Young minds

If not now, when?

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‘This is difficult.’

‘What I need is absolution.’

‘I don’t deserve it. I failed to be a good parent to my son.’

The subject of our meeting last evening was self-compassion, one of the recurring themes in the Circle of Remembrance. It was an opportunity to revisit the ways in which we can be our own best friend. As we have been encouraging the practice of self-compassion in the group for as long as we’ve existed, I assumed it would be an everyday practice for most of our members.

I was surprised to hear the above responses coming forth. The jaws of the beast of guilt must’ve loosened their grip on me.

Three years after Saagar’s death, I heard of ’Self-compassion’ for the very first time. My innate belief was that the only way to progress was to work hard, like the coachman whipping his horses to move forward. Finally, after having lost my marriage, my child and all pride in my professional achievements, I was learning.

Dissecting events from the past and looking at them under a microscope seemed pointless and silly. Still, I was doing it all the time. I had spent most of my life doing the things that I thought I had to do as opposed to the things that I wanted to. And it was never enough. There was always more that could be done. I was always inadequate.

When Saagar was six, I was working full time and studying for exams. When I returned from my Part 1 Fellowship exam, Saagar looked up from his toy helicopter and asked me, “Mamma, did you win?” I was unable to see this was a game, and I needed to enjoy it a little bit. In the middle of all the working and doing, I completely forgot to relax and look after me. I was unable to stop and reevaluate my priorities. This was normal. Everyone around me seemed to be in the same situation.

Through years of therapy, I learnt that I had been the unconscious creator of the jinn that kept me spinning, leaving little time to sit down, relax and have a heart-to-heart. I was invincible and so should everyone else be. Until now, the art of conversation was oblivious to me. I had never witnessed good listening, except in films. I listened to fix as that is what I was trained to do. Sitting around talking was not as credible as being busy, doing important things. That’s what I had seen and here I was, on repeat. But all these hours of sitting with the gift of my therapist’s listening had helped me turn to myself with empathy. Working through various threads of my life had loosened a tight knot. I was able to tease each thread apart and see it for what it was.

I learnt that I was my tyrant and my slave, pushed by the whip of time and pulled by the notion of success. Despite being determined to not become my ancestors, they were more present in me than I was.

Underneath that jumble, sat my grief, patiently waiting. As the thick oil-slick of self-ignorance thinned and washed away, I was able to grieve properly for the suffering and death of my child. A hundred tonnes fell off my shoulders and I bawled with relief – I was perhaps not entirely responsible. I was simply living by what I knew then.

I was worthy of my own kindness.

I deserved to be held gently by me.

In time, I might even forgive myself.

Possibly, even have compassion for me.

For all these years I had been trying my best to serve my patients and family from a punch bowl that had been empty. I couldn’t see this emptiness as I didn’t know what a full one looked like. In my home and work settings, self-sacrificing mothers and doctors were nobility. These ideals had seeped into me while I wasn’t looking. 

But now, thankfully, I could see that my bowl was empty.

I was going to polish it and replenish it gently.

If not now, when?

Life is about more than antiseptic wipes.

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If there ever was a reminder of my own disappearance, it is here. Right here, looking straight into my eyes. This line ends with me. No progeny. No genetic propagation. No continuation. No traces.

Lines on the surface of water.

This is a kind of liberation from the complexities of life, the noise and the karmic debts, whatever they might be. Nothing to give. Nothing to take. Simply another life, here and then, gone. After Saagar, the inevitability of my own demise is the most obvious fact. It doesn’t evoke fear or dread. Inescapable. It puts a smile on my face. Ah! To be human. What a ride!

 In the grand scheme of things, we are momentary bubbles riding on a wave, arising out of the ocean, assuming a separateness from its waters.

Grand and then gone. Like Saagar.

I see folks with long bucket-lists spending their days and nights doing soulless jobs, brothers defrauding each other for a possible gain, couples frantically buying houses in every city while the ulcers in their stomachs bleed and proliferate.

Sitting at the table next to me in a posh Bangalore café, a mother is fretting over the fact that her child doesn’t yet know the names of all the months in the right order and he’s already two years old. While I sip my coffee, I watch this young mum obsessively chase her son around the place with an antiseptic wipe, cleaning his hands, everything he has touched and is about to touch, repeating, January … February … March …

We’re crying for softness.

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(A tapestry by Sheila Hicks)

Threads. Blankies. Comforters.

If we let it, this hard world of sharp angles and square blocks, straight logic and serrated edges can seep into us and concrete us from the inside. That must not be allowed to happen as it may be impossible to undo.

We, tender-fleshed people, need cushioning. We, supple spongy beings, seek preservation through rounded, silky, fluffy coverings. Our need to be nestled with tenderness inside the pliable delicate tissue of another’s compassion is primal. It must be recognized as the ultimate necessity for living.

To keep softness alive in a world so harsh is the job at hand in this moment.

In any moment, ever.

Secretly we’re all yearning for something that is warm, welcoming, and soft. Born into the young arms of our mother, held against her soft chest, we’re rocked gently to sleep, patted rhythmically on the back and hummed to. Lullabies ringing and sleep half-arriving into this space of trust and love. Remember how easy it was to rest into it, knowing all was well and would be well? Let it be thus again.

“Life is better when you surround yourself with people for whom kindness isn’t a strategy, it’s a way of life.”

Friends.

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(Mornings at home, in Sakleshpur)

For the last couple of days, I was in Bangalore, the tech-capital of India. From the railway station, I took the metro to my friend’s house. The stations were spotless and the staff helpful. I was surprised to find a seat in the ladies-compartment, at that evening rush hour. I was a village woman in a big city, curious to see how this place works.

At every stop, a few women came in and sat down quietly, making no eye contact with anyone, not saying anything or smiling. Most eyes and ears, firmly plugged into a device. It seemed like I was the only one enjoying the tree-tops in full bloom as we glided through this urban sprawl. I wonder, if there were no windows in the carriage, would anyone have noticed? Inside that dense silence, everyone was busy. It reminded me of my daily commute in London.

I don’t remember trains in India ever being so quiet. Is this the ‘progress’ we are so proud of?

In the middle of the carriage, two friends, who I guess were young mothers, stood, speaking to each other in Kannada. If I strained my ears, the fragile new neural tracks in my brain caught a few words and phrases here and there. But mostly, I enjoyed their soft, yet animated exchanges, colorful saris, traditional earrings and jasmine strings pinned into their long black hair. Their silver toe-rings beautified their very practical footwear. I was happy to witness the faint echoes of an ancient civilization.

I reached my destination and started walking toward the exit with my small trolley bag. At the top of the staircase, the young man walking ahead of me came to a sudden halt. His head was encased in a set of huge black headphones. I set my bag down, waiting for him to move forward. Like an automaton, his big head rotated through 180 degrees very slowly, waking up to the fact that he was surrounded by hundreds of people carrying hundreds of colorful pieces of luggage. After what seemed like an age, he picked up his suitcase and started walking again, as if in a daze.

I write this, as I sit by a window on the train back home, reminiscing my little urban escapade, riding through the green and serene countryside, happy to be reunited with my friends, the trees.

Wonder if they ever count how many trees are killed in a war.

“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others, only a green thing which stands in the way… As a man is, so he sees.”

– William Blake

Rreeeeee

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You must not call your husband by his name. Never. It is disrespectful.

(He is your master after all.)

Sunte ho? (Are you listening, In Hindi.)

Sonu ke Papa? (Sonu’s father)

E’ ji. (Here, Sir)

Rreeeeee (Something to the same effect, in Kannada)

These are examples of substitute names by which a wife may address her husband bypassing speaking his name.

Minoo was nineteen when she married someone, she had met only once. The handsome man in the photograph that she was allowed to gaze at, was now her husband. Meeting before marriage was not allowed. It was not considered necessary. In 1964, some thought it positively immoral.

Once married, she went to live in the house of her in-laws. The same rule applied. Except here, it was the law. She was prohibited from uttering his name. That was a problem.

She could have shortened Purushottam to Uttam, but his friends had already done that. So, that abridged name was taken by his equals. She had to find another way.

She had always liked the sound of the word, Sameer, which meant, sea-breeze.

“Can I call you Sameer? It’s not your name but will surely make life easy.” She asked him.

“Sure. I don’t mind.” said he.

That was that. Her mother-in-law could not object as Minoo called out to her husband by a strange new name that she had not heard before. Problem solved.

Over the years, Minoo became proficient at finding inventive solutions to many unforeseen problems, be it lengthening my frock or fixing a half-baked cake when the electricity went off partway through. She is my mother and although my father died three and a half years ago, she still thinks of him and loves him as her Sameer.