Empty Nest

Have you ever stood under a sky full of stars and wondered at your insignificance? In my case, looking up at the sky is always a revelation, a reality check. The thing about life is that it is so uncertain, yet here we are with all our silly plans, postponing our happiness for tomorrow. Lately, I have been going through this malaise called "mid-life crisis". It is more common than you would think. It is when you reach half way through your life span and look back and wonder what you have done with your life.. It is a realization that maybe all is not lost, and life could still be different. It is the urgency of time ticking by  and a sense of loss.  When I meet young adults, just starting their life, there is a tinge of despair, a feeling of nostalgia for time gone by. The realization that I  have passed that stage, that all that is in the past, and even if I wanted to, I could not rewind the clock back, leaves you with despair. I understand a decade from now, I would be looking at the current phase with longing too.

Once you are in your mid -twenties, you invest in your career and if you are lucky a happy family. What no one ever tells you is that along with being rewarding, building a family is all consuming too, as it should rightly be so. The years from when your kids are born, till the time, they are sort-of independent, flies away at times in a haze. I am not a sentimentalist, I rarely look back at old photos,but the truth is dawning on me that at present I am more dependent on my kids for my emotional needs than they are on me.  They are starting to step out in the world and will need me time and again, I know that because I am fortunate enough to still lean in to my parents. But for now my role is to lurk in the shadows , be the safety net while they learn to trapeze through life.

I would be lying if I said that adapting to this  pre-empty nest  stage is easy I had happily lost myself in this journey of being a responsible adult. I am in the process of rediscovering myself, trying to fill in the vacuum. I have waited long for this phase, to reclaim my time as an individual, yet I feel despair, with my role as nurturer, disciplinarian, and at times maid, being replaced by a friend that lurks in the background. I am lost for now, trying to reinvent a life- to create a life beyond kids, to adapt to a new phase in life. 

 

Mr. and Mrs. Lobo

What makes a story interesting? Is it the drama, is it twists in the plot, the characters or just the message that's  uplifting enough? Everyone has a story to tell - each one of us has one that may be inspiring to others, or may just bring out emotions that were long thought to have disappeared. Stories that stay with us, are ones that stir the core of our emotions. Characters as complex and as flawed as we are. I for sure don't want to hear a story that is all glorifying - humans are flawed, they are twisted and contradictory and that is what makes us interesting. My earliest memories are of my childhood in a still developing suburb in  Bombay and emulating Enid Blyton's Famous Five characters. A child's imagination knows no bounds and we would go out to a lake (pond?) and the slums beyond in search of solving a crime. Finding evil where there was none, sharing ghost stories at a nearby graveyard, stealing roses from a next-door-neighbors garden, and one time stealing a quarter from my mom to buy a snowcone. The last one didn't have a happy ending. Lesson learned, that life is all fun till you get caught.

I have special memories of growing up in Mumbai - School was in the same compound and my school friends were just a shout away. When I close my eyes, it seems that if I was ever carefree, it was there. My room was a balcony covered to make a makeshift bedroom, no car, no exotic vacations, a black and white TV coveted by neighbors, one channel and a few odd good shows.  Living in a colony of apartments, you cannot avoid people. I consider myself an introvert, yet as a kid, my memories are about the people who shaped my life.The apartment or flat as it is called in India, right across from us was owned by Mr.and Mrs. Lobo, Names haven't been changed. When you live in small spaces, you run out of options to avoid people. When I think about it, I remember crossing the passage to go to Lobo aunty's house almost daily. Now that was my first encounter with the western living. Mrs. Lobo was from Goa - a big lady who wore a gown or Caftan most of the time. I had mussels at her house for the first time, caught a whiff of English song on an LP player, and saw the nativity scene during Christmas at her house. She introduced me to the western culture. I loved her and I am sure she loved me too. Mr. Lobo was a colorful man and being shy as a kid, my memory of him is limited to his bright Hawaiian shirts- which was a contrast to my dad's boring plain white. The Lobos were childless -and their house -spotless, still evokes pleasant memories. When you give someone with heart, you don't just gift them a thing, you are passing on your love. The dress that Mrs. Lobo sewed for me 35 years ago - overnight apparently, is something that I equate with love. I am certain she charged for it, but for a 9-year-old kid, it was a gesture that has stayed on over the years.  

I did go back to visit the colony some years later, but couldn't meet the Lobos. Last I heard, they had moved back to Goa. There are people who shape your life, at times unknowingly, people who inspire you to be a better person. A child's heart and eyes perceive the good in others. My parents might have a different opinion about them, maybe they didn't like the noise we made, or something else, but I am happy in the memory that I have of them.