Tales of Hamsi

I felt claustrophobic, trapped within the walls of this closet. The pressure of working in an underpaid, toxic environment was getting to me. Add that to being the only brown person in a small town in Texas, with no diversity.

Camille, my co-worker, my solace in this dreaded place, gave me glances, occasionally shaking her ass near my face to make me feel better — and I looked stoic yesterday. I know this escape will take some time, and I would not be surprised if luck has never favored me. It realistically takes two to three months to even land interviews.

And I was sick thinking about it.

Camille, yet again, came to my claustrophobic closet and shook her ass again.

“Camille,” I said.

“What?” she smirked.

“I cannot do this anymore,” I said, with tears rolling down my eyes. “This is getting to me. I hate it here.”

She ran to get a box of tissues and started wiping the hot tears from my face.

“What are you scared about?” she said.

“They have boxed me in like this; I cannot work like this — I cannot realistically call 352 patients a month while I do other things.” I hiccupped, fresh tears and snot coming out. I didn’t care who heard me at this point.

“Then tell them you cannot. You need to stand up for yourself,” she said.

“I try. But remember what Dr. Khalid said the last time? Passion and hard work won’t take you anywhere.” I pointed to the sticky note I had on my wall, a constant reminder of why I need to leave.

“Then you hit him with this.” She took a fresh sticky note and scribbled something quick.

“K.” Her expression looked deadpan.

I started giggling, and it turned into full-blown laughter. I looked at her and asked,

“Do I look like I cried?”

“Of course not — you’re not pale like me,” she said.

I walked into the front office, and Cierra and Charla looked at me.

“Whom do we need to beat up? Why are you crying?” AJ and Amanda turned their heads too.

I just sighed and started all over again.

That evening, I got a projector just to numb the voices in my head. I have been struggling ever since I entered the job search in 2024, and life never gave me a break. The projector arrived, and when I had trouble setting it up, I called Camille to troubleshoot it.

Not only did she troubleshoot it, but she also drove all the way to help me fix it. We fixed it — I played a movie that night, and I thanked her multiple times, reminding her that I would not get through this phase without her and my other good friends by my side.

There have been instances during this “bridge phase” when many people have helped me — staying by my side, watching me fall asleep so I feel less anxious, letting me cry about the same things over and over again, praying for me.

I know that life happens, and your mid-twenties are supposed to feel this way as you figure your path out, but I want to let you know that in this phase of my life, I am doing it for the people who have lifted me, who want to see me do well in life, the ones who have seen me bruised, anxious, and sick of the reality of being by yourself in a new country.

You have been my hope, my strength, and my angels in this lifetime, and I know that your kindness is going to bring you up.

And I will keep moving forward, even when I feel tired. Though I have a hard time doing things for myself, this time my cause is different. It’s for all the people who believe I need a better life, even when I couldn’t believe it myself.

To the unexplainable wave of sadness, How are you? I have better lifestyle changes now, and yet, you visit me often. You make me feel like I’m surrounded by knives. (Those knives are metaphors, of course—sharp thoughts, intrusive and relentless.) You prepare to attack me, a layer at a time— First, looking at the connections I’ve made, Then gently pulling your way in to hit my ego through the changes I’ve made in my career, through its core. You tell me the world will never love me, and that I will never be enough. Some days, I let you consume my mind. Tears flow through, and I sit there, feeling this pain. I wonder if I let myself feel this not only because it’s familiar, but because it’s the only feeling that has ever stayed. So I wipe my tears, and I try to show up, right? I say hello with the brightest smile— It almost makes me forget you. I look around and I tell everyone I miss home. Yet, home is never a place. It is not a person. I pray I get to be home every day, And I search for its meaning in this merciless journey. I’ve seen you the most when I search for my home. You’ve never failed to visit me. As familiar connections fade, And I step into this transitional phase— You wave at me from a distance. (It’s rude not to wave back, isn’t it?) But I’m learning: The more I pour back into my cup, The less I see you. The days I moisturize my skin, drink water— And wear something cute just for the sake of it I forget that you exist. When I’m appreciated at work— I forget that you exist. When I make someone smile— You can figure out the rest of the sentence. I guess the big picture is: You are going to exist. But I want you to know— You will not consume me. No one ever will. I think I have risen past that, even if not— I know that I will. My love, My power, My value— They come from me. And I will never give that to you. Or to people. Or to false opportunities That will lead me to you. If this wasn’t long enough already, Think of this as a boundary I am placing. I hope you respect it. Because the people/places and opportunities that haven’t— I’ve never seen them again.

I am the daughter of my grandparents. I was raised by a loving Thatha, who would pick up after me as I returned from school, leaving traces of my day all over the house. He would find my bag in one corner, my lunchbox in another, and gently ask me about my day. My Paati, initially strict about maintaining order and cleanliness in the house, never dimmed her love. She always ensured I had a warm meal waiting for me after school.

Growing up, my cousins often teased me for being their pampered favorite. I would cry to my Thatha, begging him to distance himself from me, thinking that maybe if he did, I could finally receive validation from teenagers my age. My Thatha would cry too and softly say, “It’s impossible not to love you. You look exactly like my mother.”

In his final months, bedridden and weak, he would only wake up to eat if he heard my name. A week before he passed away, he asked me if I could get married then, so he could see it. But I was only 19—too young, just starting to figure out my path.

A month after Thatha passed, Paati moved in with us. We were both suffocated by the weight of his absence. We barely spoke to each other. I would ask her if she wanted to eat lunch with me, and we would sit together in silence. The heaviness in the room felt almost substantial, yet somehow, we understood each other through it. Occasionally, we would glance at Thatha’s photo in the living room, both of us hating to see him reduced to a picture—we knew he would have despised that.

Our bond deepened in those quiet, shared moments of grief. Two years later, Paati only wanted to walk if I was by her side, holding her hand. I’d sit with her patiently when she couldn’t stand, even if it meant missing out on conversations with family and cousins. I understood that she didn’t want to feel like aging was a burden, and I was willing to walk her through it.

When I moved to the US to pursue my Master’s, she never shed a tear. She wanted this life for me more than I wanted it for myself. She believed in the wonderful opportunities life had to offer for me, and she kissed me on my forehead and said goodbye. But I, on the other hand, left my companion, my solace, and a piece of myself with her.

Let’s be honest: when I say grief was an understatement to what I felt when I heard that she had passed away, I mean it. I only had a moment to say goodbye to her through a pixelated video call, 2000 miles away.

Grieving their presence is completely normal. Most of my identity is a by-product of their upbringing, and my core memories are built upon them. They are a piece of me, and I search for them everywhere I go.

But funny enough, I see them everywhere too. On a flight, when I experienced my first turbulence, I thought of Thatha, and just the thought of him comforted me and lulled me back to sleep. I knew my Paati was there with me when my friend made sure I ate three meals a day during my stay with her after Paati passed away. I felt her presence when I lost a picture of her moments before I walked down the stage during graduation, and my friend told me, “She lives in your heart, not through a picture.”

I knew my grandparents were with me when an old couple at the temple made sure I was dropped home at night because it got colder in Buffalo during October. When my best friend comforted me every day for a week while I was down with viral fever, and during the times I cried about the job search to my other best friend, I saw them in every gesture of kindness. I see them in the way my dad smiles.

The truth is, they live on. Your loved ones who have passed away live on. They exist through your experiences and the way you see the world, with them included. Though we cannot see them, we carry a piece of them with us and act and perceive the world the way they taught us.

Grief is always a part of your life. We grieve our loved ones when they are not here to help us through the challenges of living, making us cocoon into the comfort they offer. We grieve for lost connections, and sometimes, we grieve a part of ourselves as we grow.

To be able to grieve is to be able to love, and that is your biggest strength. It shows that you are vulnerable, and you have experienced the most shattering loss of your life—an unconditional love, a familiarity, a feeling of belonging, and being known by someone in the purest form.

The aftermath of grief, which I am trying to navigate, is to be known. It is to be seen, and to receive the love that is offered to me. It could never match the comfort that came with lying on my Paati’s lap or playing with the TV just to tease my Thatha. It is to give someone a chance to see them through me. It is to give myself a chance to understand that I could never receive the love they gave me, yet I will always see pieces of them in the people I meet.

Growth is always followed by excruciating discomfort. If you haven’t felt discomfort, you haven’t grown.

I remember entering 2024 with the most naïve and confident mindset—as though the universe always gives me what I want when I want it. I believed I would achieve everything I aimed for this year—physically, financially, and mentally.

It’s 22nd September, 9:18 pm. I sit here in the corner of my bed, contemplating the events that have unfolded this year. I’d say this year peeled itself like an onion. The onion being me, and the layers represent resilience, wit, and the courage to be uncomfortable and even disliked. The lessons came in the form of experiences and people.

Will I see you next year, Paati? 

The mere thought haunted me as I boarded my flight back to the United States at the end of January 2024. She passed away in March 2024, with the sweetest smile on her face. All I could picture was her lying in bed as she bid us goodbye.

That moment marked the beginning of my growth—a dawn of voicing my opinion and asking for help. I reached out to a friend in Buffalo, asking her not to leave me alone when I heard the news of my granny passing away. She carried my grief with me for a week, reminding me that though it was mine to carry for life, she would always be there to help me bear it.

I told my best friend I missed her after a month of no contact. I admitted I couldn’t do this without her by my side. She set aside our quarrels, our differences, and fought my battles with me.

This year also emphasized the importance of setting boundaries. I asked friends, acquaintances, potential partners, and even family members to understand—gently but firmly—that life didn’t revolve around their reality. If something made me uncomfortable, uneasy, or restless, it didn’t stay with me, gnawing at my mind just so someone else could sleep peacefully at the cost of my own mental health.

I couldn’t resist this change. I felt burdened by the existence of who I used to be—a culmination of saying multiple "yeses," a fear of being disliked that hid my true self. Though I had withdrawn from people-pleasing over the years, this year it left its deepest imprint.

A surge of bold words, impactful—sometimes even impulsive—decisions, broken friendships, and lost potential relationships defined this year.

Yet, in calmer, quieter moments, people stayed. 

Though the storm inside me was shockingly typhonic, some told me I did the right thing by setting boundaries, even if it meant losing access to certain people for my own well-being. I stood by what was right for me, even though the process was uncomfortable.

When everything felt like it was falling apart, as setting boundaries became even harder with the pressures of finding a job as an international student, two of my best friends reminded me that I was going to be okay. They told me they could see my growth, even if I couldn’t see it yet.

And I reminded myself that I was going to be okay. With every boundary I placed came the fear of losing yet another friendship or relationship, and with every rejection I faced from the job market, my self-worth seemed to sink a little deeper.

In those fleeting moments, I remembered how deeply I am loved. I am a human who believes in love and gives people the benefit of the doubt, thanks to my grandparents’ upbringing—a trait I love myself for. I am deeply loved by my parents.

I am passionate about research, and I came here to create a name for myself. There is no stepping back from that, certainly.

And, oh, how deeply I am loved by my friends. The love I’ve given out to the universe has always come back to me through my platonic friends. The universe is taking some time to cook up what I am asking for, but I know it’s worth the wait, and I know I am worthy of it.

So, if life has gotten a little out of control, my friend, have a good laugh about it. Ask for help from your friends, tell them you need a shoulder to cry on, and, more importantly, pray.

I have found faith through resilience. I pray you find the courage to do what is right, even if it makes you uncomfortable, even if it means losing people whose presence once made life easier for you.

A letter long overdue, to my grandfather for his birthday 🥰

Dysfunction describes how I grew up. And many posts on this blog describe the dysfunction I refer to here. I realize that I have painted my dysfunction yet failed to communicate how I am doing. 

I feel liberated for the first time. And I say it with so much gratitude that it is through the help of my close friends here in Buffalo and Chennai along with my therapist, that I am where I am today. 

Importantly, I feel the need to speak up for the people who grew up in dysfunctional homes. A few weeks back after getting into a fight with my parents, a thought seeped into me like venom.

"I would never be able to communicate my needs to my parents without compromising how I feel. If I don’t feel safe enough with them, my own family, where do I belong in this world? Where do I belong if not in my own home?"

I was haunted by this thought. I kept running in circles, hoping to forget it. It kept screaming that I didn't belong anywhere. And it felt so cold to think about not fitting in with your kind. I shudder thinking about it. 

You might ask me, have I found a solution to fit in, have I magically cured dysfunction from its origin?

No. And quite frankly, that thought is still lingering in my head. It’s a whisper now. Faint but I can still hear it. 

I say this with immense feeling of defeat, but I’ve learned to let go. I’ve completely surrendered to life's flow. I, a person who expects situations to always turn my way, have learned to release. I still worry about if one day, I wake up and want my need for control to seep into my life to narrate how my life should flow. Maybe someday, I want it. Today, I am watching myself gracefully let go of every single person, thought, and situation I have no control over. For the first time, I hope to be able to watch situations unfold and work out for me, as opposed to being the driver in the front seat. 

 I realized I had regulated my emotions. I have learned to parent myself. It is one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever done so far; to sit with my thoughts, and listen to them rather live my life delusionally. I have decided to be real with myself. And every time I feed into a dysfunctional thought, I take a step back and apologize to my inner child. 

Because we knew we deserved better. And only I could break this mad cycle for us.

And there are times when I accept certain familial patterns, behavior, and dysfunction present in my life for what it is. My heart aches with sadness that it does not look “normal”. It is so odd, hurtful, and unlike what a family relationship is supposed to be like. I ask my therapist now and then if it gets better as time passes. 

“Maybe one day you’ll fill it with a family of your own. But today, you fill it by being compassionate to yourself”, is her reply

My definition of home has changed drastically in the last few months. I remember starting here last August, I felt completely lost and alone. I started in an unfamiliar place with an entirely different way of living. I always questioned my choices and felt lost when no one controlled my actions. I was so used to living by what I was supposed to do, I forgot how to be by myself. 

It took a few failed relationships, saying no loudly to people, setting strong boundaries, standing my ground with my family, and doing what I feel is right instead of what I'm supposed to do, which has shaped me today. 

I am not here to sugar-coat that it gets better, but you will get through it, through the home you create within yourself, and the home you create with others. Home is now a place where I reside, where I feel safe, and I express my thoughts without being belittled or questioned. My home in Chennai is my home. It’ll always be my home and my family will always be mine. No matter how dysfunctional they are, they love me, and care for me in the way they can and it is still love. There is no denial there.

But I have expanded my wings to create a home for myself. And I have strong faith that the foundation is strong this time around.

My entire life has been black and white for me. I either succeed incredibly, or I fail miserably. There have been instances where I viewed my life from an "all or nothing" perspective. I never really gave myself the space to feel the grey in between. And when I say "all or nothing", I don't mean that it only limits itself to having an ideal body, an ideal relationship, an ideal work-life balance or ideal academic standing. In addition, there were other conundrums to deal with. I would not want to lie to someone when they asked me “How are you?” I would paint my entire life as it is, to a complete stranger for 15 minutes. I wanted to give them the truth of what’s going on. I always thought about it, minutes later. I felt like I had overshared in a conversation. But it never really was oversharing. It was a black and white way of expressing how I felt. I would never stop myself from sharing every detail of my life with my parents. I led my mom on about information about certain things, which I knew would cause a rift in our opinions and perspective. My friend once asked me, “You know the way you and your parents see the world is entirely different. How do you expect them to react or see the world in the same way you did? What happened to privacy? Do you think it’s really only for your friends?” It struck me like lightning. Why is privacy limited to close friends and family members? Why can’t it be applied universally?

Well, the Assertive Bill of Rights says that Every individual has a right to exercise privacy without giving reasons or excuses. It is funny how I wasn’t made aware of it until someone spoke sense to me. I am sure growing up I was never given the right to exercise and the opportunity to feel this way. Adulting just feels like I’m doing the wrong thing, even though I’m doing everything right to support myself and my mental health. There have been times where I have questioned my opinion of a situation. I believe this is because I have been conditioned to fit into other people's opinions of who, what, and how I should view the world. There will be times where I even require external validation to make sure all my choices are “right”. It was always valid for me to exercise my choices. There is no right or wrong. We only have different outcomes. It also blinds me from seeing the grey in people. And truth be told, it is toxic to a certain extent. It means recognizing a person needs privacy when they do not feel comfortable sharing what happened in their day, no matter how close they might be to me. A friend not being there for me during a tough time doesn’t make them an " unreliable " friend. Maybe they were having a bad day too. A friend not being able to fill my cup when their own cup is empty is a sign that they need space. It also implies that resting is productive. We don’t always have to chase the next big thing in life.

This also means accepting that not everything is about me. And that is okay.

Trust the process was a quote I never really understood. But now I know it means living in between and trusting that things will unfold as you live through them (without chasing them or chasing the extremes). People are always changing, trying and growing into more complex evolving forms. It is fascinating when the most basic human tendencies are invalidated as children, as an adult, it made me question my beliefs and choices, even though I’ve tackled the most traumatic life-altering experiences with emotional intelligence and maturity. Unlearning, and learning is the most uncomfortable position I've been in. It means reprogramming my mind to believe what I am doing is best for me, even when it doesn’t feel that way. But growth doesn't take place in a cosy, warm environment. Regardless of how uncomfortable it makes you feel, if it means standing up for your beliefs, it's worth everything.

“Manasa I would like to ask you a question” Dr. Alison looked at me intently.

It was Wednesday. I rushed from my laboratory, temporarily pausing my research work, to work with Dr. Alison for my session.

“On a spectrum, on a broad scale, let us arrange your trauma triggers into a pyramid, with the lowest, less conflicting, or least triggering situation on the flat base of the pyramid. Despite its low impact, it can still trigger or create a reaction. The highest, most sensitive situation is at the top of the pyramid” she said. Her office looked blue against the newly installed sun shield from her window.

“The top of the pyramid would be having conflicting conversations with people. I feel very unsafe when I have conflicting conversations with people," I said

“That is very interesting. As a trauma survivor who has suffered physical and sexual abuse, I would think intimate relationships would present a challenge to you. What part of you makes you feel like you can’t have a conflicting conversation with people, in general?" she questioned.

“Given how I've grown up, I've always felt like I hadn't had a voice of my own. When I expressed my feelings about something, I felt dismissed. So, I’ve avoided conflict my entire life. Putting myself in a space where there is a conflict between me and a person chokes me up. It makes me feel anxious. Truth be told, I feel the need to not deal with it”, I said. My hands were sweaty as I wiped them down on my pants.

“Can you give me an example?" she prompted

“Uhm.. there was a time when I and my best friend had different opinions about my ex, from the time when I dated him. She vocalized her opinion about him by saying that I deserved better." I paused to drink some water as I recollected my memory.

“When she said that, I tried talking to her about how kind of a guy he is and she doesn’t know him as well as I do. At that point, I just wanted her to halt this conversation because in my brain I felt that this conversation had taken a conflicting path. She never stopped. She questioned my understanding of him, and I was tired of defending my decision to date him and my anxiety soared through the roof. We finally stopped the conversation when I had a breakdown and when I started crying," I said.

“Why did you cry?" she asked me.

“I guess some part of me didn’t want to have this conversation with her. I wanted her to be accepting of the choices I made instead of questioning them”, I replied

“Do you think, since your choices were dismissed as a child, people questioning your actions, your choices, or the way you approach about doing certain things makes you feel anxious?" she asked me.

"Maybe," I said. “And that could be one of the reasons why I can’t handle people’s opinions about the choices I make in my life," I said.

“Well, that is heavy. But we will work on it," she said as she took some notes.

We wrapped up the session in a while.

My life flashed before my eyes as I was on my way to my laboratory after my session. Today, I touched waters that my 20-year-old self would not even have acknowledged, owing to the fact I was conditioned to grow that way. Standing up for myself and protecting myself is something that I’m learning. In that process, I am trying to discern between protecting myself from the people who love me and protecting myself out of survival instincts. I’ve started this journey, never knowing its bounds but only sailing to know I’m unravelling towards a better version of myself every day.

I do wonder if all this shadow work that I do would help me ascend to a better version of myself and as I look back at my 5-year-old self, I wonder if she would have been comfortable expressing herself with the version of me, the person that I am today.

After 23 long years, she responded “Yes”.

For her I am everything that I am, and everything I am trying to be.

“You finally found us!”, a middle-aged woman with piercing green eyes welcomed me with a warm smile. 

 “Dr. Alison”, I got up from my seat and fixed the crease of my coat.

“I’m sorry it took me a while, to find your new office”, I laughed nervously as I played with my hands

 “That’s okay. Come on in”, she said. I followed her through a row of rooms and finally entered a dimly lit room. 

The pale blue sofa from her previous office had been placed near the window. A small table was placed adjacent to it. I felt quite distracted by the colourful stones that had different quotes on each of them. 

“Manasa, in our previous session I remember you wanted to identify and explore more about who you are as a person rather than being identified as playing a role in someone’s life (A friend, A girlfriend, etc). I wanted to work more towards that. Are you comfortable talking about it today?” Dr. Alison said. Her hands were quite full with little notes written all about my history. 

I nodded and gave her an affirmative answer

“You had mentioned you identified as a people-pleaser, a chameleon in your overall relationships, be it friends, family, or romantic relationships” she rummaged through her notes from our previous session “You were quite emotional and you couldn’t find more positive words to identify yourself in relationships” she narrowed her eyes down at me. 

I gave her a weak smile and responded, “Yes”

“Imagine one day you woke up, and you feel like you got it all figured out. You know who you are, and what you want and you identify yourself well enough to know you are not subjected to a role. How would that make you feel?”, she enquired

I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t know how I felt about that.  

 “I honestly don’t know. I can’t imagine myself in that position right now”

“A thorough sense of security and belonging comes from the fact that we trust our choices, decisions and most importantly ourselves. If you were not the events that happened to you, the relationships you’ve been a part of, and the parenting that made you conditioned to who you are, maybe you are trying to find yourself”, she said. “And it is okay. Do you think your parents have it figured out?” she questioned me. 

 “I don’t think so,” I said wryly. 

 She laughed at my tone and asked, “Well, what makes you feel like you need to have it figured out right now?”

 “I think I might feel the need to control what is going on in my life,”

“I can see that it affects you as a person, but you need to learn to trust yourself. You deserve to. You are the safest shelter you seek in others, when you start there, you will be able to identify who you are better”, she said. 

 I nodded as the words she said made my heart sink a little.  After a few more conversations, I wore my coat to leave her office. 

 “Dr. Alison, what do you take from this quote What you seek is seeking you?”

“I think it talks more about attracting what you already are searching for. But in a broader sense, I would relate it to more towards believing what you are seeking is already yours. I wonder what you take from this quote?” she said, her eyes narrowed down at me. 

 “Well, Dr. Alison, I think it’s bullshit. It does not make sense to me at all, atleast right now”

 We laughed as I left her office.

 The sun hit my face as I opened the door. With a deep breath, I started my day knowing I’ll find my word someday.