Small Talk

What is the exact line where you go from being expressive to opinionated, or from expressive enough to awkwardly quiet? I don’t know if it’s because I am constantly thrown around different age groups and personalities with different priorities, but the older I get, the harder small talk is. I never know if I have spoken too much or too little.  The easiest solution seems to be stay quiet unless necessary, but that to me seemed a tad counterproductive (and obviously unnatural). As someone used to being surrounded by like-minded people of the same age and almost always comfortable enough to speak my mind, this tact is a constant lesson being learnt - but at least it’s being learnt!

March was tiring. I so badly wanted to travel that I stuffed a 6-day itinerary into 3 days in my first trip to Bali, which ended up being not relaxing at all. I was anxious on my way there, anxious and sick on my way back and for a whole lot in between, although it was definitely unwarranted. SQ Air worked like a charm, the locals were super-friendly, the AirBnB hospitable and the place felt mostly safe. The food was incredible - not a single disappointment, and I loved how in every street I would be running into beautiful stone-carved entrances to homes and temples.  As I prioritised yoga and relaxation on paper, I attended an actual class on a top floor studio in Ubud and man - the peace in that shavasana, I definitely considered dropping everything to begin training to be a yoga teacher. I had to book this one on the day as my other yoga class, which involved being attacked by about 10-12 puppies, was very little about the yoga itself. After rushing to catch a sunset at Jimbaran Bay, I spent the rest of the evening observing the tables around me. The big Malay family, the two Japanese girls, the old Chinese couple, the Middle-Eastern family and the white old couple with the Indonesian guide who they had clearly become good friends with. And of course, the singing group that serenaded all of us in our respective languages, my table got “kuch kuch hota hai”.  Definitely a core memory, unlike the godforsaken Mt. Batur hike. Bless the lady who took me up on her motorbike, Dhoom style and without judgement, before guiding me up the last rocky stretch (while watching Youtube Shorts no less) as I struggled on all fours.

If I learnt anything from all this, it’s to not take my father’s meticulously planned vacations for granted. I just had to wake up, show up and try not to throw up.  My sister and I would be taken across Club Mahindra resorts in Manali or Gir or Ooty or home ground Munnar by our parents. There is a decent amount of noisy footage capturing our antics upon discovering microwave ovens, boat rides and monkey bars for the first time.  I definitely wish I could go back to the days when I didn’t know what a bear market meant. Although I am glad that I have built more situational awareness than the seven-year old who placed both hands on the hot dosa tawa while chatting with the buffet chef during one such holiday. Not enough awareness to NOT wear brand new cream-white Hoka shoes to a muddy MacRitchie hike however.

The warm sunny days of April have begun in Singapore, undeniable change of weather easily recognised when running to the bus stop. Why is it that the bus is never on time when you are, and always early when you’re running late? I owe my save-face mornings to the kinder bus drivers who pause for a minute after catching sight of my frantic waving and wheezing. If all this wasn’t embarassing enough, my friends have come up with “AST”- Aishwarya Standard Time, a self-explanatory term that I find equal parts funny and mean. I am reminded of a very senior finance person who told us (multiple times) that “On-time is late” during our graduate training, or a former awesome manager who replied with a Yoda meme when I said I would try my best. There is no try AST, there is just do!