The Pursuit of Happyness

It's been an odd week/weekend for me recently, a lot of work, writing material and interactions with certain individuals has left me with an odd, hollow feeling in my stomach with a lot to think about.
I'm a firm believer in that everything happens for a reason and that mistakes are a part of it: things are supposed to happen to us. Good, bad, painful, happy, angry,indifference: in the grand scheme of things it appears to slot perfectly into place with hindsight.
Hindsight - it's a beautiful gift even if we end up kicking ourselves for not assessing a situation or a person with rationality. But had we not been through that experience and come out the other side, we wouldn't have had our revelations with hindsight.

It's almost ironic how everyone is fed this idea of everlasting happiness and all the perks that allegedly come with it - and we believe it. I'm not 100% certain about this, happiness is a mood; it comes and goes.
Call me the pessimist but I genuinely believe that the plastic, commercialised idea of everlasting love and happiness doesn't exist. And it is the realisation of sky high expectation that ends up breaking people.
But, this doesn't mean that everything is a Shakespearean tragedy: things have to come to an end naturally or forcefully. I just don't buy into the whole idea of being happy and in love forever - I think we just get used to people and adapt to situations over time.
The imagery of "everlasting happiness" is first introduced to us as young children are the happily ever after endings that dominate Disney movies, then "rom-coms", things like Valentines Day etc.
Yes, I am the anti-cupid. Why? Well, unfortunately these things subconsciously influence us with regards to how we view ourselves, others and relationships in general. When things don't work out, we imagine ourselves on a killing spree as heartless b*tches but in reality? You cry endlessly and blame yourself for everything that went wrong. Even if it wasn't your fault.
Sooner or later we find out (painfully) that true love's first kiss is often a clumsy, teenage fumble that fizzles out faster than a Chinese cracker in a monsoon. Then the supposed feelings of exhilaration, dancing in fields (without hay fever) and gazing into your betrothed eyes lovingly doesn't last forever and after 6 months you voluntarily want to stick pins in your eyes.
Then we find out that these films never told us how painful, annoying, unreliable, immature and ridiculous the process is. And that Prince Charming doesn't exist - sorry, but "perfect" people are terrifying. Example: the guy from American Psycho. Enough said.
I'd love to sit here and say how all of the above is just made up, but sadly it isn't. It's all part of a long process and it teaches you so many things: look after yourself no matter what.
There's someone for everyone and they're not going to be the perfect Prince Charming  but it's important that they don't complete you or fill an empty space in your heart. They have to complement you and you need to make sure that you are ready. Toying with people's hearts and feelings is cruel. I wish the people who did it realised that. 

The Human Story.

We are made from a rich patchwork quilt of stories, languages, cultures, identities, voices and journeys that shape every single one of us. It doesn't matter whether you speak the same language, practice the same religion or come from different histories. History matters and we are part of the human story.
I'm often asked by readers, friends, family members etc who live outside of the UK on what it's like growing up here. For many, the old colonial rosy nostalgic image of London and the UK still remains - a place where the pavement is littered with gold and where opportunity is all but a phone call away. Sounds like an advert right?
Being born and raised in London, I grew up with kids who had heritages from all over the world. It's like growing up in a pressure cooker - separate ingredients thrown into the pot, stemmed for decades where we start to merge, become influenced by each other and eventually end up forming new identities that change as new generations emerge. I often talk about this metaphoric tug-of-war that myself and others face: do we go full hog assimilation or the other extreme clinging to our heritage?
With both there is a danger. Clinging to your roots for dear life is dangerous in the sense that you eventually become narrow-minded. I know individuals who are British and refuse to integrate or acknowledge being a part of British society. They long for a homeland that doesn't exist anymore and that they've never experienced - it is damaging and eats away at an individual because this affects the next generation's self-view and the society they're born into.
The other extreme: full on assimilation. I know many kids who've ignored their roots, their skin colour, hair type etc because "it's easier that way" - yeah ok cool. It's called 'being in denial' and that too eats away at people. But what happens when your kids start to ask: "Mummy, daddy where do I come from?"
You can't lie to them the way you've lied to yourself.
It's finding this balance that is the hard part and maintaining it with an open mind. It doesn't happen over night and to be very honest, it's a process that is constantly being developed, strengthened, weakened and built up again in a lifetime. I cannot stress how important it is for people to go read up about their histories be it through reading, asking questions or undertaking journeys abroad. It doesn't matter what your heritage is; part of finding the balance is learning about your own personal history and collective history: national history. You'll find that it spans countries, languages, cultures etc.
At my school, we never learnt about the British Empire, the British slave trade or the past 60-70 years of migration to the British motherland. Whilst it's important to learn about WWI and II, the Tudors, Queen Elizabeth I etc, it's even more important to learn about contemporary history.
To me, it's almost like cultural amnesia - we want to "forget" our grubby past where Britain ruled the world and the aftermath when the Empire "came home" which is the scapegoat for our social problems today.
We like to think that colonialism has finished. That "multiculturalism is dead." That colonies don't exist anymore. No: we're still part of the post-colonial story that is ongoing; each and every one of us.
We need to get past the bullsh*t, stop lying to ourselves, being spoon-fed everything we're told and go off on our own personal mission to find out our stories to tell to our children, their children and their children's children. 

Lions, tigers and bears.

For many of us the experience of secondary school is either one of joy, mixed feelings or a traumatic nightmare you've gladly put behind you. I was 'lucky' enough to spend 7 years of my life in an all girls' school. I would describe my time there as 'an experience' and I received an 'education with a b*tch slap.' 

Unfortunately, it was every inch as b*tchy, snake-like, back stabbing and cruel as the world thinks.

If you didn't look a certain way, have the latest bag, straight hair etc you were a 'neek' (nerd+geek=neek), instantly undesirable by the boys in the neighbouring school and a red alert for bullying. 

However, the main thing that all-girls schools are infamous for is sports. The main one? Netball. 

I believe that girls playing sports is so important and it's a shame that not many of us take it seriously - there's some inspirational female athletes (Jess Ennis, Paula Radcliffe etc) to look up to. However, there is a huge difference between female Olympians and your secondary school netball player. 

Now everyone likes to think that girls playing sports in schools as "cute", "healthy", "fun" and "adorable." Well I'd have used far stronger words to have described my P.E classes! 

1. We were often made to do sports in the freezing cold with our teacher wearing a hat, coat, scarf and gloves.

2. Our P.E teachers tended to be really fat or really really skinny: no happy in between. 

3. Half of us skived off P.E because it was a doss lesson. 

4. It was prime time to bully other girls under the guise of: "Oh but it's my adrenaline Miss, I couldn't help it!"

What people think girls playing netball looks like.

So, you can imagine exactly what kinda things tended to happen in P.E. Now when it comes to netball, it's some next level stuff. It may only be 1 hour but trust me...sh*t goes down!

I have no idea where the idea of: "girls are harmless" came from, but they clearly haven't seen a secondary school all girls netball game or played in one. 

We come out of the changing rooms in our P.E kit, cordially having a chit-chat, hair tied up if you're serious (or out if you're a rebel) and looking generally quite disinterested. So far so good. We do our warm-up; have a quick sip of water, some more chit chat and then we get split into teams. 

What girls playing netball REALLY looks like.

This is where it all goes horribly wrong. We viciously scramble for our positions: scratching, diva tantrums, dirty looks etc - everyone wants to be Centre or Goal Attack. After this ritual, we are then sent out into the arena to do battle. The captains of each team swagger out to the middle, menacingly eyeing one another with the look of: "Gurrrl, we gone whip yo' ass!" to a replying look of: "Oh really? Is that so?"

The whistle blows, the ball is thrown in the air and it goes from roses to full scale war in a matter of nanoseconds. Screeches, shouts, insults, hair pulling, face scratching, T-shirt grabbing, deliberately tripping each other up as any tension between friends or enemies spills out into the battle field. 

Game face on: this is netball at an all girls school. None of the "good ol' sportsmanship" or "let's all just be friends" or even: "this is just a game" crosses our minds. This is serious and we take it way more seriously than people think. Netball is not just a game. It is where we vent our frustrations, bring our beef with someone out in the open and anything is justified with the wide eyed statement: "I won't do it again. I promise."

Netball, it's not just a game. We're not professionals, we just have a score to settle with someone. 

Apples and Oranges

**

I live in a world where things still aren't equal. I don't want to be the same as you, Tom, Dick or Harry
I want to be treated equally but still keep my differences - is that so much to ask for?
There is a difference between equality and homogeneity. Don't know the difference? Go read a dictionary.

I am a Feminist and no: I do not go around burning bras or declaring hatred upon men,
I do not go around shouting the odds, sh*t stirring, shaving my head, chaining myself to rails.
I do not hate men, I do not hate myself. I am not ashamed of my ethnic heritage. I am not mad, bad or dangerous.
I like to cook. I like to look after myself. I enjoy studying and learning. I want to get married, have children and be a good mother.

I like to wear make-up. I love to dance, listen to music and dress up for MYSELF.
Just because I am a Feminist, does not mean that I cannot do all of the above.

I am a young woman who just wants equality regardless of my skin colour, my nationality and my gender.
Is that so much to ask for in this day and age?
"Ah but you're British! You don't need more rights! We've done enough for women!" they say.
"Be grateful you're not born in India or some place like that," they say.
It should not matter where I am born or where I live or where I have grown up.
We should have never had to struggle like this for so many years and continue to do so.
Having legal rights doesn't equate to equality. We still don't have enough women in government and corporations.

"You speak too much," they say. "It's not like Asian ladies to answer back. You're making us look bad."
Well maybe it is time more of us spoke up. Made our voices heard and told our stories.
How many of our grandmothers, mothers, aunts, sisters and other women have suffered purely because they never spoke out?

"Ah but you're just an angry woman," they say. "Get over it."
Damn straight I am frustrated by what I see going on around me and around the world: I cannot simply 'get over it.'
I am frustrated that after all this time, we still have not got very far. It hurts me that we are still not at the same level.
So don't sit there and tell me to: 'Get over it' - it is easy for a man living in a male constructed world to say that to women.
I want to be able to use the library, the gym, participate in debates without the fear of being judged by my appearance, labelled a "wench" and silenced by online social media groups/pages.
I want my future children and other children to grow up in a world where they do not have to fight prejudices, stereotypes, militancy and gender inequality.
I want girls and women in the future to not feel undermined, shunned and passive regardless of their ethnic background.
I have a voice. You have a voice. Use it. Speak out. Do not stay silent. Do not let others speak for you.
I am a Feminist. I am a British-Indian woman. I am proud of my identity and all I want is equality.

"The thorn in my side."

"She'll be with you shortly," the receptionist said. "Have a seat over there for now."
I numbly nodded as I gingerly looked around the room before planting my arse on the recommended seat. I inwardly groaned. It was not as comfy as it looked. Mahogany bookcases with brightly coloured books peeping out from shadowy shelves lined the walls making the room look and feel smaller than it really was. My hands repeatedly knotted and unknotted themselves as I anxiously watched her tap intelligently at her computer.
My mind drifted until my eyes rested on a painting of a bearded, strict-looking old man clasping a large, golden pocket-watch in his left hand. With his right hand, he authoritatively pointed to a stormy sky above him.
Time. It's a funny concept. People go on about how much of it there is and how much Time we have, yet the truth is that we don't actually have that much Time. You're born, you crawl, walk, run, grow, learn, work, work, work and then die. And in between of all that, is Time.
In addition, they (who are "they" anyway?) say that Time is a great healer of things. Time makes it all better in the end. If anything, they should encapsulate Time in a tablet and have it on prescription to everyone because sometimes there is not enough Time to heal certain wounds, make scars disappear and erase memories.
Sounds, sights, smells - I wish I could get rid off them all. But there is not enough Time for that to happen nor any form of prescribed medication some jumped-up Doctor could give me.

Blurred scenes play every time I close my eyes. The care-free childhood, innocent laughter, playing on the swings and days of ever-lasting sunshine before the dark clouds came to steal the sun. To steal our happiness. My brother. And my smile forever.
They came in the night and woke us up with loud voices and flashlights in our faces. They shoved funny bags over my parents' heads and kicked them outside. We screamed, we cried, we begged and we prayed for Superman to come save us. But he didn't come. My frightened fingers grasped my brother's as we sat in our pyjamas paralysed with fear.
They shouted at us,barked orders, and pushed us towards the front door. I held my brother's hand firmly in mine as we stumbled in the dark. Frightened splutters and squeals escaped from our little lips every time we stubbed our toes or lost grip on each other's hands. Coarse fingers pushed our heads down, poked our shoulders and forced us out into the night air. The moon leered at us from her throne in the sky as we clutched at each other. We watched them smoke cigarettes and laugh loudly. We shivered as the wind wrapped itself around our little bodies, tears silently falling down our cheeks and holding each other's hands.
Suddenly two of them came towards us - like baddies in films, but there was no hero to come save us.
I desperately looked at the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of crimson and blue. It was a deathly, quiet night. The stars silently glimmered as they bore witness to two children crying for their parents and praying for someone to save them. Two children holding onto each other's hands as they trembled in the face of an unknown darkness about to descend upon them.
One of them grabbed my brother and I felt myself being carried away. I screamed, cried and tried to scratch my way towards my brother. I heard him crying, shouting and calling my name as he was carried away in the opposite direction. The cries grew fainter and fainter until I could hardly hear them. I strained my little ears craving to hear my brother's voice. To hear him say my name once more. To say his name. To cheekily smile at each other before sneaking up on our mum. To count our missing teeth and compare how much the tooth fairy had given us. To sit on our dad's lap after a long day at school and watch the news with him.
I kicked, pushed, cried and struggled only to be hit in the face. Darkness swallowed me in its greed and I drowned in its hopelessness with my brother's screams and cries ringing in my ears, my mind and my heart for years to come.