Take a break!

No matter how busy you are take some time out for yourself every day

It was my mother who first modelled self-care to me — even though I was too young at that time to recognise it for what it was. We lived in a joint family with my grandparents and running a household of seven people with minimal help was a full-time job for her. But in the midst of all that chaos, my mother still found ways to carve out some time for herself. 

For one thing, she would wake up every morning around 3 am when the rest of the household was asleep. She would have a long leisurely bath, she would do her (very elaborate) puja, she would make a cup of tea for herself. And then, having had some quality time to herself, she would slip back into bed until it was time to wake everyone up and start another long day. 

She also had another daily ritual, which was totally immutable. After she had made lunch, made sure everyone was fed, and that the kitchen was clean, at exactly 2 pm she would retire to her room and lock the door. I never knew what she did in there. She could have been reading a book. She could have been taking a nap. All she would say is that she was not to be disturbed until 4 pm when she would unlock the door and emerge to organise evening tea for the family. 

Even as a child I realised that this time was sacrosanct to her. And that I should not intrude on her in these two hours on pain of death (or, even, if I was actually dying!). This was her me-time — not that we used that phrase in those days — and all of us needed to respect that. And that, we certainly did. 

Those early lessons in self-care left me with a life-long insistence on making time for myself no matter how busy my life got. When I was editing the features section of a newspaper and had long days at work, I would always take an hour out for lunch. I didn’t go out to eat every day, but I did ensure that nobody disturbed me even if I was just eating a sandwich on my desk and decompressing with a book. When I was working on my first novel, Race Course Road, and had tight deadlines to meet, I would always knock off work at around 4 pm to take a walk. It could be just around the neighbourhood or I would venture to Sunder Nursery or Lodi Gardens to let both my legs and my mind wander. That break, in retrospect, was critical in ensuring that I didn’t get overwhelmed by the enormity of the task I had embarked on. 

When it comes to self-care, though, it’s the quality of time that matters not the quantity. Even taking 15 minutes off in the course of the day to listen to music, do the crossword, try your hand at the day’s Wordle, or just make yourself of a cup of coffee which you sip at leisure, makes you feel less stressed. 

Taking a break makes sure that you don’t break. Don’t take my word for it, though. Try it for yourself and see what a difference it makes. 

Can't cook? Or won't cook?

You can take pride in one, not the other

“I can’t cook.” I’ve lost count of the number of times I have heard this phrase over the last few years. It is uttered by both men and women, old and young, married and single people. Lacking the ability to cook is, apparently, an equal opportunity offence.

Yes, you read that right. I did use the word ‘offence’. And that’s because, as far as I am concerned, not being able to cook is to lack a vital life skill - you know the kind that keeps you alive. And for the life of me I cannot fathom why people take such pride in announcing that they don’t possess it.

Before you all write in irately, I am well aware that in our modern age those who don’t know how to fry an egg will not go to bed hungry. That our world is heaving with restaurants that will keep them well fed (and perhaps better fed) if they don’t know how to cook. That if these non-cooks don’t choose to venture out they can order in everything from Hakka noodles to sushi rolls to channa bhaturas. And that most middle-class folk in India can afford to hire a part-time cook who comes by once a day and stocks their fridge with food that they can re-heat for lunch and dinner.

So, I accept that in this day and age, it is often not necessary to cook at all.

I can also get on board with the fact that many people simply don’t want to cook. That they have demanding jobs that leave them drained at the end of the day and they don’t want to come home and spend a couple of hours in a hot kitchen sweating in front of the gas range. Some of them may just not enjoy cooking even though they have all the time in the world to rustle up delicious meals. And then there are those who are simply not good at this cooking malarkey and don’t wish to show themselves up every time they step up to the stove.

There are as many reasons to not cook as there are cuisines in this world. But there really is no reason why anyone should take pride in the fact that they can’t cook at all.

I can understand where this pride comes from though. At the most basic level, it is an announcement of privilege. Other people may need to feed themselves but not me. I have a wife/cook/expense account to keep me in three course meals complete with dessert. For women this pronouncement comes imbued with the whiff of feminism as well. After centuries of being stuck in the kitchen while the men went off and conquered the world it feels empowering to announce that you have no use for the kitchen.

But that, if you ask me, is not the same as announcing that you have no use in the kitchen. That is an entirely different matter. And one that I don’t believe anybody - man or woman - should take pride in.

I am by no means suggesting that everyone needs to sign up for Cordon Bleu lessons or even invest in a full set of Nigella Lawson cookbooks. No, you don’t need to go the full Domestic Goddess by any means.

What you should be able to do is to feed yourself more than Maggi noodles or chocolate biscuits if you are left to your own devices.

This is the point when most people will point out that there is something joyless about cooking for yourself. Why go to all that bother when the only person at the table is you?

Well, you should go to all that bother precisely because the only person at the table is you.

You deserve better than a hastily slapped together sandwich with mayonnaise and cold meat. Or a packet of crisps and a Diet Coke. Or even a wedge of cheese and some crackers. You deserve a meal that some time and effort has gone into. Because you are worth that time and effort.

Trust me on this because I speak from experience. When I was growing up I didn’t so much as venture into the kitchen because that was my mother’s domain and she didn’t welcome any interlopers. So my first experience of cooking for myself came when I moved to Delhi into a tiny little barsati with an even tinier kitchen. That’s where my cooking adventures began - with a humble dish of scrambled eggs that I ate on the terrace while breathing in the fumes of traffic. And nothing I had eaten up to that point matched that taste of freedom, independence and yes, self-care.

Since then I have graduated to rustling up Italian risottos, Thai curries and Chinese stir-fries. And yes, there are still days when I don’t want to cook. But I will never ever say again that I can’t cook. And I do take pride in that.

Do not disturb

We all need some me-time to get through the day; don’t apologize for it

The hours of two to four in the afternoon were sacrosanct in my childhood home, ever since I can remember. The moment the clock struck two, my mother – having finished the lunch shift in the kitchen – would retire to her bedroom and shut the door on the world. She would emerge from her siesta at 4 pm sharp, to get tea and snacks for the whole household.

But for those two hours, she was not available for anyone or anything. That was her time. And all of us kids – and the adults – understood full well that to knock on her door during this period for any reason whatsoever would bring the wrath of the Gods upon our heads.

As a child, I lived for this interlude in the day. This was the time that I could sneak out with my neighbourhood friends for a bit of rough and tumble. And so long as I got myself back home at five minutes to four, all would be well. No matter what misadventures I got up to, my mom would be none the wiser.

So as far as I was concerned, this two-hour hiatus was the highlight of the day, when I could roam unsupervised, read books that I had expressly been forbidden from touching, and generally get up to no good at all.

It’s only now that I am all grown-up and my mother has departed from this world that I think back on how precious that time must have been for her.

This was a woman who looked after a large joint family with minimal help. She cooked three meals for the household everyday (and separate food for my grandmother, who did not eat onions or garlic). She looked after two ageing in-laws, one husband, and three kids. She ironed our uniforms, got our school lunches ready, and made sure that we had done our homework. She woke early in the morning to get us off to school and then stayed up late making us strong cups of tea so that we could study late into the night.

But in the course of each mad, maddening day, she had the good sense to carve out a moment of time for herself. To this day, I don’t know what she did during those two hours. Did she have a little nap to refresh herself for the rigors of evening kitchen duty? Did she use this time to catch up on her reading? Did she sit cross-legged on the floor and meditate? Or did she do all of this – and more? I simply don’t know.

The only thing that is clear to me, with the benefit of hindsight, that it was those two hours that enabled my mother to get through the rest of the day, where she did not have a minute to call her own. It was that tiny interlude of peace and solitude that allowed her to retain her sanity. It was that breather that gave her a second wind to carry her through to the night. It was that me-time, or as some like to call it, alone-time, that gave a still point to her ever-spinning day.

Even without realizing it, I have incorporated that same habit into my own life. Just like my mother, I crave a few hours of solitude during the day, when I can be alone with my thoughts, maybe catch up on my reading, or just go for walk and empty my mind of all the clutter and white noise of modern life.

Unlike my mother, I don’t have fixed hours in the day to do that. But then, unlike her, I don’t have the demands of in-laws or a brood of children to contend with, and nor do I have an extended family to build my schedule around. Working for myself, as I do, I have the flexibility to steal a few hours out of every day for myself alone. And it is that luxury of me-time that allows me to get through even the most stressful of days without feeling overwhelmed.

No matter how hectic the day has been, if I can steal an hour at bedtime to read a few chapters of a good book, I go to sleep quite content with my lot. Even if I have a writing deadline weighing on me (in fact, especially when I have a writing deadline weighing one me), I still take the time to step away from my desk and go for a walk. And unlike my mother – who cooked so much and so often that it turned into a chore – I often end a long day by cooking a meal for my husband and myself, the gentle rhythm of chopping and stirring serving as my own kind of meditation. 

Whenever I do that, I find my thoughts straying back to my mother and her two to four pm ‘siesta’. No matter how mad the whirl of life got, she knew that she needed that time to make herself whole. And she took that time for herself, without apology, without explanation, and without the slightest trace of shame.

How I wish more women followed her lead, practicing self-care with the same patience and affection that they bestow on the care of others. Not only would they be happier for it, but so would their families.