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.