Butterflies.

They say you find happeeness in the unlikeliest of places.
At the corners. Or the turns. Nooks and crannies.

And sometimes, right under the vast open sky with soft grass underneath your feet.

College was over. It was around 6-ish.
I called my friends to find out where they were.
One of them, who took the call, asked me to walk past the construction site.
I asked her what she was doing there. Nobody goes there.
She told me to hurry up and come.

Tired, I walked past the cement, dust and the barbed wires.
And beyond all of it, I saw my two friends sitting.
On a lush green field.
Surrounded by a dozen kids who were playing.

Instant smile on my face.

Smiling, I went and sat with my friends.
Noticing a new person, all the kids came running to greet me.
None of them seemed more than 10 years old and each one of them had smiling faces.
Most of them I noticed had their hands cupped, hiding something that I couldn't see.
Noticing my curiosity, one of the girls came up to me and said,
"Didi, spread out your palm."
Without asking questions, I obeyed.

Gently and with a lot of care, she gave me what she was holding in her hand all along.
A Butterfly.
Blue in colour. With Golden spots.
Beautiful it was.
But.
It was dead.

Proudly, she explained how she had caught it.
How she had caught two of them, and the others had managed only one.

Soon, all the kids flooded around us to show us the butterflies they had caught.
Interestingly, each of the butterflies were dead.
But, all the kids were still proud of their achievements.

With pollen all over my fingers, I laughed and played with them.
The elder ones brought their younger siblings to say hello.
Some of the kids were so young, that they needed help to walk.

In those few moments, I managed to forget about assignments and submissions, college and deadlines.
It was sheer bliss to be enveloped by childish play and innocence.
Toddlers, with their underpants falling off their bums laughed and played peek-a-boo.
Childhood has along with it innocence and warmth.
The genuine joy and happeeness that it has is contagious.
It acts as a Nepethe.

We laughed.
We joked.
We sang.
We screamed.
We ran.
We danced.

And when it was time to leave and get back to work,
Reluctantly, they bid adieu.

However, they had one and only one request.
That we went back the next day.

Helpless

Helpless.

Thats all I feel right now.

What else do you do when you cant help your loved one when he/she is most in need?
Not that you don't want to.
You really, Really do.
But. You don't know how to.

You don't know what action or words will help.
Will make a difference.
Maybe a hug?
A pat on the back?
Or simply sitting next to them: making him/her understand, that No Matter What ... you are there?

But, what happens when there is a physical distance added to all of this?
When you are miles away knowing that the other person is in a lot of pain?
What do you do then?

Phone calls can never replace a hug.
Whatsapps and voice notes will never replace a pat on the back.
Neither will mails and FB msgs replace the peaceful feeling of being near your loved one.

Global Consciousness.
This is when it plays a major role.
To firmly Believe and have Faith in the Positive forces in the Universe.
And to drive your own Positive Energy towards your loved one.

Yes, I Believe that if you really want something, the Universe conspires to get it for you.
I Believe that if You think positive, positive things are bound to happen.
You Need to have Faith. You Need to want good things to happen.
And it Will.

I Believe that my recovery was faster because of this same theory.
I had people from all over the world praying for me everyday.
Sending me their energies and good wishes.
So much of positive energies was bound to have effect.
And it did.

So.
When you feel helpless, close your eyes and think Positive.
And channelize your positivity towards your loved one.
No matter how near or far you are, energies travel.
And they never go waste.

All you Really need to do is,
Believe that its Possible.




Ironically, Im telling myself that.

Leak.

She knows him very well.
He lives in the same colony.
She knows his wife also. Very pretty lady.
Every evening when she plays with her friends, he and his wife go on a walk.
She had noticed his bald patch. His wrinkled hand. And his french beard. His salt-pepper hair.

She was sitting on her favourite pink chair as all the elders in the house spoke.
The roof was leaking and the monsoons were coming.
He was there. He was part of the Board. So even he had come to inspect.
She didn't understand all that they spoke.
About maintenance. About money. About contractors.
She was too young to understand. Barely 4 years old.
She simply waited for the talk to be over. So Ma could take her to bathe.

Tea was served. So Ma gave her a biscuit to nibble on.
She played with her tape-frock and bit into her biscuit.

He proposed they inspect the tank. Maybe the leakage had something to do with the tank?
Sipping his tea, he asked her whether she would accompany him?
She loved the terrace, but Ma wouldn't allow her to go there often.
So an opportunity to go was not that she was easily going to let go.

Still nibbling on her biscuit and holding his index finger, she climbed the stairs to the terrace.
She couldn't see anything. The walls of the terrace was to high for her.
But she didn't mind. She liked looking up to the sky and finding animal shapes in the clouds.

Today, she couldn't find any animals.
She was thoroughly disappointed.
She turned around looking for him, making sure he was there.
Otherwise she knew Ma would get angry if she was left un attended on the terrace.
She looked up again, desperately searching for at least one animal.
She thought she could see a fox when she felt a hand around her waist.

She turned around. He was looking down at her, pulling her close.
"Cant see anything?" he asked.
She stared at him. She shook her head.

He took her hand and took her behind the the tank.
Resting his back on the wall, he pulled her close.
"Have you finished seeing the tank Uncle?" she asked him innocently.
"Not yet dear. Let me show you where the leak is."
"Okay", she replied.

She could hear the laughter of the others downstairs.
Her father must be cracking a joke again, she thought.
Her father loved making people laugh.
But, her father never touched her like this.

His one hand held her firmly by the shoulder.
The other one tracing down her waist and down her thighs.

"Where is the leak Uncle?"
"The leak - " his voice became hoarse " - is right - "
His hand, went under her favourite tape frock, tracing her soft thighs and up towards her panties -
" - right here."

His grip on her shoulders tightened. He pulled her even closer.
His fingers searching for the insides of her panties.
She could feel his breathing becoming more rapid.

She knew something was not right.
She could sense it.
She tried to move away.
His grip tightened.
She used two of her little hands to move one of his thick hands away from in between her thighs.

She whined and eyes started welling up with tears.
Screaming, she wriggled free and ran out of the terrace and down the stairs.
The door of her house was open. Everyone was still sitting and talking.
She ran past them and locked herself into the loo.

Her Ma didn't notice for a long time that she was in the loo.
She hardly remembers what she was doing inside.
All she remembers is being scared.
Being very scared.

Sometime later, when her mother knocked on the door and asked if she was inside, she opened the loo door and asked if he was still there.
Ma seemed surprised by her daughter's question but replied that they had all left.
Scared and very slowly, she came out and hugged her mother.

She kept quiet the rest of the day.
Ma asked her many a times what had happened.
But she didn't know how to tell Ma.

At night, lying next to Ma, and holding her close and feeling safe for the first time in the whole day, she told Ma. She didn't cry. She knew what had happened. She knew it was all wrong. Even Ma didn't need to tell her that.

But the point was:
It Had Happened.
And there was nothing that could change that fact.

So now what?
Protests? Candlelight marches? Writings? Strikes? Blogs?
To what end?

To stop the unidentified man who gropes her at the metro?
Or to point a finger at the cop who leches at her at the Police Station?
Or to stop that old man who she thought was like her Grandfather?
Alpha male psychology is embedded in our systems.

How do you change a psychology that is in our system for generations?

Again, I don't have an answer.
I hope Time does.

Departures.

Departures suck.
Thats the Only way to describe it.
They Suck.

Remember the time you hugged someone goodbye just outside the airport door?
Or the time when you saw the train recede away from the platform?
Remember the moment when you were choking but you held back your tears?
Or the time when you wanted to rush and hug your loved one just one last time?
Remember the moment the fingers left each other and you promised to keep in touch?
Or that instant when you wish you didnt have to leave and thought for a second to stay back?
Remember the time when you stood at the aiport car park and looked up and watch the plane fly off and hoped that you could be on it with your loved one too?
Or that particular moment when the tickets arrived and you knew it was a matter of time till the Final departure?

In our lives, we have All experienced one or all of the above emotions.
We have watched our loved ones leave.
And we smiled and waved them goodbye while choking with tears inside.
We have wished them a 'happee journey' and we wished them luck -
Hoping against hope that they wouldn't have to leave.
Hoping that this was not going to be the final time that they were gonna depart.

One day, spend a little bit of time on a railway platform.
Watch the people.
The men.
The women.
The kids.
The families.
Watch the crowd.
Hear the commotion.
Feel the (e)motion.

Its fascinating.

Watch an army official hug his kids goodbye.
Watch siblings depart.
Watch parents leave their kid in a new city.
Watch a married girl hug her parents goodbye.
The feeling of departure is Universal.
It blends the excitement of starting a new chapter with a sadness of ending the old one.

The emotions associated with Departures are raw.

Though.
I wonder whether the smaller Departures in Life prepares us for handling the Final Departure.
If the smaller Departures suck, the Final one kills us.
And yet, like all Departures, the Final one is The Ultimate start of a new chapter in our lives.

And That.
That is the Beauty of Departures.

104.

"Was it peaceful?" I asked.
"Well, as in she slowly drifted into a coma and then she left us."
"Coma?"
"Well. Somewhere her body had to give up. In one way or another."

My 104 year old GREATGrandMa just passed away.
I didn't go to the Hospital.
That was my mother I was speaking to.
And the only thing I wanted to know was whether she had a peaceful death.

She was 104.
Time had come.
She had to die.
The question was when.
The question was how.

My friend told me two days back after his visit from the Hospital, "She cant die unless she wants to. She has ichchamrityu (i.e., she will command the Time when Death will happen to her). She'll die on her own terms. When she wants. How she wants."
I couldn't agree more.

All I hoped was that she died peacefully.
She had survived the wars and the Time.
She needn't survive the jabs of injections and medicines.
She deserved More than that.

So when I heard from Ma, I wasn't upset.
I had long accepted her departure.
I was simply glad that it wasn't painful.

Death is inevitable.

I went to the terrace.
It was sunset.
I leaned against the wall and watched the Sun.

The Sun reminded me of her.
As mighty.
As strong.
As old.
As enigmatic.
Filling up the Universe with her aura.
As the rays pierced through the clouds, I felt a pang of loss.

Slowly, I watched the Sun go down.
I closed my eyes and heard the swallows twitter.
I heard the water running down in someone's house.
The sound of cycle bells.
I opened my eyes.
And was in time to see the Sun dip behind the clouds.
I sighed.
The Sun had indeed set.

Or maybe Not.
I looked on as I saw the expanse of clouds beneath the place where the Sun had gone down start to glow.
It was as if, She hadn't gone after all.
As if, She was still glowing in the expanse of Her Universe.
And there She was again, peeping from behind two holes in the cloud.
Bright orange - making me smile.
It was as if She reappeared for one last time to bless Her family.

And. Then She was gone.
The whole skyline was filled with a bluish-orange hue, white rays marking the skies.
The silver lining made me think of Her and how in us, She left a little part of Her.
The silver lining made me feel that She was still there - somewhere.

One Life gone.
The Sun had set.

I looked up.
Birds flying home.
Two. Four. Ten.
I looked in front.
The tree with its new leaves - soft green in color.
Blossoming at the end of her every branch and twig.
Two birds sitting close to each other on one of the branches.
One flew off.
The other followed.
I looked back.
The changing color of the sky.
It was gray now.
I looked down.
Wet patches on the terrace floor.
It was drizzling.

180 Mins.

I ain't the kind to walk alone on the road.
I like to have someone to chat along with when I walk.
I like not to think when I walk - it screws badly with my head.

Today, however I walked alone.
I went out of the house in anger.
I needed 'space' or whatever you term it to get my emotions and thoughts into place.

Nothing life threatening really happened. I was simply emotionally high.

I changed and I went out.
Banging the door shut on my way out.
I walked. I walked for 1 hour and 20 odd minutes.

I walked at a snails pace and let my mind wander.
I looked at the people on the street, the vendors, the cars rushing past, the dirt and plastic wrappers on the street. The young naked urchin playing with a twig or the men walking past me, casting me glances - wondering what a girl like me was doing walking randomly on the streets.

I wondered whether I should walk so much.
Wondered whether I'd get tired.
But I continued.
I kept walking.
I looked left and right as I crossed the road like a good girl.
I let the old couple pass because the pavement was tiny.
I took the longer route - passed familiar places.

The roll shop where we bought lunch for the whole crew for the Sweeney Todd production.
The place where I had whispered into my friend's ear about the crush I had.
The nook behind a tree where I hugged a friend, consoling her - telling her that Life wasnt cruel.
I passed by the road that I used to take on my way back home from school.
I passed by the house of my school teacher who was also my Dramatics teacher.
I turned left to observe the Army Base Camp and marvelled at their lifestyle. I thought about all the souls inside that campus - so far away from their families.
I kept walking.

The Technological Museum next to my school where we would be taken after school for a 'school trip'. I remember we were made to walk in line and shown the DNA system and all sorts of science oriented discoveries. As a student I would be bored inside the Museum - haven been taken there too many times. As I walked past it today, I wanted to roam inside again. I wanted to traverse through those corridors and climb those ridiculously large steps and marvel at the funny mirrors or the functions of the human mind.
I turned the corner from the main road and let a man pass by.
I stared at the traffic officer and felt a sense of pity.
I hope he doesnt get asthma, considering the amount of pollution in this city.
Two boys walked past me and turned around me have a look. I felt conscious of myself and started walking faster.
I slowed down again when I approached the Mandir.

I remember having gone there when I was a young girl.
The inside of it is architecturally beautiful. From the outside I could see the humungous chandelier that glistened and sparkled.
I saw families opening their slippers and walking inside. Fathers holding the little fingers of their young ones and helping them climb the steps one at a time. The mothers carrying the younger ones and taking them upstairs slowly.
For a split second I wanted to go inside too.
I felt the people staring at me. Waiting with a bated breath for my decision.
I havent been to a temple willingly in a long time. I dont see the use for it anymore.
I search inside for all my strengths.
But today, as I stared at the chandelier and the parents and the architecture, I felt like going in.
For the last time on my own terms.
But. I had withdrawn from this long back.
I turned and walked off.
I felt the freeze breaking free behing me and everyone resuming their work.

I walked slowly. I walked calmly.
I deliberately didnt wear a watch.
I wanted not to dictated by Time for once.

I heard the sound of traffic and it filled me.
I heard voice.
The sound of the footsteps.
Men talking.
Women squealing.
Kids laughing.
Thr crass tone of the bus conductors and the soft tone of the two lovers walking past me.

As I took another turn, there were less street lights.
I took a deep breath and looked up.
There were few stars in the sky.
Or maybe there were tons.
But with the comspolitan lighting, you can hardly see any.
I sighed.
I loved watching the stars.
It made me cry.

As I reached the gate to go back home, I felt relaxed than before.
I realized even though we crave for routine, sometimes its okay to break free.
That its okay to be alone at times.
Its okay to feel low so that the most normal things around you can make you high.

I took out my phone and checked the time.
A Rejuvinating 180 mins.

Hence.

I went to a bookstore today.
Came across one that immediately caught my attention.

It had a face of a young girl on the cover, smiling.
But something in her face didnt seem right. I couldn't figure out what.

I turned the book over to read the blurb at the back.
Its a memoir.
Of a girl who died at the age of 16 due to thyroid cancer.
Its her diary.
Chronicling her last few month as struggled with a smile.
It traces her journey with incerpts from her loved ones - filled with picture of smiling faces, colourful paintings done by her and some pictures of her while she underwent treatment in the Hospital.

I sat down with the book in the store and read a few pages.
Engulfed with emotions, I held the book to my chest.
The smell of the new book.
And memories flooding back.
The innocent smile of the girl on the cover.
My heart went out to her family and friends.

I let out a sigh and closed my eyes.

Last night, a friend of mine messaged me.
Her aunt has Stage III Lymphoma. (I had Hodgkins Lymohoma too, hence...)
She was seeking my advice.

Ma keeps telling me about how I should write about that year.
That it'l help people.
Like people in the Hospital.
Or others who are going through treatment.
For families who are in distress.

But I hardly remember much.
And it'll just be personal ramblings.

Hence this blog.
Hence these posts.

I dont see a point in telling Everyone what I went through.
I rather tell everyone what I Learnt from it.
How it teaches me to survive each day Today.

How it didnt break me.
But made me who I am. 

Akal Bodhon

Akal Bodhon  |  Acrylic on Canvas  |  16"x18"  |  2009

I dont believe in god.
So most people ask me, Why this painting?
This painting is from 2009 - the year I was undergoing Chemotheraphy.
I dont quite remember which month, but Im guessing it was during November or December.
I painted few canvases that time.
They till date remain my most precious, cherished artworks.
Each of them painted with care and patience, pain and thought.
Each of them telling a story of my journey in some way or the other.
And each unique in their thought process.


This one, however, is relatively simple.
It represents the Akal Bodhon.
Most people wont understand what the term means.
So. To keep it simple, and taking from a popular website:
"In the 'Ramayana', as it goes, Rama went to 'Lanka' to rescue his abducted wife, Sita, from the grip of Ravana, the king of the Demons in Lanka. Before starting for his battle with Ravana, Rama wanted the blessings of Devi Durga . He came to know that the Goddess would be pleased only if she is worshipped with one hundred and eight 'NeelKamal' or blue lotuses. Rama, after travelling the whole world, could gather only one hundred and seven of them. He finally decided to offer one of his eyes, which resembled blue lotuses. Durga, being pleased with the devotion of Rama, appeared before him and blessed him. The battle started on the 'Saptami' and Ravana was finally killed on the 'Sandhikshan' i.e. the crossover period between Ashtami (the next day) and Navami (the day after). Ravana was cremated on Dashami. Since the period of this worship was different from the conventional period (during the spring - 'Basanta'), this puja is also known as 'Akal-Bodhan' or a worship (Bodhan) in an unconventional time (A-Kaal)."
[ThankYou Wikipedia]

So what does this mythological story have anything to do with me?

Well.
I feel it does.
I don't believe in god.
But I do believe in the power of a woman, as represented by Durga.
I belive in patience and the determination or willpower that resides in this story.

I have always been fascinated by Durga.
And the power that she embodies.
Dont get me wrong.
I dont like the goddess.
I like the woman and mother in her.
Me falling sick was untimely (A-Kaal) and it was a battle that had to be fought and won.
When I was painting this, I wasnt invoking the goddess.
I was invoking my own powers as a woman to help me in the journey.
[I firmly believe that a woman is strong. Anyone who can endure labour pains Cannot possibly be weak.]

Thinking of the symbolic representation (as in the painting - the spear through the third or inner eye and cutting through the bindi) has always brought to my mind the power of a woman.
The red bindi is conventionally associated with feminity.
However, juxtaposed with it, is the spear that runs through it.
The force and power of it.
The inner eye, symbolic of Knowledge and Understanding.

For me, this painting is therefore me trying to garner whatever I needed before I went into battle with my last few cycles of Chemotheraphy (which are the hardest to deal with).
Firstly, My own feminine strength and willpower.
And secondly, a better Knowledge and Understanding of my Life.
But most importantly, a wider perspective to my own Inner Self, that in turn would help me to go on.

By the end of it, the painting therefore tells My story.
Me, with my powers, conquering the untimely sickness.
Or so I hope to believe. :)

Deal.

I was sitting with a bunch of friends in college.
In some discussion, me falling sick for that One Year came up.

"What did you feel when you found out?"
It was a very typical question.

What Did I feel?

Very honestly speaking. I dont remember.
All I remember clearly, very clearly, is the conversation I had with my Oncologist.

I was in her room.
She folded her hands and said, "Okay. I'll explain to you what exactly has happened to you. There is nothing to worry about. Its 98% curable."
"I know everything," I told her smiling.
She looked pleasantly surprised.
"You do?"
"I do. But I Also know I dont have patience and I dont like waiting - "
She looked at me quizzically.
I continued, " - I have waited for nearly 5.5 hours to meet you today. I want to get back to school. Tell me what to do to get well. And to get well Fast. Thats all I care about."
She looked at my parents and laughed, "That was easier than I thought!"

I have always had a deal with my parents and my Doctors.
Dont hide anything from me.
Tell me whatever is going on.
The good and the bad news.
I must be the 1st one to hear it.
And I'll figure out my own way to deal with whatever that comes my way.

And that is something I have maintained till date.

My Doctors knew this and respected my decision.
Hence, inspite of my age, they let me in on everything.

The reason for this is simple.
At the end, it would have to be me who would have to deal with it.
The good, bad or the worst.
I demand to know everything in advance to prepare myself for whatever that I was supposed to fight back.
Its simply for a mental preparation.
And thats Really helped me.

However, many around me do not hold the same opinion.
They wish to hide the difficult bits to "protect" the patient. To safegaurd him/her from the trauma.
Many a times a family member is kept in the dark.
Though I dont agree with this approach, I respect it.
I understand their concern.

However, I question this approach only because of one thing:
You may try and hide the truth from a family member or the patient, but for How long? The truth will have to surface at one point or the other; and what if then, it is too late?

One of the friend with whom I was having this discussion was kept in the dark through the entire process of his mother's struggle with Ovarian Cancer. She is under full remission now and its been three years. He was only informed of the whole affair After she was fully recovered.
I asked him the same question then.

What did he feel when he found out a year later, after everything was alright?
"I felt angry," he said. "I screamed and felt really bad that I was kept in the dark. Ofcourse I was relieved about Ma being okay. But I think I had a right to know. To help then. To have the opportunity of atleast being some sort of support ... But I guess I understand their perspective also. But still, I was pissed."

I guess it depends on the age and mental framework of individuals also.
Its subjective.
But I personally feel, every individual has atleast the right to know and figure out their own personal ways of dealing with situations.

Man in the Mirror

Every morning when I wake up, my hand instinctively reached my calf muscle and I start start scratching.
And I cant stop.
Its addictive.
And sadly, it feels good.

I have Psoriasis.

According to a medical webpage, Psoriasis is "a long-term (chronic) skin problem that causes skin cells to grow too quickly, resulting in thick, white, silvery, or red patches of skin. Normally, skin cells grow gradually and flake off about every 4 weeks. New skin cells grow to replace the outer layers of the skin as they shed. But in psoriasis, new skin cells move rapidly to the surface of the skin in days rather than weeks."

I have this since I was in class 8.
Same time I got specs.
I remember sitting in the Doctor's chamber, scratching my hand even then.

The Doctor examined me and told me flat on my face, no sugarcoating, that this disease had no cure.
At least not as of yet.

I remember getting home and walking up the stairs and bursting into tears.
I had white and red patches all over my body - from head to toe.
It used to itch. I used to scratch. And in many a times, it would bleed.
I cried and clenched my mother's saree.
She hugged me back and tried to comfort me, in vain.

I got home and locked myself in the washroom.
I undressed myself and stared at the mirror.
The patches were all over.
I mean. ALL over.

I cried for a long time.
I cursed everything and everyone around me.
I didn't know who to blame.

My genes? The Doctors? Myself? God?

I was just in class 8.
14 years old.
Just two years into my teens.
And there I stood, looking into the mirror, thinking I looked ugly.
Disgusting rather with red blotches on my face, my hands, legs and white flakes on my hair all the time.
I felt So angry.
Having nobody to blame, I cursed "God".
Even till then, I believed in His existence.
Next day I had to go over to my friends house.
I had a crush on her brother.
Lying down on the bed that night, I wondered how I would face him.
He wouldn't like me.
I looked ugly.
As it is, girls in school thought I was untouchable.
They went and complained to the Principal.
They feared I was going to school with a contagious disease.

Burying my face into my mother's bossom and tears running down my cheeks, I fell off to sleep.

Next morning as I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, I thought about what had happened to me.
Yes. I was 14 years old.
Yes. Friends of mine looked at me with disgust.
Maybe. Boys wouldn't like me.
Maybe. I wouldn't end up walking the ramp ever in my life.

But.

I was still strong.

I still had a family and friends who loved me and cared for me.
I still was the same Me. Inside.

I went to the washroom and undressed myself and stared into the mirror again.
This time, however, I didn't feel bad for myself.
I realised I Had to fight this fight. I Had to be confident of who I was.
I Had to Love myself first for others to love and appreciate me.

I needed to forget the external and concentrate on the internal.
And Nobody in the world would be able to help me if I didn't help myself.
That is also the moment, I gave up on Him.
From then on, for me, there was no god.
No external force.
Just Me.
There was just me - who had to fight the battle.

A battle with the self.
Always.

If people don't want to stay around me when I have psoriasis - its their loss.
If a guy doesn't want to like me because he thinks I look beautiful when I have psoriasis - he is stupid.

Or.
Thats what I told myself.
Defence Mechanism?
Maybe.
But it helps.

Helps.
Because today, if anyone looks disgusted when they see my red-patched arm, I don't care.
If they ask, I explain. Beyond that, I am happee with myself.

That doesn't mean, I still don't break down at times.
I still cry.
I still crib.
I still wanna blame someone.

But.
Its takes me far less time to get myself around.
To embrace myself yet again and move on with life.
To Love myself from within and not worry about the outside.

"When you are able to look into the mirror and feel happee about yourself, when you are able to love yourself and to be confident about yourself - the world with all its people will automatically reflect your belief.
It all starts with the Man In The Mirror."

Family Members

For a cancer patient, the fight is not only by the patient.
If not more, but equally, the fight is also of the patient family and the support group around him/her.
When we congratulate someone who has fought cancer, I personally think we ought to also congratulate his/her family members or whoever was their support.

Today I went to the Playroom after college.
One of the kids had just woken up and had come to the Playroom.
He was still rubbing his eyes, yawning and pulling up his pyjamas as he sat to play games on the Computer.

I was sitting with another kid playing a board game.
Suddenly I heard screaming and shouting from the side where the Computer was kept.

The little kid who was at the Computer had been handed over a glass of some milk to drink by his mother.
He refused.
She screamed.
He screamed back.
She slightly hit him on the head.
He cried.
She scolded again.
He wailed.
She screamed louder and threatened to slap him.

Thats when I turned and asked the mother to lower her voice. Told her not to hit her son.
The little kid was wailing and I realized he was having trouble breathing with his loud sobs.

The mother complained.
How this was a regular affair.
How she wanted to slap him for his misbehaviour.
How the kid was just doing "nyakami".
About how fed up she was.

I sighed.
Its not easy for a mother too.

Yes. The little kid is the one who is unwell.
He is the one who has absolutely no appetite.
He is the one who is fighting.
He is the one who should be pampered.

But. Then agin. Should he?

In reality, its an everyday war for the family members as well.
Its not easy standing by the bedside watching your loved one writhing in pain under the Chemotherapy drugs.
Along with the patient, the family member needs to be equally strong and positive minded.
Sometimes requiring more patience and will power than the patient.
For every time the patient fails, it is the family member who becomes the strength.
His/her words and a warm hug is what keeps the patient going.
If the family member collapses, the patient automatically collapses.

In this regard, it is the responsibility of the family member then to keep the atmosphere around the patient pleasant.
To have patience with the patient.

And from personal experience, I know this is Not easy.

I wanted to scream back at the Mother.
But I realized she was also tired. She was also having her bouts of weakness.
She too cried in the middle of the night when her son wasn't looking.
Screamed in pain from inside everytime she watched her son crying.
She too was human.
Helpless and yet carrying on the fight along with her son.
If the son was the soldier in the battle, she was his armour.

Therefore I didn't scold her.
I went up to her, took the glass of milk from her hand and tried to feed the kid myself.
I told her to take a break and go out for a walk.

The fight against Cancer is all about having patience.

Such Contradictions

Someone in the flat downstairs just passed away.
Around 3.5 hours back.
And here I am, writing a blog.

Insensitive of me?
Yes. Very. 
Was I close to him?
No. 
Does that give me reason not to sympathize?
No.
Should I be mourning already and sit quietly in a corner and think about Life?
I dont think so.
Would I be able to say/do the same if it had been my family member?
I am not in a position to answer that. But. No. 

However.
I have become a bit more reslient to Death in general.
Passive. Thats the word.

I heard the news of this Uncle's death and immediately I was reminded of this girl from the Playroom. (The same girl who is mentioned in the post 'Going Home')
When I went to the Playroom today I heard that she had not made it.
Exactly a week back, she had passed away.
I think of her and "Sunshine" and become resilient to everything around me.

He was old.
80+ years old.
Frail. Weak. Not keeping well. Eyesight failing. Body pain. Unable to walk properly.
He had lived his life. He had done well.

But the kids.
3.5 years old. 12 years old.
Young. Energetic. Sparkle in their eyes. A future. A Ray of Hope.
They had not even lived their life. They had not seen the change of seasons over the years.

I think of the cruelty of Nature.
The disbalance.
And somehow I turn cold to Deaths.

Would I be able to say/do the same if it had been my family member?
No.

Such contradictions in our minds.
And yet, Death is inevitable.
The only Truth in our lives.

And yet so Cruel.
Cruel for a kid.
Okay for an old man.

*Such* contradictions. 

Yellow Car

I got a call last night at 10:00pm.

"Tomorrow is Tuesday. You promised you would come," the little voice squealed from the other end.
"Yes, I remember." I smiled and assured the young boy.
"When will you come then?" he inquired.
"I'll come dear. I promised, didn't I?"
"No! Tell me when you'll come! You have to stay with me for a long time!" He screamed.
"Okay. Okay. I'll come in the morning as usual. Okay?"
"Okay. Now talk to Ma."

I spoke to his mother for a while and disconnected the call.
I smiled and my parents inquired who the call was from.
"The Playroom," I told them.

Next morning, I went to the Hospital and saw him at the end of the corridor.
His face lit up and he screamed, "MA! Didi is here!!" and came running into my arms.
Oh. The smile on his face. I hugged him tight and gave him a light kiss on his cheek.
They had shaved off his head because he was losing his hair very fast anyway. And now small spurts of hair could be seen on his scalp.

He dragged me to his bed. His mother held me and inquired if I was doing well.
He smiled meekly and signalled his mother about something She turned around and took out something from their bedside shelf and handed him over a card.
He took the card and with a broad grin handed it over to me.

The picture on top is the top of the card. As always, the wheels of this yellow car is made with Chemotherapy bottle caps. Inside it reads:

"I love to play with you Prianjali Didi. - I. Ghosh."

Though he made an error with the spelling of my name (its Priyanjali), I cannot express in words what receiving the card meant to me.
Just the thought behind it.
It was enough to brighten my spirits for the whole day.
And to think that I am actually able to bring him enough joy and happee-ness, even if for half a day - to be able to give him the company he craves sitting in the Hospital just makes my visits to the Playroom worthwhile.

Its a mutual feeling I believe.
To give and get.
I can't give him much.
Apart from providing him momentary joy and a playmate, I also try to lend his mother a shoulder to vent her frustrations out.
In return however, he gives me A Lot.
He teaches me to be compassionate, caring and understanding.
To believe that things will all eventually fall into place.
To think of him in dire situations and tell myself that, 'if he can be so strong in such adversity, so can I'.

To be Strong.
To Believe.

Phone Call

Yesterday I got a call.
I was on my way back home from college. It was around 8:15pm.

A familiar voice of a young boy screamed "HellooOoo!!" from the other end.
I recognized it as the voice of one of the kids from the Playroom.
A smile spread across my face.

"How are you doing today?" I inquired.
He screamed back, "When are you coming again?"

My college had reopened after the vacations.
I thus had not been going regularly to the Hospital anymore. As a matter of fact, I had only gone once in the past week. Naturally, that was not acceptable to any one of the kids.

"I have college. So I'll try coming soon enough."
"No. I dont want to know" He paused and stressed on each of the next four words and asked again, "When. Are. You. Coming?"
"I'll try coming maybe in the weekend?"
"No! That won't do! Come tomorrow," he pleaded.
"Okay. Okay. I'll try," I replied, trying to pacify this young boy.

"Promise?" he whispered into the phone.
I mumbled.
"Didi. Please. Promise me you'll come tomorrow?"
I was left with no choice.
"Promise," I repeated after him.

Without pausing for a second, he handed the phone to his mother. I heard him squeal in delight as he passed the phone over - telling his mother excitedly that I'll be going to visit him. I spoke to his mother for a bit, inquiring about his health in general and ended the call after a while.

I looked out of the window. The cold wind blowing in my face. And I was overwhelmed by the simplicity of the emotions as felt by both the kid and myself.
I could under no circumstance deny that kid the simple joy of having a friend over to spend some time with.

I am in my last Semester in college. A part of me wants to make the most of each day.
To spend as much time as I can with my friends in college.
I wanted to do that today also.
But.
I couldnt.
I simply could Not imagine the look on the kid's face and the disappointment I would cause him.
So. Inspite of a part of me wanting to stay back, I left the college gates and took a bus to go to the Hospital.

And then.
The Smile.
That innocent-toothed-wide-grinned smile on the kid's face when he saw me.
No words can express the simplicity and a paradoxical complexity of that smile.

He wants me to go tomorrow also. After college.
I know how happee it made him and all the other kids when I went today.

A part of me feels obliged to go and another part understands that its only a child's demand. 

And that. Its not possible to do it everyday.
But then again, I'm talking about a kid who is sick. Really sick.
I'm left debating with my own self.
Wanting to stay back in college seems selfish on my part and yet indulging in a his demand is not always right.
I'm torn between myself.

Bravo!

I had to go do a blood test two days back.

Initially, due to Chemotherapy, it was very difficult to draw blood for tests.
Not only was I thin and therefore had very thin veins, but this really crude medicine has a habit of damaging veins for a while. Therefore it becomes difficult for most Phlebotomists to draw blood from patients undergoing Chemotherapy and by default thus, patients are continuously pierced in various places on their arm.

Even though its been nearly 4 years now, Phlebotomists still find it difficult to draw blood from my arm. My veins may not be damaged anymore, but I am still thin with thin veins. They therefore use something called the 'Butterfly Needle' to draw my blood and weirdly enough, I enjoy watching this exercise.
That is however not true about my parents. They worry that because of my vein issue, I'll be pierced multiple times and thus will be hurt. Over the years, I have become resilient to needle pricks and therefore don't mind as much. Rather I rate the Phlebotomist who is drawing my blood out of 10 - marking him on how efficiently he did it; how much pain it caused and how many times he pricked me and how comfortable he made me feel.

I remember an instance about 5 years back.
I has just started to fall sick and was advised by my Doctor to do a regular blood test.

My brother decided to take me for the test.

We were waiting in a room with other patients.
My brother looked at me and asked, "Scared?" I smiled back and shrugged my shoulders.

While we were talking, the Phlebotomist was attending to a middle aged lady.
She was wearing a salwar kameez and had extremely curly hair. She was holding a vanity bag that she handed over to her husband as she sat down.
As she faced the Phlebotomist, it seemed as if she was looking at Satan himself.
She was scared out of her wits and told her husband, "I can't do this."

My brother and I looked at each other and smiled.

The husband came forward and reassured her, "Don't behave like a child."
The Phlebotomist didn't seem to have time to entertain such childish behavior.
He looked at the lady at said, "It won't hurt a bit. Just close your eyes and breathe."

She did as she was told. She clenched her teeth together, closed her eyes tightly and looked the other way. With her spare hand, she squeezed the end of her kameez. Before she realized, the Phlebotomist had drawn blood and was putting the name tag on the tube.
The lady never realized that her ordeal was over. Even when her blood had been drawn, she still had her eyes closed.
She only opened her eyes when he screamed, "Next."
Finally, she opened her eyes and exclaimed, "Wow! That did not hurt!"

Since I was the next patient, and far younger than the lady, the Phlebotomist looked at me and started to explain in a monotonous voice, "This wont hurt, just - "
I cut him short and said, "Don't worry. Just do it."

I looked at my brother who was staring at me intently. I smiled at him and looked back at my arm. It was the old system of drawing blood with a needle and not venipuncture. He inserted the needle and the slight prick hardly hurt.

It was over in seconds.
But what I remember the most is when I got up to leave, my brother smiling at me and saying, "Bravo!"

Henceforth, each time I have to be pricked by a needle, I think of that day and my brother feeling proud that his baby sister was not afraid and I happeely let the Phlebotomist do his job without creating a fuss. :)

Bottle Caps

Thats my cover of my Birthday Card the kids at the Playroom at the Hospital made for me. 

Its made up of cardboard folded in half - a red chart paper on top; golden cellotape at the sides and papers cut outs. Inside, all the kids being treated at the Paediatric Ward have signed for me. 

What I want to bring to notice however, is not only the thought that they put in to make this card for me, but also the use of materials to make this card.

They are all reused materials. 

Apart from the cardboard, chart paper and marble paper, the most interesting reused element in the card are the colourful caps. 

The green round caps making the tree, the blue, black, yellow and white caps making the other components of the landscape are actually reused caps from the Chemotherapy glass bottles.

Instead of throwing away these caps from the bottles, the kids at the Playroom reuse them to make cards and other works of art. These bottle caps, which are ironically so colorful, help to brighten up their artworks and bring a smile on the receiver's face. Its a wonderful method of letting go of the reminder of pain and using it for beautification purposes.

I was overwhelmed when I was handed over this card.

It was a sharp reminder of my days at the Hospital when I used to notice the nurses opening these similar looking bottle caps and also a sense of relief to have overcome that and be presented with the bottle caps in a manner such as on the card.

For me, these caps are simply a metaphor for situations in life.

Either we cringe in fear or we make the best of all situations. 

Life is what we make of it.