grieving

The C – Word

Posted by

0

It might explode like a grenade thrown into a small room. I worried that everyone might be put right off by it. They might log out, log off, shut their laptops and go for a walk.

What do you mean ‘Celebrate’? What is there to celebrate? Nothing. NA – Not Applicable.

After a severance such as this. The death of my child? How can I? To me, it does not apply. I belong to another club now. Here, the air is laden with a sense of exclusion and non-deserving. Here, the rejection of invitations to celebrate is automatic.  

Memories of our kids. The foods they loved, toys, TV shows, films, books, nursery rhymes, practical jokes, school and Christmases. Our hugs. Sweet stories revealed through their friends after they died. Their hidden kindnesses. Laughter. Tears. A whole life worth remembering. Worth honouring. Celebrating.

What of us? Parents. Alive. Old labels stripped off and new strange ones slathered on. The ground beneath our feet taken away and replaced with quicksand. Our identity shattered. Life in the After becoming something resembling life. An unthinkable exile. Aloneness, inside the non-understanding of the world. Every day, a fight. A reconciliation. Every day, showing up and facing whatever shows up. Keeping the broken bits of our hearts held together with the glue of love inside our silently sighing chests. Still alive.

The invitation at the Circle of Remembrance was to celebrate ourselves for being here. Now. It did not go off like a granade in a small room. No one left in a huff. It was accepted graciously. At the end of an hour and a half, the virtual space was filled with acknowledgement of things to celebrate – our love, patience, resilience and compassion reflected in this poem by Lucille Clifton written in the 1960s. We can replace ‘nonwhite and woman’ with any other phrase:

won’t you celebrate with me

what I have shaped into

a kind of life? i had no model.

born in Babylon

both non-white and woman

what did I see to be except myself?

i made it up

here on this bridge between

star-shine and clay

my one hand holding tight

my other hand;

                        come celebrate

with me that everyday

something has tried to kill me

and has failed.

PS: Circle of Remembrance is an international online peer-support group for bereaved parents that has been effectively working for the past three years and four months. Please visit the website http://www.core-community.com to learn more. Please recommend it to any parents you know who might be struggling alone after a tragic loss.

Equal night.

Posted by

0

Vernal means relating to occurring in the spring. Fresh or new or youthful.

Yesterday the light and dark equalized for the first time this year. Today has pulled a little more light over to its side than Yesterday. The Earth’s axis tilting as far as it could and the Sun shifting to meet with it, like lovers under a warm blanket on a cool night. The soil awakening, the snow melting, the birds singing a little bit earlier in the morning, as if on cue. The leaning and longing of the oncoming Summer taking root here, now. The round shutters of our pupils readjusting, recalibrating. The underground murmurings of tulip and daffodil bulbs, the fluorescent greening of the tips of the trees looking forward, looking upward, rising in love.

The end of one thing, the inception of another. The old continuing as new. The same Earth, the same Sun, now in a lighter role, in a brighter mood, curating space for a distinguished guest to sneak in. A shy new bud on a rose bush, a fresh tender heart-shaped leaf still half-folded on the Anthurium, a long-tailed black bird strolling on the curved spine of a green coconut frond, young green mangos picking up the redness of the Sun.

It slinks in as a cup of fresh mint tea, a phone call from a long-lost friend, an old photograph of my grand-mother. Sometimes as a spell of utter silence. Sometimes as the whisper of my breath. Joy chooses me and shows up in unexpected places, patiently waiting to be recognized. Acknowledged. Embraced.

Mum’s village

Posted by

2

The southernmost beach on the coast of Goa is also its most pristine. Galgibaga. The other name for it is Turtle beach, home to a vulnerable species of turtle, the olive ridley. I get that the first part of their name comes from the colour of their shell, which is olive. No idea where the ‘ridley’ comes from. Well…

Approaching the date of delivery of eggs, usually in November,  the female of the species returns to the spot where she herself hatched. Mum’s home, I guess. Mass-nestings are common. Mum’s village, I guess. Sisters and cousins, all coming home to have their babies.  They bury their eggs one and a half feet under the sand. After about two months, the hatchlings have to risk crossing a hazardous beach before they reach the safety of the sea. As they scoot across, predators such as crabs, eagles, dogs and the like nab them. To enhance their dwindling numbers, local conservationists and NGOs now place safety nets around the area where the eggs are buried, discourage dogs from getting close and facilitate the safe transit of baby turtles from land to sea.

No bars, restaurants, casinos, or beach huts are allowed on this white sandy stretch. No loud music. No big car parks, hence humans have to make an effort to get here. So, despite its immense beauty, there is no noise.

Two kilometres along a little road curving inland from this beach is our temporary abode, surrounded by birds and a green canopy of tall trees. Everyone seems to know everyone here. There are no beggars or homeless people. I need never worry about my unlocked bicycle parked outside. It’s safe. Coconuts, big banana trees, pepper vines and baby-mangoes are within an arm’s length of our windows and balconies. A small bus, a car or a scooter may pass by noticeably at long gaps. The distinct calls of the fisher-woman and the bread-man, I can now recognise.  

My return to the land where I hatched and gave birth decades ago. Overlapping cycles of life. Circles, like bubbles being blown to the sky at dusk, capturing all the colours. Merging. Dancing. Bursting.

Simple joys.

Ode to London.

Posted by

4

“I wouldn’t choose to live here. It’s good for a visit. A change.”

As a tourist in London, that was my opinion in 2005. Less than a year later a job offer I couldn’t turn down meant we moved to London with our bags and belongings. The move from the capital of Northern Ireland to the capital of England was a huge culture shock. The sights and sounds of Belfast, a place we had come to feel at home in, were peaceful and serene compared to the chaotic juddering of London.

We relocated, rented for a year before buying. Our home was five miles south of London Bridge and we lived there for 17 years. Saagar lived there for eight, two of which he spent at Uni. We got past our initial anxieties about the cost of living etc. and came to love the buzz, the cultural richness and the stimulating challenges of living in this crazy noisy place.

For the past couple of years, we have wanted to live simply. Last year we returned to India for a few months to winter here in response to the extra attention our respective bones and bodies were demanding from us. We made a home in rural Goa, albeit temporary. Yes. This is serene and peaceful. Yes. Time is plentiful here and the tropical languor is endearing. Yes. The Arabian sea is warm and its breeze soothing. I am utterly grateful for all of that but we find it’s not simple to create simplicity. This place is lovely but it is entirely non-London and I dearly miss that home five miles south of the centre. I miss our cat, our plants, our neighbours (some). I miss my girl-friends and work-colleagues, posh cafés and French restaurants, a quiet walk through West Norwood Cemetery and a stopover at the Tate while along the Thames, a routine, a purpose. I never thought I’d say this but sometimes I even miss people watching on my morning commute to work. I miss being around folks who knew Saagar and spoke of him, people who loved him. 

A friend, Dr Michael Duncan who is a Consultant colleague and a poet, shares the same love of this city in his recent poem.

A Masterpiece of a City

You don’t need an Acropolis
To be the foremost Metropolis
I would need a paragraph
To just describe the Cenotaph
It’s prominent and sleek
And take a look in
To the Arches of Marble
Or the Marbles of Elgin
Pleasing, unless you are Greek
And while that is a pity
It’s still a masterpiece of a City

A mystery of a city
The extremes of iniquity
But the best of the humanities
All Side by side
Diversity is most alive
Within the M25
From Harrow to Bexley
In this Masterpiece of a City

London imperturbe,
Caressing the Thames
And the bends that it lends
I searched the world
And found the world here
My Sentiments for Ealing
Are Morden a feeling
The Thames is greater than the Liffey
A masterpiece of a city

Parakeets, they were transplanted
And brilliantly adapted
And The foxes of Camden
Though residents might damn them
And The foxes of Tooting
Raiding and looting
It’s mammalian diversity
In this masterpiece of a City

And if you should seek something greater
Then enter the chambers
Of the Western Minster
Ministering and dithering
Perfecting their duplicity
Are the master debaters

A masterpiece of a city
It has no Ulysses written about it
But if you take a Peyp
There is potential for one
Thy will be done
The masterpiece, is London.

Shiny-new-object Syndrome

Posted by

2

If you’d ask me, what’s the one thing I want to do before I die, I’d say – write my book.

I have been working on it for years but it fails to materialise because there is work, home, travel, putting away summer clothes, family, packing, births, films, reports, reading, e-mails, deaths, Diwali, slumber, too-hot, too-cold, Christmas, don’t-feel-like-it, may-be-later, not-inspired, not-now and the list goes on to fill five pages.

This blog is a friend, a punch-bag, a vent, a discovery, an exploration, a path and a ready distraction. It is my creative play-ground, seemingly under my control and gives me instant gratification – writing a few hundred words within an hour or two and hitting ‘Publish’. Done.

It takes tonnes of time, sweat, blood and gut-wrenching angst to get the first draft of a book done. Things to think about – the setting, characters, voice, pace, first-person or not, genre, authenticity, shouldn’t sound preachy, shouldn’t be too emotional, shouldn’t be too short or too long, chapter-isation, privacy, audience and mountains more. It needs reworked, edited and rewritten many times over till it’s polished and ready. It needs to pass through expert scrutiny before it gets anywhere near ‘Publish’. It needs my full attention.

I’ve spent the last three days at a little village called Satkhol taking part in a Creative Writing Course at The Himalayan Writing Retreat. It’s been an exercise and a luxury. The air is pristine, the hospitality impeccable, the space serene, the teaching clear and the long range of snow-capped Himalayas in the near distance, stunning. This environment elevates me and brings me home to my truth. So, distractions will have to go. For now, I shall take a break from blogging to focus on the book. Stay in touch. I will resume when I have made a submission to a literary agent. Thank you for being here with me. I have felt your warmth. It has sustained, inspired and encouraged me for as long as I have been with you. Thank you. This is no more than a pause.

May each new day and the coming New Year bring you clarity and unveil the joys that lie within your heart.

“Doesn’t everything die at last and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

With your one wild and precious life?”

                                    -an excerpt from The Summer Day by Mary Oliver.