Sitting up with my dearest friend, holding her hand, wiping her tears and generally making tea and small talk, being supportive leaves no time to analyse and reach a conclusion of the reason for this pain.
At this time my only responsibility lies in being there for her… in every which way I can and in every way she needs. So, I follow her instructions and don’t trash the person responsible for it all. All I can say is – I understand – which is what I do and don’t – together and at the same time.
I understand that she hurts. I understand that she needs reassurance that she is beautiful, is smart, is absolutely the bestest person in the world, the one and only who makes me wish I was male. I don’t understand how she did not see the frame. Perhaps the picture was so pretty that the frame wasn’t visible. Or was the frame so pretty that she could not see the picture???
What I am shaken with is the enormity of what she has been robbed of – something she hasn’t even considered. The price she has paid and will continue to pay can never be repaid to her. I hope she will find someone to spend the twilight years with. I hope she finds a better person to be with – someone who truly cares for her. For whatever its worth, my home is her home but it will never be the equivalent of the person to herself!
For the person she is, the world has lost much in her children that she has not had and now unlikely to have. She has lost out in the love and emotion of having ones own children – something which cannot be replaced and cannot be had second-hand. She is bereft of home and hearth – not that she doesn’t have her own house – but never the same as a home built with love of two people. The fear in her eyes of a lonely old age… her loss is so insidious that it leaves my shaking with fury. I am likely to hit the man over his head – or maybe at other more appropriate places, should I ever meet him.
The Padma Laxmi’s of the world will come and keep ripping through lives with gay abandon. Today her name may be Padma, next year Rekha, Salma… whatever. But the person remains the same all young somethings who believe they are above common decency, their greed is their need. Who gets hurt is just a casualty of the circumstances.
Then again, why must I blame the other woman? Who brought her in? He did. It is he who needed the thrills of bedding a woman less than half his age. A romp in the hay, to end with the semester.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Anger Management
Anger Management
Given to an obsessive compulsion to read, one ends up with a variety of books that the more discerning might avoid. It also leaves one with half remembered stories and maybe an inkling of what it was all about. All I remember about the book was that it was a whodunit, set in urban America
The one extraordinary teaching from this book - read over 20 years ago – is focussing on the essentials. The Rabbi asks an old couple to forgive their daughter(I don’t remember what she had done or even who the murderer was, let alone the motive). They say – what she had done was unforgivable. He then asks them if they would go to their daughters’ funeral. Of course, she is our daughter, pat comes the reply. So, are you waiting for your daughter to die to forgive her? This last sentence has stayed with me since then.
Are we waiting for our dear ones to die before we forgive them? When you are very, very angry with someone, ask yourself the basic question – will you attend the persons’ funeral? Would you expect that person to attend yours? Are you waiting for death to melt the ice? Should you?
In the answer to these questions lies the very basic answer – should you forgive. When someone passes on – there is no way you can communicate any more – you can’t show your love, your caring. You can attain a semblance of peace by atoning in a myriad of different ways, but you cannot communicate your feelings to the person concerned. Don’t wait to express your love. Don’t wait to pour away the hurt and anguish. Live today as if it is the last day of your life – with no time to repent. Every extra day you get is a bonus.
Life is short. Doesn’t matter how many years you live, it is always short for whatever one wants to achieve, to do. Living in peace and harmony is not that difficult. Try it.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Child Abuse
Child Abuse
People have children with many aims in life: providing a safeguard for their old age, for the family name, for love, for duty… the list is endless. Yet, all, in producing them believe that the children are their private and personal property to dispose off in any way they like.
The children are duty bound to love the parents – however manipulative, harsh, tyrannical they may be. To obey every wish, whim or fancy is imperative.
And grandchildren must be better than the best. Anything their own kids did, the grandkids must do better.
If this is why we bring children into the world, it is a sad statement of affairs. Children are a gift from the almighty, to enjoy as much as we can, to revel in them and to relearn from them our lost innocence. To teach them the best of our learning and to shelter them from the harsh and horrible realities. It is our duty to make the world a better place for them – devoid of conflict and demands. Let us have the courage to nurture their talents and encourage them towards positive effort – efforts to the best of their ability in whatever they do.
Every time one watches the abuse heaped on children in the name of duty, one wonders at the insistence on unquestioning love and loyalty being demanded as of right. Expecting adult children to report on each and every one of their movements and then questioning the decision. Questioning every decision they take including the brand of chocolate they might procure for their own children! Insisting that the kids do more for their in-laws than for them, when each day one is doing ten things for them and may be one in ten days for the in-laws. Expecting to be forgiven the unforgivable because it is so much easier to excuse one’s own faults and mistakes than to accept the same from another.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Gas passer – striving for more
Ok, this aint the best way to look at the past few days, but really, this must be recorded.
I needed to have my insides overhauled – had finished producing my children so my system decided the uterus really couldn’t stay unproductive. So the uterus started producing fibroids. Would have been fine, except fibroids are never delivered. They just grow and grow and push things around and generally cause trouble, until of course, you’re too old to produce kids anyway.
Finally, the surgery got scheduled. Here I am, flattened out on a gurney, with a couple of needles poking in. Set one of the surgeons comes around, pushes some papers in front of me and says sign. Oh-kaaay! So, I sign on the dotted line. Then comes the next set, another lot of papers, another signature. Here I’m thinking, would they do the same to someone who’s not a doctor’s wife? I know I’ve read the consent form, but isn’t someone supposed to tell me all the risks? (A different matter that as an anaesthetist’s wife, I probably am a firm believer in Murphy’s law. More can go wrong than one can even begin listing)
Next, I’m rolled in to the OT. Transfer myself to the operating table with huge round lights beaming down on me, like in the fillums. So, tell me, why could I not have just walked in?
Next thing I know I’m waking up, feeling thirsty. Hubby being Hubby, lovingly dabs the parched lips with a wet rag. Swimming in an out of sleep for the next few hours, I’m closely monitored in the post op area – no ICU with seriously ill patients for me to see and scare me(aaaaah! the advantages of being a staff wife).
Time to be shifted to the room. So the blood trolley rattles through corridors, lifts and more corridors and its time to shift to the bed. Now, this takes some doing. 5-6 guys, all hanging on to the sheet below me heave ho at once and there you are, Bob’s you uncle!
Monitors are attached, cuffs tied in place. And the first sips of water administered. The pain med pump is set. Two hrs later, the pump decides its not working and the first of the beeps go off. Bleary eyed, hubby looks into it. Fifteen minutes later, back to the same, and so on through the rest of the night. The nursing staff is in and out through the night. The heart monitor keeps taking my BP at set intervals, crushing my upper arm to smithereens every time. The shoulder begins to ache. The poor nurse is pressed into massaging the shoulder and upper arm. All in all, not a great night, though a lot worse for the attending hubby and nurses-I’m all woozed out, they are the ones working!
Morning arrives with belches, nausea and endless questions about passing gas. At least 7 incidences of hearing to me tum. Meanwhile the loo door malfunctions, locking people in – so am shifted to the next room. Is it the movement, or just that it was bound to happen, the big throw-up arrives. Turn my head, no kidney tray in site, so just throw up all over the freshly changed sheet. A large towel is pressed into service. Soaked through. It’s all out, finally. Feeling much better for it.
The rest of the day is spent in no hunger, no pain, and answering the Big Question – HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS? Thirst assuaged infrequently with sips of water, and HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS? Being raised up, lowered, belches, belches and more belches – followed often by a small upchuck of bile laden mucous, checked and the Big Question – HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS?
Yup I’ve been belching, horribly so. No, No – Paaaasing gas??? Yup I have(ain’t that just too indelicate a question to answer?)
A more peaceful night. No monitors going beep. No Big Questions to answer. A midnight top-up of pain killer, right into the spine. Brilliant! No pain. Snooze off once again.
Morning arrives and my left leg decides not to move left to right or vice versa. Shall I press the panic button? Wait a while. Nope. It ain’t getting better… but I remember the incident described on other patients and their reactions. So mention it but keep the panic under wraps. And yes, I PASSED GAS!
Ok, time to remove the catheter that has been quietly removing all the liquid product of my kidneys. A swift pull, and its out. Two hours later, no sensation. I don’t still wanna go. And there’s talk of putting it back in. Disadvantages of a VIP patient. A lot more gets done than absolutely necessary. Thankfully, 3 hrs later, make it to the loo and voila, pass urine on my own and some poop too. Everyone’s happy! No more catheters for me. A fairly peaceful night except for a trip to the loo. Morning arrives, Hubby gets ready for work having checked on the pain med, blood pressure, position, etc. and yes, I continue to Pass Gas.
Now, I’m hungry. Ask for breakfast – just a soft-boiled egg and toast will do. Consternation in all quarters. No, no, we can’t give you food till the consultant says so! She’s not likely to be in for another couple of hours and I’m hungry! My stomach growls. I call the Hubby. Apparently, no patient in recent history has actually ever asked for food on their own. Everyone moans, groans and generally requires cajoling to take in the daily nutrition. Hmmmm. Yup, I’m certifiably nuts. Much consulting later some breakfast is brought in – hard boiled eggs, cornflakes with skim milk and toast. So what If I’ve been growling lactose intolerance.
Couple of humdrum days later – spent alternating with smiles for vistors, bucking up the kids, pain, indigestion, horrible food – with no respect for the lactose intolerance, I’m released. Street Clothes! What a blessing! Hadn’t realized how much the hospital clothes were irritating me. The wheelchair is brought in. Looking around who its for. Certainly not going to be wheeled out. Big battle over this. Hey, I aint a cripple. Eventually have my way and walk out on me own two feet.
Hell yes, I am still PASSING GAS! Too much of it.
Ok, this aint the best way to look at the past few days, but really, this must be recorded.
I needed to have my insides overhauled – had finished producing my children so my system decided the uterus really couldn’t stay unproductive. So the uterus started producing fibroids. Would have been fine, except fibroids are never delivered. They just grow and grow and push things around and generally cause trouble, until of course, you’re too old to produce kids anyway.
Finally, the surgery got scheduled. Here I am, flattened out on a gurney, with a couple of needles poking in. Set one of the surgeons comes around, pushes some papers in front of me and says sign. Oh-kaaay! So, I sign on the dotted line. Then comes the next set, another lot of papers, another signature. Here I’m thinking, would they do the same to someone who’s not a doctor’s wife? I know I’ve read the consent form, but isn’t someone supposed to tell me all the risks? (A different matter that as an anaesthetist’s wife, I probably am a firm believer in Murphy’s law. More can go wrong than one can even begin listing)
Next, I’m rolled in to the OT. Transfer myself to the operating table with huge round lights beaming down on me, like in the fillums. So, tell me, why could I not have just walked in?
Next thing I know I’m waking up, feeling thirsty. Hubby being Hubby, lovingly dabs the parched lips with a wet rag. Swimming in an out of sleep for the next few hours, I’m closely monitored in the post op area – no ICU with seriously ill patients for me to see and scare me(aaaaah! the advantages of being a staff wife).
Time to be shifted to the room. So the blood trolley rattles through corridors, lifts and more corridors and its time to shift to the bed. Now, this takes some doing. 5-6 guys, all hanging on to the sheet below me heave ho at once and there you are, Bob’s you uncle!
Monitors are attached, cuffs tied in place. And the first sips of water administered. The pain med pump is set. Two hrs later, the pump decides its not working and the first of the beeps go off. Bleary eyed, hubby looks into it. Fifteen minutes later, back to the same, and so on through the rest of the night. The nursing staff is in and out through the night. The heart monitor keeps taking my BP at set intervals, crushing my upper arm to smithereens every time. The shoulder begins to ache. The poor nurse is pressed into massaging the shoulder and upper arm. All in all, not a great night, though a lot worse for the attending hubby and nurses-I’m all woozed out, they are the ones working!
Morning arrives with belches, nausea and endless questions about passing gas. At least 7 incidences of hearing to me tum. Meanwhile the loo door malfunctions, locking people in – so am shifted to the next room. Is it the movement, or just that it was bound to happen, the big throw-up arrives. Turn my head, no kidney tray in site, so just throw up all over the freshly changed sheet. A large towel is pressed into service. Soaked through. It’s all out, finally. Feeling much better for it.
The rest of the day is spent in no hunger, no pain, and answering the Big Question – HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS? Thirst assuaged infrequently with sips of water, and HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS? Being raised up, lowered, belches, belches and more belches – followed often by a small upchuck of bile laden mucous, checked and the Big Question – HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS?
Yup I’ve been belching, horribly so. No, No – Paaaasing gas??? Yup I have(ain’t that just too indelicate a question to answer?)
A more peaceful night. No monitors going beep. No Big Questions to answer. A midnight top-up of pain killer, right into the spine. Brilliant! No pain. Snooze off once again.
Morning arrives and my left leg decides not to move left to right or vice versa. Shall I press the panic button? Wait a while. Nope. It ain’t getting better… but I remember the incident described on other patients and their reactions. So mention it but keep the panic under wraps. And yes, I PASSED GAS!
Ok, time to remove the catheter that has been quietly removing all the liquid product of my kidneys. A swift pull, and its out. Two hours later, no sensation. I don’t still wanna go. And there’s talk of putting it back in. Disadvantages of a VIP patient. A lot more gets done than absolutely necessary. Thankfully, 3 hrs later, make it to the loo and voila, pass urine on my own and some poop too. Everyone’s happy! No more catheters for me. A fairly peaceful night except for a trip to the loo. Morning arrives, Hubby gets ready for work having checked on the pain med, blood pressure, position, etc. and yes, I continue to Pass Gas.
Now, I’m hungry. Ask for breakfast – just a soft-boiled egg and toast will do. Consternation in all quarters. No, no, we can’t give you food till the consultant says so! She’s not likely to be in for another couple of hours and I’m hungry! My stomach growls. I call the Hubby. Apparently, no patient in recent history has actually ever asked for food on their own. Everyone moans, groans and generally requires cajoling to take in the daily nutrition. Hmmmm. Yup, I’m certifiably nuts. Much consulting later some breakfast is brought in – hard boiled eggs, cornflakes with skim milk and toast. So what If I’ve been growling lactose intolerance.
Couple of humdrum days later – spent alternating with smiles for vistors, bucking up the kids, pain, indigestion, horrible food – with no respect for the lactose intolerance, I’m released. Street Clothes! What a blessing! Hadn’t realized how much the hospital clothes were irritating me. The wheelchair is brought in. Looking around who its for. Certainly not going to be wheeled out. Big battle over this. Hey, I aint a cripple. Eventually have my way and walk out on me own two feet.
Hell yes, I am still PASSING GAS! Too much of it.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
I Hate Religion
Or rather what it makes of people. Any religious being believes that my own religion is far superior to every other, that people belonging or following that religion are better. That others belonging to another religion are somehow lesser beings.
Every religious and pious being, spending hours in prayer and meditation, believes they are on the path of salvation. They believe that every prayer shall be answered with a ‘yes’ because they bribe God with a chadar, with money, with food, with hunger, with abstinence. That God may have ‘no’ for an answer is not to be contemplated. Some places have a special connection and all prayers result in a positive.
Fynn wrote a book on Anna, a five year old abused child he found on the road. Fynn was 17 or 18 at the time. Anna’s vision of God is amazing in one sense and yet so absolutely right, that it feels that she has put into words what one has felt all along. Mr. God, This is Anna – seems to me is a book that must be read sometime in life – preferably in ones early teens, for the first time.
For me God has always been on my side. He has provided for me in the most difficult circumstances. For a person hating violence and unable to cope with it, He has made it possible for me to be away in some more peaceful place – without knowing why I should be away. He has made it possible for me to get 3 years of comfort and ease when I was at the point of breaking up. He has made it possible for me to have enough money to bail me out of the worst situations at critical points. He has made a wonderful housekeeper available to me. He has gifted me a wonderful husband and beautiful children at a time of utmost despair. Sometimes, He may have asked of me to do my duty, yet He has never demanded payment for all this and more that He has provided me with.
Being a peace loving person, who is yet to hit anyone in anger, it hurts to be asked time and again, why the Bombay Blasts. Just because I was born a Muslim, does that make me a terrorist or an expert on terrorism? Why am I supposed to know the thought processes of that vile breed? Yet it is the most devout who pray morning and night after having carefully bathed, who ask me this question. The very same who have known me for nearly half my life.
So, God is my best friend… but… I hate religion.
Or rather what it makes of people. Any religious being believes that my own religion is far superior to every other, that people belonging or following that religion are better. That others belonging to another religion are somehow lesser beings.
Every religious and pious being, spending hours in prayer and meditation, believes they are on the path of salvation. They believe that every prayer shall be answered with a ‘yes’ because they bribe God with a chadar, with money, with food, with hunger, with abstinence. That God may have ‘no’ for an answer is not to be contemplated. Some places have a special connection and all prayers result in a positive.
Fynn wrote a book on Anna, a five year old abused child he found on the road. Fynn was 17 or 18 at the time. Anna’s vision of God is amazing in one sense and yet so absolutely right, that it feels that she has put into words what one has felt all along. Mr. God, This is Anna – seems to me is a book that must be read sometime in life – preferably in ones early teens, for the first time.
For me God has always been on my side. He has provided for me in the most difficult circumstances. For a person hating violence and unable to cope with it, He has made it possible for me to be away in some more peaceful place – without knowing why I should be away. He has made it possible for me to get 3 years of comfort and ease when I was at the point of breaking up. He has made it possible for me to have enough money to bail me out of the worst situations at critical points. He has made a wonderful housekeeper available to me. He has gifted me a wonderful husband and beautiful children at a time of utmost despair. Sometimes, He may have asked of me to do my duty, yet He has never demanded payment for all this and more that He has provided me with.
Being a peace loving person, who is yet to hit anyone in anger, it hurts to be asked time and again, why the Bombay Blasts. Just because I was born a Muslim, does that make me a terrorist or an expert on terrorism? Why am I supposed to know the thought processes of that vile breed? Yet it is the most devout who pray morning and night after having carefully bathed, who ask me this question. The very same who have known me for nearly half my life.
So, God is my best friend… but… I hate religion.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Emotional outbursts
We’ve all heard it from our parents – when you are parent you will understand… From childhood onwards – every time we exasperate – out comes this remark, made from a supposedly higher position.
Well yes, now that I am a parent, I do get exasperated too. However, I seem to be in the minority, who hasn’t forgotten ‘that age’.
Having reached this age one can only admire what our parents achieved with so much less. Continuing education, producing three children, their education, saving up for the weddings, all without a single complaint on how tough life is. We hated being left behind(for our education) on that foreign posting. Unthinking, we thought they were having a whale of a time, meeting a clutch of foreigners in another country, not knowing the local language, living isolated, the only Indians in a small town. A place where Vijayanthimala was the name of every Indian woman in a saree and Bol Radha Bol the song to sing after her. At the same age I’ve found it impossible to live in a city where Hindi/Urdu(my mother tongue) are the second language, Malayalam the third and English a distant fourth, where there is population of over 30% Indians.
We grudged them their holiday in Europe. Yet, with all their responsibilities they found the time and money go through Europe, living in cheap lodgings, carrying drinking water, and walking every where.
We’ve not understood how they could stoically stand by and look at years of hard work and savings go down to bull dozers of the Emergency Raj. At 14, I could have killed Sanjay without remorse. To go back and rebuild, to fight for an essential part of the whole… one can only wish for that courage.
That courage still exists can be seen in their ancient eyes, tired and lost from betrayal of decades long love. Love that was given at the cost of support to their only son. Love that supported during times of need – with ready cash, with emotional support, with hands-on labour. Always seen as the blessed – beautiful and rich – few saw the sheer effort required to walk back in the summer heat for lunch from work to be home when I reached home from school – to save the cost of petrol. No one ever saw us scrimping on food – living on dal chawal – when the cash ran low and the instalment for the flat had to be paid. No one saw the endless hours in the kitchen garden for fresh vegetables (3-4 days of bhindi on the table every week, the only vegetable that produced enough).
They’ve taught us to live with our heads held high. To bear uncomplaining the ravages of time. To know that this too, shall pass – the good the bad and the ugly. To enjoy the rain, the sunset, the sunrise, the smell of the soil as the first raindrops fall, the chill of winter…
Will we be able to pass on even a fraction? To give our children a core of values to last their lifetime?
We’ve all heard it from our parents – when you are parent you will understand… From childhood onwards – every time we exasperate – out comes this remark, made from a supposedly higher position.
Well yes, now that I am a parent, I do get exasperated too. However, I seem to be in the minority, who hasn’t forgotten ‘that age’.
Having reached this age one can only admire what our parents achieved with so much less. Continuing education, producing three children, their education, saving up for the weddings, all without a single complaint on how tough life is. We hated being left behind(for our education) on that foreign posting. Unthinking, we thought they were having a whale of a time, meeting a clutch of foreigners in another country, not knowing the local language, living isolated, the only Indians in a small town. A place where Vijayanthimala was the name of every Indian woman in a saree and Bol Radha Bol the song to sing after her. At the same age I’ve found it impossible to live in a city where Hindi/Urdu(my mother tongue) are the second language, Malayalam the third and English a distant fourth, where there is population of over 30% Indians.
We grudged them their holiday in Europe. Yet, with all their responsibilities they found the time and money go through Europe, living in cheap lodgings, carrying drinking water, and walking every where.
We’ve not understood how they could stoically stand by and look at years of hard work and savings go down to bull dozers of the Emergency Raj. At 14, I could have killed Sanjay without remorse. To go back and rebuild, to fight for an essential part of the whole… one can only wish for that courage.
That courage still exists can be seen in their ancient eyes, tired and lost from betrayal of decades long love. Love that was given at the cost of support to their only son. Love that supported during times of need – with ready cash, with emotional support, with hands-on labour. Always seen as the blessed – beautiful and rich – few saw the sheer effort required to walk back in the summer heat for lunch from work to be home when I reached home from school – to save the cost of petrol. No one ever saw us scrimping on food – living on dal chawal – when the cash ran low and the instalment for the flat had to be paid. No one saw the endless hours in the kitchen garden for fresh vegetables (3-4 days of bhindi on the table every week, the only vegetable that produced enough).
They’ve taught us to live with our heads held high. To bear uncomplaining the ravages of time. To know that this too, shall pass – the good the bad and the ugly. To enjoy the rain, the sunset, the sunrise, the smell of the soil as the first raindrops fall, the chill of winter…
Will we be able to pass on even a fraction? To give our children a core of values to last their lifetime?
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