On the other side of the hill

Most of us spend our lives thinking of climbing newer heights and getting worried about newer challenges. It is almost always an uphill task. We never think about how life will be when the downward journey starts. And thus, when it actually does, most people just move with the flow. Age-related ailments become part of everyday life, meaningful occupancy diminishes and they depend on their kith and kin for companionship and support. Monotonicity sets in and loneliness becomes a habit.

However, there is another view of things. Life can still be beautiful. Grass can still be green, and flowers can blossom, on the other side of the hill. And I realized this when I met Mr Singh and Mrs Kashyap.

Some relations don’t have a name. They can neither be defined nor classified. Such was their relation, and such was the bond we developed with them.

I and my four-year-old accompanied my husband for his business conference. We checked into the same resort where his conference was scheduled. I had planned to spend some time away from my daily chores. On our special request hotel staff gave us a ground floor room. Here the sit-out area extended into small back-lawns. The idea was simple. My daughter could play, while I keep one eye on her and the other on my book, slouched in a garden chair.

It was in these back laws that we first met – for the lack of better words – our new friends.

It was early morning. My daughter was trying to take out her toy from a bush. I was watching this from a distance, feeling too lazy to get up for her help. Then Mr Singh came to her rescue. He was fair, tall, well built, full of life. Pucca Punjabi, as he referred to himself later. Very soon he was playing with my daughter. In between I heard another voice, that of an elderly woman. I assumed her to be his wife. He left when she called him for tea. I also asked my daughter to come inside the room.

After a leisurely breakfast, we decided to stroll around the premises, not wanting to confine ourselves inside four walls. From a distance my daughter saw Mr Singh and rushed towards him, maybe hoping for another play session. I followed her. The lady from morning was also there. Slim and sweet, she was elegance personified. Her shoulder length silken hair were more white than black. A charismatic personality, she must have been considered beautiful by many during her heydays. But I could still call her that.

They both welcomed my daughter with lot of enthusiasm. When I sat down next to them, I had no clue what was about to unfold before me. We were glued to each other for next couple of days. Their persona, their life and their stories were so mesmerizing that I could not stop myself from being with them. More I learnt, more I wanted to know about them. They also openly showed their fondness for both of us. Proximity of our rooms only made it easier and we spent long hours in those back-lawns. My curiosities were at its peak. Their warmth only made it easier for me to ask questions. Comfortable in their skin, they didn't shy away from answering. As Mrs Kashyap later mentioned, "At this stage of life very few things worry us. What will people say or think is certainly not one of them."

They met in the neighborhood senior citizen laughter club, after Mr. Singh moved into a house close to his daughter. He had been staying alone after his wife passed away five years ago. His only daughter had been married for long and was well-settled in a distant city. Since his wife's demise, his daughter had been requesting him to move-in with her. Not wanting to interfere in her family life, he was postponing the decision. Around two years ago they reached an agreement and he took up a place in close vicinity of her house. A regular at morning walks, Mr Singh continued with his routine even in his new residence. Soon he became friendly with a few fellow walkers, who in turn introduced him to this neighborhood laughter club.

Mrs Kashyap on the other hand has been staying alone for many years now. Her kids are settled in foreign lands. Now retired from a high-profile career, she spends her days divided between her books and social service activities. She has been working with this laughter club since its inception. They organize various events for health and well-being of senior citizens.   

Soon after joining the club, Mr Singh became an active member, supporting Mrs Kashyap in organizing various events. Social events led to coffee discussions. Frequent meetings became daily. They had common interests, common ideologies and very similar view on life. "We are a perfect match. She enjoys cooking good food, while I love eating. For both it is always quality above quantity. A single spoon is sufficient if it is made well." Mr Singh brimmed. At an age when most other only seek company, they found someone who was compatible and like-minded. They liked spending time with each other, and nothing prevented them from doing so.

“My grand-kids call Mrs Kashyap my girl-friend.” Mr Singh chuckled. “But I tell them she is my granny-friend.” He laughed out loud. 

"Why do you call her as Mrs Kashyap and not Neelima? She has such a beautiful name." I asked at risk of being nosy. "Well, it started as a matter of habit when we first met. That is how I have always addressed ladies. Something I picked up from my late wife. Now I do it more to tell people that she is not Mrs Singh, but Mrs Kashyap. And that continues to be her identity." He winked with a naughty smile. 

They spend long hours over coffee and books. Together they go for book-launches, seminars and even movies. From silly no-nothings to political debates and socio-cultural discussions, their knowledge is vast, updated and even seems to be ever-expanding. They talk about their past, their spouses, their kids and even grand-kids. Often they relive their memories, laugh at old jokes and cry for painful days. Mrs Singh and Mr Kashyap are often remembered, mentioned and talked about at length. “At our age we are not ashamed of having a past. We are in fact proud of it.” Mrs Kashyap smiled.

At last I couldn’t stop my inquisitiveness. Why were they here? In a different city, away from their families? Staying in separate rooms, but close to each other. What kind of relationship was this?

They looked at each other and smiled. “We were going through some old records in the senior citizen club and realized that it was 2 years since Mr Singh joined the club. Which also meant that it was our second anniversary. And we decided to celebrate it as long as it lasts. When everything else is going down-hill, somethings should keep us up-beat.”

From 'I Do' to 'Did you'!!

Its been a decade since then. Yet I am struggling today.

Its our tenth wedding anniversary and I still haven’t figured out what possibly could be an appropriate gift to mark the occasion. I don’t know which picture to post on our social media sites and I don’t know which words of love and appreciation will describe the relation and the associated emotion.

So I thought of pouring out my confusion on a sheet of paper.

It is surely difficult to describe ten long years in ten brief words. After I met my husband on an online site, I had updated my chat status – ‘life on a roller-coaster ride’. Honestly, it continues to be the same.

From a helicopter view of things, we are no different from many other couples out there. Our problems are same, same have been our challenges and our struggles. We have enjoyed creating and cherishing memorable moments. And just like many other pairs out there, we have continued the journey, sometimes walking together, sometimes just parallelly.

There is no denying the fact that things did change after marriage. In any case, ten years is a long time period for anything to remain constant. We have heard multiple stories around us about love getting lost or forgotten in the chaos of daily life. Love hormones getting replaced by adrenaline rush. And marriage acting like an eye-opener for couples blinded by love. Coming back home, for us also, change has been significant to say the least. Today being a parent, an employee, a child and a partner takes precedence on being a spouse. I agree that most of these different roles come with a package of joint venture, co-operation and togetherness. Yet, they don’t match the love-criteria specified by Cupids.

I will be brutally honest at this point. My husband and I spend most of our days checking off our to-do lists. Any available time is divided between traffic jams, grocery lists and school assignments. In the mad rush of life we do struggle to find time for ‘love you’, ‘miss you’, ‘need you’, ‘I do’…. What remain are the asks, ‘did you pay the bills’, ‘did you check your account’, ‘did you buy the stuff’, ‘did you already managed to or do you want me to finish the pending tasks'?

Yet after all this is done, once in a while, our lovelorn hearts leave the comfort of our home. We usually find shelter in any coffee-shop which caters to the needs of night-owls. Whether this happens on a blue moon night or full moon is of no consequence.  What matters is the solace. With our friends and family comfortably tucked in their beds, with official messages and emails expected to go unread, with least possibility of the phone ringing, most things around us become silent. Only things heard are our unending conversations. This is the time when the unsaid is repeated, without fear or inhibitions. From the darkest corners of our hearts to the illuminated spaces in our mind, nothing remains hidden. From idle gossip to daily no-nothings, from secret desires to life goals, everything is shared. Even the boundaries of time get blur, keeping us engaged well past mid-night.

Our late-night rendezvous with coffee and love has also become a decade old tradition now. Today also, when I am still-clueless about any tangible gift to mark the occasion, I may end up inviting my best half to yet another tête-à-tête. And this is where we may end the last ten years of this marriage and start the next ten.

Simmering

“Reduce the fire and let it simmer” Shanti instructed the cook. Just as she blurted out those words, she felt as though she was referring to herself and not the cooking vessel. She was simmering inside. Anger in her heart refused to die down.

She tried to bring her focus back to the boiling curry. Small bubbles would erupt and then would die down almost immediately. Slow fire prevented any spilling. Just like her anger, she thought again. She was fuming but not flaring. With all explosions covered under the lid.

She smiled at her choice of words, pushed the thought to back of her mind and started with her preperations.  At the end of two hours she was exhausted from trying hard not to think and trying harder to focus on her work. Something inside her was burning, and she could feel the heat.

It was nearly two decades since she left behind everything to be a part of his life. All these years she made every attempt to adopt and adapt. New language, new culture, food habits, lifestyle changes and belief systems – she had brought so many changes in herself that at times she didn’t seem to match her old pics. She was a new metamorphosed individual.

Yet after so many years, so many changes and two teenaged kids between them – Shanti still felt like an outsider in his home, amongst his family. And however much she tried, she could not be a part of them. How could she, she was not born as one of them. She was an alien, new to their city, their language, their culture and their heritage. She didn’t grow up in those same lanes, celebrating their festivals, eating the same delicacies, singing the same songs, following the same rituals. And even though she made every attempt to be a part of all the above, she never really belonged there. Or so they thought.

Fitting-in was always a challenge. She constantly tried to maintain the delicate balance between his and his family’s expectations. He wanted her to be independent, they expected her to be dependent. He would say manage your career, they wanted her to focus on home. He treated her as an equal, they as secondary to him. He would seek her opinion, they would assume she has none. Her well-being was important, only because it facilitated his. And so she would quietly stand under his shadow, becoming his pillar of strength.

And as years passed, Shanti believed that she had learnt to move on. She was a true personification of her name – silent and peaceful. Without uttering a word she accepted all remarks and feedback. She never spoke back, shed silent tears, and then accepted her short-comings and ignored those of others. Erasing past memories, ignoring comments and complaints, accepting changes and muting the revolting thoughts in her head, she kept moving ahead. But today it was all coming back. Today was different. Today she wasn’t willing to accept anything. She couldn’t, even though she was trying very hard.

The phone call left her shaken. She remembered each word spoken. And they kept rankling in her head. For the first time in so many years she thought it was her chance at proving her dedication towards his family and their traditions. It was her chance at organising the annual family feast. Over the years, being a silent apprentice of family elders, she had learnt even the minutest detail. And it was her chance of showcasing her skills. She had planned everything in her head. She had thought of ideas of making things interesting for kids yet retaining all traditional flavours. From menu to décor to gifts, she knew exactly what was to be done.

But the phone call informed her that it was not to be. The eldest daughter was being called to replace the family matriarch. It was believed that she has imbibed these traditions well, having grown up among them. The family traditions were to be upheld. Any deviation from past was feared to be detrimental to family welfare. So rituals couldn’t be compromised with. And someone born outside the boundaries of caste, language or religion was believed to not understand the relevance of these ‘family-traditions’.   

Was it such a big deal? Shanti argued with herself. It was just another family gathering. Just another occasion for everyone to feel happy and joyful. She just had to do what she had done for years. She just had to be a silent participant, with everyone assuming her happiness in theirs.

Yet she couldn’t feel any joy. The alienation, though subtle, was there, was evident. This feast was becoming her fight to get her space in the house she called her own. The house which she now considered her world. For once she wanted to hear her own voice, in her own home. She wanted to own the house and wanted it to be a part of her. She wanted to break open the cage and breathe freely. Without feeling the burden of family expectations and traditions.

The fire was still burning and curry was still simmering. Everyone had gathered in the house to enjoy the feast. Everything was as it was suppose to be. Everything as per the ritual, as per the tradition. Yet there was one person who had silently moved away. And for once, amongst all the noise, a silence was missed.  

Likeable....Always!!!

It had been almost an hour and two cups of coffee for each since the discussion started. Not reaching a conclusion, we paused, and it seemed a long pause. Then Varsha took a deep breath and spoke every word as if trying to put pieces of a complex puzzle together, one after another. “I think this girl really likes you.”

My eyes literally popped out at those words. I couldn’t believe my ears. I know Varsha is my childhood friend. I also know that I have been an audience to all her wild thoughts and plans. But childhood for us is a long-forgotten memory. And the wilderness of our thoughts and dreams has transformed into a structured and constructive habitation.

“I really think she does!!”, Varsha continued, seeing my disbelief. “Look at you!! You can still be considered quite handsome. With your energy levels you still give a tough challenge to many worthy opponents. Long-time football champion and connoisseur of all-things-edible. You have an excellent sense of dressing too and your poise is an inspiration for many. You are every bit likeable.”

I was still looking at her with my eyes wide open. But after being showered with so many compliments it was difficult to resist a smile.

At her end, Varsha was staring in space and was trying to connect dots in her head. “You are intelligent, backed by strong academic qualifications and in-tune with current times. You have a great sense of humour and good communication skills. You are logical in your thinking and approach towards life. Financially independent and emotionally strong. You care about people around you and are a role model for many.”

“You are perfect. You have everything and more one looks for in a person. You are perfectly ‘likeable’. And even lovable. That’s it. You are perfect.” She gave me a broad smile having reached a conclusion.

“And I am many miles away from teenage.” I spoke for the first time. “I have more grey hairs than black. And my son is finishing his schooling, with my daughter just a couple of years behind him.” It was my attempt at restoring sanity in her. But none of this is news to her. Being my childhood buddy, she has been a witness to many a turn my life has taken.

Yet, what had gotten into her today, was beyond my mind and comprehension. At this point I could have given long speeches on western influence on our cultural heritage, but I refrained. I could have spoken about maturity of feelings and emotions that comes with age, but it didn’t seem necessary to someone who was in the same bracket of life. I could have spoken about the institution of monogamy and its merits, but she herself has been practitioner of it for long. I could have argued with her on mid-life crisis, morality and modernity, but wasn’t sure to what end.  

Western cultures have more acceptance for varied relations between individuals from different walks of life. It’s never too late to start and never too early to end. Closure home our value systems are still deep-rooted in our history. And we were not even talking about a relationship. It was just a hypothesis, which made it even more absurd, yet plausible. Two decades ago this may have sounded exciting. A decade ago, I may have still considered it as a compliment. But today is different. In my mind I had crossed that threshold long ago.

Fortunately, or unfortunately we have matured to an age where every emotion and every relation has its own space. Each has a specific meaning and we know how to respect its boundaries. Yet, at this level its sufficiently challenging to define new relations. Most get covered under the umbrella of ‘Friendship’. This could also be because most other slots are already filled by then. Yet world is filled with endless similar examples of unmatched connects. Some fructifying, some dying a natural death.

We had reached a point in this discussion where none of us was sure where it was heading to. We didn’t know what we were arguing for or against. Or what conclusions to draw. Was there a merit in even talking about it? We have seen enough life to distinguish between flight of intellectual gymnastics and on-ground realities. This would have led us nowhere.

Still feeling clueless on how to react, I switched on the television. News channels were reporting engagement of a famous actress with someone junior to her in success, fame and age. Media was digging out examples of famous personalities who have entered matrimony breaking social norms. Television screen was flashing series of faces, narrating stories behind some successful some unsuccessful relationships. A fan of the famous couple was supporting their decision, “she is a dream-girl for many. When so many people admire her, why blame the guy? She is liked by all.” 
At this point I noticed a naughty smile on Varsha's face. The smile of winning an argument. 

“Are you upset?” she asked as I switched off the television. Her voice was a mix of guilt, apprehension and confusion.

“No. But it doesn’t boost my ego either. I only have a control on my emotions. I can only respect others with theirs.”

With the Flow

Water was gushing down the rocks, making a slightly deafening noise. There she sat on a rock, in knee-deep water. Water flowing past her was also deafening the voices in her head. A few meters away river looked peaceful. She remembered hotel-staff mentioned it was around 20ft deep. She stared at the stone below her feet. It was dark and slippery. For a passing moment she wondered if stones at depth of 20ft would also look and feel the same.

Noise of water was still muting all thoughts. She tightened her life jacket and started inching forward. Stones above water were hot due to the blazing sun, making it difficult to step on them. Those below were slippery. She used all four limbs to balance herself. With each step forward, water level was rising. Noise from the waterfall was fading away. For a small second she looked up. River ahead seemed to be hiding behind trees. Everything around her was silent. Including her inner voice.

Soon she was neck deep in water. Her life jacket was keeping her afloat. She remembered the instructions from hotel staff– “Let yourself loose. The jacket will not let you drown.” She followed the instructions. What was it – putting your guards up or putting them down - she mused.
Earth below her feet was gone. She struggled to stabilize herself, trying in vain to hold something. Her struggle continued for a couple of seconds. And then she was calm. She gave herself to the river. 

River was flowing at its own leisure. And she on river’s mercy. Noise from the falls was now gone. And thoughts started flooding back. She remembered his words, “Why do you have any expectations from this relationship? If you expect, it’s more likely that you’ll be disappointed. Even if your expectations are met, it may not excite you any longer. However, if you don’t expect, there still is a possibility that you may get surprised.”

But what were her expectations? Were they a lot? She was willing to fulfill her share. And to the best of her capabilities. Maybe even more. But 'not expecting anything' is not same as 'accepting everything', and she knew the difference. 

Her thoughts returned to the river. It was slowly taking her away from where she had started. She wondered if the same applied to life too. If it was okay to just move with the flow. Allowing someone else to decide your pace and direction. Accepting what comes your way is the same. From rocky falls to deep waters, you move where the flow of water takes you. 

His words came back to her, "I have faith in you and your decisions. Once you fix your goal, you are sure to achieve it."

Can 'inaction' be her decision? Its always available as an option, but will it be her decision? Its right to find happiness in what you have. But does this acceptance lead to inaction for change? Like it was right now, where she was just following, wherever the river led.

Water had slowed down by now. She felt an oscillating movement in water, just like in her mind. Her thoughts too moved between river and him. “You are like that caged bird who religiously comes back to its cage. When you spend a lot of time in a cage, you start loving it.”

Suddenly something touched her feet. She felt as if a silken string was getting her entangled. Maybe it was just a weed, her mind reasoned. But the fear of being tied down engulfed her heart.

With a bolt she turned and started swimming towards the shore. Once at the shore, she sat down, loosened her life jacket. She had her answers. She had to swim. She couldn’t move with the flow. She had to decide her course.

A Date With Myself

And quite unexpectedly I found myself alone, peaceful, in a place buzzing with strangers, chatting over food and drinks, while I look at the busy noisy street outside, and no particular thoughts running through my mind.

It was Friday evening. My task list of the week – of both personal and professional responsibilities – had more than usual tick marks. And thus we decided to take a break. Weekend breaks are becoming a cultural norm in this age of fast paced and high pressure careers. But this was a slight extension of this break by a few hours.

After exchanging multiple messages, location co-ordinates and online reviews, my husband and I finalized on a joint which had been on our wish list for some time now. He picked up our daughter on his way. I logged out of my office and reached our destination. And then it happened. It happens so often that it is neither unexpected nor surprising. They got stuck in a traffic jam.

And thus I found myself, silently waiting, alone, in a place full of noisy and vibrant people. Walking on the thin line of work-life balance, I for sure value these moments of peace.

With no immediate worry on my mind, I find myself without any particular thoughts to occupy me with. Hence my focus moved to myself – the only inescapable thing in front of me.

I feel the concept of a working mother is not very new. Not at least in this part of the world. They worked long hours in agricultural fields, supported hand-loom and other cottage industries and were also part of many family owned businesses. Even the household work till not long ago involved tedious and tiring manual effort. And all this was done when the primary responsibility of raising kids rested on their shoulders. The trend continues to be quite common till date.

Yet I wonder if they ever faced the dilemma of work-life balance. I wonder if their individuality as a ‘woman’ was ever threatened by being a mother, wife and home-maker. I wonder if they ever had to run-away from all these to get some ‘me-time’.

I am not the timid tender woman who is scared to venture out alone without a protective shield of a male guardian. Nor am I the bearer of liberation flag, demanding a ‘me’ time in her daily / weekly schedules. I am a normal ‘madhyam-maargi’, for the lack of a better word. I like to divide my time between work and home. They both complete me. And for any ‘my need’, ‘my want’, ‘my space’ kind of things, I need an assurance that the other two are well taken care of.

I don’t deny that maybe the problem is with me. Maybe I can’t compartmentalize myself. I am as much a part of my work as my family is a part of me. My family is as much a part of my vocation as is my blog. All these were my choices. These were my conscious, well-evaluated decisions. I wanted them all then as much as I need them now.

When I learn communication skills at work, I apply them at home. When I manage conflicting emotions at home, my conflict resolution at work improves. When I pen down my thoughts through this platform, my thinking gets more structured. The ‘me’ in me doesn’t change with location and environment.

I have often discussed this with my friends and colleagues. Once a very senior colleague told me, “Even at home my focus is on finding solutions. When at dinner table my kids shout what they don’t want to eat, I encourage them to think what they all can eat. I do the same for my team as well.” As another example, I know of people who plan team-trips. Their passion for travel has resulted in strong team connect and team bonding. From sharing investment advice to exchanging notes on kids’ education, from career counselling to relationship management, break-out zones in offices transcend a wide array of topics.

Maybe I sound in contradiction with theories which propagate the need of cutting off and switching off. However I believe, when separated by distance of time and physical space, we may only stop pursuing certain tasks. But then my work, my home and my passion is not limited to a task-list. I carry with me a part of my home to work and a part of work, wherever I go. The ‘me’ time for me is an illusion. Something I don’t run after. And the above examples make me believe that I am not alone in this.

Yet, I value this solitude. I value these minutes spent in my own company. I don’t expect a sudden revelation in this half hour. These minutes are unlikely to result in a eureka-moment. They will pass as quietly as they came. And they will remain as much a part of my life as any other.

The Holy Trinity of Fear

“The fear of being a bad mother/wife/daughter.” – Sheryl Sandberg, in her book Lean In.

Back home, it has taken me six years to convince my child that she is the best blessing I have received. Her well-being is my prime concern. And I am work in progress.

It has taken me ten long years to gain trust of my partner that I am standing with him through all thick and thin. And I am work in progress.

It has taken me almost three decades to convince my mother that my new responsibilities don’t imply that I won’t fulfill the old ones. And I am work in progress.

It has taken same number of years to convince myself that I have not and hopefully will not fail as a mother, wife or daughter. And I am work in progress.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a demanding or mistrusting family. It’s just that healthy and loving relationships require continuous feeds of effort and demonstration. It is not a legal bond which can be signed and then forgotten for the rest of our lives. It’s an ongoing process of give and take. And thus, I continue to be work in progress.

And yet the holy trinity of fear grips me occasionally and I make desperate attempts to walk in all directions, all at once, trying to cover everything. Guilt pangs do paralyze my thought processes, making me de-prioritize my personal needs and wants. “I miss you” statements make me want to give up.

Again, I am not complaining. Any individual, male or female, balancing professional and personal spaces face similar challenges. Our societal norms and cultural expectations put more pressure on women of the world. But I surely have loads of respect for our uber cool men who are standing hand in hand to shoulder the responsibilities.

At times scared, at times worried, there is still a hidden strength in me that keeps me going through all the mental and emotional turmoil. I have tried various models to reach an optimal equilibrium of perfectly balanced roles. But I am work in progress.

The other day I faced the usual innocent question – “Mumma, why do you go to office every day?” It’s a fairly common question, faced by most office-going parents. Like many of them I too was about to share the financial implications of this effort, making it sound like a win-for-all. But then I stopped. Instead I said, “because I enjoy working.” I hope someday my little one will grow up appreciating and imbibing the value of hard work.

And then there are those days when the fear takes over. When her teacher asked me, “do you hug her enough?”, I almost made a fool of myself by trying to count the number of hugs per day. And when sanity returned, I realized my mistake. I have been a part of all her growing up days. From her first word to her first step, now her school recitals to neighbourhood performances, I have not missed anything. I am a part of her days, every day.

As a wife too, I am more participative than supportive. Unlike most couples, my husband and I carry our office troubles with us to our home. We make some sort of case studies out of them and discuss over a cup of coffee. And honestly, views of a complete outsider help in giving perspectives which sometimes we otherwise miss. I take pride in this sort of consistent and mutual mentorship. But I also realise that this partnership will only work if both individuals continue to grow in their respective zones. We understand the each other’s challenges, because we go through them ourselves too.

Yet, there are days when I am reprimanded by elders in family for not overseeing his food and health habits. When blamed for this negligence, I do make a few futile attempts to dictate terms to my fairly independent husband. And very honestly, usually after these incidences, I am pushed to the other extreme of feeling guilty of doubting his capabilities of fending for himself. Thus I don’t feed him, I eat with him.

And then my role of a daughter keeps oscillating between that of a care-giver and care-receiver. At times I feel our fears and guilts are also mutual. From being always there to being mostly away, our situation has changed over the years. Yet, exchanging complaints and compliments, we continue to be together in this journey.

These fears, guilts and disappointments are as much part of me, as are love, care and sacrifice. I love playing these roles as much as I love just being myself. In my quest of completion, I continue to bring together these pieces of womanhood. And I am work in progress.