Butterflies and Hurricanes

I’ve always had a thing for swings. 

Every time I see one, I can’t resist it. Apparently, the pendulum-like motion creates a sense of weightlessness that reduces stress. 

Speaking of, there’s a picture from my childhood featuring a swing that fills me with a deep and sorrowful happiness. 

(Also, it reminds me of this song. You really thought I’d just let you read this post without a background score? Tsk tsk).

It’s a picture of my siblings and me on a swing, my dad pushing us from side to side. We’re in a garden at a resort, on holiday in Lucknow. A balmy summer day. We’re all laughing. My brother and I are in our flip-flops. I’m holding his waist. He’s holding my sister’s hand. I’m in this orange shirt and skirt I hated but my mom liked, so obviously I had to wear it. I wasn’t a fan of my strange haircut that we got at a cheap barber shop, nor did I like my toothy smile. 

I do like, however, how the camera tries and fails at focusing anywhere through the dizzy motion of the moment. What a joyful blur. If one were to look at only this photo, it paints a happy picture. It’s a moment when my dad is just being a dad: being present, for starters, and indulging in a fun activity with his kids. A moment when us siblings aren’t squabbling, being sullen, taking sides, hurting each other’s feelings. A moment when my mom isn’t yelling at us; she’s just taking a photo of her three beautiful children and her husband who she loves so very much. 

As a child I could swing for hours. Maybe it was my way of self-soothing and calming down my distraught nervous system. 

When I think about the colour and imagination of my childhood, the painful moments stand out just as much as the magical ones. That’s how it goes, doesn’t it? You can’t run away or escape the intensity and drama of childhood. All those moments—the little joys and the little sorrows—slowly slither around your neck. Like a necklace made of little pearls of complicated emotions that you wear close to your chest your entire life. 

Going home is always a difficult task for me. In German, the word for “homeland” is “Heimat” and carries a deep emotional significance. The word throbs with nostalgia. For me, it heralds many more complex feelings that I need to reckon with every time I’m home. 

Despite all the triggers, the negative patterns, the quarrels, the utter lack of mental health awareness, and the judgement, I try to steal as many happy memories as I can. It’s like being at sea. The waves overwhelm you, the water wipes off anything you write in the sand, but you choose to focus on collecting sea shells. You know they’re there, you just have to work a little to find them.

I can only pick up a handful of lovely ones before the sun sets, so I choose to fill my bag with what I find, and walk away smiling. 

Growing up as the middle child in a big family prone to loud arguments and a sibling who needed constant attention, I had learnt how to be invisible. How to scurry away from difficult situations I couldn’t handle. How to cry alone. How to be profoundly lonely. I was okay running away. I was okay not getting much attention growing up, but I’m acutely aware of how much I need it now. 

This time at home, I took out one whole day where it was just my mum, dad and me. No relatives, grandkids, husbands, wives or siblings. Nobody but me. We went for a nature walk, took photos, and shared spring rolls and chai. We got time to stretch our legs, sit back and really talk like adults. This time, I felt them taking me more seriously, really listening to me.

And when my dad spotted a pair of swings, he asked me if I wanted a go at it. When I asked him how he knew, he said “Tera baap hoon, sab jaanta hoon!” (“I’m your father, I know everything!”)

We spent several minutes happily swinging together. My mom took our photos and videos, just like she did all those years ago. I was so happy to be with them. Passersby smiled at us. Just a normal couple, out with their little daughter. 

They say swinging feels so good because it’s similar to being rocked like a baby. How apt.