The Doctor and the Director

The Doctor was loved and revered by all. He was brilliant and skilled in his diagnosis. But more than that he was a healer. Much more than a doctor. Anyone who has been afflicted with a life threatening disease will know what I mean…..the difference between a doctor and a healer. Always calm, always smiling, detached but never aloof, he listened, he spoke, he touched your soul exactly where the wounds were. And to think that he chose this profession on the toss of a coin. All he had to say was “How are you?” and everything would seem brighter. One often wondered where he got his seemingly supernatural stamina and tolerance dealing with suffering and disease all the time.

His fame grew and more and more people thronged to the public hospital where he worked, braving all inconveniences of a government hospital to be treated by him and him alone. He remained his affable caring dedicated self…..the fame and the adulation didn’t touch him. So this was the Doctor.

And then there was the Director. A tall, handsome, dashing man in his early fifties, also a brilliant doctor chosen from amongst many eminent peers to lead this same hospital. He too was known to be a deeply spiritual man with an enviable track record in his specialty. Just the right man to steer this institution. One would have imagined that the Doctor and the Director would absolutely hit it off.

But strangely enough as the Director settled in, the Doctor seemed to be getting side-lined. At least that’s how it appeared to his patients. His OPD slots were assigned to other doctors. His appearances started getting rarer. The Director kept deploying him elsewhere for administrative work. It seemed the Director just didn’t appreciate or value the Doctor’s abilities which had seen generations of patients heal and made the hordes revere him like God. However, if you were very persistent and insisted on consulting the Doctor you had to go through the Director. The Director held all the cards in his hand.

Everyone missed their beloved Doctor. And had to settle for memories of him. Newcomers to the hospital were narrated stories about the Doctor, his brilliance, his dedication, his serene aura and how he was a true friend, philosopher and guide to each of his patients. He became a legend, larger than life.

The Director in the meantime was going great guns taking several initiatives in modernising and enhancing the capacity of the hospital. He won many awards and accolades. And gradually as is inevitable, people accepted this state of affairs, including me.

Till one day someone mentioned that the Director was going to retire in a year’s time. I perked up…... could it……could it possibly herald the reappearance of the doctor?

P.S. Strange though, I must say, that no one ever saw the Doctor and the Director together.

Prerna: From hopelessness to hope

Tata Memorial Hospital (TMH) organised a programme  to raise awareness on breast cancer and salute the individuals who grapple with the disease. The unique event, on 30^th October, 2017 - ‘Inspiring Art from Adversity’, was built around the aesthetic exposition and expression of human will and determination in troubled circumstances. Bringing about a creative synergy to the experience of breast cancer, the students of the renowned JJ School of Art were commissioned by Abbott Pharmaceuticals to depict a cancer patient’s pathway using the refined medium of art. This grand initiative that generated twenty-five art masterpieces was appropriately titled, “Prerna (inspiration)”. 

I was invited on this occasion to share my experience. Here is the text of my speech:

I am honoured to be here and sharing the stage with Ms. Devika Bhojwani and Ruby Ahluwalia. Ruby is a dear friend and I have witnessed her journey at close quarters. When Nishu called me, my first reaction was that I have nothing to my credit so what can I possibly share…..But even as she persuaded me, I realised that all of us who have been through this experience have made some difference somewhere and if nowhere else, then at least each one of us has grown and transformed for the better. Destiny has a way of choosing its subjects very carefully …..choosing the ones who will make a difference as Devika, Ruby, and many more have done. So I try to remember that I am among the chosen ones.

Cancer was, and still is, spoken in hushed tones and obituaries thought of and drafted as soon as the diagnosis is delivered. It is also associated with a painful end. Our movies and media have only served to reinforce this. In fact, this notion was so deeply embedded in my consciousness that if I was playing rapid fire and you said cancer I would have responded with hopelessness or end or some such word. This is of course before my own brush with cancer. Now my response would be curable or second chance. I first saw cancer at close quarters when my father in law was diagnosed with the disease in 1995 and underwent treatment at TMH for the following seven years. It was a difficult journey for him and all of us.

It was while he was being treated for recurrence of cancer that I felt a very small hard nodule in my breast….I say nodule because it was so small it did not deserve the status of a lump. I ignored it. It didn’t even cross my mind that it was worth investigating. Soon it grew into a lump in a matter of four months. That’s when I first saw a doctor. The verdict was cancer. And as you will all agree nothing prepares you for this diagnosis. I had seen and nursed my father in law through cancer……but it is one thing to tell someone how to handle the diagnosis and treatment and quite another to practise it.

My diagnosis came at a time when my father in law was not too well and needed a lot of assistance and care. We did not want to upset him with my diagnosis and add to his burden so we kept up a pretence of all being well and I decided to do all initial hospital trips for tests etc. on my own. It kept me busy and left me with little time to brood. Further, I imagined the journey would be a long one and I wanted my family to conserve their energy for a time when I needed it more. After all life will and has to go on.

I count myself among the fortunate ones who are blessed with good health (yes I had cancer but I was in good shape otherwise) and resources …..I mean finances, friends and family. Friends were my great support. Family was my strength and weakness too. I realised that they were suffering as much if not more than me. And I can’t tell you how grateful I was to God that it was me and not them. This I could bear, that I could not have.

For me, the simplest way I can describe my experience is  that it was a journey of faith ……faith in everything…..doctor, hospital, god, destiny, goodness, self……that everything that was happening was good for me in some way……and believe me it was. I wasn’t young when I was diagnosed…..I was 43……it seems young now though…….but cancer made me realise that I was living life pretty thoughtlessly and like I was going to live forever. Putting off things for tomorrow……whether it was an apology, or charity or fun and enjoyment, or pursuing my interests, or calling and visiting old friends and relatives. The biggest reminder this disease gave me was that I was mortal….. Tomorrow may literally not come …….Life as it existed would end one day. So every moment is precious…..not necessarily to be used in some way but definitely to be savoured.  To be alive took on a new meaning. My doctor (no marks for guessing who it is….Dr. Badwe) helped me realise that it is not the length of one’s life that is material but how well it is lived. And that thought or sentiment stayed with me and guided me through. You know, after my mother underwent cataract surgery, she was delighted because, though nothing in the house or environment had changed, all the colours seemed brighter and clearer. Cancer did that to me. That’s the closest analogy I can think of. Everything was the same as before but every experience became sharper, sweeter, and brighter.  I consciously stopped thinking or questioning how long I would live. Tried to live each day as well as I could in the circumstances.

I am by nature impatient. But at TMH you have to wait and wait and wait. You will be seen but you have to wait.  The treatment and TMH taught me patience or maybe surrender is a better word. By surrender I don’t mean give up. Sometimes you have to surrender and conserve your energy rather than fighting what cannot be changed. During chemotherapy, often the discomfort is not eased by anything….you just have to wait it out. You can crib or cry or curse but the body and the drugs take their own time. One learns “This too shall pass”. And this training has stood me very well in many life situations faced later.

I learnt many things about breast cancer, its increasing incidence in urban India, lack of awareness about it which made for poor prognosis and survival, and cultural inhibitions among women in talking about their bodies and bodily changes and so on. I was also acutely aware of all the emotional upheaval that the patient and family goes through. I was very keen to contribute in some way towards spreading awareness about breast cancer and also providing support to those going through it. One always emerges stronger from this experience but it is nice if there is someone to hold your hand while you walk just to encourage you when you may be losing hope or help you shift your perspective. I had so many who helped me on this journey and I almost felt compelled to contribute in some way.

I was a risk averse, tread the straight and narrow kind of person. Having come so close to losing it all I learnt to take some risks. Cancer gave me the strength and insight to confront my insecurities and gather the courage to leave a job where I was stagnating in every way but was not quitting because status quo was so comfortable. Then I could devote time for volunteering at TMH and other social causes. Between then and now I also did things which I never thought I would attempt……I started a blog, learnt swimming and singing and blithely performed at social gatherings! These maybe easy things for many but for me they were milestones!

However I did have inhibitions in talking about cancer and my experience on a public platform.. It took me quite some time to get over that. It is my doctor who egged me on and the first time I shared my journey with breast cancer was at the breast cancer support conference in 2006. Talking about it publicly was cathartic and I realised that was when I healed completely….. inside out.

In 2007, along with a survivor I met during my treatment and now a very dear friend, and supported and encouraged by Dr. Badwe, Dr. Parmar and Dr. Sarin we introduced a post operative rehabilitation cum group counselling session for the breast cancer patients with a small takeaway which includes a bag to carry the drain and a small cushion to support the arm. This is well institutionalised now. And this friend is none other than Mamta Goenka, now a three time survivor and a very well-known face and loved volunteer at TMH.

For me coming to TMH has always been like a pilgrimage. The courage and resilience of the patients never fails to inspire. My own troubles fade into insignificance and remind me to be grateful. I deeply admire all the doctors and staff here and have learnt a lot by observing their dedication and compassion. So I will sign off by saying that I do believe that my tryst with cancer has been enlightening and transforming and since my husband and daughter are not present here to contradict me… I can safely say that I am a better person for this experience. I try to never forget

Que será, será

Whatever will be, will be

The future's not ours to see

Que será, será

A letter to Angelina Jolie

My dear Angelina,

The world is singing paeans to your bravery and heroism……..but I am struggling to find meaning in your actions. You have willingly chosen to have a double mastectomy as a preventive measure against breast cancer. A double mastectomy……any woman’s worst nightmare. When you tested positive for the BRCA1 gene and were told that you had a 87% chance of getting breast cancer, did the doctor not spell out the other non-invasive monitoring mechanisms? Like regular breast self-examination and screening both clinically and technologically at periodic intervals? Were you not told that breast cancer can be cured if detected sufficiently early? Were you aware that if you did not chop off your breasts and were at some stage to contract the disease, the treatment would have involved surgical removal of the lump only (if detected early) and at worst the whole breast?

So what have you done? You have put yourself through an agonising procedure even WITHOUT the disease.  For all you know you could have been in the lucky 13% but you messed it up big time. You did not give yourself a chance. Poor misguided soul……..I feel really sorry for you. Only a person of sound mind is allowed to take decisions…..how were you allowed to…….because a mind gripped and paralysed by fear is not sound.

I am wondering how far this fear and insecurity will take you.  Which organ goes next? The ovaries of course and then I suppose the uterus and definitely the appendix and the gall bladder and perhaps stents in the arteries before they get clogged or even better a bypass surgery. And, then, I suppose you, Angelina Jolie, (or whatever is left of you) expect to live happily ever after. Amen!

You may say that it is your body and your life. So go ahead, but why glorify it? Aided and abetted by the media which is putting you on a pedestal and making poor gullible individuals out there wishing they had the money to safeguard themselves in similar fashion.

You seem to have forgotten that we are all mortal. While we are alive, we should live healthy and eat healthy,  and revere our body, but where is the wisdom in trying to fix something before it is broken and at what cost? You may feel that by removal of your breasts you have eliminated the possibility of suffering associated with cancer. You may think you have outsmarted the Creator who wrote your destiny………but He is having the last laugh…….He can see that, breast cancer or not, ……..you have inflicted on yourself all the physical and mental trauma that breast cancer diagnosis brings - dis-figuration of the body and fear of suffering and death. You will be fine, yes, till you are consumed by the next fear.

There is a very thin line between heroism and foolhardiness……depends on where you are looking from. Your actions remind me of the story of Don Quixote and the Windmills.

May God bless you with good sense and faith.

Yours affectionately,

Nitwit

My timeless, ageless, priceless “Miss”

1A, 1D, 2A, 3A, 4A, 5C, 6B, 7B, 8B, 9A, 11………these alpha numerals spell my journey in St. Mary’s Convent High School, Allahabad (SMC). 10 is missing because for that one year I was in a different school as my parents moved to Jaipur and SMC had no hostel, otherwise, I would have lived out my fantasies of St. Clare’s and Mallory Towers.

6B and 7B stand out in my memory because of you, Miss........Mrs. Jaya Padmanabhan to the rest of the world but forever "Miss" to me. That is what we called all the teachers unless they were nuns, who were “sisters” or “mothers”. There were no males but for our basketball coach! You had joined the school that year and were assigned 6B as class teacher. You were new and we were the veterans. About 30 or 35 eleven year olds on the threshold of adolescence.We must have been more than a handful.

 I still remember my first glimpse of you on the first day of the session, as you marched into 6C to ask whether Nivedita Shrivastava was there. I was, and refused to go with you to my allotted section. All my classmates from 5C were promoted to 6C……I could not understand why my section had been changed. I have often in later years marveled at my audacity in resisting the change. There you were…….a portly figure, hair drawn neatly into a plait, beautiful complexion, a nose-pin (on the south Indian side), bright eyes hidden behind thick spectacles and a very firm and clear voice.

I dragged my feet as I followed you into “your” (not "my") section, both defeated and defiant. I was determined to dislike you. What a beginning to the most memorable and wonderful two years.I didn't know then that it would be two years. Who foresaw that you would be promoted with us J and be our class teacher in 7B? I do not think such a coincidence ever happened in the history of SMC.

I remember each one of my teachers right from Mrs. Hogg (1A) to Miss Caston (11). All memorable in their own ways,  but……there was always this qualifying “but”…..some were short on patience, some on intelligence, some on involvement, some on perception, …..some were self- absorbed, some played favourites, some were plain eccentric.

And you……despite starting off on the wrong foot………YOU……. just barged into my heart.

You taught us English, History, Geography, Arithmetic, Algebra, Geometry, Science……and much more…….

You stimulated and challenged us. You knew our strengths and weaknesses but made sure that neither overwhelmed us. You brought out the best in each one. You did not try to fit all of us into the same mould. You made sure the shy ones spoke up and the talkative ones learnt to listen. We learnt to compete but also rejoice in a classmate’s success and victory. We learnt the value of humility and pride. We learnt the difference between naughtiness and indiscipline. You saved us from the wrath of the nuns and sometimes our parents too. You knew when to punish and when to condone. And what fun we had……..Even those thick lenses could not hide the twinkle in the eyes. Sometimes you too had a tough time keeping a straight face as you empathised and, dare I say, enjoyed our mischief. We were “your girls”…….and as “your girls” there were boundaries of decorum and discipline we could not cross. If we did, you gave us the “look” and at worst “the cold treatment”. That was enough. “Your girls” had to be the best!

You gave us so much love………you know I used to feel that you loved me the most……….but now when I exchange notes with classmates, I find that each girl felt the same way!

I realised all this much later…….back then as an 11-12 year old, all I knew was that you loved me……..and how much……..and that you understood me. I would work double hard, in fact, outdo my capability for a word of praise from you.  I blossomed and bloomed in that love. It all came back to me in a flash as I heard that same strong, loving voice over the phone more than 4 decades later. I talked to you and was again enveloped in that warmth……..all was well with the world and everything will be alright.

Yes, Miss, when you say so.

This thing called marriage

An ugly fight over a very trivial issue between two very nice people married to each other, is what has set me wondering what marriage means to some…..

Marriage appeared to be a game in which winning was very important for both sides….My victory above all…. No ground rules and no room for any referee.

They seemed to be desperate to prove that it was a marriage of equals….equally vicious, equally loud, equally hurtful, and equally violent .....And a show of of rich vocabulary when it came to abuses.

They were hell bent on holding on to the precious nothings……their egos, their views, their expectations, their positions.....not love or respect.

Each could see so clearly how wrong and unreasonable the other one was and how reasonable and right he/she was. They had even kept count of how many times exactly he/she had given in to the other’s views. Wow! What a memory….both must be very intelligent too. I just wonder whether their memory will also retrieve the number of times the other had listened to him/her.

I want to ask them what they thought this thing called marriage was all about when they decided to get married.

What IS marriage all about?

I don’t know what it is about but I can list a few things it is not….

It isn’t a battle for supremacy….. “You vs. Me”

It isn’t a scoreboard keeping track of the hits and misses.

It isn’t about winning the argument and losing love and respect.

It isn’t about belittling the other to prove your greatness.

It isn’t about right and wrong unless moral or ethical issues are involved.

It isn’t about efficiency, capability or intelligence.

It isn’t about your past or the present.

It isn’t about “me” all the time.

It isn’t about fault finding.

It isn’t about “who stayed up all night with the baby” or “who changed the nappies” or “who took the dog for a walk”.

It isn’t about judging the other’s behaviour but judging your own.

It isn’t about equality either. (An estimation of equality in marriage can be considered only after at least ten years of marriage….the overall picture, because in any one situation it will never be 50-50. Sometimes it may be 40-60 or 70-30 or 60-40 or… so maybe over a ten year span one can evaluate how equal it was)

(This list is not exhaustive, needless to say, and I am sure everybody can add to it.)

Easier said than done……..very true…….who said it was easy? Marriage is a lot of hard work......provided, may I add, you want to LIVE with your partner. Loving is the easy part, LIVING together is the tough part.

I do not have a long list of “it is…..” Just one…… it is about love, of course, and lust  for each other, not just for the body, but for the company, the presence, the essence. Everything else derives from this….. because then there WILL be sacrifices, compromises, adjustments, humour, appreciation, enjoyment, fun and excitement......and above all.......forgiveness.

A few are blessed with this understanding to begin with, most of us learn along the way and some learn too late....but everyone learns.....life has a way of teaching us. (Even as I write this, though, I can recall a few lucky ones who got away because they had partners with enough understanding for both.)

Living with Emily

I fell in love with Emily at first sight, but I was not looking forward to living with Emily…..you know, loving and living do not necessarily go hand in hand. I was sure that there were many who would have perhaps given an arm and a leg to be the chosen one and I should consider myself honoured but to me it seemed like the pairing of spring and autumn….I was sure I would not be able to cope with her demands…..definitely not physically. I was regretting the moment of weakness (infatuation?) which had made me agree to the proposal. How could I even think of it at my age? And now it seemed there was no going back without showdowns and ugly scenes and recriminations…

So I landed in Mumbai - all keyed up, excited but apprehensive…about living with Emily. What a rousing welcome I got! Of course I was flattered and gratified but I still wasn’t sure this was the right thing to do. Her parents left that night for their holiday. So Emily and I were alone at last.

I peeped into her bedroom. It had been done up quite nicely. She jumped on to the bed and invited me. Well I was feeling a little tired after my journey and hungry too. Emily also wanted dinner but expected me to do all the cooking and serving. Well, I suppose if you are blessed with drop dead looks like her you can get away with anything. After dinner, she would not settle down and wanted to take a walk. A rather healthy habit, I thought, and would do me no harm to accompany her. And I felt quite proud at the envious glances I got from other walkers. That made me feel very good and I forgot all about the tiredness and all of that.

I wanted to watch some TV programmes but Emily would have none of that. She wanted all my attention…..and love. So be it I said. And what a lovely time we had. Should I give a graphic description? And then both of us fell asleep nose to nose.

Emily was a seductress I tell you. She made things so easy. But she was an early riser…a morning person. I got up in the morning with her breath on my face and her limpid eyes looking adoringly at me. We went for a walk, sat on the bench and enjoyed the early morning sights - little kids being packed off to school, the milk and newspaper deliveries. No words were needed…we were in perfect communion.

We came back home, fooled around with each other, had breakfast, and did our own thing till lunchtime. Wow, how wonderful! The evenings were spent with Emily playfully teasing me or sitting on my lap.

But, Emily would sometimes become very excited and overwhelmed by her emotions and she had long nails and well, I got scratched! Thank God, I wasn’t going to work – it could have been embarrassing. But she was such a darling….she got her nails clipped even though she hated it.

She had many friends and admirers in the colony where she lived and I was rather possessive but I need not have worried. After her parents, she loved me the most. Many people came up to talk to me as we walked in the evenings……I knew they were eyeing Emily….I was just an excuse to get close to her. But I ended up making a couple of friends.

She did not mind my old friends coming over or my going out with them…..but not in the evenings or nights….which had to be hers exclusively. She would get very upset if she was left alone in the evening. I learnt that the hard way. I came back one night to find the book I was reading in shreds. And believe me I had a hard time making up with her. It was the last time I made that mistake.

She loved being pampered and was quite a foodie. That was another thing we had in common. We enjoyed good food and did not believe in diets and restraint.

But the difference in our age did catch up and I found it increasingly difficult to keep up with her energy levels. And I had my family waiting for me at home. I did not know how to explain all this to her. I had to leave. And her parents were coming back too.

My dear dear Emily, I hope you will understand……I love you very much and will always be there for you…….but you need a younger companion.

 

Celebrating Teej

On the Shukla Tritiya of Bhadrapad, Hartalika Teej is celebrated in many parts of our country especially, Bihar, U.P., Maharashtra and Rajasthan. Lord Shiv and Parvati are worshipped by the womenfolk. Teej celebrates the union of Shiva and Parvati. As the katha goes, Parvati was deeply in love with Lord Shiva who was an ascetic and not even aware of her existence. Her father had promised her hand in marriage to Lord Vishnu. But Parvati was determined to marry Shiva. She performed penance in the Himalayas for many years till Shiva was forced to take notice of her and accept her proposal. On Teej, therefore, married women fast and pray for the well-being of their husbands and conjugal happiness....unmarried girls also fast so that they may be blessed with good husbands. The fast, of course, like all Hindu festivals includes dressing up in new clothes and jewellery and singing and dancing, often through the night. 

When I married a Bihari, this was the only fast that my mother-in-law asked me to do and I have religiously done so now for 30 years. I did not question it but my feminist friends questioned me….Why do you fast for the man? Does he reciprocate and fast for you? Such male chauvinism! Even after so much education you are following patriarchal values….and so on and so forth in the same vein. These arguments did have a point. I thought about the issues of gender equality, reciprocity, conflict of my own beliefs and actions raised by them and here I present the reasons why I continued to "religiously" observe Teej. This is especially for my very young friend who is likely to get married in the near future and may have to follow some similar traditions and rituals, which she does not subscribe to…in principle.

• It isn't about principles, it’s about love. 
• I do not understand and appreciate all the rituals or the reasons for the festival but I do understand and appreciate the sentiments and beliefs of those who have my good at heart and love and care for me. 
• That is why, to give an example, I do not believe that applying sindoor is auspicious for my husband. Yet I do apply sindoor because it is a custom, it pleases my mother and mother-in-law, and it makes no difference to me……This is just one of the insignificant-to-me things I follow because they are significant to those whom I love and respect. 
• I do not believe that by fasting on Teej, the longevity of my husband’s life is impacted. 

At the same time…

• I do believe that fasting is good for my body because it is an opportunity to detox and it makes me appreciate and be thankful for the goodies on other days. So, some festivals are for feasting and some for fasting. Does it matter for what or for whom? 
• I do believe that I am expressing gratitude to God for having a loving and faithful partner. 
• I do believe that Teej (or for that matter Karvachauth) is just a festival like Holi, Diwali, Dussehra, Navratras…. I haven’t had anyone ask me why I celebrate Holi or Diwali. 
• I do believe that the origins of Teej are from a time when women did not enjoy personal freedom and economic independence. Therefore the character and attributes of the man they married had a far greater impact on the quality of their life than we can imagine. 

True, the scenario is different now, at least for women like me and my young friend who has been fortunate enough to receive a good education and gender has never significantly hindered our ambitions and aspirations. But as I see it, these are festivals whose significance and meaning have changed with the times but their celebration is a part of our culture just like our traditional attire, our cuisine, our music, dance and arts.

Most of our festivals have their origins in an agrarian society and are related to harvesting and planting seasons. How many of us can say that when we celebrate Holi, Diwali, Onam, Sankranti, Dussehra, we even remember their connection with the agricultural cycle…….we continue to celebrate the festivals ….so also Teej.

In fact, what I find more selfish and chauvinistic is the use of toxic chemicals in the colours in Holi and the noise and air pollution caused by crackers in Diwali, the pollution of our rivers and the sea and not to mention the noise during the festivals of Ganesh Chaturthi and Durga Pooja, than the simple fasting on Teej.

I hope this makes some sense to you, my friend….

The Slut Walk

Delhi has just witnessed the first Slut Walk.

I should have the freedom to wear what I want without fear of assault – verbal or physical, implicit or explicit.
Why am I slotted in the category of “loose” when the garments are too tight?
It’s my body and I will dress/undress in public as I please – so what if others find it revealing or titillating or inappropriate.
I should not be slotted in categories based on the clothes I wear. I am not my clothes.
Who decides what is appropriate and what is not?
How can you say that I invited trouble by wearing what I did?

Very true.....

Why should I lock my house when I go out?
It’s my house, the gate/door /wall marks the boundary and everybody knows that, things inside the house are my possessions and anybody entering without my permission is an intruder/ transgressor/thief.
If I leave my house unlocked and it is burgled why do people blame me and not the intruder?
With domestic help in the house why am I advised not to leave cash and valuables lying around?
How can you say I invited trouble by putting temptation in their path?

Very true .......

I have two options – take the safer one and lock my house or believe in the sanctity of ownership and leave it open.

See any connection?

I am a staunch advocate against sexual violence or harassment and firmly believe that no woman “asks” to be raped or molested. At the same time, I believe that appropriate dressing is contextual and decorum cannot be thrown to the winds. It’s just like taking appropriate steps to safeguard your home.

Correct me if I am wrong.

Thank God she's not alive

Sex ratio – a term which most people would have now become familiar with considering that the newspapers have been full of the sex ratio figures as revealed by the census. The child sex ratio is falling – that is the number of girls per 1000 boys in the 0-6 age group is decreasing. Now what, may I ask, is surprising about that? We as a society do not value our women so they are always the last to get medical help. And women themselves have been told for centuries that they must put everyone else before themselves so they do not even demand services. They have no economic value assigned to their work so one less or thousands less makes no difference to the GDP. Education too – they are lucky if they get it – even if they do, many end up sacrificing their potential for family or at the feet of the husband’s ego….. the usual refrain!

And there begins the cycle where the woman who has not felt valued by society and learnt not to value herself becomes society’s accomplice in eliminating the girl child. And so begins the downward spiral of the child sex ratio. Technology has made it easy and guilt-free. All you need to do is to find an unscrupulous doctor, get an ultrasound done, understand the unsaid message and decide. You could go a step further – chose the male embryo from the petri-dish. No bloodshed, no guilt, no evidence.

So far so good – but what defies logic is why prosperity and education are not making an impact. My grandmother believed that education would empower her daughters and she braved all opposition to send her daughters to school and university in the 1940s. She was sure that by the time her granddaughter grew up there would be no difference between a son and a daughter. Thank God she is not alive to see this day – how would I have explained this trend to her.

shadi 3 crore ki

I have noticed that celebrations, be it birthdays or anniversaries or marriages, seem to be getting bigger and bigger and of course costlier and costlier. (And simultaneously, relationships are becoming more and more fragile and tenuous. People are willing to pay any price to be exclusive / unique / first-to-do-this or that; but unwilling to invest time and effort in relationships).

Nobody wants to be left behind in this race and few have the courage to stand out. (Somewhat strange - considering that you can only be a loser at the end of it – of resources if you are lucky, and much more if you are not).

So, even my maid whose monthly income from all sources would be about Rs. 5000.00 per month hosts a birthday party which boasts of balloons, festoons, fairy lights, chocolate cake, soft drinks, a magician and return gifts. She borrows and borrows without a qualm and when I try to reason with her to avoid these unnecessary expenses she actually misunderstands my motives (jealousy she implies! You people don’t want us to progress!!!).

While I am smarting, I suddenly remember all the applications for loans and withdrawals from Provident Fund accounts for weddings, that I recommended and forwarded for sanction as head of a branch and wonder why I am dissuading her – she’s borrowing to spend for a birthday, many of us borrow to spend on our daughter’s weddings. What’s the difference really? We are both spending beyond our means. And why do we do that? To live up to or surpass the aspirations and expectations set by some X or Y or by what is glamourised in movies and TV serials? What is it in human nature, which makes us ape extravagance and not emulate simplicity?

It must be this aspect of human weakness that has prompted the reality show “Shadi 3 crore ki”. As I pondered my first idle thought was - why only 3 and not 5 or 10? And what will they show I wondered. Not much ingenuity would be required with a budget like that unless one had the choice of arranging the wedding in the minimum amount and pocket the rest!

Second thought – in our country where traditionally the wedding expenditure is largely borne by the girl’s parents, what kind of impact will it have? After all, parents of daughters in this day and age too, lament the fact that they are unable to find a befitting match unless they are willing and able to shell out dowry. Or they have to compromise on the qualities / qualifications / social status. Many, instead of being proud rue the fact that their daughter is very highly qualified or earning well because an equally qualified boy comes with a prohibitive price tag. In fact, daughters are being eliminated in the womb because they are seen as a burden (the chief one being expenditure on marriage).

Censors object to heroes /heroines smoking on screen because they feel it will incite/inspire young people to emulate them – in similar vein I fear “shadi 3 crore ki” will fuel unrealistic aspirations and increase the burden on girls and their parents.

Painful parting

It’s not so long ago that my husband was posted to Bombay. (I mean 20 years is not a long time ……). How hard we tried to get a change but that was not to be. How we cursed his Personnel Dept for their rigid stance. I came very reluctantly, very unhappily. And then I fell in love with Bombay. Pure, unconditional and consistent - despite the squalor or the bursting at the seams local trains or the ever dug up roads, the traffic, the concrete, the weather, whatever….. 'twas the love of a mature woman as she aged from 33 to 53 years and Bombay became Mumbai.

I discovered myself in Bombay. It is here that I shed the burden of guilt for being a working mother. It is here that I learnt that it was OK to ask my husband to help me with household chores. It is here that I learnt not to distrust strangers. It is here that I got and overcame a dreaded disease. It is here that my daughter grew up without fear of molestation or eve teasing. I learnt to value the maids who taught me quite a few lessons in professionalism. I understood what it meant to pursue your dreams and gathered the courage to shrug off my boring job. I shed a lot of unnecessary baggage.

Now suddenly its time to bid adieu to my love and move on to Delhi.

My first memory of Delhi is when my mother and I (10 years old) accompanied my father on his official trip. While he went to work, we went on Delhi Darshan – Jantar Mantar, Qutab Minar, Ashoka Pillar, Humanyun’s Tomb, Purana Qila, Red Fort, India Gate, Rashtrapati Bhavan, Parliament House, Connaught Place and the University. It was awesome considering that I lived in Allahabad and all my outstation trips were confined to various uncles, aunts and cousins in Lucknow, Gorakhpur and Kanpur.

So when I qualified for admission to B.Sc in Miranda House, I was thrilled. But my wings were trimmed before I could fly. After much debate and discussion and heartburn, it was decided that I was too young and impressionable for Big Bad Delhi and so was packed off to Jaipur instead.

My tryst with Delhi was destined and three years later I was there for my post graduation – none the wiser but definitely older. I reveled in the (relative) freedom, couldn’t get enough of Nirulas, Giggles, Softy at Standard, D’pauls cold coffee, Univ Coffee House, Tib Dhabs. Loved the DU campus, the Physics Dept., and the dashing prof. who made me weak at the knees and whose sheer existence made the choice of Physics seem worthwhile. I made lifelong friends, one of whom I married.

I can’t quite pinpoint when the infatuation with Delhi wore off. Delhi lost its charm (even when viewed from a place like Patna, our first posting after marriage). It seemed too brash, too cunning, too rude, too matlabi, too hot, too cold- too “everything” for me.

Now back to Delhi – a wee bit wiser, and a lot older. Let’s see what it holds……..

testing times...

Why am I constantly judging, evaluating, assessing those whom I claim to love the most?

Measuring them against some yardstick that I have unilaterally made and punishing them and in the process myself when they fall short.

Why can I not just love and open myself for receiving love?

Yes our love is not perfect – it is at times possessive, jealous, selfish – but nor are we - we are only human.

random reflections

How happy my mother would have been to hear my friend telling the prospective groom’s parents that her daughter had never ever made even a cup of tea, in fact she had never stepped into the kitchen for any work; and that the proposal was not turned down on this account – the boy’s father said that they were not unreasonable enough to expect the girl to do household chores after coming back tired from office.

Exceptional, I thought, till I heard the same story from another friend and then another one and another one….all in a matter of just two months. Almost the norm, it seemed.

Couldn’t help remembering how my mother laboured to teach me the essentials of cooking and stitching (lack of this would be reflection on her parenting and I will always be grateful for her persistence because it added to my independence); and her indignance that, when it came to matrimony, she could never ask the boy’s parents about his household skills despite her daughter being as qualified as the boy; my father evading searching questions about my household skills and maintaining a very non committal stand because he hated to lie and the truth could jeopardise my matrimonial prospects!

Back then, household skills in girls were considered essential and often valued more than looks. While putting forth marriage proposals, parents highlighted the (sometimes hugely exaggerated) culinary / tailoring/ embroidery skills of the prospective bride. In matrimonial advertisements this translated into “homely” girl. Very few people may now associate this word with its actual meaning (they wouldn’t use it otherwise) – “not attractive or good-looking, lacking elegance or refinement, of simple or unpretentious nature”.

Attitudes have changed – earlier parents of boys prided themselves on the fact that their son had not even taken a glass of water by himself, now parents of girls were competing on the same issues - their daughter has not lifted a little finger at home, she has never entered the kitchen, cannot thread a needle, make a cup of tea…. and so on.

In this oneup(wo)manship between genders, we seem to have overlooked the necessity of knowing basic cooking, cleaning and sewing. I believe these are not a matter of pride or shame - rather they are survival skills which every individual irrespective of gender needs to know. Shouldn’t we ensure that our children learn how to rustle up a decent meal, keep a clean house and also be able to mend a tear, stitch their buttons or shorten a hemline?

SK and Sasha: Thank God for both of you!

SK wrote this for Sasha on her birthday. I found it so beautiful I wanted to share it.

As life, like a spider, has weaved around me
a cobweb of relationships
your friendship comes unconditionally
no strings attached

I have worked so hard to be heard,
learning languages to make myself understood
and you say everything without a word
in your magical, unspoken, optical language

And as I struggle to find meaning,
happiness and self-actualisation,
Here you are - happy with your bones,
stuffed toys and your family.

Thank you for being so basic, you are my anchor...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!

grey matters to me

Look around you in the urban milieu and it is likely that you will see very few grey heads. You may sight shades of brown, red, orange, purple, blonde, golden streaks, bald pates, and the ubiquitous black but rarely grey.

As my grey began becoming noticeable, I had many friends suggest that I should start coloring my hair. “You will look younger”. Many asked me whether I was depressed. They thought I was disinterested in my appearance hence this speculation.

I said, "I am forty – am I not entitled to a few grey strands for all the experience and wisdom I have gained? The grey has not come without a price. It is more than what you have paid for that which is available on the shelves of the supermarket or the beauty parlors."

As I touched fifty, I proudly sported an Indira Gandhi – like band on the left side and definitely more salt than pepper all over. “At least do something now – you look so old”, said a few courageous friends.

Look old – but am I not old? Is it something bad? Should I be ashamed? Do I have to hide behind coloured hair? I find that with increasing grey I am addressed with greater respect, people offer to carry my bags, offer seats in crowded places, do not interrupt while I am talking (or hyperventilating), and few dare to take liberties with me. I am sure my grey hair has a lot to do with this. I can vouch for the fact that what one lacks in grey matter can be reasonably covered with grey hair. Try it. I for one am proud to be grey.

Those were the days my friend......

As I am growing older, I find that my childhood memories are occupying my thoughts more and more and growing sweeter by the day. Is this the beginning of old age? Am I looking backward because I am beginning to feel somewhere deep down that there isn’t much to look forward to now?

Nostalgia really hit me a couple of days back as birthday wishes from family and friends flooded in. I was engulfed with an acute and intense longing for my childhood, the single storied house with a little gate quite disproportionate to the size of the house and rather inadequate for preventing any transgression. But it was locked every night religiously and in my mind separated the big bad evil ugly unknown from the safe familiar secure warmth inside.

The aangan where I learnt skipping (the rope), played a version of squash without a raquet, lazed on wintry afternoons but which became scary at night when it had to be crossed to reach the loo which was on the other side of the aangan. I would insist that my mother or brother accompany me and wait outside the loo. The chhat where I would go when I wanted peace and privacy (of thoughts), or just to watch the world go by on the roads below and let my imagination take flight, where many a secret was shared between me and friends, from where you could shout and talk to friends on their chhats or signal them to come if you had been forbidden to step out.

Babuji and Bhabhiji, old enough to be my grandparents and who loved me like that. No achar would be bottled till I had tasted it after mixing and approved it. How important I felt – namak aur dale, mirch theek hai, tel kam lag raha hai kya…Bhabhiji’s bhandaar – I knew all the items on all the shelves and often she would hand me the key to open the lock – she made me feel I was the mistress. In turn I taught her to play Chinese Checkers and Ludo and in no time she was playing better than me. But I couldn’t bear to lose so I would cheat. I am sure she knew and now I think she enjoyed the interaction with me more than the game. She was love personified and I wallowed in it.

The hateful trips to Katra with my mother for routine shopping which were so boring and the infrequent trips to Civil Lines which I died for - particularly if it was with Babuji in his sky blue Ambassador. I used to feel so important alighting from it and accompanying him to the toniest shops where my parents wouldn’t even peep into. The chaat wala thela with his signature bell which was enough to make my mouth water. I could have chaat only when my mother was not at home because she considered it unhygienic so I looked forward to Thursdays when she went for satsang.

Munnilal of Munnilal ki dukaan which stocked everything anyone could possibly want (in those times). I loved running errands to his shop especially with my friend Bhus because it was an “outing” for us. The day I was allowed to go to Munnilal’s dukaan (which was just a lane away) without the maid, I had felt so liberated, so grown up. The servants who were never referred to as such and had more authority than me, the dhobi, the mali and malin who were the storehouse of all the mohalla news (Breaking News of those times)

My friends Jaishu, Deepa, Nimmo, Bhus, the neighbourhood didis - Rani Munni, Choti Munni, Badi Munni, Cheena-Meena, Bibbo. Each one had some sterling qualities and my mother never tired of complaining that I did not have any. Till today, I can never eat the Hari ke samose and dalmoth from loknath in Chowk without remembering Raja Bhaiya who was the one who used to bring it.

Back then, however, I thought I had the most rotten childhood. I considered my parents strict, rigid, judgmental, un-understanding, and orthodox. I did not like the clothes or shoes they got for me, there were too few and not stylish. There were so many restrictions on my movements. I was embarrassed by the fact that I could not go unescorted anywhere (there was always a maid trailing behind me) and had to be back home before sundown. And so on and so forth. I knew they loved me more than life itself but I took that for granted – I had not known otherwise. I was in a hurry to grow up, spread my wings and fly away and do my own things.

I did all that and for many years did not turn and look back. I neither had the time nor the mind space. Today, I am longing for that love, that security, that simple life, simple pleasures, the company of my childhood friends, the neighbourhood chachas, chachis, mamas, mamis, babuji, bhabhiji, didis and bhaiyas. I want to hide in my mother’s lap. I want to be free of all cares, responsibilities, duties, obligations…

Duniya bhi ajeeb sarai faani dekhi, yahaan ki har cheez aani jaani dekhi,
Jo aakar na jaaye vo budhapa dekha, jo jaakar na aaye vo jawaani dekhi.

My mother’s favourite couplet

I believe in angels

Is this what comes to your mind when someone says “angel”?

Or this?

That’s because you may not have had the good fortune of actually having met one. They can come in any shape, size and colour.





When I visualize an angel this is what it looks like. Can you see the halo? Look carefully, it is clearest in the tail portion.





(Latin angelus; Greek aggelos; from the Hebrew for "one going" or "one sent"; messenger).
Angels are messengers of God in the Hebrew Bible , the New Testament and the Quran. The term "angel" has also been expanded to various notions of "spiritual beings" found in many other religious traditions. Other roles of angels include protecting and guiding human beings, and carrying out God's tasks.

happily everafter.....

My daughter is on the threshold of marriage, and my head is full of advice – do this and don’t do that.

As though by following these she will sail smoothly through her marriage. As if it is that simple. As if there was a formula for success.

As if I followed all the rules.

I didn’t. I probably broke every rule in the book. And see where it has landed me – married to the same man for 28 years, squabbling, nagging, finding fault, not seeing eye to eye on anything except in defiance, but not willing to exchange places with anyone else .Would like to believe that the spouse feels the same way (known devil is better than.....)

I tell myself, my daughter too will find her place in his heart and mind, grow to love the idiosyncrasies, stand up for her rights and opinions, be the co-navigator, the wind beneath his wings and live through all the highs and lows together everafter.

God help me

Every Thursday I go for satsang along with my mother-in-law. To begin with I used to drop her and fetch her, then slowly started sitting through it. The idea was that it would give her an opportunity to socialize and at the same time spend some “quality” time. Apart from the bhajan singing and chanting, there is usually a discussion on God, the importance of the holy name and chanting it and other philosophical tenets of the particular sect. I do not completely understand or subscribe to all the views but I continued to participate because at least once a week I thought I was doing something religious.

Last Thursday, the discussion veered around belief/non-belief in God and that death would be cruel for those who did not believe in God (at least this is what I understood). While we all know that death is inevitable, it is true that most of us live our lives as though we are immortal, despite reminders. And even the most pious amongst us seems to be as afraid of death as anybody else. When we hear a diagnosis of cancer, the first reaction is fear – fear of death. Why should non-believers be more frightened of death than believers, I wondered. In what way does belief in God lessen the fear?

This discussion set off another train of uncomfortable thoughts. Am I a believer or non-believer? Essentially how would belief/disbelief in God impact the everyday life of an average person? Its not as if non-believers are “bad” people, nor can one say that believers are “good” people. And who defines “bad” and “good’? Does life have more meaning for believers than non-believers? Or is it vice-versa?

Till that instant, if I had been asked whether I believe in God, I would have said “yes” without much thought. But the point is, I had never really thought about it. Like I am born a Hindu, it seems I was born believing that there is a (?) God (s). And so for 52 years of my life I never questioned the existence of God or my belief. I have questioned practices and rituals but not the existence of God.

I wondered what makes believers believe. As I got thinking about it, I could see more arguments for not believing in God. Yet it is not so. Only a small fraction of the world’s population is atheist.

Then what is it that has sustained this concept through the ages? For the common person has it been the proverbial security blanket - something to clutch and hold on to when disturbed and bewildered by the vagaries we call life?

Or that which is beyond human comprehension is conveniently attributed to God. (Many such divine theories have bitten the dust over the ages with new scientific discoveries.)

Or has it been promoted tacitly by society to ensure some degree of order in the human world?

Having said all this, I still cannot let go of God. I feel insecure and incomplete without my belief. Why I wonder? Is it just a habit? My comfort zone? Am I secretly afraid that I will be punished if I let go of this belief (which just means I believe in someone all powerful up there watching over my thoughts and actions)?

Or is God Hope? Hope for better things, hope for forgiveness, hope for meaning which I can’t see today, hope for miracles, hope for guidance, hope for redemption, hope for another chance…..

My head is full of questions and doubts. Wish I could just open the lid and empty it out. And be a simple person for whom faith is all there is. Faith and simplicity go hand in hand. I am neither simple nor do I have faith.

GOD HELP ME.

Mummy ka magic

Becoming a mother is momentous enough but becoming a mother-in-law is much more so – here is an adult whose nappies you did not change, whom you did not baby talk to, who did not cling to or hide behind your pallu (proverbial or otherwise) , who did not keep you awake at nights as a baby and then an adolescent and….. so on but who is calling you “Mummy”. When my son-in-law to be addressed me for the first time as “Mummy” I was overwhelmed – cannot pinpoint the emotion – a mixture of happiness, tenderness, motherliness (don’t know whether this qualifies as a valid emotion). It evoked in me the same feeling as when my daughter uttered Ma for the first time (which was quite late and even after she was addressing me as Nitu as I was called by everyone else). "Mummy" is a magic word. Till SK had not uttered it, he was a nice boy and all that but it ended there. But after that, I worry about his health, his eating habits, his comfort and discomfort, I look for things in the men’s section of lifestyle stores that he might like (otherwise I would just skip that floor or drag my feet behind my husband). My daughter cannot understand this and is beginning to show signs of spousal rivalry( aka sibling rivalry) and I do not know how to handle this. If I had had two children, maybe both of us would have known what to do but here, both of us are new to this emotion.