As I was driving to work one day with my son, I stopped at a signal and saw the road in front of me teeming with police vehicles. One lane on the opposite side of the road was blocked by a police car. Around eight to ten officers were crowding over something. On looking closer, it appeared as though they were desperately trying to hold down something, using their batons to beat down some terrible dangerous beast. All I could see were their bodies pressing down and arresting the motion of whatever was under them. I gasped when I saw a naked foot sticking out from the crowd of black uniforms. My stomach churned as I realized there were ten police officers holding this man down, several of them pummeling him repeatedly with their batons.

I was filled with loathing. Excessive force, police brutality and other words and faces of many people who suffered the same fate flooded my mind. I felt sick and couldn’t breathe. It was like someone weighing 200 pounds was sitting on my chest.

It is one thing watching clips of police using excessive force and violence on citizens in the comfort of your living room. Watching it unfold in broad daylight just does something to you. I realized my son was in the car with me. I had to say something.

“Oh my God! It’s a man. I don’t care what he did but they can’t do this! This is horrible.”

Images from the past came tumbling into my mind. Men beaten to death by cops just because they could. Kids whose lives were snuffed out because an officer felt threatened and fired his gun. The man who got strangled by a cop. A senior citizen pushed around. A woman pulled by her hair at the beach.

What about all the images that never saw the light of day because no one captured them? What about what goes on in jails behind closed doors? I respect law enforcement but there is a fine line between enforcing the law and treating another person as a lesser being who deserves to be silenced, maimed or even killed.

It was a while again before I could breathe again and focus on my work. But what I saw that day definitely changed me. The next time I read something or see something related to police brutality I’m sure I will be consumed by that sickening feeling of an elephant on my chest.

The man I saw on the road ended up being admitted in a hospital. He left the scene in a stretcher and his family was not allowed to visit him in the hospital. I only hope he doesn’t become another statistic.

Old story. But you need to hear it again so I can set the stage for what I’m about to relate. Three years ago my family decided to move to India after living in the U.S. for nearly 13 years. I was quite optimistic about jumping continents. After all, I had spent all of my childhood and some adult years in India and it wasn’t like we were walking into the unknown. We were pretty sure we’d live happily ever after in India. So we simply sold all of our stuff or gave it away. We didn’t even consider putting it in storage.

Craig’s List was my friend. I spent most of my time posting stuff there, replying to emails from prospective buyers and arranging for them to come by and see/buy our stuff. Most of our furniture got sold pretty quickly. Then there was the sofa and love seat that we had owned for ten years. It was beige but did not have a single tear or stain on it. We had paid over $1000 for both of them. But no matter how much we slashed the prices, they wouldn’t sell. After posting in a Facebook group, the love seat finally got sold. But the sofa did not and it was the only piece of furniture left. We finally had to give it away for free.

When the couple that agreed to haul it away showed up, I was a little distraught. We had spent a lot on it, it was in excellent condition, and here we were simply giving it away for a song. I loved that couch. It was comfy, durable (my kids were babies when I got it) and elegant. My husband comforted me by saying we would get new furniture if we ever came back to the U.S.

And come back we did! One and a half years later with no jobs and no furniture. Recently, we moved to our own place and decided to get living room furniture, something we had put off because we were renting an apartment before and wanted something that would fit in our new space.

I had it all planned out. A blue and silver theme for the living room. A bluish silver sofa or love seat and accent chairs. I didn’t want both the sofa and the love seat and I definitely did not want beige! The boys wanted recliners and I vehemently opposed it. My daughter hated the designs I picked for the accent chairs. And guess what? Bluish silver sofas are extremely hard to find. There was a good deal on a sofa online and it happened to be the exact same sofa I had owned for 10 years! It came in several different colors, all of which I hated. So I refused to purchase it. The boys really wanted it but I refused to budge. Three months after our move, my living room was still bare.

Finally, after getting stiff from sitting on our dining room chairs and watching TV, we came to a consensus. They would get to buy the beige sofa online and I would get to choose the accent chairs. No questions asked and no veto privileges. Everyone liked the idea.

I came back home one day to see a beige sofa AND love seat in my living room, similar to the ones I had given away three years ago. I was upset. I had them for not one, not even five, but ten years. I really wanted something different but I had manifested the same sofa and love seat. What did I do wrong?  And then it hit me. I never really felt good about giving them away. Part of me was attached to them and not letting go completely did not allow me to make room for something new. My attachment to it brought back the exact same pieces to me even though on the surface I was looking for something completely different. Sounds familiar?

How many times do we say we are ready for something new but then end up attracting and settling for the same old thing over and over again. Think about it. The next time you want something new, make sure you have completely let go of whatever it is you didn’t want. No attachment, no regrets, no unhappiness, or you’ll end up with a big beige sofa and love seat that you gave away years ago and no place for accent chairs!

It should have happened right after Sandy Hook. It didn’t! Orlando? Nope! Maybe after Las Vegas. No, it didn’t! And I don’t think it will unless we make a big deal about it and don’t rest till real change happens. If we can bring down a Harvey Weinstein and a Larry Nassar with #MeToo then we can expose all those politicians who are shamelessly carrying on with the NRA. Those elected to serve the people are now serving the twisted agendas of groups that have the power to maintain the status quo by filling up the coffers of these spineless, greedy politicians. Lives don’t matter to them anymore.  The FBI gets a tip about the shooting and fails to investigate it. The government fails us over and over again. By ignoring our pleas for stricter gun laws. By not securing our schools.

These days anyone can walk into a school building. Why not lock the building and only allow access to authorized people, like offices do.  You have strict laws about underage drinking. You need an ID to purchase alcohol, but guns are given out like candy? And mind you not the kind of guns the early settlers carried but assault weapons that can fire 45 rounds per minute.

It took women to bring down vermin like Weinstein and Lassar and it looks like women are the answer to stricter gun laws. We might be docile and quiet, but anger us or threaten our children and you awaken the fierce lioness is us. The lioness who will stop at nothing to save her cubs. And it so happens that lionesses live in a pride and they come together to protect everyone.

All over the country we see moms coming together to condemn the high school shooting. We see high school kids come together to organize anti-gun rallies. Put them both together and what do you get? Walkout day organized by the same people that organized the women’s march. So the kids and the moms come together while the men (most of them) try to decide where their loyalties lie. With the NRA and guns that are a crutch to keep them safe or with families and communities that are their very life?

But one march won’t do. Signing petitions won’t do it. Believe me I signed plenty. A consistent, targeted, and sustained effort is required. We cannot back down or go back to our lives and forget all about it till the next shooting. We just can’t. We have to spread the word, inspire school administrators, parents and kids to take to the roads, call legislators and make them uncomfortable about supporting the NRA and their agenda to put more guns in the hands of Americans. More guns doesn’t mean more safety, it means more violence. Hopefully, more people wake up to this reality. Some people feel that violence will still plague our country, as people will find other ways to kill if guns are taken away. But this kind of large scale man slaughter can only be done with assault weapons. And no civilian needs those kind of weapons for self defense. A pistol or revolver will suffice. In my opinion even that is too much. I don’t think anyone has the right to kill another being.

As I look at the pictures of the victims, my heart bleeds for these lives that have been snuffed out way before their time. May we live in a world where mothers and fathers will never have to bury their young children, all victims of gun violence. May we live in a world where every life is cherished and peace lives in every heart. Where every mother can go about her day knowing her kids are safe.

The shorter days and longer nights make me thankful for the warmth of the sun and the long lazy days of summer that never ended. Pumpkins, squash and sweet potatoes in abundance remind me that Mother Earth will provide for us even when the cold winter winds blow. A roof over our heads and family and friends that care fills my heart with gratitude.  A job, healthy children, joy and abundant energy add to my already overflowing bucket.

I can’t  say I felt the same last year. We had just moved from India and were finding our bearings in a new place. We were planting seeds in the fall. Seeds of abundance, love and joy that had been missing for a while. But our seeds lay dormant in the winter. It took every ounce of my strength to do the 30 days of gratitude exercise which I shared with you last November.  But I knew from past experience that gratitude was the way to bring more blessings into your life. Not feelings of worthlessness or pity. So I watered my seeds with gratitude over the winter.

Some sprouts tried to push through the frosty earth but quickly died.  But some survived. The strong intentions, the ones I didn’t want to give up on, lived under the frozen ground. I couldn’t see them but a tiny glimmer of hope wedged itself in my heart.  In March the tiny sprouts surfaced and I watered them eagerly.

A year has passed since I planted seeds of abundance, joy and a beautiful space to call our own and now our tree of prosperity is blooming.  One seed that I presumed had died in the winter somehow surfaced a few weeks ago. My longing for a friend in this new place was fulfilled. Thanks to V who moved to Raleigh. We’ve known each other since college and it was refreshing to just be myself in her company (as opposed to making new friends at my age!)

So this year’s harvest has been bountiful and I won’t be surprised if more seeds come back from the dead. Who knows? It doesn’t hurt to keep watering them and maybe next spring is when they want to emerge. Who am I to judge?

I challenge you – yes you – to practice 30 days of gratitude starting from the 1st of November. I will be doing it as well although it is going to be challenging with my busy schedule. I think I’ll keep a journal at my desk to remind me to be thankful. And I don’t do this just in November. Whenever I find joy ebbing and whining taking over my life I stop myself and try to focus on gratitude. It always helps and makes me feel better and less whiny of course!

How many times have you put off doing stuff just because the conditions weren’t as perfect as you wanted them to be? For the longest time I wanted to do a yoga teacher training(YTT). I looked up several classes in the area. I looked up schedules and everything but always felt like it was a lot of money to spend. Also the schedules didn’t work for me or rather I thought they didn’t work for me. Getting away for the entire weekend to attend yoga class was unthinkable. It was as though my kids would starve and be neglected if I was not around!

When I started working I swore that I would enroll in the course once I earned that much money. When I had that exact amount in my bank account I moved from Florida to Washington and was out of work for a few months. I again looked for YTT courses in the area. I found one which was cheaper, the schedule worked perfectly (it was just one weekend) and the studio was quite close to where I stayed. But then I had to go and ask for someone else’s opinion and they felt like I should spend money on a course that would help me earn more money. Again I didn’t enroll for the yoga course nor did I join a career-oriented course.

A year later I again wanted to do a YTT certification but ended up doing a course in technical writing because that was more ‘practical’. It has been 7 years and I still haven’t let my yoga seed come to fruition.

The same kind of pattern emerged once again in my life. I finished writing the book “Thank You Dadima” and want to get it published. But we were both out of work and I figured I’d do it once I get a job. Three months into my job nothing has changed. Now some other excuse has come up. I don’t have the time. I don’t know who to use as an editor…so and so forth. If I went with all the excuses my mind keeps conjuring up I guess that book will just be a file on my computer. Which is not what I want. So I’m going to dump my big bag of excuses and get cracking on getting my book published! Off to e-mail a blogger/editor contact now.

Weekends at Dadima’s house were a lazy affair, for me that is. I woke up late, wandered around in my PJs, with my hair in a tangled and disheveled mess. Dadi would be up by 7.00 a.m. and would wash her hair, starch her cotton saris and put them on the clothesline for the maids to stretch out and dry. Dressed in freshly ironed white cotton salwar suits, she would then proceed to supervise Smaller (yes that was his name) as he polished all the brassware in the house.

Around 8.00 a.m. she would notice that her bed was not made because I was sleeping in it! She would try to wake me up. I would moan and groan and throw the blanket over my head to muffle the noise. She would then peel the blankets away from me and insist that I wake up that instant. I would join her for breakfast after hastily brushing my teeth. Still clad in my wrinkled nightie, I’d take a look at her freshly scrubbed glowing face, her damp hair loosely held with clips with not a single strand out of place, and sigh. The idlis on my plate looked off-white against the brilliance of her kurta. I knew what was coming next. She would tell me to go have a bath and get dressed before guests started trickling in after ten in the morning. There were the regulars – the family doctor, the nieces, office staff, and then sometimes someone unexpected came along.

After breakfast, I hid in the guest room which doubled as my study room when there were no house guests. She would seek me out and give me another disapproving look before I meekly went to take a shower. If I was too lazy to comb and braid my long hair, I would just put it up in a bun, which would meet with instant criticism. “Buns are for old ladies. It doesn’t suit you!” she would say the moment I walked into her room to watch some TV. Jeans were also not her favorite. Or faded T-shirts for that matter. Both of which happened to be my favorite weekend outfits.

For years I wore a white uniform to school and Dadima wore her white starched cotton saris with matching white sandals. Given the nature of the place she worked in, carrying a white handbag and expecting it to stay white over a week was wishful thinking. Dirt, dust, grime, ink, carbon paper left no mark on her black handbag which she carried to work every day. The white handbags came out for special occasions – parties, weddings and conferences.

White was something widows wore to somehow symbolize the lack of color and joy in their spouse-less worlds. But one look at Dadima was enough to let you know that for her white was a fashion statement. She did not wear make-up, jewelry or a saffron dot on her forehead like married women. Her blouses were always stitched in the latest style, she wore dressy heeled sandals, chic sunglasses and a big-dialed omega watch. White did not make her look colorless and boring, but made her stand out. It was her trademark. Her signature. Her power.

No matter what her health was like on any given day, she would get up, wash up and get dressed. If guests were coming over, she would brush her hair and sit up straight on her bed with the support of pillows. Even at the hospital, she cared about her appearance. She never wanted to look sickly, hapless and pitiful. To portray herself that way meant that she was weak and could be easily tricked. That did not bode well for a business woman who wanted to be taken seriously and respected for who she was.

White demanded respect and helped her get into places others could not. In hospitals, she was mistaken for a physician and could enter restricted spaces and even talk to senior doctors who were not very approachable. The lack of color also concealed her true identity. She could pass off for a Jain, Christian, Muslim or Sikh. And when people cannot pin you down and compartmentalize you based on your appearance you become universal. Now white does not magically confer all these qualities to a person who merely chooses to wear it. I have seen other widows who wear white but don’t yield the kind of power she does. So why did it work for her?

Widows evoked images of heartbroken women, shunned by society and living on the fringe, boding bad luck for those who crossed paths with them. I vividly recall one such widow. The widow next door in her faded orange sari with her prickly hair peeping out of the edge of the sari clumsily draped over her head. Her wrinkly face and arms made me wonder if she ever had oil baths. But what struck me the most were her sad soulless eyes. In fact she had an air of melancholy that somehow seeped under my skin and made me shudder. Every time I saw her I quickly looked away and secretly pledged never to be her.

Dadi had sparkling, lively eyes, sometimes full of mischief. A strong positive vibe emanated from her. Her white clothes almost gave off a glow and it attracted one and all. She took the stigma associated with white and turned it around to her advantage. Probably because she never once looked for pity and knew pretty darn well how to take care of herself. In fact she took excellent care of herself. She never denied herself or neglected herself like widows were wont to. She moisturized her skin, ate vitamins and a lot of healthy foods. Every Sunday the family doctor would come take a look at her and check her pulse and heart.

People notice the way you dress and the way you portray yourself to the outside world. When you neglect this aspect of yourself, people don’t take you seriously. Dress sharp and people know you mean business. A well-dressed person is also confident and competent.

The law of attraction also plays out in this. When you dress like an affluent person, wealth and abundance must naturally come to you. If you dress in tattered, unkempt clothes your financial situation could deteriorate. Dadi dressed well and attracted abundance of all kinds into her life.

I still like to wander around in my PJs till late in the morning but I try to tidy up my act when I go out to work or when I have people coming over. When I wear white I feel a connection to my grandmother and feel powerful and confident. Thank you Dadima for teaching me to dress for success.