People are surprised when I say my mum is 60. I think it’s because she doesn’t look it….but I think it’s also because of me. The quick math would suggest that she had me in her late 30’s, uncommon for women at the time and especially rare for an Indian woman as well. Most get married and have children throughout their early 20’s. A lot of my family friends have mothers that were 18 or 19 when they got married and had their first born. Despite that, my mum had her first at 30, my brother. And then had me 7 years later. Her story, just like who she is, is unique.

I remember the first time I really knew my mother’s story. I was 18 and in my first year of uni.
For an assignment, we had to interview an interesting person.

I don’t know why my first thought was her…maybe it was because of the all the stories I heard growing up from aunties and uncles about my dear Amma. Maybe it was because of the stories she told me about growing up in a small town in Wayanad, Kerala. Or maybe it was just this gut feeling that I had about a woman who, for better or for worse, took care of three males in the small house, in the small suburb of St Clair, out in Sydney’s West.

Truth be told, I was expecting more of the same. I had not prepared for anything new or exciting, nor was I expecting her to delve deep into her life…but what I got was that and so much more.

It was a casual interview on a Sunday afternoon, she was tired from the day and had decided to have a laydown. I sat down on the floor next to her. I remember the carpet feeling soft and clean from the vacuuming we did earlier.
Roman had snuck in…he climbed the steps and settled right next to me. I could hear the wind outside and the blinds softly tap the window sill… the only thing that lit up her face was the lamplight on her bedside table.

It was a setting I knew all too well…comfortable and familiar. I couldn’t count how many days I spent next to her bed, either when dad was away in India or late coming back from work. She used to rub coconut oil into my hair just before a shower…this time was no different, it was me talking to her…but this time I had my phone recording the conversation and a pen & notebook in my hand.

As time pressed on…as the words spilled from her mouth, I found myself having to snap myself into interview mode time and time again. I couldn’t concentrate on the job I had to do because I was being sucked in with each little tale. Truth be told, I don’t think her story is any more or less than any other hard working Indian woman. But for obvious reasons, I think I felt it more than anything else because as much as it’s apart of her, its apart of me too. Her origin is my origin. Her home is my home. Her story is my story.

My mum was born the eldest of 5 kids to a labourer/landowner/shopkeeper and a housewife. Nothing special, and not unlike many other Christian, lower-middle-class families at the time. Her father, my grandfather, was a well known, strong and educated man who worked hard with his hands every day to help provide for his family. Her mother, my grandmother, took care of the household, preparing good wholesome food for the five kids, and making sure the house was well kept and well looked after. They lived a moderate life…it was hard, but it was not a life unlike many others around them.
From an early age, Mum took education and work very seriously. She started school and was instantly recognised as being a cut above the rest. She was frequently ranked in the top three students of her year and was only ever beaten out by another young man she had a fierce rivalry with. It didn’t matter though, for while he gloated of his academic success, Amma excelled in other areas.

She was well rounded both academically and athletically, competing in cross country, long jump, shot put and volleyball. She was physical and was rarely intimidated by any endeavour…especially when it came to sport.
I was surprised because It was here that I drew the most similarities.

For so long I thought I took so much from my father. His looks, his hair and his lean nimble frame. But in truth, my personality and some of the traits that are so embedded in me are much more like her. Amma was and still is fiery, fierce, stubborn and headstrong. She acted first and asked questions later and never backed down…sometimes to a fault.
She would get attached to things, animals especially. She would often recall a memory from her youth of befriending a stray dog that followed her everywhere. She would tell me how he would act as a protector as he trotted on beside her while she walked to the bus stop every single day. She would later tell me of the day that he had disappeared …and how she later found out that he was bitten, infected with rabies and then passed away.
She would play it off like it wasn’t a big deal…her stern expression chalking it up to the very real way of life back home. But deep down I could see she was still heartbroken.

She graduated from school with top marks and decided to work with children as a teacher. On paper, she didn’t seem like a woman who could be warm and caring, but that’s where assumptions fail. She loved kids, she was passionate about education and she felt responsible for any difference she could make. She chose to educate young minds over slaving away in an office all day.
Amma had made a life for herself, a good one. She was her own provider and worked well to do so for her family, taking care of whatever and whomever she could.

Before long a knock came to her door. Family and friends were trying to figure out what her next step was. And just like for many other young women in her time, Marriage was on the horizon.

I’m guessing that school and work came first because it wasn’t until she was 27 that she decided to tie the knot. In today’s world, 27 is about the age that most women get married, but back then, it was old. The aged and outdated patriarchal society that once ruled, dictated that women finish some form of education before immediately getting married.

As you can imagine, people began to worry whether she was ever going to settle down. However, their pitty was misplaced and not needed.
It wasn’t because mum wasn’t getting suitors, nor was it because she had no desire for a family…she was just waiting for the right person.

Then, along came Mr Alexander. An engineer and bachelor that had migrated to Malaysia and had begun work in one of the biggest toy manufacturers in the world. He came from a similar upbringing…A middle class, working class, Christian family who valued hard work and education. Dad was smart, charming, well liked and respected. Not to mention well educated… most would say, a perfect match for Mum.

Dad was somewhat young, but looking for someone suitable for his lifestyle in Malaysia. He needed someone strong, courageous and happy to live away from the comforts of friends and family in India.
And there she was, all of those things and more.

From their first meeting, a month had passed and they were married. Dad had to return to Malaysia soon after, mostly to sort out a living situation for his new bride and the family that was to come.
Pretty soon after that, Amma was pregnant, gave birth to my brother in India, and then migrated to Malaysia. Everything was good until 1991, where life in Australia beckoned Dad to take the family to Sydney, where the three of them settled in its West. 4 years later, I was born…and that was that.

Mum had become a housewife and a mother in a short period of time. She had grown used to caring for my brother and me, for cooking meals and taking us for walks…but it wasn’t long before she refused to sit idly at home any longer. She never wanted to burden my father with the pressure of being our sole provider and looked to go to work as soon as she could.

I was young, but I remember when she left me at day-care for the first time. I cried as she walked to the bus stop, not unlike she did all those years ago….this time no dog to protect her. But life was always difficult and She didn’t need protection… not anymore anyway.

I imagine she felt even worse. Annoying little shit that I was, I was still her baby boy and she had spent so much time being a mother to my brother and me, she forgot what it was like not having us around.
But regardless, she persevered…

It was here that the interview stops. I had no more questions and there was no more story to tell. Not for her anyway. For me, I wanted to hear more, but I think I knew the rest… By that point, I was old enough to see and understand.

I’ve heard that story time and time again since then. Whether that be from her mouth, the recording of that interview or my own memory of that afternoon.
For me, It was the little things that I most connected with. From all her adventures as a young girl to getting frustrated time and time again because she just missed out on first place.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt more a part of someone than in that afternoon I spent listening to her story.

Looking back, her attitude was a necessity more than it was a choice. It was ingrained into her makeup from day one and she couldn’t deny it. Hardworking, fierce and loyal to the bone. She worked day in and day out, often under immense stress and pressure. Sometimes, in hostile environments and frequent abuse from so-called “colleagues”.
Regardless, she refused to give in, and she always looked for the best in a bad situation.
But after reminiscing and living her life like a real-life Pensieve, I couldn’t help but remember all the times she gave me something else. Not stories or life lessons. Not food or Christmas presents.

It was the quality in character that really hit home. She put everyone else ahead of herself, especially family. It almost makes me feel ashamed for second-guessing any of her choices.
But it’s always likely that you take for granted anything that is too good for you. You fail to realise the value of something, or in this case, someone in your life. Without my mum, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with crispy Dosas on Saturday morning. Without her, I wouldn’t have played soccer for 7 years, picked up the violin, or even started writing anything besides essays for school. Heck, she’s the one that set me down after one of my tantrums and made me read Harry Potter…and if that’s not something to be thankful for, then I don’t know what is.

I could go on and on about her life story, trust me its worth hearing. But I think the most important details, are ones that I keep to myself. They’re the ones that resonate the most…the ones that really do her justice.

She’s 60 now. Her birthday was a week or so ago. We spent the night at a restaurant on Darling harbour as a family, eating food and enjoying the sunset.

But as we were looking at old photos sent from family across the world on WhatsApp, she turns to me with a smile not unlike my own and whispers to me how thankful she is to have had a life like hers.

I sometimes think that she wished it went some other way. But Peace of mind, surrounded by love and family is all she ever wanted, and the least she deserves.

She always scolds me for ever doubting it though. She doesn’t feel that way….she never has and she never will. No matter how shitty things may become, she takes pride in what she’s done….and deep down inside, she is still that fiery, fierce, stubborn and a mostly headstrong young woman that’s always trying to make the best of a bad situation.

My cousin celebrated his 10th birthday recently…

Boy does time fly by.

I remember the first I heard of his existence, all those years ago.

I was 13, just started high school, and was barely getting by…mostly struggling to figure out studying, sports and all that added pressure that comes with high school. There was so much that had to be done, so much more time to spend working hard and the idea of getting older and trying to figure out year 7 math seemed to be taking its toll.
For a minute and not for the last time, life got daunting, and I couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed.

But I remember the exact moment.
I was laying in bed, reading “The Boy In the Striped Pyjamas”. A somewhat morbid tale, especially when you think about the news I was about to receive. My mum opened my door, with a big smile on her face.
The home phone was in her hand which had fallen from her ear to her shoulder.
Barely holding her face together from smiling, she told me how my aunt was pregnant and that our family was about to get a little bigger. My response was, in hindsight, not that profound, nor was it anything notable, but regardless it was something I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
“I’m going to have a cousin…”

She watched me smile and turned off the light as I put my book down, turned my body over and brought the covers up to my chin. My eyes began to shut as my response rang through my own head with a smile that didn’t seem to leave my face.

For years I was one of the youngest. I was every bit of trouble my family couldn’t handle and I remember all too often, feeling a little misplaced. But finally, I was going to have someone who I could imprint on.
To carry, to feed, to be a role model to and to equally be a bad influence on. Although the responsibility seemed high, I found something to smile about and things didn’t seem to be so dreadful.

Time went by so quickly though…Nine months passed by and he was here.

He was so fucking cute. He had light brown skin and big brown eyes, his ears stuck out just like mine did, and his hair was just as curly. He had curiosity, a whole lot of character and had so much imagination. He was constantly in his own world, and he often wanted us to be a part of it. His terrible twos made it difficult to express himself, but in time he used his cleverness to bring us onto his level.

The best part was that he loved all the same stuff I loved. Animals, climbing trees, punching things, Pokemon and females… I can’t tell you how many times I caught his gaze travel over to a bunch of girls in a restaurant or at a park.

For the first time in my life, I felt like there was to see me in something else.

When his brother came along, it was round two.
He’s devilish, clever and won’t shut up.
Now more than ever I know what its like to have a twin. I don’t just see it, it’s more like I’m living things over and over again. Eating at the dinner table as a family on Easter, watching them blow out candles on their birthdays, and see how awkwardly they trudge around with oversized school bags in light blue uniforms. It’s almost like looking at a sped up version of a photo album…and its hard not to mistake their faces for mine.

In reality, It’s a blessing and a curse.
While they’ll both grow up with whatever makes them unique and special, they’ll also grow up with little bits of Nickin aswell, the good and the bad, and in all honesty, I can’t help but worry.

As time passes I realise more and more of my own hardships that must be overcome. Life gets harder as you get older, I guess most people know that already. Things aren’t easy, and so much more affects you. The worst is seeing it in others, more than seeing it in yourself, especially the ones you care about. That doesn’t ring truer than for both of them.

While they glow in whatever triumphs they fulfil, they both struggle to express themselves at times. They’re abrasive and loud, not to mention somewhat alone. And now I’m seeing them face the same struggles I did.

When I sit down with them and watch TV, read a book or try and teach the youngest to say yellow properly, I remember the difficulties of being a kid… I remember how hard it was for me.

Inevitably, when they face a difficult situation in life, they’ll look to someone for help, someone with the same experiences and the supposed know-how to get through whatever it is they’re struggling with.
A role model.
And the older I get, the more I realise that that person is most likely going to be me.
The worst part of knowing you’re a role model is knowing how much you’ve messed up. All the exams you failed, all the goals you missed in soccer, all the times you’ve been rejected by girls and every other horrible moment that everyone else reminds you more of.

Regardless of all of that, there are still going to be people who look up to you.

One of my biggest fears is leaving behind a legacy of negativity, and until I have children of my own, my story will be told by my family and friends, particularly those two cousins that I share so much with. Although somewhat vain, it’s a reality that most people face in their lives. The crappy part is knowing that they, like so many others, will remember your faults as much as your triumphs.

But from the outside looking in, it looks like they need me,   however in reality, I need them. Not just for the vanity of my story being told…but also because if I can’t live my best life for myself, I sure as hell should try for those who mean the most. I owe them that.

In times of strife, you turn to friends and family. At rock bottom, that’s all you have, and the thought of disappointing them, the thought of them seeing nothing more than failure is way more daunting than working hard, getting older or any kind of math.
Because if there is anything in this world worth living up to, it’s to those who we share so much with. Family or friend, its what keeps us wanting to do more. I often write about how our lives are this big story for the world, and I believe that. Our words and actions are not just apart of who we are, but what others see…more importantly, its how the people we care about see’s us.

For years I’ve been told to not take things so personally.

For whatever reason, I convinced myself that that would make me a better person. In a world where prejudice, misconceptions and false narratives are all rolled into a verbal nonsense we call our own personal opinions, one wonders whether it’s worth listening to anyone these days.

I used to change so much of my behaviour and who I was because of someone else. The way I ate, the way I spoke and the way I dressed. Constantly trying to make other people happy with me. Constantly trying to fit in. I fell into countless traps of facades to try and make other people like me.

The worst part was whenever I questioned it, whenever I needed an answer as too why I was “too much” or needed to change …all I got was a simple 4-word answer that drove me insane.

 

Don’t take it personally.

 

I thought that was the answer…. but I realised that’s who I was. I am personal, I am emotional, I wear my heart on my sleeve and I listen to everything you say. I not only hear it, but I also digest it, it manifests and it feeds so much of who I am. Call it unhealthy, call it a gaping character flaw, but regardless… it’s me.

Being brash, not thinking, speaking first and asking questions later, is who I am. Raw, real and no bullshit.

 

I used to think that somehow it was my obligation to try my best to be more acceptable for the wrong people around me. But I think the moment I realised how detrimental that could be, was when I noticed the difference in my edge.

 

 

My whole life I’ve been competitive. I loved trying to be quicker, faster and stronger. Being smart and sharp, being big and strong, being quick and witty, these are all things that fed off a desire to be better.

It branched out into everything, from sport to the classroom.

And it all came down to taking things personally.

Now I don’t mean that I would harbour any resentment or ill will to anyone who would criticize me. Rather, I would listen and understand where they were coming from, whether or not it was genuine and then use it to be better. Their words would echo in my mind and when the time came, it gave me the fuel to maintain my edge.

 

And then I lost it. All to the wrong people.

They took it as me being too passionate. They wanted me to be apathetic, dry and looking to them for constant validation. They wanted to control me in an effort to feel better about themselves. And they did that by telling me that when I took things to heart, that I was in the wrong.

I chose to become a carbon copy of people who would do nothing more than dig up whatever it was that made me unique and burn it into a fire of malice and selfishness. I chose to listen to them and not take it personally. To not see it as an attack on what made me who I was, but rather a form of so-called criticism that would “help” me.

I chose to stop caring and to stop living in passion.

But when I spent another day, dozing into a tiring spell of depression, feeling sorry for myself for the hundredth time, I started to think about how it all went wrong.

 

I began to blame myself, not because of hate, but because I succumbed to the will of other people. I bent over backwards and it ended up breaking whatever it was inside of me that made me light up. I did exactly what they wanted. I didn’t take it to heart, I just took it as me being never good enough.

I should’ve taken it personally. It fed me. It’s the reason why I’m good at so many things, and, more importantly,  it would’ve allowed me to see through their lies.

Somewhere along the way, I drifted way off course. I chose to believe that there was something incredibly wrong with the way I was and I lost faith. All because I wanted to fit in. I chose to accept the words of snakes instead of listening to myself and those that mattered.

Having minimal confidence and virtually no self-esteem meant that I constantly looked for validation from the wrong people. Trying desperately to cling to whatever idea would best fit others, the constant pushy, incessant, whiney, need to be something I will never ever be. And at the end of the day, it took a lot of time to admit that I was walking the wrong path.

 

I’m not a coward, not to anyone else and most definitely not to myself.

 

So when I had come to the realisation that it was all for nothing. That trying to please everyone else was actually the worst for me, I had to also take responsibility for who I actually am, and realise who and what mattered most.

 

I came to the conclusion that in the real world, the one where depression and social anxiety are the biggest killers of young men, the best foot forward is to accept what you are, remain passionate about what keeps you alive and disregard the people who plain and simply do not matter.

 

 

I realise now more than ever that that group is consisting of fewer and fewer people.

I am not ashamed to admit that I’ve spent many nights beating my head against a wall or trying to drown myself in the shower mourning the loss of people I thought were important.

 

I killed myself on the inside for not being better, to succumbing to the will of those that were irrelevant.
The toll of stripping anything that made me unique to be generic and to be like them was a travesty. It was toxic and poisoned my existence, and I’m ashamed now more than ever that I let that happen.

I wasted so much time…. and I will never get that back.

I should’ve just respected that any growth would come in time, that my way was who I was and just listened to the right people.

 

Being so worried about what I would be tomorrow, I forgot about how good I had to be today.

But today I put that to the side.

Today, I say no to the fake and accept what’s real.

Today, I cast aside the poisonous people.

Today, I look in the mirror and acknowledge who I am.

Today, I take everything, I do not shield myself from the bad, or try and change for the wrong reasons.

Today, I live for me.

Today, I take it personally.

I hurt my hand…badly.
I never realised how useful my limbs were until I was forced to work my life using only my right hand. And as dramatic as it sounds, the number of times I wished to have even a sliver of patience to deal with the hook that became my left hand was actually pathetic.
Most people looked at my situation and commented on how lucky I was.
My God-fearing, Indian mother said that it was divine intervention that I didn’t lose a thumb.
Regardless, I couldn’t help but still feel a little annoyed.

For those who don’t know, which is probably most of you, I clamped and punctured both sides of my thumb. A messy flesh wound that was soon tightly wound up in white bandages which quickly became soaked in deep red blood. For the longest minute of my life, I thought I lost a thumb….the doctor told me that I was lucky to only receive a flesh wound, that it would take three to four weeks to heal and that I was going to have to be patient with what was going to be a painful recovery.

Thus became the worst start to October I’ve had since my HSC exams.

Conor McGregor had lost in devastating fashion, the sun was replaced by cloudy grey skies that soaked Sydney with rain…and I was left with one and a half hands as opposed to the usual two that I had, over my 23 years of life,  grown very fond of.

I was stuck to showering with plastic bags on, dealing with a very tricky toilet situation and a whole lot of time off that I never anticipated I’d ever have.

A wave of mild depression swept in and I secluded myself to my room as my unshaven face and heavy bagged eyes made me look shabbier and shabbier.
It wasn’t until I was literally about to drive my other hand into my bedroom wall did my mum and dad bribe me to come downstairs with pizza and Harry Potter. A well-needed break from a toxic time of solitude that sadly didn’t last long.

My brother and sister-in-law rocked up the next Sunday. Soon my annoyance was directed at once again sharing a bathroom with a 30-year-old bear that I call my older brother, which was smashed on top of being handicapped. Naturally, I dug myself deeper into my room…but thankfully I found a better way to amuse myself that didn’t end with me being overly frustrated.

Amongst digging through various YouTube videos, I found an interview with Matthew McConaughey from a couple of years ago. It was about the time he spent shedding weight for his role in The Dallas Buyers Club. He spoke about how hermitic he had become over that time…not going out with family & friends and never really being able to enjoy life outside of the role. But in his state of seclusion, he recited that he read and wrote more than he ever did before.

Now there are many things that Matthew McConaughey and I share in common.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we were mistaken for each other at times, both in looks and personality. But there are many more things about him that I never thought I could relate to. And to tell the truth, it wasn’t till he said that, did I realise how much of an artist he was. Partly because those rough periods are when an artist always turns to their craft. Something he, like many actors, performers, dancers, musicians, painters and writers have done before.

It was then that I realised how stupid I was.
I spent hours thinking about how much I wanted to be outside. How much I wanted to get back into the gym, go walk my dog or at least enjoy one day of drinking and eating without shoving 1000 mg of antibiotics twice, daily.
As a result, I got lazy and let this small albeit serious injury get to my head…I became weak.

Having said that, I realised Injuries and illness are not always curses…they can be blessings in disguise, no matter how shit they may be. Dare I say that without nearly losing my thumb, maybe I would never have truly appreciated how valuable my left hand was…dramatic I know, but to me, it was a realisation that I valued more than lifting weight or being able to shower comfortably.

This sudden and somewhat overdramatic epiphany made me dive into books that I never really paid attention to, watch videos of things I would never really give a second thought of and allowed me to become more and more obsessed with storytelling than I ever was before.  I was blind and was wasting my time waiting to heal when I should’ve been taking advantage of the rare time off that I had been gifted. Instead, I worried unnecessarily when there was really nothing more that could be done.
Too often as humans, we waste time. We always think about how the grass is always greener and never really make use of what’s around us. Innovation and creativity are foundational stones to our humanity, and yet we let it get trampled by something out of our control.
Making the best of a bad situation is never out of reach.  If anything, we can always look at the positive and try and make do with what we have.

If three weeks was the price I had to pay to properly learn how to appreciate working with what time we have, then I’d happily pay that price again. I call that a bargain. Because the value in learning to use what time we have… is way more important than waiting for our life to get back together.

I loved playing team sports growing up.
I think being part of a unit with one particular goal is always going to be motivating. Especially being young, hungry and ready to prove myself.
Its why I work well in teams today. And it was nice, you could always rely on someone to back you up, to pick you up when you’ve fallen or give you with joy even in their own triumph.
However, I realised very quickly that while it is important to play for your teammates and as much as brotherhood and mateship are important, most of your life is dedicated to yourself…something I think I forgot for a long time.
We are constantly taught about the necessity of being a team player, but too often we find people who don’t care about the team at all. And sometimes they’re all the better for it.

When I was younger, there was this kid that used to play for our soccer team. He joined up and was an instant talent. He was good at moving the ball, and scored almost every game….but he rarely passed. He never congratulated anyone else, and he never spoke a word of gratitude to anyone.

You could imagine the disappointment and eventual disdain one could have for someone who cared little about the people he shared a team with. But for some reason, I grew to admire him. He was selfish, malicious…and he had spite in his eyes.

Although I didn’t condone his actions, nor did I approve of his perception of himself or our team, I did, however, somewhat understand why he was the way he was. I realised that he was his own priority. It wasn’t us against them…it was him against the world.

A realisation that became a truth. An unhealthy situation, that wasn’t just his, but my own reality.

It sucks to admit that a chip on my shoulder has seemed to have grown in recent times, but how could it not?
Recent events have taught me that your world is easily trampled on by other people, so when the obstacles of life continuously push you down…what better way is there to live life?

That mindset… the lone wolf, tenacious, I don’t give a fuck attitude is the reason a lot of people succeed… and to be fair, it’s also the reason why a lot more people come up short.

But there is always some liberation in facing obstacles solo. A sense of freedom that allows you to really see what you’re capable of, regardless of how angry or emotional you may be.

At times we rely too heavily on other people. I myself have wondered why no one has come to my rescue in times of strife. Some would label that weakness…and I would tend to agree. But the reality is that those situations of solitude can actually be a blessing in disguise.

For me, there are times where I work alone, not for self-growth or progress but purely out of spite. I take things very personally and I get emotional when things don’t always go my way.
I am invested.

For years, my loved ones told me that I should let things go. But the grudges I hold are not for or against the people who wronged me. It’s for myself. I detest who I am sometimes…not because I hate myself as a whole, but because I want to be better.

Spite can be a horrible thing. It makes us malicious and cold and turns us savage. Its what really makes us animals.
But is it as bad as we think?
Doesn’t it in some twisted way, make us better?

I don’t know if there is any warmth in solitude…all I know is that there is a grind, there is a path and while there are people who you love that will support you, there is the very likely chance that you have to walk it by yourself.

Too often do we spoil ourselves with the comfort of other people, and as a result, we fail to see any potential that we have in ourselves.

Being part of a team is amazing…it’s fulfilling to support and show love for people who you share a goal with, and without it, life would be difficult, to say the least.
But when things get prickly, it’s hard to rely on anyone else. Even when you cry for help, there will be the likely chance that no one will answer. And for me, that’s ok…I learnt the lesson of independence from those moments and I will never forget them.

They say soldiers make armies…and soldiers are people. But when you’re fighting the battles of life, you can’t always rely on something as fickle as people to help when you are helpless. Sometimes the only person who can help you… is you.

On Mondays at 9:30 my dad sits down on the couch and turns on the TV. He switches the channel to the ABC and watches Q and A. For as long as I can remember he’s always done this. It’s part of the reason why he became a more freethinking and open-minded person. The format of the show allows viewers to see different perspectives on different topics, something most conservative people aren’t used to. But for some reason my dad was drawn to this, mostly because etched into his character is the need and thirst for knowledge.

At first, it was maths, science and other academic subjects that got him into and through an engineering degree. Now his want for knowledge branches out into the world of society and politics. Which, coincidently, is the world in which I chose to study for three years at University.

My dad is the smartest guy I know. It’s not just because he aced school and started up a small business in a foreign country…but because no matter how good he was at anything, he was always willing to learn more.
A student of life.

When I see him, I see a man who beat the odds…. I see a farm boy who skipped a grade because he was too smart for the kids around him.

I see a guy who was top 3 in his graduating class…a class that consisted of hundreds of students in one of the most competitive and intense engineering schools in the country.

I see a young man who chose to leave a lower-middle-class life in the mountains of Kerala, to two different countries that he knew nothing about.

I see a family man who chose to risk it all, using nothing but his brain and his skill to create a small business that is now full of his blood, sweat and tears.

And now I see an older man living in a world that doesn’t seem to be enough…instead, he waits until my mum and I are in bed before he turns on the TV to learn more about the society that surrounds him.

 

 

Last Monday I went downstairs to grab a drink before calling it a night. And just like every other Monday, he was watching Q and A. I happened to catch that weeks discussion.

It was a spirited debate on the importance of teaching indigenous history in the school system. On the panel were a bunch of high school kids who were all talking freely, expressing their thoughts of whether or not it should be highlighted more or less in class. I smiled for a second as I remembered my time in school. How at one stage I dreaded the long arduous hour or so we would spend on history, talking about Terra Nullis and Captain Cook’s discovery of Australia in 1770.

In my naivety, I never thought my dad would be keenly interested in topics like this, but as I looked down at him sitting on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand and his legs stretched out on the coffee table in front of him, I saw a small smile on his face.

It was a weird topic to be happy about…I didn’t think he was a stranger to the importance of Indigenous culture to Australian society, especially since he was the one that encouraged me to look more into it when I would complain about it in school. But I quickly realised that he wasn’t smiling at the topic…he was smiling at the kids.

Their well thought out words seemed to cling to him. Students of the world that seemed to be proud of the school colours they wore on their chests and the intelligence they used to discuss the topics at hand. Dad saw himself in them. Something he was happy about… and something that I envied.

 

You see, every son in some way tries to be like his father. They spend their whole lives trying to emulate them in some way. Whether that be at work, their family lives or mannerisms that they notice from a very young age. And when they look at others the way you want them to look at you, whether that be pride or joy, you start to feel a little envious.

For me, I’ve always tried to be as clever and wise as my dad always has been. It’s something I always struggled with…something that I’m insecure about to this very day.
I never really excelled at school…I was good but never great and for the most part, I felt average.

It stings, writing that about myself. If my mother heard or saw me speak of myself in such a way, she would aggressively scold me, as most mothers would.

 

 

For the record, this isn’t the first time I’ve ever felt like this. My mother and father like many Indian parents constantly told me to look at the other kids my age in our community. To observe how they worked and how well they did. A constant comparison that was supposed to energise my competitive nature.
Unfortunately for me, it seemed to do the opposite.
Because those kids seemed to be so much like my father, I Instead shifted towards being better like my dad as opposed to being better for myself. In my head I had somehow calculated the idea that if I could be more like him, I would be better than everyone else. An idea that for the most part, crippled my own self-growth and goals. And thus manifested the feelings of jealousy and mediocrity.

When you start to want to be other people, you quickly forget what you’re all about as well, especially when it’s to please or match someone you treasure and revere. Our whole lives are supposed to be this incredible individual artwork about ourselves…something we can fondly recall when we’re old and grey. But when you compare and compete constantly, you’re left with the constant feeling of turmoil and anxiety of never being good enough. Something that can kill your unique spark that no one else can ignite.

 

 
The truth is the no one really ends up exactly like anyone they try to be. And to my parent’s credit, they never really expected me to be like anyone else anyway… especially my dad. I don’t think he hates who I’ve become… I don’t even think he sees me as a disappointment. But I think he and I both know that I will never end up like him.

Theodore Roosevelt said that comparison is the thief of joy. This is true whether it’s to the students that you see on TV, the other kids in your community or the man you’ve spent your whole life trying to be. When you try and attain what they are, you end up sad, frustrated and jealous of how lack lustred you see yourself as. Sometimes its best to just let it be, to try and just be the best version of ourselves…but in this world where we are constantly compared to one another both by ourselves and by other people, where we are taught to compete or get left behind, its hard not to be disappointed in ourselves.

One of the many responsibilities of being a Christian is Confession. Imagine being a young man from a conservative Christian family, having been thrust into a life of strict 7 am wake ups on Sunday morning to be dragged to church. Now, full of malice, spite and lust, imagine having to walk up to a man draped in black cloth sitting quietly in a chair waiting for you to spill whatever twisted shit is on your mind.

I remember the first time I confessed properly. Not a massive fake spray of small issues… but real problems, mistakes and obstacles I was facing at the time. It was at a youth camp, right after I finished year 12, I was 18 and I had just been diagnosed with Depression.

I haven’t been much of a religious person. Partly because going to church didn’t seem fun. Don’t get me wrong, I loved youth camps, choir practice and hanging out with friends…but standing for 2 and a half hours every week, chanting the same prayers and songs didn’t seem to be an enticing practice every Sunday morning.
As I would later understand, I failed to see how much it actually shaped me and chose to ignore the pivotal lessons that were ingrained into my character from day one by the Church.

Instead, I focused on the negative and chose to think of the Church as many people in today’s world do as well. Unnecessary.

So when I was forced into talking about my problems with a priest, I was mildly open-minded at best.
I had the worst couple of years of my life, and in my mind, religion was in no way going to change that. All the times that I had rocked up on a Sunday were out of loyalty, discipline and commitment…nothing more. To me, the answer for recovery and healing lay outside those walls and in the real world.
I was somewhat wrong.

When I walked up to the priest on that day, I knew what I was going to say. But somehow, someway, something else came out of my mouth:
“…I don’t know what to do…”

Bear in mind, this wasn’t a man I knew…he wasn’t the regular priest at our church, a man that we consider to be a close family friend. Rather this was a different man who was visiting our camp to speak to us about our faith, no doubt to enlighten many other young minds. I thought maybe he had some hidden agenda, maybe he was a man of insincerity. But when I spoke he seemed like he actually was listening…he seemed to actually give a shit.

And thus the reason for my first words. Something in me seemed to enforce what I was saying, I was lost, alone and afraid of what might become of me.
Mental health isn’t something that is looked at too kindly within our community and the shame that my parents might have to endure once people found out, haunted me daily. So the confusion was understandable.

In that moment, I could not stop talking about my problems…my voice strained and cracked as emotions broke the surface of my words and my body began to feel weak as I was reminded of all the feelings that were buried deep down inside.

He sat there and listened quietly and I could see him hang onto every detail, occasionally nodding along. His eyes hung with concern.

Finally, I broke. The anxiety seemed to take over and reliving each moment over and over had taken a toll. So right there…in a room, with a man whom I’ve never known, in a scene where I never pictured myself being in, I cried.

I hate crying…somehow that old idea that it’s for babies and that real men don’t shed tears, still clings onto me. But at that moment I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed. And like so many times before, the feeling of loneliness crept in…until I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I turned my head to see a man with sadness in his eyes. Not a priest or a man of God, but a person who was witnessing a lost young man feel the weight of his world on his shoulders.

For some reason, I found solace as he patted my shoulder reassuringly.

Finally, he spoke, and I have never forgotten what he said.

“You are not alone…and you must have faith.”

For a moment I thought to call bullshit on those words that seemed so easy to have come from his mouth…until he went on.

He explained that the faith that he was talking about was not just in an all-powerful being that we learn from in a book…but rather in oneself.

In the past, I have written about how important it is to have belief in yourself…that you should dig deep to find the courage or inspiration to face whatever it is that may be in your way. But nowhere did I mention how I found mine. The truth is that for the longest time I didn’t know where to look. And I sure as hell didn’t think id find the answer in Confession.

Confessing my utmost problems to a man who I didn’t know, in a place where I was completely alien to, made me realise how important it was to have reassurance from external and internal forces. That you should take thoughts from the things around you to remind you of how great you really are or could be. At that moment I needed someone who didn’t know me, to remind me that I still have what it took to be better…all I had to do was look inside. Not at the stories of old that were taught to us at school or in Church, but from the will that I had to at least try and be better.

I found solace in a moment, with a thought that was brought to me by a priest. Something I never thought I would say. But rather than push a passage or a parable, he told me to search within…whether or not it was through prayer or meditation, he encouraged me to look at who and what I was to get better, a valuable lesson for someone who was lost.

I think the moral of this story is that sometimes, we find strength and courage from little things done by the most unexpected people. Whether that be from the person next door or a priest who actually cared. Sometimes the world isn’t all gloomy and depressing…and sometimes people aren’t that bad either. Every now and then, a little light from someone is all the warmth you need to find your way.

 

I got asked by a friend to talk about happiness.
I told him that I would try my best to find something I’ve written in the past to help my train of thought and flesh something out.
And I have nothing.

I racked my brain for hours over things that have made me happy. Things I strived towards and goals that I have accomplished. But in reality all of those things were temporary and they all became dead ends.
I came to the conclusion that like most times in my life, I didn’t know shit.

I don’t know how to be happy. I don’t know the recipe or the procedure…and I definitely couldn’t tell you what you can do to be happy or find happiness.

So trying to unearth whatever it is that makes me happy ironically made me feel a little sad.
Not because I didn’t think that I’ll ever be truly happy, but more so in realising that you can never ALWAYS be so.

In recent posts, I’ve been a bit of a Debbie Downer, but to be honest, the more I hear from the people that read my blog and connect with what I have to say, the more I think that this is what I should share.
So naturally being asked about something so positive and bright made me feel a little lost.
But even after putting my thinking cap on, I couldn’t really put my finger on it.
I don’t really keep note of all the times I felt joy or happiness. I fondly recall different occasions from time to time, but in truth, I couldn’t tell you how or why that moment made me feel good.

Take my brother’s wedding for example. The mix of different situations we were in shouldn’t calculate to an incredible and joyful experience. WE’re not that close, the preparations beforehand were exhausting and stressful and I had an enormous amount of responsibilities before, during and after the ceremony.

There was definitely a weird concoction of good and bad but for some reason, standing on the steps inside a beautiful church, next to his best man, listening to him recite his vows…I was happy.

Looking out at the 250 guests that filled a hall for our reception, and being painfully reminded that I would be next, even though I’m still sadly single was another moment where I felt some mixed emotions but still…I was happy.

Don’t get me wrong, every experience were all somewhat positive …and recalling such memories of that day brings me great joy…but I couldn’t tell you why.

Maybe it was because My brother was moving forward in his life.
Maybe it was seeing all my friends and family in one room together for the first time in years.
Maybe it was seeing my parent’s proud faces…or maybe it was when I saw how handsome I looked when I caught my reflection in the window at the reception after my 7th Gin and tonic.

My point, if anything, is that happiness can’t always be pinpointed. It’s not something you can just manufacture and it certainly isn’t containable. You can relive it through memories but in reality, you’ll never feel that same way again. That’s what makes those unique moments great.

But what I loved about reflecting over all these times was this one common and underlying factor…and that was the people I love.

My happiest moments are with the people I deeply care about, it’s the moments I share with them on so many different occasions. From sitting in a circle, drinking, laughing and talking shit at my house after my 21st birthday party… to laying next to my dog, Roman, on a warm spring afternoon, scratching his head and pleasantly wondering how my best friend ended up being an animal as opposed to an actual human being.

All these moments involved the people that mattered most to me. So yes money, success and fancy events may make you feel accomplished or might bring you joy, but I think unless there are awesome people that you can share it with, I really don’t know and don’t think it will ever make you happy.

Things change so quickly and you can go from being surrounded by the greatest people in the greatest situation, to being alone in your room forcing yourself to be positive.

That’s when those happy moments are critical and needed. Not to be tortured by but to be reminded of how good life can get.

I’m not saying that being alone or by yourself is something that shouldn’t be positive, God knows how many times I’ve found solace in moments to myself…but when I’m on my deathbed, hopefully, many years from now…I want to be surrounded by the people that matter most, not because they are friends or family, but because I want to remember one last time how beautiful and happy I was with them.

So maybe that’s the answer…maybe happiness comes from our interactions and moments we share with the people we care about. Or maybe it isn’t. I can’t know for sure…like I said before, I don’t know shit.

 

I used to suffer from nightmares. I don’t remember a whole lot, most of it was a blur, but I think the reason why they made me angrier or sadder was that they eventually became my reality.
You see, everyone tells you that your dreams can come true…but no one tells you how real a nightmare can become.

I didn’t go to sleep thinking of monsters or being murdered, instead, I woke up from dreams vividly picturing abandonment, humiliation and constant, heavy despair.

My greatest fear was being surrounded by demons that were invisible to everyone else, but me. The internal things that slowly rip and tear away at everything you once were and ought to become. It’s a process of torture that slip’s passed your lips every time you try and explain it. Social anxiety, body image problems, self-doubt, depression…all of these things that end up suffocating you.
Most of it stemmed from not actually doing anything. Not being active and accomplishing goals or aspirations. I was constantly watching other’s live their lives day by day, walking a path with conviction. Even when I tried to see something through, those same inner demons seem to creep up and bring me down again and again.

It’s not easy being young and tortured. To see the world go by and watch everyone else succeed while you fail. It’s hard not to feel like a loser when things consistently don’t go your way.

But despite all the bullshit, I thought of still finding some shelter in the metaphorical storm.

I chose to stay up late into the night, avoiding all the inner turmoil and decided to focus on things that may have brought me joy.

This led me to my childhood.

I loved reading novels and watching movies, both old and new. Characters I grew up on became my inspiration. The nostalgic sense of going back in time, and evolving through all these stories that I once knew so well helped me shape a secure little bubble that I was comfortable in.

But it didn’t save me.

I still struggled to speak and communicate…and despite wanting to pick up a pen and write a story similar to the ones I grew up on or even just sending my thoughts out into the world, I remained stagnate in thought and absent in action.
Over time I realised that I needed something to fuel the things I wanted to talk about. I needed a source of inspiration that filled me with not only self-conviction but a purpose and a drive that was so undeniable that it became absolutely necessary to take action and speak out loud.

From that, I understood that inspiration comes from two different parts of one’s life, the negative and the positive. It’s like two polar opposites that ignite a reaction and a release in our brains and in our souls that result in something big.

For me, it was a thought. And that thought was to create.
The stories I listened to as a child were always ones that were relatable and resonated with not only myself but so many others in so many different ways. For so long I thought I was alone, but that all changed when I decided to write and share. I feared that I would be considered crazy or stupid, but the response cured any self-doubt I had.

People shared in the experience. People shared in MY experience.
All of which was a breath of fresh air, considering one of my biggest fears was that I would be alone in all of my troubles. Ask anyone who’s been through anything…the worst feeling is when you have no one to share that nightmare with. As a result, you feel trapped by your own consciousness, and even when you do find an escape, those inner demons seem to corner you and suck you back in again.

But that for me was where inspiration was strongest. When I thought of those moments where my reality became my worst nightmare…when I felt embarrassed, weak, small or afraid, I turned to what I knew. I created words on a page all from each and every bad dream I had. Even though they were all so negative and upsetting, they were mine to share. No matter how many cheap knock-offs you may see, there can be nothing like my own story. My own storm that I could talk about and find some weird solace in.

Eventually, I welcomed the nightmares.
I learnt to sleep in the storm because I understood that that’s what made me who I am.

You look at the greatest people in history, in sport, in politics and in any other aspect of life. Their defining moments weren’t from when their life was easy…but rather when things were tough and they chose to overcome it.
JK Rowling was living off benefits as a single mother with several publications rejecting the manuscript for Harry motherfucking Potter before she became the worlds best-selling children’s author.
And so the biggest lesson in history is that despite how bad the nightmare is, we still can wake up to a brighter morning.

The trials of life aren’t something we should just walk away from.  Because the truth is that at some point we will lose. Sometimes a little and sometimes a lot.
But we should understand that learning from our losses is what really makes a difference. The stories we share with the world is what we leave behind, whether it’s a nightmare or a wonderful dream, that is our legacy.

For me, when its all said and done…when its spoken from a mouth that isn’t my own, it will be the tale of how I used the negative and turned it into a positive. Of how those nightmares became my reality and didn’t destroy me, how I chose to overcome the obstacles of life and of how I weathered the storm.

It’s interesting to see family after so long. It’s weird when you think that these people may not be constantly in our life, yet have this connection to you that lasts forever. You share in the pain, no matter the distance, in triumph no matter how little or small and you share blood, no matter how distant the relation could be. I think that’s why anyone feels sad when they all go. It’s a tough task, saying goodbye…its even worse when you know it’s for a long time.

The one thing that seems to stick is the life lessons family teaches you. It’s etched into your mind as you walk your life day by day. The world seems complicated but somehow with whatever your friends and family have given you, through stories of life experiences or their own perceptions of the world around them, things don’t seem so hard.

One of the greatest lies that anyone has told us how better off you are by yourself…that family and friendships don’t matter. No matter how long or short they may last, each relationship leaves its own mark on our lives. Unfortunately they’re more often negative, but you learn a very valuable lesson when you interact with impactful people.

I was always told to be a good person. It wasn’t a choice; it was a responsibility I learnt over and over again throughout my childhood. In Sunday school we listened to the parables of the Good Samaritan and the battle between David and Goliath. These were life lessons we had to oblige by, to help our fellow man, and to stand true to what is right. But the truth is that you have such a naive vision of the world when you’re taught life lessons through ancient scripture.

Nothing can prepare you for how fickle and cruel people are, because more often than not the big towering bully that casts fear into the hearts of many, wins.

Regardless I tried my best to stay true to what I thought was right. I am blessed with good people around me…but there are dark times where you watch old friends flirt with poisonous people…and there are other times where you lose them to “new” and “better” replacements for yourself. That is the world we live in.

It seems that now more than ever, the little man or woman cannot fight back unless they have an army following their every move and support their purpose. But in reality, the only thing that drives anyone to make a difference is self-conviction.
I had to believe that what I was doing was right, that trying my utmost to be a better person was the only way things didn’t get any shittier. That may be one day I could show all those “friends” I had lost because of their cruel dismissive nature, that my life was not going to be a complete waste.

I don’t know…maybe these thoughts cross my mind because I miss the feeling of innocence through those rose tinted glasses. The reality is that despite anything I do or say…there will always be someone who is selfish and negligent. And now more than ever, I’m starting to hold them less accountable. You can’t blame them for wanting something they think might be better. You can’t curse them because they wanted something that benefits them more. And more than anything You cant always hold people accountable for their actions. The truth is that they all get away with some form of injustice…but you can try and stay true yourself.

I used to play soccer for a small club in St Marys. At one point I was one of the only Indian’s that played in the comp. The keen eyes of my mother and father could not miss me from the sidelines as they watched each and every game. Rarely did I see any other brown boys and it was made apparent from the beginning. I don’t know how I missed it before, but there were so many instances where I was picked on by opposition players, for things I didn’t quite understand.

One time, I tackled this kid who had made a break through our defence. I managed to get the ball away quickly before he could take a shot at the goal.
I did my job.
His response, however, was not of anything fair or even competitive…instead, he decided to call me a dirty terrorist and told me that if I ever touched him again, I’d get beaten up.
I was shocked…or more accurately I didn’t know what to say…and even when I told the guys in charge of our team, who in turn told the opposite teams staff, I realised nothing actually got done. That kid got away with it…besides having to deal with a stern word or two, he got away with threatening me for doing my job.

I never forgot that day, and I’m glad I didn’t. I was 12…I was innocent, and more importantly, I didn’t deserve that. But it happened and I kept on playing…and playing well. I wanted for once, to be the better person, to not react and to make my parents watching on the sideline proud, by not succumbing to hate. I chose to forget and move on…but after all this time I catch myself wondering what would’ve happened if I just punched him straight in the fucking mouth.

And now I wonder that all the time. I see douchebags and stupidly stuck up idiots get away with everything. From using people for their own games in their own boredom, to bullying and intimidating anyone who they think they ’re superior to…the world is littered with people who just want to take advantage.

But self-conviction seems to be the only way I feel better about it. I know someday that karma will turn around and bite them in the arse…maybe not today or tomorrow but somewhere in the future. And although I may stay quiet and put my head down…my silence should not be mistaken for compliance, rather it is my understanding that my time on this planet, in this society, means I don’t do what they do.

That is the most important lesson family and friends have taught me. Not just culture, traditions or the importance of education, but to be a good person. That lesson is more important than blood or distance; it’s the reason why my grandparents, uncles, aunties, cousins, brothers, sisters and parents all matter so much.

When I look into the faces of my family, I don’t just see the same nose as mine…the same thick black hair or deep brown eyes…I see good people trying to do the best they can.

A face that reminds you that despite all the bad in the world, there is still loyalty, kindness, compassion and love, all of which gives you enough strength and self-conviction to deal with anything…even some racist kid from Western Sydney, who abused you for doing your job.