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.

La Cabana and Shagoofa

I did not know what to title this post. The logical one would have been 'say a little prayer for him', but somehow it did not fit the personality of the person I write about! So I chose one that did. The reason will be elucidated as you read this post. Mama's youngest sibling is fighting for his life in an ICU. He had a cerebral attack and has been unconscious for 4 days now. I only came to know about this a few hours ago.

Tonton Lune as I affectionately called him - an approximate translation for Chand Mama - and I go a long way. To my mom he was more a son than a sibling and she loved him like one would a child. She cared for him deeply and even got him to Paris when we were posted there. He quickly embraced the French way be it in food and wine or dapper clothing. Come to think of it he loves everything that spells STYLE.

Before I go further let me point him out in this family portrait - something we sacrificed to the alter of digital photography - that I found while looking for a picture to illustrate this post. He is the handsome dude in the centre and by the way  am the oldest kid. The picture was taken in April 1962.

My fondest memories of him are of the days when he lived in South Extension way back in the late sixties. I was in my teens, rearing to see the world and he was my door to freedom. With him I could go to all the places I was normally not allowed to. Spending some time with him in his bachelor's pad was priceless. It meant we could go to La Cabana and Shagoofa two of the many restaurants of the sixties. For the uninitiated, Delhi had many restaurants that played live music in the afternoon and had dance floors and exotic names. To a kind of rebellious sixteen year old these places were as exciting as biting into the forbidden fruit and Tonton Lune was my key to them. And we even danced as the both of us loved dancing. In his home he had records that I could play and he always had cars that were different from the run of the mill ones, and riding in them was a super treat. And then there was Mocambo if I remember the name correctly where one could get and savour kebabs sitting in one's car. In those days those succulent and spicy morsels were heavenly and no one cared where the meat came from!

These are my fondest memories of the man fighting for his life as I write these words.

Sadly life takes unexpected turns and we lost sight of each other, meeting occasionally at family functions, more when mama was alive and then less and less. The complicity of yore years slowly faded away. However imagine my delight when he dropped in unexpectedly a few months ago to
 simply revisit almost forgotten memories. Promises were made to meet more often, but the recluse I have turned into remained rooted to her newfound and comforting solitude.

Yesterday when I met him my heart broke at the sight of this lively and fun loving man glued to a bed with tubes and more tubes, bleeping machines and all the paraphernalia that modern medicine has on offer. I was told that he did not react to any stimuli but pain. I refused to believe that and went on a spiel breaking all barriers: space and time, language et al. I talked and talked and he responded by raising an eyebrow or trying to open his eyes. I know he heard me and I know he was laughing in his heart. I also promised him that I would come to see him regularly when he came home and I intend keeping that promise.

So yes the title should have been 'say a little prayer for him' as I know that only prayers will conjure the miracle we seek. I cannot see him robbed of his dignity as this is the one thing modern medicine does to perfection. He has to come home.

La Cabana and Shagoofa do not exist anymore but we will find a place to go to and relive memories of days gone by.

Please say a little prayer for him.

Hubris or comfort zone

It is so easy to fall prey to hubris or sink into a comfort zone. This seems to have happened to Ranjan and I for some time now. He looked so well and had resumed his active live, jet setting far more then he ever had and playing golf in scorching heat and pelting rain. For my part I admit I slackened the pace of my regimen a little and gave in to too many demands be it Scottish water of Cuban smoke not to forget Sugar the sweet poison hidden in so many things. With the quantum leap taken by his travels, the almost vegan organic diet we try and eat with a few cheat days often goes AWOL and I really do not know what goes in his body. When he comes back, I try and get rid of the toxins in the best way possible but it does not always work. I succumb to his entreaties, how can I not, he is the man I feel in love with at first sight. And then he looks so well that I often find myself wondering why some people one meets occasionally ask about his well being with such concern. The new normal I once feared has become just normal! Remember it takes 66 days for things to become a habit and thus for you to sink into a comfort zone and slowly give way to hubris.

Two days ago Ranjan even came to the inauguration of our new project and wonders of wonders spent time with the children, even reading to a little one with such tenderness that my heart melted again. This was nothing short of a miracle. How could I know that a rude awakening lurked around the corner. The same evening Ranjan's best friend dropped by and the rounds of Scottish water abounded. We all went to sleep. At 3 am or so R woke me up. He was burning with fever. Hubris and comfort zones were gone in a jiffy irrespective of the multiples of 66 we had experienced. Memories tucked away in some dark corner jumped to the fore and I was terrified. Where had I gone wrong? Where had I not put my foot down with needed authority? One thing was certain in my mind: I was responsible for this setback. Do the Gods get angry when you fail to express your undying gratitude? Did I dismiss the enemy too early? You know how your mind works when you are a control freak!

The next day I spun like a top between doctors and screen trying to find answers. By the end of the day we knew he had an UTI but then again the questions. Was he not drinking enough water? Where could he have caught the bug and so on and so forth.

What bothered me most was the fact that he had recently had to deal with a huge blow of emotional toxins which in my opinion is the worst form of toxicity. Mr H was the result of one such extended blow. I was not having another come my way. Perhaps the fever was a rude reminder of the fact that emotional toxicity has to be dealt with head on and there are no powders or brews that do the trick.

I have pulled up my proverbial socks and donned all the hats imaginable from Florrie Nightingale to Freud to Spouse Idéale to Doctor Anou to Researcher Bakshi and am on the move. So help me God!

R is better. I guess he needed some pampering and I needed some downtime with him!