I have done yoga on and off for the last seven years. By on and off I mean that I'll do it religiously every week and then stop for a year or two for some reason.
I stopped doing ashtanga yoga when I moved to Ibiza so a year and a half ago. I was going to start there but never got round to finding a good teacher locally. In my last month, I did loads of Bikram yoga which was great but I still prefer ashtanga.
I've recently returned to my Saturday morning yoga class. I'd been meaning to start up ever since moving back but the thing that really propelled me back to class was that I've been swimming a lot in the mornings and often I'd find that after a swim, my body literally ached to do yoga, to be stretched and lengthened again.
I went to class about six weeks ago. Fortunately my body didn't feel too tight and it didn't feel as if I'd gone backwards too much. My body is very unsupple, always has been, so any length of time away from regular yoga often makes a huge difference. But things seem to be okay. In fact, I found I got into positions I'd never been able to get into before - simply because I'd forgotten that I'd never been able to do them. I found myself in one position and then thought "hang on, I couldn't actually do this before..."
I've done a couple of classes since. My body feels completely different. More open and strong and I don't know why that is. Last Saturday I got into a headstand properly and held it for a minute without toppling. I've never been able to get into a headstand before, I've always positioned myself by a wall and flung my legs up onto the wall and then slowly, gingerly moved them away and tried to keep my balance. But this time I managed it. You have to have fairly strong stomach muscles to be able to get into the position - maybe all those stomach crunches have made a difference after all!
I was so excited by my progress (it only took seven years to do it!) that I told my older sister when I saw her later.
"I've done a headstand and I'm going to do a grasshopper next"
"What's that?" she asked.
I went to demonstrate it and got into the position. I could only hold it for about a second before I toppled backwards but I still did it. That meant two firsts in one day - result!
This is one of the things I love about yoga. I am constantly making progress but it is millimetre by millimetre. And for someone as impatient as me, I'm surprised that I don't get frustrated by my slow progress. But I know that is because my body can only do what it can do. If I try and force it into something it's not ready to do, I'll get hurt. For someone in such a hurry to get every where and do every thing, it's good to have something where I make gentle progress but it's always a huge sense of achievement!
Monday, 14 September 2009
Friday, 11 September 2009
My dad's operation
My dad had total knee replacement surgery a few weeks ago. He's 81 and it was the first time he'd ever stayed in hospital. He wasn't even born in a hospital so it must have been quite a strange experience for him. He came out a week later and is now recovering at home and hopefully he'll be fully recovered soon and able to resume normal life.
I'm not sure how my dad felt about going into hospital or having the operation. We don't talk emotions in my family, which is a little strange for me because I do. But the whole experience seems to have aged him about two decades so he now looks like the old man that he is, as opposed to the young whippersnapper that I always think of him of. It looks like he's shrunk and I'm wondering where his spirit is, I really just want him to be back to how he was before....
Watching your parents age in front of you is no easy thing. I remember last year when I was back from Ibiza for the Luxury Travel Fair, staying at my parents place. Me and my dad left the house at the same time and walked round towards the bus stop together. As we got to the zebra crossing his bus was coming so he ran to get the bus and as I crossed the road, I turned to watch him. It suddenly struck me that his shoulders were no longer straight, he was completely dipped on the right hand side because of his bad knee. A few months ago his knee was causing him so much pain he had to start walking using a walking stick. I think my dad must have found this really difficult as it's a sign of getting older and he's not into the ageing process. I remember the first time I saw him walk with that stick, I caught my breath - suddenly my dad looked like an old man.
I'm not sure how my dad's operation has affected anyone in the family, him included. All I know is how I've felt about it. The day my dad was having his operation I was flying up to Edinburgh for the night. At the back of my mind was the thought of how quickly I could get back if anything went wrong. Perhaps a better daughter wouldn't have gone at all and I found myself grappling with guilt but I went, staying in contact by phone before, during and after his operation. The thing that worried me was not the operation itself but his age. Does getting better get harder as you get older?
When I got back from Edinburgh the next day, my mum said "your dad's doing so much better already. They've taken his oxygen mask and drip off!" (obviously this would have been said in Urdu, she doesn't talk in English to me). When she said this, I realised going to Edinburgh was the best thing I could have done as if I'd been there the day of the op, I would have gone straight to the hospital and seeing my dad with an oxygen mask and drip would have hit me quite badly. I hate hospitals anyway, hate seeing people in pain or suffering. I remember when I was a kid and my dad still used to work evenings in Macey's chemist. One time when he was at work, someone came into the chemists to rob them I think. My dad got hit in the face and his glasses were broken. My mum told us what had happened and I went and hid in my room, sobbing all night about someone hurting my dad. I've never been a daddy's girl but I am very close to him, always have been.
I went to see my dad the day after I got back from Edinburgh. In my head, he'd be up in his bed all chipper and cheeky and joking with the nurses. What I saw was an old man who looked like he'd shrunk, he looked frail and feeble and vulnerable. He wasn't eating properly as he didn't like the hospital food - I didn't blame him, it looked pretty dreadful to me. I went with Rahila my older sister and as she's a doctor, she grilled the hospital staff on how my dad was doing. They told her that he'd taken a fall in the night. He'd failed to mention it to us himself. He'd got up in the night to use the bathroom and instead of calling someone to help him, my independent dad decided to go alone with his zimmer frame. Somewhere on the floor there was water and he slipped. I don't know how long he was there before someone found him but we had to tell him off for going alone in the first place. But I guess it must be hard for him. His whole life everyone has depended on him, relied on him and he never likes to ask for help. He's fiercely proud of everything he's achieved alone and asking for help doesn't seem to come naturally to him (I can see where I get it from then!)
I found that first visit to the hospital really difficult. For my dad hours lying in a hospital bed may make him think of his own mortality. Going to see him in hospital made me think of his mortality. I felt horribly strange afterwards, it's not something I like to think about. By chance I was seeing my friend Wilding after the hospital. Somehow, since moving back to London, Wilding has become one of my closest friends and he's one of the two friends I've seen the most since getting back. He was a good person to see because I knew I could say or feel anything with him, if I'd wanted to cry he wouldn't have got embarrassed or uncomfortable by my tears. This is progress for me as I'm usually so intensely private with my innermost feelings so good to know that I'm now more comfortable talking about things.
The next day I went to see my dad again. I still found the hospital visit difficult. I got home drained - in the words of the Manics "you're tender and you're tired". The week of my dad's operation I had nothing planned socially apart from the trip to Edinburgh. This was a good thing as I found things hard and I would have cancelled all social plans. As usual I didn't give any thought to how I might feel about this all but maybe there's no point doing that as one of the things I've really learnt about myself over the years is that I can't pre-empt how I'll be feeling about anything. I didn't expect to be knocked sideways as much as I was by seeing my dad in hospital. That evening I had two choices - stay home or get dragged out by Wilding for a drink. I went for the latter option - at least I knew that if I wanted to talk about stuff, I'd have someone who I felt really safe and comfortable with to talk to. As it was I was okay and we had fun, cooing over a puppy called Willis that the owners had brought to the bar with them. We must have been cooing a lot as they came over and plopped the puppy on my lap for a while and that was kind of cute and cheered me up no end.
On our way home (we live two streets away from each other), we stopped off at the chip shop. The chip shop is a couple of doors up from Macey Chemists where my dad used to work in the late 60s and early 70s. I got chatting to the chip shop owner and asked him how long he'd had that shop. Thirteen years he said. I then asked him if he knew my dad (my dad is pretty famous in Dulwich and Peckham). He did. I got excited that he knew my dad - it made me realise that my dad has this total other life as he wheels through Dulwich and Peckham that we know nothing about - I can imagine him in it but I've never seen it. I told the man about my dad's operation and I was touched when he asked me to pass on his best wishes to my dad, it seems like lots of other people care about my dad too.
Funnily enough, when I started this post I was feeling a bit wobbly about my dad (although he is doing much better and will soon be fully recovered). Now I feel a lot better - writing always seems to help so much. I guess I just need to capture somewhere what's going on inside. A few years ago when I had the launch party for my interiors business, I did a little speech and at the end, in front of about 250 people (mostly friends and close family) I did a very big thank you to my dad. He had no idea I was going to say what I said, nor did anyone else in that room. It was an emotional moment, not just for me but for everyone listening. I had people come up to me afterwards saying "I've always wanted to say what you've just said..." It was one of those goosebump, lump in the throat moments - I could barely talk at the end and had to quickly put a record on. But my dad has been amazing to me. He's allowed me to be the person I am, even if I've been doing things that the wider Pakistani community would frown upon. He's been on my side and supported me, even when he's been completely baffled by some of the things I've chosen to do, some of the paths I've merrily skipped along.
I remember when I was 16 I got a job in the Crown and Greyhound in Dulwich Village. You can probably guess by the name that it's a pub and I come from a good, respectable muslim family. I was working in the restaurant and not allowed to even serve an alcoholic drink as I was under-age but still, muslim girl working in a pub doesn't really go down too well. Naturally I kept the actual location of my workplace a secret from the family, just telling them that I had a job in a restaurant in Dulwich Village. One day my dad said he'd give me a lift to work. As we got into Dulwich Village, I said "you can drop me off here". He carried on driving and pulled up right outside the pub. It went quiet in the car and I waited for the bollocking. It never came. Instead my dad said to me "I know where you work and that's fine with me. But you know how the Pakistani community likes to talk so probably best to keep your work place quiet from everyone..." As Pakistani dads go (particularly as this was in the mid-eighties), this was pretty progressive, forward-thinking. I'm not sure why he's always given me the freedom to do what I've wanted. Maybe he saw that I would do it anyway so might as well support it instead of trying to control me. I've really lucked out with my dad and I will be eternally grateful for that. And now I'm just waiting for him to be better enough to start break dancing again!
I'm not sure how my dad felt about going into hospital or having the operation. We don't talk emotions in my family, which is a little strange for me because I do. But the whole experience seems to have aged him about two decades so he now looks like the old man that he is, as opposed to the young whippersnapper that I always think of him of. It looks like he's shrunk and I'm wondering where his spirit is, I really just want him to be back to how he was before....
Watching your parents age in front of you is no easy thing. I remember last year when I was back from Ibiza for the Luxury Travel Fair, staying at my parents place. Me and my dad left the house at the same time and walked round towards the bus stop together. As we got to the zebra crossing his bus was coming so he ran to get the bus and as I crossed the road, I turned to watch him. It suddenly struck me that his shoulders were no longer straight, he was completely dipped on the right hand side because of his bad knee. A few months ago his knee was causing him so much pain he had to start walking using a walking stick. I think my dad must have found this really difficult as it's a sign of getting older and he's not into the ageing process. I remember the first time I saw him walk with that stick, I caught my breath - suddenly my dad looked like an old man.
I'm not sure how my dad's operation has affected anyone in the family, him included. All I know is how I've felt about it. The day my dad was having his operation I was flying up to Edinburgh for the night. At the back of my mind was the thought of how quickly I could get back if anything went wrong. Perhaps a better daughter wouldn't have gone at all and I found myself grappling with guilt but I went, staying in contact by phone before, during and after his operation. The thing that worried me was not the operation itself but his age. Does getting better get harder as you get older?
When I got back from Edinburgh the next day, my mum said "your dad's doing so much better already. They've taken his oxygen mask and drip off!" (obviously this would have been said in Urdu, she doesn't talk in English to me). When she said this, I realised going to Edinburgh was the best thing I could have done as if I'd been there the day of the op, I would have gone straight to the hospital and seeing my dad with an oxygen mask and drip would have hit me quite badly. I hate hospitals anyway, hate seeing people in pain or suffering. I remember when I was a kid and my dad still used to work evenings in Macey's chemist. One time when he was at work, someone came into the chemists to rob them I think. My dad got hit in the face and his glasses were broken. My mum told us what had happened and I went and hid in my room, sobbing all night about someone hurting my dad. I've never been a daddy's girl but I am very close to him, always have been.
I went to see my dad the day after I got back from Edinburgh. In my head, he'd be up in his bed all chipper and cheeky and joking with the nurses. What I saw was an old man who looked like he'd shrunk, he looked frail and feeble and vulnerable. He wasn't eating properly as he didn't like the hospital food - I didn't blame him, it looked pretty dreadful to me. I went with Rahila my older sister and as she's a doctor, she grilled the hospital staff on how my dad was doing. They told her that he'd taken a fall in the night. He'd failed to mention it to us himself. He'd got up in the night to use the bathroom and instead of calling someone to help him, my independent dad decided to go alone with his zimmer frame. Somewhere on the floor there was water and he slipped. I don't know how long he was there before someone found him but we had to tell him off for going alone in the first place. But I guess it must be hard for him. His whole life everyone has depended on him, relied on him and he never likes to ask for help. He's fiercely proud of everything he's achieved alone and asking for help doesn't seem to come naturally to him (I can see where I get it from then!)
I found that first visit to the hospital really difficult. For my dad hours lying in a hospital bed may make him think of his own mortality. Going to see him in hospital made me think of his mortality. I felt horribly strange afterwards, it's not something I like to think about. By chance I was seeing my friend Wilding after the hospital. Somehow, since moving back to London, Wilding has become one of my closest friends and he's one of the two friends I've seen the most since getting back. He was a good person to see because I knew I could say or feel anything with him, if I'd wanted to cry he wouldn't have got embarrassed or uncomfortable by my tears. This is progress for me as I'm usually so intensely private with my innermost feelings so good to know that I'm now more comfortable talking about things.
The next day I went to see my dad again. I still found the hospital visit difficult. I got home drained - in the words of the Manics "you're tender and you're tired". The week of my dad's operation I had nothing planned socially apart from the trip to Edinburgh. This was a good thing as I found things hard and I would have cancelled all social plans. As usual I didn't give any thought to how I might feel about this all but maybe there's no point doing that as one of the things I've really learnt about myself over the years is that I can't pre-empt how I'll be feeling about anything. I didn't expect to be knocked sideways as much as I was by seeing my dad in hospital. That evening I had two choices - stay home or get dragged out by Wilding for a drink. I went for the latter option - at least I knew that if I wanted to talk about stuff, I'd have someone who I felt really safe and comfortable with to talk to. As it was I was okay and we had fun, cooing over a puppy called Willis that the owners had brought to the bar with them. We must have been cooing a lot as they came over and plopped the puppy on my lap for a while and that was kind of cute and cheered me up no end.
On our way home (we live two streets away from each other), we stopped off at the chip shop. The chip shop is a couple of doors up from Macey Chemists where my dad used to work in the late 60s and early 70s. I got chatting to the chip shop owner and asked him how long he'd had that shop. Thirteen years he said. I then asked him if he knew my dad (my dad is pretty famous in Dulwich and Peckham). He did. I got excited that he knew my dad - it made me realise that my dad has this total other life as he wheels through Dulwich and Peckham that we know nothing about - I can imagine him in it but I've never seen it. I told the man about my dad's operation and I was touched when he asked me to pass on his best wishes to my dad, it seems like lots of other people care about my dad too.
Funnily enough, when I started this post I was feeling a bit wobbly about my dad (although he is doing much better and will soon be fully recovered). Now I feel a lot better - writing always seems to help so much. I guess I just need to capture somewhere what's going on inside. A few years ago when I had the launch party for my interiors business, I did a little speech and at the end, in front of about 250 people (mostly friends and close family) I did a very big thank you to my dad. He had no idea I was going to say what I said, nor did anyone else in that room. It was an emotional moment, not just for me but for everyone listening. I had people come up to me afterwards saying "I've always wanted to say what you've just said..." It was one of those goosebump, lump in the throat moments - I could barely talk at the end and had to quickly put a record on. But my dad has been amazing to me. He's allowed me to be the person I am, even if I've been doing things that the wider Pakistani community would frown upon. He's been on my side and supported me, even when he's been completely baffled by some of the things I've chosen to do, some of the paths I've merrily skipped along.
I remember when I was 16 I got a job in the Crown and Greyhound in Dulwich Village. You can probably guess by the name that it's a pub and I come from a good, respectable muslim family. I was working in the restaurant and not allowed to even serve an alcoholic drink as I was under-age but still, muslim girl working in a pub doesn't really go down too well. Naturally I kept the actual location of my workplace a secret from the family, just telling them that I had a job in a restaurant in Dulwich Village. One day my dad said he'd give me a lift to work. As we got into Dulwich Village, I said "you can drop me off here". He carried on driving and pulled up right outside the pub. It went quiet in the car and I waited for the bollocking. It never came. Instead my dad said to me "I know where you work and that's fine with me. But you know how the Pakistani community likes to talk so probably best to keep your work place quiet from everyone..." As Pakistani dads go (particularly as this was in the mid-eighties), this was pretty progressive, forward-thinking. I'm not sure why he's always given me the freedom to do what I've wanted. Maybe he saw that I would do it anyway so might as well support it instead of trying to control me. I've really lucked out with my dad and I will be eternally grateful for that. And now I'm just waiting for him to be better enough to start break dancing again!
Monday, 20 July 2009
My parents and Arbonne....
As I'm still staying at my parents place in Dulwich, they've watched my little fledgling enterprise get started. On their part, this has consisted of taking the deliveries of my stuff and watching it take over the reception room that I've turned into my makeshift office.
I was trying to get them to use the products and tried talking my dad into using the eye cream. Even though he's 81, he still likes to feel like a young whippersnapper, still puts Grecian 2000 into his hair (although there isn't actually much hair left) and still dresses like a dapper gent. I thought he'd be into using a cream that helped get rid of the lines around his eyes but he told me that he doesn't use anything and that was the end of that.
Then the other day, I was sat on the bus next to my mum and she saw me get out the Arbonne handcream and put that on. She smelt it and commented on how lovely it smelt. I told her I'd give her one of the mini samples of hand cream I had at home.
After this, my dad asked me how this whole business worked. When I explained that all the products I had were samples, not for sale, and that I introduced the range to people by getting them to try the products for a few days, he looked interested. Later he came into my "office" and loitered without saying much. This is his way of telling you that he wants to talk. And he said, "well if everyone is trying these products, I'll try them too!" I laughed, my dad has never been into products. So I'm going to give him an eye cream and the body serum to use on his feet to keep the skin soft. He looked very pleased with himself when he wandered out of the room.
A minute later, my mum came bustling in asking for her hand cream. I got one out and gave it to her. She opened it, smelt it and then said "can I use this on my face too?" She, also, has never been into skin care products. I explained that it was only for hands and there was another cream for the face that I'd get for her. I think they're rather excited about these lovely new products coming their way. If they like them, I'll just carry on buying them for them, they would never pay that much themselves. I was thinking about it the other day and it made me chuckle, I could just see my dad saying with immense pride "I'm a bargain hunter!". In his world you'd never pay £25 for a cream when you can buy a cream for £1 in Lidl or Netto, even if they are a world apart in quality. Or even better, I could see him saying "I'm a pharmacist, I recognise these ingredients, I can make this myself!" and then he'd be off on some tangent about starting his new skin care business, making products using the recipes from my products....
I was trying to get them to use the products and tried talking my dad into using the eye cream. Even though he's 81, he still likes to feel like a young whippersnapper, still puts Grecian 2000 into his hair (although there isn't actually much hair left) and still dresses like a dapper gent. I thought he'd be into using a cream that helped get rid of the lines around his eyes but he told me that he doesn't use anything and that was the end of that.
Then the other day, I was sat on the bus next to my mum and she saw me get out the Arbonne handcream and put that on. She smelt it and commented on how lovely it smelt. I told her I'd give her one of the mini samples of hand cream I had at home.
After this, my dad asked me how this whole business worked. When I explained that all the products I had were samples, not for sale, and that I introduced the range to people by getting them to try the products for a few days, he looked interested. Later he came into my "office" and loitered without saying much. This is his way of telling you that he wants to talk. And he said, "well if everyone is trying these products, I'll try them too!" I laughed, my dad has never been into products. So I'm going to give him an eye cream and the body serum to use on his feet to keep the skin soft. He looked very pleased with himself when he wandered out of the room.
A minute later, my mum came bustling in asking for her hand cream. I got one out and gave it to her. She opened it, smelt it and then said "can I use this on my face too?" She, also, has never been into skin care products. I explained that it was only for hands and there was another cream for the face that I'd get for her. I think they're rather excited about these lovely new products coming their way. If they like them, I'll just carry on buying them for them, they would never pay that much themselves. I was thinking about it the other day and it made me chuckle, I could just see my dad saying with immense pride "I'm a bargain hunter!". In his world you'd never pay £25 for a cream when you can buy a cream for £1 in Lidl or Netto, even if they are a world apart in quality. Or even better, I could see him saying "I'm a pharmacist, I recognise these ingredients, I can make this myself!" and then he'd be off on some tangent about starting his new skin care business, making products using the recipes from my products....
Sleep....
It's nearly 3 in the morning and I've been awake for at least half an hour, maybe longer. I only went to bed at midnight so there's no way I've had enough sleep. The chances of nodding off again at the moment are pretty slim so that's why I'm blogging from bed and doing something I absolutely love - listening to some of my favourite songs on the iPod in bed! This activity will do nothing to help me get back to sleep as I get so excited doing it that I usually end up dancing (or doing a little jig) in bed, instead of trying to lull myself to sleep.
I know why I'm awake so early, it's all to do with adrenaline. In a way, it's a good sign as it means my dodgy adrenals are working well for the time being. It does however mean that any hint of excitement in my life and I'm like Tigger on an overdose of coffee, literally bouncing around all over the place. And waking up very early although this is a record. Normally it's around four in the morning. After a few months of life feeling a bit strange, I think the tide has turned and it feels brilliant! I'm excited about the new Arbonne business and am just getting on with it. I'm off to Camp Bestival in a few days and that feels like the homecoming after Ibiza. I've not been out properly since my return, not seen a lot of people so Camp Bestival is going to be the first time for me! There are a few other things bubbling away as possibilities but I'm keeping quiet about them for the time being - it could be just too much for me to cope with!
I have no idea how long the adrenaline surge will last. I need to remember to stop drinking coffee as that makes me worse when I'm like this. I just hope I don't keep waking up after a few hours sleep the rest of this week - I don't want to rock up to Camp Bestival and then burn out on my first night. I also don't want to have big dark circles under my eyes. The Arbonne eye cream is a miracle cure for dark circles but even that can't help me at present - I've been waking up very early a lot recently.
I know why I'm awake so early, it's all to do with adrenaline. In a way, it's a good sign as it means my dodgy adrenals are working well for the time being. It does however mean that any hint of excitement in my life and I'm like Tigger on an overdose of coffee, literally bouncing around all over the place. And waking up very early although this is a record. Normally it's around four in the morning. After a few months of life feeling a bit strange, I think the tide has turned and it feels brilliant! I'm excited about the new Arbonne business and am just getting on with it. I'm off to Camp Bestival in a few days and that feels like the homecoming after Ibiza. I've not been out properly since my return, not seen a lot of people so Camp Bestival is going to be the first time for me! There are a few other things bubbling away as possibilities but I'm keeping quiet about them for the time being - it could be just too much for me to cope with!
I have no idea how long the adrenaline surge will last. I need to remember to stop drinking coffee as that makes me worse when I'm like this. I just hope I don't keep waking up after a few hours sleep the rest of this week - I don't want to rock up to Camp Bestival and then burn out on my first night. I also don't want to have big dark circles under my eyes. The Arbonne eye cream is a miracle cure for dark circles but even that can't help me at present - I've been waking up very early a lot recently.
Sunday, 19 July 2009
What Azra did next...
Wow, it's been over two months since my last post. The longest I'd ever left if before was about three weeks so that's quite a gap. A lot has happened in that time so guess I'll jot in down here...
In my last post I talked about my desire to write a novel. I've finished my creative writing course and to be honest it was not very good. That may just have been the teacher but I didn't feel like I learnt anything and certainly not how to write creatively. Maybe I just can't write fiction, everything I wrote was based on my own personal experiences. I had really hoped to learn how to put together compelling stories and plots and create characters but I feel no closer to this than when I first started. However, this much I know - I'm not creative unless I'm feeling fairly happy in my life and as the last few months have been full of uncertainty, the atmosphere has not been conducive to creating anything. I haven't given up on the writing, maybe I can write fiction in different circumstances but at present, nothing is coming. Or it may be that I can only write based on personal experience and I'm just not ready to do a memoir-style thing (and nor do I want to). I'll give it another go later!
I also spoke about having no idea what my life was going to be like in London again. I certainly didn't expect to be doing what I've started doing but then I never do the expected, whatever that may be. I've just set up another business, this time a botanically-based skin care business. I always thought that if I set up another business, I'd do products as opposed to a service that I offer. The problem with a service is that you're capped on what you can earn, you can't duplicate yourself or work more hours than there are in the day and you get to a point and then get stuck. I've spoken to other freelance people and many of them echo this very same thing.
The products are from a company called Arbonne, Swiss-formulated and made in the States. The products were launched in the UK in November 2007 and will never be found in retail outlets so it's up to Consultants like me to spread the good word (and they are amazing!). They are chemical-free, paraben-free and don't contain any animal by-products (the collagen that is put into cosmetics and skin care to plump things up is made from chicken's feet - yuk!). It's all happened very unexpectedly and it's been a steep learning curve taking in all this new information, particularly detailed information about the skin care industry.
Now that I've got started and am on my way, I'm pretty excited about this. However, there was a point about two weeks ago when it felt like a petulant child had a raging tantrum in my head. For two days. At one point it got so bad I had to go for a run to try and get rid of it! I've always pushed myself, had high expectations (sometimes too high and it can be a pain as no-one else has any expectations of me) and followed my heart, usually making brave bold moves that others would perhaps think about for 5 seconds and then leave, the prospect of that leap being too much to fathom. Well, I'm the person who would always make that leap, go for the thing that no-one would do! That's what happens when you follow your heart, you end up doing crazy things as it feels right and you have no other way of making decisions as you've always followed your heart, always done what feels right, even if it seems totally bonkers!
This decision was not based on anything going on in my heart, I didn't have any sort of feeling about it apart from "well nothing else has fallen into place so far, lets give it a go...". But once I did, my petulant child raged, tormenting myself about making a decision to do something that anyone could do - for all intents and purposes, anyone could set up an Arbonne business. There's a formula that you follow, you feel like a sheep and at times it has felt like the blind leading the blind. There are certain aspects I have not been impressed with but that's made me determined to do it better myself, particularly when putting together my own team. Anyway, I let the child rage for 2 days and then came to terms with why I had made this decision - I've led an amazing life, had fantastic experiences and done more so far than some people will do in their lifetime. But at no point did I ever think of financial security or stability - that's all far too sensible for me and I figured it would just happen (I think I always thought I would marry it which in itself it quite a scary prospect....). So apart from buying a flat when properties were still dirt cheap, I have no financial security at all. If I don't work there is no money - I may have done amazing things but I haven't built anything to carry on earning, even when I'm doing something else!
So, that's what Arbonne is about for me. I've set some new goals - I'd like a house in London and a house in Ibiza. I assumed that these things would come into my life along with a husband so I never made them personal goals. Regardless of what happens in my private life, if having a house is important (and it is), then I need to find some way of making it happen! Onwards and upwards!
I feel like I can come out of my enforced hibernation now. Well I have to in order to start spreading the Arbonne word! I've hidden away the last few months, I'm like that when I'm not sure what's going on. I've seen a couple of very good friends regularly and they have kept me feeling chipper during the past few months! I'm going to blog more, particularly as I think it will be a good way to chart my Arbonne progress and success!
In my last post I talked about my desire to write a novel. I've finished my creative writing course and to be honest it was not very good. That may just have been the teacher but I didn't feel like I learnt anything and certainly not how to write creatively. Maybe I just can't write fiction, everything I wrote was based on my own personal experiences. I had really hoped to learn how to put together compelling stories and plots and create characters but I feel no closer to this than when I first started. However, this much I know - I'm not creative unless I'm feeling fairly happy in my life and as the last few months have been full of uncertainty, the atmosphere has not been conducive to creating anything. I haven't given up on the writing, maybe I can write fiction in different circumstances but at present, nothing is coming. Or it may be that I can only write based on personal experience and I'm just not ready to do a memoir-style thing (and nor do I want to). I'll give it another go later!
I also spoke about having no idea what my life was going to be like in London again. I certainly didn't expect to be doing what I've started doing but then I never do the expected, whatever that may be. I've just set up another business, this time a botanically-based skin care business. I always thought that if I set up another business, I'd do products as opposed to a service that I offer. The problem with a service is that you're capped on what you can earn, you can't duplicate yourself or work more hours than there are in the day and you get to a point and then get stuck. I've spoken to other freelance people and many of them echo this very same thing.
The products are from a company called Arbonne, Swiss-formulated and made in the States. The products were launched in the UK in November 2007 and will never be found in retail outlets so it's up to Consultants like me to spread the good word (and they are amazing!). They are chemical-free, paraben-free and don't contain any animal by-products (the collagen that is put into cosmetics and skin care to plump things up is made from chicken's feet - yuk!). It's all happened very unexpectedly and it's been a steep learning curve taking in all this new information, particularly detailed information about the skin care industry.
Now that I've got started and am on my way, I'm pretty excited about this. However, there was a point about two weeks ago when it felt like a petulant child had a raging tantrum in my head. For two days. At one point it got so bad I had to go for a run to try and get rid of it! I've always pushed myself, had high expectations (sometimes too high and it can be a pain as no-one else has any expectations of me) and followed my heart, usually making brave bold moves that others would perhaps think about for 5 seconds and then leave, the prospect of that leap being too much to fathom. Well, I'm the person who would always make that leap, go for the thing that no-one would do! That's what happens when you follow your heart, you end up doing crazy things as it feels right and you have no other way of making decisions as you've always followed your heart, always done what feels right, even if it seems totally bonkers!
This decision was not based on anything going on in my heart, I didn't have any sort of feeling about it apart from "well nothing else has fallen into place so far, lets give it a go...". But once I did, my petulant child raged, tormenting myself about making a decision to do something that anyone could do - for all intents and purposes, anyone could set up an Arbonne business. There's a formula that you follow, you feel like a sheep and at times it has felt like the blind leading the blind. There are certain aspects I have not been impressed with but that's made me determined to do it better myself, particularly when putting together my own team. Anyway, I let the child rage for 2 days and then came to terms with why I had made this decision - I've led an amazing life, had fantastic experiences and done more so far than some people will do in their lifetime. But at no point did I ever think of financial security or stability - that's all far too sensible for me and I figured it would just happen (I think I always thought I would marry it which in itself it quite a scary prospect....). So apart from buying a flat when properties were still dirt cheap, I have no financial security at all. If I don't work there is no money - I may have done amazing things but I haven't built anything to carry on earning, even when I'm doing something else!
So, that's what Arbonne is about for me. I've set some new goals - I'd like a house in London and a house in Ibiza. I assumed that these things would come into my life along with a husband so I never made them personal goals. Regardless of what happens in my private life, if having a house is important (and it is), then I need to find some way of making it happen! Onwards and upwards!
I feel like I can come out of my enforced hibernation now. Well I have to in order to start spreading the Arbonne word! I've hidden away the last few months, I'm like that when I'm not sure what's going on. I've seen a couple of very good friends regularly and they have kept me feeling chipper during the past few months! I'm going to blog more, particularly as I think it will be a good way to chart my Arbonne progress and success!
Monday, 11 May 2009
From London to Ibiza and back.....
I'm just about to send one of my email updates to let everyone know that I'm back in London again. Normally I'd provide an update on what's been going on but the last update was done nearly two years ago (when I announced I was moving to Ibiza), there would be a lot of stuff to put in an email and seeing that I have a blog, I figured the best place for an overview of my time in Ibiza should be here and I can provide a link to this post in my email. So anyone who'd like a brief encounter with my Ibizan experience, read on. Anyone who'd like to read in more detail, most things are posted somewhere here on the blog.
Back in June 2007, I sent an email update announcing to my world that I had decided to move myself and my interiors business to Ibiza at the beginning of 2008. I was coming to a stage where I felt like I wanted a really big change and I'd wanted to live on the island ever since I first visited in 2002 so the decision was made in about 5 minutes. I was a third of the way into a one-year contract consulting at the British Ukrainian Society and decided to move once the contract ended. I'd also been juggling interiors with the consulting and found it difficult to give one hundred percent to both things so decided to focus solely on the Society for the rest of my time in London. It was in a fledgling stage, having only been launched in the UK and I wanted to ensure there were strong foundations for a successful organisation before I moved to island life.
When I first started at the Society, I was concerned about whether I could give another project as much as I had given my own interiors business. I needn't have worried as somewhere along the line something magical happened and I loved the challenge of the project. From this immense high, I left London in early February 2008 to move to Ibiza, turning up alone, not really knowing anyone, not speaking the language and not having any real work leads or contacts.
My life in Ibiza fell into 3-month cycles, each completely different. One of the things that instantly stands out with life in Ibiza is how intense it can be, each quarter felt like a year, not three months. You find yourself in situations that you have never encountered before, even if you've lived overseas already. Things have the ability to go from one extreme to another in the blink of an eye and you have no idea what's around the corner. Amazing opportunities can crumble in front of you in a matter of weeks and the most heart-warming situations can turn to heartbreak overnight. There seems to be a constant ebb and flow to island life.
The first three months were bliss, even though I was living in a rundown house with little hot water or electricity but the surroundings were stunning and it made up for any lack. I soon found solutions to the problem of not being able to take a shower properly or use a hairdryer (join the local swimming pool and swim six times a week). Life in those first few weeks involved trying to do things I took for granted in London (shopping, going to the post office) in a place where you didn't know where anything was and everyone spoke Spanish. But it's amazing how quickly you learn and adapt and start striking out on your own again. I remember the immense sense of achievement when I went and bought fire for the wood burner the first time by myself. Sadly I didn't see that much success in actually lighting the fire so ended up giving myself the job of cleaning the fire before it was re-lit. I eased myself into getting used to my new surroundings, started learning Spanish and after a few weeks of taking it easy, started looking for work.
The plan of action in a place where I had no contacts was to get some cards made up with photos of past projects and distribute these all over the island, including all the main estate agents. I was quickly contacted by an independent estate agent John who went out of his way to see how he could help me, putting me in touch with a few of his contacts. One seemed particularly interesting, a guy called Alberto who'd been working on the island with his wife for about a decade, doing up and renting out villas. They'd also recently opened up an interiors shop and John said that they always had more work than they could handle. I had to contact Alberto once he was back from his latest buying spree in Morocco but before I had the chance to get in touch, we met by accident in the street.
During the second quarter, I started doing bits and pieces of work for Alberto. They were getting ready to open some luxury villas in Bali and needed help with research for the project. I also started helping out with their work on the island - Alberto likes to keep a tight team so everyone gets involved during the busy summer season. During this time I also secured some writing work, doing a monthly interiors article for the main English-language magazine on the island. Things were starting to move in the right direction as far as work was concerned but it was a difficult time as I found myself quite homesick and missing everyone in London and not entirely sure if the move I made had been the right one. However a pair of cheeky kittens had come into my life and made it their sole responsibility to keep me laughing and happy at all times. They'd been born to one of the cats at the house and as my housemate Bea didn't like cats, I took on the responsibility of looking after the five kittens and the mother cat (who was barely a kitten herself). I wasn't planning on keeping a kitten myself but one day, when they were about four weeks old and starting to clamber all over the place, getting cuter and cuter and more and more mischievious by the day, one of the kittens looked over at me with his big soulful eyes and I thought "I think I'm going to have to keep you!". Then I didn't want him to get lonely so I kept the youngest one too and the comedy pair had me constantly amused with their hilarious antics.
At the end of six months, I came back to London for my brother's wedding still unsure about whether I wanted to be in Ibiza or back in London. But once back in the city, I made the decision that I did want to live on the island and the focus would be about finding enough work to enable me to live there.
The third quarter started with the firm decision about wanting to live on the island. I'd made some lovely friends there and Alberto had enough work for me for at least another month. The short stint back in London had cured me of my homesickness as I'd been able to see friends and family and I was raring to get back and get on with things. But just before I returned to the island, I had a text to say my two kittens had died in the week I'd been away. I returned to the island absolutely heart-broken and cried more than I've ever cried before. I'm still baffled by what happened but as my housemate was meant to be looking after them while I was away, I decided it was time to find somewhere new to live. Also out of the blue, Alberto offered me full-time work running the interiors shop and doing the sales and marketing for another of their projects, a luxury boutique hotel in Marrakech. This was in addition to working on the Bali project and some other projects in the pipeline. I moved close to work and a new chapter took off.
It was all about work. Things moved in leaps and bounds and I found myself with the exciting challenge I'd been looking for. I threw myself into it, working six days a week bringing a bit of order to an otherwise chaotic organisation. It felt like I'd found the natural successor to my work at teh Society as the challenge was immense but so was the opportunity. The end of the third quarter found me back in London again for my godsons' first birthday. As soon as I arrived back, it was like I'd never been away. It felt as if I had two lives, one in London, the other in Ibiza and I belonged in both places. This concept of two lives is familiar to me, I've grown up with two very different cultures, my work has been about two very different things and now I had a life in two different places. During this trip, London captured me again and I found myself starting to think about moving back again, maybe in a year or two.
The last quarter was still about work but things changed dramatically. I'd been busy raising the profile of the Harissa Collection (the collective name for all of Alberto's different projects) in the UK but when it was time to deliver, things remained chaotic. There were a number of occasions where I found myself with my head in my hands thinking "I can't believe this is happening.....". The work is amazing but there are too many projects going on simultaneously, spanning three continents, for all things to receive adequate attention. The entire team is tiny with Alberto and Yvonne in strict control of everything so not really much room for independent thought. I soon realised that I'd taken things as far as I could working with them and decided that perhaps it was time to head back to London. My last month on the island was bliss. I finished work sooner than expected but that meant time to make the most of the island, see friends and throw myself into intensive Spanish lessons. It was the perfect way to end my sabbatical in Ibiza.
When I decided to move to Ibiza, I had no idea why I was going, apart from the fact that I'd dreamed to living there ever since I first visited in 2002. I had no idea how long I would stay or what sort of life I would find. All I knew was that I wanted to go, wanted a change of scene and a different quality of life and answers would present themselves to me at the appropriate time. As I wound up work, I found myself awake very early one morning. I lay there thinking about my move to Ibiza and my imminent move back to London. It dawned on me that the main reason I moved was to see if I could do it, if I could move to another country all alone, where I didn't really know anyone or have any contacts or work leads or speak the language and see if I could make a go of it. I'm fascinated by the journeys that people make in search of something new, something better, uprooting themselves from one place and starting a new life somewhere else.
For the last few years, I've been acutely aware of some of the journeys that my parents have made in search of a better life. From the move from India to Pakistan during the harrowing period of partition on to a new life in London. When my parents got married, my mum was in Pakistan and my dad was in Great Britain. They'd never met and got married over the phone and then my mum got on a plane for the first time in her life to go to an alien country to meet her husband, a complete stranger. It was fine as my dad is a wonderful person but after talking to my mum about this, I've often wondered if I'd have the courage to do something like this but the thought of marrying a stranger is such a strange concept to me that I can't really comprehend it.
A part of me did wonder if I could turn up alone in a new place and make a go of it. I was curious to see if I had that intrepid gene or whether it had disappeared in a comfortable life in London. I'd already lived overseas three times before but all three times had been more organised - I was going for a reason, I had something to do when I arrived, I was expected. When I moved to Ibiza, there was nothing in place apart from somewhere to stay as soon as I got there. It was up to me to create my experience. And I have to say, there is something quite wonderful about taking your whole life, throwing it up in the air and seeing how it lands. The year away injected a breath of fresh air into my life - new experiences, new places, new people, a new language.
Life back in London is still an unknown for me, I have no idea what this coming chapter holds. One thing I do know I'd like to do is write a novel. I don't know what the story will be but I think it will span continents and generations. Apart from that, it's the usual work and play scenario and looking at London with a fresh pair of eyes. I think time away from this great city does that to you!
Back in June 2007, I sent an email update announcing to my world that I had decided to move myself and my interiors business to Ibiza at the beginning of 2008. I was coming to a stage where I felt like I wanted a really big change and I'd wanted to live on the island ever since I first visited in 2002 so the decision was made in about 5 minutes. I was a third of the way into a one-year contract consulting at the British Ukrainian Society and decided to move once the contract ended. I'd also been juggling interiors with the consulting and found it difficult to give one hundred percent to both things so decided to focus solely on the Society for the rest of my time in London. It was in a fledgling stage, having only been launched in the UK and I wanted to ensure there were strong foundations for a successful organisation before I moved to island life.
When I first started at the Society, I was concerned about whether I could give another project as much as I had given my own interiors business. I needn't have worried as somewhere along the line something magical happened and I loved the challenge of the project. From this immense high, I left London in early February 2008 to move to Ibiza, turning up alone, not really knowing anyone, not speaking the language and not having any real work leads or contacts.
My life in Ibiza fell into 3-month cycles, each completely different. One of the things that instantly stands out with life in Ibiza is how intense it can be, each quarter felt like a year, not three months. You find yourself in situations that you have never encountered before, even if you've lived overseas already. Things have the ability to go from one extreme to another in the blink of an eye and you have no idea what's around the corner. Amazing opportunities can crumble in front of you in a matter of weeks and the most heart-warming situations can turn to heartbreak overnight. There seems to be a constant ebb and flow to island life.
The first three months were bliss, even though I was living in a rundown house with little hot water or electricity but the surroundings were stunning and it made up for any lack. I soon found solutions to the problem of not being able to take a shower properly or use a hairdryer (join the local swimming pool and swim six times a week). Life in those first few weeks involved trying to do things I took for granted in London (shopping, going to the post office) in a place where you didn't know where anything was and everyone spoke Spanish. But it's amazing how quickly you learn and adapt and start striking out on your own again. I remember the immense sense of achievement when I went and bought fire for the wood burner the first time by myself. Sadly I didn't see that much success in actually lighting the fire so ended up giving myself the job of cleaning the fire before it was re-lit. I eased myself into getting used to my new surroundings, started learning Spanish and after a few weeks of taking it easy, started looking for work.
The plan of action in a place where I had no contacts was to get some cards made up with photos of past projects and distribute these all over the island, including all the main estate agents. I was quickly contacted by an independent estate agent John who went out of his way to see how he could help me, putting me in touch with a few of his contacts. One seemed particularly interesting, a guy called Alberto who'd been working on the island with his wife for about a decade, doing up and renting out villas. They'd also recently opened up an interiors shop and John said that they always had more work than they could handle. I had to contact Alberto once he was back from his latest buying spree in Morocco but before I had the chance to get in touch, we met by accident in the street.
During the second quarter, I started doing bits and pieces of work for Alberto. They were getting ready to open some luxury villas in Bali and needed help with research for the project. I also started helping out with their work on the island - Alberto likes to keep a tight team so everyone gets involved during the busy summer season. During this time I also secured some writing work, doing a monthly interiors article for the main English-language magazine on the island. Things were starting to move in the right direction as far as work was concerned but it was a difficult time as I found myself quite homesick and missing everyone in London and not entirely sure if the move I made had been the right one. However a pair of cheeky kittens had come into my life and made it their sole responsibility to keep me laughing and happy at all times. They'd been born to one of the cats at the house and as my housemate Bea didn't like cats, I took on the responsibility of looking after the five kittens and the mother cat (who was barely a kitten herself). I wasn't planning on keeping a kitten myself but one day, when they were about four weeks old and starting to clamber all over the place, getting cuter and cuter and more and more mischievious by the day, one of the kittens looked over at me with his big soulful eyes and I thought "I think I'm going to have to keep you!". Then I didn't want him to get lonely so I kept the youngest one too and the comedy pair had me constantly amused with their hilarious antics.
At the end of six months, I came back to London for my brother's wedding still unsure about whether I wanted to be in Ibiza or back in London. But once back in the city, I made the decision that I did want to live on the island and the focus would be about finding enough work to enable me to live there.
The third quarter started with the firm decision about wanting to live on the island. I'd made some lovely friends there and Alberto had enough work for me for at least another month. The short stint back in London had cured me of my homesickness as I'd been able to see friends and family and I was raring to get back and get on with things. But just before I returned to the island, I had a text to say my two kittens had died in the week I'd been away. I returned to the island absolutely heart-broken and cried more than I've ever cried before. I'm still baffled by what happened but as my housemate was meant to be looking after them while I was away, I decided it was time to find somewhere new to live. Also out of the blue, Alberto offered me full-time work running the interiors shop and doing the sales and marketing for another of their projects, a luxury boutique hotel in Marrakech. This was in addition to working on the Bali project and some other projects in the pipeline. I moved close to work and a new chapter took off.
It was all about work. Things moved in leaps and bounds and I found myself with the exciting challenge I'd been looking for. I threw myself into it, working six days a week bringing a bit of order to an otherwise chaotic organisation. It felt like I'd found the natural successor to my work at teh Society as the challenge was immense but so was the opportunity. The end of the third quarter found me back in London again for my godsons' first birthday. As soon as I arrived back, it was like I'd never been away. It felt as if I had two lives, one in London, the other in Ibiza and I belonged in both places. This concept of two lives is familiar to me, I've grown up with two very different cultures, my work has been about two very different things and now I had a life in two different places. During this trip, London captured me again and I found myself starting to think about moving back again, maybe in a year or two.
The last quarter was still about work but things changed dramatically. I'd been busy raising the profile of the Harissa Collection (the collective name for all of Alberto's different projects) in the UK but when it was time to deliver, things remained chaotic. There were a number of occasions where I found myself with my head in my hands thinking "I can't believe this is happening.....". The work is amazing but there are too many projects going on simultaneously, spanning three continents, for all things to receive adequate attention. The entire team is tiny with Alberto and Yvonne in strict control of everything so not really much room for independent thought. I soon realised that I'd taken things as far as I could working with them and decided that perhaps it was time to head back to London. My last month on the island was bliss. I finished work sooner than expected but that meant time to make the most of the island, see friends and throw myself into intensive Spanish lessons. It was the perfect way to end my sabbatical in Ibiza.
When I decided to move to Ibiza, I had no idea why I was going, apart from the fact that I'd dreamed to living there ever since I first visited in 2002. I had no idea how long I would stay or what sort of life I would find. All I knew was that I wanted to go, wanted a change of scene and a different quality of life and answers would present themselves to me at the appropriate time. As I wound up work, I found myself awake very early one morning. I lay there thinking about my move to Ibiza and my imminent move back to London. It dawned on me that the main reason I moved was to see if I could do it, if I could move to another country all alone, where I didn't really know anyone or have any contacts or work leads or speak the language and see if I could make a go of it. I'm fascinated by the journeys that people make in search of something new, something better, uprooting themselves from one place and starting a new life somewhere else.
For the last few years, I've been acutely aware of some of the journeys that my parents have made in search of a better life. From the move from India to Pakistan during the harrowing period of partition on to a new life in London. When my parents got married, my mum was in Pakistan and my dad was in Great Britain. They'd never met and got married over the phone and then my mum got on a plane for the first time in her life to go to an alien country to meet her husband, a complete stranger. It was fine as my dad is a wonderful person but after talking to my mum about this, I've often wondered if I'd have the courage to do something like this but the thought of marrying a stranger is such a strange concept to me that I can't really comprehend it.
A part of me did wonder if I could turn up alone in a new place and make a go of it. I was curious to see if I had that intrepid gene or whether it had disappeared in a comfortable life in London. I'd already lived overseas three times before but all three times had been more organised - I was going for a reason, I had something to do when I arrived, I was expected. When I moved to Ibiza, there was nothing in place apart from somewhere to stay as soon as I got there. It was up to me to create my experience. And I have to say, there is something quite wonderful about taking your whole life, throwing it up in the air and seeing how it lands. The year away injected a breath of fresh air into my life - new experiences, new places, new people, a new language.
Life back in London is still an unknown for me, I have no idea what this coming chapter holds. One thing I do know I'd like to do is write a novel. I don't know what the story will be but I think it will span continents and generations. Apart from that, it's the usual work and play scenario and looking at London with a fresh pair of eyes. I think time away from this great city does that to you!
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
London Book Fair
I've spent the last couple of days at the London Book Fair at Earls Court. There were some interesting seminars on, with the focus country being India. I don't know if the British Council had chosen India before Slumdog Millionaire came out in the cinemas but it seems like this is the country to watch at the moment.
I had the opportunity to listen to a Q & A session with Vikram Seth, the author of "A Suitable Boy". He was speaking about his last book "Two Lives" which I read last year. It is a fantastic book, a biography of his great-uncle and great-aunt and their experiences in Germany during the Second World War. I don't usually like biographies or autobiographies, often they are crammed full of tiny bits of information that bear little importance but the writer feels the need to put in everything, instead of choosing the best bits. "Two Lives" was a world away from this and really was a joy to read. The Q & A session was equally enjoyable.
I then went on to a seminar on how to reach the ethnic millions in the UK. At times this veered into "the British publishing world is full of white middle-class people and there should be some positive discrimination to get some brown faces in". I struggle with things like this. As far as I'm concerned (particularly in London), the opportunities are out there, regardless of colour, creed, race or gender. If you are professional and hard-working and have the right attitude, then there are few barriers in the way, unless of course you choose to construct some yourself. OK, there might be some industries that still remain quite "white" but I think that has as much to do with them not being so popular with ethnic minorities - if you look at other professions like medicine or dentistry, the numbers are more balanced. I'm uncomfortable with the liberal attitude to positive discrimination - someone getting a job because of the colour of their skin as opposed to merit and ability. Most jobs I've worked in I've been the only "brown" face in an otherwise sea of white, it's never been a problem. What matters most is my ability to do the job and that has nothing to do with the colour of my skin.
Sometimes ethnic minorities get too caught up in their victim mentality, if anything bad happens, it's because of the colour of their skin, no other reason. I remember listening to a family friend last Christmas. He was moaning about the fact that it was so difficult for muslims to progress and do well in this country. When I pointed out that I'd had some fantastic opportunities and had done well, he answered back "well not everyone's as pushy as you!". At this point I think I snorted. Being driven and determined has helped me to succeed but anything I've achieved is down to me being pushy! As I've long suspected, this particular uncle has a big chip on his shoulder and no matter what you say, he'll always see things from the victim's stance.
I went to a panel discussion this morning about India called "Through Fresh Eyes - Literature of Ideas". The panel comprised of emminent Indian writers, mostly non-fiction. It was a fascinating debate, one that brought language to the forefront. Most Indian writers who are read in the Western world write in English. This automatically means that this will be the elite - how much real understanding will they have of other worlds, other lives if they move in elite, priveliged circles? People writing in any of the native Indian languages rarely see their work translated to reach a wider audience so the snapshot we see of the country just touches the tip of the iceberg.
Recently I've started reading books by Pakistani writers that were written in Urdu and translated. The thing that struck me was how clumsy the language seemed. I've read many South Asian writers (who write in English) and their beautiful command of the language is a joy to behold. But these translations felt chunky and clunky. Maybe that is the problem with countries where English is spoken and written as much as the native languages (but only by the most highly-educated). Books will be published that have been written in English so the art of translation is lost or certainly it suffers. I thought of other foreign writers I've read who've written in their mother language and the book has then been translated - very few of these writers seem to suffer the same problem. It's also difficult to get the educated elite to embrace the native language instead of English as speaking English is seen as being so much more sophisticated. I always find it amusing when native Indians or Pakistanis talk amongst themselves in English, when another language is their mother tongue.
I was thinking about language earlier this week. My strongest language is English but the first language I spoke would have been Urdu. I still speak Urdu to my parents and family members of their generation. Where did I learn to speak English and from whom? I wouldn't have learnt it from my parents so did I learn it from the television? Or did I start school not speaking English? I've always thought it an advantage to have grown up bilingual. I'm sure it's helped me when I've been in a foreign country, immersed in learning a new language. But sometimes I wonder if these early bilingual days are a hinderance to my capabilities in English? If I'd grown up speaking only one language, would my command and ability have been much higher? I have friends who are writers and I'm always struck by how beautifully they use words and language. I asked one what his secret was and the answer? Practice! So I guess there is hope for me with the language I'd love to deploy magically, all I have to do is use it! And perhaps read a dictionary from time to time!
I had the opportunity to listen to a Q & A session with Vikram Seth, the author of "A Suitable Boy". He was speaking about his last book "Two Lives" which I read last year. It is a fantastic book, a biography of his great-uncle and great-aunt and their experiences in Germany during the Second World War. I don't usually like biographies or autobiographies, often they are crammed full of tiny bits of information that bear little importance but the writer feels the need to put in everything, instead of choosing the best bits. "Two Lives" was a world away from this and really was a joy to read. The Q & A session was equally enjoyable.
I then went on to a seminar on how to reach the ethnic millions in the UK. At times this veered into "the British publishing world is full of white middle-class people and there should be some positive discrimination to get some brown faces in". I struggle with things like this. As far as I'm concerned (particularly in London), the opportunities are out there, regardless of colour, creed, race or gender. If you are professional and hard-working and have the right attitude, then there are few barriers in the way, unless of course you choose to construct some yourself. OK, there might be some industries that still remain quite "white" but I think that has as much to do with them not being so popular with ethnic minorities - if you look at other professions like medicine or dentistry, the numbers are more balanced. I'm uncomfortable with the liberal attitude to positive discrimination - someone getting a job because of the colour of their skin as opposed to merit and ability. Most jobs I've worked in I've been the only "brown" face in an otherwise sea of white, it's never been a problem. What matters most is my ability to do the job and that has nothing to do with the colour of my skin.
Sometimes ethnic minorities get too caught up in their victim mentality, if anything bad happens, it's because of the colour of their skin, no other reason. I remember listening to a family friend last Christmas. He was moaning about the fact that it was so difficult for muslims to progress and do well in this country. When I pointed out that I'd had some fantastic opportunities and had done well, he answered back "well not everyone's as pushy as you!". At this point I think I snorted. Being driven and determined has helped me to succeed but anything I've achieved is down to me being pushy! As I've long suspected, this particular uncle has a big chip on his shoulder and no matter what you say, he'll always see things from the victim's stance.
I went to a panel discussion this morning about India called "Through Fresh Eyes - Literature of Ideas". The panel comprised of emminent Indian writers, mostly non-fiction. It was a fascinating debate, one that brought language to the forefront. Most Indian writers who are read in the Western world write in English. This automatically means that this will be the elite - how much real understanding will they have of other worlds, other lives if they move in elite, priveliged circles? People writing in any of the native Indian languages rarely see their work translated to reach a wider audience so the snapshot we see of the country just touches the tip of the iceberg.
Recently I've started reading books by Pakistani writers that were written in Urdu and translated. The thing that struck me was how clumsy the language seemed. I've read many South Asian writers (who write in English) and their beautiful command of the language is a joy to behold. But these translations felt chunky and clunky. Maybe that is the problem with countries where English is spoken and written as much as the native languages (but only by the most highly-educated). Books will be published that have been written in English so the art of translation is lost or certainly it suffers. I thought of other foreign writers I've read who've written in their mother language and the book has then been translated - very few of these writers seem to suffer the same problem. It's also difficult to get the educated elite to embrace the native language instead of English as speaking English is seen as being so much more sophisticated. I always find it amusing when native Indians or Pakistanis talk amongst themselves in English, when another language is their mother tongue.
I was thinking about language earlier this week. My strongest language is English but the first language I spoke would have been Urdu. I still speak Urdu to my parents and family members of their generation. Where did I learn to speak English and from whom? I wouldn't have learnt it from my parents so did I learn it from the television? Or did I start school not speaking English? I've always thought it an advantage to have grown up bilingual. I'm sure it's helped me when I've been in a foreign country, immersed in learning a new language. But sometimes I wonder if these early bilingual days are a hinderance to my capabilities in English? If I'd grown up speaking only one language, would my command and ability have been much higher? I have friends who are writers and I'm always struck by how beautifully they use words and language. I asked one what his secret was and the answer? Practice! So I guess there is hope for me with the language I'd love to deploy magically, all I have to do is use it! And perhaps read a dictionary from time to time!
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