Biceps and Bhai sahibs

Being a recluse, I have my evolved my own ways to de-stressing, taking time off or even traveling to strange lands without having to go further than a few minutes walk. For me these are ways of getting of the spinning world and  catching my breath and even recharging my batteries. My latest travel is to the gym located ten minutes walk from my home. For an hour or so I am transported on to another planet I have fondly named - Biceps and Bhai Sahibs! As I walk down the steps of this strange world, I feel a different person. I am in alien world and make sure to embrace its ways. So off comes the jacket and scarf, and with a wave to the burly trainers I get on to the treadmill, set my speed at 6km and take off. The blaring music, the kind I normally shun, sets the rhythm of my walk and I find myself enjoying the mix of house music, Hindi pop, Punjabi rock that hits my ears through a speaker located just next to my treadmill. I catch some words but mostly it is just the beat that gets me going. Before I know it, my 30 minutes are over. Strangely these are the only 30 minutes where I find myself not thinking or anything at all. Maybe this is a form of meditation.

Often the treadmills next to mine have bhai sahibs with large biceps running at high speed. Most are young men eager to get the beloved 6 0r 8 or whatever packs. Some of them grunt while they run. Actually there is a lot of grunting, mostly with the lads doing weight training. It is funny, but somehow I feel quite comfortable amidst them. They sometimes smile at me, but are mostly serious trying to impress one and all.

After my walk, it is time to train and all the young trainers are most eager and ready to 'train' me. I think they are quite amused at the old biddy wanting to build her body! So its is one machine after the other and repetitions laded with encouraging words. I somehow don't feel ridiculous even though in most machines I can only lift the minimum weight of 5 kilos though I have reached 15 kilos in some.

I am like a child trying to concentrate and do my best. Lower body, upper body, abs.. the whole enchilada. And all through the show my mind does stray in any direction: no pwhy, no family, no home. Just me and my training.

I am glad I found the world of biceps and bhai sahibs. It gives me the breath of fresh air I need, in spite of the grunts, the sweat and the loud music!

A few good men

A gentle soul breathed his last yesterday night after a long and valiant battle with the unrelenting crab. My relationship with him was unique. He was the first 'in-law' I met before my marriage. I was nervous like hell as I walked the stairs leading to the Chinese restaurant where we were to meet. The question in my mind was : would he approve of me. But the moment I met him, all doubts flew away as his charm and kind ways worked wonders and all tabs were soon castaway. He was an amazing erudite and I found myself mesmerised by his knowledge. The much feared lunch ended too soon with a warm hug and a words of blessing.

Then life tools its twist and turns and sadly the note we had struck while enjoying noodles and Manchurians vanished altogether. We met a few times, as niece and uncle in-law, the equation that never seems to balance.

It was a few years back that our paths would cross again. This time it was a terrible challenge that would bring us together, one that would test the mettle we were made of. He would stand tall, like few do and take the road less travelled even if it led to difficult choices. But he took them with courage and conviction. He filled a space in my heart that had laid empty for far too long. I felt blessed. Thus began a new relationship, one that defies all definition and obliterates all tags and labels.

We enjoyed talking about any and everything. His massive erudition and wisdom never failed to amaze me and I learnt more at his proverbial knee that I would in books. We shared a passion for reading and writing and he never failed to comment on my blogs. The have lain orphaned for the past months as he lay in a hospital bed, his body wrecked but his spirit soaring.

Good men are few. He was one of them. The world will never look the same after his demise.

May his soul rest in peace.

What's in a number

OK so yesterday was our fortieth wedding anniversary. Why is the fortieth more important than the the thorny ninth or the forty first? To me each anniversary from the very first has been a cause to celebrate. Yet someone somewhere decided that some are better than others: the twenty fifth, the fiftieth or the sixtieth! Come to think of it every day of togetherness is sufficient cause to celebrate. The success of a marriage is to be able to fall in love every morning with the same person as everyone of us changes as time goes by and we need to accept and embrace the changes. If we are wise enough to understand that our love is safe.

Many people have huge parties to celebrate the social milestones of a marriage. I have never been one to do so. On those days I have wanted to be with those I love and be able to spend quality time. I recoil at the idea of dressing as a bride or renewing my vows. I renew them each day and more than never when faced with a challenge. That is when love is put to the test.

Marriage is a series of relationships that you stumble upon as you travel the journey of life. It often starts with that woolly feeling of falling in love, when the world is viewed through rose coloured glasses and everything seems right. But those glasses come off and you need to conjure the ones suitable for the moment you are living. And as you trudge along your relationship takes on many hues: you are friend, philosopher, guide, partner, companion and much more. You are the shoulder to cry on, the patient listener, the cheer leader, the devil's advocate and above all the honest critic even when it hurts. It is in being each of these and more that you secure your love and can move into the twilight years.

After forty years, I guess one has been all of the above as best one can. Today our love is bathed in comfortable quietude and often we do not even need word to comfort each other or to convey what needs to be said. One knows when to hold a hand or give a hug and when to remain mute. From the passion of the first moments one has moved into a comfortable zone when the yore years have found their place and only the future remains.

It is a blessed feeling that needs no loud revelry. Come to think of it every moment is a celebration

A very special birthday wish

Today is my mother's Kamala's birthday, a blessed day in more ways than one. At the crack of dawn I got my almost daily Skype call from my grandson. He is now old enough to call himself. He was keen to show me his 'new' computer - actually his father's old laptop! He was over the moon as he could now imitate his Bapu and type on the keyboard even if the computer did not work. Children have their unique make believe world, and only children excel at that. Ask me! I am an only child too! After typing his name, and mine he suddenly asked me a word beginning with K. Serendipitous  to say the least as Ma's name begins with a K. I spelt it out and told him it was my Mama's name and that today was her birthday. His hands immediately flew on the keyboard as he told me he was sending her a message. He was quick to tell me what he was writing: happy birthday; though I do not know you, I love you.

It was a magical moment. I gently told him that she loved him too and even if one could not see her, she saw us and specially him and always showered him with love and blessings.

The moment ended as the little fellow chased another thought yet in filled me with immense joy and I knew that Kamala was smiling!

without leaving footsteps

Had gone to visit the family astrologer for a friend and could not resist asking where I was heading. Wish I had not, as he told me that my 18 years of Rahu were beginning in January 2015. 63 + 18 takes me to the ripe age of 81. I guess exit time will be under the Rahu spell. Rahu is also known as the dragon's head. Dragon is my Chinese astrological sign!  But Rahu is a severed head that swallows the sun causing eclipses and is depicted in art as a serpent with no body riding a chariot drawn by eight black horses. Not the best image to lead you through 18 years and I believe that it all depends on where the planet is placed in your chart. I do not know the details but hope it is not too bad as  Rahu dasha can either be the best time of any person's life or plunge him into deep trouble depending on which planet is controlling him. There seems to be no middle path so let us hope for the best. It is also said that  Rahu dasa gives immense scope for obtaining spectacular results from worship or dhyana. Worship of Goddess Durga pleases Rahu the most and he confers immense benefits to the worshipper. Rahu is seen as an asura or demon who does his best to plunge any area of life he controls into chaos. Guess who is going to worship Durga unabashedly. Let us say in all honesty that I am truly worried as my life is linked to too many others and thus I maybe need to hand over to someone with a good planets ! Chaos is not what I wish for transition and/or mutation time at project why. And yet it will all have to be done under the watchful eye of Rahu as will my bucket lists and last hurrah!

Did a bit of research - bless Aunt Google - and discovered that my Rahu is in Aquarius. What I found in one of the pages was quite amusing and spot on if it works. It says that Rahu in Aquarius is an excellent placement for, hold your breath; professional labor union organiser, leader of regulated lawful social-change movements; orchestrator of rallies and gatherings; fund-raisers! That sounds great for one who us looking for donors! If what is written is correct than Rahu gets ahead via large scale networks. Of course before I could rejoice tool much another article provided the tempering needed, talking about worries and troubles and over confidence. When Rahu is in Aquarius then Ketu, the tail of the severed head is in Leo and it is said that these Nodes represent the struggle between the personal life and an impersonal dedication to humanity. The Leo Ketu symbolises prior lives where much revolved around the self. The Rahu in Aquarius points to a future of service for mankind, where the individual will assume the role of the ‘waterbearer’, so that he may be an instrument in the crusade for world evolution. Before he can do this, the enormous power of the Leo Ketu must be dealt with. What it means is that one was very self centred in ones past life and it's payback time. Sounds spot on again. The line I like best was the following: His  karma now is to learn how to walk lightly, without leaving footsteps, for in essence he is the ruler making ready to abdicate his throne.

How true. Time has come to make myself so tiny that my footsteps become invisible and I can hand over the mantle and move on.

This is what awaits....

I am busy being grateful

I am busy being grateful are words I chose to append to my signature in my email account. I did  this many years ago when I was overwhelmed with gratitude at everything I had been given in life. Then somehow when forgot about them though they sat at the bottom of each and every email waiting to be acknowledged again. I do not know why, but as I sat to write a quick mail to my daughter telling her that her Papa was safe, the words stared at me and their defining silence was full of reproach. I stood exposed as I am guilty of having forgotten for far too long how indebted I am for having been given so much. Even if I spent all the hours I have left, be they day or night, thanking God and all those who have sprinkled my life with miracles, big and small, I would still not be able to express  my gratitude. Today is a wake up call.

Ranjan is safe. It took those terrible hours to bring me back to earth and to realise how infinitesimal we are in the face of Nature and God. We may fall prey to the most exalted hubris but are brought back to earth with a bang in no time. Nature is a great leveller. It makes no difference who and what you are. I wish we understand this better. As for God he has a plan that only he knows; we as humans can only bow to His Will and understand that his plan is better than ours. I thank the Almighty for the grace he has blessed me with.

But that is not where it ends. I could not have survived this ordeal if it were not for a multitude of people, known and unknown, who reached out to me. Every word of comfort that was sent to me helped me immensely and I am deeply grateful for all who took time to write a few words. Those who know me well knew in what state I was. To all of you a big Thank You!

Then there are those who helped me trace Ranjan: a long time friend now in an important position who used his network to send rescue appeals; my colleague who went to the local Kashmir office to send a message through their wireless and even spoke to an army officer who confirmed that the group had been rescued; friends who used their connections to send messages and all those who sent their suggestions that I have dutifully followed. I do not know which one worked. For me each and everyone did.

But there are some others I need to thank: the reporters of all the news channels who continued reporting even when they had no news of their own loved ones and helped us have a connection, however tenuous, with our loved ones; the people who are working day and night, in dangerous conditions, to bring our loved ones home; the staff of the hotels who must be doing everything in their power to make our loved ones comfortable. I can only fold my hands in gratitude and say: thank you.

Yes I am busy being grateful!

We won

I need to fill my mind with happy and positive thoughts and who else can provide these but my darling grandson! In a recent Skype call he announced with heat aplomb that his soccer team had won 8-2. Yes the bloke is now on a soccer trip with a game each ween end. In this picture he still does not have his kit, the other kid has it, but he is part of the Dragon team. For this match Doreamon had to fill in! While he was telling me all about his winning, his mom was making strange faces. It transpired that his team had lost 8-2. But Agastya had his logic. The ball entered his goal and thus he won. It will take him time to understand the true rules of the game.

This picture is not one of the said match. For the match he had his gear and was over the moon. The gear was the most exciting thing of the day. He was playing defence with his pal but they were too busy comparing their gear and the Tshirt was more important than the ball. Anyway what lay behind them was 'their' goal so what was the fuss about. His father and his coach could scream what they wanted, the two boys had better things to do.

They have time to grow up. For now let them play by their rules. It is what makes children so special and brings a big smile on Nani's face making her forget, albeit for a few minutes, all her worries.

Sometimes there is nothing you can do

It has been almost two days since I have heard Ranjan's voice. Since then, silence, a silence so deafening that you get devoured by it. And in that silence your mind works over time building scenarios that would put Oscar winning story writers to shame. Your imagination runs wild more so as it is helped in ample measure by the feeling of helplessness that engulfs you. More than that, when your loved one is in danger of any kind and you cannot be of help, a sense of guilt pervades you. This guilt is insidious and has no real ground and you know it, but in those moments only the heart rules.

I do not know why I cancelled all my appointments but it felt the right thing to do. Somehow the idea of exercising or going for a meditation class or even a work meeting seem anathema. So what do you do. You sit in front of the box that shows you in a loop the same images of the place your loved one is and maybe in doing that you feel, quite erroneously,  that you are with your loved one in spirit. I know it sounds stupid. I know that Ranjan will laugh when I tell him that. But at this moment, sitting in front of the screen and staring at the images without quite seeing them, holding on to the phone in the hope that it will ring whilst knowing that it cannot be, as all lines are down, writing a message on FB just to feel you are not alone, wrecking your brain to find anyone who could maybe help, hunting for your prayer beads and praying, taking a break while walking aimlessly in the house before starting all over again. That has been my regimen as I need one to keep thoughts in check, the stop my mind from wandering too much.

Everyone is worried. My first born calls from the US frequently. Friends call or send text messages all wanting to know as soon as I get news. Maybe I should start making a list of all those I need to contact when I finally get news. It will take care of some of the time that is ticking at a snail's pace in true Bergsonian style.

Think positive is what everyone is saying and I am trying to do just that. So let me end by saying that Agastya is waiting for his Nanou for their next game of golf!

24 hours

The last 24 hours have been the longest in my entire existence. I last spoke to Ranjan exactly 24 hours ago and his words were: we are in dire straits and need help. It is an SOS. Then silence. The network died and I have been unable to establish direct contact and if one is to believe the news, connectivity will be resumed in 48 to 72 hours. The last I heard was that Ranjan was in his hotel that was relatively safe as on a higher point but part of his group was in a hotel situated at a lower level and its two floors had been flooded. He was feeling helpless as there was no way he could reach out to them and worried as they were now without food or water as kitchen and stores are rarely on upper floors. I wonder if they have run out of provisions in his hotel by now. I hope not. I also realise that I will not know if and when they are rescued because of the communication breakdown. I have never felt so helpless.

For a control freak like me this is a nightmare. Helplessness is the sworn enemy of control freaks and I have been turning like a lion in a cage the whole day. Finally here I am resorting to the only known catharsis for me: writing. Wonder how I spent the day. True to my control freak persona I had to find 'things' to do and I did. I tried all the helplines I could find on news channel and on the net but NONE worked. So I sent Dharmendra, my colleague and strong support, to Jammu and Kashmir House and he was able to give the details and seek help. He saw the names been loaded on a computer but only God knows what would have happened to the list. It may be still sitting on the hard disk of the said computer. Then I wrecked my brain to find out at whose door I could knock and remembered and olf friend who is a senior officer in the Intelligence Bureau and contacted him. I presumed he would have some mean of communication. He promised to see what could he do and informed me that he had sent a rescue request. Not knowing whether it was acted upon is again nothing short of killing. I hope it has reached the right place and some action has been taken. I then turned to FB more to get some support and was overwhelmed by all the positive vibes that were sent to me. There were a few suggestions and I complied immediately.

But came the time when I knew I could do nothing else. And that is when I knew I had to 'write' as otherwise I would go insane. Writing helps me get rid of my angst and put things in perspective. Last year at about this time, I was battling Ranjan's cancer but I was in charge and that made things easier. I use to write everyday to share every aspect of my battle with all at large. Somehow putting it out there on the web helped in some strange way. It also helped me voicing the concerns and worries and that made addressing them a little easier. My main worry is of course Ranjan's health as much of his recovery is based on him following a healthy and strict regimen. I have been wondering about his food and water and the quality of the two, the later being more critical. The helplessness is at its zenith as I have no way of knowing and even less of helping. Even if I found my way to Srinagar there is little I could do.

I am also concerned about the stress Ranjan is going through as he is accompanied by a group of 50 golfers, some with spouses and I know how helpless he is feeling as knowing him, I know he feels responsible for each of them and will not budge unless all of them are safe. Part if his group is from Lahore and unfortunately they are in the hotel that is most affected. Now stress is cancer's worst enemy and I am keeping my fingers crossed hoping that the adrenaline rush he must be feeling, keeps him safe. I guess I will only know what is happening when he lands home after making sure his brood has landed home too.

As I write these words, I also realise how selfish one can be when a loved one is in trouble. This tragedy is huge and Ranjan and his pals will come back to safety once they are rescued. But what about the local people who have lost everything they own; the children in flooded hospitals, the elderly who can not move on their own. And what about the children who must be bewildered and scared beyond words. When will they come home, if home they have! My heart goes out to them and I feel a little guilty not having thought of them earlier. This is how writing helps me: to put things in perspective and take a little distance from my own limited concerns.

Two men

2014 - 103, 65, 62, 40 and 40! Wonder what these numbers are. The first goes without explanation. The other two are a riddle no one but me can solve. 103 is the age my father would have been today; 65 is Ranjan's - the husband - age today, 62+ some months is how old I am today and 40 and 40 are the number of years I have spent with the two men I love most. Papa and Ranjan share a birthday or almost: the former was born on August 15th and the later on August 14.

These two men undoubtedly made me who I am even if it took me long years to realise this and learn not only to accept it but to celebrate it as though they outwardly are as different as chalk and cheese, their heart and spirits are almost clones of each other. And today I realise that I have spent exactly the same amount of years with each of them with a few of them overlapping of course. Those would amount to 22 years! 

As I said these two men have a lot more in common than you may want to believe. First of all they both fell in love with me almost instantly. I took Ranjan a week to propose! And in spite of lots of ups and downs they never wavered no matter how many doors I banged or tears I shed, they waited unobtrusively for the brat to come to her senses. Papa or Tatu as I called him, made me from a crying lump of flesh to a caring and erudite human being. He patiently and lovingly moulded the raw material and taught me right from wrong as well as  the courage to walk the road less travelled. He let me make my mistakes and get hurt, sometimes deeply but was always there to wipe the tears, tender to the wounds and help me get up and run again. The day he left the world I think he, more than anyone else and most of all me knew that I was ready to jump without the parachute he had been.

But none of this would have been possible without another man who gave me the total freedom to  walk all the less travelled roads and also stood in the wings lest I fall, and fall I did. He simply picked me up without a single word of retribution or even counsel and set me on another course. If one moulded the raw material, the other allowed it to grow and bloom the way I wanted it to. And I would be unethical if I did not say that the road(s) I chose went against all the conventions and mores that we are meant to live by. He defended me like a knight in shining armour at every moment of my life. I must admit that I now realise that it must not have been easy for him but he never uttered a word. Just like Pa, I think he was and is proud of the person I am. It is now my turn to prove to him that he was right.

Today I want to tell both these incredible human beings that I love them and always will. May God bless them.

Happy birthday Ranjan and Ram. 

My heart is covered

in his nanou's shorts!

My heart is covered! Agastya my grandson flew away two hours ago after two joyful months with us. You may wonder what the expression 'my heart is covered' means and where it originates. Let me elucidate. This expression is part of my grandson's delightful lexicon that never ceases to amuse and amaze me and that I gleefully appropriate. He used it first about a week or so ago when he fell ill and nauseous. My heart is covered with the rice is what he stated and believe you me, we all understood what he meant. The ensuing days were terrible as the poor boy went through the nightmare of the famed Delhi belly! 

Today my heart is covered not with rice or pasta, but with an indescribable medley of feelings ranging from melancholy to acceptance laced with a tinge of fear as well as forbearance and even an imbue of  unease. The fear of course is transient but will choke the covered heart till all the planes land safely till their final destination. In the present scenario this means 6 unending days and nights as they break journey in Paris.

This bundle of joy has for the past 70 days and nights ruled my heart and my life and I have complied unabashedly. He slept with us - Nanou and I - as he has always done for the past 5 years irrespective of all the canons of child rearing and the initial barely expressed resentment of his parents were soon set aside as he was the one who decided on the matter. 

My heart is covered by the emptiness that greeted me this morning when in my half sleep, I extended my hand in search of my little foot. You see even the hands and feet are divided: one set being mine and the other his nanou's. I cannot tell you how empty the world felt for that instant before the heart was assuaged by reason and the emptiness translated into the realisation that he was gone! It had been just a few hours but they felt like eternity.

As I crept down the stairs to my burrow, the silence was palpable and overpowering, even for one who revels in solitude. My eyes refused to stray on the tiny objects left behind - a bright pair of crocs,   some cars his Mom refused to put in the suitcase and a tshirt hung on the banister presumably for drying and presumably conveniently forgotten for want of space again. I know that as the day enfolds there will be innumerable reminders of the little fellow's stay at home. My heart is covered by this deafening silence that will become louder and louder as I miss my agyTalk! 

Yesterday was a strange day. Agastya, his grandad and I were protagonists of an unwritten play, or should I say a play that enfolded from the heart to alleviate the pain of each of the three characters. Even though I had been telling Agastya about his leaving late night on Saturday and making plans for the rest of the day, he woke up in a quaint mood and stated he wanted to go to to the airport NOW and wait for the plane. Was this his way of telling us that he was OK leaving and actually quite happy about it. Then how do you explain the fact that he spent most of his day lolling on our bed and treating us to unexpected hugs and kisses, making sure that each of his grandparents had the same amount? To his performance was our counterpoint. Though our hearts and guts wanted to tell him how much we would miss him and how much we would have wanted him to stay and how lonely everything would be without him, we spent the day talking of his trip, of the treats that awaited him when he stopped over to meet his other set of grandparents, and then the delight of being reunited with his Dad and all the things he would be getting back to and of course his new school. While he filled the day with caring gestures we choked it with words, comforting more ourselves than him. I think all that needed to be said was what was left unvoiced.

The love between a child and his grandparent is unique and blessed. Sadly I never met my paternal grandparents and my maternal grandmother died when was a little older than Agy, hence the illogical disquiet. In those times there were no phones let alone Internet and Skype. There were letters that came in the diplomatic bag once a week and the home leave that happened once in 3 years when papa changed postings. So do your maths and you will see that I must have spent not more than a few months with my Nani, but she filled those with so much love and laughter that a sense of warmth and loving chokes me each time I think of her. I just hope that I can do the same for my darling boy. 

Once again we will have to learn to live without that bundle of joy zipping through the house and through our hearts and fill the enormous void as best we can. I guess I will get back to looking after my other boy - the husband - who was a tad neglected when Agy was here. You see Agy takes all the place. I will cook Ranjan healthy vegan meals. Now that should take some time with hunting for recipes, shopping and then the actual cooking. Maybe I shall stop stocking up and buy for the day. Then of course there are my Pilates classes, and my swimming and hold on I am planning to buy a bicycle today and start cycling around the park of the colony. The last time I cycled was when I was 14! Then I have promised to set 2 hours everyday to get on with my book about project why and then the usual work should take some more time. I guess books will come to the rescue. 

But I know that all this and more can never fill all the void in my heart. That will only happen when he walks into my room a year from now and gives me a hug. You cannot hug on Skype!

Long due update

the latest punk 

Last year on August 1st we were balling Sir Hodgkin and wading our way through the mystery of upmarket hospitals. Those were chemo days and learning days and worrying days. I would write numerous posts on this blog and share my terrifying angst. Then, as always with we humans, we set in a pattern and all the chemo, juices, etc became a habit. When chemo ended I really thought that life would never the same but I was wrong. For a few months tree still blood counts but everything was normal or as normal as one can get in our 7th decade. Everyone, except yours truly, seemed to have forgotten than cancer is not a viral flu that ends but is an elephant in the room for the remaining days, even if the elephant has been made so tiny that only I can see it.

This picture was taken 2 days back when Agastya decided to celebrate his Nanou's birthday before he left and so party it was with balloons an streamers and the birthday cake of course. I had seen some coloured wigs at the friend's shop and thought we needed some fun. My friend kindly lent them to me as I would not have bought them at the price they are.

So here is Ranjan version 2014. I love the look and I love the man. May he remain this way wig and all. 

A self to suit society

Beijing April 1954

I guess we all along our lives have to create a self or many selves to suit circumstances. They could family circumstances or social ones. To survive you need to adapt even of what you are compelled to create us someone you do not like. Survival of the fittest said Darwin, and here the fittest means the one that is the most compliant. But there comes a time when you can, if you so wish, abandon that self and try to go back to the real one. It is not easy believe me and can have calamitous consequences that can hurt you and your loved ones beyond repair.

The little girl in the picture is all dressed up for her second birthday. She feels like a princess thanks to doting parents who love her unconditionally. She will live in the warmth of this love for some time till the first hurt that cannot be wished away by a gentle kiss from her mom or a hug from her pa. Sooner or later she will learn that she has to bear the brunt of blows and work her own solutions, some of which necessitate altering ones self. This is a survival lesson she will need to accept but what she does not know yet is that there may come a time when the multitude of band aids and masks that she has been compelled to place on herself will render her unrecognisable. That is when she will wonder whether there are still some pieces of the little girl left in some crevice of the mind that can help her retrace the journey she had to travel. The catch is that is she decides to do so, she may open old wounds and create new ones that may never be healed.

I would have never thought of all this and gone happily to my grave were it not for the insistence of a loved one to get answers twosome things that I agree look incomprehensible if not placed in a proper context. I have spent some sleepless nights trying to make some forays down memory lane and ask myself what the consequences of airing the past at this moment would be and it did not take me long to realise that no matter how much I am badgered to reveal my reasons, I would not succumb as it will bring more hurt than healing. So I may for my own self unravel the knots but simply to assuage my conscience and see whether I could have done a better job. Life as we know gives us one chance at a time, and a lifetime to regret it.

I have an example that would validate my point of view and it comes from no less than my mother. For the less than 4 decades I spent with my parents, my strength came from the knowledge that my mother and father were happy as that is what they both seemed to be to me in my childhood, teenage and adulthood. I basked in that warm feeling and could live my life with ease and insouciance. Had I tried to delve deeper and found the reality, my life would have been shattered. But my mother must have felt the need to share her pain with her only child as she wrote a rambling diary in the penultimate year of her life, before she lost a part of a memory. In those pages she shared her innermost feelings.

I found that diary more than fifteen years after they both died and by that time I was mellowed and matured and could look at things with a distance and with my heart. Had I read that diary when I was not ripe for it, I could have even hated one of them. But far from that. What I read in those lines was how much my two parents loved each other but how inept and clumsy they were at showing their feelings. I will not say more.

The point I am trying to make is that every action we take has a reason that needs to be respected. When the time is right, in some serendipitous way, truth will be revealed and will be a healing experience.

the before it's too late crusade

I do not know what is the right age to start making a bucket list as we all know that the word 'bucket' in this case comes from the expression: kick the bucket! Now that is if the bucket list is yours. However I guess there must be the ones of 'others' who are connected to you and that is when things become difficult. Ones own list often consists of finishing pending agendas, making wills, clearing debts - the financial ones - if any, ensuring to the best of your ability that things you have begun carry on smoothly if possible but here I think there is a tinge of hubris as how can one forget the age old adage: the King is dead; long live the King. It is us foolish humans who believe that we are essential to the game called life. The other extreme is the course followed by the likes of my father who believed that nothing happens without the will of the almighty. In that situation bucket lists seem quite futile.

However a list can be fun if it includes things like learn swimming, driving, flying should you make it in your sixties and such an exercise could add some spice in your life when your bones creak louder by the day. By the way swimming was NOT on my bucket list

When I look at a bucket list I made in 2010, I cannot but smile! Then came another one in 2013 after Ranjan's cancer that I still stand by and guess will, adding to it whatever else should come my way. This I presume will go on till exit time.

There is another list however which is not easy if not impossible to make and that is the one when your loved ones ask you to heal supposed past hurts. Easier said than done. As a dear and wise friend says: complicated lives are not always open to retro-fitting. She is spot on as you it is impossible to know what is really asked of you to slay inner demons you are not privy to. That is not all, there are part of your life that you have locked for ever as should you find the key, the result may be more devastating than silence. Our lives ware filled with coping strategies that we have evolved along the way and made so much part of our lives, that trying to find your way back may just be impossible. We are no Penelope and have not mastered the art of unravelling to perfection the piece we have woven through our lives to protect ourselves from hurt. The process of trying to do so may result in more hurt than healing.

Things have to be heard at the appropriate time and rather than play God, let us leave it to his wisdom. I remember how I found a diary written by Kamala my mother a year before her death and found by me 15 years after her death at a time when I was going through a rough patch and needed most of all my mama's lap to put me back on track. It was not her lap, but pages written in a yellowed diary that had survived many a spring cleaning waiting to be picked up when the time was right. How she had seen what lay ahead was uncanny and comforting at the same time. But more than that, she revealed a part of herself she had held carefully concealed as it might have rocked my boat and shattered the image of the perfect life she had conjured for me. At the same time, I guess she felt the need of sharing her pain with her only child and must have hoped that I would find these pages when I was strong enough to read them.

I did and felt the need to answer each page this remarkable woman had written. My answer was my way of celebrating not the wife or the mother, but the woman. I hope I did herb justice. Should you want to read this lengthy missive you can here.

Mothers do want the best for their children but often fall short not because they lack love but because they are so blinded by it that they are unable to see what is right.

My bucket list will remain blank but for this touching poem by George Bernard Shaw.

True Joy of Life

This is the true joy of life.

The being used for a purpose

Recognized by yourself as a mighty one.

The being a force of nature

Instead of a feverish, selfish

Little clod of ailments and grievances

Complaining that the world will not

Devote itself to making you happy.

I am of the opinion that my life

Belongs to the whole community

And as long as I live,

It is my privilege to do for it

Whatever I can.

I want to be thoroughly

Used up when I die,

For the harder I work the more I live.

I rejoice in life for its own sake.

Life is no brief candle to me.

It is a sort of splendid torch

Which I've got hold of

For the moment

And I want to make it burn

As brightly as possible before

Handing it on to future generations.

Damask

Damask is a fabric using basic weaving techniques of the Byzantine and Islamic weaving centre of the early Middle Ages and derives its name from the city of Damascus, a city that is sadly torn and destroyed by conflict today and where one hears the jarring sounds of rockets and missiles instead of the soothing sounds of weaving looms. As Damascenes say: we don't know what tomorrow will bring.

This post however is not on the war in the Middle East but on the fabric damask in one of its favoured avatars: tablecloths, as you would have guessed by looking at the picture. This is a picture taken from the net but it could have been taken in my home when I was a little girl. Even the glasses, the tableware and the flowers look uncannily like the tables my mother use to set for the numerous parties that she organised in her 30 years as a diplomat's spouse.

Yesterday in one of the sporadic cleaning sprees that happen in this house, two rather used and yellowed plastic bags were discovered in the linen cupboard. They were stuffed with ma's old damask  tablecloths and napkins. For those who did not know their story, they were good for the recycling bin.  I was not party to the cleaning spree and happened to see the two bags in time. I guess my extreme reaction to the idea of throwing them away was incomprehensible to all present but I was in no mood to explain and say more than: you can throw them after I die!

They will once again take the place they have occupied in the cupboard and wait till my time comes. I guess I should have explained my feelings and thoughts but somehow I knew that no one would be able to understand them truly. If you open and look at them, they are a far cry from the beautiful pieces lovingly purchased by my mother. Today they have stains and even tears and have lost their sheen. But every stain and tear holds a childhood memory and I am sure many forgotten ones too.

I guess some of them must be almost 50 year old and it is a tribute to Ma's skills that they have survived in such a good condition. I remember how each stain was first handled and how each piece was hand washed under her supervision. Ma did not like cooking and I think the God's played their cards well when they selected her husband as Pa's passion was food and cooking. Mama's forte was the table decor and she did a great job. These yellowed pieces of cloth remind me of how well my parents dovetailed their talents.

It is around these now ugly tablecloths that my parents entertained what one may call the rich and famous but also a bunch of eclectic people that could range from painters, to poets and writers; royalty and nobility form many lands; diplomats and politicians but also the humblest of people that they met along the way. Around their table everyone was treated equally and probably that is one of the lessons their only child learnt very early: all humans are equal and need to treated and respected in the same way. I have never allowed myself to forget this lesson.

I also remember the number of times I was awoken hastily from my sleep my mama and asked to put on my best party dress and come down to the dining room as a guest had dropped out and there would be 13 at the table so I was to be the 14th guest. For a 7 or 8 or even 10 year old it was exciting beyond words. Never mind if I had already had dinner and had school the next morning. I could eat a meal all over again and loved the fact that I was doing so at the beautifully laid table talking to adults and important people. Being an only child born to middle aged parents, the adult world was a familiar one and somehow I liked talking to grown ups. My parents often told me that I could hold an intelligent conversation. I do not know if they were indulging me or whether it was the innumerable number of books I consumed. But sitting at a table with big people was as close to a fairy tale I could get. It was on these worn out tablecloths that these fairy tales were unfolded. I cannot recount each of them as there are hidden in deep and almost unreachable recesses of my memory, but the sight of these pieces of cloth bring forth collective memories that fill me with warm and happy feelings. How can one throw such memories in a trashcan!

I know they will remain in their ungainly plastic bags, but the memories tucked within their folds make them precious and unique. Once I am no more around, then I guess they will just metamorphose into yards of tattered cloth fit for the dustbin!

Too much energy

Agastya my darling grandson is a master of words and can come up with the most amazing retorts that leave you kind of speechless and totally zapped. Wanting to go straight to play outside by passing his breakfast he had to come up with something that would shut the old badgering granny down. When I asked him for the umpteenth time I guess what he wanted for breakfast, proffering all his favourites, he looked back and told me: I do not want breakfast Nani, it gives me too much energy! I wonder how he came up with that one. Anyway all the old biddy could do was beat a meek retreat.

Come to think of it I would like to be able to say the same words some day!

Let me finish my dream

I love kids. They can make the darkest cloud lift in the batting of an eye! Yesterday my little grandson who sleeps with us woke up when his aunt came and after playing with a little and realising that there was nothing great planned for the moment declared: I am going back to sleep to finish my dream. And he promptly lay down and closed his eyes tight. Sleep was nowhere in sight and after a while I asked him if the dream was finished. Yes he replied, now I am making another!

You guessed the right, the other dream was made and dreamt in a jiffy and the little chap was all set to go for the day but his words lingered in my mind for long. Dreams are of great importance to me. I conjure all the times as what else would you call the quasi impossible challenges I set for myself time and again. Alas, though some come true, many remain unfulfilled, leaving me somewhat helpless. I so wish I could go back to sleep to finish my on going dream and make another!

My mobile reading room

I love reading. I have always loved reading. I presume it is the happy fate of only children with older and busy parents and nomadic lives. I cannot remember a time when books were not a part of my life. Without them, I feel lost. Even today I have a pile of unread books as a security blanket. They are sustainment as well as therapy. In yore time, when I was still travelling I needed a couple of books in my hand luggage should one not fulfil the need of the moment and in spite of having them, I would also drop by the airport bookshop and pick one or two up. In communist Prague where we were posted in the 80s there were no English book shops so when I came home for a visit my main shopping consisted of books. Prague had one English library run by the British Embassy and within a year I had read every book they had.

I often read more than a book at a time. There is one at my bedside which is often a thriller and another lies on my office table and could be anything, from a serious book on Economics to the latest Booker or other Literary Price. It could even be a serious book on economics of social issues.  The first thing I read in a magazine is the book reviews and should one catch my fancy I am at the bookstore at opening time to buy it and if they have not received it yet, then to order it. I am not comfortable with on line bookstores and use them only when I cannot find the book I want.

My all time treat is to go to the bookstore and look at books, feel them, smell them and feast all my senses. Choosing a book is a sensuous experience, at least for me. The eyes get attracted by the look of the cover, the title that often echoes something familiar, then touching the book gratifies you in another way, its feel, its weight, its volume before you turn to the back cover and read the summary or the reviews before making a final decision. I normally go to one bookshop and the staff knows my taste by now. Soon after walking in numerous books are proffered and I find a place to sit and chose the ones I may buy keeping in mind the weight of the wallet. I linger on, chatting with the manager who has become a friend by now. I seem to have digressed from the topic I set out to write about: my reading room.

For the past few years now I have mastered the art of reading in my three wheeler. This at first was a coping strategy to taken on Delhi's nightmarish traffic. Lost in my book, I felt safe and was often surprised at how quickly I reached my destination. Those were the days when I travelled far more than today as I visited my various centres and went to meet people. All that changed when Ranjan fell   ill and my going out was terribly restricted. I felt I was missing something and it took me a while to realise that I missed my reading room a.k.a the three wheeler!

You may wonder why a person who lives in a huge rambling house with nooks and corners and all kind of seating options chooses to read in a three wheeler whatever the weather and notwithstanding the bumps. I guess once again this is a very precious and unique alone time that is a lifeline and an oxygen shot. So the recluse does take her time off in her mobile reading room everyday. The husband things I am a shopaholic as I need to find a reason to move and the answer to the where are you going is undoubtedly to the market. How does one say to anyone: I am off on my mobile reading room!

If I can't be beautiful, I want to be invisible

If I can't be beautiful, I want to be invisible wrote Chuck Palahniuk. I would mend the quote and write: If I can't be heard, loved, appreciated and respected, I want to be invisible. Just like the kid who covers his face and thinks the whole world cannot see him. Just like wearing coloured glasses and believing the world to have turned another hue. I guess being a mix of a control freak and a bit of a mama bear I do tend to try and make everyone happy but do it all wrong and then feel all upset when someone says something totally logical but that becomes hurtful in the context. So it is time for inventing coping strategies that would be workable and not rock the boat. Hiding in my den and resorting to my no fail catharsis: writing. Does not seem to do the trick so it was time to resort to the big guns. At first I did not quite know what the best option(s) would be till I had an epiphany! To become invisible to others I should simply become visible to myself and spend quality time with me. But there was a problem. The recluse cloak needed to be taken off at least for some time. No easy task but had to be tried just like the golden rule my daughter has for my son: try it once and if you do not like it then do not eat/do etc it! I guess I could at least do what a 5 year old accepted to do.

I signed up for Pilates classes. Thankfully they are held at a short walking distance. The big question was to get myself to accept being in a class with others whom I knew would be years younger than me. Normally I like exercising alone or at best with a trainer. But I did make the effort to go and sign up and found myself with a group of young mothers and a very nice trainer. The first class was a bit awkward I must admit but soon I got into the groove and am proud to say that I am as good as most of them and even more flexible than some! I now look forward to the three mornings when the classes are held and feel good. That was step one in my visibility to myself programme.

Step two was even bolder. Signing up for swimming classes. Now the lady cannot have a private pool so there was not only the fact of having others around but of getting in front of them in a swimsuit with all the sixty two years old battle scars: flabby skin et al! Here it was again my first born who pushed me to come once, and then the next step were easier. Once the stage fright of swimsuit appearance dealt with it was getting in the pool with my trainer and his other pupils most of them closer to my grandson's age than mine. I remember the first day when the young trainer asked me to make bubbles next to a frightened little girl. I did my best. Thankfully the next lesson was with an older trainer whom I felt more comfortable with. Now I can swim lengths on my own and even keep my head under water. We are still at the breast stroke and there is a long way to go but you cannot imagine how good I feel when I am in the water and swimming. This certainly was a giant leap in my visibility to myself journey.

What happens next is any one's guess. If things fall in place I may just retreat into my comfort zone and go back to being a recluse. On the other hand if I like this visibility trip then who knows I may learn to drive, travel beyond a radius of 3 km from my house or even get over my fear of packing a bag and walking out of the gate of my house for more than the usual hour of so. Only time will tell.

Battlescars

Ok, Ok. This blog was started to follow the peregrinations of Sir Hodgkin who had dared enter our home and lives. It is almost a year since that fateful day and for those of you who have been faithful followers, we went through some tough times. It has also been a journey of discovery and understanding of cancer itself and the multitude of 'cures' proffered and their true worth. I have shared all this in this blog. As writing is a catharsis for me, I also shared many personal events and non events and thank you all for bearing with me.

What I realise today is somewhere along the way the overbearing and frightening presence of the lymphoma was not only cut to size but somewhat vanished from every one's  minds as Ranjan grew healthier and better by the day! And more so after we stopped the chemo nightmare and switched to a mix of approaches based on my intuition. So his treatment includes Tibetan medicine, a vegan organic diet, cannabis leaves and seed oil, apricot kernels and soursop tea. I guess that is about it but it could change should I stumble upon some new element. I do think I have become quite an expert at cancer and the treatments offered as I have crawled the web better than any search engine! We also have added coconut oil for the brain and super foods like chia seeds, quinoa, goji berries, hemp milk (home made) and more.

So as I was saying almost everyone seems to have forgotten the bad times, except me who still watches for signs should Sir Hodgkin decide to sneak in any crevice that may have been left unplugged.

You wonder why I entitled this post battle scars. Well first of all if you look at the picture well you will see band aid on Ranjan's face. This has nothing to do with the big C but is the result of being hit by a golf ball in South Carolina. You guessed right. Ranjan is back to his normal activities which include golf jet setting. He is out again in August to Thailand.

The only I have to pick with him is that he has become lazy and hence put on weight and has not got back to a healthy exercise pattern. I have been trying to explain to him that exercise is as much part of the protocol as food. So the big guns are out and the yoga teacher will come from tomorrow and we will have some serious breathing exercises as well as yoga.

There are other battle scars and those are mine, the one who waged her biggest battle against an enemy that had taken away too many loved ones. These scars will never leave as they ensure my constant vigil and my ultimate victory. So help me God!

Bye bye Bapu

Children sometimes have the ability to tug at your heartstrings in the most unexpected ways and before you know it, your throat is constricted, your eyes well up and your vision blurs. This happened to me yesterday night. My son-in-law who has been on a short visit to India interspersed with work visits to Afghanistan was back in Delhi for a day and leaving again for the US last night. So Sunday was to be a long play day for Agastya and his Bapu, a day where Bapu would not switch on his computer - something of a miracle as my son-in-law is a workaholic and his computer is almost an extension of him! But he kept his promise and barring a few phone calls, Agy and Bapu spent the day together. There were motorcycle rides and games of all sorts. My drawing room was rearranged as furniture was needed to make a 'house' with the help of most of my bedcovers! Agy knows where the linen cupboard is. In the afternoon we all went to visit Utpal and Agastya had a ball jumping in all the puddles left by the afternoon rain. He who normally wants to change his clothes should the tiniest spot appear on it, was quite happy romping about in his mud stained track pants. Late in the evening the boys played with cars on all fours and the ground shook so much that I thought there was an earthquake.

But all things have to come to an end. It was past bed time and close to departure time. Bapu read Agy a story and then after brushing the teeth and the last wee wee, it was time to say goodbye.

My brave little Angel hugged his father and said: Bye bye Bapu. It was heart wrenching. You can imagine my state but I lay on the bed stoically watching the scene that was playing in front of my eyes. No camera, however sophisticated, or lensman however proficient, could have captured that moment. There were so many emotions at play that only someone who has mastered the art of seeing with his heart could feel the intensity of the moment and that too second hand. The moment passed and normalcy returned when Agy asked his grandpa to change the channel to his favourite Doraemon. You guessed right. He did without hesitation even though the Wimbledon finals were on.

Agy settled himself and after a moment turned to me and said: I hope he has a nice flight.

I do not have the words to express how I felt. I simply said: Yes he will.

A tribute to my ancestors

I stumbled upon this picture today. It is what one would call the 'memorial' of my ancestors who landed in Mauritius on November 2nd, 1871 as indentured labour.  Their son was my father's paternal grandfather. Though our surname should have been Singh, the officer who noted out the details of their arrival was too lazy yo write the whole name and just wrote my ancestor's first name that became our surname, that to with a strange spelling. I cannot begin to imagine how had life must have been for these 'slaves' but I know it was not easy. I also know that my ancestor chose this to escape the gallows as he was deeply involved in the 1857 rising. Two swords belonging to British officers are witness to this fact.

Leaving your home, however poverty stricken is no easy task, any one who has migrated is an 'exile' of sorts. The longing for the motherland remains generation after generation and manifest itself by an almost irrational attachment for traditions. I wonder how the couple who landed one fine day on an alien land felt. This is the barracks where such labour landed before it was assigned tom a sugar plantation. There they toiled hard for the contracted period that was of five year and many chose to stay, eking out a living from the modest amount they had saved.

It is said that the working conditions of these indentured labourers was repressive and their plight terrible. Corporal punishment was frequent. I wonder how many blows my Baba and his wife received on their third backs, how many tears of rage, of despair and of longing for their homeland they shed. I know that things got get better and their descendants of which I am a proud progeny became one of the leading families of the Island, but do we not owe our freedom and privileges to these two brave hearts; Goburdhunsingh and his wife Kawallee. Every breath we take bears the pain of the blows and misery they suffered. How can I forget that and what can I do to honour their sacrifices and their courage.

In the list of people who made me who I am, these two wonderful souls find their place right above all others. Had they not stepped on a ship and ventured into the unknown, my life would have been that of a simple village girl.

God bless their souls. I want them to know, that even if no one remembers them, I do and always will.