Tag Archives: Instastories

All That You’re Not

Don’t hang yourself on the noose of someone else’s attachment. It’s nice to feel needed but nice is an illusory trap. You are the sand and the ash inside a dormant volcano. You won’t be held inside a fist or even an embrace that breaks at the first sign of heat.

Do not shatter over the sound and fury that is the face of a person’s humanity turning on itself. You are not glass, not paper, not wood, not stone. You are the center unbound, holding the chaos outward. You are the eye of the universal storm. You won’t be snuffed out by a few angry breaths.

Don’t string yourself together on other people’s definitions. Those thoughts are full of knots, ones they’ll never care to disentangle because they’re about someobody else. You are the water of churning whirlpools. You won’t be contained in a net that tears and loops so easily and is discarded like straggling threads.

Do not find yourself in tatters when toxic thought and poisonous words infect your being. You are not the wastelands laid bare in these fumes. You are the chemistry that gives everything a place, a season, an identity. You are all that was and also all that comes after – the death, the survivor, the guilt, the redemption and the reprise.

You are more than can be imagined. Take the rest of your life to find out what all. 

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Second Best

I see you look with yearning eyes for people who don’t make time and space in their life for you.

I can only give you second best – my company. I say second best, not because our conversations are less than the ones you could hope to have with anybody else. But I can only be second best to the company you keep with yourself. For what are we in intense friendship and passionate love, but students of our own natures?

We are learning with every interaction in life, pleasant and otherwise, what we like and what inspires us. We examine what brings out the best and worst in us and also, how our best and worst look. A lesson is always more fun with props and with other people. So, let us love together we say to each other, meaning let us walk side-by-side on these solo journeys into ourselves.

When you yearn for the attention of someone who isn’t there, take a minute to ponder that absence. Savour that sting, the emptiness inside your mouth where words usually tumble about. Allow yourself to taste your hunger. And tell me, whether or not, you caught a glimpse of YOU in there.

Lonely is just the space to check if you’ve learnt a new lesson. It’s the full stop between labels, the deep breath between words that defines these things. You’ll never be lonely again when you remember you. And when you forget, I’ll be there to remind you as second best.

View this post on Instagram

SECOND BEST I see you look with yearning eyes for people who don't make time and space in their life for you. I can only give you second best – my company. I say second best, not because our conversations are less than the ones you could hope to have with anybody else. But I can only be second best to the company you keep with yourself. For what are we in intense friendship and passionate love, but students of our own natures? We are learning with every interaction in life, pleasant and otherwise, what we like and what inspires us. We examine what brings out the best and worst in us and also, how our best and worst look. A lesson is always more fun with props and with other people. So, let us love together we say to each other, meaning let us walk side-by-side on these solo journeys into ourselves. When you yearn for the attention of someone who isn't there, take a minute to ponder that absence. Savour that sting, the emptiness inside your mouth where words usually tumble about. Allow yourself to taste your hunger. And tell me, whether or not, you caught a glimpse of YOU in there. Lonely is just the space to check if you've learnt a new lesson. It's the full stop between labels, the deep breath between words that defines these things. You'll never be lonely again when you remember you. And when you forget, I'll be there to remind you as second best. PC: @unstable_elemnt #theideasmithy #loneliness #missing #missingyou #solitude #solo #lonely #lonelytogether #lonelyquotes #lonelygirl #feelinglonely #flyingsolo #alone #alonequotes #missingsomeone #thoughts #thought #thoughtoftheday #thoughtful #thought_of_the_day #thoughtsoftheday #life #lifecoaching #lifelessons #selflove

A post shared by Ramya Pandyan (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

A Nice Place To Visit

What if we were all places instead of people? Towering construction. Sweeping grasslands. A rabbit hole. A pothole. A wrought iron staircase. A treehouse. The ground floor of a building under redevelopment plans. A library. A cell for illegal aliens. The verandah of a brothel. A nursery. The last window of a factory floor. A town square. The green room of a fading star. A shop.

Aren’t we all places already? We are worlds unto ourselves with gates & doors called identity. Know me and gain entry.

Some of us are plush, luxuriant drawing rooms that invite guests to sink in and never leave. Some are spider webs, some carpets, some thresholds. Someone is a transit point on public transport, bright, always impersonal, always busy. Somebody is a bus-stop in the rain, holding both promise and fear. There’s always a person who is the most comfortable spot under a tree, perfect at a particular time and one season. And there’s the one who is your favourite spot on a threadbare sofa with creaking hinges, whose prods & pokes spell comfortable familiarity. One person is an amusement park and another is a discotheque – one lively in the day, another at night and each full of gloomy foreboding at other times. There are even those who are museums, furniture shops, antique stores.

And what else are those we envy but places we look at in a glossy brochure, wishing we were there? Ah, but they tell us, you wouldn’t want to live here.

What is the place that you are? And is it your favourite spot in the world

View this post on Instagram

A NICE PLACE TO VISIT What if we were all places instead of people? Towering construction. Sweeping grasslands. A rabbit hole. A pothole. A wrought iron staircase. A treehouse. The ground floor of a building under redevelopment plans. A library. A cell for illegal aliens. The verandah of a brothel. A nursery. The last window of a factory floor. A town square. The green room of a fading star. A shop. Aren't we all places already? We are worlds unto ourselves with gates & doors called identity. Know me and gain entry. Some of us are plush, luxuriant drawing rooms that invite guests to sink in and never leave. Some are spider webs, some carpets, some thresholds. Someone is a transit point on public transport, bright, always impersonal, always busy. Somebody is a bus-stop in the rain, holding both promise and fear. There's always a person who is the most comfortable spot under a tree, perfect at a particular time and one season. And there's the one who is your favourite spot on a threadbare sofa with creaking hinges, whose prods & pokes spell comfortable familiarity. One person is an amusement park and another is a discotheque – one lively in the day, another at night and each full of gloomy foreboding at other times. There are even those who are museums, furniture shops, antique stores. And what else are those we envy but places we look at in a glossy brochure, wishing we were there? Ah, but they tell us, you wouldn't want to live here. What is the place that you are? And is it your favourite spot in the world? Location: Opening set of #GuardsAtTheTaj by @dan.husain, @vrajesh_hirjee & #JoyFernandes #theideasmithy #place #architecture #setdesign #space #location #people  #relationships #stage #favoriteplace #safespace #myplace #myplaces #places_wow #architectural #architects #architect #architecture_greatshots #architecturelovers #beautifulspaces #beautifulplaces #beautifulplace #gate #gates #selfcare #healing

A post shared by Ramya Pandyan (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.


The Kindness Of Strangers

It’s not something we take into consideration. We even consider it so rarely that if it does happen, we are quick to assume ulterior motive. And we continue to buy into the myth of the cold cruelty of cities, of a story where characters never speak to each other or care about one that falls, of people who never touch each others’ lives at all. We believe humanity to be a rapidly evaporating commodity that’s barely contained only in the oldest and most decripit of associations. Yet, every close friend and every great love was a stranger once.

Growing up in 90s Mumbai meant dealing with the reality of terror attacks, political unrest, union conflicts & bomb blasts. There were also people sheltering together, unknown hands helping one another through floods, acts of blind trust & good faith in humanity that probably saved more lives than the authorities.

Once, I fainted in a Mumbai local. I had been indoctrinated well enough in public transport safety to get down, stumble and collapse onto a seat, holding my bag tightly to me so no one could steal it. A stranger sat down next to me, offered me water, offered to drop me home. When I refused, she gave me her shoulder as she half-carried me across the pedestrian bridge, 2 staircases and to the auto stand. I never knew her name and I don’t recall her face.

A month later in another train, the woman before me swayed and might have fallen off had it been in the other direction. The train was so crowded, she didn’t even hit the floor, just sagged onto me. I held her till the station arrived, walked her down, sat with her and asked if I might drop her home. She consented and I escorted her home. It was no bother at all. I think the universe was giving me a chance to give back and a big lesson too.

Look around you. These are not zombies, not monsters, not cold machines, not malicious agenda. You are surrounded by a world of human beings and the possibility of connections. Kindness and good faith are the magic ingredients in a connection. It’s all there, if you allow it to happen and allow yourself to be a part of it – the kindness of strangers.

View this post on Instagram

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS It's not something we take into consideration. We even consider it so rarely that if it does happen, we are quick to assume ulterior motive. And we continue to buy into the myth of the cold cruelty of cities, of a story where characters never speak to each other or care about one that falls, of people who never touch each others' lives at all. We believe humanity to be a rapidly evaporating commodity that's barely contained only in the oldest and most decripit of associations. Yet, every close friend and every great love was a stranger once. Growing up in 90s Mumbai meant dealing with the reality of terror attacks, political unrest, union conflicts & bomb blasts. There were also people sheltering together, unknown hands helping one another through floods, acts of blind trust & good faith in humanity that probably saved more lives than the authorities. Once, I fainted in a Mumbai local. I had been indoctrinated well enough in public transport safety to get down, stumble and collapse onto a seat, holding my bag tightly to me so no one could steal it. A stranger sat down next to me, offered me water, offered to drop me home. When I refused, she gave me her shoulder as she half-carried me across the pedestrian bridge, 2 staircases and to the auto stand. I never knew her name and I don't recall her face. A month later in another train, the woman before me swayed and might have fallen off had it been in the other direction. The train was so crowded, she didn't even hit the floor, just sagged onto me. I held her till the station arrived, walked her down, sat with her and asked if I might drop her home. She consented and I escorted her home. It was no bother at all. I think the universe was giving me a chance to give back and a big lesson too. Look around you. These are not zombies, not monsters, not cold machines, not malicious agenda. You are surrounded by a world of human beings and the possibility of connections. Kindness and good faith are the magic ingredients in a connection. It's all there, if you allow it to happen and allow yourself to be a part of it – the kindness of strangers. #theideasmithy #city #cityliving #citylife

A post shared by Ramya Pandyan (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.


A Game of Eye Contact

A steady gaze is also a cocked gun. This gaze makes the world go silent, words dropping away, identities falling away, sounds melting away and all that exists is that tenuous link held by eye contact. They say the eyes are the windows of the soul. These windows pull you in just as much as they penetrate your being. You cannot touch without also being touched. This touch your skin won’t feel but everything inside you will.

There is a wealth of perceptions that lies buried under good manners. There is yearning, unreasonable. There is rage, unconscionable. There is desire, filthy, savage and uncontrollable. There are screams that merge need and satiation. There is worry, seeping into the cracks  between the best laid plans. There are war cries that are claims of identity. 
They lie shuttered behind blinking eyelids and wavering gazes. And when you make eye contact, you will see your pretty covers taken down to wash. Laundry day for your insides. You will feel the rain and you will be the clouds and you will see it all.

It will be hard to remember the boundary between you and me and the world and them and sense and feeling and structure when…when you look straight into these eyes and they look back at you. You are simultaneously witness and the witnessed. The audience and the performer. The existence and its perception.

It takes two to create and not even a fraction of a second. And it takes one to break it and we always do. Because this game of identity & eye contact is one that we all like to play. Just until we remember that when those eyes shut, there is only darkness.

We all look the same in the night.

View this post on Instagram

A GAME OF EYE CONTACT A steady gaze is also a cocked gun. This gaze makes the world go silent, words dropping away, identities falling away, sounds melting away and all that exists is that tenuous link held by eye contact. They say the eyes are the windows of the soul. These windows pull you in just as much as they penetrate your being. You cannot touch without also being touched. This touch your skin won't feel but everything inside you will. There is a wealth of perceptions that lies buried under good manners. There is yearning, unreasonable. There is rage, unconscionable. There is desire, filthy, savage and uncontrollable. There are screams that merge need and satiation. There is worry, seeping into the cracks  between the best laid plans. There are war cries that are claims of identity. They lie shuttered behind blinking eyelids and wavering gazes. And when you make eye contact, you will see your pretty covers taken down to wash. Laundry day for your insides. You will feel the rain and you will be the clouds and you will see it all. It will be hard to remember the boundary between you and me and the world and them and sense and feeling and structure when…when you look straight into these eyes and they look back at you. You are simultaneously witness and the witnessed. The audience and the performer. The existence and its perception. It takes two to create and not even a fraction of a second. And it takes one to break it and we always do. Because this game of identity & eye contact is one that we all like to play. Just until we remember that when those eyes shut, there is only darkness. We all look the same in the night. #theideasmithy

A post shared by Ramya Pandyan (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Millennial Dreams Looked Like This

Minimalism. Colour pops. Office beanbags and gym balls. Ironic teeshirts & cause-stickers for formal wear. Technology slimmer than our desired waistlines. Value systems bigger than paychecks. The planet. The economy. Endangered species. Endangered morals. Flexible schedules & flexible boundaries.

We survived Y2K (of which an entire generation exists in blissful ignorance). We listened to Angry Girl music and the shattering of software powered dollar dreams. We watched optic fibres bring calls, jobs and international credit cards into our homes. We taught the generation before us that love really was blind because we could fall in love, lust, friendship and even careers over a glass screen. We saw the dotcom bubble grow & burst. We weathered one, then two then three recessions. We were blamed for killing everything. And we did.

We killed hierarchical structures. We killed paychecks-as-value systems. We killed corporate irresponsibility. We killed sexual harassment as common rite of passage. We killed unrealistic real estate prices and marriage rituals. We killed legalised homophobia & systematised racism. We killed the world as everyone knew it. Because the world changes every day but it flips over a new millenium only once in a thousand years. Maybe that means absolute annihilation of dinosaurs. Maybe it means creatures of water & earth learn to fly.

We aren’t done, not even half-way through. But who knows what is midlife crisis anymore? We also gave the world the concepts of quarter-life crises, of burnout & sabbaticals, of life-changing career flips. While we’ve seen the threat of nuclear weapons and much human devastation, we haven’t yet allowed a World War.

We aren’t the fresh new kids anymore and the millenium is now fully (and freshly) an adult. This means the generation after ours, are ready to pick up from our mistakes, move into our gaps and maybe build new things of their own. But don’t forget, WE KILLED IT FIRST. 😊

View this post on Instagram

MILLENNIAL DREAMS LOOKED LIKE THIS Minimalism. Colour pops. Office beanbags and gym balls. Ironic teeshirts & cause-stickers for formal wear. Technology slimmer than our desired waistlines. Value systems bigger than paychecks. The planet. The economy. Endangered species. Endangered morals. Flexible schedules & flexible boundaries. We survived Y2K (of which an entire generation exists in blissful ignorance). We listened to Angry Girl music and the shattering of software powered dollar dreams. We watched optic fibres bring calls, jobs and international credit cards into our homes. We taught the generation before us that love really was blind because we could fall in love, lust, friendship and even careers over a glass screen. We saw the dotcom bubble grow & burst. We weathered one, then two then three recessions. We were blamed for killing everything. And we did. We killed hierarchical structures. We killed paychecks-as-value systems. We killed corporate irresponsibility. We killed sexual harassment as common rite of passage. We killed unrealistic real estate prices and marriage rituals. We killed legalised homophobia & systematised racism. We killed the world as everyone knew it. Because the world changes every day but it flips over a new millenium only once in a thousand years. Maybe that means absolute annihilation of dinosaurs. Maybe it means creatures of water & earth learn to fly. We aren't done, not even half-way through. But who knows what is midlife crisis anymore? We also gave the world the concepts of quarter-life crises, of burnout & sabbaticals, of life-changing career flips. While we've seen the threat of nuclear weapons and much human devastation, we haven't yet allowed a World War. We aren't the fresh new kids anymore and the millenium is now fully (and freshly) an adult. This means the generation after ours, are ready to pick up from our mistakes, move into our gaps and maybe build new things of their own. But don't forget, WE KILLED IT FIRST. 😊 #theideasmithy #millennials #millenniallife #metoo #lgbtq #worklifebalance #y2k #life #feminism #digitallife #tribe #urbanfamily #millennial enerationx #genY #babyboomers #generationgap

A post shared by Ramya Pandyan (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Spellbound

Ever meet someone you’ve felt inexorably drawn to? Maybe it’s the way they say your name. Or the number of times they blink. The angle they crook their head at, in thought. The pause between their words and breaths when you feel they are really looking at you, knowing you.

It’s magical. It can also be scary. Especially if they are the wrong age or wrong gender or wrong relationship status or wrong geography or wrong body type or anything other than what you think someone who can cast a spell on you, should be like.

What does a good actor or a talented artist or a brilliant writer or a magical singer do? They make us feel seen, heard, recognised & voiced. They make us experience things we have no clear names for. There are boundaries of time & space between creators and the audience. What do we do when the person sitting next to us, or a friend, or a stranger makes us feel that way? We’re quick to assign wrongness to this discomfort we feel about someone holding us spellbound, because it makes us feel vulnerable.

Consider this. This spellcasting is the magic of being human. It’s the witchcraft of intimacy, the delicate mystery that draws people to each other, the moody dance that keeps them in tandem. Every one of us is practising this magic, in our unique ways. Some of us are holding a world spellbound with our words. Some are changing lives with a single kind glance that happened to appear when it was needed the most. Some of us show up ravishing, dream-come-true to people in need of starlit hope. Some of us breathe in gentle sighs that spell rescue for those in hell’s own fires. Some of us are creating hell for people because dark magic is also a form of magic.

We cast spells by being us and most potently by not doing so consciously. We make others fall in lust, in like, in love, in passion, in rage, in despair with us, with themselves, with the world. We do this, as we get zapped by other people’s spells. We navigate the magic we feel of each other’s existence.

This is the fabric of the human experience. It is rich, it is tattered, it is ancient and it is fresh and it wraps us all. We are all spellcasters.

View this post on Instagram

SPELLBOUND Ever meet someone you've felt inexorably drawn to? Maybe it's the way they say your name. Or the number of times they blink. The angle they crook their head at, in thought. The pause between their words and breaths when you feel they are really looking at you, knowing you. It's magical. It can also be scary. Especially if they are the wrong age or wrong gender or wrong relationship status or wrong geography or wrong body type or anything other than what you think someone who can cast a spell on you, should be like. What does a good actor or a talented artist or a brilliant writer or a magical singer do? They make us feel seen, heard, recognised & voiced. They make us experience things we have no clear names for. There are boundaries of time & space between creators and the audience. What do we do when the person sitting next to us, or a friend, or a stranger makes us feel that way? We're quick to assign wrongness to this discomfort we feel about someone holding us spellbound, because it makes us feel vulnerable. Consider this. This spellcasting is the magic of being human. It's the witchcraft of intimacy, the delicate mystery that draws people to each other, the moody dance that keeps them in tandem. Every one of us is practising this magic, in our unique ways. Some of us are holding a world spellbound with our words. Some are changing lives with a single kind glance that happened to appear when it was needed the most. Some of us show up ravishing, dream-come-true to people in need of starlit hope. Some of us breathe in gentle sighs that spell rescue for those in hell's own fires. Some of us are creating hell for people because dark magic is also a form of magic. We cast spells by being us and most potently by not doing so consciously. We make others fall in lust, in like, in love, in passion, in rage, in despair with us, with themselves, with the world. We do this, as we get zapped by other people's spells. We navigate the magic we feel of each other's existence. This is the fabric of the human experience. It is rich, it is tattered, it is ancient and it is fresh and it wraps us all. We are all spellcasters. PC: @nehabhai #theideasmithy

A post shared by Ramya Pandyan (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Light Viewing

February in the City – Part II

She says it doesn’t look quite real to her. It’s so many people; nobody knows anyone else. So anonymous, so cold, she surmises.

I say yes. And no. There are so many lives and so many stories happening this minute in this one corner of the city. We do the math and guess at 400 occupants of the building opposite. It mirrors the one we are in so that’s 800 people and their stories. Including I tell her, this one you and I are in.

Look there, someone sitting down to early dinner. And there, she pokes at the grill, gesturing her question. Someone loves plants. A teddy bear on a bed. And expensive furnishings, she observes. An old length of pipe too precious to throw away, so it’s stuffed into a window grill.

How many people do you think are having sex right now? I see her grin from the way the side of her face lifts. She says, I think about that a lot. We all do, I tell her and we laugh. And it’s not cold.

It will take you some time, I say. You’re new to Mumbai. But I like it here, she reassures me as new people drawn to this island always do. I know, I say but it is not you yet. Mumbai is a friendly stranger you’re getting to know, maybe you even have a crush on. But for me? Mumbai is me.

Remember that broken mill we passed? That’s me, my history, my scars. See this glitzy building, these shiny lights that waste more energy than my toxic relationships? Also me. And that train chugging along and every single life in there, chopping vegetables over gossip, staring longingly across the grill between coaches, hanging on uncomfortably wedged grateful for a place to stand? That is also me.

It will take time and you will also not see it coming. You’ll go along for weeks, maybe even years hating these hard things the city throws at you. Mumbai doesn’t make love easy. One day you’ll open your eyes or even before you do, mid-blink, you’ll realise. The anonymity is your identity and your community. The city is one with you. And it is everything. Everything but cold.

When we leave the balcony, she shuts the door with the slightest of shivers.

View this post on Instagram

LIGHT VIEWING: February in the city Part 2 She says it doesn’t look quite real to her. It’s so many people; nobody knows anyone else. So anonymous, so cold, she surmises. I say yes. And no. There are so many lives and so many stories happening this minute in this one corner of the city. We do the math and guess at 400 occupants of the building opposite. It mirrors the one we are in so that’s 800 people and their stories. Including I tell her, this one you and I are in. Look there, someone sitting down to early dinner. And there, she pokes at the grill, gesturing her question. Someone loves plants. A teddy bear on a bed. And expensive furnishings, she observes. An old length of pipe too precious to throw away, so it's stuffed into a window grill. How many people do you think are having sex right now? I see her grin from the way the side of her face lifts. She says, I think about that a lot. We all do, I tell her and we laugh. And it’s not cold. It will take you some time, I say. You’re new to Mumbai. But I like it here, she reassures me as new people drawn to this island always do. I know, I say but it is not you yet. Mumbai is a friendly stranger you’re getting to know, maybe you even have a crush on. But for me? Mumbai is me. Remember that broken mill we passed? That’s me, my history, my scars. See this glitzy building, these shiny lights that waste more energy than my toxic relationships? Also me. And that train chugging along and every single life in there, chopping vegetables over gossip, staring longingly across the grill between coaches, hanging on uncomfortably wedged grateful for a place to stand? That is also me. It will take time and you will also not see it coming. You’ll go along for weeks, maybe even years hating these hard things the city throws at you. Mumbai doesn’t make love easy. One day you’ll open your eyes or even before you do, mid-blink, you’ll realise. The anonymity is your identity and your community. The city is one with you. And it is everything. Everything but cold. When we leave the balcony, she shuts the door with the slightest of shivers. #theideasmithy #mumbai #mumbailife #cityliving #citylife #skyline #cityskyline

A post shared by Ramya Pandyan (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

39 Looks Like This

When was the last time you saw a 30- something look like this? That’s a 30-something pretending to be 20 and you bought it.

We have a mental picture next to each age number till 25. ‘Kid’ gets bigger till it hits ‘Grownup’. ‘OLD’ is a white-bearded, balding man or a toothless, hunched crone leaning on a stick. We are quick with the statement “You don’t look that old at all! You look YOUNG !”. We mean it as a compliment as if being a certain age is the ideal way to be, instead of a natural life stage that everyone passes through for exactly the same time. We decide that young and old are about age bands, rather than a set of factors like experience, exposure, financial independence, emotional maturity, physical fitness, metabolic health, mental stability and attitude. We assume that a ‘Not Young’ person suddenly has a slower pace, less dramatic body language, tighter frame of movements. We assign a limited ABC book image to the binary labels of ‘Young’ and ‘Not Young’. Anyone different may gain temporary membership to the coveted Club of Young.

Being told I look younger is not a compliment. I don’t look 17 because at that age I hadn’t learnt how to manage my allergies & my periods and it showed. I don’t look 24 because then, I was severely underweight from being assaulted and had stretch marks. I don’t look 28 because then I was strapped into a corporate life, weighed down by appropriateness & stress greying. I don’t look 33 because I had water retention & dark circles from an abusive relationship.

I look every minute of my 39 years. The lift in these dusky skinned, bony arms was hard won. The smooth lines of my hair were the result of many negotiations between beauty standards & personal preferences. That tilt of face is measured in the slaps I endured to keep me down. The grace in awkward, clutching fingers took years of accepting my traumas and learning to do so on stage. The feet planted firmly apart have warred against manspreaders and slut-shamers and managed to stay standing. 39 is the story of many wars survived.

Don’t erase my history and tell me that it’s a compliment. 39 looks like this.

View this post on Instagram

When was the last time you saw a 30- something look like this? Swipe to see. That's a 30-something pretending to be 20 and you bought it. We have a mental picture next to each age number till 25. 'Kid' gets bigger till it hits 'Grownup'. ‘OLD’ is a white-bearded, balding man or a toothless, hunched crone leaning on a stick. We are quick with the statement “You don’t look that old at all! You look YOUNG !”. We mean it as a compliment as if being a certain age is the ideal way to be, instead of a natural life stage that everyone passes through for exactly the same time. We decide that young and old are about age bands, rather than a set of factors like experience, exposure, financial independence, emotional maturity, physical fitness, metabolic health, mental stability and attitude. We assume that a ‘Not Young’ person suddenly has a slower pace, less dramatic body language, tighter frame of movements. We assign a limited ABC book image to the binary labels of ‘Young’ and ‘Not Young’. Anyone different may gain temporary membership to the coveted Club of Young. Being told I look younger is not a compliment. I don’t look 17 because at that age I hadn’t learnt how to manage my allergies & my periods and it showed. I don’t look 24 because then, I was severely underweight from being assaulted and had stretch marks. I don’t look 28 because then I was strapped into a corporate life, weighed down by appropriateness & stress greying. I don’t look 33 because I had water retention & dark circles from an abusive relationship. I look every minute of my 39 years. The lift in these dusky skinned, bony arms was hard won. The smooth lines of my hair were the result of many negotiations between beauty standards & personal preferences. That tilt of face is measured in the slaps I endured to keep me down. The grace in awkward, clutching fingers took years of accepting my traumas and learning to do so on stage. The feet planted firmly apart have warred against manspreaders and slut-shamers and managed to stay standing. 39 is the story of many wars survived. Don’t erase my history and tell me that it’s a compliment. 39 looks like this. PC: @professor.shonku #theideasmithy

A post shared by Ramya Pandyan (@ideasmithy) on



==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

%d bloggers like this: