Butterflies and Hurricanes

Growing pains

The Berlin sun is shining in all its golden glory. Yesterday, after a delish breakfast, I spent the entire afternoon walking through the streets and parks of Berlin with a friend. The weather has finally hit the sweet spot. Chilly and warm at the same time. The leaves are an unbelievable green. Gentle flowers are sprouting everywhere. Only a long winter can make you realise how much you love summer.

I couldn’t help but notice the metaphor. Slipping into depression can feel like a dark, lonely, winter. Like being underwater. But when you emerge out and breathe in those big mouthfuls of air, you never forget the sweetness of it. You remember how much you actually like living. You had just forgotten what the sun feels like.

Yesterday also marked our second anniversary in Berlin. Germany is not always an easy place to be in. The language is hard, people aren’t always the warmest, and for god’s sake, can everyone please start using email? But it’s also beautiful, magical, and has a vibe that’s hard to explain. Actually, that may be especially true for Berlin.

I drew this analogy with a friend the other day. If German cities are like rooms in a house, Munich would be the spotless, orderly, white, sterile room with the bed neatly made, Frankfurt would be the functional one, with loads of wardrobe space and devices beeping away. Berlin would be the colourful, messy one with books strewn about, crazy art on the walls, postcards and vinyls on the desk. A bit rough around the edges, but with character. Berlin is the interesting, messy room that we landed in, and honestly, I’m not complaining.

Our visit to India this time was achingly beautiful. We celebrated Holi together, made gujiyas and shared easy conversations over hot plates of food. I met my nephew and niece again, and I can’t believe how effortlessly I love them. I sometimes wonder if it’s because I’m related to them, because I held them as babies, or because they’re so gosh darn cute. Probably a combination.

I hadn’t seen my nephew in a year, so reconnecting with him felt special. We developed a special kinship where almost every day I read out a story to him, and then we took an afternoon nap. He came to my room to say goodbye to me before going to school, and then to say hi when he came back. In the evenings we went out for a walk or just played together. He clung on to me, giving me multiple hugs throughout the day, and calling out for me when I wasn’t home. Holding him made me so emotional for some reason.

There were also a few days when I got to spend time alone with my parents. We all settled into a rhythm and I felt like I was in college again. I realised I had deeply wanted that: to sit with them, with no plan, no agenda. Just have chai, ask them random questions and just talk.

It hurts to see your parents ageing, and developing health issues. Saying goodbye this time was the hardest it has been in years. I let myself break down in the flight. I secretly got one of my nephew’s little toys in my pocket. A little egg that he calls ‘Umty dumty’. It’s silly, I know. Maybe I’m just a big bag of mush. I missed them terribly, and couldn’t get over it for several days. My nephew kept asking for me after I had left, and slept in the same bed with my doll. I don’t think he understands the concept of leaving yet.

While I was extremely happy to be back to Berlin, a city that feels like ours, I still felt a bit forlorn. We enjoyed the peace and quiet of our home, but also had trouble adjusting back to life here.

It’s funny how you can feel multiple polarising emotions at the same time. It’s the beauty of being human, right? Oh well. The point of life is to let all emotions happen to you: the good, the bad, the frightening. Fear is good too. It means you have a lot you don’t want to lose.

So, go for it. Storm! Storm inside me, emotions! I accept all of you.

For now, I’ll enjoy the sun, the spring, the softness of my bed and remind myself of everything I have. Life is kind.

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Astha

April 28, 2024

2 comments on Growing pains
Be right back, Berlin

I have confetti in my heart; glow worms in my stomach, goblins in my mind.

I’m going to India tomorrow after more than a year. I feel (mostly) good about it. There’s this special new feeling that I’m beginning to enjoy: the anticipation of coming back home.

And by home I mean the new life we’re building in Berlin. This surreal new life with its familiar streets and cafes, flea markets and vintage shops, and walks by the river. I love the friendships we’re forming, the change of seasons, exploring new neighbourhoods, brunches that go on for hours.

I’m astounded by the peace I feel here, even if I’m by myself, simply existing.

My happiness about going to India has now doubled. I get to appreciate both worlds for what they are. India for its madness and colour, burst of flavours and insane decibel levels. Berlin for its parks, parties, bars and places of history pulsating with life.

They couldn’t be more different, and yet they both live in me now.

There are bits of every place I’ve ever lived in, looming inside me. Every place has coloured me in its own special ways, with its history and dialect, cuisines and habits. The expressions I picked up, the catchphrases I adopted, the oddities and mannerisms. I’m so much more now. I feel full.

Another strange feeling (that almost feels wrong) is that I’m genuinely enjoying my work. I’ve found a sweet spot at the intersection between a good manager, a good team and fulfilling work. For now, this’ll do. This’ll more than do.

Amidst all the glitter and hope, I also feel guilty. I want to share this gooey feeling with everyone in the world. All of us deserve a home we can return to. All of us deserve peace and freedom and the ability to share a hot meal with people we love. How can we live in a world where this is still not a reality for so many?

We’re probably the only species that’s capable of so much gentleness and so much destruction at the same time.

All I can do right now is have the courage to own a heart that’s not afraid of breaking many times over.

So with my glow worms and goblins, I’ll turn in for the night. I wish you love and peace, wherever you are. And a giant hug that overstays its welcome, for good measure.

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Astha

March 17, 2024

1 comment on Be right back, Berlin
A requiem for December

Almost 2 years ago, I’d written something in a blog post.

“I dream of sitting by a fireplace in a small, cosy house with the softest snowfall falling outside. I dream of fluffy socks on hardwood floors, […] I dream of running into old friends who become best friends. I dream of cups of tea over platefuls of stories and laughter. I dream of healing—myself and others—through my words and actions.“

I feel like I somehow manifested this for myself. The last two years have been a whole lot of snow, fluffy socks, cups of tea, healing and becoming best friends with old friends. I feel so incredibly fortunate to be living this life. To live in a city I genuinely love, to have a partner, friends who feel like family, a warm home, the ability to work and live freely.

This morning we woke up in our friend’s home, had chai and kuzhi-paniyaram, and settled into the ease of conversation while it continued to snow outside. My heart felt so full.

It’s a weird feeling to feel so satisfied in a world that’s so unfair. Every day I play dodgeball with all the countless emotions that come hurtling at me. In a world where families are literally being crushed, we’re still unable to do enough to stop a catastrophe. All the strongest countries and the powers that be, where is everyone? Why can’t we seem to stop a humanitarian crisis that’s been going on for over two months?

There’s grief, there’s anger, there’s disbelief. There’s a heart that’s constantly breaking. There’s guilt, and loneliness because people don’t seem to even want to talk about this. And then there’s relief, there’s peace, there’s gratitude and joy. There’s hope. There’s love. All of them have formed a dizzying maelstrom within me.

And I just… chug along. Go through the motions, ask myself questions I don’t have answers to. Enjoy a meal, laugh freely, watch TV in a quiet, heated apartment, get lost in a video game. But then later, sit in the train listening to a song and feel the grief coil around my heart like a black snake. There’s that sorrow again. Tears sting my eyes. I can’t bear to see what’s unfolding on my screen. Helplessness. I say a small prayer to a god I don’t believe in.

There are chores to be done, meetings to be attended, a life to be lived. So I walk around like a character in a video game, a bit dazed and confused, wondering how it’s possible to feel peace and grief at the same time.

Tomorrow, we fly to meet my sister’s family in London. Even saying these words feels surreal. What a life. I love this feeling: the Christmassy, end-of-the-year, holiday feeling, when you can shut your laptop with joyous finality, and welcome a new year. And a new year means new possibilities, new beginnings.

Since stating my wishes in my previous post had worked, I want to state a few more.

I dream of a world where the term ‘genocide’ doesn’t exist. I wish for more broken egos, and fewer broken hearts. I want tears to be replaced by flowers, anger by forgiveness, screams by songs. I dream for the end of pride and greed. I dream of hearts, hugs, and love. I dream of collective healing. I dream of peace. I dream of peace. I dream of peace.

In a world where I don’t believe in much, I believe in the goodness of us humans. I want to believe—stubbornly—that love and truth shall prevail.

Happy new year, dear reader. Thank you for being here.

P.S. Here’s my new favourite song that always reminds me of winter mornings and snow.

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Astha

December 24, 2023

3 comments on A requiem for December
Love languages

I write this to you on a warm summer evening from a quiet house in Berlin. Our home is not too big, mostly white, and has huge glass windows to let the sun in. It’s 9:30 pm and it’s still bright out. Bees are buzzing around the flowers adorning my neighbour’s balcony.

Most houses here don’t have ceiling fans, and definitely no ACs. Late at night, it gets eerily quiet. It’s so quiet I can hear the dull drone of trains rolling in the station a few kilometres away. I like to turn on the dishwasher at night, just for some white noise in the background.

Sometimes as I go about my day, German words pop into my head. Meine Wohnung. My apartment. Meine Muttersprache. My mother tongue. Das Schlafzimmer. The bedroom. I get curious to know what certain words are called in German, and I’m constantly on the lookout for more.

I like how my brain is slowly—at a glacial speed—making room for a new language. I like how I can recognise more words now, how I can give directions to a lost soul on the street or ask basic questions at a store.

Learning a new language is an art and some people do it logically, methodically. My ADHD brain can only do it in the way it knows best: messily, weirdly, randomly. I learn and immediately forget. I struggle to retain information. I don’t remember grammar and rules, but I remember words I come across in songs, billboards, or movies. And somehow they stick. Some words have a way of making their way into your heart, no questions asked. While some make you stop and gawk at how incredulous they look.

German is full of words that sound nothing like their meaning. The word for ‘surprise’ is ‘Überraschung’, for a ‘vacation’ is ‘urlaub’ and for an invitation is ‘Einladung’. So many words end with ‘ung’, ‘icht’ and ‘cke’ it boggles the mind. But then there are also those wonderful words that make you go “Oh, of course! That makes sense!’ Like the word for ‘gloves’ is ‘Handschuhe’ (hand shoes), ‘ambulance’ is Krankenwagen (car for the sick) and ‘refrigerator’ is Kühlschrank (a cool cabinet).

By the way, adding a ‘chen’ to words makes them cuter. Like saying ‘Hallochen’ instead of ‘Hallo’. A term of endearment like ‘darling’ is ‘Schnucki’. Aww ❤

Learning a language through a textbook is one thing and applying it in practical life is another. I hadn’t realised how little my brain processes when I’m being spoken to in a language I’ve just about started learning. It takes me 30 seconds to understand, 45 to form my own broken sentence, and 2 whole minutes to realise what I’d said was wrong. People inevitably switch to English and you feel a mix of relief and failure. You resolve to do better next time. Until you’re in a crowded supermarket trying to talk to the cashier with a long queue behind you. Mortifying.

Being in a new country that speaks a different language is like watching a movie without ever having seen the trailer or the cast. And of course, there are no subtitles. Even if the German equivalent of Brad Pitt comes in front of me, I’d be none the wiser. Ignorance of the language means ignorance of pop culture, beauty, art, politics, books, music—in the way it is meant to be understood. I may speak the language but I don’t feel it yet. I just make some sounds, hoping the listener will understand enough to receive the message. But I hope to get there soon.

I always thought German was a harsh language. Mainly because of how it was portrayed in the media. But the other day when I was in the U-Bahn, I heard a mum talking to her kids, and all those preconceived notions melted away. It made my heart flutter and I couldn’t help smiling at them. To truly fall in love with a language, listen to it at leisure. Eavesdrop on families in parks or lovers in the train.

It’s a strange feeling to walk around a city knowing that people’s inner monologues are so different from yours. That their lives, backgrounds, experiences, memories are nothing like yours. That they probably don’t know who Chacha Chaudhary is, or Sachin Tendulkar or AR Rahman. (Although some of them do seem to know Shahrukh Khan).

They don’t know the old Hindi songs that make you cry or the comedy shows you grew up watching with your parents. They don’t know what hot pooris and kheer taste like. Or the smell of monsoon, or paddy fields or chaat.

When I listen to German music, or watch a documentary on Angela Merkel or watch videos of the Berlin wall falling down, I feel a thrill. I feel a bit more connected with the people. I like to imagine what that day 32 years ago must have felt like when Germany was reunited. The very year I was born.

Germany is slowly making its way into my psyche. After spending 30 years in your home country, you tend to get set in your ways. But I came here with open arms, and I want this place to do things to me. Good things. Memorable things. I’m ready to learn more about its people, its idiosyncrasies, its odd rituals and habits.

And learning German is an important part of it. I’m trying not to rush the process, and not to give up entirely. I want to keep the intrigue alive, no matter how much the umlauts and the compound words scare me. One day, I’ll come back here and write a whole blog post in German. Fingers crossed! 🙂

P.S. In German, you don’t cross your fingers or say ‘fingers crossed’. You press your thumb under your fingers and say ‘Daumen drücken’ (thumb pressed!) I love that!

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Astha

July 6, 2023

4 comments on Love languages
A boxful of hope

We didn’t bring too many things with us when we moved to Berlin from India. When we landed at the Berlin-Brandenburg airport, all we had were two big suitcases. Two suitcases that somehow managed to hold our entire lives—the life we had left, and the life we were going to start.

We got all the basics: paperwork that proves we’re legit humans, devices that allow us to earn a living, clothes that make us seem like decent people, and a few knick knacks. I packed some things I knew I wouldn’t find in Berlin. A pressure cooker (the whistles are too loud in Germany, and I’ve often wondered if our neighbours will complain), a rolling pin (barely used it; making rotis is a pain), and a steel box to store all my spices.

Once we found an Indian store, I excitedly bought all my spices. Red chilli, mustard seeds, turmeric, garam masala, coriander, cumin seeds and dry mango. (Did I hear you whisper curry powder? My good human, there’s no such thing). And the first thing I did was fill up my spice box. And order was restored in the universe.

In the initial few weeks, we ate a lot of pizzas, döners, croissants and sandwiches. They’re easy to find, not too expensive, and when you’re spending 70% of your free time looking for apartments, you invariably end up checking out a bunch of cafės and restaurants.

But. We always craved Indian food. The Indian food you get in restaurants here is an often bastardised version of what Europeans think it is, and what Indians think Europeans want. (Be warned of sweet tomato paste, eek!) Very often, it’s not great. So we cooked our own food at home. Every time I opened my spice box, I opened a box of possibilities. Sometimes I needed only one or two spices, sometimes more, and sometimes ALL of them. There are no rules when it comes to food.

You know how all the songs in the world are made up of 7 basic notes? That’s how I feel about spices. Sometimes it’s a dance between mustard seeds, curry leaves and thin slivers of onions, sometimes it’s a symphony of cumin seeds, turmeric and potatoes. Depending on the mood or the season, you can create wonder and beauty with just some veggies, lentils and a handful of spices.

Knowing I have my trusty spice box is like having a security blanket. It’s a promise of good food, an ode to my family, a nod to the smells of my childhood home. It’s knowing that on a bad day after failed attempts at talking in German with a disgruntled cashier, I can still whip up my favourite comfort food, plant myself on my sofa, watch TV and all will be right with the world.

When you move countries, you’re stuck in limbo for a while: between what has always been home and what is about to become home. And in that liminal space, you hold pieces of what really feels like home close to you. My spice box is one such piece. And as long as it has space to hold my spices, I will be fine. We will be fine.

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Astha

April 20, 2023

1 comment on A boxful of hope