The basic human right to be offended

A patient attending hospital to get help with conceiving a baby complained that one of the staff members was visibly pregnant. It was offensive to her as she was unable to fall pregnant naturally. By that measure, no one should walk in the presence of people in wheel-chairs as they might be offended. How far are we willing to take our right to be offended?

Wonder where this extreme unhappiness comes from? My guess is that it stems from feeling like a ‘victim’, having a huge sense of entitlement and feeling bitter because what is rightfully our’s is being denied to us.

I often get asked if it hurts to see Saagar’s friends graduate, get jobs and girl-friends, go travelling etc? The answer is that I am happy for them. I do miss Saagar like crazy. I do wonder what his life would be like but I don’t resent his friends living a full life. I still haven’t found the most appropriate way of answering the question, “How many children do you have?” but I am not afraid of it anymore. I take my time answering it.  The answer often depends on the person asking the question and the context in which it is asked. I have the power to choose to answer or not.

The only things we can give to others are the things we have. If we are brimming with anger, sadness and disappointment, that is what spills over. If we live with peace, that is what we present. Do we have a choice? I don’t know. But we can be aware of what’s in our bowl and how it may come across to others.

My bowl has been empty for a while. I have not actively replenishing it for myself. When I am on zero, I have nothing to offer to the world. Of late I have been seeing my therapist regularly, taking time to meditate, going for walks, listening to music and spending time with friends. Now, I feel the difference. I feel good and I can take better care of others. Historically we attach great moral value to ‘selfless’ service, especially to the role of mothers. These values are misplaced. We all need to nourish our spirit for that goodness to flow out.

What are you going to do for yourself today?

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World Suicide Prevention Day 2017

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231 school kids died of suicide in 2015.
Please support PAPYRUS in tackling this impossible reality.

‘Take a minute, change a life.’

Taking time to look out for someone who may be struggling, encouraging them to talk, offering a word of support and listening could help change the course of their life. Making someone a cup of tea, inviting them for a walk or a run, asking them,”Are you OK?’ could make a world of a difference to them. It would surely enrich your life too.

This series of short films is about real people and real stories. It’s about life and death. It’s about what we can do as individuals and as communities to help each other through dark times. It’s about you and me. Please scroll all the way down to watch all the snippets.

https://www.talkaboutsuicide.com/

A vigil will be held on Thursday, the 14th of September at Hyde Park, Speaker’s corner at 6.30 pm. We will get together to honour the lives of those lost by suicide. Please bring pictures, candles, stories, poems, memories and songs. It will be an occasion for us to celebrate our love.

Opposite of speed

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Breathing with awareness, walking with mindfulness, meditating with heart-fullness and intense silence with loving-kindness.

As if life switched from super-fast to ultraslow. Placing the right bare foot gently on wet grass. Bristly softness tingles. First the heel, then the outer edge of the foot. Some green tips manage to tickle the arch. Then the toes grasp hold of the ground. I am aware of tiny bits of the sole between toes and foot which never come in contact with anything. So cool! The entire sole buzzes like a guitar.

An aeroplane whirrs in the sky. Ears catch the Doppler effect. Fluffy shapes in white, blue and grey traipse the space above. Birds make jest. The wind continues to waltz with trees. Eyes watch life sprouting in seemingly dead places. The Being notices the breath.

The left foot lifts off the ground, preparing itself for the excitement of landing. Toes go first. They rub noses with the green tips before plunging in. The ball of the foot descends and the rest of the foot follows. It feels different. The heel hits the grass abruptly. The ground is uneven, not warm, not cold. It oozes the love of Mother Earth. Dew-drops cushion the impact. The green of the grass is a conglomeration. At least 6 different types of tiny foliage lining the ground, masquerading as one. Yellow flowers standing up on tender green stems dot the lush carpet. Some of them are being visited by bees. This luxurious texture invites the right foot back. It’s moving in slow-motion mid-air, presently at the top of an imaginary semi-circle. I put the breaks on and halt its progress as much as I can without falling over. It follows through the curve and makes contact with the earth one milli-meter at a time.

Flowing eastern movements of ‘Swimming dragons’, ‘Cloud hands’ and ‘Lions playing with a ball’ (Qigong) bring into balance the Yin and Yang. The more I slow down, the deeper I immerse in the ‘Now’. I actively deflect all adjectives. I don’t want to call it good or bad or silly or slow. It’s just walking. The rustle of leaves is just falling into my ears, the cool breeze is just brushing across my face, a few yellowed leaves are just falling off trees like twinkling stars descending from the skies. Everything just is.

Never before have I experienced walking in this way. To think that I have been walking all my life! I feel I could walk all around the world for the rest of my life.

Three years ago, at this time of year Saagar was really ill. For many years before that, autumn was my favourite season. Then it was my least favourite. Now it’s just early autumn. Another roll of the dice of time.

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Noble Silence

Would it be best if I took myself to a mountain top where I didn’t have to say anything, hear anything, understand anything, process anything or feel anything? Is there somewhere I could be free of the wrath of time? Where my heartstrings wouldn’t constantly tug at me. Where I could find the much-conceptualised ‘perfect balance’. Where I could wash off those parts me that ache non-stop. Where I could find an oasis beyond ‘I like’, ‘I don’t like’. Where none of the facts of life would hold any power over me.

My 51st birthday is the 3rd one without Saagar. That’s how it is – two significances attached to one day. Aren’t years supposed to bring wisdom and clarity with them? Do they? Possibly in unnoticeably miniscule doses in my case. I could take myself to a mountain-top but the snag is that the source of the restlessness and pain will come with me – my mind.

Looking for peace and respite from my mind I made my way to the serenity of a Buddist Monastry just outside London for a 5-day Silence Retreat. The first few verses we chant are Buddha’s words on Loving-kindness.

“Be one who is skilled in goodness
And who knows the path of peace:
Let them be able and upright,
Straightforward and gentle in speech.

Humble and not conceited,
Contented and easily satisfied,
Unburdened with duties and frugal in their ways.
Peaceful and clam, and wise and skilful,
Not proud and demanding in nature.

Let them not do the slightest thing
That the wise would later reprove,
Wishing: In gladness and in safety,
May all beings be at ease.

Whatever living beings there may be,
Whether they are weak or strong, omitting none,
The great or the mighty, medium, short or small.
The seen and the unseen,
Those living near and far away,
Those born and to be born,
May all beings be at ease.

Let none deceive another
Or despise any being in any state.
Let none through anger or ill-will wish harm upon another.

Even as a mother protects with her life
Her child, her only child,
So with a boundless heart
Should one cherish all living beings,
Radiating kindness over the entire world:

Spreading upwards to the skies
And downwards to the depths,
Outwards and unbounded,
Freed from hatred and ill-will.

Whether standing or walking, seated,
Or lying down – free from drowsiness –
One should sustain this recollection.
This is said to be the sublime abiding.

By not holding to fixed views,
The pure-hearted one, having clarity of vision,
Being freed from all sense-desires,
Is not born again into this world.”

If there is just one thing I can take from these wise words, it is –
“Be at ease.”
“Relax.”
As Saagar would say in his notoriously funny south-Indian accent,
“Mamma. Chhillax.”
I think that’s a good place to start.

I carry your heart in my heart.

It’s a luminous room on the first floor of a Victorian building. The sun pours in from the big window facing the street. The delicate palm leaves throw artistic, dancing shadows on the carpet. I feel the tension in my muscles, the knot in my stomach and the tightness in my chest. Two comfortable black arm-chairs sit facing each other.  I am gently welcomed and ushered to the chair facing the window by a lady with a soft Irish voice and a sweet smile.

We sit down. I am relieved to catch sight of a box of tissues from the corner of my eye. I look at her and say my name. She says hers.  We hold the same belief – the soul is eternal. I ease into the chair and take a deep breath. I am open to this, whatever it brings. For now, I put my anxiety and scepticism aside. I tell her that I am here to find out if my son is at peace. He died by suicide at the age of 20, two years and 10 months ago.

She is sorry for my heartbreak. She shifts in her chair, turning and looking in the direction of the door. Her smile widens. I can only remember a fraction of what she said -“He’s so bright. So lovely.
Your relationship is sweet … special.
Does he play music?
West African drums?
He is not just a good drummer. He is extra-ordinary.
He has an eclectic taste in music. Super-creative!
He’s very proud of his musical heritage.
He’s wearing a long shirt, like a kurta.
He says he enjoys Celtic music too.
Recently a memorial concert was held for him?
He says he was there.
Is there a London connection?
He is showing me a cat sitting on his shoulder.”
She changes the direction of her body and aligns it to  me.
“You … are a writer. A healer.
He loves your writing.
He says it comes from the same field of energy as his creativity. It entwines your souls.
Your nutrition is very good but you suffer with severe stomach cramps. Your distress affects your digestion. You need to take lemon juice on an empty stomach every morning.”

She shifts again.

“The last year of his life was difficult. In his last few weeks the medications messed up his head real bad. He couldn’t think straight.
I see a strong army connection.
Your mother’s mother is there with Saagar. She tells me that your father is a man with great integrity. He has a big moustache. You have had a disciplined upbringing.

Saagar is surrounded by love. He wants you to know that you did your best. He wants to thank you for encouraging him to pursue his passion for languages and music and for not pushing him to do other things. He thanks Si for his patience and his friendship. He is impressed to see the commitment that Si has shown towards you. He is happy for you both.

He is offering me some rose petals.
Does that make any sense to you?”
Not sure, I say with an uncertain smile.
“Is someone’s birthday coming?”
Yes. Mine. In 10 days.
“He is also offering me a small bronze statue of Lord Ganesha. Does that mean something to you?”
Yes. I smile with tears of recognition.
“Would you like to ask any questions?”
Is he at peace?
“Not only is he at peace but he is joyful.”
Can you tell him I am sorry for not spending enough time with him and for not understanding the extent of his suffering?
“He feels nothing but love for you. Can you feel his presence?”
Yes.
“I know you have felt it for short periods of time, here and there in the past. I hope that with time you will begin to feel him around you a lot more.”

I can remember bits of that interaction but can’t comprehend the accuracy. How can a complete stranger know the intimate details of 3 overlapping lives? May be there is no such thing as death. Maybe we all exist together in a big pool of consciousness where different energies manifest in varying realms, like magnetic waves and gravity are invisible but they exist. Infrared and ultraviolet radiations are invisible to the naked eye but they manifest themselves in other ways. Maybe there is no such thing as death.

 

 

What am I doing here?

Like a fusspot, I brought my tea-bags with me. I packed 6 in a flimsy little plastic square box, enough for three days. The nail on my right middle finger shouts out its fragility again. The file is tired of the rate at which the 20 possible keratinous beds declare their inability to cope. The mirror shows a lot of pale scalp shining through sparse, dyed, once thick curly hair.

I woke up in South Wales this morning, in a hillside country house, my window overlooking a valley. Meandering hedges partition the fields semi-geometrically, up and down the slopes. A scaly river shines at the bottom. Not too far, white lines on a newly washed country road glisten too. A few white houses with dark sloping roofs sit on ten shades of green at safe distances, like meditating sages. The panoramic horizon is a multi-coloured squiggly line, cutting right across my window. 6 wind- turbines merrily dance on the west-end of it. The long shadows give away the corner of the sun.

On the balcony a squirrel scrounges under hanging bird-feeders. This morning the birds seem more interested in conversation than food. An errant motor superimposes the chatter periodically. A few streaky feathers lie here and there. One of the twin kittens strolls across the keyboard of my laptop from left to right, following the direction of my sentences.

My mattress on the floor lies 3 feet away from a snazzy red and silver drum-kit and a Djembe. Percussion instruments trail behind me all over the world. I see them wherever I go.

Why am I here his weekend?
I am here to see a ‘medium’.
Never thought I’d hear myself utter those words. 

Non-writer’s Block

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Brindisa, a Spanish Tapas Bar sits at one corner of Borough Market. I sit at the window at one corner of Brindisa, sipping hot chocolate after a long day at work. A wee treat. It’s raining just short of cats and dogs. Umbrellas are out in all their colours and varying degrees of wind-induced angular crookedness. Hoods are up and hair flying off scalps at funky angles. Some walk hunched and shrunk, others wear big smiles, facing the sky. Many pairs of crisp city shoes step off the kerb and dunk straight into puddles. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.

The last few weeks of writing less traverse my mind. In the first week, that vacant hour seemed contrived – like a designer hole in the evening. I strapped myself in a brace of immobility, letting it pass, pretending I wasn’t watching. On a couple of occasions I was desperate enough to turn to the TV for help. It felt unnatural and abrupt to break the rhythm of writing every day. I had a non-writer’s block. I knew it was coming but it was more unwelcome than I thought it would be. It made me feel like I was being denied the sweets I loved. I felt redundant. I thought of Saagar and missed him more than normal, if that’s possible.

The second week was a week of late nights – emergency surgeries at work, friends visiting from abroad, reading an ‘unputdownable’ book. Sleep and energy deficit was huge. There was no time to think or write. An e-mail came as a reminder that the last of 36 instalments towards the payment for my bike had been made. Yes. I got it in July that year. Saagar helped me with setting the height of the seat, inflating the tyres and oiling the chain. He worried about me cycling on London roads. He was an avid cyclist. Once a female driver of a car nearly hit him because she was on her mobile phone. She apologised to him. He used to answer my phone when I drove. He also used to answer my text messages. He felt strongly about mobile phone use by drivers. He hated that we lived on a hill. The last bit of the bike ride home was hard for him, as it is for me but I am getting used to it. One e-mail and a barrage of memories!

The third week was quiet. Cats. Music. Food. Candles adorning Saagar’s picture. Time to record a podcast with an eminent Consultant Psychiatrist, Dr Dele Olajide. Lots of cycling. Sleeping. Si and I pottering around the kitchen. I wash the spinach and he wilts it. He clears up the sink, I put the dishes away. Si boils the kettle, I prepare the mint for the tea. We dance our culinary waltz and Milkshake sits as a spectator on the upper stall of the kitchen island. In the pauses between ‘doings’ we dance. We rejoice, we dance, we create new memories. 

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