I Am

By Deepthi Amin

This is the inspiring story of a lost young girl from a little village in Southern India who found herself through a deep spiritual journey that came full circle in Melbourne, Australia. In this book she speaks of her transformation into a deeply spiritual woman, overcoming fear and finding love, light and truth.

While her life today is rich as a result of what she endured as a child, a girl and as a woman, these experiences gave her deep wounds and scars. She lived most of her life in survival mode suffering from fear and anxiety with absolutely no self worth or confidence. Through a series of wake up calls and synchronistic events, one day about 10 months back, she made the choice to wake up, heal and transform her life.

This book is both a memoir as well as a motivational guide for men and women struggling to understand the origin of their self worth issues and wondering where they should start. Deepthi shares in this book; the people, tools, techniques and modality's that she found which, very effectively helped convert her scars into beautiful imprints of life.

You will find in this book, emotions that you have felt many times in your life. It may be from a certain chapter to a simple phrase that touches your heart and changes your own journey for the better. There is definitely a reason you are reading this story.

Being a super spiritual person, she is certain that all that happened to her was for a very good reason and part of her purpose is to share her experience and learning’s with others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deepthi Amin
• Release date: Oct 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781634433037

Book preview

1978, Story begins

I am Divya…I love myself. I really, really do. :) I love myself for who I am, what I have experienced, who I have become, and what I will be. This love I speak of for myself is not narcissistic. It is soft, beautiful, gentle, and unconditional.

This love I speak of is very fresh and new, really new in every sense. You see, from the time I was little and started to be aware of who I was, I hated myself! I lived in fear, confusion, rejection, starving for love. Sounds intense? Well that’s right, this is no fairy tale, this is a story of a very old soul travelling in the body of a little child, a young girl, a woman now. My first memory of this life dates back to 1984 when I was six years old, only six, but so aware of everything around me, every emotion, every gesture, every intention, every exchange, soaking it all like a sponge. I always understood the conversations of the adults; the conundrums faced by the old ones, and often knew the solution to their problems, too. Of course I never spoke, never raised a voice, always silent, watching, confused, scared. Why am I not like other children? They seem so happy and carefree…why do I feel so empty, so scared, and so anxious!

Divya

Chaithra

Deepthi

Three names given by my mother and grandmother. Divya meaning divine, Deepthi meaning the first ray of light before dawn and the last ray of light at dusk, Chaithra meaning new beginning, spring!

I am the first child of Malathi and Sanjeeva, and we lived in the little coastal village of Manjeshwar in Kerala, situated in the southern most tip of India. The village consisted of a close-knit population of no more than 10,000 people. My father was a revenue officer and held a position of respect, and we lived in the humble housing quarters provided by the government to state employees. Our house was located in a colony of other families whose men also worked for the state government. It was a small, happy, and supportive colony consisting of a row of about 12 identical houses that housed simple people with simple dreams. The house was very modest with tiled roof, one bedroom, and a little front and back garden, where my mother grew okra, beans, cucumber, and flowers of many varieties.

I am the eldest of two girls; my sister was younger than me by 18 months, cute as ever, and quite the favourite of the colony. My mother Malathi was a beautiful feminine woman and a total rebel of the time. At a time when most women in India, particularly in little villages like Manjeshwar, stayed home and looked after their husbands and children, my mother chose to work. Later, I learnt that this was not by her choice; it was an act of survival and an act of love.

Mother, Mummy, Mala

Mala, as she loved being called, was and is still the most beautiful and brave woman I know in this universe. She is to me the epitome of femininity, the perfect balance of yin and yang and a true blessing to my life. I have never really talked to my mother about her early life, but through stories, whispers, and gossip I heard that she was the talk of her little village. Her exceptional beauty and grace drove men wild, and she was admired and desired by many. She is the eldest of six sisters born to a nobleman and a sweet village belle. The story or the truth, I am not sure, I just know that my mother at 18 was in love, a man and match that was not to the liking of her parents. In a hurry, to avoid scandal, she was married off to a simple man from a village she had never heard of. As all obedient Indian women at the time, she resigned herself to her fate and accepted the marriage with much hope, wishing that all would be well if she compromised and went along with her parents’ wishes!

The man she married, my father Sanjeeva, was a mystery to her and her to him. To this day I scratch my head in disbelief at the gross mismatch they are, daddy and mummy. I cannot think of any two individuals that were as different as my parents, one was a square and the other a circle, I guess you get the picture. Back in the days, in fact even now in India, when marriages are arranged, little thought is given to the choice of the woman and man involved. It is highly transactional with a large emphasis on family status, the job held by the man, his earnings and capacity to provide. With the women, their beauty is of utmost importance! The matrimonial advertisements in the local newspaper will give you the picture. Well settled boy from important well to do family; looking for a fair, beautiful, homely girl from …

I know now that there is a reason for their match as there is with every match on this planet: every man and woman learning and weaving through their karma. My mother and father were made to order for what they had to learn in this life. Did they learn their lessons? This is a question only they can answer.

My mother, once married, was sent to the village of Swarga (translation: heaven, not sure if it was heaven for my dear mother) where my father lived with his extended family in a humble village home. His family were predominantly agriculturist and farmers. The house was located in the middle of rice fields, surrounded by sugarcane gardens, coconut trees, and other produce. Whilst the surroundings were lush, I believe living here was very hard for my mother. While she also came from a village, my mother during her earlier days was raised in Mumbai. She was the daughter of a naval officer and had been raised in rather civil English surroundings. I remember her mentioning that her marital house was so simple that they did not even have proper toilets and she had to go the fields like many villagers did at the time.

I am not very sure of the exact details of what occurred between the time she married my father in 1977 and 1984 when I turned six. All I know and have heard is that she had a very miserable life in Swarga, heaven, and then I was born in 1978 on a rainy night in July. Anything prior to my first memory is buried deep in my subconscious, and what I recount is from whispers, stories told by my mother, aunties, grandmother, and probably a little from my own subconscious memory. After I was born, my father was posted to Manjeshwar, my mother worked for one of the local village banks, and my sister and I went to the local school. We were in year 1 and 2 at school.

The story as I know it is that when I was born, there was much speculation on my father’s part if I was his! My mother apparently was in a lot of trouble and was at risk of being kicked out of his home. She had no idea on how to support her or me, and she was in trouble both maritally and financially. She was very scared, but knew that she had to do something to secure her and her baby’s life. She made the difficult decision of leaving her little one under the care of my grandmother, Varija, Amma to me. To this day, I share a very close and loving bond with Amma and she never ceases to remind me that she fed me with her milk-less breasts to keep me from crying for my mother. Back in the days, I found it rather strange when she talked about this, really weird. I know now what a loving act it was on her behalf to raise me the way she did. My mother and Amma till to this day have a silent fight of right over me, something I rather enjoy! My Amma named me Divya divine, my mother named me Deepthi last ray of light before dawn and dusk. Chaithra, I am not sure who chose this. In India, names are chosen on the basis of the time of birth. The position of stars and planetary alignments during the time of birth dictates the alphabet with which a child’s name must begin. Most key events of people in India are guided by astrology; baby names, marriage date and time, and death rituals to give you some examples.

My father and mother fought constantly, and there was a lot of tension in their marriage right from the start. Due to the constant fighting and suspicion of my father on the character of my mother and desperate financial conditions, my mother made the bold choice of finding herself a job and leaving me with my grandmother so she could train and study to be a banker. In 1980, my sister was born and now my mother had the added responsibility of not one but two daughters. It’s strange in India how even if the household situation is unstable, one never ceases to make babies! I recall a line from one of my economics lectures in college where the professor explained the reason for over-population and unwanted births in India: that procreation was the only recreation in rural India.

Those of you who are familiar with the way it works in India, being born, as a girl is a tricky thing. The birth of a baby girl is soon overshadowed by the worry of the weight of her reputation, responsibility of maintaining her purity, the impending dowry, big marriage, etc. To date, most fathers in India start to loose their hair and begin balding as soon as a girl is born in the family. Given the unstable condition in our home, my mother realised that she had to take matters into her own hands to ensure the future of her daughters. I thank my stars to this day for being born to my mother. If it weren’t for this brave woman, I too would have been married at 18 to another Sanjeeva to live in another Swarga!

My mother found a job, much to her family’s horror, and started to work for a local bank in Manjeshwar. There was not one woman in our family during this time and even later that had a job and was a breadwinner for the family. When I was older, I could not understand why our relatives looked down upon my mother for working. I saw this as the bravest thing to do and yet relatives often gossiped about her. For these small-minded people, there were as many understanding people who admired my mother for her sacrifice and courage.

She rose every morning at 6 a.m., prepared breakfast, cleaned the house, made lunch, dressed both us little girls for school, packed lunches for father and girls, and then got hurriedly dressed to rush to her own job by 9 a.m. She returned at 6 p.m. every evening to rest a little, cook dinner, and to sleep, tired after the gruelling day. This was her routine six days of the week, stopping only to rest on Sundays. Despite the hectic schedule, she cooked the most delicious meals seasoned with love, kept the house sparkling clean, and went to work looking beautiful like a movie star. She sure was a head-turner with long, lustrous, jet black hair always tied in a braid, light brown eyes, and beautiful pouty lips. Always immaculately dressed in colourful chiffon sarees, matching earrings, necklace, and loads of colourful bangles adorning both her arms. She was probably the most beautiful woman in the village!

Father, Daddy

I really don’t know my father! What I know of him, I now understand; back in the days I hated him, and I never really wanted him as my father. I never bonded or felt safe with him. My father was a handsome, educated man, and at the time held a position of respect, being a government employee. People in the village respected him and came to him for advice and guidance. Physically, he was an attractive man; 6 feet and 2 inches tall, dark hair, high cheekbones, pretty tanned with a thick moustache that was a sign of masculinity in those days.

He adored my sister and played with her lovingly. I always watched in the corner also wanting to be loved, but scared if he ever came close! I preferred to stay out of his sight and really didn’t want to be around him. In fact, the happiest days of my childhood was when he went on his occasional trips out of the village. As a little girl, I didn’t get the same affection as he had for my sister and wondered often what was wrong with me; wasn’t I cute enough, was I not naughty enough? As much as I wanted his attention, I also was very scared and fearful of him. Some days he would treat us equally and carry us both to the local beach on his shoulder. As much I try, I cannot recall too many memories like these.

As an individual, my father was a pioneer and change maker in his village circle. He was responsible for the development of several remote villages in southern India and the education of many young people. I always knew that in his own way he was a magnificent man, and this became evident in 1999 when he passed away after a long battle with cancer. At his funeral, there were over 2,000 people from various villages, from simpletons to government officials to ministers who came to pay respect to a man they said was not short of God to them! My mother, sister, and I were surprised at this, as we surely did not see him this way.

Daddy, as we called him, was to me a mentally ill man who had many episodes or meltdowns. He sure as hell scared us all when he had one of his episodes. We have on all occasions taken daddy to mental hospitals for treatments when he had these episodes. To this day, I don’t know what the real diagnosis was; I imagine it was a severe case of depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder. Whatever it was, it tore our family apart over and over again and kept us all in a constant state of agitation and anxiety until he died! It was very embarrassing for me, as I knew that all our relatives pitied us and gossiped a lot about my mother. It is quite normal in Indian society, during those times and probably even now, to blame the woman for anything that happens in the household. She must’ve done something to provoke him!

Aside from mom, my sister, and myself who suffered during these episodes, several others were also impacted. During these meltdowns, he would first get anxious, break into a panic, and then become very angry. His eyes would be bloodshot red and he would breathe heavily ready for a fight. In this condition, he would go to neighbours’ houses and try to molest the women there or pick fights with the men. On other occasions, he has even misbehaved with my aunts. All of who forgave him, quietly accepting that he was ill and that it was beyond his control and even looked after him. Such amazing compassionate women. I am truly blessed to have been surrounded by them. It is from these women that I have learned the values of forgiveness, compassion, and tolerance.

Over the years, I learnt to ignore my father, stay out of his sight, and even managed to tolerate him on some occasions. During his last days, he made peace with me, I recall him gazing at me pleadingly for forgiveness. He lost his voice and he deteriorated rapidly with cancer. The 6-foot man with the glorious moustache had turned into a gaunt stick-thin figure with sunken jaws, balding head, and bulging watery eyes. The emotional baggage and turmoil he carried within him manifested with such force that there was really no time for cure or recovery. Truth be told, I was relieved when he died! Sad as it was, at the time I really feared and hated my father and could not have been happier when he was gone.

Chimpakka, Chinnu, Sister

If there was one person on this planet that I would die for, it is for my little sister Chinnu, or Chimpakka as I fondly call her. :) We are only 18 months apart, but she will always be a baby to me. The affection I felt for her, and still feel for her today, is so deep, it is one that grows stronger and deeper every day. During our younger days, she was a little telltale and daddy’s pet. She enjoyed father’s undivided attention and had most neighbours fawn all over her, as she was cute and a sharp-mouthed little girl. I always ran behind her and tried to please her. In fact, I wanted to be her so I too could get the admiration and attention. As a child, there was little compassion on her part towards me; she monitored my every move and reported any missteps to mummy, who ran a strict household. My sister had a commanding temperament and most children listened to her instructions, a rule she ran with at home as well. When we were little, I felt bullied by her, and I was scared of the power she held over my parents and me.

Once puberty hit, all of the animosity we had for each other just melted and disappeared into thin air and we grew into true friends, true sisters. By the age of 13, we had seen, heard, and endured a lot, more than what an average 13 and 11 year old