Here it is...

Happy Friday, everybody! Most of you know that Modern History Press recently published my chapbook of poems “Because All Is Not Lost: Verse On Grief.”

On the same day, UK-based VAANI interviewed me. It's official; UK knows that I love to chat and dance. :-) Click here to read the interview: http://www.vaani.org/2010/07/sweta-srivastava-vikram-talks-to-v.html

Before I tell you what the book is about, I want to holler a big thank you to all the people who have made this dream come true: Millay Colony (for providing me with a creative environment); Abby Adams, my friend and fellow poet ( for her insightful critique and feedback); my husband, Anudit (for totally getting why I need to hide behind fog, hills, and solitude when it comes to writing poetry); and lastly but most importantly, my publisher, Victor R. Volkman (for his faith, open-mindedness, hard work, and devotion. It's an absolute delight working with you, Victor!)

About the book:

We have all lost a dear one at some point in our lives. Grief, depending on the relationship with the one deceased, affects us differently. But life is about celebrating those alive and not just mourning those who have moved on. Optimism and faith are the keys to overcoming the roadblocks life puts in our way. This book tries to state that there is always hope for anyone coping with grief.

Reviews so far:

"The real joy of this collection is its potential to be read in a single sitting, multiple times, with each subsequent reading revealing new insights. For poetry virgins, this text demands no sophisticated knowledge of poetics and literary discourse. To put simply, it is an accessible piece of enjoyable writing, a concept with which a lot of poets seem to struggle."

Orchid Tierney, Editor REM Magazine

"A gripping story of grief and loss and journey to faith and hope will interest all lovers of poetry."

Smita Singh, VAANI

So what are you waiting for? Grab your wallets, take out that credit card, and make the purchase. The book is available in: US, UK, and everywhere else in the world!

Thank you for all your support!

Yours,

Sweta

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 07. 30. 2010

Learning time management from a Bollywood dancer

The other day, a friend of mine (in India) was complaining about paucity of time. I said to her, “You don’t know what time crunch really means until you have lived in the west. At least you come home to readymade food, clean house, and children clad in night clothes.”

I cannot emphasize enough that I don’t mean that people in Asia have more time or an easy schedule. Not at all. From what I am told, by friends who have moved back to Asia from the US and UK, the concept of “work-life” balance is a myth in the east. But what works in their favor is that they have a support structure (maidservant, cook, chauffer, and an elaborate entourage overall) in place while majority of people in the west don’t. Sure, you get your cleaning services or kitchen help a few times a month, but your everyday chores need to be managed by you.

But, I am beginning to see a lot of merit in owning your own time. There is a lot less wastage of desires and opportunities. For example, maids in India often decide to work on their own time, which leaves the lady of the house hanging. What does that mean – everyone in their universe is dealt cups of mood swings and anxiety.

Of course, I would be lying if I said that, occasionally, I wouldn’t love for someone to serve us steaming hot food when we returned from work or scrub the place with Lemon Pledge every morning. But those pangs are few and far in between.

As tough as life here can be, being in-charge of your day makes you more enterprising. Allows you to experience new things. Encourages you to explore beyond our 9-5. Breaks the shackles of monotony. Be it working women, homemakers, or stay at homes, women in the west are go-getters. What is the other option?

My husband’s cousin, Ruchika Dias, is such a great example of someone with exemplary time management skills. She works at CSC, in Austin, Texas, as "Principal Architect Leader" where she manages a group of 15 IT consultants who implement software imaging and workflow system for insurance clients. No easy profession I tell ya. But here is the deal – Ruchika’s day or desires don’t end at 5p.m.

Ruchika has started a dance company, “Bollywood Shake.” The name is self-explanatory – classes include fusion of different Indian dance styles. She teaches people across various age groups. Ruchika offers classes at several locations. She has approximately 120 students - 60% Indian and 40% Non-Indian, and they have performed at several events.

When I asked Ruchika what inspired her to invest in another full time commitment (Remember, she has a full time job, a house, a marriage, and life in general to juggle already), she said, “No real inspiration other than the fact that I love dancing and have always enjoyed teaching. So starting a dance company was a perfect combination of both. Plus I wanted to do something fun and exciting outside of my regular job!”

I have known Ruchika for over a decade now. She’s always been an excellent dancer. Her friends and us family members have always known it, but now the US is beginning to recognize and appreciate her talents too. Her classes are doing really well. Did I mention that CBS News, amongst other media channels, interviewed her?

Where am I going with this post? What I am trying to say is that all human beings have 24 hours in a day. How you choose to spend those 1,440 minutes is in your hands.

More until next time,

Xoxo

Copyright © 07. 22. 2010

“You will never "find" time for anything. If you want time, you must make it” ~ Charles Bruxton

There is something wrong if food served is the size of a butt!

My Dad says that cooking is eighty percent heart, ten percent science, and ten percent art. You can tell that food is an integral part of our lives.

While there are a few who eat to live, I love my food with passion. The whole nine yards: purchasing, cooking, and entertaining. Uttering food, burden, and compromise in the same breath is sacriligeous for me. Maybe because my mother is an exceptionally good cook, and she NEVER prepared mediocre food or complained about cooking. She was ahead of her time in terms of her culinary abilities. When most women from her generation were trying their hand at stuffed parathas, she was baking us pizza, lasagna, roast chicken, and chocolate cakes etc.

South Asians, in the last decade or so, have started catching up on the health mantra. But I remember my mom would make us different kinds of cuisines, including healthy stuff like soups, salads, and grilled fish from the time I was a pre-teen. She introduced us to the concept of cooking and savoring food without murdering it with oil and kilos of spices.

Needless to say, I am obsessive about what my husband and I eat. And I take copious amounts of pleasure and pain in getting our raw ingredients from organic and health food stores and cooking fresh meals. So, it bothers me when I am in a situation (for an extended period of time) where unhealthy or terribly cooked grub is the only available option.

Last weekend, my husband and I were in south central Michigan for two days before we headed off to Ohio for a very dear cousin’s engagement. This town in MI was like nothing I had ever seen before. Forget wine bars, this town didn’t even have a coffee shop to its name. Their best restaurants came with crayon colors, plastic glasses, sticky tables, three varieties of soup laden with cheese, and servers with bad haircuts. I shudder as I think. I remember, at one of the “popular” restaurants, the waitress brought me salad in a bowl the size of a tub. A family of three could have eaten for two days from that. Wait, it doesn’t end there. She garnished my fresh greens and grilled chicken with a pond of ranch dressing. Dude, if I wanted ranch dressing, I would order buffalo wings not salad.

The good thing with the place being dead was that we got a lot of our work done. On one of the evenings, my husband and I decided to catch a late night movie at a drive-in since we had been working all day. We showed up with a bottle of water because the movie was to start only at 10:00 p.m., which meant it was post-dinner. But lo and behold, most others either came armed with pizza boxes or bought themselves a scoop of cardiac arrest at the hot dog store along with bottles of fizzy drinks. I couldn’t help but notice that portliness was in the air.

I was in San Francisco (SF) in the third week of June. I have always appreciated SF, like other visitors, because of how pretty it is. But it was something else living there and experiencing the local lifestyle. Two things I really loved about San Francisco: people exercise regularly and most of them eat well (at least people my age). The menus at restaurants were always so enticing. You had your share of sinful food but there were also delicious, healthy options available. On one hand, it’s a vegan’s paradise; on the other, we had no problem finding places that served organic meats and natural foods. And come to think of it, I saw leaner and fitter folks in SF compared to where we were last weekend.

Aside from SF, a few years ago, I remember liking one other city (would consider living there) - Boulder, CO a lot because of how health conscious and fit the locals were.

So, these experiences made me wonder about the fattest states in the United States. After all, eating habits have a direct impact on obesity and our health. With minimal effort, I came across this link: http://calorielab.com/news/2010/06/28/fattest-states-2010/. I wasn’t shocked at what I read.

Warnings from National Institutes of Health, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the American Heart Association clearly hasn’t made a dent to the physical prosperity of people in certain parts of the country. Restaurants have their own business models to deal with, but can’t we at least start making the change in our own homes?

 

More until next time, 

Xoxo

Copyright © 07. 08.2010

 

 

“To say that obesity is caused by merely consuming too many calories is like saying that the only cause of the American Revolution was the Boston Tea Party” ~ Adelle Davis

 

Want a detox?

A lot of you know that I was in California until yesterday.  A couple of days in the Bay Area with the family (and a heartwarming reading at San Jose Public Library) followed by an intensive writing workshop in San Francisco. I am still exhausted.

The workshop, Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation (VONA) hosted at University of San Francisco, will always remain special to me for very many reasons – some I’ll share with you; few others, my memory will always savor.

Here is how it started: I won a part scholarship to the VONA workshop. Naturally, I was excited and nervous about a new city, new opportunity. Who hasn’t dreamt of living in San Francisco for a week as a local resident and not a visitor? Soak in the city beyond the regular tourist haunts. Walk through the Golden Gate Bridge Park in the evening. Which artist doesn’t want to hang out at restaurants and bars where the creative energy is at its peak? See murals in the Mission area, grab a glass of wine in Haight, or recognize poetic symbols in their entrée served at eclectic restaurants. I can go on and on.

The instructors: it was an honor being in the company of experts: Suheir Hammad, Tayari Jones, Lorna Dee Cervantes, Mat Johnson, David Mura, and Elmaz Abinader.What mentors! God, each one of them could teach a class on humility. They were so encouraging and nurturing. It seemed our success meant as much to them as it did to us. I still remember what a few of them told me after my reading. And it takes a very big heart to shower such kindness.

I had the honor of being in Lorna Dee Cervantes’s class. Lorna is considered a legend in the world of poetry. What she told me in my one-on-one meeting with her still brings tears to my eyes. And I don’t cry easily. All I can say is that I feel blessed. And I hope her words come true.

My classmates: Sometimes it takes a lifetime to know someone; and other times, it takes a few hours to develop a bond. We ate together, dreamt together, partied together, and cried together. Even a private person like me was able to somewhat break that wall and share. As a fellow writer (from the fiction category) said, “Damn you, poets. You make us all emotional.” And then she teared-up and gave us a hug.:-)

Though we came from diverse backgrounds and carried our own baggage, we were all joined at the hip. We trusted each other with our darkest secrets and deepest fears when we least expected. Poetry can be autobiographical, confessional, therapeutic, which means you dig up issues and stories your pragmatic brain conveniently buries under the cement of societal pressures. We spoke of things that even our subconscious was unsure about uttering. Fearlessly helped one another with writing and reviewing. There were no selfish bones in the equation. Learned about each other’s cultures, past, and present. We danced to Shakira and hip-hop like there was no tomorrow. Tried a new cuisine every night. And worked until the cows came home. I mean, we all slogged!

I feel like my life underwent a change in just seven days. In the past, I have scoffed at people who have said such things. Such convictions sounded a bit cultish to me. But believe me, VONA was life altering for a lot of us. In many ways, self-revelatory (This is the part I keep to myself. Sorry).

After checking in at the airport, when I called up my husband, he joked about the tranquility in my voice and called me “a Californian.” He was right. I haven’t felt this calm in ages. And maybe, just maybe, there is something in the air of San Francisco that wants you to cleanse and heal.

More until next time,
Xoxo

Copyright © 06.27.2010

"There may not be a Heaven, but there is a San Francisco" ~ Ashleigh Brilliant

Do people enjoy the taste of BS?

I recently watched one of the latest Bollywood releases: Rajneeti. A good movie with fabulous actors and even better acting. But Ranbir Kapoor’s (The leading male protagonist in the movie) role in the movie left me wondering about moral values. Do you have to be scheming and calculating to get ahead in life? And is it always the ones you least expect that end up weaving webs of conceit? Are people’s appetites satiated only with platter of lies? Does truth always dig itself and its owner a grave of disaster?

Here is the thing: Words hold a sacred place in my life. I don’t see shades of grey through the kaleidoscope of life. My vision is restricted to black and white. But then again, I am not an imbecile. There are times when I think my honest opinion might not be appropriate in a particular situation (Telling a host their food sucks or suggesting to someone that their wardrobe reminds me of Raakhi Saawant’s etc.) That’s when I choose the path of silence - I prefer to seal my lips, momentarily.

I always thought my habit of relying on truth was a big strength in my personality. No one ever had to figure out if I meant what I said. No false promises, no heartbreaks, no fake relationships, no pretenses. When I said, “I miss you” or “Come over” or “I care” or “I will be there,” people knew I uttered them with sincerity.

But looking at the world around me, I am beginning to question the notion of truth. I think, most human beings are shallow and insecure about something or the other. The emotional strategists and scheming folks find those voids and fill them up with their superficiality. The older we get, the more susceptible we are to falling prey to bags of lies because the feeling of self-worth begins to lessen. And irrespective of age, everyone likes feeling important and loved.

An obese child likes to hear that he or she is the most beautiful kid on the block. Lovers desire only praises however fake they might be. Bosses are thrilled if you are the “yes-man.” Even parents suffering from empty nest syndrome like to believe that the child, who gets melodramatic around them (“Come live with me” or “You are my world, and I can’t live without you”), is the one who cares more. Subconsciously, all these people might know these statements aren’t fully honest. But they fall for it because that’s what the ear in their hearts and egos desire.

A very dear friend, who suffers from a severe case of honestitis as well, said something interesting. “Manipulation and deceit brings overall happiness and tranquil in a house.”

Recently, both she and I were privy to an interesting situation. An acquaintance said to her husband that her in-laws meant more to her than her own parents. Hold on. Take a breath. Anyone who says that they love someone else’s parents more than their own are either lying or evading their past. You can respect both the sets equally, care for them on similar levels, and feel the same sense of responsibility but not love them the same way. And I am not just saying this because I know how this acquaintance truly feels about her husband’s family. Just think logically. How can you feel the same emotions for each party when one set brought you up and spent twenty (sometimes thirty years) with you? They are two unique relationships.

Similarly, men and women, who coldly denounce where they come from (life pre-marriage), baffle me. I wonder what they grew up with. It’s such a reflection on that person’s childhood and personality. Anyway, in front our very own eyes, my friend and I saw this acquaintance’s husband sink blissfully into a sofa of bliss and denial. He chose to believe what his spouse told him because it was convenient. A man’s ego is always ready to be petted, and this woman knew just the right spots. Net result: she got her way, scored brownie points in the eyes of the society, and the male ego proliferated in his castle of ignorance and smugness.

It seems liars don’t sit on societal pyre. But here is my point: you can fib to the entire world, but what about your own self? How do manipulative people sleep every night knowing that they aren’t truly anyone’s friend? Doesn’t their conscience ever nudge them? Or am I too naïve to believe that truth should be the foundation of relationships?

 

More until next time, 

Xoxo

Copyright © 06. 17. 2010

 

“The worst lies are the lies we tell ourselves. We live in denial of what we do, even what we think. We do this because we're afraid. We fear we will not find love, and when we find it we fear we'll lose it. We fear that if we do not have love we will be unhappy.” Richard Bach 

A humble thank you to my third parent

Last week, a friend of mine said to me, “Times might have changed, but everything said and done, how many Indian men, from our generation, do you know who didn’t follow the traditional career path of medicine and engineering?” I looked at her and said, “Plenty.” Baffled by my response, she said, “I don’t know a single person.”

As South Asians, we are taught (often times coerced) to pick careers that offer financial stability and dependability. And those career paths are medicine, engineering, and the fad of the 90s—MBA. So, whether one likes it or not, you scar your supple, teenage brains with the stress and aggression of competitive exams. Parents put their life’s savings into coaching classes, for their children, for medicine, engineering or other professions that promise success. Believe me, I too have been there. I drew flowers and cartoons on entrance exam papers and doodled poetry. And I loathed each one of those “All India-let’s-look-good-for-your-family-contests.”

I have been trying to reflect on how and when I decided that medicine, engineering, MBA, or the civil services weren’t for me. At a young age, I might have lacked the confidence to articulate my career choice. But how was I even aware that I had other options in times when people studying anything aside from sciences were coined as “weak students”?

I think I might have found the answer. I spent my formative years in a boarding school, Oak Grove (OG), in Mussorie, India. Boarding schools have a notorious image: They are wonderful for an all round personality development, but they might not necessarily prepare you, mentally, for IITs and AIIMS or other entrance exams. And maybe there is some truth to it.

In 1980s and 90s, when most schools in India had one annual sports day and couple of cultural functions in a year, (all the energy was focused on students churning out 99.1% in their board exams), my school had a different vision. Oak Grove, like Jane Austen, was pretty ahead of its times. Extra curricular activities, like schools in the United States, were given equal importance. So, whether you liked it or not, you did treks, knew how to swim, survive with strangers, play at least three different field sports, two track events, partake in two or three cultural activities, and excel at debates even before you hit your teenage years. And all of this through the cold and wet weather.

Don’t get me wrong; we had a tremendous amount of academic pressure, but each one of us was allowed to blossom individually. And life was never compartmentalized by Indian expectations of grades. While some students went on to choose the traditional calling, a few of us chose to depend on the right side of our brain.

Last evening, when I saw my senior Puneet Monga’s album on Facebook, one picture, in particular, got me thinking. It was the image of my boarding school’s publication, ACORN. In my twelfth grade, from the girl’s school side, I was the chief-editor of my school magazine and from the boy’s school Sameer Mohindru was the man behind the words. Over a decade later, is it a surprise that Sameer is a journalist and I am a writer? Did OG subconsciously encourage us to think beyond the always chosen road?

Not just that, a significant number of people from my alma mater—men included—work in the creative field across different segments as fashion designers, visual artists, journalists, architects, filmmakers, jewelry designers, among others. And I am so proud of each one of them. They have turned their passion into profession. And that is the strength of OG. It showed us paths based on our strengths. On one hand we have graduates from esteemed institutes like IIMs, IITs, Symbiosis, NDA etc.; on the other, we have folks working for TV production houses and in other artistic fields.

I owe a big part of who I am today to my days spent at OG even though I loathed the depressing weather. Is it a coincidence that I signed another book contract on the same day as OG turned 122 years old, on June 1, 2010? I think not.

Unlike Mark Twain, who said, “I never let schooling interfere with my education,” I am glad I let my school interfere with my education.

 

More until next time, 

Xoxo

Copyright © 06. 04.2010

 

 “If there were no schools to take the children away from home part of the time, the insane asylums would be filled with mothers.” — Edgar W. H 

 

Death is the informant

We all grew up listening to this quote from Shakespeare: “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” The quote is simple, yet it carries a slightly altered meaning depending on your age, time, and place. For teenagers infatuated by their sweethearts, summer vacations explain this quote. For immigrants, the annual or once in two years trip to their motherland might hold the same meaning.  And so forth.

Up until this morning, I didn’t realize death would have the same effect on me. Today is my mausi and mausa’s wedding anniversary (My mother’s sister and her husband). My mausi passed away in August of 2010. And for some reason, her death has affected me in ways I didn’t know were possible. It’s not like she and I were best friends. In fact, her daughters are much closer to my mother, in an obvious sort of way, than I was to my mausi. But there was always a connection. Her smile had different warmth for me compared to my other cousins. I could sense it even though I couldn’t comprehend it.

Some emotions betray eloquence; they are simply felt.

My mausi always made my small moments special. A few months ago, I wrote about how she celebrated my first book of poetry. Unlike most others from her generation, who were happy for me but ended the joy with a thoughtful email, she actually discussed my book with me. I appreciated her gesture then, but I didn’t realize how much I would miss her after she was gone.  I have a new book of poems coming out soon, and I wish my mausi were alive to discuss it with me.

Today, for breakfast, I made something that was my mausi’s favorite dish. I remembered how she and my mom would enjoy a cup of good mid-morning-coffee along with Indian savories. The flashbacks from my childhood have consumed me all morning. All in a good way.

I am not exactly the most emotionally expressive person. I don’t condone public display of affection. I write about things more than I partake in face-to-face conversation about emotions and stuff (See, I couldn’t even complete the sentence eloquently). You won’t really hear me say “Miss you,” “Love you,” and all that. So, aside from complimenting my mausi on her ridiculously good looks and awesome collection of saris, I never said anything “meaningful.” Sometimes, it’s the death of a person that makes us realize how much they meant to us. I hope my mausi can hear, what I haven’t articulated, from wherever she is.

 

More until next time, 

Xoxo

Copyright © 05. 23.2010

"Absence and death are the same - only in death there is no suffering" ~ Theodore Roosevelt