New things.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

They opened her sister’s tummy and took out a thing that looked like a red chili. Their mother was very worried, but the doctor said ‘all went well’. She was so relieved, she brought her a blue silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins. She had managed to buy a nearly new one for pennies at the village market from a heap of random goods piled up on the roadside.

New things never happened to Amita. She was the fifth of six kids. One girl. 3 boys. Her. One more boy. Most of her childhood was spent in boy’s clothes. When she was seven, she could finally wear her sister’s tattered old frocks. All she wanted was something new.

Amita started complaining of tummy aches that were so strong she had to miss school. She hardly ate anything and became scrawnier every week. She looked sallow. Her parents took her from one doctor to the next. They were exasperated. Finally, the fifth doctor said they would have to open her tummy and look inside. Amita’s dream was coming true. She smiled inwardly. Her operation was scheduled for Monday.

On Sunday night, in her hospital bed she remembered when her aunt had come to visit from Bangalore, she had brought one plastic doll for the girls to share. Its golden hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her head was round with two very round brown eyes. When you lay her on her back, her eyelids closed over. Thick long black lashes touched her pink cheeks. On standing her up, the lids mechanically snapped open. Her elder sister claimed the doll all for herself. When no one was looking, Amita would hold the doll like a baby, rock it from side to side and stroke its cheeks.

On Monday morning, she was super-excited. As she was going off to sleep, the blue silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins danced in front of her eyes.

When she woke up, Amita had a huge red gash right down the middle of her tummy. It was so painful that she could hardly breathe but Amita didn’t care. She waited for her mum. When the visiting hour arrived, her mum brought her a gift – a red silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins. It was even more beautiful than the blue one. Amita felt victorious. She had a new thing, all for herself. She could hardly wait to show it to the smiley nurse who routinely looked after her.

That night, Amita slept peacefully in her hospital bed, clutching on to her silk purse.

The next morning, the smiley nurse came in with a thermometer and placed the tip of it under Amita’s tongue with a smile. She then started writing her notes. Just then, Amita pulled out the purse from under her pillow and held it up for her to see, her eyes popping out but unable to speak.

“Oh! For me? How kind! Thank you.” said the nurse and received the purse with both her lovely hands.

**** **** ****

Resource: This story is inspired by an anecdote from the book “Nonviolent Communication. A language of Life.‘ by Marshall B. Rosenberg. PhD. In Chapter 4, he addresses the heavy cost of unexpressed feelings about unmet needs.

An Irish Legend

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Most of his stories are based in small towns and villages of 1950s Ireland. He writes about the underdog: small men and hard-done-by women. He has a deep concern for sexual exiles. His writing is true to that time in history because he normalizes silence, evasion and ambiguity. His fiction reads like truth. It reminds me of the time we lived in Northern Ireland. Almost every day I was flummoxed by the response I got on asking a colleague, how they were.

“Not too bad.”

I was never sure what that meant. Were they well? Or not as well as before? Or not as unwell as before? Not as well as they could be? Bad, but not too bad? I soon came to accept that as normal. In time I came to understand it as a safe answer – not giving away too much. It was historical.

William Trevor was a genius at talking about the unknown known, of knowing and not knowing at the same time. A cognitive disjunction. A common social ailment.

Yes. Mary Louise is in a loveless marriage to an older man and everyone in their small town knows but they pretend like they don’t.

Yes. Everyone knows that Elmer is becoming an alcoholic, but they act like they don’t.

I lately read ‘Two Lives: Reading Turgenev & My House in Umbria’ – a book with two artful novellas by Trevor. Reading Turgenev was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in its time. My House in Umbria was made into a film in 2003, available on YouTube. I haven’t watched it but apparently Maggie Smith is brilliant and the end has been changed for Hollywood.

For me, the protagonists of both these stories exemplify how hidden and unacknowledged grief can escort one to the thin red line between sanity and insanity. Both women are poorly understood even by people who claim to love them, their coping labelled as unacceptable, erratic and bonkers. Judged, condemned and outcast for simply managing their losses. Punished for somehow managing their loss. And finally, put away.

Comings and goings.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

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.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

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.

Everywhere.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

A year or so after Saagar, one Saturday morning we were driving on the M4 to see Simon’s mum. As we tuned into BBC Radio 4, my ears were assaulted by the prefix, ’committed’. Neither the BBC, nor the psychiatrists knew better. They hadn’t learnt that crimes are ‘committed’. Not suicides. Suicides came from a desire to end insufferable emotional pain. Either these people didn’t know or they didn’t care enough to modify the words that habitually barfed out of their mouths. That prefix is so firmly embedded in the English language that it thoughtlessly rolls off our tongues. Suicide was a crime in the UK before 1961. It is still a ‘sin’ according to some good men and women of God. Hence, the default prefix, “committed”. That has to change. Like people who sadly die of cancer, people die of Depression and Schizophrenia and the like. They do not “commit” a crime.
Part of me was grateful they were talking about it, even if their language was wrong. I tried not to get too put off by that. I had not heard so many conversations about it before. Had something changed or had I not been listening all this time?
My mind could no longer handle long complicated, rambling books. It forgot names, lost plot lines and wandered off, out the window within minutes. Short and gentle texts, it could deal with but nothing that puts too much cognitive load. I asked a helpful librarian to recommend a couple of small books. She pulled out ‘The sense of an Ending’ by Julian Barnes and ‘The French Exit’ by Patrick deWitt. Both the stories had suicide at the center of it. I have read many books but couldn’t remember this theme arising so often.
I joined a short-story writing course at the Himalayan Writing Retreat. The award-winning author, Kritika Pandey, our teacher asked us to read ‘Why I decide to kill myself and other jokes’ by Douglas Glover beforehand. My heart pounded right through those sixteen pages. I was asked to pay attention to the technical details – the elliptical way in which the word ‘blue’ appears at periodic intervals, the sub-plot involving the dogs, the side-story of Hugo’s mum, the symbolism of the car – all of these were lost on me. I was inside the protagonist’s head, feeling her dread, her quandary and her hopelessness. It was in my face again.
The e-mail from the V&A was advertising an Alexander McQueen exhibition.
The film on TV tonight was ‘The Hours’.
The book that fell off the shelf and broke its spine today was ‘The First Forty-Nine stories’ by Earnest Hemingway.
This blasted thing that came out of nowhere, is now, everywhere.
Had my eyes and ears been shut for all these years?

Or, I wonder if, like many others I was not aware of my belief – this kind of thing only happens to others?

PS: The author, Earnest Hemingway and the fashion designer Alexander McQueen, both ended their own lives. ‘The Hours’ is a film based on a book by Michael Cunnigham with Virginia Woolf’s suicide at the center of it.