Tada!

Guess who's moving to Australia in two months??

Well, for two years at least.

Just goes to show ya... sometimes life may have to suck but sometimes, it gets better. 

Random Ramblings

Sometimes, when I’m feeling blue, I go online and read blogs of other women who lost their husbands. Most of these blogs are about 3-4 years old and I like that because I imagine that it would be me 3 to 4 years down the line. Some of the ladies have children, some do not. Some of the ladies are now in new functional relationships, some are not. It’s a diverse crowd out there but the one common thread is they are still sad, still angry, still depressed. And I think “Aww Hell No!”  I understand that the blog is not a reflection of every minute of every day of their lives and that it is an outlet for that one moment in their day when everything seems hopeless. But it can get discouraging for us newbies.
But here’s the thing- it’s not hopeless. It’s NEVER hopeless. What’s the thing that Dr. Seuss once said? “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose…..”?

‘Course I don’t always feel that way.Sometimes, just like that, out of the blue, I remember that I am a widow. And instantly, I feel like such a fraud. What the heck am I doing singing and organizing church events? How can I laugh or goof around?  Shouldn’t I be sitting in some corner somewhere bemoaning my fate? How can I be painting my nails or dancing in my car? In that instant, everything I do feels so wrong and horribly disgraceful. But then I realize- I may be a widow, but I am not JUST a widow. I may be Rajeev’s wife. But I am also Sampson’s and Leena’s daughter. I am also Shivonne’s big sister. And Swilin’s and Sherlin’s little sister. I love my husband and I will never ever forget him- not the way he’d say “Yeayaah!” when he was excited about stuff, not his ridiculous love for Structure jeans, and definitely not that he remembered what I was wearing that Sabbath in July 2008 when we met for the very, very first time (almost a whole year and a half before our parents thought about matching us up).I will never ever forget how much I love him or how much he loved me. But I will also never forget that I am more than just a sad, depressed shell of a human being. I’m alive. And I’m kicking. And I’ll be damned if I don’t let that work for me.

Another Long Post

March 18th, 2012 would have been Rajeev’s 33rd birthday. I would have made it a big deal because, in addition to my husband, I also love palindromes and multiples of 3. But mostly, I would have made it a big deal because I love my husband.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle that day. As the day approached, I felt more and more panicky. Until one day, my sister Shivonne finally got fed up of my shenanigans and told me, “Sher, get it together! It’s just ONE day!” But it was just one day in the same way Hitler was just one dude. But she’s right. It was just one day. So instead of wallowing in self-pity, I faced a few fears and then pampered myself with a pedicure and a trashy novel. It wasn’t stellar, but it was deal-able. And for now, deal-able is quite enough.

But not always. Sometimes there just aren’t enough pedicures or trashy novels. Sometimes I just don’t know how to deal. Sometimes it hurts so bad that I almost wish I had never met Rajeev.

Almost.

Sometimes.

Anyone who knew Rajeev, knew that he was passionate about music. He was also alarmingly attached to his iPad. I used to joke that if the iPad and I were trapped in a burning building, he’d probably save the iPad. “What about your wife?” – I’d ask. His response? “I hear there’s an app for that”. Hmph.

But I digress. Yes. So. The one thing that Rajeev was truly, truly passionate about, was music. And he was terrified about the possibilities of ending up with a girl who wasn’t. I remember the first time he ever called me up. It was the first time we really spoke actually. We were so terribly nervous. See, when I get nervous, I get super chatty and friendly. I may even drop a couple of swear words in my desperate attempt to seem cool. But Rajeev was the exact opposite. He used to get super formal and business-like. The first 10 minutes felt like an interview and he used douche-y words like “horizon” and “paradigm-shift”. It was super awkward until we started talking about music. I still remember his answer when I asked him what kind of music he liked – “I like everything from Madonna to Metallica.” To which I replied “Which Madonna. Coz if you say ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”, I’m hanging up right now.” And then he laughed. And then we were fraaands. But despite his love for hard rock and his hopes to find a girl who understood it, Rajeev also wanted a fairly traditional kinda gal. Someone who was independent yet liked to take care of a home and family. In fact, one of the first questions he ever asked me was if I knew how to make dal.

Growing up, I did not have too many friends who shared my tastes in music. It is hard to meet other girls whose idea of a perfect solitary afternoon was decorating cupcakes while listening to Wolfmother. I wasn’t edgy enough for the rocker chicks and I wasn’t homey enough for the domest(ch)ics. It bothered me. I thought I was weird because I did not fit into a stereotype. It was years before I became comfortable with myself. Well… comparatively at least.

People would often comment on how well Rajeev and I suited each other. We had such similar tastes in music! Oh what a happy coincidence!

But there’s more.

As a kid, my entire world about music revolved around my big sister. She’d come home for the holidays and she’d bring us bags and bags of Mad Comic books, Civic lip gloss, and yes, lots of brand new music. She was the one who introduced me to Roxette and Def Leppard (and, in a moment of weakness, Ace of Base). I started listening to music pretty much because of her. At that time, she used to study in Pune, along with Rajeev’s sister. And sometimes, on weekends, she’d even crash at their place. And guess who was on hand to introduce her to all that awesome new music?

See, I wasn’t meant to fit into stereotypes. I was meant for Rajeev. I can moan and groan about why this had to happen to me. And some days I don’t even want to get out of bed. But it’s gratifying to know that Raja’s and my story is so much bigger than just the two of us.

It’s hard though. Sometimes I feel like I’m becoming the exact opposite of the person Rajeev loved. I was never known for my saccharine goodness, but I was never suspicious and cynical either. I know that I cannot afford to be the naïve, trusting person that I used to be, but I really, really don’t want to end up this shriveled up ball of bitterness. Oh what a waste of life that would be. I want to be happy. Genuinely, unashamedly happy. And not because it’s “what Rajeev would have wanted”. Because as much as I’d hate to admit it, “what Rajeev would have wanted” doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t let it. As much as I love and miss him, Rajeev can only be a chapter. Not my whole story. And hopefully one day, I’ll stop feeling so guilty for thinking that way.

My sister told me the other day that I WILL get through this. And I thought “No. I AM getting through this.” My way may not conform to everyone else’s idea of how I should deal with this. I will not cry in front of random visitors who I know mean well. I will get monumentally pissed of whenever anyone, not biologically related to me, brings up the topic of remarriage (Seriously. What the what!). I will laugh. I will sing. I will joke. And when I feel really sad, I will cry. (‘cause face it, crying can only help you so much. I read this the other day- “Crying doesn’t indicate that you’re weak. But it doesn’t always solve your problems either.”)

So yeah, I will not get through this. I AM getting through this. I am. I am. I am.

I think.

A Very Long Post

Hello my pretties. (Plural because now I have conclusive proof that there are more than two of you out there. Evelyn Anandam, Nisreen, Mehj, Deena, and my fraaands in New Zealand, you make my heart smile.)

It’s been a while, no? For some time, it was on purpose. See for me, writing is all about feelings and I was quite fed up of all the feelings of the past few months. So I decided, with my ridiculously finite wisdom, that I was going to quit writing for a while and start focusing on something more “outward” like photography or cooking.

Therefore, in the past month, I baked exactly one batch of brownies and took a grand total of two photographs. Here is the one I am less ashamed of.

(It looked better on my phone.)

I took a month-long vacation last month. To explore the world, find my life’s calling, you know, to eat, pray and love. Oh, who am I kidding? I spent all of last month sleeping, eating junk, wasting time on 9gag.com, and watching every episode of 30 Rock known to man.

It was glorious.

I also used that month to think. And I thought about a lot of things.

I thought about change.

• About how I went from having a lot of free time to having no free time to having a lot of free time.
• About how I went from being super-brave to Courage the Cowardly Dog. I was the official lizard exterminator of the family. In fact, it was one of the first “Most Important Conversations” that Rajeev and I had while we were still dating. I asked him “Rajeev, do you promise to protect me from all worm-like creatures?” and he said “I do”. And then he asked me,” Sheryll, do you promise to protect me from all lizard-like reptiles?” and I said “I do”. (No wonder we were so chilled out during our wedding ceremony. We had already exchanged the vows that mattered.) These days, even my ringtone scares me.
• About how, for one full glorious year, my entire life revolved around doing my best impression of Martha Stewart. I was cooking and cleaning and doing laundry. I look back now and think “Who IS that person??”
• About how ridiculously short my hair is now. I went to the hairdressers the other day to get my hair trimmed. Once I got there, I decided to throw caution to the wind and get a brand new hairstyle. I wanted a slightly longish pixie cut, but my hairdresser, Peter, wanted me to get a bob. So we compromised and did it his way. I now look like Maria Von Trapp if she was a 1920’s flapper.

I thought about life and death.

Well, mostly death. I remember that the one thing my family was totally freaked out by was the possibility that I may continue to internalize all my feelings and then one day, do something drastic and irreversible. I get it. I can understand why they would think that. And truth be told, I’d understand if someone else in a similar situation would have done that. But I don’t think I would. For at least two very important reasons:

1. I’m a total wuss. Really. I don’t even eat chili bajjis. Forget that. I did not even eat green peppers till I was almost 20 years old. Why? Because they looked like giant green chilies and I was afraid they they’d be too spicy and burn my mouth. (Somewhere out there, the god of Telugu cuisine is weeping.)
2. I know it’s not “proper” considering my circumstances, but I just can’t help but be curious and excited about what the future has in store for me. Think about it. It can only get better, right? It’s like something I said to my mom the other day. That the best thing about this world is that no matter what you do or how much power you have, a day will only have 24 hours. And no matter how long that day feels like, it will get over. And a new day will begin. And it will go on and on until the sun burns out.

I thought about God.

God and I have been having a bit of a complicated relationship these days. Do I think God could have healed Rajeev? Without a doubt. Am I angry that God did not? More than you can imagine. Do I think that God did not heal him on purpose? Yes.

But that’s the thing you see. I do believe that God let this happen on purpose. And my logic dictates that to do something on purpose, you need to first have a reason. And that is what gives me hope. Sure, right now, no reason is going to be good enough. But who knows what the future holds. I know that my atheist friends will have a ton of things to say about all this, but I have to say that the one thing that keeps me going is my faith in a supernatural being who made me. For a purpose. A faith that there is a heaven, that there is someone out there who can see the big picture. It makes me believe that extraordinary lives are made of extraordinary events- whether it is extraordinary happiness or extraordinary sadness. I’m thankful that I got to have both.

I know my life is not going to be normal and ordinary. And of course, I’d pick having a normal, ordinary life building a happy home with Rajeev over having an extraordinary life any second of any day. But I can’t do that. I may not have THAT option but I DO have two other options. I can choose to spend the rest of my life wallowing in sadness and think about what could have been and how “unlucky” I am to not have that. Or I can choose to take what I have, do something with it, and be extraordinary.

I'm going to choose extraordinary... after I have this cookie.

Hope

The oddest things give me hope- the sayings on the T-shirts at mentalfloss.com, Mumford and Sons songs, watching a bridegroom feed a slice of wedding cake to his bride, bagels with hummus, the stuff at whenparentstext.com, pictures of nicely decorated rooms in Good Housekeeping-style magazines, gummy bears, the smell of bookstores, fuchsia pink anything,

These things make me realize that there is still happiness in this world. And love. And beauty. And laughter. And fun. They make me realize that even though today may not be that great, tomorrow could be awesome. And that while good times don’t last, bad times don’t either.

Avatars

Growing up, I went through a lot of different phases- I was a fearless tomboy between the ages of 1 and 4, boring asthmatic nerd, boring nerd, happy semi-nerd, angry teenager, depressed college student, psychotically cheerful wife, etc, etc. But of all my “avatars”, I like this one the least. And not just because of the lousy circumstances. I just don’t particularly like this new Sheryll.

Old Sheryll believed in the inherent goodness of people. She trusted easily, never questioned motives and was hardly ever suspicious. New Sheryll? Not so much. Old Sheryll believed that if she was genuine, others would be genuine too, so much that her husband used to worry about how she’d survive in the real world. Old Sheryll did not care. Why did she have to worry? Her husband would protect her anyway. New Sheryll does not believe she has that luxury. Old Sheryll was badass and was only scared of caterpillars. New Sheryll freaks out every time her phone rings. New Sheryll is very self-absorbed and doesn’t like many people. New Sheryll doesn’t really like New Sheryll either.

So what spurred this rambling, incoherent rant of mine? Well, here goes. Rajeev and I used to go to a church in a nearby town where his parents lived. I haven’t been to that church since his funeral. Anyways, so a few weeks ago, there was some special program happening in my current church and a bunch of people came here from that other church. I’ve never felt more judged in my entire life. Suddenly I felt like my sari was too transparent (it wasn’t) and my makeup was inches thick (obviously not). Then over that weekend, there was this sudden onslaught of people from that town calling home to ask about “my well-being”.

Old Sheryll would not have used double-quotes.

Old Sheryll would have smiled and said hello to these people. Old Sheryll would not have felt so judged because Old Sheryll would not have thought that they had any reason to judge.

Maybe they WERE judging me for being able to smile and laugh so soon after my husband’s death. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they just did not know how to talk to me. Maybe it’s all just in my head. I don’t know. And it shouldn’t matter to me either. Because really, how I deal with losing Rajeev is personal. I have a wonderful circle of family and friends who are there for me. I’ll cry when I want to and laugh when I want to. And it’s nobody’s damn business but mine.

But if there’s one thing I learned in these past few months, it’s that it is so easy to hate, SO easy to become bitter and mean and angry. It’s so easy to dwell on the negatives for so long that it’s all you can think about. To allow these emotions to control you till you can feel nothing else. The scary part is that It. Is. Just. So. Easy.

I also learned that it’s a choice.

I learned that I can choose to be all Miss Havisham-like and rot away with my memories, or I can just choose to be happy. I can choose to live, happily, not just survive from day to day. I learned that yes, I do live forever, in my eyes at least, because I’ll be alive for as long as I’m living and when I’m dead, it won’t matter because I won’t know anything anyway. (I don’t know if that made any sense. But it did to me. In my defense, I’m very sleep deprived.) Yeah, so I’m going to live. I might as well live happily. Right? And I believe I will. Someday.

So what if Rajeev and I never formed that husband-wife rock band along the lines of the White Stripes? I’m still alive. I can still sing. So what if we never got to visit a foreign country? I still have my passport. The world is my oyster. And one day I’ll stop believing that thinking these things makes me a bad person. One day I’ll realize that how happy I decide to be is not inversely proportional to how much I love my husband. One day, I’ll smile and mean it. And I’ll be happy. You just watch me.

If I Were Fearless

I wish I were fearless. Imagine what I’d do then.

Actually, I do know what I’d do. I’d laugh. And joke. And grin. And smile. All without worrying about whether other people would consider it “inappropriate widow behavior”. I’d realize that I’m the one who has to deal with losing the love of my life. That I’m the one who has to go to sleep alone. Not them. And that it’s my right to decide how I want to deal with it. I’d realize that I could choose to be anything in the world. So I might as well choose to be happy.

Yeah. If I were fearless, that’s what I’d do.