Heart of Steel

"Kathy likes romance," my sister informed me, as I searched for books to lend my grandmother's Filipino maid.

I brightened. Surely I would have a couple of Danielle Steel tearjerkers - a staple in my literary diet during my high school years - tucked away in the corner of my book drawer. It turned out that 'a couple' was a gross understatement. I pulled out book after book, my jaw slacking further and further, until a healthy pile of ten books lay before me. TEN BOOKS! After years of indulging in the likes of Cornwell, Grisham, Walker, Allende and other authors whose names I happily dropped over dinner with fellow book lovers, this revelation was flabbergasting and embarrassing. Had I read them to live vicariously, to learn a lesson or two or because I was a hopeless romantic? Suddenly, I was eager to relive my teenage years.

Picking up a book, I read the first chapter and the memories came rushing back. I had loved my Danielle Steel collection. So did my friends. These books were considered the Playboy-version of high school, but we smuggled them in and exchanged them anyway. The love affairs grew easier when I entered college. My housemate and I scoured the book rentals shops for them and I remember one evening when she walked into my room, tears streaming down her face, clutching a Steele book to her heart and wailing, "Oh my god, that was so sad!". Then we proceeded to dissect the plot, much to the disgust of our male housemates.

Each time I read a Steel book, I lingered over her description of the heroine. Gorgeous hair, multi-talented, procelain skin, model-like statistics, intelligent, able to carry a conversation on anything, brave...in other words, every single attribute that fell under the Perfection category. And I wanted desperately to be like that. I would stare in the mirror and complete imperfection would stare back at me. I used to wonder that it was like to be born beautiful and happy. I envied those fictituous characters. Looking back, it shocks me to realise that it never once occured to me that such women don't exist. I believed in them and I wanted to be them. And that was the beginning of my inferiority complex.

Then four years ago, out of the blue, I picked up the latest Steel book and couldn't get past the first chapter. It was like revisiting an old friend only to discover that she had undergone a personality transplant. I couldn't connect with Steel anymore. As I read the book I was about to lend Kathy, I suddenly understood why. I had grown up. I no longer equated physical beauty with inner happiness. I had learnt that our imperfections make us perfect and that happiness already exists within us, if we allow ourselves to see it. Danielle Steel's sugary characters and storyline no longer wove magic in my imagination. Her books fed my fantasies back then and I'm grateful for that, but I wish I had also discovered another writer whose words would have given me a good shake and burst my bubble of a perfect world.

In the ashram, we had an option of taking a spiritual name. However my American-air-stewardess roommate decided she didn't need one. A few days later she changed her mind. When I asked her why, she said, "Being in a career where looks are everything, I have been battling with my self-image for the past eight years. Yesterday, I suddenly realised that I am happy with the way I am. I have never felt so strongly and clearly about this before. It feels like I've just begun a new chapter of my life."

And that's the way I felt as I looked at my Steel collection. I had begun a new life once I stopped believing in the pictures she painted and created new pictures from life's lessons instead. Having said that, I still believe in one thing she taught me. That a fairytale love really does exist. I believe it because I'm living it and as corny as it sounds, it's exactly what she promised it would be.

So should I pick another one up?

Fever Food & Etiquette

(An excerpt from a food article I wrote for The Weekend Chef.)

• Do experiment with new dishes, but don’t expect any feedback. This is an opportunity to get creative without criticism.
• Do not cook anything that requires more than one cutlery to eat. In other words, don’t serve leceh food.
• Do not go out of your way to cook anything special. The Fan won’t notice.
• Do not cook anything that gets soggy or dry after 15 minutes. The Fan will only take a bite every 15 minutes.
• Do not ask if The Fan needs a refill. Just refill. And always do it from the side or back or during half-time.
• Do ensure the fridge is stocked with Coke, beer and The Fan’s favourite mixer.
• Do stock sausages, nuggets or anything The Fan can fry in a jiffy. Just in case s/he decides to watch a replay in his/her mind.
• If you decide to watch the match, don’t even think of starting a conversation over Buffalo wings.
• Anything that can be eaten with bread or dunked into chilli sauce is always a winner.
• Do not serve anything that will permanently stain the sofa or carpet when The Fan leaps up to shout in triumph or defeat.
• If The Fan’s team is playing, do make an effort to include the team colours in the meal.
• Do serve the food in plastic or paper plates or even Tupperware. This way if The Fan’s team misses a goal or loses the match, you won’t have to spend the rest of the night picking up tiny shattered ceramic pieces.
• Do invest in a large ice bucket because if The Fan misses a crucial moment while getting another beer, it will be your fault.

10 Simple Pleasures

Jane Sunshine posted another meme on her blog and as usual, I couldn't resist. In my opinion, such trivial pursuits were created especially for Fridays when the mind starts gearing up for the weekend. So here are the 10 things that bring stars to my eyes (in no order of importance):

1. Hot coffee, cold tiramisu or cheesecake, a warm bed and a deliciously good book during a raging thunderstorm
2. Unexpectedly good writing from my own pen (or keyboard)
3. Sliding effortlessly into a yoga pose I've been practicing for months
4. Smooth flowing traffic on the Federal and Sungai Besi Highways
5. Meeting someone and instantly knowing you want to be friends forever - I've met 4 such people this year
6. A new handbag
7. A business meeting that finishes early in a shopping mall that houses a sprawling bookstore
8. A holiday with P
9. A party!!
10. Making someone else happy

Who's The Teacher?

"Never forget that you are the teacher."

I was about to hold my first yoga class and had asked David Byck, a friend and experienced teacher, for eleventh hour advice. But his reply wasn't the flash of illumination I had hoped for. In fact, it sounded rather conceited.

"No, not like that," he explained. "What I mean is that it's all right if you forget a pose or two. It doesn't mean you're not good enough, it just means you've felt that they aren't ready for it yet."

Ah, this was exactly what I needed to hear. That I didn't have to be perfect and that I shouldn't expect to perform at the same level as my teacher. I entered the class with an added sense of confidence and exited an hour later slightly deflated. Despite mentally warning myself that this class would be worlds apart from those in the ashram, I still wasn't prepared for the complexities of teaching. It was tough!

Tough paying attention to more than one misaligned body. Tough concentrating on my words, my actions and my thoughts all at the same time. Tough trying to find the middle ground between command and compassion. Tough not being distracted by the other teacher and the students' varying reactions. And most of all, tough standing in front of a class instead of among it.

On my way home, I replayed and dissected my class. The feedback I received had one common theme - the class wasn't strong enough. At first I assumed they meant physically, but the more I thought about it the more I was certain it ran deeper than that. Then the illuminating flash arrived. Instead of guiding the students into following my rhythm, I had allowed them to suck me into theirs. Each time they displayed a hint of fatigue, I would immediately instruct them to release the pose instead of go deeper into it. By not pushing them, I stopped them from discovering their abilities and enjoying the class. I handed the student the reins and let them lead the class. In other words, I forgot exactly what David told me never to forget - that I am the teacher.

The good news is that it was the first of many classes and the last in which I will make this mistake.