Farewell Daadi

Dear Daadi,

This letter would have made you happy I think. You did like being the star of the room after all.

I am trying to collect my memories of you; to decide how to adorn your shrine in my brain. It is not easy. My relationship with you has been a complex one. In fact, it has been one of the most defining ones for me. Yet now when I think of you, all I remember is your laugh, your hair dye, your loose blouse. And when I try to think of home without you, I picture your empty bed, the TV without Sony playing on full volume, karela without achaar. It is not easy. Now that I have been away, I can perhaps live under the pretence that you are still there back home, in the house you built, sitting on the porch next to your beloved flowers, just as you did for every single day for over half a century. Just as you did for every single day of my life for 27 years.

But I must compel myself to reflect on my memories of you and pen them down, for memories have a way of slipping away such that the lines between fact and fiction get blurred with time, till you reach the age when the days of your youth appear closer to you than the rest of the decades that followed. That never happened to you though. You seldom reminisced. You continued to remain present, decidedly relevant.

Let me put order to this letter, for I am sure any sort of inefficiency would irk you to the core. My first clearest memory of you is from when I was probably in nursery, probably 3 years of age. You were sick. Stones. A surgery had gone wrong and you were in and out of hospital a lot. I remember visiting you with Babaji after he picked me up from school on his scooter. I don’t think you and I were close back then. Or for years to come after that. My last memory of you is you sitting in the dining room, hair half grey, early signs of cancer already appearing on your face. I came to say goodbye to you before leaving for the airport and to my shock, you were crying. You were crying for me to stay. You told me you would be left alone if I did not take care of you and Babaji. I was sorry to leave you like that. I still am and perhaps forever will be.

For what lay in the years in between, there remain a few flashes. They aren’t necessarily highlights or significant moments. Just a few random instances that I can try to arrange in a chronological order, a mosaic pathway to who I am today. I don’t suppose you were very fond of me as a kid. Bhai was your favourite without a doubt. You’d feed us both dinner with your hands, sitting on the sofa in the drawing room while we watched his favourite cartoon and you’d make me run to the kitchen after every 10 minutes to fetch the next paratha. I can hear your voice scolding Bhai to concentrate on chewing. Come to think of it, I can hear your voice talking on the phone for hours, discussing the latest gossip. “Haan mai Nirmal bol rahi Punchkuyian Road se.” Besides these, the only other memories I have of you include you telling us not to invite the kids from the neighbourhood inside the house, scolding us for digging holes in the garden and haggling with the kabadiwala.

I think things started to change between us after Bhai left for college. Mom was busy with her business and dad was always away in Dehradun. It was perhaps the loneliest of times for me. Teenage with hyperthyroid induced depression isn’t easy after all. The feeling that you hated me, couldn’t bear the sight or touch of me did not really help. I remember the many breakdowns I had in those days. During one of these I complained to dad that I was alone and neglected and you did not care for me while they were gone. “Did you try talking to her? What efforts have you made to make her like you?” he asked. A therapist could call this flawed parenting founded on conditional love. But honestly, it was the perspective shift that helped me forge my way closer to you. I’d like to believe I actively started following you around, offering to help when I could, feigning curiosity in everything you did. And you reciprocated. You offered me snacks, asked me about my life, enquired after my friends – more than what the parents did at that point. I remember you walked in on me while I was sad for mom had given me questionable food after I came back from school. And you threw away the spoilt rice on my plate and made me fresh chapattis, compromising on your afternoon nap. You looked happy to help. It was not all rosy of course. I have had my struggles with you, days when you pulled me out of my room by the ear for reasons I cannot now remember. But what I remember the most is the winter noons spent together in the sun. You sitting, sometimes chopping vegetables, me reading. You’d ask me about my future plans, tell me I should have become a teacher instead, and once again offer me fruits.

Despite the strained things between you and the parents, despite the ugliness that brewed in the family for years, despite our faulty start for the first 13-14 years of my life, we managed to get along eventually. God knows I found you to be a flawed, materialistic, controlling, abusive and bully of a woman. But I learnt to see how much there was to learn from you. An administrative genius in family affairs, disciplined, efficient and almost frustratingly independent with a strong sense of dignity till the last moment where your body had strength. Yet, I’d like to believe you let me be your exception. You not only made masala idlis simply because I was the only one in the family who liked them, even though you were suffering, you let me truly speak to you. You listened to me when you refused to listen to anyone else. Where once upon a time you had not liked my presence in the room, you grew to accept me above all and let me assist you. I have seen you be brutal to humans and animals. I have seen you be generous in your giving and spoiling the pets. You’ve hated on some and then pained when you saw them hungry. You have defended the ones who have offended you. Paradoxical. Irrational.  But to me, you will always be like an overgrown baby, just waiting to be understood, hoping someone sees through that cold exterior to realise all you wanted was to be liked and be popular. It wasn’t really your fault that when they changed the eligibility criteria for that, they forgot to give you the memo.

Back when I was in nursery, I remember praying to God that he would heal you so you could come home. Last week, I wished upon a star that your suffering ends soon. I suppose I am grateful to have been heard on both the occasions. I am grateful to have had you. And I want you to know that for all the times I felt wronged by you, I forgive you. And I hope, you can forgive me too.

On every festival, on every sunny winter morning, before every flower, I shall think of you.

I love you.

Chhutki   

Synthesis (What do you do?)

Now that you’re happy, what do you do?

Now that there’s no haste, now that there’s enough,

What do you do?

Do you leave the cave to climb the mountain?

Do you exchange the halo for the king’s crown?

The marginality of your emotions might suggest otherwise,

But now that you’re a pig satisfied, what do you do?

The thesis that was your foundation got exposed,

Under the antithesis of the pragmatic lens

Now that the synthesis of your existence is complete,

What do you do?

If all that you had to say has already been said,

Is it safe to assume that nobody heard?

Well self-indulgence is luxury accompanying reclusion,

And now that you’re all by yourself, what do you do?

You reside in utopia, dreams and reality undistinguished.

The seas of your mind always at peace, as if stagnated.

Are you awake or are you sleeping?

Now that the night and the day have lost their purpose,

What do you?

Now that you are done being happy, what do you do?

Positive

“Last week I tested positive for rheumatoid arthritis.” I repeated this line over and over again to different people as my mother and I went around the administrative block, seeking attendance relaxation on medical grounds.  

“It is a peculiar case. Diseases like malaria or typhoid, we understand. But arthritis is something which is not as severe so we really don’t know what to say.”

It is not as severe, but it is here to stay and worsen if not controlled immediately, we explained. After 5 hours of doing this, we got some relief on that front and the next day we took the train home. At around 3 in the morning, I woke up in the train out of thirst. As I flexed my fingers to grab the water bottle, I felt the pain again. The pain killer was wearing off and the entire nightmare would start again in the morning. The struggle of standing, walking, grasping, knocking...the struggle of moving.

Out of habit I reflected on the week that was. I had been irritated by my inability to even hold my toothbrush properly and thus finally went to the doctor to get checked. I smiled when he said I need to get my RA Factor tested, sure he was off predicting the worst case scenario again. On being pushed by my father I got the test done anyway and after seeing the result, it was a while before I smiled again. My mother came to visit me after that and once the follow up tests confirmed the original report, it was decided that I must go back home to start my treatment properly. Soon some people in college got to know about it and they came to offer me comfort...at least in most cases.

“Hey, I heard you’re about to die.” I looked up at the boy who had called out to me like that. “Well, you know my FATHER has arthritis. He’s 60. You’re an oldie. Aren’t you embarrassed?,” he continued. “Is this how you feel good about yourself, by making such jokes? I understand it must be hard living with yourself when you waste Rs. 20,000 a month on trivialities while the sole earning member in your family is a retired man suffering from severe joint pain. We are not close enough for your joke to not be taken as offensive, mind you” (and a glare) is how I replied, mentally. “What!?!” in shrieky voice is all that I actually managed.

We reached home in the morning and the appointment with the specialist was scheduled for the noon. In the meantime my grandmother drilled into me the importance of not revealing to anyone that I have arthritis or that I am sick in any other way. One look at my mother’s exasperated expression confirmed my doubt- my grandma was worried about the negative marks this defect brings to me in the marriage market.

The doctor was consulted, medicines were bought and pitiful looks were exchanged. All this while I waited. I waited for it to hit me that now at the age of 23 I had two chronic disorders which are seldom seen in people my age and my entire life would feature a multitude of pills and tests. And eventually it did. It hit me when every night my mother would say things like how sad it was, especially at this age. And how people will not accept me easily. It hit me when my father suggested I stop trying for a job now because he wishes to spend some time with me at home for a few months. And blame it on the hormones, but for the next couple of days, I was not the easiest person to live with.

It has been 20 days now since I first tested positive. I returned to college today and the pain has more or less subsided as my body is adjusting to the medicines. (God bless science!) A healthier lifestyle is my mantra for now and honestly I feel...okay.

My day was quiet (all my friends are out for a couple of days). I went about my usual routine and I feel healthy as I prepare to turn in for the day. The breakdown of the previous days at this point seems like a pretty childish overreaction.  The fear, the sense of hopelessness, the frustration – all an unnecessary burden that I was not obligated to take in the first place. Our reaction in a given situation tends to get influenced by how others expect us to react. We get pressured to feel emotions which are expected to be felt normally. But would we, when isolated, when lying alone in the bed, be the same person? Would we feel the same way?

Last week I felt like a race horse facing just another hurdle, just another given, in her run for her variable victory. Last week, between all the people, all the ‘get well soon’ messages and all the health tips, I felt burdened despite the intended love. Right now, in the quiet of a breezy night, alone in my room, I feel the lightness of a peaceful mind and I for once mean it when I say I am okay.

The Struggle Is Real: Walking Right

I walk funny. If the mirrors weren't proof enough, scores of people have helped to establish this fact. I don't have a limp. Neither do I prance or hop. I just walk with my feet pointing in different directions such that if I stand straight they make a 90 degree angle.

This walk of mine has been quite a contentious issue since childhood. My father always complained about it and threatened to tie my feet together till I changed my habit. I, on the other hand, would always argue that it is not a habit. My leg bones are simply angled that way. Now even at college, I am fondly called as Happy Feet. With a nickname like that, imagine how terrifying I must look to the juniors. Just the other day a boy from the second year patted my head and said I really was a "little fat penguin". I am a super senior for crying out loud!

And what is the big deal about walking this way? Most guys walk like that. Nobody tells them that it is disgraceful. And we penguin walkers are certainly not as bad as those of the feet dragging breed. Those guys are more annoying than an alarm clock on a Sunday morning. At least you can shut the latter. Nevertheless every now and then my father's voice rings in my head and I attempt to correct my folly by consciously pointing my toes forward. It feels awkward but I persevere. Or rather persevered.

This evening I was lying on the floor to straighten my back after having spent the whole day slouching before a laptop screen. As I lay there I became aware of my feet pointing in their natural 90 degree direction. So out of habit, I nudged my toes close together. Turns out, not a very smart thing to do. A pain shot up inside my body and the muscles of my lower body stiffened. A heavy pressure was exerted on my lower back. I could hear the seconds hand on the clock ticking and a sweat broke on my forehead. To an outsider it would have appeared as if I was lying there in silence, frowning at vexing thought. Where as in reality my mind and my body were struggling against each other; each determined to have its will. Fists clenched, I tried to hold the posture until my mind gave up and I relaxed my toes.

I tried, but I walk funny still, unabashedly so.

I Have Never Watched Suits.

It has been a while since I gave you updates on life at law school. Let me remedy that. Yesterday was for us, that’s the fourth years, one of the most important days in our lives. Yesterday was Day Zero. I know the name makes you crumple your face and wonder if it has anything to do with the origin of the earth but no, that’s not what it is about. It is the first day of recruitment. The top law firms fly down to the campus to steal away the best brains in the batch. If you grab this job you become a Harvey-Specter-2000s-Balckberry-Boy with all of it - the big bucks, fancy clothes, late nights in state of the art offices with international clients.*wink wink* The ultimate dream.

So why wasn’t I particularly thrilled when I received a mail stating that I had been shortlisted to appear for one such law firm? Maybe I didn’t like the idea of spending my life as a corporate slave to the capitalist master. Or maybe as often accused, I am indeed the ‘crazy Marleyian with stupid concepts’. Nevertheless, like a diligent student and a devoted daughter I began my preparations.

Step 1 – Know your CV

This wasn’t so bad. With a number of internships, a few publications and a little bit of this and that, the three page document seemed to sum up my time as a law student pretty impressively. And since I have always enjoyed working, recalling the details of each of the entry came pretty easy.

Step 2 – Know your law

Companies, commerce and contracts – you have got to know it all. Except, I didn’t. So I switched on my laptop and opened a popular corporate blawg. “Private equity….paid up share capital…takeover code…acquisition of capital”. As I read on, a cuckoo-clock-like noise became louder in my head. Next thing I know I felt like a caveman running haplessly on Wall Street, yawping among the elegant beings from a more civilized age. Inhaling, I entered new search words on Google; ‘Corporate Law for dummies.’  

Step 3 – Know yourself

Ha! Now you’re talking! ‘Personality’ is my middle name. I’ve got this. After running through a number of imaginary interviews, I went to a few helpful seniors to give my mock interview.

Q. So Miss Jain, why are you here?

Imaginary me – “I am here to grab an opportunity.” *Impressed look* *polite applause* *shaking hands* *epic background music as I walk away with the job*

Real me – “I..uuhh...coz the girl outside said it was my turn. I am sorry” “Why are you apologizing?” “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” *Increased heartbeat* *Sweaty Palm* *Hazy brain*

Q. What do you want to be in the future?

Imaginary me – “I want to be a successful transactional lawyer at the top of the corporate hierarchy with unparalleled experience in the field.”

Real me – “I..err..want to be a lawyer…I think.” *Dad’s voice in head asking the same question during innumerable family dinners* *more sweating* *leg shaking* *existential crisis*

Q. Why do you want to join our firm?

Imaginary Me – “Your firm is the best in the country. From the day I set foot in law school I have worked to join your firm. With a large clientele and a team consisting of experienced professionals, it helps to develop one’s legal acumen.”

Real me - *makes a mental note to learn the spelling of the full name of the firm* *tries to remember how to breath*

Q. Why do you want to pursue corporate law? Are you sure you do not want to pursue a career in academics, NGOs or international organizations?

Imaginary me – “Corporate law is challenging. It thrills me. I am absolutely certain about it. Pursuing any other option is beyond my imagination. I am least inclined towards anything other than corporate law.”

Real Me – “Corporate law interests me a lot. This is what I want. I am not interested in any of the things you mentioned. I never have been. I never will be.” *stops shaking* *looks on blankly* *feels empty* *dies inside*

And that’s pretty much how my one week of preparations went. Thankfully on the eighth day I received a mail saying that the writer regretted to inform that the shortlist had further been shortened and I had unfortunately not made the cut. I shut the laptop and for the first time in three days, smiled. And so ended my climb on the corporate ladder.

On Day Zero I was there in the waiting room to support my friends appearing for the interviews. I saw my batchmates flipping through reading material, recounting points. Among them was a boy who had once told me that he wanted to be a professor of legal philosophy. He was sitting next to one of the batch toppers who could have been a foreign ambassador of India if he had pursued his interest in foreign policy. The social litigator and the UN worker were also waiting their turns. Destiny seemed busy at work.

Day Zero was indeed one of the most important days in my life. I didn’t get a job.  I didn’t get an internship. Hell, I didn’t even get an interview. But being forced towards something I didn’t want in fact made me confident about what I wanted. A lost spark was rekindled. Do I have a plan? Nope. Will I get there? Absolutely.

Destiny and I have only begun our dance. The rhythm is yet to pick up and the night is yet to come alive.

BLANK

You know that time between two moments, that feeling of nothingness? The time when no thought occupies your mind and no sense penetrates your brain – no particular sound, no definite vision and no decipherable taste. That time when you just feel BLANK.

Most parts of my last few months have been like that. Blank. Admittedly, it was not my favorite state of being. Ironically, the indifference bothered me.

I am not a slow person. Or so I’d like to believe. I comprehend everything around me. Surely, a sign of an intelligent being. However, no response to any stimulus from my part seemed needed. It seemed pointless and even meaningless. To add to this, just like the pages of diary rendered blank as the pencil marks fade away with the passage of time, my memory seemed faded. Distant. Need I also comment upon the uncertainty of the visions of future?

So as it always happens when I hit rock bottom I texted my friend describing my predicament. “Blank is good,” came her concise and severely frustrating reply.  

How can blank be good? Blank is uncertain. Uncertain in unknown. I fear the unknown. Everybody fears the unknown and its many manifestations such as darkness, future or even people from unfamiliar races or places.

And yet now I am starting to see the wisdom in her words.

It is good to be blank because you free from the burden that too much information imposes on you. Let me break it down further. Every day you make many decisions. In today’s world so much information is at your disposal that in an attempt to make the best choice you try to assimilate as much knowledge about a particular topic as you can before finally deciding upon it. The result is that your brain is constantly in a state of deliberation, trying to sort out the information. Without a second's rest you proceed to the next task which means even more information.

Now with all of us trying to make the most informed choices, the scope for going by instincts reduces significantly. The gut feeling is replaced by the statistical truth. Of course this reduces chances of mistakes but this is done at the cost of experimenting. So most of us end up following a life trajectory that has been tried and tested. And since the market is providing so many “customized choices” which are safe for the individual, necessity being the mother of all inventions gets shut away in a corner.

So blank is good. It is full of possibilities. It is good that pencil marks fade away. Because then you can fill the blank pages with new stories. Who wouldn’t prefer a diary with words scratched midway over book with mathematical formulae printed on it?

It is good to be informed. It is good to think. It is good to make a wise choice. But it is better to fall back sometimes, get a perspective and plunge head first into life. Because then you can have the pleasure of surprising yourself.

A Little Story

Once there was a man. He was walking home on a windy autumn evening. He walked slowly, almost reluctantly. There were tear stains on his face and his clothes were all askew. He had always hated funerals. But then again whoever liked them?

As he walked on, he felt someone’s gaze on him. He lifted his head and caught the sight of a man. It was just the man he wanted to see at a time like this. It was his best friend. He smiled at his friend warmly and got a smile in return. The presence of his friend worked like magic. In no time the two were talking and laughing, all the sorrow of the day forgotten. Soon they could be found running around and playing like they used to when they were kids. The place was filled with the echoes of their laughter – a laughter of innocent pleasure that remains saved exclusively for childhood against the treacherous hands of time.

During their play they came across an old tree and decided to put their tree climbing skills to test. The man took the first turn ascending while his friend remained below. But time had played its game well. The man was no longer the agile kid. He lost his balance and with a scream fell to the ground. When the pain had subsided a little, he looked up at his friend accusingly. Why had he not caught him? His friend stood there, simply looking, his face expressionless. There seemed something different about him, but what it was the man could not quite put his finger on. He held out his hand to his friend, asking for his assistance. His friend’s face remained impassive. He moved his hand but stopped midway.

Shocked, the man yelled at his friend from the ground, tears pouring down again. He begged for his friend’s help and comfort. Was this his friendship? True friends do not leave their friends lying on the ground.

With great effort he got to his feet. He sighed heavily and turned around, resuming his journey home. Tears no longer ran down his face. He had to go home. His family will be waiting for him for dinner. 

He had left his friend under that tree. Let that bastard rot in his grave.