Ms Helplessness

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.

Vincent and James.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

2017 – 16. Male. RIP.

2024 – 19. Male. RIP.

Brothers. Second generation Chinese immigrants in USA. Their mother, a writer who lost both of them to suicide.

Where Reasons End (2019) by Yiyun Li, after Vincent’s death.

I read this book when it was first published. An imagined conversation between her and her older son, Vincent who lived ‘feelingly’. Sixteen chapters, one for each year of his life. It has a witty and mischievous tone. Nicholai, a name he gave himself, chides his mother’s new embrace of cliches and adjectives. “If you’re protesting by becoming a bad writer, I would say it’s highly unnecessary,” he says. (“Dying is highly unnecessary too,” she shoots back.)

Things In Nature Merely Grow – Pulitzer Prize Finalist 2025, by Yiyun Li, a memoir. She wrote it within two months of her younger son, James’ death. I feel deeply for her and with her but I am not sure I want to read that book right now. A few lines from it sing true:

“I am in an abyss. If an abyss is where I shall be for the rest of my life, the abyss is my habitat.”

“My children were not my burden. My sadness is not my burden.”

“I am very realistic in that I would always acknowledge that I am limited as their mother. I was limited, and I am still limited as a mother, so I can only do my best.”

When people hold an expectation that her grief must have an end date, she retorts, “How lonely the dead would feel, if the living were to stand up from death’s shadow, clap their hands, dust their pants, and say to themselves and to the world, I am done with my grieving; from this point on its life as usual, business as usual.”

“This is a very sad fact of our lives, they took their own lives knowing we would accept and respect their decision.”

Could I accept and respect Saagar’s decision one hundred percent? I believe it was not his decision. It was his utter helplessness and desperation in the face of his illness, his unsuitable antidepressants, lack of medical care, his isolation, his inability to recommence his education, our inability to talk about it and so much more. He was driven to it. It was not by choice. Anyone who knew him, knows that. I do understand though.

I understand, my darling.

References:

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/feb/05/where-reasons-end-yiyun-li-review#

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2025/may/17/author-yiyun-li-on-the-suicide-of-both-her-sons

Every day a good day?

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After one year of near-perfect climatic conditions, when it rains non-stop for three whole days and nights, one starts to notice the changing inner weather-system.

Isn’t everything pristine as is? A day is a day. Clouds are nothing but clouds. Trees are simply trees. Nothing good or bad about them. They are what they are. When seen through a clean lens, things can be seen as they are. The smudges come from our judgements. It is one thing to notice how they make us feel and another to blame them for being there.

He shouldn’t have made that horrible remark.

The car was seriously misbehaving.

That fire-door nearly broke my arm.

What a noisy bunch!

Mango good. Jack-fruit bad.

Sun good. Rain bad.

Birth good. Death bad.

Untimely. Preventable. Tragic. Etc. Etc. Blah…blah…blah…

It is absolute. So is the mango, the rain, the love. Absolute.

One day I will die. I live, remembering that each moment that I am alive is a miracle. I am way beyond my preferences, opinions and thoughts. I am not them. They are not me. That every day is a good day, I am beginning to see.

Thirty-one.

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(Courtesy: astronomy.com)

“Longing is divine discontent, the unendurable present, finding a physical doorway to awe and discovery that frightens and emboldens, humiliates and beckons, makes us into pilgrim souls and sets us on a road that starts in the centre of the body and then leads out, like an uncaring invitation, like a comet’s tail, felt like both an unrelenting ache and a tidal pull at one and the same time, making us willing to give up our perfect house, our paid-for home and our accumulated belongings.

Longing is felt through the lens and ache of the body, magnifying and bringing the horizon close, as if the horizon were both a lifetime’s journey away and living deep inside at some unknown core – as if we were coming home into a beautifully familiar, condensed strangeness.”

An excerpt from an essay on Longing by David Whyte in his book ‘Consolations’.

I long for the warmth of that hand on my right shoulder, that lovely smile, those big brown eyes and that dimple on his chin.

Blessed is the day you were born. Bless you my darling, wherever you are.

The C-word.

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He was born in May. I was 28. A pleasant pregnancy. Normal birth. No fuss, just like him. The Army hospital sent us a bill for Rupees 16 afterwards.

I want to organise a party. I want to sing a song for him even though I know he’ll be embarrassed if I did that. I want to see that look on his face. I want to put together a playlist for the party. Plan a menu and draw up a list of guests. Find a venue and a theme.

Most of all, I want to see him. Wish him a happy birthday and a great year ahead. I want to kiss his forehead. I want to present him the book, “A Gentleman in Moscow” by Amor Towles. I think he will love it.

I want him to know I feel blessed to be remembering him, for all this love. I want to celebrate him and the day he was born.

Oh! The C-word. Can I?? Am I eligible?? Do I meet the inclusion criteria?

Yes. Celebrate.

I can. I want to. I will.

Notwithstanding the yearning, I celebrate the essence of him.

Despite the apparent separation, I celebrate the felt connection between us.

Though the approaching day intensifies the pain, it also pushes the roots of love deeper into the ground.

Despite everything, I cherish the little piece of eternity we shared.

“You were a wave in the ocean

For a sliver of time, an age ago

and the sand on that beach

Still awaits your return.

It remembers being soaked in you

for a few glorious moments.

It remembers who you were.

The quiet beach and the setting sun

Smile at the memory of your face,“