This night.

He was born when I was 28.

The monsters of pain took him in his 21st.

I was in my 49th.

Today, he would be in his 28th. I am in my 56th.

7 years ago, this night was his last in this house.

I am here tonight. Sleeping in his room.

7 years it takes for all my cells to be replaced.

7 chakras. 7 cycles.

7 colors. 7 musical notes.

7 days clumped into a week.

A bunch of random dates. Time as a thing.

Not straight. A mirage.

Revisiting.

Revolving. Rotating.

An illusion. A thought.

A future forgot.

Grow. Mature. Flower. See.

A constellation upon which I sit as fully me.

Push through the glass wall of Time. Release.

Rise and fall

free.

Come October.

Such slashing-sloshing wetness that the roads can’t take it. Such a dense grey blanket overhead that the light-switch needs to be flicked on before brushing my teeth, early in the morning. So windy that the umbrellas are bending and twisting into funky shapes, not fit for purpose. This has happened before.

Leaves starting to morph into colourful blades, beginning the descent of their curtains from clean pristine branches high up in the air down to the messy wet Earth, departing the very same points from where, not so long ago, they had sprung. This has happened before.

Some globules of rain clinging to the outside of the window pane, a crescent of heaviness at their lower edges. Quite still. Others making a dash down to the ground with quick wiggly lines disappearing behind them. The glass pane, an alive fashionable frosted sheet of artistic dots and lines, dancing. This has happened before.

This planet, tilted to perfection on its axis, keeping precisely to its orbit in accordance with the laws of creation. Doing what it was made to do. Billions of clumps of matter scattered all over the limitless expanse of space, each on its own path, own trajectory, appearing out of nothingness and then sparkling out of existence, unnoticed. This has happened many times before.

The tenth month is here again, at the cusp of two seasons. A climate of colours and shadows. Its steep, slanting sheets of light illuminating the trees in their sheer nakedness, foreshadowing the arrival of the dark. This too has happened before.

One moment on a Friday morning.

Time is a scaffolding. Not the real thing. A construct. A transactional entity. An illusion. A convenience. A cage.

The Time is always Now.

Right now I hear Si pottering in the kitchen downstairs.

Michael, his friend is waiting in his car outside the front door. The engine is whirring, parked slightly to the left of the middle of the road with just enough space for passing cars to slide past.

My second cup of tea is waiting. Steaming.

The sunshine had penetrated many curtains to reach the park across the road.

The wind is gently encouraging the trees to wake up and dance.

The indoor plants watered this morning are feeling fresh. A large green Poinsettia (from last Christmas) on my left and a pink orchid on my right.

The ‘to-do’ list is staring at me from the far side of my table, feeling left-out. My Mind is pulling hard at me, trying to get me out of writing, into ‘doing stuff’. I am watching it. It looks like a toddler yanking at her Mum’s dupatta pleading for attention.

Black and green bins are lined up in tidy rows on the pavement along both sides of our street, waiting to be emptied. Five years ago, when the bin-collection day changed from Tuesday to Friday, I immediately thought I must tell Saagar. Then I remembered. Now, I think of him when I see the bins. I recall us putting the bins out together. In the Now. I feel that memory become a twinge in my chest. Sometimes, it becomes a cloud in both my eyes.

Now, I hold him in my heart on Fridays and every other day. He lives in me. Speaks through me. Sees the world and keeps me calm.

The neighbour’s son’s school bus stops at the same spot every day. He boards it wearing his yellow anorak every day. He sits at the same seat every day – by the window on the left, second row from behind.

The world goes on and I go on with it, carrying you in me. Loving you. Keeping you alive.

The Office Guy

Once upon a time, trains in London used to be stuffed with people. Every now and then one found one’s head in some random person’s armpit. That Friday evening, my train was not too full.  Every other seat was taken and a few people stood by the door.

He boarded at London Bridge and sat opposite me. We sat facing each other at either end of the long rectangular window, looking out at the dusk, in the typical way Londoners show consideration and give space to one another. I was on my way home after work. The skies were moody. I was glad to be released from the hospital after a long windowless day.

As my gaze shifted from the sunset outside the window to the seat across from me, I saw the young office guy with his neat brown hair, parted on the left side. Crisp white shirt and well-pressed grey trousers. Tense jawline. Fixed steely eyes staring through glass panes. Two vertical frown lines just above the bridge of his nose on a smooth white forehead. He looked sharp, a tense energy encompassed him like a taut canvas. It was palpable. He was, as if a statue with serious internal whirings.

The train was on the move now. My station was six stops away. I had noticed something I couldn’t ignore.

I wasn’t sure if I should do something. If yes, what?

If I did nothing would I regret it? Yes.

Could I fully trust my instinct? I wasn’t sure but probably.

Did it matter if I made a fool of myself by saying something? No.

He could get off the train at any moment so I had to make up my mind pretty quick.

Two stops had now gone by and he was still there. This was my chance. I leant in, my head closer to his, caught his gaze in mine and softly said – ‘Whatever it is, it will pass. I promise. It will.’

I went back to admiring the sunset as if nothing happened.

I didn’t look for a response in anyone. Nothing.

I left it there, feeling like a crazy old woman on the train who talks to strangers, my heart beating in my ears.

One stop later, from the corner of my eye I saw him get up to leave. I brought my eyes back into the coach and chanced looking at him as he stood by the doors. He met my gaze and gave me an acknowledging nod, his frown lines gone. I could have cried. I think I smiled and nodded back.

I was finally learning to trust myself to do the right thing.

Not before 12th April

Building up to today, hope of movement. Till this morning, half-fearing the radio might say – it’s been cancelled. After nearly 13 months of this regulation and that and then the other, bungled numbers coming from unreliable sources, u-turns based on dodgy science, I am not sure what is to be believed.

This morning I opened my eyes to snow descending like down-feathers, dancing and swirling outside my window. Wow! There is hope. A clean, fresh start.

As an anaesthetist, over the last few months I’ve been speaking with patients, re-assessing their fitness for the operations that they were supposed to have March 2020 onwards, which have not happened yet but will hopefully happen soon. Several of them have had to live with painful knees and hips and other uncomfortable conditions for at least a whole extra year, unable to move around and exercise. Many of my patient’s health has deteriorated over the last year. They have gained substantial weight, some are drinking much more than before. A few have decided not to have their operations as they are worried about visiting the hospital, leave alone be admitted, for fear of getting the virus.  

A few got Covid and have recovered fully while a small proportion have lingering issues. Others have discovered new health conditions like heart disease, diabetes and asthma. Some elderly patients have developed new ‘minor’ issues after having the vaccine, like loss of balance, making independent living impossible. So many have lost confidence.

The incessant repetition of “you may be next to die a terrible death alone soon” on TV and radio has filled the psyche of the populace with terror. The thorn of fear has made a home in so many chests. It’s easy to put it there but difficult to pull it out. How insiduously our greetings have changed from ‘Have fun!’ to ‘Stay safe’.

Monday, a good place to start afresh. May we find the courage to recover, open and experience life in all its fullness in the coming weeks and months.

“Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. The fearful are caught as often as the bold.” -Helen Keller

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?

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!

The Wait.

4k-wallpaper-beautiful-bloom-1597662

In between childhood and adulthood.
In between start and finish.
In between finish and start again.
In between seed and sapling.
In between nothing and something.
In between ‘now’ and ‘not yet’.
In between confusion
And resolution.

In between ‘not knowing’ and ‘knowing’.
In between listening and understanding,
Understanding and assimilating,
Assimilating and learning,
Learning and applying,
Applying and having an effect or not.
In between the impact and its height,
Or possible flight.

In between the flash of lightning and the roar of thunder,
In between thought and action,
In between you and me,
There is travel.
An invisible, microscopic stirring
Of this nurturing Universe
Of this mothering Earth
Of this sun-ward bound energy of Spring
Of this Blossoming of everything
Despite everything.

Visiting my adolescence

Innkeeper's wife

(The mean, very mean wife of the inn-keeper. Nativity play 1983. CMC Ludhiana. India.)

Once upon a time I used to be a kid. A bright and happy kid. I nearly forgot that girl. She used to be fun. She loved singing, dancing and play-acting. She had thick black, unusually curly, short hair. She laughed easily and played harmless pranks. She listened to music on the radio with such ardour that her day was planned around the timings of her favourite programmes on the Urdu service of All India Radio. The last few pages of all her notebooks were filled with scribbled lyrics of songs written at speed to keep pace with them as they played on the old Murphy which was a part of her mother’s dowry. Then she neatly transcribed the messy song-words from the back pages of her notebooks onto a special red diary which was her treasure.

A few months back I accepted an invitation from my alma mater, Christian Medical College, Ludhiana, India.  This is where I trained to be a doctor and an anaesthetist, nearly 30 years ago. They requested me to run a Mental Health workshop for about 70 medical students and make a Keynote address at the World Junior Medical Congress they were hosting in early April.

While preparing my lecture, I dug up a few old pictures. They flew me back in time. I saw what I looked like when I was Saagar’s age. It was a strange juxtaposition. So much had changed. Oh, that heart-breaking innocence! The stars in my eyes shone so bright, they nearly blinded me. Who was this lovely girl? Where is she now? She has walked a long way and formed a big circle. She is back where she started, working with what she has – her Love, her Grief and her Self.

MH Workshop

The workshop was four and a half hours long. The sharing was powerful, the enthusiasm infectious. The learning for all of us was invaluable. It was fun! We sang and we danced. We worked and we played. It was just like the old times. Saagar was there. He was smiling his crooked smile.

“There is nothing in the world, I venture to say, that would so effectively help one to survive even the worst conditions as the knowledge that there is a meaning in one’s life.” – Victor Frankl.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The knot of ‘me’.

Must’ve been confusing for him, for he was a happy kid.
He had enough joy in him to fill many lives and lifetimes.
His light was enough to illuminate the entire Universe.

He was my sweet child.
He was born to me.
He was mine.

That’s where the pain sits.
In the ‘me’ and the ‘mine’.

  1. There is suffering.
  2. This is my suffering.
  1. I miss him like hell.
  2. He is greatly missed.
  1. I could’ve, should’ve …
  2. Things could’ve been different.
  1. Only if I had been aware enough.
  2. If we all are aware, we can stop this unnecessary heartache.

The prison of ‘me’ keeps me glued on one blood-splattered spot. My feet forever red. What if I was’nt a woman or a man, grand-father or Aunt, a janitor or a bus-driver, a traveller or a house-holder, urban or rural, a pop-singer or a vagabond, black, brown or beige, middle aged or infant? What if I had no labels. Then who would I be?

Would the pain be as deep as ‘mine’?

Can I break these shackles of conditioning and be pure consciousness? Can I escape this convenient web of fiction and dive into the deepest layers of pristine Beinghood?

Yes. Sometimes. When I allow the magic of the rhythm of the breath to work. To be anchored in this ecstatic moment.