The First Deep Cut and the Dawn of Healing

My first heartbreak was terrible. For days I was a somnambulist, in a stupor, drugged and immune to any rational voices that came my way.  Nothing mattered and no one would understand. My heart was broken and I physically ached, in my head, my heart, my hands, legs and my entire torso. I couldn’t breathe properly without periodically hyperventilating for days and I hadn’t the appetite to imbibe a morsel. I was a dead woman walking.

It took some months for me to even get back to some remote sense of normalcy. Although I cannot, in retrospect, condone my behaviour for some of the things I did, (some weren’t fair and were driven by emotional outbursts) or didn’t do, I still believe it’s was fine to show my vulnerabilities at the time. I’m glad I wasn’t the introvert that bottled it all inside and let it ferment or boil to a point where it had to burst out in a dangerous way.  Then again, thinking back, and who am I to become this sage now, I would have liked someone to really be there for me to tell me that I needed to re-focus my energies and use them to introspect, heal and move forward.

I knew my aberrant behaviour was causing concern and discomfort to my family and friends, and their perception of me as this tough, un-destroyable, strong kid was also undergoing a change. A hyper, opinionated, confident person who stood her own most times, chameleon-like became someone else.  That I was going against my very grain must have been tough to accept and absorb, and probably created more of a panic than should have. I was displaying symptoms that were not natural to my personality, a type ‘A’ kind of person.

Perhaps what got lost there was that matters of the heart can be the most intense experiences—they lift you sky high, so far that you can’t really see the ground, and then, when they go wrong, because you’ve let yourself be flown so over the top, the fall is close to the pains you’d physically feel if you were to free fall fast from that height.  When you’re are flying that high, the descent needs a parachute—family and special friends who will help make the landing less painfully.

That’s what I was looking for when I saw I’d been left alone on this plane.  I sought it everywhere in my despair.  I felt schizophrenic, like a person who had no desire to live one day, and was driven to do so on another. What I didn’t realize, and I do now, is that I was the only one who had the button that would have unfolded the parachute!  I needed to press it to make a safe landing.  It took me more than a while in my zombie-like frame of mind to push to button.

Once I’d pressed the button, the parachute opened and I started to descend.  That was a long and pretty eventful journey.  While moving down, many things happened.  Gusts of wind filled my mind and heart with memories of a lost love and I was forlorn, low and very sad.  Then suddenly, the sun shone and I’d feel a little better and more energized. Moments later, a cloud would engulf the sun and darkness that crept right into my heart would completely envelop my being.  A few days later, I’d find a bird whizzing past me and her song and flight would uplift me. One time, I even encountered a demon who told me I was going to live in my misery forever. That was terrible, but after a few more days, I encountered an angel who said that was bullshit.  She said I was strong enough to continue my journey homeward.

Now, I’d been adrift for quite a few days—I can’t remember exactly how many—but I also slept through some.  My dreams were erratic.  There were times when I’d wake up with a start, sweating and longing for my lost love.  Those nights were discomforting and I thought I’d never make it.  But then, the clean air, and my inherent survival instinct, egged me on and I continued to believe that once I touched the ground, all would be fine.

And then, finally after several days and months of floating in space, my parachute landed! My feet touched the ground, but I lost my balance and fell on my side with the parachute engulfing me completely.  I struggled for air and freedom and fought the suffocating feeling, flung my arms and feet around to finally untangle it. I felt confused for a moment.

I hadn’t landed where I thought I would, but the surroundings were lush with green pastures and astounding opportunities.  I took off my parachute and, attracted to what appeared a very enticing and fulfilling path, started walking.

Over the horizon, the sun had emerged, ready to spread its light and warmth.  Looking at it, I walked on, my pace increasing by the minute until I broke into a run. I knew then that I was ready to take on the world, with all its tribulations and beautiful surprises. I’d come back home!

Summertime Blues

“April is the cruelest month,” T.S Eliot wrote in “Burial of The Dead.”  He said the month “bred lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory with desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.”

That must have been a non-wasted land where spring brings with it hope, verdure, ‘beautiful days’ as most westerners describe their months mostly during this time of year, and literally a spring-back into one’s life. Not here. Because in India, April, or at least the end of it, is truly cruel.  It breeds nothing, the land begins to dry up, aching for water, and reminiscing time is spent delving into memories and desires of the cooler months gone by for succour and support.  April, and the three months that follow, are certainly not the kind that stir and awaken the soporific winter roots. Those are over and done with by March.

In fact, April announces the fading away of the pleasant January to March weather, encourages the deflowering of trees, evident on streets that are littered with flowers scattered and desecrated under trodden feet, announces the onslaught of an imminent, insufferable summer, and proclaims that increasing temperatures, while we await for pre-monsoon showers and monsoon rains, are going to ensure the death of all things bright and beautiful–the colourful gardens and the green foliage that so delighted and uplifted our spirits through the first quarter of the year– at least till the time the earth moves along some on its axis, and brings back to us the exhilaration of mind and body that good weather guarantees.

Basically, the coming of April forebodes the hibernation of growth, movement and expectations for a few months. It means we expend a large part of our waking hours indoors and find other things to do while the dust settles, literally and metaphorically, for us to emerge and venture out again, at an earthly hour of our choice, to do so many things that we couldn’t in summer.

For me, I’ve got to get up real early to beat the heat. During my morning walk these days, and I do this before the road is swept clean, I see wilted flowers and leaves that cover my track, trampled by walkers.  I see some half-blooming and some close-to-barren trees that are in the process of shedding their colourful flowers and leaves—red, yellow and pink–almost apologetically for those of us who have admired them.  The birds still hum around the few flowers that are hanging in, displaying a die-hard, un-succumbing spirit, for nectar.  It’s like they’ve both—the birds and the flowers–made a self-sustaining pact that refuses to let April interfere in their March-on plans! One for the road, kind of feeling I get!  Good for them!

As the month moves on and summer sets in full blast, these sightings start to recede and I miss the externally stimulating sights for sore eyes and the inspiration and lively feeling they instil in me after my health trip.  It’s quite disheartening to see my entire eco-system recede, as I sponge off the sweat gathering on my forehead and neck as I walk.

This seasonal transition brings about many other ineluctable factors that makes the experience a lot more difficult.  There are power cuts, water shortages and mosquitoes, the only ones, or perhaps a small majority, that procreate at this time of year–apocryphal inference, I could be wrong!  The entire package is energy-sapping and debilitating.  This happens year after year, but it always catches me unprepared, just like the establishment that hasn’t doesn’t enough to mitigate the onslaught of the recurrent, scorching heat and the problems that come with it.

There are other countries that deal with hot weather too, we are not alone. Some of those have the wherewithal and monies to tackle the blitzkrieg of hot temperatures better.  Then there are some that are even worse off than us who must accept nature’s ways and deal with them the best they can. I feel their pain, as I do for so many of my countrymen who die every year because of the heat wave.

We’ve got to get our act together to better handle power and water shortages.  We’ve got to make this more sustainable.

And if someone’s going to tell me to cool it, I’m going to say, “Really?”

Show me the way by saving water and power! Just do it!

Mothers and Daughters: The Changing Times and the Bond

A mother-daughter bond is special but also very intense and trying.  Don’t know about you, but that’s how I’d define mine with my daughter. I believe sometimes she’s my best confidante and friend and then, now that she’s become her own person, there are some very difficult, disagreeable times too.

These are challenging times, particularly for those of us who believe, and have lived, a pretty independent, self-reliant life and have daughters today who, partly influenced by their own experience, beliefs and exposures, and partly through emulation, have a strong sense of independence and confident attitude to take the world on.

That’s good mostly, except when it comes to the one thing that’s worrisome and have made moms like us, hyper and cautious about their movements, especially at night.  Incidents of harassment, teasing and, in extreme cases the most reprehensible violence and rape are increasing, or perhaps being reported more often.  I find myself caught in the dilemma of dealing with my concern for her safety and of not being an overbearing parent.  This is particularly true when my daughter is out at night and returning home late.  Not that day times are safe, but, relatively so.

The thing is, she’s so much her own person that my phone calls, there could be more than a couple sometimes, depending on the hour, annoy her.  I get that too, but what to do?  I am a mom.  I read the newspapers and just want her to come home safe. It’s only just that.

I am a fairly liberal mom.  That’s been my upbringing. I grew up in a home that, among other things, and sometimes in spite of it, was open to hearing  and accepting my choices.  I could voice my opinions quite freely and had my parents support and approval for several important decisions that I chose to make, including my education, career and whom I chose to marry.  This wasn’t carte banche, but mostly so.

A pretty liberal upbringing.  In retrospect, I am so grateful for just these two gifts my parents gave me–education and the freedom of choice.  It shaped the person I have become and majorly contributed to my confidence and worth as I moved forward in this world. I wasn’t sure about what I wanted, but I knew my parents were watching my back.

I’d like very much to pass that on to my kids. In most ways I have. They are their own people, grown up quite fine, I think. They make their decisions and, like a lot of kids of their generation, there’s sometimes not much room for discussion about what and when they want to do their own thing.  Also, I’ve had to made peace with what’s worth arguing about.  I now, I hope, have the wisdom to know the difference about what I can change and what I cannot.

Amidst all the introspection, hold-back, support and the disagreements, it’s basically worked out.  We have our bonding days and we have days when we just don’t gel.  I have also discovered that, although I’m really not very good at forgiving and forgetting words exchanged during arguments and moving on, my kids have the ability to do so.  And there’s a lesson to be learnt right there.

But there are other things I bring to the table today, albeit, having realised that I wasn’t there for them when they might have needed me most. I feel dreadful about that time, but what’s done is done.  Today, I do have the time to listen to their accomplishments, heartbreaks and their future plans.  We talk, it’s gratifying and makes me feel good that I am a daily part of my kids’ life.  I don’t always agree. But I’m there, connected and very much part of their lives, and so are my kids for me. And that’s important.

Happy Mother’s Day! I so enjoy this role. It’s the best I’ve ever had.

Across-a-word and a Kind of Walk

I click the ‘pause’ button sometimes as ‘time-out’ from daily chores and demands on my time, and take stock of me, my life, what I am doing and what I’d like to do. The pause button is essential because, in spite of not going to work every day, I find I have limited time for myself, simply because I am trying to become more efficient at running a home and ensuring that, irrespective of not getting a regular income, the house runs smoothly.

In the process, I’ve become retail savvy and look out for deals that don’t compromise on our lifestyle, yet ask less of me monetarily.  Now, looking for best deals can be pretty time consuming.  That’s just the groceries part of it. There are things to be done for the kids and home that occasionally make my quest to find “me-time” tough.

Sometimes I do take charge and decide that I need to, and must, do what I really want and, as Nike constantly reminds us to, I “Just do it!”  I’m hoping to increase the frequency of my ability to find more time for myself by making the domestic system more efficient.

One of the things that gives me deep satisfaction and pleasure is solving the daily crossword puzzles that appear in our newspapers. Fortunately, the mornings are my own and I find time to work on the cryptic crossword and occasionally, now with greater frequency (yay!), crack it through.  That’s a real highpoint of my day. But it’s an individual triumph, and because there’s no one else at home who shares my passion for crosswords, I can’t really celebrate this with anyone.

Occasionally, if it’s been a particularly tough one to solve and I’ve been able to penetrate the crossword maker’s brain, I share my triumph with close friends.  I even share the answer to a clue or two, underscoring the cleverness, in a bid to entice them into my crossword world, or at least appreciate how intriguing and wonderful it is.  In subtle ways, I’ve tried to initiate and introduce some of my friends and family, particularly those who are passionate about the English language, including my daughter, to crossword puzzles, and the kick and joy one gets upon solving them.  I haven’t struck gold yet, but I haven’t given up either.

I think crossword puzzle solvers are a diminishing, small minority. Most people don’t have the time or patience.  Sometimes, I think I’d like to start a group that brings together those of us who really appreciate this form.  It could be so enriching and so much fun.  Potential members could be those that appreciate the written word and the intricacies of it—the puns, the anagrams, the juxta-positioning, or just thinking about and contextualizing words differently.

The thing about mind games is that one needs an initiator–and a pretty persuasive one, more so now given the paucity of time. I can’t recall who introduced me to crosswords and when it became a passion with me.  I can’t even remember how I responded to the initiation.  Did I give up initially or readily accepted the assistance of the person who tried to explain the game and the rules (because there are some).  What I can re-collectively surmise is that this could have been an evolution.  Irrespective, it would must have been difficult in the initial days.  Given the fact that I was a pretty outdoor, sports kind of person, I certainly wasn’t the ideal candidate for crossword puzzles or mental challenges.  I was not nearly as open to exercising my brain as I was to the need to exercise my body to stay in shape.

I didn’t get the hang of solving crosswords for quite a while. It took practice, perseverance, and, most importantly, a passion and desire to want to learn the game. What drove me was the intrigue and, when I looked at the answers the next day, the smartness of the clues and their responses. There’s another thing crosswords ignited in me.  It drove me toward other brain teasers and I started working on solving Sudoku puzzles. Between the two, I expended a large part of my free time working on solutions of both.  All such games require patience and can be challenging.  Perhaps I was working on taming my impatience and figuring out my mental capabilities. No matter.  Having learnt how to play them, I find them absorbing and so, so rewarding.

Apart from the high and thrill crosswords provide, I believe they help exercise my brain and now that I have my mind going, I need to concentrate on the body, right?

I try to walk regularly.  But I’m also given to time-out, indulgent days when I don’t. This is a change, because when I was working, I was more committed to stepping out every day.  When I walked then, my stride was purposeful, the activity limited for lack of time, and the task completed expeditiously.  Today, I try to keep the rhythm, but I slack because there is more time at hand.

Walking in winter is much easier and far more pleasurable.  I sleep late and walk with a friend. Currently, Indian summers are harsh and my wake-up time has gotten shorter, so I must step out before the air gets hot and the sun beats down on me.  I wake up early, go for a walk, but always wanting to finish as quickly as I can because newspapers have been delivered and there’s the crossword puzzle waiting for me.

My proclivities are obviously clear!