bonanza 37,

all I can ask is for you 

to be kind.