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.

The waddling duck

This is probably the only picture of me in a swimsuit. It was taken, if I am not mistaken circa 1968 in Pamukkale in Turkey. I guess it is the mandatory shower before entering the wonderful hot springs. In those days Turkey was still not a tourist destination and Papa and I were the two lone swimmers in the hot pools. It was a magical and unique experience. No one could have it today. Suffice to Google Pammukkale and you have images of crowds in the once pristine wonders. I feel privileged having known the White Castle or Cotton land as it is known in early times. But this post is not about Pammukkale or Turkey but about swimming! Till the ripe age of 62 my swimming ventures were far and few and across the globe: beaches we visited, hotel we stayed in and unexpected treats like the one mentioned. My swimming talents are basic: I keep afloat and can do an approximation of what is known as breast stroke. When I look back at gone times, I cannot even remember the last time I swam or waddled!

My elder daughter is in India on holidays and though she is a woman of few words, she has a huge caring heart and shows her concern in rather unexpected and sometimes almost infuriating ways. She knows how tense and stressed I am - I guess it shows more than I would like to believe - and she got after my life to go the pool with her. I finally relented and accompanied her and even got into the pool. It was a very soothing and calming experience, and P had guessed right, it was what the doctor would prescribe!

Pammukkale as it looked then

I did not say anything to anyone but decided in my mind to at least learn to swim instead of waddling before I die. So believe it or not I signed up for swimming classes and now go thrice a week to learn how to swim. I would like to be able to swim as gracefully as possible and will give it my best shot. I did 15 laps today. Quite proud of it. But whether I learn to swim like a pro or not, this will still be the only swimsuit shot of mine. When I look at it now, I would say I was fat, but believe me in those days the canons of beauty were different and I found myself confident and even pretty and was never uncomfortable in my skin. I wish girls today understood that beauty comes from within and each one of us is beautiful because God made us unique.

Will the duck turn into an egging swan. Only time will tell.