life

Comings and goings.

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As usual, I sit here at my table by the window of my study, admiring the autumnal trees standing in the park across the road, looking for inspiration to write. They have been my encouraging companions for years. The difference is that today might be the last time I write sitting here.

Early autumn has cycled back again. The fullness of the moon has synchronized with the one eleven years ago. The comings and goings of the seasons, of the world carry on as usual. Moving away from this home to live elsewhere was unthinkable at one time. But now, the heart has settled. It knows things it did not before. It carries a treasure of love and memories. Saagar lives in this heart now. He cannot be left behind. He is with me everywhere.

This, our home is ‘under offer’ now. A young couple wants to buy it for the same reasons we did twenty years ago. A quiet street. A diverse neighborhood. A garden. Parks and good schools nearby. Last few days of packing up have been intense. Things that have surfaced from deep recesses – a handheld Nintendo Gameboy carefully wrapped in its purple case, a proper Canon camera, one black sock with TUESDAY on it in yellow bunched together with another with SATURDAY printed on it in green.

I know not to trust my memory. It often fails me. It misremembers things, puts them in the wrong order. Omits some entirely. It plays tricks, causes confusion. Forgets what I want to hold on to and remembers what I’d rather forget. Luckily, the job of the heart does not include remembering but feeling – how it feels to sit here looking out the window and then at a blank page, to fold a much-loved photo in silk and cover it in more soft clothing, to look at an empty room and see it filled with light, to know it’s okay. I can trust this thing in the center of my chest. It’s all okay.

Love endures.

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As you walk through the intense fire that follows the death of your child, your heart burns for those walking behind you. You turn around and look at their tear-drenched faces – parents whose child just died . Despite the unbearable heat of your own loss, you can’t help but reach out to them. Their predicament as unbearable to you as your own. In trying to ease their pain, you believe you diminish your own.

This poem is offered by one of the CORe members for those carrying the heavy load of love and loss. It deeply respects the brokenness while also tracing the quiet light that remains, reminding us that even in grief’s shadow, love whispers through.

I feel your grieving, heart laid bare,
pieces scattered, our lot unfair.
Yet each fragment, though fragile, shines,
resilience stitched by love’s designs.

Your angel child, though gone from sight,
does dwell in memory, a quiet light.
In laughter caught, in whispers faint,
in all the love your heart can paint.

Each tear a bridge, each sigh a thread,
connecting worlds where you are led.
The joins of grief, so tender, true,
are etched with courage in all you do.

Though nights are long and shadows deep,
their presence lingers—it does not sleep.
In dreams, in stars, in softest air,
your dearest whispers: “I am there.”

Your love endures beyond the pain,
a sacred flame that shall remain.
Though broken, your heart bears a light,
turning grief’s darkness into sight.

So let each memory softly bloom,
a garden bright within the gloom.
Even in sorrow, love will find
its way to warm the grieving mind.

Now fragments found, arranged anew,

Love, hope, and courage form the glue.

Your heart, though changed, beats strong and true,

A living flame that carries you.

Whispered Reflection:

Each fracture, each delicate seam, carries a quiet, hidden light. Through love, courage, and the passing of time, these pieces are held together, forming a heart that is not the same as before—but more radiant for all it has endured. The very places of repair shine with their own gentle beauty, a reminder that even in loss, love endures and is able to recreate beauty.

Othering our Ownkind.

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“More than two thousand people read my post and saw my video today “ Yuval said.

‘They will see it and be moved by it. What then? What will they do?’ asked Basel.

That is the big question. What can we do? What will we do? Two young journalists from either camp came together to document the encroachment and destruction of a village called Masafer Yatta on the West Bank. They raise this question loud and clear for each of us. What can I do? The injustice of all this pushing and kicking, hurting and forcing fills me to the brim with a sense of sadness and powerlessness. My arms and legs go limp. So, thus far I’ve been running away from it. I must be a coward. What can I do? So many influential and powerful people have been quiet, watching the numbers and images get worse every day for decades.

Today, I watched No Other Land on the big screen. Live footage shot on a mobile phone over 4 years, 2019 to 2023. Running away is not possible anymore.

Harun’s mother prayed for his death. This young man was shot by a soldier while he was trying to stop his home from being demolished by the army. The bullet left him paralysed from his neck down. He was nursed in a cave as they had no house. No facilities. No transport. No freedoms. Everything around them was being bull-dozed – chicken coups, elementary schools, homes and villages. No one knew what new destruction each new day would bring. Toddlers were learning to speak, and older kids were trying to play and go to school in the middle of this madness. The respectable Mr Tony Blair graced the village with his pointless guest appearance for seven minutes.

Our world is bipolar, selectively blind. It’s okay for the politics of some nations to be tied to a faith but not for others, it’s okay for some nations to dishonour every treaty that they ever signed but not for others, it’s okay to condemn the exact same atrocities when committed by one nation and not another, it’s okay for third parties to fund and support the killing of women and children in plain sight. This is our world.

We humans have the arrogance to believe we are the smartest of all species, yet dogs don’t kill other dogs in millions every year. No other species has constructed the level of othering that humans have. We can’t see what we are doing to ourselves. We can’t see that there is no other. It’s only us in different garbs. Those of us who can see, must see. Those who can write, must write. Those who can sing, must sing. Let not our dark side win.

Arrogance, blindness and cowardice – a recipe for self-extinction.

By Abdul Raheem (https://www.instagram.com/mud._.lotus)

Ms Helplessness

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During Saagar’s illness, I was helpless. Also, I was rubbish at asking for help. A few weeks into Saagar’s unrelenting and forever changing moods, I was baffled. I realised I couldn’t do this alone, I needed to ask for help. Most of my family lived in India so I needed to hurry up.

Looking back, I asked somewhat hesitantly, by sending a group e-mail to my family members in India. Some tried to help and couldn’t. Others didn’t try. Yet others kept mum. Some advised me to send him to India. Some couldn’t even pick up the phone. I was so panicked that I couldn’t think straight. It didn’t cross my mind that I needed support too. The fact that I was a hot shot doctor at a hot shot hospital did not help. At that point, I was simply his desperate mother.

I texted a distant uncle on Tuesday night to say I was really worried about Saagar and we needed urgent help. He lived 20 minutes away. He texted back to say he could only help on weekends. By Thursday, it was all over. I suppose none of us had the slightest inkling of the disaster that was hurtling towards us.

Helplessness was the darkest cloud there ever was. It was a humiliating beast of a thing. It had completely obliterated the way I saw myself – capable, resourceful. It had made me a stranger to myself. Again and again, it invaded from the past to leave me without oxygen. I imagined I would limp through the rest of my life, trying to get to a point of relief, of grace. There was no way of getting that ghost of helplessness off my back.

A few years after his death, on a warm quiet afternoon on a beach in Goa, I invited Ms Helplessness to sit with me. We sat cross legged on the wooden floor of the beach hut. We looked into each other’s eyes for a few still moments. With tears streaming down my face, I extended both my hands toward her, and she took them in hers, gently squeezing them and then loosening her grip. I steeled myself and looked harder into her eyes.

I hate you. I forgive you for nearly killing me once. Thank you for showing me I can’t control what happens.

Maybe there’s a power beyond us both, that rules.

Promise me, you won’t be so cruel again. Will you? She had her gaze fixed on the ground in front of us. A tearful silence ensued.  Then she stood up and walked away.

Raintree

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This is not a monastery, a hermitage or a cave.

It is our one-bedroom house. No bellringing to tell me it’s time to go to the church hall to pray.

No fixed routines. No group meditations. No tedious chores.

This is my home. I have been here by myself for 6 weeks. Mostly silent. Listening. Being.

The wind, whispers and then howls, bashing the banana plantation outside my window, pushing all the birds back into their nests, felling trees and forcing me to stay indoors.

The monsoon makes a dramatic entry, takes over the skies.

The morning ritual of making ginger tea. I sit by the big window, drinking it, present to the light of the day. Grateful for it, I smile.

The luxury of silence and solitude!

I drive to the farm. Today is the day to plant a raintree. Early monsoon is a good time for it. The three feet tall sapling has travelled on an overnight train all the way from a friend’s garden in Goa. Known for its fifteen-meter-wide umbrella shaped canopy, it needs a lot of space. We mark the spot on a clearing, dig a hole, put the root ball into the moist soil, add some compost and cover it up. Two sticks support the young tree and it’s on its own. Good luck, Buddy.

My brother calls in the evening to inform me about the air-crash in Gujarat.

I light a candle and sit with my eyes closed. Tears streaming down my face, my chest bursting with pain. God bless their souls and their families. God bless them all.

Night arrives. Si calls up. He asks if I was aware that yet another war had begun in the middle east. I didn’t.

Why? Isn’t there enough suffering in the world already?  

I think about the raintree. I wonder if it will survive this sharp heavy monsoon. Who can say? No one.

Silence. Solitude. Surrender.