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How to Get Home Flipbook PDF
How to Get Home
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How to Get Home A GTPS 2020-2021 Action Project
An Introduction
Please view video "How to get Home" Dr. Mark Macleod before reading this book
Experience the challenges and triumphs in these stories as they take you on a journey "in search of a home". Supported by Dr. Mark Macleod [Hobart, Australia], Dr. Ruth Bacchus [Australia], Sachin Labade [Mumbai India] and Rohit De [Sikkim, Gangtok]
A Key to any Door - Pamela Peach
A Key to any Door Mornings bring promises of food. Cocks crow, hens yodel as they lay. Tall wooden pestles thump, thump, landing in their mortars after each jab at the deep sky. Sweet woodsmoke drifts from compound to compound. I smell it, hear it all, from in here, but I see nothing. The concrete louvres on this women’s cell, like all the others, slant down to strips of red dust in the prison compound. It’s another day in West Africa. Good days see us released into that walled field under the guards’ sharp eyes. In our schoolroom I teach my children, my minors, aged 8-18. Letters and numbers and picture books for some, calculus and classics for others who have years of schooling behind them. We share stories. I hear of their bravery, their families, villages, their friends and troubles, their courage, the days that brought them to prison. Better lives for families is common motivation. They remind me to laugh more, teach me games, call me ‘Mama-mineur’ because they know I
belong to them for these years. They remind me each day is precious, an opportunity. It is left for me to see low-hanging fruit. One thousand inmates, but only I am crazy enough to be here by choice, a white volunteer, a woman. I came young to this country, to help and to learn, not clear how to do either. I live behind the market, in a maze of mud-brick compounds. Mine has running water, a bit of a flower garden, and a hole in the roof like a skylight I think quaint. My morning commute on my orange Honda scooter, flying into the prison, makes me gleeful. Maimouna, my neighbour, is happy to earn cash preparing cauldrons of steaming stew and rice for my minors. She supports my strange project. I stack the giant pots, strap the tower to my little motorcycle. It takes time to know a community, to be trusted. Living inside this prison is the only way, at least for a week or two. Like any village, this jail has secrets I need to know.
A Key to any Door It’s no secret that it’s grilling hot and filthy in here. Nothing is pretty. At night rats and cockroaches crawl over us. We sleep on grubby concrete. The water we haul is tainted and cloudy, suspicious. Soap is imagined. Our toilet is a hole in the cell floor. Forget privacy. I am learning.
stories of the building. I greet each person, try to remember names, faces, stories, requests. Cell upon crowded cell, this place was built before independence from France. It’s unimproved. Heavy steel doors with small grille windows shut people in. And yes, unwashed, we humans all stink the same.
But so hungry, I’m light-headed and weak. Yesterday Paul’s wife delivered soup. He gave me the rooster’s head, a treat. Its eyeballs accused me as my teeth tore its comb. Paul was a ‘big man’, ambassador to Canada, the USA and the United Nations. No one brings food, medicine, clean clothes to youth. More gaps I can fill. For the world, they no longer exist. In here, political prisoners, common criminals, innocent children sleeping rough in the city are jumbled together for storage or deletion.
On the top storey, under the roof, is the sweltering punishment cell. Inside are thirty naked men and boys. So crowded, they take turns to sit or sleep, very civil in a barbaric space. Some have been tortured out in the dust, in front of my eyes, unable to protect them. I feel shame, it is unspeakable to confess this. Some mornings they bring out the dead from this cell. Other, sadder days, corpses are left inside to rot as a threat. Where is dignity now? Who’s next? From the little window in the door, they see me, call out kind greetings, needs for medicine, messages to loved ones. They cherish my
After classes there’s time to stroll and chat. A few youth walk with me through the upper
A Key to any Door postage stamp visits, as if from a priest or imam. But the only holy people I see are inmates. I can’t stay long in here, I’m more useful when I’m free. Then I can push the justice system to release youth, tell families how truly heroic their children have been in prison, looking out for one another like brothers. I can enable youth on the street to find jobs, study, start small businesses. There’s profit in a pack of biscuits if you sell them one by one. But just now the residents of this ‘House of Arrest and Correction’ are bursting to teach me. I’m learning about the black market in here, where food, cigarettes, even pencils are bartered. Books and newspapers become toilet paper. We all want a bit of dignity. There’s a pressured market for young bodies too. My minors are paying a painful price to stay alive. At night I fall exhausted on my mat, pull a cotton cloth around me. It’s printed with spicy
peppers, they call this ‘Mariam’s Tears’. Everything is rich with stories. But sleep doesn’t come. The heat weighs like a concrete slab. Mosquitos vibrate, bite. They carry malaria, dengue, plagues I do not want. Not again. One night, the whole prison block is seething, pests, heat, hunger cramps getting the better of us. Could there be no breeze on the savannah, from the desert, something to break this deadlock? Will we all die of simple fatigue? Now, I’m despairing for myself. How can I ease life for Gibril, Daouda, Mohammed, Grace-à-Dieu, all my dozens of ‘convict children’ when I can’t cope with this one night? My impulse to scream grows. In this moment I hate my body for giving me these intolerable, most ordinary, discomforts. Then, out of restlessness, the oily night, come voices in song. Volleying call and response, tunes so honeyed and clear, they make me shiver.
A Key to any Door Gentle heartbeat drumming accompanies the singing. But why would a choir sing for us, society’s lowest, long after midnight? The bones of the prison are quaking, haunting, long rows of cells becoming lungs.
when you are stuck or lost.’ I am never powerless unless I give up. They’re handing me a key to prison doors. This key unlocks every prison I make for myself or find myself dropped into.
Ah, I know. Men and boys in the punishment cells, stripped of every garnish of life, are giving us a gift. It’s an ingenious bouquet to pass through concrete walls, cell to cell, floor to floor. Shared among so many, we each receive a full measure of this offering. The drumming sounds are slim hands turning the punishing walls into musical instruments. I feel exhilaration. Such beauty, come as if from nothing. Worse than nothing, a place of cruelty.
Decades later, I often feel imprisoned by illness. Weeks in hospital leave me cross with my body’s failings, frustrated over silly things – this frightful endless racket, how they water down the yogurt, the torture of waiting, waiting. In the street below, cars and bikes jostle, trucks huff in queues up the hill, lucky to be going somewhere. But where is rushing taking them? Or me?
Yet in song the prisoners are saying ‘ I am not nothing. I am not dead. I will not die because you will remember me. Even in this place, especially in this place, I am creative. I give you this joy I have made for you. Remember me
Now I’m chuckling in my bed. Lucky me. I have a hospital bed, a hot shower. Wheels are amazing, liberating. The bus will get them home. Even this bed has wheels. An indoor electric car! They talk of ‘managing’ my illness, not recovery. Yet wheels are
A Key to any Door spinning new grooves inside me. I’m learning to work round what’s broken. Hospital’s a stage where healing tries out new songs. I recall again how prison walls became lungs for people the world tried to silence, to forget. But those brave ones said ‘YES!’– to this righthere, right-now achey-raw awe of life. I want to stand at their side, jingle my key with theirs. Tomorrow only comes if I accept this day. I owe them, I owe myself another go, even when I’m dog-tired of trouble. I have to thrust my secret prison key into this day. It might make me gasp in astonishment.
After the Waterfall - Ruth Bacchus
After the Waterfall I lived in Fertile Windmill, where I was free to read in my hut in the guava orchard, or walk to the incense-smoky temple or the teashop in the village, or go to the kitchen where Manju and Kumari coaxed green wood into flames. While I help chop vegetables or steam idlis in layered trays Kumari told of the bloody battles in the previous night’s episode of The Mahabharata, screened outside the temple so everyone could crowd to watch. And Manju told stories of the gods and of the village, and in these stories neighbours and goddesses had the same names and were referred to with equal familiarity, so I couldn’t always tell which was which. They brought out combs and a tiny plastic mirror and braided my hair into a tight plait and pinned to it a garland made from tiny white mogra flowers. Once the workers of Fertile Windmill were given a holiday. Bala organised a small bus, which he drove, and a dozen of us went on a
tour of the south, to Kanyakumari, the very tip, from where you can almost see Sri Lanka, and the many-coloured temple to Meenakshi, the porphyry-eyed goddess, in Madurai. At night we cooked and slept by the roadsides or on rooftop terraces. The men talked softly in the dark. Kumari, Manju and the other women simply pulled the ends of their saris over their faces and were instantly asleep, while I lay awake, gazing at the stars, and wondering about toothbrushes and toilets. One day we went to the mountain watershed of a holy river. Bala said the water would In Fertile Windmill, the air was always warm and sweetly scented, and the days stretched endlessly and at night the bird they called the brain-fever bird made high spiralling notes cleanse all the sins of our past lives. There was a large pool near where our bus was parked, and the men headed there to bathe. The older women didn’t want to swim,
After the Waterfall but Manju, Kumari and I climbed high into the mountain, scrambling over rocks and tangled tree roots, to a small pool, completely secluded, and fed by a gentle waterfall, just a few metres high. ‘Let’s take our clothes off,’ I said.
surface of the flow. The rocks were worn smooth as glass by centuries of water and I slid over them, down, faster and faster, over the waterfall, until I burst, feet first, into the pool below. Manju and Kumari caught me, shouting in surprise.
‘Oh no! We cannot do that!’ They waved their palms at me and giggled in panic at the thought.
‘Come and try. It’s wonderful.’
The water was clean and clear, and so cold I gasped as I plunged in, my dress billowing around me. Manju and Kumari followed gingerly, splashing each other, floundering and flapping, laughing at the iciness of the water and their bravery. The ends of their saris trailed like kite tails. I climbed a bit higher and wriggled along shallow ledges into the darkness of a cave above the waterfall. I lay on my back on the
Kumari unwound her sari and stretched it across a rock. She hitched her petticoat above her breasts and unhooked her blouse. There were scars on her chest and she was dearer to me than ever in that moment. There was so much I would never understand, though I was happier and more at home in south India than I’d ever been. I held her hand and guided her against the strong flow and into the dimness of the cave, and steadied her as she lay on her back. ‘Now just relax. I’ll let go and Manju will catch you.’
After the Waterfall I followed, abandoning myself to the bliss of riding the current and shooting out into the pool and their laughter. I drank great gulps of the river and imagined it flowing through me. Then it was Manju’s turn to unwind her sari and lay it out to dry, and all three of us climbed the slope into the cave. We rode the stream down, again and again, and Kumari cried ‘Rhumba jhully, rhumba jhully!’ over and over. We were shivering, but couldn’t stop and couldn’t stop laughing either, at the cold and our exhilaration. I’d never seen Manju and Kumari so unrestrained, giving themselves up completely to the water and their own pleasure. I don’t know how long it was before we heard the others calling us from far below and
glanced at each other quickly before climbing into the cave one last time. Kumari and Manju loosened their plaits, so their beautiful long hair swirled around them like the weed I’d sold to fishermen as a kid. Then we clambered down, our clothes clinging damply, though in my memory it’s as if we danced or floated. The next day our little bus, dodging Tata trucks, and cows and goats and rickshaws and cyles and potholes, took us home to Fertile Windmill.
The Blue Diamond - Rose Marvel
The Blue Diamond Marriage
To some the wedding ring, Seems a sign of swirled suffering. To others, It’s analogous to the season of colourful spring. To the Air Force officers in blue, It’s another dream come true. To the spinsters like me, Afflicted with disability, Sometimes, Caught up in the sour grapes’ philosophy, It’s a phenomenon too good to be true. Little it takes to comprehend this complexity, It requires the fulfilment of shared responsibilities, To the best of one’s abilities.
The Blue Diamond Hello, I am Rose. Tomorrow is 28th November 2020, my birthday. I can vividly recount some of the anecdotes from the three decades of my melodramatic life. Born in the backdrop of musical ensemble of my father’s youngest sister’s wedding at the heart of the city of dreams in India, in the year 1990, I never blew my own trumpet till date. My mother calls me a vampiress for having AB positive blood group. Well, I did justify this attribute at least in some way during birth, when I consumed the amniotic fluid from my mother’s womb, leading to aspiration pneumonia and further resulting in cerebral palsy, triplegia for life. What could I do? My throat was parched my, to be kin were enjoying delicious cuisines and irresistible drinks. And I had no choice but to thrive on whatever was there at my disposal. But didn’t know I would land up in the soup for being desperate to come into this world. I was born
blue. A seven months premature baby with an exquisite body and above average intelligence. While one daughter of the family was tying the nuptial knot to begin her married life the other, that’s me, had arrived deceiving her own death to transgress and transcend the ties that would confine her in the grid of disability, culture, skin colour, gender or class and cast biases to affirm her idiosyncratic self. On 19th January 2012, my elder sister married an event manager for better or worse. The pair was sagacious enough to plan their wedding and the ménage was intimated one and a half years later, by the cops, as the girl had absconded and the complaint of her missing status had been lodged to trace her on the 15th August 2013.
The Blue Diamond When the citizens of the nation were celebrating its independence, my sister was celebrating her own “freedom”. When I received this news, my head had a three sixty-degree spin. I felt as if I would witness William Butler Yeats' "Second Coming", “things fall apart the centre cannot hold ...”, being at the hands of a deluded patriarch and my subservient mother, who became frantic. I felt as if I would lose my parents to bereavement since their nurturance and the family’s honour were at stake. Although I felt dejected on receiving the news of my sister’s espousal, I began transforming myself from being a redundant vegetable who was dependent on her mother for reading and writing tasks, to reading and typing manually or using transcription and reading software to hasten the process.
Despite being diagnosed with Reactive Depression and Anxiety Disorder, nothing hampered me and I completed my masters and MPhil by June 26th 2019. One of the films titled, “Margarita with a Straw” that I had taken up for research, generated catharsis and corporeal empathy in me but it aided me in getting rid of homophobia. I have tried to evolve as an independent self as I am able to make payments online and do shopping, for instance, ordering groceries online. I have further metamorphosed myself from having bushy eyebrows, wearing gaudy makeup, a braided tassel and a fully covered attire, to adorning an elegant look with plucked eyebrows, wearing opulent jewellery with modish outfits or skimpy dresses and having different hairdos over my crowning glory.
The Blue Diamond I have changed from being an introvert who was often misconstrued as suffering from Broca's aphasia by strangers, to being a brash audacious and a gregarious person. I also venture out to late night parties with mom who had been thwarted for long even from procuring medicines in case of a medical emergency after sunset.
A lot has gone into the modification of my life, from twenty-four hours to merely four hours of caregiving, being provided to me. My 30th birthday had been a rapturous experience for me after which I was extolled by my father in the form of a dissension between me and him, on 30th November 2020, as he emulated my garbled speech. He was under the influence of alcohol, when I was at the conference call with one of my college mates who had studied with me at the undergraduate level.
Such a comportment by dad was not unknown to his acquaintances and to me as far as mom was concerned, as he had been diagnosed with conjugal paranoia due to his chronic alcoholism, by the psychiatrist. Days have gone by and currently I am at my best friend’s wedding reception. It is 6th December 2020. On my way I got stuck in the traffic, hence got delayed. But you know, I met a beautiful transgender person who was begging at the street signal. I felt bad for her looking at the state she was in, as a result of social stigma such people face. When she approached me, I gave her some money to help her and some best wishes for her future. I contemplated asking her about her whereabouts as I wanted to befriend her, but the signal went green and my vehicle had already gained momentum. Umm! As far as the preference for my life partner goes, no lothario or devotee would
The Blue Diamond ever impress me. I desire a person who would be suave in personality, possessing humility and magnificence, who would accept me the way I am and treat me with dignity, as I am as precious as a blue diamond! And I require an equally valuable prospective groom who is willing to have a complementary relationship with me, being by my side in all facets of my life. I have told mom, if he is dark skinned, he would remain like the eyeliner adorned on my eyes to beautify my appearance! His presence would enhance my life. If you happen to find such a person do let me know, as I am awaiting a ring studded with a blue diamond as my wedding ring! Until then...
Hiraeth to Home - Shubhekshana Makar
Hiraeth to Home Hi, my name is Shubhekshana and this is my story. I work as a technical writer and identify myself as an artist who happens to have a happy-go-lucky and bubbly attitude towards life. I was 11 when I was first diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Disease (PCOD). What followed that diagnosis was a wild rollercoaster ride. I was yet another woman subjected to the stereotypical society. My father and many others perhaps expected a 'perfect' woman of me. Imagine someone fair, head full of hair, educated but not opinionated, slim waisted and melon chested, oh so polite and clear skinned. And then there was me! Weighing 110kgs, he lives of my peers, who were half my weight and it started to show at a very early stage. Teachers, family, friends, peers and strangers crept up on me every year to garnish my already crippled selflove with taunts, unsolicited weight loss advice, fat shaming, eve-teasing and bullying. gbald spots at the age of 25, severe acne and roaming around with a slight moustache
Everywhere I went it was pointed out to me how fat I was (as if I could not see it for myself). 'You’d look so pretty if you lost some weight', 'Oh you are not fat, you are very pretty', 'You look like a cute baby elephant', 'Drink hot water and lemon’, 'Why don’t you exercise?’, 'Do yoga!', 'I’d date you if you were a little slimmer', 'Should you be really eating that?', 'You will have issues in conceiving!', 'Don’t eat food thrice a day', 'Go on a liquid diet', 'Walk 10km every day' - it was neverending. If I got a dollar for every unsolicited bit of weight loss advice, I’d probably be a millionaire by now! The constant shaming worried me about the things that a teenager should never worry about. I worried about not being able to fit in an aeroplane seat and having to ask for an extension for the seat belt, never finding the right clothes of my size, never going on treks because it caused chafing, never wearing a sleeveless top because it would show my arm
Hiraeth to Home fat, never being the girl who got proposed to, never being able to become a mother, never being able to wear a bikini - just never being enough. It didn’t take much longer for things to get worse. I underwent two major surgeries due to a weak immune system, caused by PCOS, one for Brain Tuberculosis Meningitis and the other to remove a Teratoma Dermoid Cyst at the ages of 19 and 24 respectively. I had severe anger issues and emotional and mental instability for more than 13 years. I experienced bouts of depression and self-harm thoughts. I became extremely conscious and insecure about my body over years. I let myself suffer because I allowed those people to hurt me in the most unexpected manners! I started finding escapes to dodge my feelings. I tried journaling in my dairy, talking to friends, isolating myself, expressing my pent-up thoughts through painting, and talking back but all in vain, I merely concentrated on all the mediums of medicines I could take to
cure my PCOD. I tried Ayurveda, homoeopathy, naturopathy, allopathy, acupuncture, acupressure, yoga, diet, gym, swimming, exercise - but nothing seemed to help. It still doesn’t help. Due to lack of proper knowledge and guidance, I never sought help or therapy for my mental health issues. This brings me back to my original story in the doctor’s office, a moment that flipped everything for me. I sat in the chair, letting the harshness of those words sink in. I phased out myself from everything after the incident for a while. Until recently and after nearly a decade of self observation and reflection, I noticed a pattern. My pattern closely connects with a theory developed by psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross: there are five distinct stages of grief. In my case, the main one was the loss of self love, bit by bit, due to the constant taunts, cursing and shaming. The curses entered my mind and immediately made me
Hiraeth to Home angry. My anger, still unprocessed, turned into retaliation, causing me more stress. This was followed by bouts of severe sadness and then retrieval of my original bubbly self. For years I tried to hush my anger down because I was always taught that it was a bad emotion to have. But here is something that struck me. Your anger is a part of you that knows your mistreatment and abuse are unacceptable. Your anger knows you deserve to be treated well and with kindness. Your anger is a part of you that loves you. I slowly learnt to acknowledge my anger, feelings and stages rather than dodging them. I embraced my anger but learnt to not project it on others. I praised my ability to retaliate but taught myself the importance of patience and knowing your self-worth. I sought ways to calm my stress down, which included logical thinking and analysing choices in front of me. Choice is a powerful tool. You get to choose what you want to feel at each moment and nobody can take that away from you. I visualised two choices in front of me every
time I stressed. I can either stress about something that I cannot control or analyse the situation and make the best of it by acting on something that is in my control. And since that day, I chose to pick my fights and let go of the ones that did not deserve my time. We often hear people saying, 'just let it go' to the things that hurt us. But at times, you can’t just let it go. Words sink in. They sink in deep and hurt you until they can’t hurt you anymore. You desensitise yourself to the cruelty and grow thicker skin resulting in unprocessed past traumas and body images issues. It took me endless nights of crying, questioning my self-worth, learning and unlearning the idea of self-love, sabotaging my mental health, processing the trauma and picking myself up again. And that is how I found my home. I am home. I have everything that I need to make this my best moment, best life and best time. I worked with what I
Hiraeth to Home I had, accepting my flaws and loving myself as a human first, a woman second and then in the worldly roles. The art piece I created is titled “Nagnashana” (The Naked Companion). A woman is seen embracing her long hands, manly palms, uneven skin tone, thinned grey hair, big breasts and curvy buttocks. She is her own naked companion. She is her home. My art tries to convey that you can undress yourself in front of a lot of people, but only you know your true naked self. Rather than growing a thicker skin, grow into your own skin. It took me years to grow into my own skin. I’ll be damned if I will let anyone take that away from me. Be your own ‘Nagnashana”’, be your own home.
Just Keep Trying - Alise McIntosh
Just Keep Trying “You wouldn’t be any higher than a six.” It wasn’t the first time my mother-in-law had made a comment on my appearance, but it was the first time I had ever said anything back. From the outside, Sharon was a decent enough lady. She cooked and cleaned and cared for her family, like any good little housewife did. She was (unfortunately for me) blessed with some of the best genetics I’ve ever seen – which was probably what made her son, Jacob, my boyfriend, so appealing – he was great breeding potential. She had beautiful, olive skin, blonde, curly hair down to her shoulders and bright blue eyes. She had long, skinny arms and legs, big breasts and hips, and a small waist. She was a genetic anomaly. I, on the other hand, am a pale, freckly blonde, with blue eyes and an average body. And having that for a mother-in-law made life even
more intimidating for my aggressively mediocre self. I knew I wasn’t fat, and I knew I wasn’t ugly, but I wasn’t skinny or pretty either. I was just … average – in looks anyway. Though Sharon appeared to be perfectly prim and put-together, she was a high-functioning alcoholic. As soon as 12pm hit, you could find Sharon in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of cheap white wine, and you’d find her there again every hour, on the hour, doing the same thing. By 5pm, she would switch to red, and this is when ‘Honest Sharon’ would always come out to play. After a bottle (or two) she would lose her filter and begin to tell people things that she just “really needed” to get out. Honest Sharon had told me many things that she felt were very important to say. “Jacob is obviously the better looking one.”
Just Keep Trying “You’re just not on the same level as us.” “You really need to lose ten kilos, it’s unhealthy to be anything over 60 kilos.” “You are not a size eight, you’re more like a size 10 or 12.” “You’ve been gaining a lot of weight lately, and I think you need to do something about it.” I’d endured these comments for the last eight months. Just bite your tongue. I mean, I was living in her house in Sydney for cheap rent while Jacob and I saved for somewhere better. And from seeing Sharon in all her states, I knew that she wasn’t someone to argue with. I thought it was best to keep my mouth shut.
I was sitting in my bikini in Jacob’s room, after doing laps of their family pool. My hair was wet and messy and I had no make-up on. I heard shrieks of laughter coming from the room next door – Brooke’s room (his younger sister). I walked to the room to see what all the fun was about, and when I reached the door, I made eye contact with Sharon. She looked me up and down with utter judgement in her eyes. “You wouldn’t be any higher than a six,” she said casually. “Excuse me?” I replied, confused as to what she was talking about, but also trying to hide the fact that I was offended, because it was after five pm and I knew that it was Honest Sharon talking.
What Sharon didn’t know about me, was that “I’m rating everyone out of ten, and you this was very difficult. Keeping my mouth shut wouldn’t be any higher than a six.” about things that I feel are important is almost impossible, and one night, I snapped. “Ohhhh,” I said as I awkwardly laughed and
.
Just Keep Trying “tried to pretend that I wasn’t offended, when in reality, all I could think was ‘what woman in her 50’s thinks it is okay to rate people out of ten, based on their looks?’
approached me from behind. She gave me the most uncomfortable hug from behind that I’ve ever felt in my life and I could feel the rage brewing inside me.
I put on a fake smile and laughed along with everyone else at the rating, then left the room and went to find comfort from Jacob.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” She said it in the most condescending tone I have ever heard.
“Your mum is so judgemental,” I told him just as I got inside his bedroom.
“Oh, go away Sharon, I don’t care about what you have to say to me right now.”
“Yeah I know, just ignore it.”
And that was it.
Little did I know, Brooke was eavesdropping on the conversation, and promptly relayed my comment back to Sharon.
There was yelling. The door slammed. The tears began to flow. I knew in that moment that it was all over. Everything that Jacob and I had been building together for the last three years had all come undone in an instant.
I was sitting on Jacob’s floor, facing away from the door towards the window, trying not to think about what had just happened. There was a knock at the door, and Sharon
She kicked me out after that and I had to quit my job and move back to my home town.
Just Keep Trying Jacob and I broke up soon afterwards. I guess, over time, you start to believe all the comments that people say about you. You believe that you are the fat and ugly girl that they say you are, and you lose yourself. You lose the parts of yourself that you think are worth loving. You forget that you are enough. It’s been four years since then, and I wish I could say that I am over it. I wish that this was the empowering story I had intended. But it isn’t. I’m not completely over it. But all I know is that I keep trying. Trying to feel better about myself and trying to believe I am enough. And I will keep trying, for as long as I have to.
Let them Breathe - Shami Thapar
Let them Breathe My name is Shami Thapa and I am a professional hairstylist. I was born in the north eastern part of India where people have lighter skin, small eyes and broad nostrils. As a kid i was very introvert and had very low selfesteem. i have attended BK .Bajoria international school in Shillong (Meghalaya) and did my elementary and high secondary. However, Shillong is a small city so i decided to pursue my university studies in Vadodara (Gujarat). I did my B.Com from MS University but meanwhile, i was playing the role of a Carrie Bradshaw from 'Sex and the City', trying to find my feet and recognition in Baroda. .I started with several interviews and got rejected because I was not confident enough to hold the conversation and deliver some concrete answers which they were looking for. As a teenager I was very shy and gooky and couldn't do things on my own. I was bullied in school and also at .
Athe work place as I was little effeminate. They started calling me by several names and also started mocking me. I was traumatised by the whole situation. It was indeed a difficult childhood when you find yourself different from other men - or I should say boys. Following a brief setback I started working on myself and started getting comfortable in my own skin - accepting the fact that I am an effeminate guy and I can do nothing about it. I am an effeminate guy who respects women, opens doors like a gentleman and is also very sensitive when they are on their period. I started supporting social cause such as gender equality, sex education etc. I don’t think people will believe it, but confidence is self-taught. It is not something you are born with. Confidence is skills set which harnesses the power of an individual. I was in a very weird sort of teenage play I started supporting social cause such as gender equality, sex .
Let them Breathe education etc. I don’t think people will believe it, but confidence is self-taught. It is not something you are born with. Confidence is skills set which harnesses the power of an individual. I was in a very weird sort of teenage play until my first job interview happened and I nailed it with lot of confidence and a positive mindset and started working in a customer service industry. The fact that I am super competitive pushed me to be confident, and be in the place where I am right now. I always knew I love people and I love hair and I started exploring the hair industry with lot of hair journals and YouTube videos and wanted to pursue my career in the hair industry after my graduation. I moved down to Mumbai, which is popularly known as a dream city and I got admission to one of the finest celebrity hairstylists (Aalim Hakim). He taught me some valuable life lessons. Hairdressing is not just about styling hair. It’s about enhancing someone's beauty and making them look and feel a million bucks. As Carrie Bradshaw says, ' .
No human is ugly. It just needs a hairdresser to enhance it with their artistic hands.' I started becoming the best version of me and decided to upgrade my skills and enrol in L’Oreal professional master classes in Mumbai. The shy and gooky guy was ready to conquer the world. When I took a job in America and started working in one of the luxurious brands of L’Oreal (Kerastase) as a stylist, I started travelling all around the world and getting comfortable in foreign lands. However, i faced a lot of stereotype questions such as, why hairdressing when you can become a doctor or a lawyer like all Indians? I always smile and say, 'My father is saving the world (as he in the defence services ) and i am making the world beautiful.' They are both noble causes. The past two years I have travelled to twenty countries and met different people. Some are generous and some are fussy, but when I look back at my journey,
Let them Breathe it gives me a sense of confidence. Where I was and where I have come ....I have been through an odd journey from Shillong to Gujarat to Mumbai, struggling, not having a job, shifting houses. And Today, I am in a foreign land so it does give me gratitude and confidence. The fear is gone. I am really thankful to everyone around me. So, to all my younger generation or parents let them do whatever they want to do like my parents did. It's okay to be black, or it's okay to be gay, effeminate or whatever the difference. Just let them breathe and hug them and you will see how it reduces the pressure. . .
My Journey Home - Julia Learson
My Journey Home What did she say? ‘If you feel stressed again send him to see me.’ The marriage counsellor turned towards me smiling as she walked to the desk to take our payment. As my husband had pointed out, she wasn’t really a marriage counsellor but a Psychologist recommended to me by my doctor when I reported feeling stressed. Also psychology was not a real science so probably had limited value. Him? I gasped, and remembering he was watching my every move I smiled back at her with questioning eyes. Him? I thought in shock. I’m the crazy one, the emotional, difficult one. He had just explained it to her on behalf of both of us. He is rational, I am emotional. He is pragmatic and I am sensitive. He didn't quite say it but I think he meant ‘damaged.’
Damaged goods! It’s what girls were if they had sex before marriage. Damaged goods. Not worth as much damaged. That’s the problem with being damaged goods. You are worth less than before someone damaged you. Worth less and talked about more, especially by caring friends who look at you through a filter, the damage filter. Kind but pitying. Pitying but smug. Feeling lucky but slightly superior and relieved that they weren’t damaged too. We shuffled out of the office and onto the landing. My husband looked towards me, red blotches spreading like ink stains across his tight dry cheeks, eyes illuminated with anger. I leaned back to attempt to press my whole weight back against the open door but it hadn’t shut properly yet. He loomed close and spat ‘How dare you?’ As he aimed his righteous anger towards me the door creaked with displeasure, and swung firmly and decisively behind me. Any chance of escape back into the office was now over. There were just the two of us on the landing.
My Journey Home He was much taller than me. Tall and thin. As an Architect he had a good eye for proportion he told me. I was quite cute but my legs were a bit too short. My face was a little too square but not too bad and I was ageing quite well. As damaged goods I had received this constant update on my appearance with nervousness and had resolved to keep wearing high shoes to correct at least a part of me that was obviously lacking. It was the high heels that actually were my undoing! I had put on six inch heels that day to cover my disability (short legs) and to feel a little more confident. As I leaned back against the firmly closed door one of the heels came loose. Not the look I was after! I leant down to survey the damage wondering how I’d manage the stairs with one leg six inches shorter than the other.
He knelt down and moved closer to me. His hot breath exhaled noisily reminding me of a medieval dragon. I swear I saw flames! ‘How dare you?’ he muttered again. ‘Let me look at your stupid shoe.’ We were still outside the door on the top of the landing, him kneeling forward and me attempting to balance myself on one short leg and one artificially long leg. ‘No attention to detail as usual’, he muttered as he proceeded to examine my shoe. My stomach coiled like the cobra in a snake charmer’s basket I’d seen in a market in Cape Town last year. He moved towards me but I didn’t think he’d hurt me while we were out.
My Journey Home ABut that day there were forces at work that even he couldn’t control. The door opened. The sudden jolt knocked me straight into him. I toppled forward on my now-aching artificially long leg. He was still kneeling on the landing, at the top of the stairs, outside the counsellor’s office, his face rapidly reddening. I opened my eyes in fright bashing hard into him while at the same time watching him topple backwards, arms holding on to my broken snakeskin designer stiletto shoe and his scarlet face rapidly becoming the creamy white ashen smudge of fear. He rolled backwards. And one by one hit every stair on his journey to the ground floor landing with a loud thud on the shiny impersonal tiles in the entry to the building. The automatic doors became frenzied and began opening and shutting in a panic to perform their one critical role, to shut the glass doors. To no avail. The impediment that had landed in their midst changed their whole modus operandi.
I covered my scream gasping for breath. I started humming the Jewel song that drove him crazy, I’m sensitive and I want to stay that way. Nothing happened. He didn’t move. He didn’t yell. He was dead. The counsellor, I mean the expensive Psychologist, raced past me down the stairs to perform CPR. My life flashed before me in intricate detail, like scenes from a boring home movie that I had had to watch when friends returned from overseas trips. But I was in this movie. I watched myself, winced at the put downs, felt slapped all over again by the insults and the sarcastic comments, relived the negative responses and the tension at the slow sullen release of money when the children were little. I giggled, laughed or made a strange noise that sounded like laughing, saying out loud to no one but the Psychologist and my dead husband, Fiona, this is your life!
My Journey Home The counsellor was now on the phone to the ambulance. Once again her eyes caught mine and no words were spoken. Step by step, the same stairs that had ended a life replayed and gave one back. I timidly took the first tentative step towards my own journey home. I hobbled over his dead body and limped on my uneven legs out into the radiant sunshine. I kicked off my remaining six-inch heel, wriggled my tortured toes and released them into a new unfettered life of freedom.
I stopped for a moment to read the business blurb on the door. ‘Life resolutions! Where we’ll help you in every way to resolve problems.’ I smiled back slowly at the counsellor who was waiting for the ambulance to arrive and said quietly, You’re quite good at this.
My Name is Persistence - by Gwyllnes Axe
My Name is Persistence Margaret, Jane, and Angela sat upright as I issued instructions about what they would be learning today. They were excellent students, quiet and conscientious. As an only child, a great deal of my time was spent alone with my dogs and dolls whether it was inside playing ‘school’, or outside while I climbed a huge almond tree where I sat reading for hours among the branches. I truly cannot recall a time when I couldn’t read. I loved learning, and when I was four years old, my parents begged the local primary school headmaster to allow me to start school. Initially, I was allowed to attend on Fridays and gradually that increased to five days. I loved everything about school: learning new things, my fellow students, and the teachers. Although reserved, I was content to be surrounded by those who were more gregarious. I admit I was rather frightened of the headmaster and his wife who taught sewing once a week, but the remaining staff
were very young, many just out of Teachers’ Colleges. As it was a small country school all the students knew each other well; mixing with each other both at school and in the community. I continued to spend my time out of school teaching my own students. Jane and Angela were named after my much-older cousins in the UK and Margaret after my teacher. I recall borrowing my mother’s scissors and hiding in my bedroom while I cut my Margaret’s hair in a similar style to that of my favourite teacher, a pretty and vivacious 20-year-old. A lifetime later and countless moves around Australia and overseas, Margaret, my much-loved teacher and I, both no longer young, remain close friends. It was at just five the die was cast; I wanted to be a teacher. Throughout my years of schooling, firstly at the local Central School and later at a large metropolitan boarding school, my dream was
My Name is Persistence that once I had completed my secondary education I would attend Sydney Teachers’ College and have the profession I dearly wanted. However, life has a strange way of taking us on a different path, and for family reasons I was unable to pursue my dream. Shortly before my last year at boarding school, due to my father’s ill-health, my parents moved to a larger country town and it was there at the end of my secondary education that I reluctantly undertook study in shorthand, typing and office procedures. My father died unexpectedly when I was 19 and together with my mother I moved initially to Sydney. By my mid-twenties I had enjoyed a varied and meaningful career, had married and was a mother of two. With another twist of fate and a promotion for my husband, we ound ourselves living in a regional city where there was a Teachers’ College and I wondered whether I could finally pursue my ambition. If only it was so easy. My husband questioned
whether a Teachers’ College would consider enrolling a mature student, but I was not deterred. I telephoned the Principal to discover the stars were aligning and the college was in the process of amalgamating with an Agricultural College. It would have a new name and a number of new courses would be offered in addition to the education and agriculture ones and he encouraged me to apply for entry into the new institution. The next problem to overcome. I had one small child at home, whom I did not want to leave, one in Kindergarten at a local school and a husband who led a very busy professional life. But it was solved. I could study subjects offered in the evenings between 6-9pm when my husband could care for our children. I had no finishing date in my mind; I was simply overjoyed that at long last I was on my path to becoming an educator. I’m sure I was the happiest girl in town.
My Name is Persistence Naturally the challenges were many and varied. With the exception of one student, my first class consisted of a large number of primary school principals and teachers whom the government insisted needed to advance their qualifications, and almost all were there with great reluctance. Dare I suggest resentment. I was brimming with enthusiasm, but the majority of students were the most unenthusiastic I had ever encountered. I spent my first semester sitting beside the only other non-teacher as we wrestled with a level 3 philosophy subject, and it is with some pride I say that we were the only students in the class to receive an ‘A’.
who had spent many years in schools as teachers and principals before becoming lecturers and they were exceptional role models. I loved every minute of my studies, in addition to being a wife, a mother, and holding down two part-time jobs, one at the Institute where I was studying. After four long years and with the end within my grasp, I made the decision to complete five subjects in one semester which would allow me to graduate. The session included my last practical subject where I spent a wonderful term with a supportive mentor and I knew all the years of dreaming and hard work were worth it.
Until the institute built a pre-school on campus where my youngest child could attend while I was in class, I continued with subjects which were offered at night, fortunately not always with the same unhappy cohort, and until the final semester of my studies as the only mature student. I had fabulous teachers
I would like to say what immediately followed was a position as a classroom teacher with the Department of Education in the local area. However, when my young husband became terminally ill and the only permanent teaching position offered was almost 500 kilometres away, I chose to remain in our regional city where I initially worked as a casual teacher
My Name is Persistence tbefore reluctantly returning to full-time employment outside education. I had previously worked in the field and I enjoyed the work, but there were times when I wondered whether I would ever realise the dream of having my own class on a permanent basis. Two and a half years later, I accepted a permanent teaching post and I have spent the last many years in a variety of schools and states, feeling totally fulfilled, giving everything I have to help guide more than a generation to their potential. I would not pretend it has been without challenges, but I can say hand on heart I have not for one moment regretted following the dream I had when I was five. Jane and Angela found homes with other little girls who loved them, but I have kept Margaret. Unfortunately, these days she has been relegated to the top of a cupboard. She still has the same haircut and on the occasions I bring her down, I am reminded of that little girl with a big dream.
That is When I Know I am 'Home' by Leanne Yaliilan Windle
That is When I Know I am 'Home' At the age of 4, I moved from my traditional Country to Wonnarua country as both parents had moved due to work. My giiny-bu (heart) dhulubang-bu (soul) remained on Ngurrambang (Country), where my Ancestors look after it until I came back. The moment that I knew I was travelling back onto Country to visit my best friend and family; that is when I was going to be ‘home’ …
ngulang (face) toward the yurruga (sun) and allow her warmth to wash over my skin. When I am not on Ngurrambang (Country), I call to my Ancestors to show me Ngurrambang (Country), as I am always homesick and need a way to feel Ngurrambang (Country) with me biyambul (always). My Ancestors always come to take me to Country; that is when I know I am ‘home’ …
Whenever I went back and sat on Country, I sat and allowed Gunhi-dhaagan (Mother Earth) to heal me. I spoke to Gunhi-dhaagan (Mother Earth), to my Ancestors, the animals and the dhaagun (land/earth), feeling her healing, calming and energetic roots coursing through my feet, travelling all the way up through my body via my muscles, veins and bones; connecting with everything; that is when I know I am ‘home’ …
As an adult I have been afforded many opportunities which allow me to learn my Ngama-dhalany (Mother tongue), to connect with my mayiny (people), Culture and to yalbilinya-bu yalmambirra (learn and teach) traditional ways; that is when I know I am ‘home’ …
When I sit outside when I am on Ngurrambang (Country), I biyambul (always) raise my
When I sit with my mayiny (people) and mayiny (people) of other Countries, girinyalanha (talking together), each would yalmambirra (learn) my knowledge and Culture, things which invasion, colonisation and assimilation
That is When I Know I am 'Home' When my mayiny (people) yalmambirra (learn) my wagadyi-galang-bu babrrai-galang-bu her mayiny-galang gudhi-galang (songs, dances and sing and know her songs and stories), giilang-galang-bu. When I babirra (sing) in language and ngiyanggarra (speak) my giilang-galang (stories); that is when I know I am ‘home’… When I put on our ochre for the first time, the powerful ochre that connects me to Gunhidhaagan (Mother Earth), my Ancestors, animals, galing (water), my mayiny (people), and more; that is when I know I am ‘home’ … My tidda girls from tiddarevolution (2019) sum it up eloquently.
When we paint, we heal.
When we carve, we heal.
When we weave, we heal.
When we dance, we heal.
When we sing, we heal.
When we dream, we heal.
When we hunt, we heal.
When we yarn, we heal.
When on Country, we heal.
That is When I Know I am 'Home' When I have my Culture, my mayiny (people), my Ngama-dhalany (Mother tongue), Gunhidhaagan (Mother Earth); that is when I feel whole; that is when I know I am ‘home’ … When I am immersed and surrounded by my Culture, my mayiny (people), hearing the birds and animals, the sweet sound of nature buzzing around me; that is when I know I am ‘home; … Ngurrambang (Country) is within me and I within her. Without one, there cannot be the other. My mayiny (people) and my Culture and Ngama-dhaagan (Mother Earth) are at the giiny (heart) of my very being. When I have these; I know I am ‘home’.
Wiradjuri Language has been used throughout.
What is Home? - Adrija Banerjee
What is Home? How to get home? But, let me first ask, what is Home? Or who is your Home? When I look back at my childhood, I realize that I was looking for a happy place since then. A shelter perhaps. Looking for a person where I would feel safe because, clearly, I wasn’t happy enough. I did have an amazing childhood, but I always wanted to feel at home. As I was growing and making new friends, I was looking for a special person or a best friend with whom I could share everything and be myself. The journey was not an easy one. I was mistaken. I was questioned. I was betrayed. I was emotionally invested. Everyone will not understand this craving. At midnight, when you wake up and want to have something sweet or something spicy, but you don’t get it in the fridge. So, you keep looking for an alternative. But that hunger still remains, right? Until the next day you go out and get yourself that very pastry or the fries that you were craving for. The same way, I was looking for a ‘Homy’ feeling.
Our Home, the physical home, made out of bricks, cements and love is a beautiful, comfortable place to be in. Initially, I wasn’t very happy living there because I was missing my grandmother’s place. The fresh air, the soil under the feet, the tender leaves and the whole rural living. I would spend most of my quality time with the lambs, cows and some dogs. They made me happy. The new city life was getting hard for me. Gradually I started looking forward to my school friends. Little did I know the meaning of friendship then. For a girl of ten, sharing tiffin and playing the favourite game was friendship. I was content with my life and the direction it was heading towards. But life has its own way of playing. Childhood and schools are supposed to be the best days of our lives. We often hear our parents say that school friends will always be your best friend. Well, everything has exceptions! For me, that wasn’t the case. The school where I spent my thirteen precious years, snatched away the feeling of being home. I do have some beautiful and happy
What is Home? tmemories from there though. Not all days were bad. I always believed that moving forward is essential and I know it is. Stagnation and holding on to something painful were not the answer to my questions. I moved past the pain of disappointing friends and teenage struggles even though the hunt for a home was always a part of the journey. I was eager to explore my future. I rushed. I wanted to get it all and move forward. Friends and foes around asked me why am I always looking for a best friend or someone to hold on to? I was asked that why is my mind so restless? I often smiled and could not express what I actually felt. That’s what happens I guess, when you feel you don’t belong somewhere. You are too innocent to understand that its okay to not fit in. But we are not taught that. We are always forced to blend in, even when you know that you don’t belong there. You question your presence and you, somehow, accept the misconception that “Its my fault”.
But is it? The next level of my journey to find home led me to Chennai. This was the first time I was living outside my native place and trust me I was scared. Have you moved to another city looking for a fresh start? I was determined for the new beginnings and had high hopes of getting myself a home. Not a house!! But a home. Understand the difference here. Even though I was swimming through the emotional waves, I always knew that my Home was not just a physical entity. My roots run deep. I don’t dwell in the physical world. Some of you will relate with this: what it is to be an empath and a dreamer with a whole different level of intuition and introverted mind. The others who cannot relate with this, it is totally okay. At this stage of my life, I was soaring high. I tasted the first step towards success and I realised how I have always been sabotaged. It is important to have experienced the bad things before, because only then you will
What is Home? actually value the good things. And I was walking the right path. This mere success made me few enemies and I faced few foolish, jealous people. Amidst it all, I made few good friends. For the first time in my life, I felt that I belonged to this place. And you will never believe it, until you have felt it, this sense of belonging does not come from a place. It is the people who make you feel that. I was happy. I was flying. The long search has finally come to an end. I was dancing in the tune of love and I believed that to be my destined home. The feeling of this can never be expressed. I was so deep in the illusion that I did not see the colours of reality. I had to pay the price. A very costly one. I lost my grandmother and my mother. In a day I grew up. Just a day. Too many responsibilities and too gigantic a chaos. Again for the first time, I could see things clearly. Things that were hidden under the friendly faces. The trauma lingered. For months and years. All the masks
fell down and the faces came out. Home did not feel home without mother. All I had was my father, my dearest white spitz dog, Lucy and a handful of friends. I will be forever grateful to these people. But life will always teach you lessons until you are ready for the next challenge. The love of my life betrayed me. Some people I have always counted upon, betrayed me. The sense of being Home was raptured. All my dreams and hopes crumbled down and so did my ability to trust. You know the feeling of sleep paralysis? I was feeling that every day, every moment, for eight to ten months. And I had no one to turn to. I tried to seek help. I tried to express these feelings through social media, yet, no one seemed to have actually heard the cry. So, what was the solution? I didn’t know. I shut myself up. And in the process, I forgot that one of my best friends was counting on me for emotional support. I paid the price for this too. He is no more.
What is Home? A bit of the Homy feeling that was lingering after all these traumas, was because of my father and my Lucy. But life has to be cruel. I lost my pet. We basically grew up together. Sixteen long years. This was definitely a deep heartbreak again. How can you fill up an empty space? You cannot. It is fundamentally empty and it keeps expanding its dimensions, growing up and spreading out throughout your being. The void in me kept growing. But thankfully everything has a limit. Days seemed gloomy and nights seemed heavy. Home was no where to be found. I stopped looking. I gave up. I decided to move with the flow of life and just be a part of whatever life has to offer. Just participate for the sake of it. There was no word that could exactly describe the pain I was in or give a form to the pain so that people could look at it and make an attempt at comprehending. There was no metric system or unit in physics that could measure the depth of the pain inflicted by the wounds I suffered.
One night, I was lying down on my bed and staring at the blank wall. The feeling of vast emptiness engulfed me. In that moment I was trying to come out of the giant black hole. Various scenes of my life and few incidents were playing in front of my eyes as if I was reliving those. Then came a moment when I realised that the home I have always been looking for, is inside me.
Where is Home? - Niladri Thakur
Where is Home? Time. A movement is space. A split in universe(cell). A difference in seconds. A new life is born.
This is the journey that basically "everything", every dot ,every molecule, every star, every gas, every drop of liquid, every solid, essentially every-body like you and me has to endure through, to get at this point.
The phylogeny of life is a beautiful story. Approximately around 28 million years ago, a creature called proconsul was seen in the trees, unaware of its own existence, its own "being". That's us, that's you, that's me.
Evolution is a grand narrative, an accumulation or an aggregate of all that we have gone through. Human and all his or her struggles, of victory, of defeat, of death, of life, of grief of joy, of compassion and sorrow. The journey of how we got to our HOMES was But such is our nature of existence that we are never so easily made. always drifting through emptiness, through A journey of how from being an animal, a visuals, through dreams, through ambitions, creature, a tree dweller, a savage hunter who through desires, from "this" to "that", roamed naked, stood up on his feet, learned transcending various dimensions through walking, created fire, melted iron, developed various thoughts, that moves us, pushes us groups, invented civilization, created road, forward. industries, domesticated wilderness, This is Earth, and all that is in it are various harnessed crops and grew food from the soil. forms of lives ,out of all those forms, humans are one.
Where is Home? This journey in time from a primate, a "creature" to Niladri Thakur, a homosapien, a bipedal, this is my story of How I Got Home. From my early days, my mind was more into nature than text books. I was an average student. Umm, you can say below average, but that never bothered me until my father passed away in 2012, which was an eye opener for me. My life changed. I don't know if it was for better or worse but I joined college with English as major, things started changing as more and more I was getting involved with literature, the more I was engulfed into its charm. I have always felt that one cannot choose literature, literature also needs to choose you. I guess that worked well for me. After my graduation, I opted for Master, but not much later, came to know about a profound artist, a photographer Mr. Raghu Rai,
whose work really made me gravitate towards photography. I opted for creative diploma, in his institution, got selected in the interview. But due to some personal problems, couldn't continue with it. But didn't stop clicking. Photography for me is an emption, an art, I can't convey, because for that I will require words. I feel there are dense unsolicited depths, much deeper than any ocean, in the recesses of human mind, expression or imitation of which through words cannot justify but can only be experienced through the senses. Every mind absorbs information through two ways:*Visuals(Images) *Sounds(Audios).
Where is Home? And photography, essentially my version slowly began to move beyond the conventional norms. I am not a photographer though, neither do I want to be. Just like a man who is thirsty drinks from the waterfalls, where the water doesn't fall for the thirst of the man, but when the man is thirsty, gets closer to water or is simply drawn towards it automatically, similarly, I just want to share what "influence" my environment has on me, and what I can do with that "influence" in form of information. As a poet writes through the ink of his pen and heart, I click photos through my soul. I try to paint my frame and express the reality behind through lens. But my fate had something else in for me. In 2018 I went to Bhutan, just to explore the culture, people, the air, the soil, the food and was so amazed by the way they maintain themselves.
T moved to cycle. Two wheels can do wonders, trust me. For the first time I felt it was something for the "convenience of man" and "not for man's convenience". Time as I said, always changes, and with it every-thing changes. This change is expressed through forms, shapes, colours, sounds, ideas, voice, etc. I am never the same, yet I am the same. Time is a strange paradox, at least that is what my journey has made me feel. Time connects us all. Those who are reading or will read this, we are all connected, trust me, even if we have never, we are all connected through this web of time, through this single thread of Life. Home for me has been anywhere, everywhere, anytime, because the entire creation is me.