Ok, I know, there's nothing more annoying than someone who complains about how difficult their life is. So I promise never to do so again.
But God, I need to vent and don't have any other avenues.
Being a working mom is hard and lonely.
How is one person supposed to get great work done while at the same time ensuring that kids are optimally growing, household is optimally running, long-term life planning is happening at the right times, and that familial bonds are kept strong and kids are getting the kind of training in extracurricular activities that will hopefully make them into well-rounded adults at some point of time?
It's exhausting.
And it's no use saying that these things are a partnership. Sure, some things are, but which man ever takes a day-to-day interest in his kids? Which dad ever gets told, your kids are looking thin/ fat/ short/dark? Which dad ever gets called for parent-teacher meetings when the kid hasn't submitted homework/ project/ craft/ other bloody shit on time? Which man is ever expected to attend engagements/ death ceremony meals/ wedding lunches/ pre-wedding lunchs/ mehendis/ sangeet/ post-wedding lunches and help out with the cleaning afterwards? Which married man ever says, oh crap, we are running out of oil/soap/toothpaste/ whatever else and proactively goes and buys them instead of telling his wife to handle it?
And in the meantime, one is supposed to have the right attitude to everything- to learning, to growing, to managing, to leading. One cannot just say, oh for fuck's sake, screw this shit or let's get on with it and get this shit done.
No, one is supposed to have a humble, happy and accepting attitude and grow from things one doesn't know or do well or... well, something.
When things get really really difficult (and honestly, I know dozens of other people who have it way, way harder than I do, but I'm a human who likes to whine, so shoot me), I think of a rubber band- the more you stretch it, the more it accommodates.
I am already doing a lot more today than I was doing some months ago and way more than I was doing some years ago.
No doubt, some months from now, I'll look back on this time and know that I have it easy now.
If there was one thing I could change about myself, it would be to increase my patience and my positive interactions with the kids. So many times, they ask me to come play with them. And I snap back and yell. Soon they will stop asking me and I would have missed something precious.
Again though, would I really? Is my assumption that I'll miss something precious based on nothing other Cat's in the Cradle kind of thinking? Would the kids even know or care or appreciate that I would have worked hard to make time for them?
Ok, my rant is done. Let's get back to "count your blessings, not your problems" mentality. *Sigh*
Sunday, December 30, 2018
Monday, December 17, 2018
Hunger
I think I'm becoming a bit of a food snob. These past few weeks, I crave for some kind of food... actually, I've been dreaming on and off of mom's food, but let's not go down that path wherein lie heartbreak and depression. I've been craving, and I've been terribly dissatisfied with my own or our housekeeper, Shanti's cooking. But what to make or eat instead?
In desperation, I tried Swiggy, tried eating out at various places and tried out different recipes, but no. It all leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, an utter ennui. There's something more that I crave. Do I dream of mom's food because I crave something different, or do I crave mom's food and hence I dream of it?
I don't know.
But I do know that going to the usual joints and eating the usual barbeque/ paneer nonsense/ chinese idiocy etc no longer cut it.
I'll tell you what did come close: we went to a new restaurant called Shakesbiere. It's so new that even their website's not fully up yet. And what I liked were the surprises. Yes, of course, food was good. You expect places like this to have good food. But what I love even more is the surprise element. The ambience was great, the food had interesting names and the presentation was fun.
Move over, kadai paneer in a pot and yucky paneer butter masala. I'm so sick of you.
Toast and Tonic is another such place. You order a coffee and you get an experience. Who would have thought coffee could be presented in such an unusual manner? And most of the fun is in seeing that coffee rather than actually drinking it.
Even tomato soup used to be served in such a spectacular way and would taste absolutely heavenly... I mean, it probably is still being served the same way. I just haven't been there in a while.
So what I think is I'm becoming a bit master chef-y or like Anton Ego, from Ratatouille. I want to clap my hands and say, "Surprise me!" instead of ordering. I want to be in the moment and savor every molecule of the food instead of just hogging things down and trying to satisfy some elusive hunger. And I want that molecule of food to be worth my complete attention.
Is that so much to ask?
In desperation, I tried Swiggy, tried eating out at various places and tried out different recipes, but no. It all leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, an utter ennui. There's something more that I crave. Do I dream of mom's food because I crave something different, or do I crave mom's food and hence I dream of it?
I don't know.
But I do know that going to the usual joints and eating the usual barbeque/ paneer nonsense/ chinese idiocy etc no longer cut it.
I'll tell you what did come close: we went to a new restaurant called Shakesbiere. It's so new that even their website's not fully up yet. And what I liked were the surprises. Yes, of course, food was good. You expect places like this to have good food. But what I love even more is the surprise element. The ambience was great, the food had interesting names and the presentation was fun.
Move over, kadai paneer in a pot and yucky paneer butter masala. I'm so sick of you.
Toast and Tonic is another such place. You order a coffee and you get an experience. Who would have thought coffee could be presented in such an unusual manner? And most of the fun is in seeing that coffee rather than actually drinking it.
Even tomato soup used to be served in such a spectacular way and would taste absolutely heavenly... I mean, it probably is still being served the same way. I just haven't been there in a while.
So what I think is I'm becoming a bit master chef-y or like Anton Ego, from Ratatouille. I want to clap my hands and say, "Surprise me!" instead of ordering. I want to be in the moment and savor every molecule of the food instead of just hogging things down and trying to satisfy some elusive hunger. And I want that molecule of food to be worth my complete attention.
Is that so much to ask?
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
Oven issues
I got myself a Morphy Richards electric oven here in India after years of gas oven in the US.
I feel like the oven and I are speaking totally different languages. There's a guy in lab who looks at me like that when I talk... he gets this slightly shifty-eyed look, slight panic and nods to everything I say. And I know, just totally know, that he hasn't understood a word. Poor guy- he's good with the wet lab work and he's a genuinely nice guy. I just need to speak slower... or in a different language. We haven't had too many issues though, because we both have multiple translators, all of whom who understand that neither of us really "gets" the other and spend long periods of time helping us figure the other out.
I wish I had such multiple translators with my oven. Just when I gave up on it entirely last year, it magically made me the most amazing chocolate lava cake (I wasn't actually trying to make lava cake, just plain chocolate sheet cake, but hey). Then when I actually tried to make lava cake, I ended up with a dung-like lump instead.
The thing with it is, it's small. And it has two heating rods on top and two heating rods on the bottom. There are also controls to tell the oven which rods to turn on. This took me a while to realize (maybe this is obvious to others), but you can't actually just turn on all 4 rods for every baking project. Different baking utensils, different baking items require you to either turn on just the top, or just the bottom or switch from bottom to top halfway through the bake or vice versa. Different projects also require you to turn the vessel halfway through the bake to let the front go to the back and so on.
Baking has gone from me just plonking something in the oven and getting something reasonably good-tasting out, to me having to focus and visualize every step... it's as intricate as any molecular biology experiment. It requires reaching the same Zen-like state of "I've done the absolute best I can. The rest is out of my hands"... karmaNi eVa aDhikarasyE, ma phalEshu kadachana, as Krishna would say. Who would have thought baking would be a such a sure shot way to appreciate the Gita?
Anyway, Durga and I baked sponge cake today. I was watching it like a hawk, turning the knob to switch from top heater to bottom heater, barking orders to Durga and so on. Finally, it looked good, it smelled good so I pulled it out and stuck a knife in it, which came out clean. Hurray, we said and set it on the rack to cool.
But just then, I saw liquid goo ooze out of a hole. Gah! It only got done on one side properly (had forgotten to turn the vessel). So this time, turned the undone side towards the back, fiddled with the knobs again and turned the oven back on.
Two minutes later, more goo oozed out. Oh! Maybe this is for the good- the goo must be expanding inside and coming out, I think.
Fiddle with knobs some more and start getting the smell of burning cake.
Aaarrgh!
Popped it all out and let it rest. I'll cut the done bits and throw out the undone stuff where ever it is hiding.
I Googled "I hate my oven" and came across this. Is it weird that every single one commenting there is a guy?
I feel like the oven and I are speaking totally different languages. There's a guy in lab who looks at me like that when I talk... he gets this slightly shifty-eyed look, slight panic and nods to everything I say. And I know, just totally know, that he hasn't understood a word. Poor guy- he's good with the wet lab work and he's a genuinely nice guy. I just need to speak slower... or in a different language. We haven't had too many issues though, because we both have multiple translators, all of whom who understand that neither of us really "gets" the other and spend long periods of time helping us figure the other out.
I wish I had such multiple translators with my oven. Just when I gave up on it entirely last year, it magically made me the most amazing chocolate lava cake (I wasn't actually trying to make lava cake, just plain chocolate sheet cake, but hey). Then when I actually tried to make lava cake, I ended up with a dung-like lump instead.
The thing with it is, it's small. And it has two heating rods on top and two heating rods on the bottom. There are also controls to tell the oven which rods to turn on. This took me a while to realize (maybe this is obvious to others), but you can't actually just turn on all 4 rods for every baking project. Different baking utensils, different baking items require you to either turn on just the top, or just the bottom or switch from bottom to top halfway through the bake or vice versa. Different projects also require you to turn the vessel halfway through the bake to let the front go to the back and so on.
Baking has gone from me just plonking something in the oven and getting something reasonably good-tasting out, to me having to focus and visualize every step... it's as intricate as any molecular biology experiment. It requires reaching the same Zen-like state of "I've done the absolute best I can. The rest is out of my hands"... karmaNi eVa aDhikarasyE, ma phalEshu kadachana, as Krishna would say. Who would have thought baking would be a such a sure shot way to appreciate the Gita?
Anyway, Durga and I baked sponge cake today. I was watching it like a hawk, turning the knob to switch from top heater to bottom heater, barking orders to Durga and so on. Finally, it looked good, it smelled good so I pulled it out and stuck a knife in it, which came out clean. Hurray, we said and set it on the rack to cool.
But just then, I saw liquid goo ooze out of a hole. Gah! It only got done on one side properly (had forgotten to turn the vessel). So this time, turned the undone side towards the back, fiddled with the knobs again and turned the oven back on.
Two minutes later, more goo oozed out. Oh! Maybe this is for the good- the goo must be expanding inside and coming out, I think.
Fiddle with knobs some more and start getting the smell of burning cake.
Aaarrgh!
Popped it all out and let it rest. I'll cut the done bits and throw out the undone stuff where ever it is hiding.
I Googled "I hate my oven" and came across this. Is it weird that every single one commenting there is a guy?
Friday, November 23, 2018
Life goes on
In the span of a single month: a death; an engagement; a wedding; three conferences, of which I'm an organizer of two; a company retreat; two grants; a new position; and looking to move out of our existing space.
And the month isn't even over yet.
And the month isn't even over yet.
Thursday, November 8, 2018
The third one
My grandmother passed away a few days ago.
What strikes me is the sense of relief- she struggled terribly in the last few months.She was 92. It was time.
Her funeral was marked with reunions, stories of her childhood, youth and my aunts' childhoods, stories of my father and laughter and tears.
THIS is what funerals should be.
When my father and mother passed away, the sense of disorientation, the sense of breathlessness, the feeing of a massive stone sitting on my head and heart were overpowering at times.
And all through those days and the ones following them I would keep telling myself to be controlled, to smile and to finish whatever had to be done.
Those days are days that I have no desire to recall again... it feels like a wound that has outwardly begun to close, but you're too afraid to touch it in fear that it will start gushing blood again.
My grandmother's death is the end of an era. She was born in the 20's; she got married at 12; had 13 kids, of which 8 survived; she traveled with her husband to whichever part of the country he was transferred, made friends and managed life for herself and her family no matter where she went; she learnt Hindi and English on her own; she was widowed by the time she was 40; and then singlehandedly brought up 8 kids, ranging from 22 (my father) to 8 (my youngest uncle). She lived long enough that 6 out of her 8 great grandkids will have lasting memories of her. She was erudite, could argue points of law and was a life-long learner, constantly trying out knitting, crocheting, stitching, new recipes and discussing topics of morality vs legality in TV shows, as long as she was able.
What did she not experience in her life? I think she suffered through nearly every possible tragedy- the deaths of a husband, parents, siblings, and multiple children, including the last and most recent blows, those of my parents.
My poor Ajji. I hope she finds a modicum of peace, wherever she is now.
What strikes me is the sense of relief- she struggled terribly in the last few months.She was 92. It was time.
Her funeral was marked with reunions, stories of her childhood, youth and my aunts' childhoods, stories of my father and laughter and tears.
THIS is what funerals should be.
When my father and mother passed away, the sense of disorientation, the sense of breathlessness, the feeing of a massive stone sitting on my head and heart were overpowering at times.
And all through those days and the ones following them I would keep telling myself to be controlled, to smile and to finish whatever had to be done.
Those days are days that I have no desire to recall again... it feels like a wound that has outwardly begun to close, but you're too afraid to touch it in fear that it will start gushing blood again.
My grandmother's death is the end of an era. She was born in the 20's; she got married at 12; had 13 kids, of which 8 survived; she traveled with her husband to whichever part of the country he was transferred, made friends and managed life for herself and her family no matter where she went; she learnt Hindi and English on her own; she was widowed by the time she was 40; and then singlehandedly brought up 8 kids, ranging from 22 (my father) to 8 (my youngest uncle). She lived long enough that 6 out of her 8 great grandkids will have lasting memories of her. She was erudite, could argue points of law and was a life-long learner, constantly trying out knitting, crocheting, stitching, new recipes and discussing topics of morality vs legality in TV shows, as long as she was able.
What did she not experience in her life? I think she suffered through nearly every possible tragedy- the deaths of a husband, parents, siblings, and multiple children, including the last and most recent blows, those of my parents.
My poor Ajji. I hope she finds a modicum of peace, wherever she is now.
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
A new experience in my growth
Today was the first time I dealt in some personnel-management without taking RK's advice and guidance on it. Of course, to be fair, my company has been fairly tiny so far, so personnel management hardly was an issue.
Now that RK's group and mine work jointly on many projects and because I've also hired a new technician and obtained 2 new interns, we are getting pretty crowded.
Crowded place, new responsibilities, new projects etc leads to high stress; behaviors that might otherwise have been shrugged away become large pain points and bad behaviors that might have once been rare or ignored magnify to become real issues.
These past few weeks, I've been mostly absent from lab. In addition to my absence, the senior scientist in lab was also dealing with some family emergency issues and wasn't able to go to lab. This left the younger technicians in a position of high responsibility and independent decision-making. For the most part, it went very smoothly. However, yesterday I heard a complaint about somebody in lab and how their behavior was affecting workplace climate.
Before taking any action though, I discussed this issue with the senior physician at the clinical group and with the senior scientist from my group. We came up with a strategy which wouldn't point fingers at the person but would place this within the larger context of leadership and personal growth. Because, to be honest, I don't want to lose this person over something which is actually fairly easy to fix.
RK is someone I would have immediately asked help of, but he was busy. And the other person who would have been really helpful, his mentor from the US who is in town right now, was also busy. So, I took a few leaves from RK's book: I went online and read extensively; I looked at algorithms for cultivating a healthy work culture and I looked at images of leadership, work culture, personal growth, work place ethics and so on. This morning I still felt quite unprepared- I didn't feel like I had a cohesive message, I was afraid that I would ramble on without end and I couldn't figure out whether to focus only on workplace culture or personal growth or something completely different (all that reading while useful also confused the heck out of me... what exactly did I want anyway?).
The only thing I was sure of the attitude that I wanted to convey: one of trust and openness.
So I went in to lab, hoping to bumble through it somehow. I started out with asking people what they wanted out of their growth, what did they think contributed to personal growth. Many thoughtful answers, such as personal vision, education, learning from failures, and workplace environment (!) emerged. I asked them to to spend some time reflecting on what factors they felt had been critical for their growth so far. And while they were reflecting, I had a brainwave.
Last week, I had browsed through a book called "High Performance Habits" by Brendan Burchard. It made such an impact on me that I downloaded the book on my phone and have been going through it on and off. One of the first few chapters is about how actively reflecting on and improving one's perceptions of oneself (self), perceptions of what one would like others to think of one (social), a thoughtful approach to building skills critical for success and investing one's energy in service are ways to improve performance and effectiveness in life.
So almost automatically, my thoughts went to whatever I'd learned from this book. So I decided I would bring the conversation to this and have everybody talk about these 4S's (self, social, skills and service, as mentioned in the book).
Weirdly enough, when we discussed the personal growth aspect itself, even before I drove the conversation towards improvement, the person whose behavior triggered this whole session brought up many of these issues of behavior. And then there was a very honest exchange of opinions and thoughts about what triggered these bouts of bad behavior and what the underlying situation was.
Was it because this person suspected what had triggered this meeting and wanted to face it head-on?
Or was it because this environment of openness had been created? Or was I too, too obvious?
I don't know. But I was not going to let the opportunity go to waste! So I probed more, we spent a good amount of time talking about it, we all brainstormed about ways by which we could help and that conversation brought out many underlying confusions and miscommunications that I couldn't have even suspected.
We did the whole 4S thing as well- it seemed like a very good framework to address these exact same issues. And each of my team members came up with a goal list for themselves and selected other team mates to be their "coach"... and guess what? The same person about whom the complaints were, was the person most frequently chosen to be a coach for others to keep themselves on track with their personal goals! How amazing and awesomely crazy is that! I have to give full credit to this person for being honest and upfront about a lot of things- this truly is personal leadership.
And guess what else? We will continue these leadership sessions every month. I think there's some serious gold to be mined here.
So, all in all, feeling pretty good!
Now that RK's group and mine work jointly on many projects and because I've also hired a new technician and obtained 2 new interns, we are getting pretty crowded.
Crowded place, new responsibilities, new projects etc leads to high stress; behaviors that might otherwise have been shrugged away become large pain points and bad behaviors that might have once been rare or ignored magnify to become real issues.
These past few weeks, I've been mostly absent from lab. In addition to my absence, the senior scientist in lab was also dealing with some family emergency issues and wasn't able to go to lab. This left the younger technicians in a position of high responsibility and independent decision-making. For the most part, it went very smoothly. However, yesterday I heard a complaint about somebody in lab and how their behavior was affecting workplace climate.
Before taking any action though, I discussed this issue with the senior physician at the clinical group and with the senior scientist from my group. We came up with a strategy which wouldn't point fingers at the person but would place this within the larger context of leadership and personal growth. Because, to be honest, I don't want to lose this person over something which is actually fairly easy to fix.
RK is someone I would have immediately asked help of, but he was busy. And the other person who would have been really helpful, his mentor from the US who is in town right now, was also busy. So, I took a few leaves from RK's book: I went online and read extensively; I looked at algorithms for cultivating a healthy work culture and I looked at images of leadership, work culture, personal growth, work place ethics and so on. This morning I still felt quite unprepared- I didn't feel like I had a cohesive message, I was afraid that I would ramble on without end and I couldn't figure out whether to focus only on workplace culture or personal growth or something completely different (all that reading while useful also confused the heck out of me... what exactly did I want anyway?).
The only thing I was sure of the attitude that I wanted to convey: one of trust and openness.
So I went in to lab, hoping to bumble through it somehow. I started out with asking people what they wanted out of their growth, what did they think contributed to personal growth. Many thoughtful answers, such as personal vision, education, learning from failures, and workplace environment (!) emerged. I asked them to to spend some time reflecting on what factors they felt had been critical for their growth so far. And while they were reflecting, I had a brainwave.
Last week, I had browsed through a book called "High Performance Habits" by Brendan Burchard. It made such an impact on me that I downloaded the book on my phone and have been going through it on and off. One of the first few chapters is about how actively reflecting on and improving one's perceptions of oneself (self), perceptions of what one would like others to think of one (social), a thoughtful approach to building skills critical for success and investing one's energy in service are ways to improve performance and effectiveness in life.
So almost automatically, my thoughts went to whatever I'd learned from this book. So I decided I would bring the conversation to this and have everybody talk about these 4S's (self, social, skills and service, as mentioned in the book).
Weirdly enough, when we discussed the personal growth aspect itself, even before I drove the conversation towards improvement, the person whose behavior triggered this whole session brought up many of these issues of behavior. And then there was a very honest exchange of opinions and thoughts about what triggered these bouts of bad behavior and what the underlying situation was.
Was it because this person suspected what had triggered this meeting and wanted to face it head-on?
Or was it because this environment of openness had been created? Or was I too, too obvious?
I don't know. But I was not going to let the opportunity go to waste! So I probed more, we spent a good amount of time talking about it, we all brainstormed about ways by which we could help and that conversation brought out many underlying confusions and miscommunications that I couldn't have even suspected.
We did the whole 4S thing as well- it seemed like a very good framework to address these exact same issues. And each of my team members came up with a goal list for themselves and selected other team mates to be their "coach"... and guess what? The same person about whom the complaints were, was the person most frequently chosen to be a coach for others to keep themselves on track with their personal goals! How amazing and awesomely crazy is that! I have to give full credit to this person for being honest and upfront about a lot of things- this truly is personal leadership.
And guess what else? We will continue these leadership sessions every month. I think there's some serious gold to be mined here.
So, all in all, feeling pretty good!
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
Why I feel happier in India
I never could explain this until just now.
In the US, when I was going through a bad patch emotionally, or was feeling down, I would feel alone. And truly, there would be days when I wouldn't (or couldn't) talk to another person for days on end- people typically don't begin conversations on the bus or on the street with others. In my lab, the need for professionalism kept most interactions to the superficial.
I saw innumerable people over multiple years, either on the road leading to our house, or in the daycare when I went to pick up kids, and they would have seen me, but we never struck up a conversation or had any kind of connection.
.
Here, in India, on my street, on the street where my parents' home is, in my work places, I matter. People come and talk to me. I don't feel invisible.
And that's why, despite all the pollution and the problems, I like it here.
In the US, when I was going through a bad patch emotionally, or was feeling down, I would feel alone. And truly, there would be days when I wouldn't (or couldn't) talk to another person for days on end- people typically don't begin conversations on the bus or on the street with others. In my lab, the need for professionalism kept most interactions to the superficial.
I saw innumerable people over multiple years, either on the road leading to our house, or in the daycare when I went to pick up kids, and they would have seen me, but we never struck up a conversation or had any kind of connection.
.
Here, in India, on my street, on the street where my parents' home is, in my work places, I matter. People come and talk to me. I don't feel invisible.
And that's why, despite all the pollution and the problems, I like it here.
Saturday, September 29, 2018
Ilona Andrews
Have you read Ilona Andrews? This husband-wife team has to be hands-down the best fantasy authors in the world right now. I would classify IA right up there with JK Rowling, to be honest.
Just fantastic world creation, plot lines and writing.
Just fantastic world creation, plot lines and writing.
Thursday, August 23, 2018
A thought about cricket..
... Which, I realise now, has to be the ultimate game in delayed gratification.
You wait and wait and stare into space and occasionally field a ball that happens to roll into your space, all for the momentary gratification of being asked to bat or bowl.
Amazingly enough, kids tap into the joy of this quite quickly, far quicker than adults who try their hand at cricket for the first time.
You wait and wait and stare into space and occasionally field a ball that happens to roll into your space, all for the momentary gratification of being asked to bat or bowl.
Amazingly enough, kids tap into the joy of this quite quickly, far quicker than adults who try their hand at cricket for the first time.
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
Gratitude
Things that make me feel that someone out there is looking out for me:
To be honest, these past 6 months have been probably the most impactful in my life- both positive and negative.
Again, in the spirit of moving on, let's not dwell on deaths, but I really have so much gratitude for the multiple other things that have happened:
a) My maternal family- without my uncles and aunts from my mom's side, I would have never been in a state of mind to think about my device, get a provisional patent for it, or apply for and win a grant for it. In the past 2-3 months, I've gotten into the habit of looking to them for advice. It feels awfully heart-warming to know that social support exists... especially because, in the decade I spent in the US, I used to feel quite lonely.
b) My paternal aunts- for looking out for me in multiple ways.
c) For the glimpse of the musk deer and Monal pheasants in the Himalayas- both extremely rare, the former near extinct. The fact that we saw them is incredible...
d) For the black sheep dog who helped me on the trek to the Himalayas- he came suddenly, and walked by me, lay down next to me as I panted and gasped for breath and went away once he saw I was fine again. Wasn't the dog that walked with the Pandavas on their trek on Swargarohini also a black dog? The one that was left with Yudhishthira when everyone else fell by the wayside?
e) For the twist of fate that led to us carrying the temple flag from Chopta village to Tungnath to give to the priests there so they could fly it over the temple... what an unexpected privilege!
f) For the opportunity to share our temple prasadam with some of the other pilgrims on the mountain.
g) For the immense world of opportunities that have opened up for me in terms of professional growth. I have been hesitant about figuring out how to use these opportunities. But writing this post has helped me realize how privileged I am. I really must not waste these chances, or other people's time.
h) For the man, the kids, and the extended family and friends.
Truly, I am blessed. They say "Sa vidya ya vimuktate" That is knowledge, which liberates.
Well, on this independence day, I think the time has come for me to get a bit more liberated in my mind and go forth without being bound by my preconceptions of what is and is not possible.
To be honest, these past 6 months have been probably the most impactful in my life- both positive and negative.
Again, in the spirit of moving on, let's not dwell on deaths, but I really have so much gratitude for the multiple other things that have happened:
a) My maternal family- without my uncles and aunts from my mom's side, I would have never been in a state of mind to think about my device, get a provisional patent for it, or apply for and win a grant for it. In the past 2-3 months, I've gotten into the habit of looking to them for advice. It feels awfully heart-warming to know that social support exists... especially because, in the decade I spent in the US, I used to feel quite lonely.
b) My paternal aunts- for looking out for me in multiple ways.
 |
| The male monal |
 |
| Himalayan male musk deer |
d) For the black sheep dog who helped me on the trek to the Himalayas- he came suddenly, and walked by me, lay down next to me as I panted and gasped for breath and went away once he saw I was fine again. Wasn't the dog that walked with the Pandavas on their trek on Swargarohini also a black dog? The one that was left with Yudhishthira when everyone else fell by the wayside?
e) For the twist of fate that led to us carrying the temple flag from Chopta village to Tungnath to give to the priests there so they could fly it over the temple... what an unexpected privilege!
f) For the opportunity to share our temple prasadam with some of the other pilgrims on the mountain.
g) For the immense world of opportunities that have opened up for me in terms of professional growth. I have been hesitant about figuring out how to use these opportunities. But writing this post has helped me realize how privileged I am. I really must not waste these chances, or other people's time.
h) For the man, the kids, and the extended family and friends.
Truly, I am blessed. They say "Sa vidya ya vimuktate" That is knowledge, which liberates.
Well, on this independence day, I think the time has come for me to get a bit more liberated in my mind and go forth without being bound by my preconceptions of what is and is not possible.
Moving on
Three and a half months... and five months.... and many unpublished blog posts on grief and many more hours staring at a white screen thinking I ought to write something but never knowing what. I think it's time to make an attempt to write about something other than grieving... which, I never realized till now, is truly extremely personal. The process is long and complicated and apparently, never stops, just changes in nature. It becomes a little embarrassing after a point of time to even admit that you are still grieving and therefore not in a mood to adhere to deadlines or communicate with your group or anything that people around you expect you to do.
RK's cousin came over a few weeks ago, after the death of her father in law, and said, my husband hasn't gone to work since his (extremely aged) father passed away. He sits there, reading old messages and seeing old pictures and crying and I am so fed up of it.
Yeah... that's the other thing about grieving- people expect you to pull up your pants and move on after a point of time.
And even worse, they expect you to be grateful for deaths that happened in a particular way. At least neither of your parents suffered, they say, whereas my husband/father/mother/whoever really struggled so much.
Yes well... sorry? To be honest, I don't know that my parents didn't suffer. The non-suffering, quick part of their deaths is the narrative that I created, encouraged and disseminated. Deaths force you to choose narratives, which you then have to stick to because what the heck else are you going to do?
The hardest thing for me these days is a long-enduring feeling of being cheated from grieving for my father. What these past few months have taught me is that my grieving process apparently doesn't begin right after deaths, but that things hit me only after a few weeks. Now, what upsets me is that I can't think of Appa without thinking of mom. They are inseparable in death as they were not in life. I was perfectly happy communicating certain things to my mom which I definitely wouldn't have shared with my dad, but which would have reached him indirectly. Similarly, my dad and I had a code- certain things we wouldn't trouble my mom with.
Now, dammit, I can't separate out the two. It's like inviting your friend for a cozy chat and then realizing that she/he is going to bring a plus one.
Ok... this post was not supposed to be about deaths or grieving. Let me move on.
There are multiple things on the horizon that I wish I didn't have to think about: taxes, utility bills, juggling the child care issue with work issues, setting up a new lab at Rjrngr, life insurance policies (which is too close to death certificates, so let's quickly move on), and whatever. Who cares
Let me focus on taxes, because god, it's two weeks to the (extended) deadline and I am still unprepared. Just realized that the policies we took last year for the kids are under my name but RK is the one who will be filing his taxes, which means we can't claim those section 80 benefits. Gaaah! Why the hell didn't I realize this last year? Why didn't anybody tell me? Why can't there be joint tax filing??
Also, I have to file and pay my dad's taxes and I really really wish he were here to help me out on all this shit.
Ok...deep breath.
Actually the biggest thing on my head is this Africa thing. Which is all very good for career and all that, but I haven't taken the bull by the horns yet because I'm scared- who will take care of the kids, will they come with me to Nairobi, how will all this traveling affect them (or maybe it won't? Maybe they will grow up to be true global citizens comfortable in any part of the world?)? What will the school say? How will I manage the Bangalore, Chennai and Nairobi labs? How will I get them all through accreditation without fucking things up completely? And there's the BIG grant and the device and all the stuff needed for that- the design team, paying them, getting additional funding through for that, meeting the right people to get it done.
I need to break this down into bite-sized chunks otherwise I am going to get drowned in all the clutter.
Actually, I need to delegate... I've been sitting in my cocoon of trashy romance novels and lethargy for too long. I have to get a grip, make some decisions, and communicate with the right people and get my thoughts in order.
RK's cousin came over a few weeks ago, after the death of her father in law, and said, my husband hasn't gone to work since his (extremely aged) father passed away. He sits there, reading old messages and seeing old pictures and crying and I am so fed up of it.
Yeah... that's the other thing about grieving- people expect you to pull up your pants and move on after a point of time.
And even worse, they expect you to be grateful for deaths that happened in a particular way. At least neither of your parents suffered, they say, whereas my husband/father/mother/whoever really struggled so much.
Yes well... sorry? To be honest, I don't know that my parents didn't suffer. The non-suffering, quick part of their deaths is the narrative that I created, encouraged and disseminated. Deaths force you to choose narratives, which you then have to stick to because what the heck else are you going to do?
The hardest thing for me these days is a long-enduring feeling of being cheated from grieving for my father. What these past few months have taught me is that my grieving process apparently doesn't begin right after deaths, but that things hit me only after a few weeks. Now, what upsets me is that I can't think of Appa without thinking of mom. They are inseparable in death as they were not in life. I was perfectly happy communicating certain things to my mom which I definitely wouldn't have shared with my dad, but which would have reached him indirectly. Similarly, my dad and I had a code- certain things we wouldn't trouble my mom with.
Now, dammit, I can't separate out the two. It's like inviting your friend for a cozy chat and then realizing that she/he is going to bring a plus one.
Ok... this post was not supposed to be about deaths or grieving. Let me move on.
There are multiple things on the horizon that I wish I didn't have to think about: taxes, utility bills, juggling the child care issue with work issues, setting up a new lab at Rjrngr, life insurance policies (which is too close to death certificates, so let's quickly move on), and whatever. Who cares
Let me focus on taxes, because god, it's two weeks to the (extended) deadline and I am still unprepared. Just realized that the policies we took last year for the kids are under my name but RK is the one who will be filing his taxes, which means we can't claim those section 80 benefits. Gaaah! Why the hell didn't I realize this last year? Why didn't anybody tell me? Why can't there be joint tax filing??
Also, I have to file and pay my dad's taxes and I really really wish he were here to help me out on all this shit.
Ok...deep breath.
Actually the biggest thing on my head is this Africa thing. Which is all very good for career and all that, but I haven't taken the bull by the horns yet because I'm scared- who will take care of the kids, will they come with me to Nairobi, how will all this traveling affect them (or maybe it won't? Maybe they will grow up to be true global citizens comfortable in any part of the world?)? What will the school say? How will I manage the Bangalore, Chennai and Nairobi labs? How will I get them all through accreditation without fucking things up completely? And there's the BIG grant and the device and all the stuff needed for that- the design team, paying them, getting additional funding through for that, meeting the right people to get it done.
I need to break this down into bite-sized chunks otherwise I am going to get drowned in all the clutter.
Actually, I need to delegate... I've been sitting in my cocoon of trashy romance novels and lethargy for too long. I have to get a grip, make some decisions, and communicate with the right people and get my thoughts in order.
Friday, June 8, 2018
Tungnath
Tungnath feels like a dream now. The mountain feels like a gently sloping hill, the colorful horses, the green grass and the blue skies make it seem like it could be a little place in the Nilgiris, somewhere near Ooty, perhaps.
But when I strive to remember, although I don't feel the pain, I remember thinking that I might die, or vomit endlessly, or faint, or do all at the same time. The climb up the mountain, the anxiety, my wide eyes, gasping breath, my struggle not to fall back- they could have happened to someone else.
Yet, one incident I recall clearly. I was stumbling over some rocks; RK was ahead and waiting for me; the kids on their pony were almost impossibly farther ahead, the pink and orange of their sweaters making a nice contrast against the bright blue sky. For every step of mine, the rest appeared to take ten. There was no way to catch up.
And at that moment of hopelessness against a background of stubborn will to climb that mountain to keep the kids in sight, if not reach the temple, a thought popped in my head: This is what a pilgrimage is. This is what penance is.
During a pilgrimage, there is no logic. It is a struggle and in that struggle there is only one driving motivation. Maybe it is the idea of God, maybe it is as simple as trying to keep up. But whatever it might be, it is what makes you force one step ahead of another, even if your chest hurts and you are light headed and your stomach feels like it might turn inside out.
I became one with the millions of others who must have struggled on that same mountain trying to reach that same temple over thousands of years. Just as they must have collapsed on the grass and stared sightlessly at the sky, giving their bodies a break and to gather strength for the next patch of mountain, so I did. After a point of time, there was no further reason to keep climbing other than the fact that I was on the mountain and the only way was up.
Somewhere in the back of my mind was a persistent thought: maybe this struggle was a good way of apologizing to my parents, for all the wrongs, for all the times I didn't listen, for the small daily decisions of inconsiderateness, forgetfulness, callousness or willfulness.
Onwards we climbed. 2kms, 2.5kms, 3kms up. At the 3km stop, I hired a pony. I feared I would die or faint or something highly inconvenient otherwise. I would have hired the pony for the remainder of the distance, but there was some disagreement with the pony fellow and I hopped down after half a km. But the break was good and I felt comfortable being back on the ground.
I don't recall the rest of the climb. I must have climbed the remaining 1.5km and must have met up with the kids at some point of time. I only recall reaching the temple gates and removing my shoes.
The priests at Tungnath sing out their prayers, instead of reciting them. Three of them sing in harmony, in three different octaves. It is easy to close one's eyes and get absorbed in the music. The main alter is Shiva's, but it is like no Shiva linga I have ever seen. It looks a bit misshapen, a bit hump-like. Later I remembered the story of Tungnath. Shiva tried to escape the well-meaning apologies of the Pandavas after the great Kurukshetra war, turned himself into Nandi the bull and not willing to take any chances, borrowed himself under the earth. Only 5 spots of the bull are supposed to be visible. The hump of the bull is in Tungnath. The shoulders, the tail etc are elsewhere in the Himalayas. The temple was built by the Pandavas, almost 5000 years ago. It's a funny story- no doubt many of us would like to borrow under the earth while disguised as animals to escape people we have no desire to meet!
Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the air, or maybe it was just the place, but when the priests started singing the Shanti mantra (for peace) in that small, dark, ancient alter, my mind was filled with my parents and tears started rolling down my eyes. They followed it up right after with the Kshama mantra (forgiveness) and I was grateful and wonderstruck. Maybe it was a sign from God that the priests chose those exact mantras to chant?
Ultimately, it was a privilege. How many people get to see a temple built by the Pandavas?
One striking thing about this whole trip has been how my idea of our epics have changed... All my life, the Mahabharatha and Ramayana have been great stories. This trip made them so real- temples built by the Pandavas, their kingdoms (which are now suburbs of New Delhi), their battle grounds, the mountains Rama worshipped on and the peaks they stayed at... my view of India's great epics have always been extremely Western- I always felt these were wonderful fiction. Only now are my eyes slowly being to open to the fact that many of these stories might have actually happened, that the Pandavas actually did exist at one point of time. And if they did, then Krishna too would have. Which means that God suddenly no longer feels like some abstract concept. I too have walked the same mountains that all these people walked on. Suddenly, God feels a lot closer to my reality than ever before.
But when I strive to remember, although I don't feel the pain, I remember thinking that I might die, or vomit endlessly, or faint, or do all at the same time. The climb up the mountain, the anxiety, my wide eyes, gasping breath, my struggle not to fall back- they could have happened to someone else.
Yet, one incident I recall clearly. I was stumbling over some rocks; RK was ahead and waiting for me; the kids on their pony were almost impossibly farther ahead, the pink and orange of their sweaters making a nice contrast against the bright blue sky. For every step of mine, the rest appeared to take ten. There was no way to catch up.
And at that moment of hopelessness against a background of stubborn will to climb that mountain to keep the kids in sight, if not reach the temple, a thought popped in my head: This is what a pilgrimage is. This is what penance is.
During a pilgrimage, there is no logic. It is a struggle and in that struggle there is only one driving motivation. Maybe it is the idea of God, maybe it is as simple as trying to keep up. But whatever it might be, it is what makes you force one step ahead of another, even if your chest hurts and you are light headed and your stomach feels like it might turn inside out.
I became one with the millions of others who must have struggled on that same mountain trying to reach that same temple over thousands of years. Just as they must have collapsed on the grass and stared sightlessly at the sky, giving their bodies a break and to gather strength for the next patch of mountain, so I did. After a point of time, there was no further reason to keep climbing other than the fact that I was on the mountain and the only way was up.
Somewhere in the back of my mind was a persistent thought: maybe this struggle was a good way of apologizing to my parents, for all the wrongs, for all the times I didn't listen, for the small daily decisions of inconsiderateness, forgetfulness, callousness or willfulness.
Onwards we climbed. 2kms, 2.5kms, 3kms up. At the 3km stop, I hired a pony. I feared I would die or faint or something highly inconvenient otherwise. I would have hired the pony for the remainder of the distance, but there was some disagreement with the pony fellow and I hopped down after half a km. But the break was good and I felt comfortable being back on the ground.
I don't recall the rest of the climb. I must have climbed the remaining 1.5km and must have met up with the kids at some point of time. I only recall reaching the temple gates and removing my shoes.
The priests at Tungnath sing out their prayers, instead of reciting them. Three of them sing in harmony, in three different octaves. It is easy to close one's eyes and get absorbed in the music. The main alter is Shiva's, but it is like no Shiva linga I have ever seen. It looks a bit misshapen, a bit hump-like. Later I remembered the story of Tungnath. Shiva tried to escape the well-meaning apologies of the Pandavas after the great Kurukshetra war, turned himself into Nandi the bull and not willing to take any chances, borrowed himself under the earth. Only 5 spots of the bull are supposed to be visible. The hump of the bull is in Tungnath. The shoulders, the tail etc are elsewhere in the Himalayas. The temple was built by the Pandavas, almost 5000 years ago. It's a funny story- no doubt many of us would like to borrow under the earth while disguised as animals to escape people we have no desire to meet!
Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the air, or maybe it was just the place, but when the priests started singing the Shanti mantra (for peace) in that small, dark, ancient alter, my mind was filled with my parents and tears started rolling down my eyes. They followed it up right after with the Kshama mantra (forgiveness) and I was grateful and wonderstruck. Maybe it was a sign from God that the priests chose those exact mantras to chant?
Ultimately, it was a privilege. How many people get to see a temple built by the Pandavas?
One striking thing about this whole trip has been how my idea of our epics have changed... All my life, the Mahabharatha and Ramayana have been great stories. This trip made them so real- temples built by the Pandavas, their kingdoms (which are now suburbs of New Delhi), their battle grounds, the mountains Rama worshipped on and the peaks they stayed at... my view of India's great epics have always been extremely Western- I always felt these were wonderful fiction. Only now are my eyes slowly being to open to the fact that many of these stories might have actually happened, that the Pandavas actually did exist at one point of time. And if they did, then Krishna too would have. Which means that God suddenly no longer feels like some abstract concept. I too have walked the same mountains that all these people walked on. Suddenly, God feels a lot closer to my reality than ever before.
Saturday, June 2, 2018
Escape from Bangalore 1- Travels to Delhi
Just the very act of getting away from Bangalore felt like someone had pressed a release valve in the pressure cooker of my brain.
Mundane acts of travel- packing up, waking the kids up at midnight to make in time to the airport for our 4am flight to Delhi, printing out boarding passes, going through security- took on a sheer exuberance. We might have been the first people in the world to ever travel by air, such was the level of our excitement.
I've never been to Delhi by flight before. The two other times in my life I've been that far up North (people like me, who feel most comfortable south of the Vindhyas and who always have to scrunch up their face to recall their primary school Hindi, always capitalize the N in North India. The geographical, linguistic and cultural differences seem so vast that North might just as well be a different country) were when I was a child- first when I was 10 or 11, and the second when I was 22 (one might think, well, not so much of a child, but for all practical purposes, in terms of total and blissful ignorance of anything of import, I was).
Outside Delhi airport are a couple of eating and tea drinking joints. Tea seems to be the favorite drink in the North... which makes me wonder why my mom, who if she could have double-capitalized the N in North would have done so while firmly proclaiming that she was fine in the South, thank you very much, was such an avid tea drinker and reluctant coffee drinker. When I was 10, my dad got transferred from Madras (which is about as South as one can get). Initially he was supposed to go to Delhi and my mom literally cried, "Oh my God, how can we possibly survive so far up North? The cold! The Mustard Oil!!" But in fact, he got transferred to Pune and my mom told me, "Oh good, it's only central India. It's quite close to Bombay and that's practically home" And that is how my parents and I became life-long addicts of poha, bakarwadi, aam burfi and zunka bhakri.
So anyway, we went to an eating joint called "Delhi Str-Eats" and guess what we saw? Idli and dosa!! So much for Delhi street eats!
We all recoiled. Give us authentic Delhi food, we cried. And so we ate parothas with big dollops of fresh butter, deep fried pooris with aloo and a gigantic oil-dripping bhatura with chole.
My uncle had booked us a room at the IIT Delhi guest house, in the center of the campus surrounded by trees. We were greeted by a golden oriole pair, a few jungle babblers, a coppersmith barbet and a red vented bulbul as soon as we got off the cab. Very soon it became clear that while the natural beauty of the guest house was all very well, it was impossible to actually stand outside in that weather for any length of time to enjoy all this ornithological pleasantness. It was 42 degrees Celcius.... at 9 in the morning!
Our days in Delhi were spent hanging out with my uncle, aunt and cousin; visiting some friends and driving around Delhi. In my mind, Delhi was this horror city, covered in smoke and filled with rapists.Turns out, apart from the preponderance of Hindi, Delhi isn't so different from Bangalore. Also turns out, my Hindi isn't so rusty after a few days of linguistic immersion. So, maybe I don't need to capitalize the N after all... it's just the north. It takes the same time to reach it as it does to reach Kolar by car.
Sunday, May 13, 2018
Blood
My aunt sprained her foot this evening. That left me to wipe the kitchen floor after dinner, the first time I've been alone in that kitchen since the night after my mother's death on that same floor.
If you look closely on the tile under the fixed cupboard, you can still see remnants of my mother's blood, the dried stains we were unable to reach to mop up.
Today, while I was wiping the kitchen floor, I remembered my mother in law. She helped me clean my mother's blood after we returned from the hospital. She and I scraped the pulpy mess out, sprinkled water on the dried clots, mopped up the seeping blood and carefully poured out buckets and buckets of reddened water from the moppings into the toilet so that the bathrooms would not become stained with the discards.
No matter how much my mother in law and I might argue, I will never forget how she helped me that night, quietly, sincerely and compassionately. She wept for my mother as she cleaned and although my eyes remained dry, I took comfort in her tears.
Many hours later, my cousin and I wiped the floor again with soap and water to remove the stickiness of the blood and the stench of it. She sprayed insect repellent by the foot of the cupboard to stop ants from eating the blood.
Today, wiping down the floor again, I saw the stubborn stains of dried blood hiding under the immovable cupboard and I recalled my mother in law and my cousin. Somehow, I am not as worried about ants eating up mom's blood. Let them. May they gain some succor from it.
As for my mom, she truly did give her tears, sweat and blood to that kitchen.
Thursday, May 10, 2018
Life and Death
We only ever hear of medical miracles- the time a child drowned for hours was somehow revived, the time a man had massive pulmonary embolisms that blocked off both sides of her lungs but yet survived and thrived, the time a man was revived despite his heart having stopped for a whole hour, all the "almost-died but didn't", the "lucky to be alive" stories that populate pretty much every form of modern communication known.
Death is supposed to be determined by the lack of a pulse, but somehow that didn't stop these people from not dying.
When are you supposed to stop trying to for a medical miracle and when are you supposed to keep trying? And how do you know the outcome will always be the positive one that they show you on TV? What if you do all this work, revive a once-dead person only to have a damaged person on your hands?
I wonder if I gave up too soon on my parents.
Logically, I think I took the right steps: assume we had succeeded in reviving my father.... then what? He still had the cancer, the inability to breathe by himself, the mouth ulcers that made it difficult for him to swallow and so on. Or if we had revived my mother and then she ended up like a vegetable, bedridden for life, dependent on someone else for every single action. Neither of them would have wanted that, I think.
Yet, the part of me that weaves fantasies wonders if I should have fought harder for a medical miracle.
Death is supposed to be determined by the lack of a pulse, but somehow that didn't stop these people from not dying.
When are you supposed to stop trying to for a medical miracle and when are you supposed to keep trying? And how do you know the outcome will always be the positive one that they show you on TV? What if you do all this work, revive a once-dead person only to have a damaged person on your hands?
I wonder if I gave up too soon on my parents.
Logically, I think I took the right steps: assume we had succeeded in reviving my father.... then what? He still had the cancer, the inability to breathe by himself, the mouth ulcers that made it difficult for him to swallow and so on. Or if we had revived my mother and then she ended up like a vegetable, bedridden for life, dependent on someone else for every single action. Neither of them would have wanted that, I think.
Yet, the part of me that weaves fantasies wonders if I should have fought harder for a medical miracle.
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
If mom had lived
A freak accident, a fall, and a bloody death.
I looked at her body in the ICU, words forming accusingly in my head, fighting to keep from uttering them out aloud, "What the hell mom? What the fuck were you thinking to do?"
And i imagined my mom's words, the cadence of it, the bewilderment and shock in her voice as she might have spoken had she been able to speak.
"I thought I would quickly just do that one thing, Varsha. I never expected...I never thought that's what would happen. The last thing I ever wanted was Ani to find me like that, that poor poor child"
That godawful blood. That stench of dried metallic fluid and gunk.
My mother was with me and she wasn't with me yesterday. She kept popping into my head to tell me things, that she hasn't meant to die, only to clean up the kitchen a bit, that she didn't want any of the fuss, she called me to cover her legs after they cleaned up her bloody clothes but hadn't thought to preserve that bit of modesty. She rested in the ICU only to wake up in my head again as we went to the police station to complete the medico legal formalities, regretting the trouble her decision to climb that ladder had caused. "I'm so sorry ma" said her voice. "Who would have thought I could do this or that it would come to this?" She bemoaned the delay in getting her body out of the hospital "Yeddukki, yenna ippidieyelan paduthura?"
The post mortem. My understanding of how she might have died improves. Her voice quiets as many many pieces of information are given: supra something something fissure, midline shift, massive cerebral hemorrhage on the right side, multiple fractures on the left side.
"So, you are saying that somehow she fell off the ladder, and landed on her left side, her right side of the brain started hemorrhaging and she lost blood and she died?" I ask the forensic doctor.
"The impact was massive", says the doctor gently. Massive, massive, says my head and her voice.
I latch on to something tightly. So she may have become unconscious? She may not have even known? RK clasps my hand to him and says, yes. She was unconscious when Ani found her a few seconds after she fell. Her body probably would have shut down immediately.
I feel a sigh going through me. I sit with her wrapped, plastic packed body in the ambulance. I make no move to touch her. I recall the feel of her soft familiar flesh and I recoil from imagining how hard it might be by now. She looks different, sort of like a nun or some saint with her head tightly wrapped. She looks molded, like a doll. When my father died, he was dressed in clothes that he liked, in a khadi kurta and loose pants. My mother got plastic and ropes. "Ayyo Varsha", says her voice, and I imagine her keeping a palm on her forehead and shaking her head at me. "What does it matter now?"
We come back home, they lift her body into an icebox and I can no longer touch her, even if I want to. Right by the icebox on a table is my father's photograph. I stare at his face wondering if there is some secret that he knows. Could my father perhaps be there with my mother? Perhaps they were right now arguing about it. My father might be saying, I thought you wanted to join me and my mother might say, yes, but not so fast and not so violently!
Or maybe my father would say, why in the world did you come so fast? Surely you knew the kids need you. And my mother would say, yes. I know. I don't know why I came so fast either.
Or even worse... To my ever lasting shame, my father might say, I saw Varsha didn't turn up with you for my 45th day ceremony. Clearly she wasn't taking proper care of you. I didnt think you should hang around there moping about me anymore.
My eyes are sore, my head burns behind them. I have a choice- I can either continue to sit and stare ahead, and eventually collapse into sobs, tears and a migraine or I can push some food into me, get some rest and stay in control. I eat. My mother is no longer taking directly to me, but in echoes, from a not so distant past when she and I both decided to eat after my father's body was brought home from the hospital so that we could stay alert to do what had to be done.
I nap.
When I wake up, my mother's voice is silent. There is a finality in that icebox. I join my aunts in keeping the vigil through the night. Somehow I feel lighter at heart. Light enough that I'm able to greet all those who come, able to narrate her death story and talk and laugh loudly with my cousins both during the vigil and later after the cremation
Somehow it doesn't feel wrong. And right now, when my head is thick, all I can do is go by my feelings.
I looked at her body in the ICU, words forming accusingly in my head, fighting to keep from uttering them out aloud, "What the hell mom? What the fuck were you thinking to do?"
And i imagined my mom's words, the cadence of it, the bewilderment and shock in her voice as she might have spoken had she been able to speak.
"I thought I would quickly just do that one thing, Varsha. I never expected...I never thought that's what would happen. The last thing I ever wanted was Ani to find me like that, that poor poor child"
That godawful blood. That stench of dried metallic fluid and gunk.
My mother was with me and she wasn't with me yesterday. She kept popping into my head to tell me things, that she hasn't meant to die, only to clean up the kitchen a bit, that she didn't want any of the fuss, she called me to cover her legs after they cleaned up her bloody clothes but hadn't thought to preserve that bit of modesty. She rested in the ICU only to wake up in my head again as we went to the police station to complete the medico legal formalities, regretting the trouble her decision to climb that ladder had caused. "I'm so sorry ma" said her voice. "Who would have thought I could do this or that it would come to this?" She bemoaned the delay in getting her body out of the hospital "Yeddukki, yenna ippidieyelan paduthura?"
The post mortem. My understanding of how she might have died improves. Her voice quiets as many many pieces of information are given: supra something something fissure, midline shift, massive cerebral hemorrhage on the right side, multiple fractures on the left side.
"So, you are saying that somehow she fell off the ladder, and landed on her left side, her right side of the brain started hemorrhaging and she lost blood and she died?" I ask the forensic doctor.
"The impact was massive", says the doctor gently. Massive, massive, says my head and her voice.
I latch on to something tightly. So she may have become unconscious? She may not have even known? RK clasps my hand to him and says, yes. She was unconscious when Ani found her a few seconds after she fell. Her body probably would have shut down immediately.
I feel a sigh going through me. I sit with her wrapped, plastic packed body in the ambulance. I make no move to touch her. I recall the feel of her soft familiar flesh and I recoil from imagining how hard it might be by now. She looks different, sort of like a nun or some saint with her head tightly wrapped. She looks molded, like a doll. When my father died, he was dressed in clothes that he liked, in a khadi kurta and loose pants. My mother got plastic and ropes. "Ayyo Varsha", says her voice, and I imagine her keeping a palm on her forehead and shaking her head at me. "What does it matter now?"
We come back home, they lift her body into an icebox and I can no longer touch her, even if I want to. Right by the icebox on a table is my father's photograph. I stare at his face wondering if there is some secret that he knows. Could my father perhaps be there with my mother? Perhaps they were right now arguing about it. My father might be saying, I thought you wanted to join me and my mother might say, yes, but not so fast and not so violently!
Or maybe my father would say, why in the world did you come so fast? Surely you knew the kids need you. And my mother would say, yes. I know. I don't know why I came so fast either.
Or even worse... To my ever lasting shame, my father might say, I saw Varsha didn't turn up with you for my 45th day ceremony. Clearly she wasn't taking proper care of you. I didnt think you should hang around there moping about me anymore.
My eyes are sore, my head burns behind them. I have a choice- I can either continue to sit and stare ahead, and eventually collapse into sobs, tears and a migraine or I can push some food into me, get some rest and stay in control. I eat. My mother is no longer taking directly to me, but in echoes, from a not so distant past when she and I both decided to eat after my father's body was brought home from the hospital so that we could stay alert to do what had to be done.
I nap.
When I wake up, my mother's voice is silent. There is a finality in that icebox. I join my aunts in keeping the vigil through the night. Somehow I feel lighter at heart. Light enough that I'm able to greet all those who come, able to narrate her death story and talk and laugh loudly with my cousins both during the vigil and later after the cremation
Somehow it doesn't feel wrong. And right now, when my head is thick, all I can do is go by my feelings.
Friday, March 30, 2018
Touch
My father was never a touchy-feely kind of a guy. Apparently, he got this trait from his father who frowned upon any expressions of love, either verbal or physical. My paternal grandmother too is very much hands-off. She expressed her love through food, like most textbook grandmothers, cooking incessantly when she was able to and now that she can no longer leave her bed, incessantly asking people about whether they have eaten or not. Any craving for touch would make one a target for gentle mockery on my father's side of the family: "Ayyo, kozhandaikku conjanuma!" ("Oh the baby needs coddling!") my aunts would exclaim.
I recall my father carrying me around on his shoulders till I was almost 7, after which, one fine day he decided he had carried me enough and made me walk everywhere. I still remember the tantrums I threw at that time of forced transition from babyhood.
After this, any touches were either accidental, or very much with a single purpose, such as holding my upper hand to guide me through traffic, or giving me a leg up when I needed to climb a wall to retrieve a shuttlecock. In my early teens, I rebelled against this enforced no-touch policy of my father's and would find ways to hold his hand or plonk my head on his lap while we watched TV and so on. I would hold my breath and only release it if it seemed like he would allow this temporary aberration, always knowing that he would free himself in a few minutes.
As I grew into my late teens and early twenties, I grew closer to my mother. She fulfilled my need for casual touches and caresses. Many times, I used her as a mediator to communicate with my father. It wasn't until I left for the US that I realized my father and I had many things in common, not least the preference to communicate by email rather than by phone or face to face. When I type 'Sreedhar' in my Gmail inbox now, I get tens of thousands of hits over the past two decades. My dad sending me recipes, advice, scoldings, wry observations on life, and pictures- dozens and dozens of pictures of his life. By the time I returned to India, Appa and I had reached a steady state. We would communicate by email, in case anything important had to be said. He immersed himself into the lives of my kids. He played, fought, and laughed with his grand kids every day- the no touch policy didn't apply to them.
During my father's last days, he craved touch. As he gasped for breath, straining to expand his solidified lungs, nothing gave him more comfort than having someone rub his back. As his mouth filled with ulcers from the cancer treatment and oral thrush raged in his throat, he found it immensely soothing to have someone gently move their hand up and down his throat as he coughed and coughed and tried to swallow.
When we decided to move him back from the ICU to the ward so that we could spend his last hours with him, my mother and I had one single thought in our minds: that we needed to touch him, as much for our sakes as for his, so that he would know he was not alone. We wanted to hold his hand, help him with his food, put an arm around him when he coughed, wipe his chin after he had hastily gulped down food before his oxygen saturation dropped.
If there is one regret I have with the way he died, it is this: I was not holding his hand when he breathed his last. He had fallen asleep (or what seemed to be sleep) and I didn't pick up his hand again. And by the time I realized that he wasn't breathing, it was too late. I think this must be a regret for my mother too- that she spent the entire previous night and the next day morning and afternoon with him. And about an hour after I took over from her, he died. "If only I had spent just an hour more with him" is what she expressed to me after she hurried back to the hospital.
What have I learned from this? I'll never stop touching my kids, husband, mother, anybody important to me: caresses, hugs, kisses, massages- they will get it all.
I'll never again discount the power of touch - touch is as essential as life in newborn babies, toddlers and even adults. And the weaker you are, whether by age or by sickness, the more important touch is.
I recall my father carrying me around on his shoulders till I was almost 7, after which, one fine day he decided he had carried me enough and made me walk everywhere. I still remember the tantrums I threw at that time of forced transition from babyhood.
After this, any touches were either accidental, or very much with a single purpose, such as holding my upper hand to guide me through traffic, or giving me a leg up when I needed to climb a wall to retrieve a shuttlecock. In my early teens, I rebelled against this enforced no-touch policy of my father's and would find ways to hold his hand or plonk my head on his lap while we watched TV and so on. I would hold my breath and only release it if it seemed like he would allow this temporary aberration, always knowing that he would free himself in a few minutes.
As I grew into my late teens and early twenties, I grew closer to my mother. She fulfilled my need for casual touches and caresses. Many times, I used her as a mediator to communicate with my father. It wasn't until I left for the US that I realized my father and I had many things in common, not least the preference to communicate by email rather than by phone or face to face. When I type 'Sreedhar' in my Gmail inbox now, I get tens of thousands of hits over the past two decades. My dad sending me recipes, advice, scoldings, wry observations on life, and pictures- dozens and dozens of pictures of his life. By the time I returned to India, Appa and I had reached a steady state. We would communicate by email, in case anything important had to be said. He immersed himself into the lives of my kids. He played, fought, and laughed with his grand kids every day- the no touch policy didn't apply to them.
During my father's last days, he craved touch. As he gasped for breath, straining to expand his solidified lungs, nothing gave him more comfort than having someone rub his back. As his mouth filled with ulcers from the cancer treatment and oral thrush raged in his throat, he found it immensely soothing to have someone gently move their hand up and down his throat as he coughed and coughed and tried to swallow.
When we decided to move him back from the ICU to the ward so that we could spend his last hours with him, my mother and I had one single thought in our minds: that we needed to touch him, as much for our sakes as for his, so that he would know he was not alone. We wanted to hold his hand, help him with his food, put an arm around him when he coughed, wipe his chin after he had hastily gulped down food before his oxygen saturation dropped.
If there is one regret I have with the way he died, it is this: I was not holding his hand when he breathed his last. He had fallen asleep (or what seemed to be sleep) and I didn't pick up his hand again. And by the time I realized that he wasn't breathing, it was too late. I think this must be a regret for my mother too- that she spent the entire previous night and the next day morning and afternoon with him. And about an hour after I took over from her, he died. "If only I had spent just an hour more with him" is what she expressed to me after she hurried back to the hospital.
What have I learned from this? I'll never stop touching my kids, husband, mother, anybody important to me: caresses, hugs, kisses, massages- they will get it all.
I'll never again discount the power of touch - touch is as essential as life in newborn babies, toddlers and even adults. And the weaker you are, whether by age or by sickness, the more important touch is.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Camping again
After almost a year, we went camping again this weekend.
Why do we forget to go camping? I think because camping requires an innate ability to leave yourself exposed, to give up a level of control. So, when you have a few rushed days in which to grab yourself a holiday, you would much rather keep everything under tight boundaries rather than risk losing that precious time to unforeseen elements. So it's not forgetting to go camping, but it's more of a deliberate decision not to bring the possibility into any equations.
Durga will turn five soon and she wanted to go camping. I think the main reason D loves camping is because she gets to make friends with dogs and cats and any other strays that get into her path. Sometimes I wonder how much of her innate love for animals I am stifling by not allowing her pets... am I ruining some beautiful expansive thing inside her and twisting it into some future misshapen horror? Or is that just plain weird thinking?
The very thought of having to be in charge of a pet, when as a family, we are emerging from D's babyhood, is enough to stress me out. No thanks- let the kids become old enough to clean their own poop, let alone some pet's, and then we shall see.
Our camping mainstay in India so far has been Bamboo Rustles, a wonderful place near Krishnagiri. But as BR becomes more and more popular, it's difficult finding available dates to go there. Plus, it's nice to explore a new place, not the same old safe zones.
I used Camp Monk, a website that curates camping areas across the country. We stumbled across Middle of Somewhere, in the depths of that website. MoS had been featured in CM's advertising post on environmentally conscious sites near Bangalore. Loved the description, loved the pictures and went ahead and booked the place. Very reasonable rates (Rs.500/ head) if you bring your own tent, which we wanted to do. We have a stove as well, but no propane to get it going. So instead of running to Decathlon and hunting for propane, we decided to order meals there.
We left for MoS on Saturday afternoon, after spending a hot morning at IISc's Open Day (incredibly crowded. No idea what events they had there- each thing had a mile-long line). It takes about an hour to get there, assuming you don't get lost. And it really feels like the middle of nowhere- you take a mud path from a point on the main highway and drive and drive inside for about a mile and all of a sudden, just when you wonder where in the world you are, you reach it.
Kids are now old enough to help pitch the tent! Hurray!
Wait for it.... And..... all done!
Why do we forget to go camping? I think because camping requires an innate ability to leave yourself exposed, to give up a level of control. So, when you have a few rushed days in which to grab yourself a holiday, you would much rather keep everything under tight boundaries rather than risk losing that precious time to unforeseen elements. So it's not forgetting to go camping, but it's more of a deliberate decision not to bring the possibility into any equations.
Durga will turn five soon and she wanted to go camping. I think the main reason D loves camping is because she gets to make friends with dogs and cats and any other strays that get into her path. Sometimes I wonder how much of her innate love for animals I am stifling by not allowing her pets... am I ruining some beautiful expansive thing inside her and twisting it into some future misshapen horror? Or is that just plain weird thinking?
The very thought of having to be in charge of a pet, when as a family, we are emerging from D's babyhood, is enough to stress me out. No thanks- let the kids become old enough to clean their own poop, let alone some pet's, and then we shall see.
Our camping mainstay in India so far has been Bamboo Rustles, a wonderful place near Krishnagiri. But as BR becomes more and more popular, it's difficult finding available dates to go there. Plus, it's nice to explore a new place, not the same old safe zones.
I used Camp Monk, a website that curates camping areas across the country. We stumbled across Middle of Somewhere, in the depths of that website. MoS had been featured in CM's advertising post on environmentally conscious sites near Bangalore. Loved the description, loved the pictures and went ahead and booked the place. Very reasonable rates (Rs.500/ head) if you bring your own tent, which we wanted to do. We have a stove as well, but no propane to get it going. So instead of running to Decathlon and hunting for propane, we decided to order meals there.
We left for MoS on Saturday afternoon, after spending a hot morning at IISc's Open Day (incredibly crowded. No idea what events they had there- each thing had a mile-long line). It takes about an hour to get there, assuming you don't get lost. And it really feels like the middle of nowhere- you take a mud path from a point on the main highway and drive and drive inside for about a mile and all of a sudden, just when you wonder where in the world you are, you reach it.
Kids are now old enough to help pitch the tent! Hurray!
Wait for it.... And..... all done!
After pitching the tent (during which my sole task was to take pics), I went for a spot of bird watching. I can't spot as many as RK can, let alone identify them, but I would like to think that I'm becoming better. I'm getting more patient, at any rate. Earlier I used to get a little jittery- I would think, man I can hear birds all over the place but can't see a single one, or can't see one long enough to figure out what it looks like. Nowadays, I'm getting to a more Zen-like state (!). I am not thinking (as much) of a bird count, or a list. I'm more like, let me hang out here for a while and if I see any birds, all the better.
In MoS, this attitude helped a lot because there were a TON of birds that I had either never seen or had no clue how to begin identifying.
So. Many, many birds. Amazing star-gazing areas. Wonderful Peepal tree under which we pitched our tent and which sheltered us from a blazing sun the next day.
What I am pleased with reg bird watching:
a) I saw my first treepie!
b) I finally recognized my first Red wattled lapwing- which is a bird that RK has been pointing out to me for years, but this was the first time I saw one and figured out what it was all by myself.
c) I finally saw the white eye of the White eye
Small steps that make me feel great.
When I closed my eyes for a nap this evening after returning home, all I could see were birds, on wires, on treetops, flitting about on the ground.
Sunday, February 4, 2018
Bemused and scandalized
I've been reading up about the effectiveness of drying up various types of biofluids and how these dried spots can be used for various tests.
The dried blood spot, for instance, is a well-known WHO recommended alternative to whole blood. And this, naturally, got me thinking about dried sputum spots, dried urine spots, dried semen spots and so on.
I tried to find out what tests you could try to do with dried urine spots- could you check for protein in the urine, pus cells maybe, bacteria? Could you extract DNA out of it?
When I Googled the same for semen, the first hit I got was this: Checkmate Dried Semen Spot Instant Check.
Hmm... let's see what they instant- check, I thought to myself. If you notice the page, there's no description in the beginning, other than the title and the pic. But hey, there were two reviews. I scrolled down to the reviews.
And I encourage you to do the same.
It took me three readings, THREE, of the longer review there to finally figure out what this person was talking about.
Weird! W-E-I-R-D!
The internet can be a strange and scary place.
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
Processes
I've prided myself on being flexible, quick to change, quick to respond and not be bogged down by what is supposed to be done.
I fancied myself a bit of a rebel against rules.
I've careened through life without bothering about processes.
I am an utter total idiot.
My lack of discipline, my dislike of creating routines or processes for aspects of life I am not automatically drawn to, are getting me into huge amounts of trouble everywhere. MSCH, 11 months after commercial ops, is growing. It's no longer a one-woman army: we have staff, we have billing software, we have a financial team, we have auditors, tax returns to file, marketing plans and a million other things that elevate a company from a shop.
And I am not stepping up. I've been sticking my head into the ground and refusing to acknowledge that I need to play nice to move up. I have been nostalgically comparing the complexity of today to the rustic simplicity of the 'good old days' when it was just me and a sterile hood in a 4 by 8 corner of RK's clinic and I could keep track of everything.
God. Just call me a Trumper.
I just had a really horrible experience with a patient and I look back and realize the sheer number of things I did wrong in this entire series of encounters with this guy and I can't figure out how to fix it.
Well, other than going to the rest of the team and having some really really difficult conversations.
And coming out of it wiser and less trigger-happy.
I need to create some processes for every step of the patient-lab interaction along with my team and I need to learn to stick with it. Otherwise, I am Sarah Palin Going Rogue and MSCH becomes the 2008 election. Or I am the white male Trump supporter and MSCH is my coal mine- or is it the other way around? Whatever. I become harmful to the company.
Gotta step up and get ready to play with the big guns now.
I fancied myself a bit of a rebel against rules.
I've careened through life without bothering about processes.
I am an utter total idiot.
My lack of discipline, my dislike of creating routines or processes for aspects of life I am not automatically drawn to, are getting me into huge amounts of trouble everywhere. MSCH, 11 months after commercial ops, is growing. It's no longer a one-woman army: we have staff, we have billing software, we have a financial team, we have auditors, tax returns to file, marketing plans and a million other things that elevate a company from a shop.
And I am not stepping up. I've been sticking my head into the ground and refusing to acknowledge that I need to play nice to move up. I have been nostalgically comparing the complexity of today to the rustic simplicity of the 'good old days' when it was just me and a sterile hood in a 4 by 8 corner of RK's clinic and I could keep track of everything.
God. Just call me a Trumper.
I just had a really horrible experience with a patient and I look back and realize the sheer number of things I did wrong in this entire series of encounters with this guy and I can't figure out how to fix it.
Well, other than going to the rest of the team and having some really really difficult conversations.
And coming out of it wiser and less trigger-happy.
I need to create some processes for every step of the patient-lab interaction along with my team and I need to learn to stick with it. Otherwise, I am Sarah Palin Going Rogue and MSCH becomes the 2008 election. Or I am the white male Trump supporter and MSCH is my coal mine- or is it the other way around? Whatever. I become harmful to the company.
Gotta step up and get ready to play with the big guns now.
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