A Self Reflection

As I got dressed for my last long run for the year, I caught my reflection in the window, and what I saw brought a smile to my face. I have always had issues with my body image and how I looked, and no matter how much people may say, I have always felt otherwise. But what I saw I did like, maybe it was just the window that hid my imperfections, after all it wasn’t a mirror, I may actually have a decent body. 

I’ve been a person who is full aware of my body, a bit too aware. And though some may say I look fit, I know my every bulge, every overflow, my fats, a bit too aware of my imperfections. I have always struggled with a positive body image, as much as I have struggled curtailing my love for food. I feel awkward if some one touches me on my stomach, or when I run or on the Activa, when I can feel my belly shake like a bowl full of jelly. And though I may say that I am perfect the way I am, I know that I am far from it cause when I see someone better built them I am I wish I was them, call me vain or superficial, but at one point in time I did want to give modeling a shot. And I know that no matter all that I do (as others have pointed out) I need to control my binging, my unwanted snacking, junk eating (the obvious thing) cause there lies the evil to all my situation.

That reflection also showed me the bitterness and loneliness I felt, that was eating me from the inside, things I really don’t want to feel, I don’t want to have control over my life, but for some reason I was giving importance. I hate the fact that career wise I ain’t going anywhere and that I am surrounded by morons and buttkissers and papads, workaholics expecting you to be like them, all in a company that’s as good as a baniya shop. But then people and their behaviour I may not be able to change, they are going to be the way that suits them best and

will continue to do what works for them. What I can change is my situation, myself, my outlook. I needn’t stoop so low, I am responsible for my actions. What I can do is take the positivity that my team gives me, that pushes me on.

My loneliness may often lead me to feel all alone, often by myself even in a crowded room, not having someone to call my own. Family and friends I may have been blessed abundantly, but what I also have is a confusion of my own making, of do I have or do I have not the one, what am I and where do I fit in the scheme of life, what am I and what’s the role that I play. Questions to which I don’t seem to know the answer, questions that seem to preoccupy my head and never letting go.

But going forward I know I have to let go, accept facts and move on, doing what’s best for me, never letting things and people bring me down. My body type I will accept, but I will strive not to be perfect but stay fit and healthy. Career wise I shall charter a way out of the frustration and negativity and the mire that sucks me in. Always striving to give my best. I shall not let my situation or anyone put me down, hold me down, Rising above hate, never letting bitterness cloud my mind, blind me. And this is my wish for the new year to come.

My Run(re)solution

Once again it’s that time of the year when people put on their thinking hat and get out their writing pads to write down their resolution for the year to come. So not wanting to be left behind here’s mine, my running resolution, my runsolution.

My first would be to complete my FM at the TMM (Full Marathon at the Tata Mumbai Marathon, for the uninitiated). No, no this ain’t my first FM, in fact it would be the 5th one that I participated in, third at the Mumbai Marathon, where I’ve got my PB (oops, I did it again, PB is personal best). So after the debacle that was 2018, the target is to just complete the race, no eye on timing, no PB, just complete (yayayaya right, I think I am kidding). So to ensure this, no carb loading in the days leading to the race, especially gorging on 5-Star, or any form of chocolate. And if I have to drink another ORSL, I would...

Like I did in 2018, I shall follow in 2019 also, not to race every race, rather experience the race, take in what the race has to offer. I know for sure I am not going to podium anyway (I.e. come 1st, 2nd or 3rd), but I am going to enjoy every race, irrespective whether it’s good or bad, challenging or difficult (or both), I am going to take in every run, experience it, learn from it, not bother where I finish or what my timing is (ok will be a bit bothered). I shall ensure to give good face, and pose, as I go about my run, and not give my strained, constipated face, with my T-Rex/ bunny arms.

This brings me to my next point, I shall be damn selective of the races I choose to run, more selective than I was this year. There’s routes out there left to be discovered, races to run. Run for this and run for that I shall not but run for self I surely will. I want to run on routes that challenges me, that’s takes me by the collar and commands me to rise to tone occasion, bringing out the best in me. I fell head over heels in love Ladakh (and not just because it was a great way to celebrate my birthday). So no matter how much I may crib and complain and struggle, a challenging route I shall always love and choose to run. So that’s mean, bye bye BKC (unless it’s absolutely need to). So in short I want to run in new places, on challenging routes, enjoying every race, taking in every race.

Finally, I would love to give back what Running has given to me. In my own way and capacity and capability, to help others who need help. To provide support and cheer them on, encourage and support them. I am no running evangelist, and I look not at converting a non-runner into one. But if my action were to inspire others to take up running, take up a healthy and active lifestyle then i shall feel my running has been put to good use.

And this, in short (though not very short), is my runsolution for 2019.

SoBo Sojourn: A Sunday Musing

Walking down these oh so familiar streets brought back memories from the deep recesses of my mind, they memories rash weren’t forgotten, that weren’t dormant, they were safely kept and preserved to brought back whenever needed.

As I walked down the streets, I was taken back to my childhood, to the days when my papa took me to the ENT to get the wax out off my ears (not sure if I should be mention it here). Then later in my youth I walked down those streets and passed those fascinating structures as I made my from VT (as it was then called, before the entire politicisation of the name change) to my college in Churchgate. I didn’t need a heritage walk, I just did it everyday. 

Those buildings fascinated me, the structure left me in awe, you always ended marvelling the architecture of those building, especially the station and the municipal build, and they were breathtaking when lit up. So starting the full marathon, running by these structure is something else in itself, a sense of marvel, a sense of pride. And although all the digging, tunneling, of the metro work had taken away some sheen of the place, it can never ever take away the dignity and fascination of the place.

So as you made way though pavements lined with tin barricades, and there’s mud and dust everywhere, digging everywhere, you’re trying to get your bearing where exactly you are, but you can’t help continued to be awed by the place. You discover places you didn’t know existed, enjoyed a delicious breakfast in the company of friend, cause we Runners need a good brekky after a good run. You walked past places you have never been to, down roads and lanes you didn’t know were there, each of these little nooks and corners held on to your fascination, each turn a discovery, and to think about it I spend so much of early life here, never truly exploring the place. 

In the end, though you walked through lanes, through barricaded pavement, you didn’t mind the walk. You though wished it would have been another time when there was no metro work robbing the sheen of the place, eating into its beauty. But in those little places you enjoyed the beauty of the place, the beauty of the company, you brief SoBo sojourn.

Christmasses of Yore: Childhood Christmas Memories

Once again it’s that time of the year when the cheeks are rosy and everyone wants to be comfy, cosie, from the cold (yes, it does get cold at time in Mumbai). It’s the festive season and everywhere you look you’ll find a festive glow. Shops with their festive window displays, houses with their lit windows, at every signal there’s Santa hats and reindeer antlers being sold, there’s decorations for your house, decorations for the tree, star lights and dancing lights, not forgetting the statues for your crib. It’s a magical feeling, the most beautiful feeling you could ever have. There’s excitement in the air, as people rush to make their purchases, children writing letters Santa, hoping they find what they wished for, the asked for, beneath their Christmas Tree, or in their stockings. You hear the gentle strains of a carol, heralding the coming of the Christ.

It’s a magical feeling, but you can’t help yourself and be transported to years ago, back to your childhood, to christmases of yore. As soon as you step on to your floor you you get the whiff of the sweets being made, kulkul, navri, marzipans, guava cheese, date rolls, the coconut cake. You could tell who was making which sweet just from that smell, that sweet smell.

Sweet making was social activity. You made sweets together in one house and then moved to the next house to help. I distinctly remember the lady who came to knead the atta, literally bashing it up on the heavy aluminium thali. You were either assigned to make balls or make the kalkals or do the fillings for the navri, and get scolded when they came small or opened up while they were fried. I remember the taste when the first batch of navari and kalkals were fried. Making marzipan was fun, especially when you experimented with colours. So A sunflower could red or green, Christmas trees all yellow, and Santa a very colourful fellow.

Decorating the house was and is a very tedious activity in itself. Finding the right streamers that would go with each other, that would match, if not the same. Deciding on the patterns in which to hang them, ensuring they didn’t touch the fan. Then you had decorating the tree. Did I say that I had a 7 feet tall tree, with toys that my dada had got when he came down? So decorating it would be fun, firstly finding the right branches, putting in the right sequence, spreading the branches, hanging the toys so that the good ones were in front, and thanks to my doggie, there were no balls down. Finally came the untangling of the lights and wrapping them around the tree, and putting up the star.

Our building boys used to put up a huge star, hung in the centre of the building, with a crib in it. The highlight being getting that star up. The excitement, that crackle in the air, got everyone out of the houses and on to the gallery, cheering the boys on as they pulled the star up which mind could be damn heavy, as my poor buddy Ryan found out.

Once the star was up it was time to get ready for midnight mass, but first sweet needed to be distributed amongst the neighbours, especially the families of those mourning. Midnight mass included royally snoozing during the mass, or trying to count the number of people who had gone Betty-by, going to Persian Darbaar for chai, to avoid the long and preachy sermon, and then stand out there at the end of the mass to wish everyone. Once the mass was out of the way it was time to make way to Mondes for beer (or in my case, Coke or ice tea) and then Bade Miyas for some kebab rolls.

What followed was a week of fun and frolic, music and activities, of Christmas Parties, and housies and request programs, Fancy Dress and Talent Competion, request programs and guessing the Santa, children running around selling housie tickets, music playing, people jiving ( yes that’s where I got my jiving skills), guitarist in demand  cause at the time talent meant singing (unlike dancing now days), Tele games and guessing the Santa, all culminating with the old mans walk on New Year’s Eve and the prize distribution and raffle draw on New Year’s Day.

But now things have changed, the world has changed, the way we celebrate Christmas has changed. The Christmases of our childhood have become a memory, albeit a sweet one, one we shall cherish forever. Those days may never come again but we shall always have them with us, no matter where we go, over land or sea or shore, the celebrations of Christmas of yore.

Keeping up with the Pace

He started off his run after some basic stretches and a quick warm-up, as it was customary. There was a chill in the air that had been there for over week now (or was it from the week before that, but did it really matter cause it was the perfect weather), carrying forward from the weekend, the perfect running weather. He planned to do an easy 10 trying to recover from the strenuous weekend half.

So he switched on his music, started his Garmin and Nike Run Club app, and he was off. He tried to keep a steady pace, trying not to up the pace, trying hard not to give into temptation, promising himself to take it easy, hoping to keep that promise. He greeted his friends who were doing their time trial, waving as he passed by, once again trying hard not to up the pace to match them.

He completed his first lap and was almost done with his second when he spotted her from the corner of his eye. She was running at a steady pace striding with confidence and striding strongly. She easily caught up with and matched him stride for stride, even getting ahead of him.

At first his ego urged him to get ahead of her, after all how could he let her get ahead of him, how very sexist of him. But he once again reminded himself, rather sternly, that this was a recovery run that was meant to be easy. In the end he finally gave in and coming to a compromise, he decided to keep pace with her.

Now she was running quite well, although he didn’t struggle to keep up with her, it had been a while since he pushed himself to be at this pace (barring his interval training) continuously for a longer duration. So there they went down that road, at times side-by-side, at times behind each other, as the road permitted them, but always at the same pace, keeping up with each other. They didn’t utter a single word, just focused straight ahead, each serving a pacer for the other.

When they came to the end of the lap, she took a turn at the divider while he went on to the end of the road. For a moment she turned around to see where he was. He upped his pace finally catching up with her.  He gave her thumbs up and an applause continuing to enjoy the company and the challenge of keeping up with her. They encouraged each other when they felt the pace slacken, when the they needed it the most. Even then they did it with gestures without uttering a single word.

Now by the fourth lap he felt her pace slacken, though he encouraged her, urged her on, he felt that may be she had achieved her target for the day. So he carried on, keeping up the pace they had maintained, in fact he could go faster than he had gone before, faster than he had gone in a while. 

As he completed his fourth lap and turned, he saw her on the other side of the road. He smiled and waved. She smiled and waved back at him. He continued with his run, now with an added confidence, causing him to up his pace. When he finally came to end of his run, after the 10th km, he tried to see if she would be at the place where everyone cooled down, but she was no where in sight.

So once again, without uttering a single he knew he was grateful to her, who without uttering a single word helped him maintain the pace, encouraged him and in those brief moments became his pacer (hopefully the other way too), helping him keep the pace.

Taming the Tiger

After missing the first two editions of the race due to laziness and your commitment to your beloved Bandra-NCPA, I jumped at the opportunity of running it when it was to be held in the third week of December, instead of the first week. After all I didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity to run in a city that’s close to my heart. No matter how much I thought I had run that area when i was in school could prepare me for the challenge that awaited on that cold winter morn.

So as you start off the race, albeit a few minutes late (which was actually a blessing since your friend got late to pick his mum, your mum and you), you’re trying your best to keep warm. You stand greeting each of the runners you know as a cold breeze freezes the air, making you quip that you should break into Let it go, cause a few minutes more and you would be Frozen (get it!). 

Well you run amidst the sea of reds (or was it maroon), the colour of the official race tee, and cadets, whose enthusiasm seemed to have traveled to their feet, adding a spring to it. They joked and greeted their superiors, took shortcuts (at times making you want to scold them), threw bottles in the air and caught them, while they ran, calling each other names. It felt like they were set free without supervision, just for a few hours, something I could empathise with cause that was exactly how I felt when we had cross country race (as it was call then). But yeah at times they would be unruly and wild and come in your way, but harmless

Now the road ahead was not easy and had its constant ups and downs and highs and low, which is why it is called rolling hills, and the race is called a challenge, but trust me that what would challenge you had not yet come. So you ran through INS Shivaji (first time you’ve been here even though you schooled in Lonavla and students came from there), around Monsoon Lake, and past Bushy Dam (which was without its famous crowd and falls).

You hit the the 10k mark and that’s when your challenge begins. You climb up unrelenting slopes, with its twists and turns, making running up Kanheri seem like a cake walk. Suddenly you have your poor feet screaming at your brains, what the hell were your thinking when you signed up for a 21k, couldn’t you just have done the 10k and gotten it over? But hey you can’t help yourself and walk away from challenge, after all how much would you run in BKC which, let’s face it, has become the most saturated and boring place to run. So you undertake the arduous climb, with your feet cursing you at ever step, and you trying to block them out of your head, commanding them to shut up and move on. You even stop and take walk breaks when it necessitated, counting to 15, under your ragged breath. 

As you reach the top of the Airforce base you’re greeted with some stinging head winds, almost trying to push you off course (well not quite that strong) with your bib threatening to tear off your vest. You finally reach Lion Point, making you wonder where’s the Tiger. So you finally come to the conclusion that you ran up Tiger Hill to come to Lion Point, isn’t it ironic, don’t you think (as Alanis Morisette would have put it).

So by the time you reach the turn around point, which turned out to be a line to touch and go, almost bumping into a bunch of cadets posing for a photographer, you heart is glad it will all be downhill from here. But then you’ve got hold that thought just for a little while longer cause there’s still a couple of kilometres of rolling hills to run on.

So your legs grudgingly make that return journey, hoping to get done with it once and for all, but your soul (not to be confused with the ones beneath your feet) feels free as a bird wafting in the wind, taking in the sights, enjoying the weather, cheering those who are still making the journey up the slopes, who need the cheering the most. So after you run, jog, walk the rolling hills, it’s finally time to descend the slopes. So you speed up but at the same time you try to control your pace, you don’t want to injure yourself. You are urged on by friends and fellow runners who have completed their race. 

Finally you reach that final turn and to your relief, the race is done. You collect your medal and congratulate the winners and friends, as is custom, and wear a wide grin as you chat with the organisers and fellow runners, relieved that you have completed the challenge. As you make your way to the presentation area to meet your mum (whom for the first time has attended a running event) and your friends, you can hear the naval band play Besame Mucho, bringing a huge smile for a childhood memory. 

Now that the race is done it’s time to celebrate and pose for pictures, as well as devour the post run breakfast. For the first time you get to click a pic with your mum after the race. Though your timing may not have been too great, your chest swells with pride, not just for yourself but also for your friend, some of whom have podium (hardly to any surprise). Now you can proudly say that you took up the challenge and successfully completed taming the tiger (hill).

The Rhythm and Me: A Confession of a Non-Dance

I am no dancer but I don’t have two left feet and can move reasonably well. But when I put my AirPod on and the music begins to play, the rhythm is bound to get me, and the beat just goes through to my feet.

For those few minutes the world fades away and I forget all my care, making me feel light as a feather, rather than heavy as lead (the way i think I feel I am, though others may beg to differ). And in the moment I feel like Fred Aistaire, cause a Bollywood personality I can’t be, and there’s something joyful about the way he moved that captured the sheer bliss of the moment.

When the music begins to play, the world becomes a different place, a better place, a la la land. Whoever thought a traffic jam could become so joyous. You just break into dance like a joyful musical set piece, and who knows the world would join in too.

So as i walk down that street I can’t help but let my feet move to the beat. A tap here, a shimmy there, a side step, a hop, a hippity hop, a toe-heel-cross, to trotting like a fox, just waltzing your cares away, side step, front step, just move those hips. You feel wild like Kevin Beacon (however, not being so acrobatic), or suave like Patrick Swayze, lifting baby with ease.

There’s so much sheer joy in the movement, you see, when there’s no one to see, when you dance just for yourself, because your heart is filled with content. And even if you don’t got the moves, or you look like fool, or people may laugh, when see you dance. But you don’t really care cause your heart is filled with content, and in that moment, it just the rhythm and you.

Potiya

He was always that cute cherubic kid who made all the aunties go awww and reach for his rosy, chubby cheeks, much to his annoyance. He also had that cute little tushy that everyone liked to pinch, back when it was not looked upon as inappropriate. He was called Potiya, for his cute chubby ness, and Bun Pav, for his love of buns, or maybe because his tushy reminded people of buns. He was the apple of his parents eyes, someone who drew attention to himself not just by being cute and chubby. He could draw people to him, right from telling jokes to being friendly to all.

Life was good, but then growing up happened to him. He began to go through physical changes, his body transformed. He didn’t quite loose his cuteness, cause what he couldn’t shake off was that stubborn chubbiness. Born and bought up around a lot of esterogen, it was difficult for him to adjust to all the testosterone that surrounded him, he found it difficult to cope with it. He felt out of place, an anomaly. To top it all he was grappling with an identity issue, trying to figure out who he was, where exactly did he fit in the larger scheme of things, what was his preference.

He stood out like a sore thumb, an oddity, that made him an outcast. The world can be cruel place, never making any attempt to try and understand him. Nobody could quite understand him or even try to get to know him. They just made fun of him, the butt of their cruel jokes. His sexuality was the subject of their salacious gossips and malicious rumours, filling him with insecurities, always wondering if people were talk about him. He always felt like an outsider, something he wasn’t used, a big change from his childhood.

He felt low and depressed, and quite often had the unthinkable cross his mind. But he didn’t have the courage to go through it, and he thanked God for that. What gave him hope was something that his mother once told him, you are always better than what people who talk about you. Now he wasn’t an ugly duckling but he knew he wouldn’t metamorphosis into a swan. He wanted to stay fit and that got him through and gave him some amount of confidence.

In a need to meet people like himself, ab attempt to find someone to connect with, he signed up on a site. But when he read some profiles it made him wonder how superficial people could get when they mentioned their preferences, especially when it mentioned that fatty need not ping. It felt like these people were seeking out supermodels, wondering if they were supermodels themselves? He laughed at the expectation of people, but at same time he was also aware that he too fell into the same slot. Sometimes he wondered how these beauty queens and models represented a country when mass majority of the country weren’t Reed thin or had a six pack.

At times he found it difficult to understand the attention he now seemed to be getting, all the compliments, now that he had mademoiselle commitment towards fitness. From his past experience he found it difficult to take it, but at the same time he knew that these people were attracted to what they saw and not the person, without taking the trouble to know him. 

He marvelled at the fact how life kept changing and turning with every ebb and flow, and how far he had come, how much he had to change, how much life changed him, from blissful ignorance to unshakable  despair to finding hope. He sure had come a long way and he knew he had a long way to go. He knew that life would try to melt and mould him, but no matter it tried he swore that he wouldn’t be lost in all this change, he wouldn’t loose his what his belief that what made him uniquely human, who he truly was, that little Potiya.

The Christmassy Feeling

We made it through the year

From January to December 

But now is the season

When you don’t need a reason

To get that feeling 

The one that’s the most beautiful feeling of all

It’s that time of year 

That brings a good cheer

Everywhere you see

Are smiling faces and happy faces

Everyone a holly, jolly soul

Everywhere you see

Is red, gold and green

Silver bells and jingle bells

And Santa hats and reindeer ears

Bells all jingling, stars all glittering

And ornaments to adorn your tree

The stores look all festive

Filled with eager shoppers

With their bags filled with treasures 

Trying to find what they want

Haggling and bargaining 

But all filled with good cheer

The fairy lights and the street lights

And star lights and the LED ones

All blink bright red and green

And some with a little gold too

Making you feel like 

Walking in a winter wonderland 

There are sellers selling Christmas trees

Of whatever height you may please

Some green, some with snow

And some with stars and lights that glow

You have an inflated snowman

And a Santa playing a saxophone 

All enhancing that Christmassy feeling

I can help but feeling

That I blame it on the season 

For this holly jolly feeling 

But for me it will always be

The most wonderful time of the year

We may not know snow

And the weather ain’t that cold

And will never see snowflakes 

But that won’t stop us from carolling

And hoping for a white Christmas 

And singing let it snow, let it snow

Ans about frosty the snowman 

The children are straining to hear

Sliver bells and jingle bells

And for sleigh bells in the imaginary snow

They’re writing letters to Santa 

Hoping that Santa knows

They have been good through the year

And hoping he doesn’t see

The naughty that they had been

In all these feeling

Let’s not forget the reason for the season 

To spread joy and cheer

And bring happiness and hope

To the ones who need it the most

Never ever forgetting 

the reason for the season

So spreading hope, joy and love

So I am so happy

Cause it’s beginning to look like Christmas 

Everywhere I go

.. Over a Cup of Chai

They both met on the last place they had ever imagined that they would meet anyone of interest, let alone people of their wavelength. They were both averse to the app and had to be coaxed and cajoled, even to the extent of blatant threats, to sign up on it. They were two lonely souls, not because of the lack of people out there, but their inability to move ahead, trapped in their own world, trapped in their own thinking, totally socially awkward, something their friends saw, and they failed to understand, and who ended up taking matters in their own hand.

They weren’t aware of the existence of the other, let alone knowing they worked for the same company, albeit out of different offices, departments, locations, cities. It was that faithful beep on the messenger, or scan of the messenger, that actually lifted the veil of ignorance of each other’s presence, slowly helping to form a connection. They had seen each other, but up until that ping they were oblivious of each other’s presence, the only thing they had exchanged was a quick glance.

Since one was timid the other bold, it was upto to the bolder one to take the initiative, once it was learned of each other’s presence it was just a matter of time they had to meet. Unfortunately their busy schedules almost derailed their opportunities and kept them from meeting each other. When they finally got a small window of opportunity it was time for them to part. So they decided to make the most of what presented itself.

Though they met over a cup of chai they ended up having a stimulating conversation, getting a bit more than they had expected, bit more than they had bargained for. In those moment they spoke of their life, what lead them to getting on the app, their life on the app, and what they look forward to life, on and off the app. They learnt so much of each other, like peeling off the layer of an onion skin, learning something new with each layer, getting to know each other, each other’s personality, a new appreciation, a new admiration, respecting each other.

As they conversed with each other, their conversation had these little touches, private moments, personal to just the two of them. A hand on the shoulder, a brush on the back, a touch on the elbow, pushing back the errant strand of hair. Touches that were personal, touches that were intimate, more than any other form of intimacy.

They spent the rest of the day texting each other, eagerly awaiting the others response. And when it came time to part ways they walked together to the gate, letting their fingers brush each other, not really holding hands, avoiding the awkwardness of gawking eyes, but sharing a smile. So at the gate, when they said goodbyes, they hugged and one gave the other a peck on the neck, promising to have a proper date, the next time either of them were in the same city.

An Acceptance

As she rose to the mike, at the front of the altar, she could feel the butterflies in her stomach. As the choir formed behind her, she turned to face the congregation. She could see them staring at her, their eyes burning into her skin, piercing her soul. She knew that there were those out there who would love to see her fail, but many more who willed her to succeed. She had worked so hard for this, fought for it, to be accepted. But now that it was here she could feel her nerves getting the better of her, fear in the pits of her being, a cold chill running down her spine. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She remembered a time when all this was different.

She was not always female and in fact was born male, a label she wasn’t too comfortable. She always knew she woman, but in a man’s body. After two boys, her mother wished for a girl, only to have another boy. She wasn’t disappointed but in a very masculine household she wished for a feminine company. Maybe this was the reason why she was more girl than boy.

As a child she used to wear her mother’s pearls and make up and used to parade in the house and entertain guest with her singing. At first this was all amusing, all funny, all very entertaining. But when it got to be an habit it turned into bit of annoyance to her father. He scolded her for not being like the other boys and constantly reprimanded his wife for being too protective and encouraging of their son.

At school she was the butt of every joke, not very well accepted. Her effeminacy was ridiculed and made fun off. She was often at the receiving end of their bullying. Her brothers stood up for her, often getting in scraps with other boys, but there were times when even they couldn’t understand her, couldn’t take her behaviour.

Finally her father decided to pack her off to a boarding school so that they could make a man out of her, away from the influence and protection of her mother. Life at the boarding was another nightmare. In a building filled with testosterone she stood out like a sore thumb. Once again she found herself being bullied, being harassed mentally, physically and sexually. There were other effeminate boys but they too fell in line with the straight boys.

Once while showering at night , she was accosted by her tormenters. They tried to force her  to perform oral acts on them and when she refused they nearly raped her. When she begged and pleaded and cried they finally let her go. Not before kicking her and beating her, especially in her privates saying that she had no use for them and threatened that if she ever opened her mouth to anyone she would face a worse faith.

This was the final straw, she couldn’t take any longer. But she didn’t know who turn to? Who could help her? Who would believe her? She did the only thing she thought was right and ran away from there. Her father flew into fit of rage when he saw his son standing at the door. If it wasn’t for his mother he would have physically harmed him. That night his parent got into a huge argument. She could hear them no matter how much she tried to drown them out. She decided to put an end to it all. If it weren’t for her mother’s timely intervention, she would have been six feet under. And when she saw all the bruises and marks on her body, she swore to stand by her son, no matter what, even if it meant crossing sword with her hubby, with society, with the world at large.

From that day onwards she became her biggest supporter, her advocate, the one who stood by her, the one who fought for her. She wouldn’t spare anyone. Even though she was deeply religious, she accepted her son for who he was and who he wanted to be. She gave the local parish priest, who spoke to her about her son, a piece of her mind, or for that matter anyone who spoke ill of her son. Knowing how maternal and protective that she was of her youngest, her father didn’t dare to rub her the wrong way. He made his peace, even slowly beginning to accept his son the way he was. People spoke, made fun, cooked up stories, it just rolled off her back. If she would have to go against the world for her child, she would. She would even give up going to church if it weren’t for her staunch faith. She always told her children, especially her youngest that Jesus loves you all no matter who she chose to be and how she chose to live. It was this faith that stayed with her and kept her going and believing in god and Christ, no matter what people or even the priest and other religious said.

When she went to college she happened to come across the choir, a bunch of kid from all walks of life, all strata of society who came together to sing. They were in their own way an outcast to social  but they held their own. She found her voice here, the thing she would love to do. They accepted her for she was without any prejudice and it was with them she came into her own. Together with their melodious voice they grew in popularity and fame.

As the years went by people became more accepting of who she was and what she represented. There were still those religious bigots who passed judgement on her. The parish priest changed and 

 in his place came a more open, tolerant and accepting and wiser priest. He had heard her and her choir before and encouraged her to come more often to church, much to the delight of her mum. He finally invited to sing for the Christmas midnight mass. And it was here where she found herself.

As she opened her eyes, she saw her mum wearing the biggest smile, her chest swelling with pride for child. She saw her father and brother and their families, who were smiling and waiting for her to sing. There was anticipation in the air. She drew in a deep breath and began to sing Oh Holy Night, starting slowly and then building a crescendo, soaring on every note, with the choir behind her giving her able support. When she belted that final

Note there wasn’t a dry eye in the church. The whole congregation rose to their feet and greeted her with a rapturous applause. She couldn’t help up but tear up, and in that moment she whispered “Praise you Jesus, thank you Jesus!” Like her mother taught her.