Asking for help....

I am ashamed of asking for help.

"It means you are weak. It puts you in a place of obligation; never ask anyone for help — the one who wipes your tears owns you." Amma used to say. "Don't ever beg, ask, solve everything yourself."

But I have asked for help. I am so ashamed and embarrassed because of this. Today, at 48, I cannot believe I am asking for help.

My father needs nursing care — even though he says he does not. I felt like a loser for asking for this help. I felt like a loser speaking of this with my sister, with my family. I struggled for months to voice it — because I felt like I was abandoning my father. Leaving him downstairs when I am upstairs hurts me.

When Amma fell in 2011 and needed care, I looked up nursing services. But father said, "that is your job as a daughter, your duty. No one will be there. You have to do all her nursing, her caring, her recuperating support." I believed him. I agreed. I followed it.

But this time, I felt weak.

I have felt weak since 2024 — spiritually, emotionally. I have felt pulled down. Whom do I communicate this to? I have sought solace in my room, upstairs. I don't want to meet anyone, or talk to anyone. Just be a shut-in. Not to sleep, but to sit there. Numb. The only time I have felt happy was when I have worked with kids, or when father has been well.

Just the idea of taking him to the hospital — even for a routine follow-up — sends me into a state of panic.

Asking for help, anywhere, makes me feel overwhelmingly like I have failed. Like I will be abandoned. Cast off like a weakling. Asking for help also makes me feel like there will be a backlash — anger, distance. This inner conversation is like a pressure cooker, building quietly, with nowhere to go.

There was another time I asked for help. At work, I asked my boss for some help. My superboss, I mean.

I cannot describe the shame of that moment. That I had to say those words. That my hurt was visible. That someone had gotten close enough to wound me, and I had let them. That I could not simply rise above it, solve it myself, make it disappear through sheer will and silence — the way Amma would have.

And it wasn't only the direct harm. The problem was complex, the source was the face of a gang of bullies that needed a punching bag.  That particular helplessness has its own texture — the feeling of being spoken about, misrepresented, diminished in spaces where you cannot defend yourself. Where your name is in someone else's mouth and you have no say in how it lands.

I felt exposed on multiple fronts. The visible wound. The invisible damage. And underneath both — the belief that a stronger person would never have been in this position at all.

I am ashamed I asked for help, I cannot even come to look at my Superboss now. 

My counseller said that that belief is the lie.

Being targeted by someone who operates through whisper and innuendo is not a failure of strength. It is simply what happens when a certain kind of person decides to make you their project. And asking for help to stop it — naming it, documenting it, walking into that office — that was not weakness revealing itself.

That was clarity, finally, finding its voice.

My counsellor has gently pointed something out. She says these beliefs are part of a schema — a set of core beliefs formed early, often in childhood, that quietly charter every path we take. We don't choose them consciously. We absorb them from the people we love, the rooms we grew up in, the things that were said and unsaid. And then we live by them for decades, mistaking them for truth.

Changing a schema is tough. It doesn't happen in a single conversation or a single realisation. It happens in the noticing — again and again — of the moment the old belief fires. The pressure in the chest. The shame that arrives before thought does.

I am in that noticing now.

Coming back to asking for help, my views are being replaced — slowly, imperfectly, but genuinely.

Amma's words made sense in the world she knew — a world where survival meant self-reliance, where vulnerability could genuinely be used against you. She wasn't wrong for her time, her circumstances, her fear. She gave me what she had.

But I am starting to see that what she handed me, along with her strength, was also her wound. And I have been carrying it as though it were wisdom, when some of it was just... pain. Passed down, unexamined, until now.

Asking for nursing support for my father is not abandonment. It is, if I look at it clearly, an act of love — one that requires me to see his actual needs above my conditioning about what a daughter should be. That is harder, not weaker.

And asking for help for myself — even just naming this exhaustion to my sister, to my family — that is not begging. That is being human. That is the thing I would never withhold from someone I loved.

I am 48. I have been strong in the way I was taught to be strong, for a very long time. But I think real strength might look different from here. It might look like reaching out a hand. It might look like saying: I cannot do this alone, and that is not a failure.

I don't have this fully figured out. The shame still comes. The pressure cooker still hisses. But I am learning to sit with the discomfort of asking, rather than collapse under the weight of never doing so.

That, I think, is what the work looks like right now.

It might, in fact, look exactly like what I just did.

Sharu's House Warming

Sharu and Tilak celebrated the housewarming of their new house yesterday in Hampapura, Bidadi. It was a beautiful drive there, and the family got to meet up. 

The house is not entirely done, so there were sand, rocks, and stones still around, and the kids loved it. Usually, grihapraveshe is done when the house construction is 80% done. I suppose it is about the auspicious day that they select for the Grihapravesha / House warming

The kids were very, very happy to be there. They played most of the time, unsupervised. Cub 3, Cub 5, and their two cousins. There were cars parked around, and the drivers were there, as were all of us walking around the layout, because there was really no one around except our family. 

Practically a new layout. Beautiful, with trees, flowering shrubs, and tall grass. The kids did not mind the hot sun. It was sweltering, but they were having a joyful time. 

 

The food was good, the company was pleasant. All in all a good day was had.

Maama and Uma

 

There's a photograph I keep returning to in my mind — Shaila, Ravi, Vidya, Uma, and Bhanu. 

Children of Nanjunda Sharma and Savitramma. The gang that raised me.

Savitramma, Pranjal and Nanjunda Sharma

But before I talk about the gang, I have to talk about him.

My grandfather — Maama, we called him — was the first love of my life. I spent chunks of my early childhood in his orbit: some evenings, whole stretches of time that I still carry with me. He worked as a clerk, and he was fond of reminding me that he had so many responsibilities. He said it with a kind of theatrical weight, but he also made it funny. He had loads of joke books. He had a temper. He had a stubbornness that was almost a point of pride.

And he had Uma.

My mother was his favourite, and everyone knew it. She was his go-to, the one who made him smile without trying. There was nothing she could do that he didn't approve of. Between them was a bond that felt almost apart from the rest of the family — a friendship as much as anything else.

But it was hard, too. For both of them.

Maama had grown up poor, the last born in his family, and by the time I knew him he was holding up an entire world on a salary of less than ₹700 a month. His wife and five children of his own. Two sisters-in-law. A niece and a nephew. All the children studying. Five girls among them who would, by the expectations of the time, need to be married off. The weight of that — the logistics, the worry, the sheer relentlessness of it — is something I can only begin to imagine.

How Savitramma ran that household, I will never fully understand. She did it, and she kept doing it, and the cost showed up in her body the way costs always do. Both she and Maama carried severe anxiety — his came out as ulceritis, hers as hypochondria. I think now about what that anxiety must have been rooted in. The constant, low hum of what if something goes wrong? What if someone gets sick? Who will marry the girls? How will we manage? That kind of fear doesn't stay in the mind. It moves into the body and lives there.

Then Uma got a job at Canara Bank.

Maama had pushed her towards it, and when she got it, something shifted. She began to help run the house — with joy, I think, though I also remember her saying it was hard. It was hard. She became, quietly and without anyone quite deciding it, the person both her parents leaned on. Emotionally. Financially. Practically. She was the oldest daughter, and she held the shape of the family together.

When she and Pappa got married, they lived first in Jayanagar, then moved to Sripura, and eventually she bought a house in Kumara Park. That was the moment everything changed — not just for her, but for everyone.

The oldest daughter had bought a house.

The oldest daughter had bought a house.

At twenty-six.

In a family that had grown up carefully, anxiously, counting every rupee — that act meant something enormous. It meant a new kind of safety. It meant the fear had not won. But it meant something else too, something that rippled outward to every one of her siblings: it is possible. You can make a home for yourself. You can do this. And I will be there to guide you and support you when you do.

She didn't just buy a house. She quietly rewrote what the family believed was within reach.

And in doing so, she became what she would remain for decades — the compass, the beacon, and the backbone of the family.

My aunts - My angels 👼

at Vidya's house.. there is Vidya smiling back

Shaila :)

When Amma passed away that night, my first call was to Shaila, my aunt, because Vidya was not picking up. I called my aunts. I call them my angels. Shaila made her way with Tilak, and  Sharu was working. They came to Apollo. 

I had reached Appollo and Amma was pronounced dead soon after. I think I went mad for a bit, I remember crying in shock and grief. I knew deep down that she would pass away soon, but the shock of it - seeing her fall in front of me and die. I was in denial about the extent of her illness. 

I had told Shaila, that Amma had a heart attack, but by the time I told her, Amma had already died, I think. Anyway, Vidya called me, and said, "sorry putta, sorry, putta" repeatedly. Soo,n Shaila arrived, and Vidya arrived as well. 

"...and then there were two." Bhanu, Ravi, and Uma had left. Now there were two siblings in grief. Uma had been their rock, the eldest, their own second mother angel. Now she was gone. 

Shaila, Ravi, Vidya, Uma and Bhanu

Even though she was not able to easily, Vidya climbed into the ambulance and patted Amma on her head and gave her a kiss. Shaila was crying.

They could have crumbled. Uma was the rock. But they looked at me, going mad, I suppose, from having seen my mother collapse in front of me. This was the third death in Saraswathy 501, since June 6, 2018 - we had lost Vijayamma, Padma, and now Amma in April 2019. 

Shaila took over and said she would sleep in Saraswathy 501 with me. Vidya took over other areas. They became my mother over the next few months when I was alone. Pappa had flown away to the US to Didi's house. The grief was too heavy on all of us. 

I was alone in Saraswathy 501 during the summer holidays, and I survived because of Vidya and Shaila. They called almost every hour, checked in on me, taught me to cook, held my hand as I cleaned out Amma's belongings, sent away the hospital bed, and just sat with me in silence. 

When your life is one thing only for years, how do you live the next day, when you don't have a purpose beyond that one thing? 

We laughed about how crazy, silly, spunky, bossy, caring and giving she was.  I could not think about anything else. nothing negative. Neither could Vidya or Shaila - even though they had faced it. 

They just held me, gently and kindly. 💞💞💞

The day the earth had a dance party!

One day, Amma, didi and I were sitting on the floor in the hall at 65. We had come back from school, I was 4 and Didi was 6. Amma was feeding us with Kaituttu, and we had to always have a tumbler of water next to us. Suddenly, my tumbler fell on the ground. I remember looking up as if wanting to tell Amma, " I did not spill it, Amma," but the room started to swing.. Amma grabbed didi and me and ran out. We had a long run from the out house to the street, and the path was moving... finally, we made it, and Amma was still holding us close. The neighbours were out as well. I was scared, Didi was wide-eyed, and held on to Amma. Soon the swinging stopped. The Earth stopped moving. Everyone in the neighbourhood who was on the streets started to say, bhookampa, earthquake, and there was a small meeting. 

On the way back Amma explained it to us. There is movement in the inside of the earth, that creates a movement outside. This can sometimes be small, and sometimes bring down buildings. But let us be happy it was just a small quake now. 

Does it happen everywhere/

Would pappa have felt it at work?

Did ajji feel it?

Did taata feel it in heaven?

Do gods create it? 

Does ganesha maami feel it?

Do mice feel it?

Do elephants feel it?

Do clouds feel it?

We sat back down on the redoxide floor, Amma asked didi to bring a wipe to dab the spilled water, and reminded her to wash her hands. She waited for Didi to come back, and continued feeding us with Kaituttu. 

Do crocodiles feel it? 

Did it happen because elephants had a dance party? 

Dormant

 This morning, I walked into work

feeling good about myself.

I met a colleague on her walk.
She shared some news about her health.
I told her I was sorry about her troubles.

Then she began to talk about office politics.

And something in me cracked open.

I get triggered a lot.

It feels like there is a volcano of rage inside me.
This is, of course, unprocessed anger.

The rage needs only a small tip-off.
And then—burning hot lava.

It can erupt in any area of my life.
And it can relocate itself into any area of my life.

Work — injustice.
Home — abandonment.
Love — snapping.
Siblings — bullying.
Authority figures — injustice, again.

Same lava.
Same volcano.
Only the landscape changes.

Feeling taken for granted.
Used.
Thrown away.

These are intense.

There is nothing that truly douses the fire.
It goes dormant.
And then it comes back.

Like a pressure cooker, it builds.
With nowhere for the pressure to go.

Anger that wasn’t allowed.
Protest that wasn’t safe.
Boundaries that weren’t respected.
Pain that had to stay quiet.

So the question keeps returning:

What do we do with these volcanoes?

Maybe the work isn’t to stop the volcano,
but to give the pressure somewhere to go
before it burns everything in its path.

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More / Less

 I worked on many versions of this More or Less sheet, assessing all the things that I need to improve my life - more or less of. 

i hope i get a little more reading time, and i read a whole bunch of books

and less of each one of the less list. 

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Inheritance

 Amma passed away in 2019. I still cannot bring myself to write about her. It is avoidance. I can remember all the wonderful times I have had with her. Avoidance is the blanket covering the dark areas. But when I think about the painful moments with her, I am filled with sadness about how much she had to endure, and go through in a life that dealt her with bad times. I feel bad that she had to go through so much in her life. I feel angry towards the people who treated her badly. I feel sad that Didi, too, endured so much because of her. I defend her. The best of her. Her worst, in the mouth of others, is censured in front of me. I won't stand for it. Because she gave a lot to her siblings and the people around her. She gave without a bit of hesitation. She gave lovingly. So, when her siblings badmouth her, I fight like I am scathed. I protect her memory. No one dares say a thing about my mother. 

Privately, I say, I received her worst. I feel ashamed to admit that I suffered a lot because of her. I have to be understanding, my mind chimes. But I am angry. A lot of her ruined me, as did a lot of my father. 

They were babies themselves, I feel like saying, in parenting and life, with no good role models to follow. They did not mean to hurt you. They too sacrificed and wanted happiness. They did the best that they could, given the situation... remember, father was a posthumous child. How could he show fatherly love when he did not get any? 

I keep repeating this to myself, and mostly, all that is true.Which is why I never speak about her badly. I say she was sunshine. She was. She was also dark, and could sink into the depths. She was cruel, cunning, and hurful. She was spiteful, as well. She was suicidal. She needed unwavering loyalty. She needed her people to stand with her. Father abandoned her emotionally. Older sister left. She latched on to me, and I stood, when it was fun, and also when it was abuse. Repeated abuse. Not just with words, but with actions and emotions. 

What happened to me? No one asked. I just stood there, loyal, and took it., I fought her fights, her battles. I stood there. I was locked in the same room with her. No one checked in, and beyond "how are you?" and "hang in there" no one was interested. 

I was caught in the torrents of my parents' volatile emotions. My mother's illness took my life away. I was her crutch. I am still taken aback. I live, 47 years in a body that is mummified with her ghostly voice inside me. She rules my mind, he does too. I feel trapped. I have to let the ghosts go. 

- Dee 

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Kindly do not reproduce, quote, or share this post in any form without permission.

The work here is ongoing and may be developed into a future publication.

Notes on a Personal Incompetence

It is the kind of feeling
that objects refuse to help with.

The chair remains a chair.
The window does not volunteer advice.
Even the mirror,
usually so eager,
claims neutrality.

Everything indicates
my incompetence with emotions—
they arrive fully dressed,
already certain of themselves,
While I ask for time.

All I see is fog.

I never see them clearly,
except that they demand a response—
immediately.

I need to unfog, to identify
the well-dressed deceptiveness.
With what?
A dictionary.
A loose thread to begin with.

They knot themselves faster
than thought can follow.
I pull gently,
making it worse.

No committee will be formed for this.
No expert summoned.
This problem is strictly local,
confined to one body,
One pause too long.

Not knowing what to say
Or where to put my hands
is entered into the record
as my responsibility.

So I practice disappearance:
a respectable silence,
a well-trained face.

Poker, they call it—
as if there were winnings,
as if anyone were bluffing,
as if the cards weren’t already face up
inside.

Let us clap!

Let us clap! 

When your experience is blacked out  

and generally labeled “greatness.” 

when you know it was not, 

without a chance to share, 

What it was like, really for for you

It is dishonest.  

Let us clap! 

When you do speak up,

You are told you are crazy, that is not so,

and only you have a problem, 

Or that you are making a big deal,

That is the formula for resentment to build.

Let us clap!  

Some speak up, 

Some smile and praise with you.

Keep pushing upward those you like 

and diminish the experiences of others

Let us clap! 

Don't consider the works of others, 

pish tosh them with a wave of hands 

and a snooty remark here are there

What do they know? 

Let us clap! 

Let us celebrate

those for the joy they bring -  

who have nothing to lose.

Let us clap! 

Quickly Draw! A Substitution Class Surprise

Today, I found myself in a grade 2 classroom as a substitute teacher — that delightful, unpredictable space where you walk in because your PE teacher colleagues are manning interschool matches and only a room full of curious faces waiting to see what happens next.

I began with something simple, spontaneous, and full of laughter — an activity I call “Quickly Draw!”

I told the children, “When I say a word, you have ten seconds to draw it. No thinking too much, no erasing, no worrying about how it looks — just draw quickly!”

The first prompt was “A Cat.” Within seconds, pencils started flying. Some cats looked sleepy, some were running, and a few had suspiciously long tails. We moved to “A Rocket,” “A Raincloud,” and finally, “A Monster Eating Ice Cream.”That one caused an explosion of giggles.

What I love about “Quickly Draw” is how it opens a window into each child’s imagination. When there isn’t time to overthink or perfect, creativity shines through most honestly. The drawings are raw, funny, expressive — and deeply personal.

If I had stayed longer, we could have turned those drawings into stories, poems, or even mini plays. But even in this short time, the exercise reminded me that sometimes all it takes to spark imagination is a piece of paper, a pencil, and ten seconds of freedom.

Try it the next time you have a class and a few unplanned minutes. You might just discover a classroom full of artists in disguise.