A Vision

By JR Leach

I had this vision back last spring,
When the land was ruled by corrupted kings,
And greed was fueled by hoarding things,
But things that one could touch.

The vision spoke of melted gold,
The value of the world resold,
“The price for life” is what we’re told,
By men who own too much.

As fear spread through a world; forlorn,
With threats of plague that ne’er were born,
Fresh chains were forged and willing-worn,
By those who feared the lie.

And though once joy had been assured,
Through weighing risk, and griefs endured,
Death could no longer be ignored,
For all souls fear to die.

This fear was stoked by those town criers,
Who peal the bells but start the fires,
And sing the songs their lord requires,
To whom they humbly thank.

Fresh tides of evil rise with haste,
As hands of Midas are replaced,
By hands whose touch turns all waste,
And paper sharp and blank.

“But rules are rules” the fearful sigh,
Content to see their forebears die,
No hand to hold, no last goodbye,
Just pixels, bright but cold.

“But rules are rules”, the state replies,
While deaf to all those muffled cries,
That sound from those with honest eyes,
And doubt the fear they’re sold.

And even children are not spared,
For misery is widely shared,
And dished by those who swore they cared,
But cared for guidelines more.

So mired and masked, the schools return,
Devoid of joy but forced to churn
Out abstract facts, for all must learn
That learning’s just a chore.

The vision ends when all is grey,
While shapeless, mouthless words relay,
The promise of a brighter day,
But no such day arrives.

A year drifts by, and so does youth,
The vision now a dismal truth,
But ‘truth’ is passé and uncouth,
While fiction blooms and thrives.

But even in this twilight hour,
imprisoned in our lonesome bower,
The words we speak retain their power,
And words can never die.

So speak your thoughts, and rise above
The barbs and briars of those who shove
The truth away, just think and love,
And you’ll escape the lie.

Things people say.

Dr Indu was broken inside out. She felt like a big black boulder and could barely hold her weight. After all these years of marching on alone and doing the ‘right’ things, this was her reward. Most of her friends had no clue what to say or do. After a few days it was clear that many of them could only stand by her for a week or 10 days max. This is when Indu remembered a passing acquaintance, Ruhi, a girl who wore long flouncy colourful skirts and big dangling ear-rings made of feathers and other dreamy things. She thought of her as a girl even though Ruhi had silvery grey hair and was seven years older than her.

Indu wanted to see Ruhi again. She didn’t know why but it had to be done. Indu posted her an invitation and as back-up, sent her a text with details.

The clear bright day was trying to cover-up the immensity of this death. Ruhi came in a flowing black dress with multiple strings of black wooden beads in various lengths cascading down, from her slender neck to her shapely waist. The ends of her long black sleeves opening-up like flowers to reveal her delicate hands. Not only did she have a pink lip-gloss on but also a serene smile. On this tearful day, she smiled on as if that was the most natural thing to do. No defiance or disrespect. A subtle involuntary smile, puzzling and misplaced.

She walked up to Indu and held both her hands in hers for a few frozen moments. She went on to open her arms and enclose Indu in them like a baby. “One day you’ll be grateful for this”, she whispered in her ear. By now Indu was used to hearing non-sense like “be brave”, “you’re so strong”, “such is life” and so on. She had learnt to ignore a lot. It took too much out of her to do anything more than that. “You have no idea what this is like” she thought to herself, feeling like a duplicate of herself amongst all these people. She drew back from Ruhi and looked into her dark brown eyes through her tearful ones. “Believe me. You will” Ruhi said softly.

Seven years have passed. Now Indu is as old as Ruhi was then.

And she remembers her horror at what Ruhi had whispered in her ear that day. The chains are falling off. Her vision is clearing. She notices more, within and without. She wants to live the truth. Be it. She knows it now. It’s all a ‘seeming’. All of this. It’s so clever. It fools us into believing it’s real. She has felt the presence of the divine in her broken heart. The blessings of a few fleeting golden moments of absolute grace have left her charmed with life and thirsty for more.

Indu and Ruhi meet up at the café that plays Bossa Nova jazz all day. They catch-up over large mugs of cappucino, sing and dance and take long walks together. They laugh and cry with abandon. Both wear pink lip-gloss and without knowing, they smile. Light as dust.

A blue sari

While planning a trip to Delhi I asked Caron what she would like me to bring for her from there. A blue sari, she said. Perfect. I added it to my shopping list. Caron was born into an Indian family in the UK and has visited India once in her childhood. She held an affinity and fascination for her parent’s country but she didn’t identify with it. She had never worn a sari before and I was excited to introduce her to one.

In Delhi, my mum and I treated our eyes to traditional styles like Banarasi, Kota and Duchene silk. We spent half a day scanning one shop after another before we found the perfect one – a printed silk with the prettiest flowers in blue with a touch of white and light yellow, the fabric light and feminine. It was elegantly draped on a mannequin which made the decision instant. I could imagine Caron wearing it, dazzling. Next, we got a blouse, petticoat and fall to match and the ensemble was complete.

With trepidation, I handed the well-wrapped gift to Caron on my return. She loved it. Thank God!

Two years later I asked her if she’d had a chance to wear the sari. “After eighteen months of keeping it in my wardrobe I gave it to the Red Cross charity shop. I knew you wouldn’t mind.” She said.

Did I mind? All that thought and time I had put into it. All that love. A part of me was shocked as I would never do that. I wouldn’t think of doing that. Even if I didn’t use it as a sari, I would convert it to curtains or a stole. But my closest friend credited me more generosity of spirit than I did myself. She was asking me to see my ability to let go of the story, the drama. She was making me see my small mind saying, “How could you?” and urging me to ignore it. In her complete unapologetic honesty, she was asking me to go against myself, be bigger than myself.

For a while, it rankled. But then, once I had handed the gift to her, it was hers. She could do what she wanted with it and she did. That was it. She was not disregarding or disrespecting anything. She was simply uncluttering her wardrobe. Why should that take away from the memory of the beautiful morning I spent in the vibrant and bustling streets of Delhi with my mum or in any way lessen the love I have for my dear friend, Caron?

It was a call to shift a gear from small mind to Big Mind. I am glad I took it.

Catriarchy

His dad was Russian royalty. Since the age of six weeks he could tell the difference between gourmet and ordinary meals, silk and cotton stoles, real and fake woolen throws, synthetic and down duvets, the warmth emanating from humans and radiators. He could tell if he had the full attention of his staff or not. He still can. He knows how to get them to do what he wants without saying a word, be it opening the door for him or being stroked at the back of his neck.

For entertainment, for a short while the laser pen was fun but very soon he let us, his staff, know it was cheap and silly. He wants action, involving blood and gore. He’s out hunting, bringing home trophies of half-dead mice, baby sparrows and often a big gash somewhere on his body.

He knows he’s good-looking. His James Bond swagger gets exaggerated when he knows he’s being watched. He sits like a statue when he’s being talked about but his upright ears change direction like a satellite dish. If he’s in the mood he humours our affections but prefers that we stick with our duties.

I do believe that he needs to check his cat-privilege. For centuries, cats have pretended to be domesticated while all the time exploiting humans. It’s about time we, as humans did something about it. I am in the process of designing an ‘unconscious bais’ training for him while at the same time preparing myself to be royally ignored. He has a clear preference for male company. It has been communicated to me in no uncertain terms that I am ‘extra’.

Named and reared by one of the finest specimens of the human species, he is a Maharaja of the Kingdom of Two. We celebrate his majesty, Mr Milkshake, paws, claws, whiskers and all. And his surrogate mum, Saagar today and every day.

Happy Christmas. xxx

“What?”
Summer 2013

Optimism?

Last Thursday night I had to think about what to wear as I was going out. Proper going out – to a gig at a small venue in Tower Bridge. Hugo, one of Saagar’s closest friends from school had released a single in his memory and was performing live and raising funds for Papyrus. I would be seeing our friends, have a drink and possibly dinner at a restaurant.  Wow! About time. It’s been ages.

Took a train to London Bridge and as I was walking out of the station, 2 announcements came on in quick succession –

“The 1831 to Peterborough has been cancelled due to a person being hit be a train.”

“The 1830 to Horsham has been cancelled due to a person being hit by a train.”

That Thursday was back again. It was Day 0 again. At this very station, an announcement was made to say my train home had been cancelled. I found an alternative route without thinking once why my train was cancelled.

It is spreading. Despite everything we do. It keeps happening. This morning I woke up to talk of another lock-down and my heart sank. I have an income and a home and someone to share my life with. How many don’t? I have hope and optimism. How many don’t? How many other hearts sank this morning?

The prospect of going on living in a world without a warm touch or hugs or smiles is nothing less than a punishment. The morning is greyer and colder than it has been in a long time. The days are shrinking. I am reminded of 6 years ago, at this time of the year, as autumn was fast approaching and Saagar was ill, I was optimistic. I didn’t have the slightest doubt. I knew he would get better.

Now, I doubt my optimism.

PS: Please listen to this song and share it on: “Lay down” by Hugo Hartley on Spotify

Many more songs by him on Youtube:

Denials.

Amongst the heap of books with colourful book-marks popping out at jaunty angles, amidst the papers printed and plain lounging about, inside a laptop open but its screen black, behind a glass of orange juice half-full, inside a bunch of blue and purple pens and underneath a lime-green I-pad. I looked everywhere. Could I find it? Nope.

After 2 years of carrying it with me all over the world at the bottom of my handbag, hidden inside a red polka-dotted Cath Kidston case. Never letting it out for fresh air. Squinting my eyes to the point of distortion. Cocking my neck to extremes. Adjusting the length of my arms till they wail. I pushed it as far into the future as possible. Avoiding reading as much as I could, especially the list of ingredients on a packet of food or drink in the supermarket. Enlarging the text-font on my phone so much that people whose eyes might fall on the screen would spontaneously burst into a loud laugh.

It had been long overdue. This change. It’s here now.

No glasses, no reading. No glasses, no writing. The pair had to be found.

Went upstairs to peer under my pillow, just in case … not there. Popped over to the dressing table and caught a flying glimpse of it … in the mirror … perched on top of my more-salt-less-pepper head of hair.

Now it was my turn to laugh out loud. I used to make fun of my dad when he went up and down demanding his glasses to appear – if it wasn’t this pair, it was that. And now it’s me. Si threatens to buy me a string of loosely put together baroque pearls to hold my reading glasses firmly around my neck. That would be too much of a declaration. It’s too early yet. I believe that was a one-off. Yes, what has happened cannot be undone but its highly unlikely to happen again. Isn’t it?

Blue Rose

She was the colour of almonds. Her smile so bright, it made the sun shine. Her hair waist-length, wavy and a very dark brown, like a heavy veil down her back. Her petite frame, shy, smelt of sandalwood. She was only 19.

Her friends had rebellious red, pink and green highlights in their hair. Some had happy multi-coloured beads and braids woven in. Others had playful ribbons platted in, like flower-girls at hippie weddings. She sat on her aquamarine blue sofa with her laptop, peering through colour-charts. She wanted her hair dip-dyed. She hadn’t picked a colour yet.

It was going to cost a bit but her mum had agreed to pay for it. She often did.

When alone in her room, unable to sleep at 2 am, Rose had looked up Helium and what it does. She didn’t know why. It was an involuntary act. It was nonsensical. Her body and mind were no longer of her.

Her hair appointment was in a couple of hours. She had to decide now. It was important she got this right. It was an expensive decision. The staid Royal blue or the scintillating Moroccan Turquoise? Silky peacock blue or the majestic sapphire? She wanted a straight horizontal line to run right across the dark sheet of her hair. The bottom one-third of the length a startling shade of blue, like a designer curtain.

She played classical music on the violin. Her ears didn’t particularly savour the Blues. They jarred her. She didn’t have a taste for blueberries. She preferred the ‘rasp’ variety with big dollops of double cream. Her wardrobe was a smattering of whites, pinks and reds. No blues there either, except the denim jeans and shorts. She was a proper girlie-girl. Blue skies made her spirits soar. But they left blue stains on her heart. She hid them like children hide pretty pebbles in corners of drawers. Her smile kept feeding the sun through the blueness.

She hand-wrote letters to the people she shared the house with, in blue ink. To her mother she said how wonderful a mum she was and she should take better care of herself. To her sister she expressed her appreciation for her companionship, friendship and laughter. Her little brother never left her side. She never turned down his invitation to play any kind of silly game with him. The dogs were all hers. They didn’t know they weighed as much as her. She had to sit down when they clambered all over her saying ‘we love you’.

The blue stains on her heart were expanding like drops of ink drip-dripping on a white blotting paper. She knew it was happening but didn’t know what it was. It’s creepiness had no name. It made her want to escape. It compelled her thoughts to convince her that her deepest desire was to implode. She had no say in the matter. It made her hands look up Helium on the internet. It kept her eyes wide open at night. It made her tummy churn, her legs restless and her head hurt. She now had 2 hearts and she moved between them. One blue. The other not. One wanting out. The other wanting blue hair.

“I am finding this difficult Mum.”

‘We need to leave in about 20 minutes for the hair-dressers my darling.’

“Yes. I am thinking about it … looking up the options on the internet.”

‘Good idea. We can take your laptop with us. I am sure the hair-dressers will have some ideas for you. Don’t worry.’

“I have some ideas but haven’t decided yet.”

‘Take your time. No rush.’

Midnight blue was the final choice. She was happy.

Over the next year that wretched blue embedded deeper into her heart and from there, leached into every cell of her body. Then it burst out, released itself and merged back into the midnight, the sky, the ocean.

That was 5 years ago. Till this day, her mother’s mind twists into painful knots when she remembers that day. How could her lovely Rose have wanted to live with blue hair and at the same time, to not live at all? At nineteen! How?

No one knows. Sometimes it’s like that.

———————————–

A video for every parent: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BByqa7bhto

Human rights issue – Families Matter

Hundreds of times, in waiting rooms outside Intensive Care Units I have looked into the eyes of sons and daughters, spouses and partners of patients, held their hands and said, “We did all we could. I am so sorry for your loss.”

When Saagar died, no one looked into my eyes and said that to me. They had not done all they could for him. The hospital carried out a sham investigation, a futile exercise in ‘being seen’ to be doing the right thing.

The GMC found everything to be hunky dory. The doctors ‘looking after’ Saagar had done their jobs to perfection. Just too bad the patient was dead. They did not deem Saagar’s case worthy of an investigation. GMC’s role in its own words:

We work to protect patient safety and support medical education and practice across the UK.”

The Coroner’s report shone some light on the holes in Saagar’s care. It clearly pointed out the things that South London and Maudsley (SLaM) Hospital got wrong.

  1. There was a general failure to identify the diagnosis on the discharge summary from the Home Treatment Team to the GP.
  2. There was a general failure to communicate thoroughly enough with the parents about the relapse symptoms, what to watch out for and where to go for help in the future.

Last June, I wrote to the CEO of SLaM, requesting an update on the changes that had been made in his organisation in response to the Coroner’s findings above. He said someone would get back to me and I heard nothing. This June, I sent him a reminder and again he said someone would get back to me and I am still waiting.

What are my rights as a parent? Is this too much to ask?

What were Saagar’s rights as a young man with a mental illness?

Are our lives not as important as anyone else’s? Black or white or brown? With Cancer or Diabetes? Or Bipolar Disorder?

Everyone deserves to be heard and seen. With respect.

It’s not charity. It’s a human rights issue.

Ref: Learning from deaths: Guidance for NHS trusts on working with bereaved families and carers

The Order – a short story.

She didn’t want to feed the monster but after ages, she had time. Time to work her way, one by one, through her long list of ‘Books to Read’.  On top was ‘Rebecca’ by Daphne Du Maurier. She logged on to Amazon and found 23 used copies. One of those would do. After finishing it she would donate it to the local Red Cross Charity shop. This was her formula for keeping a clean, spacious, open home. It’ll be here tomorrow. Magic.

Boredom stayed miles away as her mind landed fancy occupations. Lately she’d been listening to Eva Cassidy’s songs and imitating some of her less well-known paintings on her sketch pad. They were simple and sweet and reminded her of her childhood. She had also attended a poetry workshop on Zoom and was trying her hand at prose-poetry.

She longed for her home-town, Bhopal in India, even though she had chosen to leave fifteen years ago. Traveled thousands of miles in search of some ground beneath her feet and some air to breathe, after a major heartbreak. Now she had left that ruin far behind. Her job as a journalist felt like being with friends creatively. She had found that patch of earth and created a little haven for herself. At 39, she was settled even if her parents worried she was not. A little flat in East Dulwich in London was home.

The tiny package arrived in a massive lorry. She opened the door even before the deliveryman had knocked on it. She pulled at the stiff brown case. It was a fight to set the contents free but finally the book was held in her elegant hands. All eight corners were soft and rounded. Turquoise blue and white decorative pencil-work on a sinister black background. An ornate profile of a young woman with her hair put up anointed the front and back cover. This book was worn. Like her, it had travelled. It was smothered in a familiar dusty odour.

She opened it to the first page. In a sparkly green feminine font, it read:

“For my darling husband Atul.

Happy 4th Anniversary!

Sometimes I feel like Caroline de Winter.

Love you,

Sonali.

4th March 1999”

In that second, it was not her book. It was his. Once again, he had appeared out of nowhere and snatched her calm. The last time he did this was when she was a college student, happy with her books and music. He was two years her senior. He had subtly got her to look up at him and at life, invited her to parties, long bike rides and picnics. Before she knew she was his girl-friend and surprisingly she enjoyed the role. He made her laugh. He was a preening peacock and she, a simple sparrow. But it worked. They would sing and laugh but after 3 years of that, he made her cry. A lot.

Lost and lonely, she had roamed various cities and continents for years and finally made peace with her solitude. Now, the reins of the past had loosened their hold on her. She could breathe.

She had avoided acknowledging the existence of those two names all these years. Now they were lighting a fire in her eyes. One name of her one and only boy-friend and the other of her one and only best friend. May be this book had absolutely nothing to do with them. There must be thousands of people with those ordinary names.

The book sat innocently on her coffee table. She looked at it as she would an unwanted guest. She looked away, wondering what to do next. She turned on  the kettle as if in automatic mode. As two cups of near-boiling water were being infused with Darjeeling tea leaves, she prepared herself for the turbulence ahead. She poured the tea into her Frieda Kahlo mug and sat down again.

Her delicate hands reached out for the book again and casually unfurled the pages like a pack of cards. It sounded like a bird taking flight. A book mark fell to the ground with a soft flick. She fished it out from under the sofa. A pale blue and white visiting card:

Mr Atul Tyagi.

Tyagi and Lal Associates

First Floor. Office number: 133

NKS Plaza. Char Street.

Bangalore. 200 006

Phone: Office:  +44 221 63939

             Mobile: +44 976146022

e-mail: amtyagi@tala.net

Oh no! After years of laboriously moulting out of his skin, here was an invitation back into the darkness of it. An invisible chord lay between them. She knew of it. He did not. Did she have to do anything with it? No. Did she want to do anything with it? Not yet. There was no point blasting an exhaust fan over the dust that had taken eons to settle. The smooth glossy card reminded her of his forehead that she had kissed a thousand times. She held its corner between the thumb and index finger of her left hand and rested her head on the right palm.

Sadness – yes. Regrets – no. Excitement – a little bit. Flummoxed – a lot. Cat-like-curious – oh yes! Was this a psychological mind-game? Were there hidden cameras in her apartment, like the Big Brother House to record her reactions to this? Was this a sheer co-incidence? There were 22 other used books to choose from. How did this one land up in her lap? Destiny? Randomness? Serendipity?

For old time sake, she had to say hello. They were grown-ups now. They had to let the past sit in the past. Should she call him or send an e-mail? She could always hang-up like a truant teenager if the voice at the other end sounded dodgy. An e-mail might never be answered. She could send him a formal text and arrange a time for a phone call. Less intrusive. Also, it gave him a choice to chicken out. She did not want him to have that choice. Not this time.

Hello. Tyagi and Lal Associates.

Hello

How can I help you?

Hi. I am Kavita. Is that Atul?

Sorry. I am Manish Lal, his associate.

It’s ok. I’ll call back later.

Can I convey a message?

It’s okay. Nothing important.

Are you Kavita … Saini? From his college?

Yes.  

Oh. I’ve heard so much about you. Don’t worry. All good. He’d be delighted to hear from you. He’s traveling right now but I can put you in touch with him.

Where is he traveling to?  

London. He’s on a business trip. All the work is on me now. That’s how I’m in the office so late. Finishing up. Where are you calling from?

It doesn’t matter. I don’t have any message for him. Sorry to bother you. Bye.

Wait. Please. There is something you must know. I am his husband. Yes. It took him years to admit it to himself. Please forgive him. It wasn’t easy. Sorry.

Click.

Be the Change

Be the change

RIP George Floyd.

The waves of raging violence in one form or another, in the street, on the TV, on Twitter, on Facebook, against the government, against one section of society or another. It is present everywhere I look. It seems to be the problem and the solution. Cops carrying guns to control gun-carrying people. Knees as weapons. Cries for mercy falling on multiple pairs of stone-deaf ears. Rich countries indiscriminately bombing poor ones in the name of peace, to bring them ‘liberty’. International leaders goading each other on to continue expanding their defence budgets.

I was born in a country of huge contrasts. It won its independence from the Brits, who ruled by the gun, under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi, who lived and led by non-violence which was the core of Gandhi’s contribution to the world. For him nonviolence was the greatest force at the disposal of mankind, mightier than any weapon, superior to brute force. A living force that no one has been or ever will be able to measure the limits or extent of, just like love. In fact, he translated the Sanskrit word, Ahimsa (which literally means non-violence) as love.

True nonviolence is dissociated from fear. Gandhi felt that possession of arms is not only cowardice but also lack of fearlessness or courage. Gandhi stressed this when he said, “I can imagine a fully armed man to be at heart a coward. Possession of arms implies an element of fear, if not cowardice but true nonviolence is an impossibility without the possession of unadulterated fearlessness.”

The same country, India, classes some people as ‘untouchables’ and treats them as such. The discrimination against dark skinned people is ugly to watch. You only need to watch an Indian film and look at the mountains of money spent on the skin-whitening cream, ‘Fair and lovely’.

Saagar and I knew what it means to look different, be different. We both suffered in our own ways because of people’s instant judgements, inability to look beyond our skin and their downright unkindness.

Let’s teach ourselves and our children a new alphabet:

A – Abundance of love

B – Belonging / Brotherhood

C – Compassion/Connection 

D – Diversity

E – Empathy

F – Forgiveness

G – Giving / Gratitude

H – Harmony / Healing

I – Intimacy

J – Joy

K – Kindness

L – Listening / Learning

M – Meaning

N – Non-violence

O – Openness / Oneness

P – Peace

Q – Quest

R – Remembrance

S – Self-compassion

T – Trust

U – Unity in Diversity / Understanding

V – Victory over our inner demons

W – Wisdom

X – Xanadu (an ideal place of magnificence and beauty)

Y – You matter.

Z – Zeal for love and life.