A moment of clarity

It has been too long.

Grief is never overcome by mundane life, it remains a newly formed scab forever. A little bit of picking at it, even if unintentional, sets the blood trickling again.

Sometimes the loneliness that envelopes everything just because of one person missing in your life is overwhelming. A moment of clarity, of purpose, is all that it takes to get one’s life back in order – but the scab remains, waiting to be picked on.

I have never been a very spiritual person. I honestly don’t know what to believe. I equally respect views of spirituality, religion and atheism – no judgement whatsoever. I have, however, been absolutely sure that my mother watches over me. I don’t know how, I just believe. I know the cynics will state that it is my inability to cope with her loss that is making me believe in this. Sometimes I feel like I may be grasping at straws, making something out of absolutely nothing. But that doesn’t stop me from believing.

I recently went through a loss. A loss that I had not prepared for, something I was sure I would not let myself feel ever again. I gave someone the ability to hurt me. Hindsight is always 20/20. But getting through this tough time in my life, I kept asking my mother – why? Why did you let this happen to me? Why can’t you fix everything for me – you have the power to do this… I begged and pleaded to her. But, in the end, what was over was over. It was time to deal with reality.

In the depth of sorrow, the loneliness was drowning me. I felt like everybody had “their person”. I felt my mother left me and now I was all by myself. The interesting thing about depression is that it can engulf you in a world of selfishness. Where nothing else matters other than your feelings of self-pity and hatred at everything even remotely happy. There ceases to be any hope for reprieve and any effort to stop the cycle is too daunting a task to take on. I remember wondering whether my mother was ever depressed. I wondered if she had ever felt pain comparable to what I was feeling. I wondered how she felt about leaving me alone in this big, bad world.

A week back I had a moment of clarity. I am unsure where it came from. I had it in the middle of the day while lazing around. No alcohol involved, no friend’s/family’s words of advice or support. It was nothing short of enlightening. Something made me think of what I want to do in life. Not about work/money/love/future. I started thinking about what I always wanted to do, but kept putting off. What is it that would make me happy as an individual full of hopes and dreams?…

Funnily enough, I realized having a partner in my life was never something that made me happy. I wanted to travel the world, I wanted to run a marathon, I wanted to go skydiving, I want to learn how to drive - finally! Not one of these needed a partner. I never had dreams of a husband and children. I never dreamed of being a doting wife or having a devoted husband. My mother lived her entire life for her family. She devoted her life for her children’s well-being, for their future and their dreams. I was not that person, I did not want to be that person. Not yet.

I have started a new chapter in my life. Where I live my life on my own terms. Where I stop trying so hard to make people love me – because honestly I couldn’t give a damn. A few years from now this might change but for now this is me – thanks to my amazing mother, I am a glorious being. Love and lust are just feelings as a result of hormones, feelings that have evolved to keep the human race reproducing. It is funny how much time and effort we put into this whole fiasco of finding a partner and living with them. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a cynic when it comes to love. I just believe there are things way more significant.

I believe my mother is my guardian angel. She gave me that moment of clarity because no one else I know at this moment in my life could have been so rational. For now, I live for myself – because I am not ready to sacrifice just as yet. I have too many dreams to fulfil before that point comes in my life. I know my mother would have wanted me to be happy. I know she is smiling down on me as I embark on this new journey of life.

Knowing what is good

I have tried writing this so many times and this time I hope I get it right. Pardon the simplicity of this post. The veteran blogger has given me a chance to put my thoughts to paper. Well of course now there is barely any paper to put it on. The world has been getting smaller and time has been moving quicker than ever. Feelings on the web and instant messaging to share the latest gossips. Amidst all this, there have been memories from childhood that are shared. One such memory which kept coming back are those of my school days.

There were girls in class who wore their hair neatly in plaits, girls with short hair which was low maintenance and so easy to manage and then there were some who’d just pull all their hair back into a messy ponytail. Of the lot, there were the ones most would envy, the ones who had pretty hair they would just leave open - for the world to see and admire. I was not very fond of the way my hair was, perhaps because it was not so frequently shampooed and was oilier than I would prefer it to be. But it was always pulled tightly into plaits and only special occasions called for letting down my hair. Better were the days when I would have my hair braided into a French plait - that was so uncommon back in those days; and then I’d finally be the envy of the class. But even on those rare days, I wished I could be one of those carefree ones, letting down my hair or just pulling it back into a ponytail. I have had friends come over and get their hair done by my mother just because she did it so well. Those days had not seen the magnificence of YouTube or any other means for skill or knowledge-sharing. She had learnt to do the French plait from a salon we once went to get our haircut. 

Recipes were only shared when food was shared and enjoyed. Again I was one of the few who enjoyed wholesome lunches during school break as my mother had dedicated her life to the well-being of her three children and a husband with a job that was too demanding. My mother’s idli chutney was popular amongst most, if not all, in my class. I never had a morsel to take back, the lunch box used to be licked clean. And funnily enough, I envied the girls who would rush to the school canteen, a dirham for a mini pizza or samosa and a juice. My mother had learnt the chutney recipe from our Tamilian neighbor whose chutney we loved.

Today I realize all that I had but did not appreciate. I envied the girls whose mothers did not have the time to braid their hair, they had to do it all themselves. I wanted to be one of those girls who had to rush to the canteen and get the small meal before it ran out only because their mothers had to juggle work and home. I envied those girls whose mothers had to balance their time between family and other commitments. I took for granted the mother who dedicated her life to my wellbeing, the woman of many talents left unpolished because she put us much ahead of her own life. She took time to learn what she thought was important for her children. She  even learnt to play Farmville, once popular among many, because her daughter told her it is a really good past time.

Now as a mother myself, I race against an example that was set for me, someone I know I can never match, one so selfless and bountiful. I hate not being able to do a French plait or even brush my hair like she used to. But then that is life. As the wise ones always say, you appreciate what you have only when it is no longer with you.

I know you are out there Amma, and this is me, telling you - I wish I had the chance to convey how much we appreciated you, how much you made us feel special and how much I wish you were here right now. Thank you for never expecting our gratitude in return for all your effort.

Choosing between life and death

We have so much power as doctors, it scares me. Power is sometimes an excuse to misuse responsibility. We see it all around us; with powerful nations and leaders, but have you wondered if you have misused power? Have you ever shunned responsibility and used your power to manipulate? The line between right and wrong is best described as grey. And the grey line morosely crossed more often than thought about. How does one choose death over life? When is it alright to give up?

Being on the other side of the medical system is an awful wake-up call –I wouldn’t wish it on my greatest enemy. Waiting tirelessly for hours on end for the few minutes, sometimes seconds that the white coat can spend with you is frustrating, to put it lightly. We had a system, my mother and I. She used to get her treatment for the day, we used to have a great lunch and then wait. Wait for hours. Wait for our turn. Sometimes I used to ask for favors from doctors I knew to decrease our waiting time. At other times I thought it unfair to rest of the countless waiting patients. In the end it was the same. A couple of precious minutes where we had to scourge our brains to remember every single query we had, lest we forget to ask something vital. And then it was the ride back home going over every word that was spoken. Reiterating every response, weighing in on every pause, imagining probable and at times ridiculous hidden meanings. Were there any unsaid words? Were there any unasked questions? Were there any words of manipulation? Was there blind, unthinking trust?

And then comes the shattering moment when the doctor says it is time to give up. Unforgettable, unforgivable, unimaginably painful. And you wonder why. You wonder if you did not follow every recommendation to the t. You wonder if it was your fault or his. And this is when the power that is misused comes to place. Doctors that give hope when there is none and doctors who take away hope to allot their time to more fruitful ventures.

This post stems from me being on both sides of the system. This post is me confessing to misusing the power more times than I am comfortable with. Giving up and giving hope – I am guilty of both. When is it alright to say choose death over life? Is it really for the white coat to decide? And if it wasn't, would you as a patient ever make the right choice? Is it acceptable suicide for a patient to give up? Is it legal murder for a doctor to give up? Is it foolish to keep fighting?

I think I would fight till the end. But I have never been the one suffering, I have only watched. A spectator up close, but a spectator nonetheless. Sometimes giving up is the braver choice. Sometimes you fight only for the ones you love. Sometimes the white coat’s words are just a way out of suffering - a way out you were hoping and praying for.

The only lesson I have learnt is – weigh your words. When you are wearing that white coat know that people trust you more than you can imagine. All I can do is try my best. And I think from somewhere out there my mother will guide me.

Battle wounds

There are days when it hurts so bad that I wish I could just huddle in a corner and hide from the world. There are days when I just don’t want to wake up to live in a world without her. And on days like these my friends sometimes see through the fake smile and the false enthusiasm. I feel terrible having to explain how it is something as simple as just missing my mother. It breaks my heart even more when they try so hard to say nice things. “She would've been proud of you”, “She is happy wherever she is”, “She would've wanted you to be happy”… I could imagine myself saying these same lines to my friends if they were in my position, but somehow nothing anybody says makes a difference. Nothing. You would think it might; you would think these words are soothing but in reality they are just like applying a tiny band aid to a gaping, grievous wound. The thought behind it is very benevolent but even my grateful self can’t help but mock the futility of the whole exercise.

If there was one thing my mother hated more than any other it was sympathy. She absolutely loathed everything about it. She was one of those proud and self-sufficient women who could have been dying inside but never let anyone know how much she was going through. She hated telling anyone she was sick. We hated telling anyone she was sick because we knew she hated it. Their concern even if genuine was useless to us. My mother never wanted anybody to think she needed their sympathy. She was someone who would try walking up steps even if she could barely stand. She was somebody who would crack jokes even if she could barely speak. She was that person who wanted to be independent even when she knew it was barely possible. And the thought that she couldn't be what she wanted to be, scared me more than anything else. The thought that she was losing in her own eyes frustrated me. Many a times I have cried thinking about the amount of fear she was braving through. I have wondered if she ever broke down when everybody was asleep. Maybe that is why I remained in denial. Maybe that is why I believed everything would be alright. Because she never lost – ever. She was always the one who won at musical chairs against all odds. She was always the one who won the lemon and spoon race on a windy day. She was always the one who remained standing, jubilant. And that was what I thought she would always be. Not just a fighter but a winner.

Maybe she did win in the end. I think she passed on her own terms. Dignity intact, never relying on anyone for too long. She tricked fate before it took away her self-respect. I would have loved to have had a few more days with her, a few more years to share. But she would have never wanted to be anything other than her proud, independent self. And she played the game of life really well. She quit while she was still ahead.

I know this post is more of a rant than any real memory. But this post is important because this is the one where I say I am happy my mother did not suffer too long. I am happy that my selfish wants did not lead her to a life of tubes and lines. I am my mother’s daughter. I don’t expect your sympathy even if it comes from a good heart. I have my dignity and I will hide my sorrows with a smile, because I have learnt from the best.

No band aids, please because in the end you and I know it is just words wasted - nothing you will say will ever change what I am going through or what my mother went through. Nothing anybody said made my mother’s illness go away. Nothing anybody said made her feel like she wasn't fighting her battle by herself. In the end whatever said and done she fought hard by herself, and I am not going to take that glory away from her. 

Nothing anybody says will make this pain go away. So let me be, with my fake smile and false enthusiasm. If you see through it, let me be. My grateful self says to you, my friend: This is my fight and I will survive; I may be bleeding but respect my battle wounds, a band aid isn't going to help.

An advocate of my abilities

I have begun on a new journey in life. For the past two years, statements about my career always ended in a question mark. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I have done something right, something my mother would be proud of.  And every day before I put on my white coat and head out my door, I wish my mother was here. Not for her to pat me on my back, she never was one to praise us within our earshot, but just to let her know I made it and it is because she believed in me.

My mother believed we were capable of things we were absolutely sure we were not. At school we were those children who participated in every competition that could have competitors because she told us to. There were times when I used to feel embarrassed to walk on stage for something I knew I would never win at, but went ahead doing it anyway. I was 13 and my sister was 15 when we were neck deep in extra-curricular activities. Unfortunately for my sister, she was a part of a dance routine at an interschool competition on the same day as an interschool quiz competition. Most parents would have helped their children choose between the two, my mother assured her we could find a way to do both.

As luck would have it, our dance routine got over right on time. But even though my dad tried driving like a maniac through traffic and my mother helped my sister change from her dance costume to our school uniform at the back of our car, we were late. We arrived at the Quiz competition venue and up on stage was my sister’s substitute representing our school. My sister and I were disappointed. We huddled together towards the back of the audience sharing her misery. My mother talked to our Quiz teacher and she affirmed our fear – it was just too late, and the teacher really didn’t care enough to stand up for my sister. My mother was not one to give up. The Quiz master was still just explaining the rules. She walked right up to the stage and in her broken English she explained to the quiz master that her daughter was here and that she was the primary candidate for the school. She explained like only a mother who believed in her daughter’s capabilities could, that her daughter deserved to be a part of that competition. I remember wanting for the floor to open up and swallow me because of the unwanted attention we were getting. Everyone in the audience wanted to know what was going on. Our quiz teacher didn’t utter a word, she didn’t even stand up from where she sat. The quiz master told my sister to come up on stage and that she could participate but he wouldn’t repeat the rules of the competition. I was in awe.

My sister won the competition. The Quiz teacher and my sister were congratulated by many in the audience. I stood right next to her basking in the attention of being a proud sister. The quiz master walked up to us right before he left and said “Congratulations. You did great. But remember this win is as much your mother’s as is yours. You should be a really proud daughter.”

All the while when we were driving back to the Dance competition venue I kept thinking about the Quiz master’s words. Be a proud daughter. We won for the dance routine that day. It was a good day. It was a good day because my mother made two right decisions. She knew she didn’t have to choose - we were capable of winning at both and she made the decision to fight for her daughter.

Repeating the words I have already blogged which one of my friends wrote about my mother:

“… My mother always believed that your mother was one of the wisest people that she has interacted with in her life. She would sometimes tell me - "Do you know why they do so well? It’s only partially because of their own caliber, but it's mostly because of Sujatha's strength as a person"….”

I don’t know if you knew all along, Amma. I don’t know if you had doubts about me being able to make it or not. But I believe you didn’t. I think you believed in me more than I believed in myself. And I think you did put up a fight for me with the Big Guy up there.

I am a proud daughter of a mother who will always remain my best advocate because she believes I can do it, even when I don’t.

Fighting the victim in me

The last couple of days have been really tough. A life changing result is due next week and being tensed has always made me feel very lonely. It feels like I have to fight the big, bad world all by myself. I used to be of the opinion that in life we get what we deserve and that everything happened for a reason, but I do not believe I deserved my mother’s passing away - nobody deserves that. At times, doubt creeps in and I stoop into depths of misery, victimizing myself. The flair for drama in life among the women in my family cannot be exaggerated. I admit, not so proudly, “self-victimization” is something we are masters at. Last night, during a rigorous session of self-pity reloaded, an incident came to mind and made me smile.

It was the third day of my Final Term examinations, in the new school I had moved to at the beginning of that year. I was ten years old, studious and self-conscious. I had not made many friends that year. The top scorers used to discuss studies with me because I was potential competition. They were usually amiable. I considered them friends. They considered me a foreign threat that needed to be thwarted. We had seven subjects, with one day for each exam – it was the grand finale for proving yourself academically. The third day of this “deciding week” was my Math exam. Even though Math was one of my strong subjects, my carelessness had cost me many marks in the past. I was tensed. As soon as the exam was done, the routine called for the top scorers huddling and discussing the answers. This “helped” in two ways – We knew immediately if we made a blunder because the majority was always right, but more importantly we knew where every competitor stood and who scored the highest. As we were discussing the answers I realized one of my answers did not match with that of the others. It was a 6 marks question – one of the big ones. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. As I walked away disappointed with myself, I heard my “friends” celebrating my error. They were ecstatic that I was 6 marks down, which was not something you could easily make up. Their jubilance hurt me more and I cried all the way back home.

My mother always waited expectantly to know how the exam went and she knew as soon as she saw our faces. I explained to her amidst tears what had happened. My sister immediately tried solving the problem I made the mistake in and found that my error was in placing the decimal point at the wrong position. She comforted me telling me that maybe it wasn’t a blunder that would cost me all 6 marks. My entire family was trying to comfort me, but I was well underway on my self-victimization routine (even at the tender age of 10!). After about an hour of brooding, my mother came up to me and told me to wipe my tears because what is done is done. She told me there was nothing I could do about those 6 marks and it would do me well to consider it all gone. After I had calmed down she made me realize I had to earn the respect of my classmates and crying over spilled milk was not going to help with that. She explained that life is such that people act terrible all the time for no reason whatsoever; I could either cry over it or be a fighter and earn their respect. I had to prove to them that 6 marks was nothing for me to make up. She told me to get my act together because I still had four more days to set things right and that this was not the time to give up. I tried my very best the next few days. To put things in perspective, I would say those were few of my most hard working days so far into my life! But at the end of it I was still 4 marks down as per post exam discussions and calculations. I was obviously disappointed – it was my first year in the school and I felt I had let down my mother most of all by not proving my worth.

On the day of my results as we were walking in, my classmates kept congratulating me. A couple of parents congratulated my parents and were talking about how proud they must be about me. I had no clue what was going on because as per my calculations I was not even the top scorer in my class. I was bemused over how generous parents and students were in this school with compliments; congratulating everyone. I got my report card and I still remember the feeling like it was yesterday. Relief at losing just one mark for the wrongly placed decimal point, pride at what I had achieved, grateful that I had not given up thanks to my mother and above all confident that maybe I was someone to be respected after all. I was the topper in the entire Grade that year; I won a scholarship and brought home my first earning.

The other top scorers became true friends of mine, some of whom I still cherish as friends. When I look back at that incident, I remember my entire life seemed to be crumbling at that point after my Math exam. Today it seems comically juvenile. But to my mother it was not funny then, and I don’t think it would be funny now. She would tell me to wipe my tears, be brave and face the world because what’s done is done. We might not reap fruit for every seed we sow; and some fruits we reap will be rotten even though we sowed with care – such is life. What matters is whether we have the courage to get up and try again. That is what made me smile last night in between my self-pity. That is what leaves me in peace today. My mother taught me that courage when I was ten years old. She taught me to wipe my tears, get up and fight the big, bad world. I know I have it in me to fight this fight until I win, no matter if I win or lose tomorrow.

Unconditional and at times unrequited

What could I have done differently? This is a question that haunts every person who has lived through an incident that has made them weep. There are times when I wonder if I loved my mother enough. Did I love her as much as she deserved? The answer is undoubtedly an emphatic no. I would like to think she was my first priority before every decision in life; but the truth is far from it. In a way I feel she made sure she was not my first priority – she never wanted to be the sole reason for me making a particular decision affecting my life. I know nothing would have hurt her more than feeling she was tying me down, little did she know that she is the one who made me believe I had wings to fly in the first place. What hurts me is not that I did not love her enough but that she loved me more than I deserved. But I guess a mother’s love is that way – unconditional and at times unrequited.

I was four and had just begun school. Being the youngest in the family; school, at the time, was something I was super excited about. I remember hating that I was too young to begin school while my sisters got to get up early, dress up and leave with big bags full of books. The excitement quite obviously was short lived. It is hilarious how the grass is always greener on the other side. As days passed I remember all I had to talk about at home was my new class teacher, Mrs Nafia. She was really pretty and the nicest person I had met – she never got angry at me, which was a welcome change I was getting used to. One day I was telling my sister who is two years older to me how much I loved Mrs Nafia because she always said nice things about me when my sister asked me a really tough question. She asked me whether I loved Mrs Nafia more than our mother. At first I wondered why she would ask me such a question because comparison was not something I was used to doing. After a lot of thought I told her that I did. I still remember the shock, disbelief and look of contempt on my sister’s face. And then she sat me down and told me that what I had told her was unacceptable. She told me mothers love us forever but others come and go. She taught me that we are supposed to love our mother more than anybody else in the world. I remember asking her why and she replied she did not know but she knew that it was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do. It still makes me smile that a six year old taught a four year old this.

Years passed and when I was in junior school my friend and I decided to pay a visit to kindergarten again. I was thrilled to have the chance to meet Mrs Nafia again and kept telling my friend about how she was undoubtedly my favorite teacher of all time. Mrs Nafia did not recognize me. What hurt me more was that she recognized my friend. Going back home that day from school I remember thinking to myself how childishly I had proclaimed I loved her more than my own mother. My eight year old mind was in awe looking at my mother that day. She dealt with the worst of me and still loved me more than any other in the world.

No matter whose opinions I heeded more than hers, no matter whose comfort I prioritized more than hers, no matter how many times I turned a deaf ear to her needs, I knew she would never dream of doing the same to me. My priorities were always her priorities, my dreams were her dreams, and my opinions were the only ones she needed to make a decision. She loved me more than anyone else in the world – because not doing so was simply unacceptable to her.

I wish I could have been a better person for you Amma. I wish I loved you more every moment of my life. I wonder if that would have made a difference. I miss you terribly today and I just wanted you to know, I just didn't know better. You have taught me to never be tied down by anyone, you taught me to soar the skies and achieve my dreams. The only way I have now to show you I love you more than anything else in the world is to remember you with every success I have and know that your love is the only reason I am here today. And there is nothing more true than that. I love you, Amma - forever.