Bye Bye House

In his customary annual byes byes, my darling grandson included a new one: bye bye house. He must have overheard some of our conversations regarding rebuilding my now rambling home. Even though we had not shared this with the little one, he knew it would happen and hence the bye bye to the house he knew. How right he was!

My precious house will soon be brought down and a new one will come up in the coming months. I guess this is the last rite of passage life has in store for me. Many may think that I am emotionally shattered. I would have been but the  Gods were kind to me, and before the decision was taken, they made sure I was placed in the right head space. Let me share how.

It all began with a message from am old friend to meet someone. I did not. Another message came and I was compelled to meet this soul. The rest is history. I was pushed to attend a workshop on high frequency energies and was propelled into another dimension. All the things that one held on to obsessively were placed in perspective and I was freed from the weight of past and future and taught to live in the perfection of the now with the belief that all that happens, happens for the very best even if it takes us time to understand, and where is the need to understand.

So instead of a teary walk down memory lane, I embark on a joyful one, celebrating all the wonderful years spent in this home and the ones to come when it is rebuilt anew. Let the party begin!

So her I am, packing half a century of things and memories. Clearing up all the things accumulated over the years with a smile and many forgotten stories. Actually I think the next book is on the anvil.

The decision to rebuild was heralded by the house itself. Large chunks of plasters falling time and again, deep structural cracks, terrible seepage that made the house damp and mouldy and thus unhealthy. The house was talking to me. I had to listen.

So in a few weeks we will leave the house and move to a transit home. I know it will also be perfect. Today I am blessed to be able to be an observer in this new chapter of my life.

I could not resist going back down blog memory lane and looking at the blogs that retrace the story of my home. There is one that retraces its genesis should anyone be interested: The house I am growing old in! Reading from my new head space brought a huge smile on my face!

Then I came across another blog that showed how the house has nothing I ever bought: memories aren't stored in the heart or the head!

And then came the one I wrote in response to a friends remark:  As much as I love this picture, it is the background that draws me - what a warm home you have; much lived in, slightly worn, each piece with a story to share. I love your house!

Yes I love my house. But what I love are the memories that warm the cockles of my heart. And these are not brick and mortar. These are immortal and will stay with me forever.

I am ready for this rite of passage!

A rare love story

This is a rare snap of precious lovebirds Ram and Kamala a.k.a. my parents! Actually it is one of the very few where Papa is smiling. They would have celebrated their 67th wedding anniversary today. Actually they celebrated only 41 together. 

They may not have been your regular loving couple as Ram had a terrible temper and could blow a fuse at the drop of a hat.  Kamala on the other hand was calm and rarely showed her anger. At best she would retreat to a corner waiting for the storm to blow over. It would with Papa often making a treat for the one who had been the object of his wrath. 

My memories of them are countless but somehow they all seemed linked to me their child. I cannot recall any lovey-dovey ones barring those I triggered!

They remained discreet almost to a fault. 

So it was a surprise and also reassurance to know that they had been madly in love when I discovered a bunch of love letters. Somehow I never read them to honour their memory. I guess and hope my kids will. 

Theirs was a unique love tale. Kamala was reconciled to die an old maid as she was determined no to marry unless her country was independent. In those days 30 was considered old. Ram was entering his forties and still a bachelor. Both lived thousands of miles from each other and the likelihood of their meeting was close to non-existent.

Met they did courtesy a family connection. He courted the small town girl with European flair and she fell for his strange but loveable ways.

They would leave for unknown lands and he would make her discover new sites and experiences all coloured by his own passion. 

She followed him and imbibed every thing. 

Together they bore the pain of losing a child and the joy of having one. Their love for each other was demonstrated in unique ways: if Ram managed to grow vegetables for his vegetarian wife in the dead of Prague's winter, Kamala would surreptitiously learn French and surprise him on his birthday. 

This would go one till the end of their life when Kamala in the throes of cancer would swallow the fish he fed her as he had read that fish could beat the dreaded C and Ram at the age of 80 would sit up the whole night on a tiny stool holding her hand and waking her up every 45 minutes as she dreaded dying in her sleep. 

He let her go one sizzling June night, honouring the promise she had extracted from him on their wedding day: that she would die before him.

He outlived her by a year, the time needed to ensure that their only child was strong enough to carry on.

I am sixty four

I must have been fifteen when I first heard When I am Sixty Four by the Beatles. It was in Ankara and I had just got my copy of Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band. In those days sixty four seemed so far away. Time does move slow when you are young. I runs at the speed of light the older you grow. Anyway the song them was amusing and above all peppy and one did not pay much attention at the lyrics. It is said that Mc carney wrote it at a very young age and back then I guess 'sitting by the fireside' and 'digging weeds' was what young people thought old people do.

Today I am sixty four and perusing the lyrics there is not much I really do. I may have lost some hair but that is about it. My Vera Chuck and Dave is my grandson Agastya and by sunshine boy Utpal. What a blessing.

In his lyrics Mc Cartney states Who could ask for more? I mean more than the weeds, the walk, the knitting of the sweater and the Sunday mornings ride.

I do as I have so much more. From a partner who feeds and needs me, to children who love and care but above all my Project Why family that has allowed all my dreams and aspirations to come true and  given me a reason to live. I am blessed.

The little girl in the antic pram could not have imagined what life had in store for her on the other side of fifty. Thousands of beautiful children who entrusted their dreams to her, a huge network of beautiful friends that became family to this only child. I have never felt so loved and wanted and needed. I feel humbled and small and elated and euphoric at the same time.

I want to thank each and everyone who made this possible.

God bless you all.

Today I lose another friend.

The neem tree next to my house

The house next door was broken down a few months ago to be replaced by what is knows in Delhi as builder's flats. This is the plight of numerous houses like mine, built in the sixties when one family or at most two lived in villas with a courtyard in the middle and a small garden in front. Since as demand increased and maintenance costs too appeared the ubiquitous builders flat. The builders lobby has ensured that they be allowed to use maximum space. The authorities insist on parking space on stilts. So bye bye garden, greenery and flowers. Cement vies with marble and glass for space. 

In front of the house being erected stands a majestic neem tree. It has been there for more than 4 decades and provided shelter and shade to many. Though not directly in front of my house, its sprawling branches caressed our home and the rustle of its leaves when the wind blew was welcome as I sat outside reading a book of watching my boys play. 

This tree became part of my life and a much loved friend. Its branches also covered the patch of garden next door and thus became a threat to the new structure that needed that space. The battle was unequal: the tree was destined to lose.

 From the very first day I lived in fear of the moment when the axe would fall wondering how many branches will be sacrificed to the alter of urban living. The dreaded moment dawned and as I write these words branch after branch are being felled mercilessly. It will stand mutilated, robbed of its majesty and grandeur. 

I lost a friend a dew days back. A human one. One I had know for decades. Today I lose part of another friend and I feel a pain I cannot describe. This tree has been witness to every moment of my life from the time I was a college student to the time I became a grandmother. It made me feel protected and safe.

I have often compared myself to a tree when I decided to lay down my hat for the last time. My rather nomadic life had left me exhausted and I needed to set my roots deep. Trees meant being safe, secure and loved.

That the tree is being truncated in front of my eyes brings to mind the ephemeral and transient nature of our lives and the reality that nothing is truly secure.

My tree will reinvent itself as Nature is nothing short of miraculous. It will probably looked skewed to many but to me it will be the indubitable truth that it won the battle.

Someone wrote: We say we love flowers, yet we pluck them. We say we love trees, yet we cut them down. And people still wonder why some are afraid when told they are loved. 

How true this is

Au revoir la haut; until we meet in heaven

Au revoir là haut Etienne. I would have much preferred have him say these words to him and yet it was not to be. Etienne left this world last Sunday leaving us stunned and lost. Etienne was my father's best friend's son and we knew each other from the time we were both in our teens. He was two years my junior. He often said I was a role model. I guess we both were rebellious and non conformists to the despair of our rather conservative parents. This was in the sixties and we were true children of the sixties. I had happily embraced the flavour of the times donning my torn jeans and flowered shirts with gusto, my fringe practically covering my eyes. We lived in Ankara and Etienne who must have been 14 came for a holiday. We bonded at once and spent hours listening to the Doors and Dylan and remaking the world. Whereas I would return meekly to the fold, Etienne the tall dark good looking man, with deep brooding eyes remained a free spirit at heart and would go on to conquer the world of music and showbiz with success.

We lost touch for a while but did meet again and each time we did it was as if time had stood still and we are picking up the conversation of yesterday. In 1985 when I made a short visit to New York, Etienne took us to a magical dinner at the Riverside Cafe. The memory lingers on and fills me with immense warmth as that was what Etienne was a warm and kind soul.

He lived his dream and lived life to the fullest, at times even recklessly. But could it be otherwise. That was who he was. You cannot contain a free spirit, the world as we know it s too small a place.

I woke up this morning feeling that somewhere along the way the tables had turned and the mentor had become the disciple. The lessons of freedom and liberation I had once brought to him had been not only learned but perfected and never abandoned. 

We talked sometimes and it was always a joy. In January this year Etienne took my grandson and the husband to a grand lunch in Paris. I was happy to know that they had met. 

I will miss him. I will miss his smile, his booming voice, his warmth and his presence. He was a part of my life, a kindred soul. No wonder his birth day was one day after mine.

Au revoir là haut Etienne

Th best place in Paris

It is always difficult to chose the one place one likes  in the magical city of Paris. The choices are mind blogging. For me it is often the mood and memories that decide the Parisian flavour of the day. I just follow my heart. Another little bloke did just that last week. The difference is that he did not hesitate one bit as I often do. My grandson spent his holidays in Paris with one set of grandparents. He dutifully followed them from parks to museums and went on long walks. He was to the manor born, a far cry from the bundle of energy running through our lives every summer! But all that would change as his other grandpa, my better half decided to go and spend a few days with the boy in Paris.

Plans were made by one and all though no one asked the two main protagonists. It all boiled down to more walks, this time along the favourite haunts of the Indian grandpa. The later even took his walking shoes! I guess the walking shoes remained in the suitcase as my two favourite lads had other plans.

When they met in the hotel room, no one could have guessed that it would become the best place in Paris for these two souls. Agy spotted the big flat screen TV and the deal was done. It would take a little coaxing and wooing to get mom to agree that this would be where they would like to spend time, the little dude with his cartoons and the old one veering between book and screen. So for the past 3 days, barring meals and a few visits that need to be made, granddad and grandson snuggled under the comforter in the cosy hotel room and indulged in their favourite pastime, one that is not on offer in the little one's home. I guess he is gorging on unchecked viewing. The next time will be when he comes home to us.

So for my boys the best place in Paris is the warmth of a comforter and the big TV.

Enjoy boys!

The first man I fell in love with

It was on a cold April night that he came into my life. He was the first face I saw as I entered this world. It was love at first sight. As he  gently took me in his arms. I clutched his finger tight and knew I was safe. For the next 40 years and 8 months we would live a perfect love story till on a cold November morning he would breathe his last, me still clutching his finger. He was my father. I called him Tatu.

From Prague to Delhi we travelled across continents as I discovered life in its magnitude with the most incredible teacher anyone could have.

He was my father but also my pal, my guide, my mentor and my anchor. His arms were the one place I felt entirely safe. He loved me unconditionally. True we both had short fuses that resulted in angry words and banged doors, but minutes later a gentle knock at the slammed door made it all go away as he stood with a treat he had conjured that would wipe all the tears of hurt and rage. His unique way of  asking forgiveness was food, a pêché  mignon we shared as is amply proved by our escapades to restaurants that began when I was 5. He took me to Maxims in Paris for a three course meal serenaded by a violin. That was the first of many meals together in restaurants across the globe. But he was also the one who taught me to savour the simple of foods and eat with the simplest of people. A hot roti dipped in raw mustard oil with some salt was as titillating as a lobster or a bowl of caviar en tête à tête My greatest joy was when he fed me with his hands making that special bite. I must confess that I enjoyed those even as a gown up woman and a mom myself.

I took my first hesitant steps in life again clutching his hand and learned to walk alone with a confident stride knowing he was always just behind me in person or in spirit. He made sure I never fall. It was though his eyes that I discovered the world and he gently taught me how to look beyond the visible and see the essential. It is he who opened the dormant eyes of my heart and coloured my world with compassion and humanity. With him I discovered cities and countries and many other wonders but somehow everything was imbued with values and that 'je ne sais quoi' that made the most inconsequential place or object worth a king's ransom.

The 40 short years of this incredible journey had its difficult moments, most of them when I came into my own in my rebellious teens and we clashed. He wanted to keep me locked in his love and would have got me the moon had I asked for it and I wanted to break free and discover the street next door on my own. To the young teenager, the portly man was a far cry from all the long haired singers of the sixties, and a child of the sixties I was with frayed jeans and short skirts. I now smile with indulgence at the battailles royales we had as he frowned upon my attire and I held my on.

But the world without him may have meant freedom but everything seemed pale and faded, deprived of all the hues only he could put. It is only when I realised that and returned home as the prodigal child that I lived again.

Tatu was there at every moment of my existence and steered me through every peril and pitfall as I grew from child to woman. He made every hurt go away and every tear turn into a smile. He was the sunshine of my life. When he left he took my sunshine away. Life could only be a poor ersatz of what I lived with him. Only memories provide little slivers of light.

The real legacy he left me was not in the shape of things you can see and touch but in the most unexpected words of people that remember him, be it the woman who sold him vegetables and calls him 'the men with a hat', or his meat vendor who talks of him with gratitude for some legal work he had done or in the memories of a woman who was but a child when we lived in what was then known as Saigon.

To the world he was an Ambassador, a jurist, a man of letters, a connoisseur of wines and food, an orator, a humanist and above all a man as defined by Oriana Fallaci: kind to the weak, fierce to the arrogant, generous to those who love you and ruthless to those who ordered you around.

To me he is simply Tatu, the first man I fell in love with and still love with the same passion.

A beautiful smile

Kamala Goburdhun née Sinha
15 October 1917 - 13 June 1990

If there is one thing Mama had in abundance, it was her propensity to smile and laugh wholeheartedly, a perfect counterpoint to my Papa who was predisposed to gravitas and who did not learn the art of laughing. Mama was one of those women who grew more beautiful with age, reaching the pinnacle of her beauty in her fifties!

The daughter of a freedom fighter who grew up in want and paucity; the eldest child of a woman who became her mother when still in her teens and whose art of parenting consisted in disciplining her eldest who then was left with the task of keeping the siblings in line; a girl who broke all rules to accede to the highest level of education even if it meant adopting her father's Gandhian ways to get what she wanted; a woman who refused to marry unless her country was liberated and worked and lived alone in the big city at a time when girls were married in their adolescence; a woman who fought for women's right when NGOs were not in fashion; a woman who fell in love with a portly gentleman and followed him across the world; a woman who only spoke Hindi to her child so that her child could speak her mother tongue effortlessly as she grew in different lands, a woman who learnt her husband's favourite language (French) as a birthday present to him; a small town girl who was to the manor born ; a mother who ensured that her child would never question her origins and love her country with passion; a woman who embraced life to its fullest refusing any treatment for the cancer that took her away as 'life was too precious to be wasted in induced slumber', Kamala Goburdhun née Sinha was an incredible woman who died with a smile on her lips.

Her refusal to bear a slave child resulted in my having a mother for just 39 years! And all through those years she never lost her smile, even when she sat in a car following an accident waiting for help. It did not matter if her sternum was broken and so were her ribs, she smiled so that her 6 year old child would not be frightened.

I am who I am because of what I learnt at her knee.

I miss her. I miss her smile. I miss her presence. I miss the bliss of still being a child.

I try my best to live to her expectations but know I will never be able to. I only hope that when we meet again I can look her in the eyes without hesitation and bask in the warmth of her smile

In the words of Pierre Lemaitre: Au revoir, là haut!( see you, up there)

There is no God - Serendipity

Just got the news that my uncle passed away. He was my mama's youngest sibling and somehow more a son to her than a brother. She loved him unconditionally. I wonder if he ever knew the extent of her love for him. Now they are together in a better place and will have all the time to say what was left unsaid. He had been very sick recently and I reminisced about him in a blog I titled La Cabana and Shagoofa. In that blog I had prayed that he leave the hospital and go back home to his family. God heard that prayer. He died in his home peacefully. May he rest in eternal peace.

You may wonder why the post is entitled There is No God? It is serendipity at work. Last night my phone pinged and a picture appeared. It looked like a badly scribbled page. I was trying to figure out what it was all about when the phone rang. It was Utpal's teacher and mentor who said she had to share what the lad had written as it was very moving. I will not reveal all today as we hope that once polished the text appears in the school magazine but part of it was the almost disturbing words: there is no God. But the lovely boy went on to say: in the universe there is God: our parents and in those who make our lives.

Yes child, you are so right. For me God was revealed in the eyes of this very little fellow when I first saw him in March 2003. Whenever I am in pain or in doubt; when I am worried or sad; when I am fearful or apprehensive this little chap conjures the miracle needed and lifts my spirits. Having that little scribbled page on my phone assuaged the pain I felt today and reminded me that God is with us all the time.

Apologies for the silence

For the past few days I have been to say the least 'under the weather'. Or to be more honest I should say terribly unwell. Panic attacks and above all a writer's block like never before. Should have sounded the alarm bell. I guess the body/mind nexus does send us many gentle and not so gentle warnings to slow down but adrenaline freaks like me do not listen so big guns are needed and in my case: inability to write. I guess the much dreaded meltdown I wrote about in my book/blog has finally happened. A perfect case of adrenal burnout. I guess I should be singing the Famous Rolling Stones number: 19th Nervous Breakdown though in my case it seems like nervous, mental, intellectual, emotional and physical breakdown. But thankfully I was somewhat prepared though was hoping to be able to outwit it.

But did not happen. As my Doc said this morning there is only so my elasticity in our bodies and ultimately it snaps. So snaps it has.

The prognostic: good but omg haul. Diet. Yoga. Meditation. Exercise. Supplements. Happy Thoughts.  No stress. Well some will be easy, others will need some serious effort but I promise to give it my best try.

I am going to take it one day at a time, one goal at a time the first one to be to start writing again as this has always been my lifeline and if I promise my body to feed, rest and boost it, I hope it will relent and grant me the ability to resume writing.

Till then, apologies for the silence

I'll miss you guys

Since a few days we have all being trying to put up a brave face, by all I mean me of course, my big six year old grandson and the rest of the household. The reason: Agastya and his parents leave us tonight after their summer break of six weeks, six weeks that flew at the speed of light. We all, and most of all I, were aware that the hour of departure would come, but all of us, and again me the most, were dreading that moment from the instant I hugged my darling as he ran into my arms on his arrival and decreed he loved India best. The little imp sleeps with us - Nanou and I - since he first came into our home at the age of six weeks and in the unique style of children also decreed he would do so till he was 20! Needless to say it brought huge smiles on our faces. Our bed is not a big one. It is a futon at floor level and has been a perfect fit for the three of us. My darling child sleeps in the middle and has  assigned one leg and arm for his nanou and one for me. Over the years they have grown bigger and heavier but to us they are as light as air. Oops and I forgot. There is one more person that sleeps with us: Lapinou a stuffed rabbit he has has since the day he was born and that looks a little worn out but believe me there have been innumerable searches for him in the middle of the night!

The past weeks have been blessed but as the hour of departure comes closer, the heart grows heavier and the tears dread to spill with obsessive regularity. This time has been harder as Agastya too seems sad to leave and has been showing his emotions in a wide range of ways: from being impossible and even infuriating to smothering you with hugs and kisses or simply putting his little arm to hold you tight in the middle of the night and to of course demanding his due: cars, helicopters and more cars, small enough so that they can be hidden in his bag at the last moment bypassing his mom's watchful eye.

Yesterday we were in for a special and poignant treat. The day had been a tad melancholy and even Agastya was not his ebullient self. One was even worried about his coming down with a flu. He spend his day lolling around with me, watching TV that even mom gave in. When it was park time, an activity he adores, he decided not to go and preferred staying by my side giving me the regular hugs and kissed or simply putting his leg on me. He played with his cars while I read. It was pure bliss.

Every one though he was tired as he had had a late night the previous day as there was a party in the house, and his mom decreed he should go to bed early, I had a strange suspicion that it was not the case. He just wanted to be with us as he knew how sad we were. I reminded me of our special mode of communication inspired by favourite cartoon Doreamon's Anywhere Door that allows you to go everywhere just by stepping through a pink door. We were unable to find one so we settled for 2 small globes where his had New Delhi marked and mine St Louis and we decided we would hold them in our hands and Skype. I was surprised when he reminded me that his Anywhere door was broken and so we should and get another. Needless to say that is top of my agenda today and I am just waiting for the shops to open. I must admit that I looked for something yesterday and saw a doll like thing that apparently answers questions you ask from your heart. I may just get him that provided it does not have rechargeable batteries as with the voltage difference it may not work. But I will come up with something. The talk took a more sombre tone as he asked me whether I would always be there and what would happen when I passed on. My heart missed a beat as that is a question that gnaws at me each time he leaves. You see I lost my granny when I was his age. And yet the few moments we shared are engraved in my heart and always fill me with a warm fuzzy feeling of eternal love. I was taken back but then remembered what I had told my second born when my mom died. I had taken her out on the terrace at night and shown her the brightest star and told her that Nani lived there and was always watching on her. I told him the same thing but have added a twist shamelessly borrowed from St Exupery. Remember what the Little Prince told him at the hour of departure: But all these stars are silent. You-You alone will have stars as no one else has them... In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars will be laughing when you look at the sky at night..You, only you, will have stars that can laugh. I told him his Nani star would laugh!

My little fellow is a wise soul and catches on everything you say. So he had a treat for us. When it was bedtime, remember the one we were told had to be early as he was tired, he decided that it would be laugh time and treated us to antics that had us in peals of giggles: he cracked jokes he invented, dance around, refused to lie down and sang for us and then he decided to bring balloons in bed and simply laugh and laugh. But all good things come to an end and he finally lay down and cuddled next to me and said: I'll miss you guys! Thank God he soon fell asleep allowing me to weep unabashedly.

Today morning I did take him to the doctor and there he suddenly held me tight and said: I'll really miss you. His eyes were watery and I was choking on my tears.

It is time to go shopping so I hope it will be fun. But I have to be prepared to another heart wrenching moment that might jus break the fragile walls I have erected around myself.m

I'll miss you too darling child. 

Sadly slipped into his cave.

I do not know how many of you remember the song Puff the Magic Dragon so beautifully rendered by Peter, Paul and Mary way back in the sixties. In those days we had record players and scratched records and hummed along our version of the lyrics which were somewhat garbled. My grandson loves this song as it was one that his father sung to him in an endearing French accent when he was a baby. Yesterday as we were both browsing the net I do not know why, except serendipity yet again at work, I decided to show him a version with the lyrics so that we could sing along. I liked the dragon bit as that is my Chinese sign and as luck or serendipity would have it, the comprehension lesson he is reading is about a little boy and a dragon. So the stage seemed set. Little did I know what awaited us. I must admit that though I have heard and hummed the song umpteen times, I never got its meaning truly, but yesterday as we sung along and watched the lovely illustrations the real and touching meaning hit me and my throat started getting constricted as the lyric became immensely sad:

Dragons live forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant strings make way for other toys.
One sad night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain, 
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.
Without his life-long friend, puff could not be brave, 
So puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave. 

I tried to explain to my grandson how toys became sad when you cast them away and that he should remember that. That was lesson 1 for the child. But that was not what serendipity had in store. Lesson 2 was still to be learnt.

My thoughts flashed back to a day way back in October 1992 when a young woman asked her doting father how she could move on in life as she had promised to look after him to her mom on her deathbed. That father's version of serendipity was 'leave it to Him', an answer not quite up the Cartesian daughter's street. But He knew best and it took 29 short days for the father to free his child of the promise. He flew away to his beloved. He had become de trop. You guessed right it was my Pa!

Is it wisdom to know when it is time to move on. Time to take your final curtain call. Time to slip into your cave and cease your fearless roar as no one truly hears it, let alone gets scared by it.  Before you become an impediment for the very ones you love and would as you often say: die for.

I do not know why I feel this way today.

There is only room for hope

Breaking News! My second book is out or almost. I have my author's copy and soon it will be available on-line. It will not be in bookshops as it was impossible to find a publisher, more so one that would publish it in the hart future. So I decided to self-publish. The reason I did so was that I wanted the story to be heard and read in the hope that it would help others facing the challenge of dealing with cancer. Much of what is written is part of the blogs I wrote in the past three years. They were written on the spur of the moment as answers to real issues. However when appended chronologically they became a story, and believe it or not a love story. Somehow an aberration like cancer was able to rekindle a love story that had somewhat been relegated to a tiny corner as we carried on the mission called life and allowed all and sundry to hog the space between us. When Sir Hodgkins decided to visit and threaten to occupy that space, the only way to keep him at bay was to ensure that there we left no space between the one he claimed and the other: between Ranjan and me. It was only the strength of our love that could defeat it. Love conquers all it is said, and in our case it was true.

The arsenal of the big C, in whatever form it attacks is stupendous and sometimes quite daunting. It has many lackeys that serve it and want you to believe that theirs is the only answer. The story I tell shows you that there are options, alternative options and that you have the right to exercise them. But to do so you have to grow a thick hide and be prepared for all kinds of attacks from direct to surreptitious ones. Your defence is your intuition and your gut feeling. You need to trust them implicitly and you cannot lose.

I have had several brushes and two encounters with cancer in the past. I lost both battles. That was two decades ago. Today thanks to the Information Technology and the Internet we have an incredible tool that can beat all odds. It not only gives you information about options but also ammunition to counter any attack you would face. That is how I waged my war.

The other thing I want to share in this book is that it is in our hands to turn any adversity into an opportunity and any elephant into a mouse.

Many of those who are reading this blog are probably part of the book as I did not fight this battle alone. Thanks to the Internet again I found love of another kind because of the misfortune that befell. Had Sir H not dropped in, I would not have been surrounded by such love.

They say that if you sell 5000 books it is a bestseller. Now with the self-publishing saga you have to market yourself and that is something I am a dodo at. I just want my story to be there for anyone who may need to remember that there is only room for hope.

I will share the links where you can find the book as soon as I get them.

A pod and a pea

Strange title for a blog; sounds more like one for a fairy tale doesn't it? It is just another serendipitous moment that I share with you. As often it began with two unrelated articles that came my way while scrolling down my FB page. Before I carry on, a small aside is needed: this is in no way a morbid or black blog. On the contrary I feel it is celebratory. I have never understood why any mention of death always comes with a sense of forbidding. Come on if there is one thing we are certain of the moment we make our wailing entry into this world is that we will have to leave it, and yet it is the one thing we often fail to plan as we do for all other milestones from the first smile to the nth birthday via success in exams, first love, first child  and so on. Often our exit plan is decided by our beliefs or those of the ones we love. At some point when we cross a certain age or are faced with a sudden scare, we at best make a will again more for others than ourselves. Some of us make a living will to at lest exercise our choice in the way we would want to be treated more so in a world where the medical fraternity is hell bent on giving you some extra time notwithstanding the quality. That is a no no for me and I have put that on paper.

I have often thought of my curtain call and though I am a Hindu (my brand of it) I have always felt that pyres consume too many trees and the electric way seems devoid of any soul. Giving one's body to science is an option that will be explored but the question of how should my remains be disposed of remains wide open. Till today I had not found any option that would satisfy my body and soul. This morning I stumbled upon an article that offered a brand new option: an organic burial pod that turns into a tree. This is the brainchild of Anna Citelli and Raoul Bretzel and their project Capsula Mundi. In the words of Anna and Raoul: Capsula Mundi is a container with an old perfect shape, just like an egg, made with modern material -starch plastic- in which the dead body is put in a fetal position. Capsula Mundi is planted like a seed in the soil, and a tree is planted on top of it. The tree is chosen when the person is alive, relatives and friends look after it when death occurs. A cemetery will no longer be full of tombstones and will become a sacred forest! Wow. This satisfies everything I believe in: a full circle as you exit as you entered; a respect for nature; a beautiful resting place and above all a celebration of life.

In a country like India where people are increasing in numbers and forests being depleted with impunity this seems to be a perfect fit. Maybe it is worth exploring.

The other article also brought death to the fore but for all the wrong reasons. It is about Bill HR 933, that is know as the 'Monsanto Protection Act'. It was passed surreptitiously but has alarming consequences. Under this law, courts in the US will be barred from halting the planting or sale of GMO seeds even if they are found to be harmful! Now if this happens in the US of A, then what about what lands on our plate. But the moot point is that we need to have the right to chose what we eat and that right should not be be taken away from anyone, whatever else you want to protect.

I may not have written this had I not been compelled to share a bed with Mr Hodgkin's for a few months that led me to venture into the world of nutrition in a way I may never have. The bottom line is that the food processing industry that may have had good intentions at the beginning has unfortunately lost its way. Today what we eat is laden with additives and preservatives with often unpronounceable names each more lethal than the other, and sadly some even pitched as being good for you. You do not need to be a rocket scientist to realise that the last decades or so have seen a quantum leap in new ailments and auto immune diseases. Obesity is a gift of the food processing industry and ads are its new seduction tool.

Any industry is steered by profit making so what is cheap is best. Corn syrup was the biggest boon for the food industry and the biggest bane for the consumer. The list is endless. Bread which at best should have 3 ingredients has a version has a so called 'healthy' version has more than 30. Some make the bread whiter and chewier; some increase the volume; some protect it from mould. Most are bad for you. Making listing of ingredients mandatory help us making choices. The jury on GMO is out but with the new legislation your hands are tied as you have no recourse at all.

You may wonder why I keep on nagging about the importance of nutrition. In the past two years I have seen how healthy food can heal better than any medicine. But the food we ingest is not real food. Take milk for instance. To keep up with the huge demand cows are now made to produce milk every day with the help of antibiotics and hormones. Gone are the days when they ate grass in the open and produced milk when they had a calf. That is just one example.

Genetically Modified Foods cannot be good for us. Going against nature cannot be good for anyone. You cannot fight the food industry but at least you need to be informed and above all have the right to chose.

Someone bought a watermelon at an organic market. The said watermelon was not sweet so the person complained. You see we have all got used to sweet and red watermelons forgetting that the sweet and red are additives that are injected in the fruit. An organic water melon may or may not be sweet, may or may not be red as that is the way nature functions. We seem to have forgotten that.

A healthy diet can do wonders to your health and quality of life. But it seems to be a losing battle one cannot keep up with. But at least we can exit as a tree. My choice would be the banyan!

Dear God...

Yesterday night at exactly 2.45 am my darling grandson entered the house and lo and behold the crumbling, ageing and somewhat quiet structure got an instant shot in the arm as his little voice, irresistible laughter, unending blabber and unlimited hugs took care of all wrinkles and cracks and pushed all despondence and sadness. My grandson was here and for the next 6 weeks the house will be in Agy Mode! He was quick to tell me that India is his favourite place. I forgot all my diplomat daughter's veneer and decided to be gullible and naive revel in the fact that Nani's home was were he was happiest. As a good grandma I had my share of treats waiting and after all packages were unwrapped and quickly appreciated the little fellow ate his paratha and aloo gobhi (flatbread and cauliflower and potato curry), a meal he had ordered on Skype long back and that defied any canons of meal scheduling. He had his treat at 3.30 am. Then after a long 'chat', some reading ( a promise to his mom) I put off the light and after some time he did fall asleep.

I woke up a little later than usual but still early and tiptoed around whilst I got dressed and was about to sit down to my prayers when he popped his head from under the cover and asked me what I was doing: praying said I! He hopped out of head, folded his hands and said his prayer that went like this:

Dear God

Please wake us up

So that I can play cricket!

Needless to say, God listens to children as in a jiffy he had woken his pal Deepak and brushed his teeth and was out in the drive playing cricket. Grandma had made sure that there was a new bat and wickets and balls ready. Though here again he had called me a day before 'reminding' me that he was landing the next day and asking whether I had everything ready. Nani did decipher the word ready in the right manners.

For the next 6 weeks we will all be in Agy Mode, hearing and learning Agu Speak and all wisely like good children we will tuck away all negative thoughts in the deep recesses of our memory. There will be enough time for them after the 4th of August.

And the next two weeks are even more blessed as Utpal is also there.

Got up brought flowers

Mama left me on this day a quarter of a century ago. I was 39. Normally on this day I write a letter to her or some eulogising post about this extraordinary woman I had the privilege of calling Mama. However this year I feel the need to disclose something else, something that I would carry to my grave if I do not garner the courage to put pen on paper now. And yet it is so much a part of who she was, even if it does not make me look at my sparkling best, the way she always wanted me to be. But forgive me Ma, this side of you has to be told. You may wonder why today and not on her next birthday or next anniversary. I guess it is because in the past months or so, time which once seemed so abundant and perdurable looks extremely finite and fleeting. Perhaps it is also because this dawn as I went out to light my daily lamp, the air was redolent of the heady smell of the jasmine she  so loved and I felt her beside me urging me to do what I was hesitant to. The question that has haunted me for a quarter of a century now has been whether I have lived up to the expectations of the incredible woman who gave up everything so that her child could shine, and by everything I mean much more than anyone could fathom.

That this woman who had accepted the life of an old maid so that her child, if she were to have one, would be born free is a huge debt to bear as it implies that that child, should it be born would value the freedom for which so many fought incredible battles. So the first question that begs an answer is whether I have held up the values she stood for. It is not easy to sit in judgement of ones self as one is too often tempted to add 'meat' so as to make one more palatable. Yet I feel that I have finally reached a milestone in my life when I could dare hope that she would be proud of me. My work with the most deprived has finally brought me home to the India she valued and fought for and where I tried to the best of my ability to pick up the thread she left to marry my father. How can I forget that the feisty lady who was to be my mom drove a truck to reach the remotest villages of Uttar Pradesh to ensure that war widows got their right.

She was undoubtedly an unsung hero who made innumerable albeit invisible sacrifices and set benchmarks the likes of us can never reach as she fought the oppressor in inimitable ways be it the long nights she slept hungry, or the envy she hid behind a smile when she watched her rich relative gorge themselves on delicacies that was not to be hers. How can I forget the flour laced with water proffered to her and her siblings by her proud mom when they asked for milk.

She shared many childhood moments over the years, in bits and pieces, letting each one sink in and find their way in the deep recesses of my memory till the day they would spring up as answers to questions even after she left, fulfilling the role of a perfect mother who ensures she is still around even after her mortals remains have even scattered in the wind.

When she left, I must confess sheepishly that Papa filled the void in such a way that I almost forgot her existence. She had played her role in such a perfect way where she even mastered the art of becoming invisible if the need should arise, leaving Papa all the space so that when he left it is he I mourned as she seemed to have receded behind the huge smile that met my eyes every time I entered the house and looked at the wall. And I mourned Ram far more than I mourned her, a guilt I will have to bear.

Yes I mourned Ram for more than a decade in a way that strangely resembled his personality, not with tears but with an ungainly collar that hung around my neck and when I set up a Trust I committed the terrible offence of not including her name. Everything seemed to be in his memory and the pathetic answer I can come up with is that in all the years we lived together the three of us, she seemed so happy standing beside him that she seemed to live through him. How could I have forgotten who she was.

And yet, when I look back I realise that everything I have done is indelibly marked by her. Was she not the one who stood for the right things when no else did or walk the road less travelled and how can I forget that she proudly bore Roll no 1 of the first girls' school in the city she lived in. She more than anyone else knew that education was the only door to freedom.

As memories emerge slowly I realise that she was always the one who was there for me in time of strife; Papa seemed to be there when things were right.

Today I am no more the impetuous child whose every need has to be fulfilled. There is no one to fulfil them anymore; no one to run to or hide behind, no one to lessen the blows or apply a healing touch. She was the only one to pick up the broken pieces and make me whole again.

When things get bad I find myself rummaging through boxes of photographs that span the almost four decades we lived together and seeing her smile soothes the pain away, or at least some of it. I realise that she never lost that smile no matter what she went through ensuring that I always feel that hers was a happy life. Today I beat myself for not having delved deeper and shared her pain. I guess only children are somewhat selfish.

I stumbled upon a diary she wrote in the last year of her life when a stroke took away part of her memory though I wonder today whether it was not carefully scripted scene enacted to deal with her cancer on her own terms knowing that Papa and I would compel her to follow our paltry Cartesian ways not understanding her meaning of life and dignity. Anyway this diary chronicles her last months on earth and is written with monk like precision where facts are recorded more by the intellect than the heart. It was her and Papa's way of keeping from other the terrible loss of memory she had suffered and so when anyone came by, after a few innuendoes she would go to her room and glean over her diary to answer expected questions. The diary is a record of coming and goings of people, dishes eaten and other mundane non events.

What makes the diary poignant is the fact that each entry starts with the same words: Got up, brought flowers as the first thing she did every morning was pluck flowers for Papa's prayers. It is the diary of a childlike woman who ambles along in a house filled with people, each aware of what awaits her. Gone is the spirit that fights every battle. Gone are the hidden messages for her only child. Gone is the rebellion. Gone is the abundance of love. What was left was the shadow of a woman who ambulates like a marionette her strings being held by a posse of people around her. I was one of the posse too.

As I look back on those months I feel a sense of ruefulness at not having been present enough, kind enough, understanding enough; at not having been able to see beyond the cloak she hid under and the pain her spirit had suffered before it finally decided to melt into oblivion. I was only aware of her physical pain and her stubborn refusal to have a painkiller.

Today I understand why. She had lost what was most important to her but still wanted to be aware of the last breath she would exude as life was meant to be lived and not wasted. It was a battle she had to win and win she did as she died on this day 25 years ago aware and with her dignity intact.

Today I crave for her forgiveness for all the times I was not there for her.

Today I nurture the hope that the past 25 years have been a small step in repaying  the huge debt I owe her.

A love story

Today is my parents' sixty sixth wedding anniversary. The last one they celebrated together was their 41st a few days before mama left us forever. It is not easy for a child to write the love story of her parents as all you have is what they told you, what you saw as you grew up, and what you intuited after they left you, often based on all that had been left unsaid. There is a bundle of what you would call love letters written by them over the years that I stumbled upon after their death. Somehow I did not read them. It seemed somewhat improper to do so. The bundle, tied in a red ribbon I guess by ma, lies in a cupboard waiting to one day be read. Maybe my daughters will, after my time is over. Theirs was a poignant and beautiful love story. In times when girls were married in their teens and boys not much later, it would take more than three decades for these two souls to find each other. How does the small town girl meet the portly westernised boy living across the seas is an incredible story. How does the freedom fighter's daughter wed an MBE is stuff that fairy tales are made of. On May 23, 1949 my mother was 32 and my father 38.

The events that brought them together are worth recounting, more so as they live exclusively in the recesses of my ageing brain. Today seems the appropriate time to do so.

My mother's early life is quite extraordinary, particularly at a time when girls had scant freedom and their only dream was a good marriage. But Kamala Sinha was of another mettle. The daughter of a freedom fighter she had to learn the art of survival at an age when little girls dream of beautiful clothes and fairy tale weddings. Being her father's daughter, she accepted the ungainly rough and hand woven clothes that she wore with great pride, even if they chaffed her tender skin. Her father being often in prison, it was her young mother and her who kept the family going without loss of dignity and that meant that the little girl was sent to the market late in the evening when vegetables are cheap and even then it was the tiniest potatoes she bought knowing that she was the one who would have to peel them. And when he was home, it was she who had to tend to the wounds of her father and his companions when they returned home after political rally where they bore the brunt of police canes and batons as true soldiers of non-violence. Freedom had a whole new meaning for this unique child.

She always talked of her childhood without resentment or bitterness. She knew that hers was special and privileged. Her greatest strength was the presence of two extraordinary women, real troopers: her paternal grandmother and her mother. They knew Kamala was special and did everything to support her dreams and her biggest one was education. They fought with their son/husband in true Gandhian style and Mama finished her schooling, went to Hostel at Benares Hindu University for her BA, then did her MA and even her LLB. With no more degrees to fight for, the inevitable question of her marriage crept up and here it is her father who understood her desire and accepted it even if it went against all social norms. Mama was determined not to marry in British India as she did not want to give birth to what she called a slave child. She was willing to sacrifice her chance at motherhood if that was to be. What she promised her father was that should India become independent and she still be of marriageable age, she would marry whoever he chose!

But the feisty woman was not one to sit at home cooling her heels. She decided to work and work she did for hod your breath: the British! This was a decision that father and daughter took after long hours of heated debates. Mama had come to know of the plight of war widows in the villages where their pension was being usurped by wily male members, and she wanted to set things right. The only way to do so was by joining the administration. She did and soon was driving a truck on dirt roads to reach the remotest villages of Uttar Pradesh. She also had to move to Delhi where she lived alone in Mandi house. The only rider was that her mother has insisted that a faithful servant accompany her. If I remember well he was one of the criminals by grandfather had  represented and got freed! He was a one eyed man and was her shadow. Time passe and I guess she was reconciled to her fate.

But Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos, the three Fates had other pans and were weaving another destiny across the seas in the tiny island of Mauritius where after completing his studies in England and being called to the BAR, Ram had not found a wife. A promise made to a mother by a son who left the sleepy village of Barka Kopa in Bihar , necessitated that wife be found in India. A potential bride had been found but my paternal grandmother's death and the refusal of her family to wait a whole year put an end to that foray. I do not know whether he too reconciled to life as a bachelor. What he did not know was that nothing could happen before August the 15th 1947.

Independence Day dawned. Kamala was 30, and thirty was well passed the age to wed. For Ram too this was a red letter day as he decided to leave his island and opt to join the Indian Foreign Service. He was posted to Prague to open the Indian Embassy.

It was time for the Fates to weave their web! They set things in motion and a friend of a friend told my grandfather about Ram. Th two men met and I think it was love at first sight as they both shared the same values. Though it meant seeing his favourite child leave Indian shores, he felt that Ram was the perfect match for Kamala. He must have had deep insight as one would wonder how a small town girl could become a diplomat's wife. Mama remembered her promise and accepted the match without a word. It was 1948.

Papa courted mama in true European style taking her to Hamilton's to buy an engagement ring and riding in a horse cart all the way to Lodhi gardens to buy her roses! She was taken aback but followed him with stars in her eyes in spite of the glares of her one eyed minder.

They got married on May 23rd 1949.

Their love story ended on June 13th 1990, when she breathed her last in his arms. He had fulfilled the one promise she had asked of him on her wedding day: that he would be the one to perform her last rites!

Mama

You were born in a palace but grew up in extreme want
But with your pride intact
Your little hands must have hurt
As you peeled the tiniest potatoes that come
At a lesser price almost in the dead of night
I wonder if there was enough left for you
Were you not the eldest?
You talked about your mom with great tenderness
I guess you chose to forget
The blows you received again being the eldest
I guess you understood
How hard it is to support
Your husband's dreams
When these same dreams
Come at a heavy price: that of seeing your little ones
Suffer the pangs of hunger
While you stand helpless
But brave and with your head held high
I wonder how your mama felt
Sleeping alone each night
Whilst the man she loved
Was locked up in a dark cell
What lessons these must have been mama
Lessons so precious
That you chose to share them with me
Your only child born in abundance and plenty
Lessons so precious
That they shaped your interpretation
Of how to be a mom!
You were lulled to sleep with songs of freedom
Some soothing but others strident
A freedom so dear that you were ready to give up
Being a Mom
Rather than give life to a child
That would not be free!
Had freedom not come
Then where would I be!
In your arms and at your knee
I learnt everything I know and cherish
And  I strive to be a shadow of you
For you, mama, I can never be.
They have a day every year
To celebrate moms
But every day mama, is your day
Every breathe I take is your gift
And I am, because you were.

When my time comes - the pre-will

Serendipity always seems to come my way though sometimes it is more like synchronicity! I had recently shared thoughts about the props and decor I would want when I have to play my last scene. Serendipitously the next day as I clicked on my iTunes, the song that played was A Mourir pour Mourir - To Die for dying - a song by the fabulous and haunting French singer Barbara who has been part of my life since my teens. In this song she opts for dying when she is still beautiful and still young! The lyrics once again brought to the fore the importance of dying on your own terms, more so in a world that has stolen that right from you. My uncle still lies in the ICU @ of 1K $ a day! The reason given by the medical authorities is that there is no room available! I wonder how long they will take to decide that it is time to fleece you a little less. And talking of serendipity(S) and synchronicity(S) my daughter called me this morning to tell me to expect a call from her best friend whose father had been diagnosed with advance stage cancer and does not want to go the 'conventional' way at his age. He is 80. I am so thrilled to know he exercised his right to chose and his family has accepted it. And the last touch of S&S came into the form of a link to an article about the man who discovered cancer way back in 193, its causes and hold your breath.. it's cure. The cure is astonishingly simple and inexpensive. His work is known as the 'Warburg Effect' or the 'Warburg Hypothesis' and has been carefully concealed by vested interests: the food and health nexus. Will write about it in another post. The only reason for mentioning it here is that this is the very nexus that has also stolen our right to die with dignity.

In my quest to retain my beloved husband's dignity, I have, in the past two years and as the true cartesian I am, delved deeply into studying cancer in all possible ways, giving every approach a fair chance. My litmus test was that whatever was proposed stood the test of common sense and reason. This research has been duly recorded in this very blog in over 300 posts! The sum of my analysis could be resumed in the wise maxim of the first healer - Hippocrates - who said: Let food be thy medicine! And this was the case till less than a century ago when the lure of money and the greed of vested interests took over our health: while one poisoned us the other healed us just enough to be poisoned again by the first: a true infernal spiral. Each perfected their art or science. While engineered food threw your natural defences in disarray, chemical compounds and radical surgery addressed the symptoms but never the cause. And as your natural immunity was destroyed you were at the mercy of the medical fraternity whose claim to success was a few months or days given to your loved ones at exorbitant costs and that came in the form of a body lying in what is known as an ICU where bleeping and humming machines kept your vitals going. A third player joined the game along the way - insurance - and you had a recipe for what I call disaster.

Where were the last words that you heard from a loved one? And what about the comfort of holding the hand of a loved one as you moved on to your next journey? All usurped by the greedy nexuses. You were to die alone in a space where even day and night had been taken away. And the meter kept running till your family was divested of everything they possessed. And to make sure that they did do what was required, a perfect drama is enacted mercilessly tugging at your heart strings and making you feel like a rat should you not conjure the required bag of gold. Mercifully the advent of the net and access to information has made some of us wiser. I think it is time to write what I call a pre-will, one that deals with the way you want to take your last bow. And just like any other will that deals with your belongings, this one too needs to be made stating that it is made in a sound state of mind and it is without any force, compulsion, or instigation from anyone else. Before it gains any legal status, and I hope it will some day, it needs to be shared with your loved ones.

Death is the only reality we can be sure of and is the end of one journey and maybe the beginning of another, so should be a celebration particularly if it happens at a ripe age. I guess I have reached that ripe age and have earned the right to chose my way of dying. I am not like Barbara who in her song wants to die with her beauty intact. Come to think of it I still find myself beautiful and provided I do not fall in the trap of modern medicine should remain so till the end. I feel I have lived a rich life and achieved more than I could have hoped for. I feel truly blessed. Project Why is my swan song or so I believe.

My forays into modern medicine have cured me of any misplaced desire of taking that course of action and mercifully I have a wonderful Tibetan Doctor who has been healing me for the past 10 years. I love that form of non invasive medicine where proffer your wrist and she checks your pulse and writes a prescription of pills you dutifully swallow. I do not even ask her what is wrong with me. I am also lucky to have a wonderful doctor, the kind they made decades ago who look at you as human beings and not objects and listen to what you have to say and do what you would accept to. I also have friends who are healers and help me eat right. I exercise and take care of my body as I know that it is a miraculous machine that does wonders.

I would like to go in my sleep but that is only a gift given to a few blessed souls, so I know that the day may come when I have some ailment or the other that requires attention and this is when choice should have its role to play.

I chose not to go to a hospital, at least not a super speciality one. I chose not to be hooked on any machine and have my loved ones come and stand helpless and lost. I chose not to waste money on a few extra moments on this planet and leave it to the my family to spend as they please. I chose not to be given any form of cut-burn-poison. I chose not to have to wear a backless ridiculous gown that robs me of my dignity. I do not want a tag attached on my hand that is only removed after bills are paid!

There are myriads of alternative ways and yes even a coffee enema is more acceptable than a blitz of radiation. I am willing to eat fruits and vegetables till they start growing out of my ears. I am willing to jump on the trampoline or go for endless walks. I will drink all the potions and brews no matter how bad they taste.

But I will do all that in my home, surrounded by the people I love. I want to be able to see all the things that have been silent witnesses to my wonderful life. I want to hear the songs of yore years, each having a memory tagged to it be it the first kiss or even the first heart break. I want to hug my family and friends and say the words I did not have time to say to them. I want to look out of the window and see the endless sky.

When my time comes....

Seeing my uncle lying helpless in an ICU brought to the fore the stark reality of hospitals and what goes by the name of medical care but is actually medical prolonging of life. This comes at a huge price, and I am not talking of the zeroes behind the initial number that seem to increase and decrease with the depth of your pocket or the number of zeroes in your policy. I refer to the price you and your loved ones are willing to pay and this price is not measures in zeroes.

If you succumb to the seduction of the medical fraternity then be ready to abdicate your dignity and above all your right to decide. You are no more a person but a 'case' or at best a 'patient', and never has the etymology of a word been more appropriate as patience is something you will need more than ever! You and your loved ones are made to feel like idiots or pesky beings to be dismissed as you would a fly.

I wonder who invented the backless gown that is the preferred garment of all hospitals. I am sure it was designed not only for convenience, and that too of the caretakers, but to relieve you of your last shred of dignity. Then you are easy meat for all the investigations and tests and needles and tubes that will be prodded into you with alacrity and impunity, each one dutifully registered on your bill. Your family stands helpless, nodding to everything that is barely suggested but rather commanded. And because they love you they nod their assent. Then you may be shifted into what is known as the ICU but is rather a fish bowl. It is a timeless space where you are again conned out of the comforting lull of night and day and deprived of the one element any hurting human craves for: silence. What you will hear, and hear you do even when supposedly comatose, are the bleeps and jarring sounds of the innumerable machines and monitors you are hooked on.

Your family watches powerless and hurting.

We all write wills to be read after our death but I feel we need to write one that deals with the way you want to be treated when your time comes.

When my time comes, I want to be in my home surrounded by all those I love and by all the objects that have lived alongside me. I want to know when the sun rises and when it sets. I want to wake up when I feel like, and maybe hear the call of the first bird. I want to hear the wind as it blows in the trees that I have seen grow and even planted. And above all I will not abdicate my right to silence. Silence has been my greatest friend. I want my alone time that I have earned after much toil. I want my lungs to breathe on their own, my heart to beat unaided and should they fail me then I would still say well done as they stood me fast for so long.