Sons of Roses

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I recently had the honour of writing an article for Must be Kismet (a leading South Asian magazine & bridal show in Toronto) about queer weddings, featuring Haran Vijayanathan and Humza Mian, two amazing South Asian men who portray two grooms on their wedding day.

The entire article and accompanying photos can be found here:
http://blog.mustbekismet.com/index.php/2018/06/19/sons-of-roses/

It’s funny how things come about. My friend Saira who I met at one of my favourite coffee shops, Balzac’s, many years ago when I’d quit my job and was looking for adventure, always complimented my writing and told me that she’d love to have me write about some of her projects. She does henna on brides and on women just looking for adornment (who needs a reason to glam up?!), and she also profiles men and women who have stories that need to be told, through art and makeup and photography and a whole lot of love and inspiration.

Saira asked if I was interested in this project, and of course I said yes! (even though I was freaking out because of the short timeline – 4 days!) and because I didn’t want to let anyone down. Also, the subject matter really touched my heart – highlighting queer weddings and the challenge in reconciling religious/culture identity with coming out.

I received the notes from the interview that Saira and Rajen from Must be Kismet did at the shoot, and then reached out to Humza and Haran in order to clarify some of the points and get to know them better. Writing based on personal connection is the best! I’m so glad I called them, because I learned so much and was even more inspired. Haran mentioned to me that Hinduism is gender fluid and gave me a few surprising examples involving Krishna and Shiva. It reminded me of a book I’d read called the “The Two Krishnas” which actually touches on those themes. He also talked about how gay couples can be hyper-sexualized and exploited, and how he tries to stay away from that, and projects that are looking for that angle.

Humza was ordering lattes while we chatted on the phone. We talked about his journey and how his parents still don’t know about his alter drag persona (Manghoe Lassi) even though he’s public on Instagram and has a zillion followers. He also said that he commonly receives negative comments on posts, but he’s learned to ignore them and not let it get him down. Life is definitely too short for that!

My sister Roshni helped me out a lot with the article, thank god she was around! Feedback is so important, because when you’re writing it, you can only see it from your perspective, you really need a fresh set of eyes (and someone with patience) to review it.

Overall a really fun experience… looking forward to the next article! (does this mean I can call myself a ‘writer’? Hee hee).

 

 

 

Peonies

Mita Patel2 Comments

This morning as I was sipping my tea and typing away on my laptop at the kitchen table, my Mom walked in and we took a break to enjoy the garden. I inhaled the gorgeous scent of our beautiful bright pink peony that had just bloomed. I wish there was a poem that could describe this scent – more intense than a rose, sweeter than the best perfume, and more potent than the sultriest bottle of wine. I searched for a poem that would capture my sentiment and found one, by one of my favourite poets, Mary Oliver. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did, as well as these pictures of the peonies (bloomed, in bloom, and soon to be bloomed) in my garden.

Peonies

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

— Mary Oliver

A Tale of Four Illnesses

Mita Patel6 Comments

Lately I’ve been seeing the slogan of CAMH’s new campaign, “Mental Health is Health.” It is very true – mental health is a critical part of our health and there is no difference between mental illnesses and physical illnesses, although they are often treated much differently and there is still a lot of stigma with mental illness. I have personally suffered a lot from depression and anxiety, and have many friends that have too. A good friend of mine suffered from schizophrenia and she took her own life a few years ago – I miss her still.

In my journey, I’ve received a lot of amazing support – from friends, family, and the system, and it is my hope that everyone is supported in this way. We have a long way to go when it comes to fixing the system and ensuring everyone has equal access to care, no matter where they’re from, how old they are, or how much money they have.

It’s time we said no more discrimination, no more ignorance, and no more funding gaps. It’s time for every Canadian to rally together to ensure mental illness gets the same priority as any other illness.
– CAMH website

I’ve written these four short descriptions/poems that from my understanding, describe a little of what it feels like to be suffering from these four illnesses. These are just four disorders that come to mind… there are so many others, and so many variations.

Depression

A creation of the human mind that plagues us, brings
us down into the mud, further away from natural joy,
further away from who we really are. The black hole,
the spiral downward,
the point of no return, when it feels like nothing is good and nothing is bad, and everything is just nothing.
numbness.
It’s dark in here, darker than it’s ever been before
I used to know joy but now I can’t remember the feeling,
Has anything good ever happened to me before?
Is there a purpose to my life?
Sometimes I wish I’d never been born.
Sometimes I wish it would all end.
I am so angry. I want to squeeze every last drop out
of everything I love.
Depression is rage turned inward they say, and
I know it to be true.

Anxiety

A state of racing, rushing, worrying,
running, ruminating,
over-excitement, giddiness,
breathlessness, unsettledness
hurry hurry hurry
the thoughts say
You will never have enough time.
You will never get it all done.
It will never be perfect.
But at least there is still hope in the form of worry —
trying to make it right, trying to make it all perfect.
Because it’s all so important, everything matters so much.
So much so that there is nothing that can be left undone.
At least I haven’t given up completely.
There’s no time for that.

Schizophrenia

What are those voices in my head that speak to me and tell me what to do,
that make me suspect you, that make me not trust you or anyone else.
Why do I find it such a struggle to get through the day or justify why it’s worth existing this way?
Without my meds the voices scream louder,
but with them, I am void of personality,
I am no longer myself.

PTSD

It happened so long ago,
yet why do I feel like I’m still there,
as though it is happening all over again,
as though it is happening right now?
Why does the body remember what the mind
so desperately needs to forget?
I can still smell him, see him, my fists
clench when I hear the tires screech against the road,
the sound of footsteps, and the clock
striking 12 in the background.
Why can’t they make a pill that makes me forget.
I see the world around me,
yet I still feel trapped inside.

In Between The Pauses

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Embers of fury

follow me, creating pathways into

the fissures of my heart,

unrelenting in the face of my

determined despair.

Why does the wind blow in the

direction of passivity?

Why do the red birds take me on a

journey without any clues?

The beauty of life seems to radiate the most

in between the pauses.

My soul awaits,

gasping for air,

overwhelmed by the pain and the virtue,

that interlock and intertwine,

and enhance each other through their filters.

The beaten path makes me weary,

yet knows me more than I wish to admit,

reveals more of me with every turn.