A tiny shift

58 months. Nearly 5 years.

And still, the first thoughts in the morning that rush into me to invade and occupy my conscious mind are those of Saagar. Like multiple grey moths stuck on the dark walls of my room, waiting. Then hurtling into my head the moment the light in there is turned on. Bringing in the darkness with them.

Everyday. Still. Sure as the morning, the sunrise. The thoughts. The moths. The darkness.

A mantra I created for myself, for distraction, salvation: “Thank you for this day. Thank you for Si, my family and friends. Thank you for Saagar.”

Often times it works. Sometimes its impotent. Useless.

I need to find a way to get out of bed without a dagger being struck in my throat even before I’ve opened my eyes. I speak to some learned people and they tell me to make a slight shift. They say that everyone comes into this world to experience X amount of happiness and Y amount of sorrow. So, when I think of Saagar, I should think not just of the suffering but also the love and joy in his life. I shall do this tomorrow morning. The moment my sleep is over. I will.

Tonight I share this link with you. It is the link to the promotional pages for the short film I mentioned the last time. It will be called “1000 days”. It hopes to cause a tiny shift in those who might watch it. Collectively, they all might bring about multiple small shifts towards greater connectedness in our world. The aims of the film are to:
1. Educate people that many suicides are preventable.
2. Empower everyone to ask for and offer help, hope and understanding.
3. Enable all of us to feel less alone.

https://igg.me/at/1000days

Your support is invaluable. Thank you for being here. Your contribution might save a life. Good night. xxx

Me and Thee

Ron and Jeanette

The first time I saw Jeanette, she was acting in a play called ‘Hearing Things’ being staged at South London and Maudsley (SLaM) Hospital, where Saagar received (inadequate) treatment. The play was inspired by events and conversations from real ward rounds of patients with serious mental illnesses. It was written by the playwright often described by critics as the ‘English Chekhov’- Philip Osment, well known for giving a voice to those at the margins of society.

The play highlighted harsh facts through a story sensitively told. Just three actors  illuminated the wide swathes of blurred lines between sanity and insanity, between the healer and the ill, between strength and fragility. I learnt a lot from it. It was a powerful blast that left me thinking about my roles as an ordinary member of society, a doctor, a mother, a patient. It gave me an insight into how and why the system does and does not work. I thought it gave me a little peek into Saagar’s mind.  It certainly made me feel utterly close to him in an unearthly compassionate way.

A few weeks later I arranged to meet with Jeanette. I trusted her even before I knew her. She listened. We talked for a long time. She read the blog. I suggested a documentary. I spoke with some of Saagar’s friends and they wanted to participate. So was Si. We all had something to say. Ron and Jeanette filmed it last year.  

This year we aim to complete it and release it. We have a name – ‘1000 days’. We have found a suitable and brilliant editor. We need to find some platforms to showcase it and we will. We are working on a crowd-funding campaign which will be launched within the next 10 days. The intention is to make this world a kinder and more understanding place. Watch this space.

Many thanks in advance.

Feathers etc.

10 weeks back I was surprised to find an all-day course in ‘Mindful Self-Compassion’ for Health Professionals advertised on the Trust intranet. It sounded great and it was for free. Wow! We are recognising the pressures on health care professionals and moving slowly but surely in the right direction. To organise a course like this and make it available to all staff at no cost is nothing less than super-fantastic.

I enrolled instantly and waited patiently for the day to arrive. The day arrived.  I entered the room to find all these items scattered neatly around the room: a bowl of smooth tactile pebbles in purple, maroon, white and yellow, little bottles of lavender and vanilla extracts, fantastical eye-catching postcards, maracas and manjiras, a white rosary in a tiny wooden box, sketch pads with charcoal tree sticks, a bunch of sea shells, sprigs of fresh rosemary and mint, a dried corn on the cob, a few white and brown feathers, a spongy red ball and a spiky yellow plastic one, a tiny hand-crank music box and an hour-glass with pink sand. These things were for us to appreciate, touch, feel, smell and listen to.

Two gentle young women led the day taking great care of everyone in the room and in complete harmony with each other. We started with a ‘soft landing’ – becoming aware of our feet on the floor, bum on chair, our breath and our finger tips. They called these short snatches of peace, the ‘green moments’. We were encouraged to create/access these green moments to transition from seeing one patient to the next or from work to home mode and vice versa.

The word ‘discernment’ was brought into my awareness. While the dictionary meaning of it is “the ability to judge well”, we were encouraged to scan our thoughts and ‘notice what’s not helpful’. It was a useful concept. It helped me locate stuff that was unnecessarily cluttering up my mind and blocking light from entering this sacred space.

I remembered that as a teenager I had a big scrap book filled with my collection of feathers of all kinds, my favourite being the peacock feather. Where did that dreamy girl with 2 pig-tails go?

For a while I could hold the little girl in me lovingly in my arms and marvel at her innocence and beauty, appreciate her child-like sense of wonder and creativity. This sweet girl is me. Perfect and complete in every way. All she needed was to be seen. By me.

Caring with compassion for you and me.

No shame. Just love.

Last week I met Matt. A young man, calmly determined to share his story and open up a rainbow that would envelop the world and knit it closer together. A story of a glorious love, a damning shame and a tragic unnecessary death.

Matt and Naz met in Birmingham in the year 2000 and instantly fell in love. Matt Ogston and Dr Nazim Mahmood. Both men. Men in love. They tried having a relationship in that city but knew that if they wanted to live like normal people doing normal things, they’d have to move away. So, they did. Over the next 13 years they built and lived a fulfilled and happy life together in London. All this time they managed to hide their gayness from Naz’s family as it was guaranteed to create unhappiness.

One weekend Naz needed to go back to Birmingham for a family event. The question of his sexuality came up and he spoke the truth. As expected, his family reacted badly. He was told that he was living in ‘sin’ and his ‘condition’ was treatable. I cannot imagine how he must have felt. Deeply humiliated I guess. That day he must have known that now, he could never be the man he was born to be. His love for his fiancé would always be seen as sin by others he deeply loved.

He returned to London. To Matt. Two days later he ended his life.

In his utter devastation, Matt found the determination to do what he could, to stop religion from getting in the way of love. He set up the Naz and Matt Foundation.

“Our mission is to never let religion, any religion, come in the way of the unconditional love between parents and their children.”

Rush hour London

7 am. Monday. South-east England.

From the window of an inbound aeroplane, they look like moving lines changing texture every second. Demarcating hedges, rail tracks, rivers and roads run around in graceful undulating curves. These lines pass between patches of all forty shades of green. And some dry brown ones and watery blue ones. A silver set of solar panels glitters like a massive diamond. Imperfect squares and rectangles are juxtaposed like patches on an applique quilt. Thickets in rough triangular shapes fit neatly into corners. Multitudes to houses sit snugly like school kids in tidy rows. Each house, home to multitudes of stories.

London

The City is poised at the start line. London, in a state of fresh awareness. The sun is shining. Commuters are rumbling, making their way to the nearest train station, bus-stop, car or bike. Multi-coloured bicycles and black motorcyclists wriggle about in clusters. The air is cool. The smoke is gathering. It hasn’t formed a blanket yet. A hum in the background holds at a fixed, non-descript pitch. Jarring sirens of police and ambulances intercept at regular intervals. The stirrings of people, shaking the City. Millions of people in organised chaos, moving over and under the ground.

Me

I draw the curtains aside, to a dream morning for a bike ride. Gentle breeze and soft sun. I glug the smoothie I prepared last night. Pull on my cycling gear.  My body wanting to jump on to the bike this second. Put my stuff into the pannier bag that I should have bought ages ago. Remember to wear my helmet before the gloves. Remember to lock the house. Switch on the lights on the bike. Put on my yellow high-vis jacket. Say a silent prayer. And take off. Gear up. 1-1. 1-2. 1-3. 2-3. 2-6. 3-3 … The down-slope after the first right turn brings the morning air face to face with me and I am flying. Levitating. Floating blissfully to work. Lost in the rhythm of my breath going in and out. Feeling my legs going round and round in meditative circles. All my senses awakened. In this second, I am free. And so lucky to be alive!

Methuselah

One morning, despite severe inertia and amplified gravity, I carried my body through treacle to a yoga lesson nearby. Once I got there, the music, the incense, the light, the chanting, the breathing and the presence of other people lightened me up and I got into the groove.

I became the rhythm of my breath and the simultaneous harmonious dance of the body with the breath. Each posture pushed me just a little bit outside my comfort zone and the energy started to shift and flow. Before I knew it one hour was up. As we were finishing off the session with a short meditation, Felix, the teacher said “Dedicate your practice to someone you love.”

In that moment, tears sprung out in rivers. Out of nowhere, all on their own accord, they flooded me. I lay in the corpse pose (shavasana) and the warmth of my tears continued to soak the hair at both my temples.

Just then a set of 4 light soft paws, one by one stepped on to my tummy. I am familiar with the weight and size of such paws due to our feline, Milkshake’s nightly visits. Instantly, I broke into a smile. I lifted my head and opened one eye. A black cat that had been lazing on a sofa previously had made itself comfortable on top of me, rolled up into a ball. The fuzzy warmth of that circle travelled all the way to my heart. I sat up and cuddled it, stroked it and thanked it for reaching out to me. It was gracious enough to let me. Love was boomeranging.

Mirror, mirror …

5 feet 5 inches. Average frame. 67 kilos. Completely owns her 52 years. Medium brown skin, a shade darker in a horizontal oval shape around the lips and in half-moons under the eyes.

It used to be thick black and curly but now it’s scant, allowing pale scalp to peep through in places. The blackness now replaced with streaks of silver, grey and pale brown that she wears in a bunch behind her head. The curls are now looser, more manageable. The hairline, less defined.

The oval face bears a forehead with 2 thin but clear, straight horizontal lines running parallel, about 1 centimeter apart, from one side of the face to the other. A baby line is forming on top of these two. Faint but visible on a closer look.

Asymmetrical eye-brows, the left one bearing a scar from a childhood fall. Not bushy, not sleek, not modified. Just plain, normal, slightly curved, unremarkable black brows concaving over dark brown eyes with microscopic gold flecks. The ones she passed on to her son. They are almond shaped and carry a sadness which lingers even when her face breaks into a smile. She didn’t know that her eyes closed when she laughed. A stranger told her once. He’s now her husband.

Her nose is odd. She’s always been embarrassed about it. Too broad. Too big. Strangely no one else seems to think so. Maybe they’re just being polite. Maybe they don’t really care. Maybe its inconsequential.

Her small shapely ears, adorned with traditional diamond studs set in the shape of a flower with 6 petals. Her lips, brownish-purple with a hint of pink where they meet. Her husband says she reminds him of the ancient drawings of apsaras at the caves of Ajanta and Ellora. Her teeth, perfect. Her chin, proud. Her jawline, clean. Her neck and shoulders, silky.

Her loose-fitting, sleeveless olive-green linen tunic has a modest V-neck. It allows her to freely move and breathe. And lets her hide herself. A pair of grey tights cover her legs.

She sits out in the sun in her backyard which is green with grass and weeds. One shrub with big round heads of purple and yellow flowers dominates half the square patch. She trims it every autumn and it comes back bigger and ever-more-loving the following year. Some say it looks untidy but who cares. She loves it.

Her study table is a mess and so are her ward-robes. Only she knows that. Everyone else seems to think she is super organised.

Halfway down her left arm, half a tattoo can be seen from the front. It is blackish-green in colour. It has English letters hanging off a horizontal line, like they do in Hindi script. The font is predictably called Ananda Namaste.  One afternoon in September 2016 in Lagos, Portugal, a skinny middle-aged man with glasses took 45 minutes to make it. He didn’t make small talk. What did this word mean? Why this? Why now? She was relieved. All she knew was that she would never change her mind or heart about this one. She would always love Saagar.