Adios, Nau Kaku

My dear uncle, my Nau Kaku, passed away this morning. He was 64. A very accomplished orthopedic surgeon, he spent his entire career serving at the West Bengal Government hospitals, while also having a private practice where he generously treated many people as their personal physician. He leaves behind his loving wife, and two talented kids.

This month as been tough on our family. My aunt, my father's older sister by three years, passed away only a few weeks back, and now my uncle, who was six years junior to my dad. The family is grieving. At times like this I wish I could be there with them, to hug them, to care for them. This is the curse of living abroad, so far away from family, we cannot hold their hand in times of need. All we can do is hold them in my heart and send them metta. May their pain ease away and the space be filled with beautiful memories that last a lifetime.

My uncle and I shared a special bond. My earliest memory of him was during a Durga Puja in Barrackpore, must be 1978/1979 or so, when I was just a toddler. We used to visit Kolkata on every Durga Puja, and for those five days it was joyful abandon all the time. My mum did not have the power to restrict me in any way, my dad was always laughing and going with the flow, and I ran from one uncle to the other, playing and giggling, eating all the sweets I could, and going on morning walks with my grandpa at the Palta water treatment plant clutching his little finger with all my might. At nights, there used to be cultural presentations at the local puja - we Bengalis are like that, give us an occasion and we will happily put up a grand show of music, drama, poetry, dance, and everything else, we are quite a cultural lot. Being a young kid of only two or three, for those five days there was no restriction of sleep time or food. I was like a free kite, flitting away from one elder to the other, doing whatever I felt like. At night I went with them to watch the cultural presentations at various pandals, sometimes precariously balancing my little bottom on the 2-inch middle rod of my uncles' bicycles, and behaving so much like an adult! But the day-long non-stop excitement usually wore me down every night, and I would fall asleep on the lawn chairs at the puja venues, only to burden my uncles to carry me home in a rickshaw or on foot.

Your seat is empty, Nau Kaku, but you are in my heart as a beautiful flower, now and always

My first strong memory of my Nau Kaku is from one such evening. I had fallen asleep on the chairs at a puja venue, about a mile or two away from home. I remember vividly, as if it was yesterday, he softly spoke in my ears, and lifted me onto his shoulders. In my half sleepy-half wakeful state, I remember the warmth of his embrace, there was kindness and gentleness in his touch. As he walked me home, I remember the vibration of his heart against mine, his breath in my hair, the gentle rolling of his every step passing through my body. It was very soothing and peaceful, my hands were around his neck, my throat against his carotid and I could feel his pulse as if intertwined with mine. This was his affection, and I savored it. For about two miles he carried me home, ever so gently, never once changing sides, lest he woke me up. It couldn't have been easy, try carrying couple gallons of water on one hand for two miles without letting it splash, you'll know. I had my new shoes on, sandals, and I had played in the dust all day, making them extremely muddy and dirty. And as my Nau Kaku carried me home that night, my shoes kept brushing against his new clean shirt, making it so dirty that it could never be washed and made anew (believe me, my mother tried!!). We were quite poor then, the number of shirts my uncles had were limited, this was quite a loss for him.

Years later, I remember his wedding. I was just enough old to understand the excitement of the various ceremonies. I remember being by his side all through the four days, stuck to him like a magnet, even at his in-laws' place I wouldn't lose sight of him for a moment. I remember helping him dress up for the wedding, putting Chandan on him with cloves dipped in the fragrant paste, and then putting the topor on him. It was such a delight! He looked so handsome!

He had this habit of touching our ears. He would sit by us, and touch the softness of our ears, never pulling them, but just playing with it. It was both endearing and irritating at the same time for all us cousins, depending on the mood we kids had. He would playfully threaten us that he is coming after our ears, that he will eat them, that they are so soft and yummy. And we would squeal and run, with him playfully chasing us about, until my grandma would scold him and put a stop to our "try and catch me" game.

I did not get to see him for most of my growing years. Last time I met him was around the time my mum was passing, in late January 2012. He had come over to visit my mum, and to placate my father. My mum was in bad shape, and my father very distraught. To have his doctor brother beside him, even for a few hours, gave my father some relief. Little did we know then that in six years time he will be gone too. My uncle developed a heart condition and it just got worse over time, ending with many months of suffering. Late last week he was hospitalized, and then had multiple organ failure. He hung on for several days, possibly waiting for his son to arrive from the US and say goodbye. Today my aunt and cousins are writhing in grief, my heart resonates with them, for I know how painful it is to loose a loved one. My father, my sister, and me still remember our own experience quite vividly.

Whether we like it or not, whether we want to accept it or not, this is the reality of life. We are born and we pass away. All this we have around us, our possessions, material and emotional, are but ephemeral. When the life force has to go, it just disappears like the blowing out of a flame. I think of this often, sometimes every passing hour. Since my mother's passing I have been volunteering at a local hospice, I get to see many patients and families, and I get to see the wide range of emotions surrounding death. Our society, our culture, reviles death, and does not recognize it as something just as natural as birth. May be it will change one day, maybe one day we will make peace with the flame going out.

My Boro Pishi

This Monday morning (evening in India time), July 9th 2018, my Boro Pishi passed away. Boro Pishi in Bengali translates to Eldest Aunt (father's sister). It was a quick one they said, heart attack/ cardiac arrest. She suffered less than three to four hours. Which is quite okay considering the hard life she has had to endure. She was 73.

My Boro Pishi

The last time I saw her was in March of 2013, when I had made a day trip to our ancestral village/town of Jayanagar-Majilpur, where she lived almost all her life. This is the sad part of living so far in the US, we cannot meet our family as often as we like. My trip in 2013 was very delightful, I got to meet two sweet daughters of my cousins for the first time, and reconnect with their wives too. Today, as I reflect back, I wish I had more opportunities like this to hang out with family. But what to do, we need to learn to be happy with what we have, and what we get.

When we were kids, our summer, Durga puja, and winter holidays used to be around Kolkata, mostly in the suburbs of Kolkata where my extended family lived. We spent a lot a lot of time in Barrackpore (my paternal grandparents' place), and in Bansberia (my maternal grandparents' place); both  on the banks of the beautiful serene Hoogly River (Ganges) with picturesque ghats. Often, especially during Durga Puja, we'd visit my Boro Pishi in Jaynagar-Majilpur. It was a long two to three hour journey by two local trains. Sometimes the travel time was even longer. If there was a power failure, the train would sit on the rails for quite some time. Or if two opposite direction trains had to cross over at a station, we had to wait too, for there was only one rail line for two way train traffic. In the summer, we'd be very hot and boil in the train, for there was no air conditioning. There still isn't on most local trains. The air was thick with humidity and the resulting sweat on the scores of bodies in the crowded compartments, made everything sticky and smelly. But if we happened to score a spot on by the window, it was great joy to watch the green fields and rail-side ponds go by, the wind blowing through our hair, and fresh breeze off the paddy fields. And there was pat-phati, a indigenous soda water that was sold by the hawkers on the train, cold, in clear glass bottles, that made a "phat" sound when they uncapped the bottle, a cloud of CO2 formed in the humid air, and the fizzy water would delight and quench everyone who drank it. Who knows what water they used, but we did not care. We looked forward to that drink. And there was the hawker's sonepapri, telebhaja, jhal-muri, spicy sweet-n-sour lozenges, and so on. When we reached the J-M station eventually, our cousins would be at the station to receive us. Sometimes we would get on their bicycle carry-back and ride with them home, while our parents walked or took the rickshaw. But if we had luggage, we would take a "van-rickshaw". It is a fabulous way to travel. It is a flatbed rickshaw that can take six to eight people. I loved it and would plead my parents for permission every time. The village roads were narrow and torturous, many old buildings with ivy, some dilapidated, some newly built with fresh whitewash, the tall palms, the huge banyans, the backyard ponds in each home, the cuckoo calls, the chatter of the birds, cows hanging around blocking the roads, the soft smell of cow dung in the air emanating from the wall patties, the cool breeze from the fields and orchards, and above all there was a sense of serenity everywhere.

The sight of my Pishi's house would lift my heart. She'd be standing outside the door waiting for us. She had the biggest and widest grin ever. Her face bright and happy, she'd hug each of us. My paternal family is not the hugging kind, they do not demonstrate affection very well, the most they do is let out a strange grunt. And when they had to show any feelings of love they were super awkward. But Boro Pishi was the exception to the rule, she was extremely affectionate and would squeeze each of us tight, shower us with kisses. I loved that very much. I usually would get all teary eyed when she did that and that was also another reason why I loved visiting her.

Once the loving welcome would be done, she'd insist we wash our train filth away using cool tube-well water, change into "house clothes" and get comfortable on the bed or chairs. Then started the food. Tea for the elders and non stop sweets and snacks for us. My dad is usually the iron man around, and his rules were always to be followed. We used to shiver and cower under his strong personality, he was the Royal Bengal Tiger. But at his Didi's place, he had no power whatsoever. She was The Boss - a kind, loving, affectionate, caring, and most benevolent elder there can be. And in her house, she let us have all the fun in the world. My cousins and I would take the bicycles out and ride all over the village, sometimes as far as Nimpith, we'd sit by the neighbor's ponds and chit-chat all afternoon, we'd eat all the singhara and Jaynagerer Moa that we could stuff our face with, we'd take long late afternoon naps on the tall beds under the big brown slow ceiling fans. It was indeed bliss.

Memories of her loud loving voice and hearty laughter brings great joy in my heart still. She had a very difficult life, but she had the most persevering attitude. She used to be a very good and promising student, but my grandparents married her off way before she could complete her studies and get a job. Those were the times when being a daughter was considered a liability and parents looked to get their daughters married off as soon as they could find an eligible prospect. I don't think I ever met my Pishe, her husband. If I did, I do not remember. He passed away quite early in his life, he had stomach or colon cancer. She was left to raise three young kids, a daughter and two sons, all by herself as a single parent, on his meager death benefits from the government. How she did that while being so cheerful and peaceful, only she knows. It was probably not easy, but her exuberant attitude towards life was probably what helped her maneuver through the difficult trials of life. Her three kids grew up to be very proficient young people, each with secure careers and beautiful families of their own. I love them to bits.

Pishi remains in my heart entangled with some of my best memories of my childhood. She was very dear to me and will always be. I wish that in another lifetime I get to be near her again, to experience her loving caring presence once more.

Unmothered

“Oh My! You look exactly like your mum in this picture”.

“Wow! When you talk with excitement, I feel as if your mum is sitting right here”.

“You cook exactly like your mum, and the delight I see in your face is exactly like hers when she used to present her creations to us. Amazing likeness!”

And so it goes. People keep commenting on how much I resemble my mum. The way I talk, the way I smile or frown, the way I cook, my love for books and reading, my compassion, my love for acting in amateur plays, my immense energy reserve, my diligence in keeping a home, my caring nature, my listening skills; the list of parallels is long. So I am my mother’s clone in many ways. But I find these comments extremely difficult to process. Are they compliments? Or, are they mere statements and don’t mean a thing? Should I let them go, or should I hold on to them as sweet knickknacks in a shoebox, and play through them occasionally with tinges of nostalgia? I don’t know. It hurts.

Mum and Me, 1976

She is gone six years now. Her family and friends still remember her fondly. And when I hear the comments of correlation between my mum and me from these people, I wonder if they are trying to empathize with me and say these things in an attempt to make me feel good or whether they mean it. It is hard to know what the deep intention is behind other people’s words, sometimes they themselves don’t now, they say the words and are done with, and often forget what they have said, they walk away. And I am left here, listening to the echo, wondering which part of it was real.

I was born of her, so I suppose that was the physical space I came from, having been locked in her womb for nine long months. The law of karma claims we are born to a person with whom we have a connection of some kind in our past lives, and that is where the explanation stops and urges us not to explore further, citing the intricate workings of karma is unfathomable and imponderable, so we should accept it as is and move on. That takes care of, to some extent, the consciousness connection to my mother. And as science proclaims, the genetic connection to her gives me access to her skills and talents, passed to me as an intricate inherited code through the tiny fiber of the x-chromosome. And after that, spending almost 18 years in close vicinity of a small household, I might have picked some habits and traits merely by environmental osmosis. So, I am, as it appears to her family and friends a remarkable replica of my mother.

But my personal relationship, understanding, and connection to her are different. The apparent truth to society and the world is not the reality of my experience. I will be shunned by societal harmony guardians for saying this, but I don’t enjoy being called her image, nor do I feel she loved me the way I wanted to be loved, and I will forever carry within me a deep void of unanswered questions. This is painful, the hurt wells up at inopportune moments. Sometimes when I am sitting immersed in a big gathering of friends and their famile watching the loving play of family chit-chat. Or when I chance upon a mother affectionately cuddling her baby in the park or on the train. A sharp searing bruise often swells in my heart while walking on a solitary beach when the wind brings to me the words she often uttered to me – “Why don’t you die! Why were you even born? If you die right now, I would be the happiest one on the planet!”

I was born in India to an engineer father and a homemaker mother, both from humble origins and with a load of familial responsibilities on their shoulders. The first decade of my life was spent near the poverty line; our dinners were fried okra or eggplant and roti, with a single egg curry a week, and maybe mutton or chicken curry once a month. My father had to send 80% of his salary home to his parents, for their upkeep and the education of his siblings. My mother managed her little sansar with as much adeptness and frugality she could garner. They had a “love marriage”, and so she was barely tolerated, let alone loved by her in-laws. She had to live with them during the first couple years of her marriage while my father was out on field assignments with his work. They abused her, and made her work like a slave. She kept it going because, she had nowhere else to go as her family did not have the wherewithal to support her, and she believed she could one day win her in-laws’ hearts by her kindness and gentle demeanor. She also had me during that time. When I was about a year or so old, we moved to Ranchi, where my father rented a small flat, and also took in a paying-guest in the spare bedroom to make ends meet. When I reflect on our relationship I think that deep in her mind she might have resented me because I reminded her of the hardships she had to face in those early years, and every time she looked at me she probably saw pain, failure, abuse, and the sad feeling of being unloved in spite of doing her best. I will never know, for as an adult, I never asked her, there was no untangling of knots.

When my sister was born, and I felt very lonely, and I remember her being dreadfully angry and hateful to me for months. On a four year old’s tender heart, it left a deep scar. Over the years, there have been countless instances when I doubted whether I was her daughter, being utterly confused by what society said about a mother’s pure love for her baby, and comparing it to my painful reality. She had one day burned my little fingers on the hot stove, and one day strangled and left me fainted in a dark room for a whole evening and night. All the time I did nothing to deserve the punishments, she was just angry. The more she hurt me the more I strove to be a good girl who does nothing but color between the lines. I put in as much effort as I could to win her affection, to feel worthy of it, and this had a serious detrimental effect on my self-esteem as an adult. As a child I spent hours staring at pictures of Gods and Saints on the wall of my home, asking them with tearful eyes to give me some hope, to prove to me my mother loves me, like they say in the books and proclaim in the movies. My happiest moments as a child were not related to activities or interactions with my family or at school, instead they came in moments of solitude, when I was away from everything, like sitting alone on the staircase staring at peeling paint on the wall, there was peace in that moment and it felt good. I remember sleeping in the same bed with my sister, and expertly cry in silence for hours into the night, my heart wrenching in grief. Next morning, before anyone at home could find out and scold me, I would take the wet pillow to the roof terrace to dry out. Even then I recognized that my mother did not have the strength and ability to support me in what I wished and dreamed of, but my young heart craved for someone to listen, someone to belong to, and someone to feel nurtured by. All through the years, I felt she barely tolerated my existence in her vicinity, but that was not enough for me, I wanted connection, a deeper and wholesome feeling of emotional contact. I even married my high-school sweetheart, because I was so desperate for affection that the first one who showed any interest in me made me want to cling on to him, and dream of a fairytale life. It took twenty years to untangle that tight weave of delusion.

I moved to the US in 1998. My parents were very proud of me. Being an engineer, married to a smart young man, and both on scholarships to earn their graduate degrees was something my parents had planned for me, and I ticked all the boxes. My parents came to visit me several times, I used to make trips back every two to five years to see them, and I called them religiously every weekend. In the ensuing years, I finished my masters, moved across the country back and forth few times, and then spent two remarkable years in Australia working on record breaking projects, my career zoomed. My sister got married, had a kid. My father retired, and my parents lived a joyous life in Kolkata, surrounded with friends and family, with parties, plays, travel, embroiled in the regular drama of rich social life. In early 2011 my parents visited me in San Diego, it was the first time I asked my mother why she was so cruel to me. Her answer was – when I was a little baby, friends and family saw the indefatigable energy in me and predicted that I will grow up to be an immensely successful person. She saw me as a genie, someone extraordinarily bright and one who can accomplish a lot, fulfill their dreams, so the best way to control me was to bottle me. And this explained all their emotional and physical abuse; it was an attempt to control my free spirit. Around that time, I was finally ripening in my own life-wisdom, learning to let go of the past, and so this explanation made sense. In their mind, they were right and the goal justified their means. So many people in this world live by that criterion, so how could I blame my parents for that? They did not know any better.

Later that year, she fell sick. She was in and out of hospitals for three months and the doctors were pumping her with antibiotics to supposedly kill the large abscess in her liver. In December, I went to India, and forged a new line of investigation with biopsy and specific tests. It resulted in a diagnosis of terminal occult primary cancer with metastasis in the liver, lungs, lymph, and humerus. My father, sister, and rest of our family were shocked and unprepared for her impending death. She was 61. I spent the next two months by her side, sleeping with her, reading to her; managing her care and comfort, and watching life fade out of her gradually. I wanted her to have peace, to die surrounded by her family and friends who cared for and adored her so much. During my time with her, I sometimes wanted to ask the many questions, I wanted to sort out the tight and heavy knot of emotions I had from 36 years of our connected being, but I had no words. In a way the questions did not have meaning anymore, a chapter was being finished, and it was better to close it as is. All I did during those days was try to make her comfortable, so she could breathe, and smile at the hundreds of people visiting her everyday. I spent all my energy arranging and managing her care, and at night I held her to the countless bathroom trips, and gently caressed her when the pains arose. After she passed away, there was an overflowing of messages and stories of her beautiful heart, her loving and empathic nature, her engaging and vibrant life. I believed every word that was said. Other people’s experience of her was different from my personal experience. And this is how reality is, full of different colors, seen by different people through their personal viewfinder; all of which is the truth. There is no ultimate truth, no distinct good or bad, nor a definite black or white; it is always the collection of colors, and the angle at which the light hits our personal prism makes all the difference in the colors we perceive. I am my mother’s daughter, a reflection of her for those who miss her and want to see her, and I am also my own unique individual who is no better or worse or equal to anyone else on this planet.

"When are you going back to your country?"

An elderly waitress pours steaming diner coffee into my white ceramic mug. She is smiling.
      "When are you going back to your country?"
I am a bit taken aback, I pause for a bit, then reply.
      "This is my country."
She squints her eyes, is visibly surprised.
      "You were not born here, were you?"
      "No, but I am a citizen."
She moves away.

I sit there and as I go through my brunch, I reflect. What was this exchange about?
It was strange I was not feeling offended. Should I?
What is this belonging? What is this identification? Is it important? Who am I? What's in a label?

American Diner that serves Fortune Cookies

I spent 22 years in India, and 20 years in the US. So, what should be my label?
When in India, my family and friends treat me differently, I speak with an accent they say, that my eating schedule has changed. They point out that I am soft and cannot handle hard stuff like heat, sweat, and squat toilets. They say I have become very independent, and I should keep my American ideas to myself. In almost every conversation it comes up - "you do not know the reality here in India" - even when I say absolutely nothing and just sit and watch the life flow by. Some say I am unpatriotic, having left India in my youth and not served her for all she did for me, that I did not repay my debt to my motherland. I have had people ridicule my life in the US and say I have it so easy compared to the struggle in India, they make fun of the material stuff I have - house, car, dishwasher, laundry, etc. Over the two decades, a chasm has formed and it has grown deeper and deeper. The connection, if there was one, is indeed lost, the sense of belonging has been frayed.

Here is the US, from the very first day there has been a sense of distance too, sometimes very blatantly like this conversation at the diner, and sometimes very subtly. Every workplace I have been at, there has been the undercurrent. At one job, we had an African American admin assistant who was totally incompetent, every task given to her had to go through minimum five revisions to get right, even if it was a one-page letter. It was amazing how she held on to a job for five years, all she did was paint her nails and talk about shopping. And when it came to work, I only focused on efficiency, I did not see color or age or anything but getting the task done. One day I insisted that she do her job. She complained. I got called into my supervisor's office. I was appalled by what he patronizingly said to me - "Look, you are from India, and maybe in India because of the caste system, you are taught from the very childhood to discriminate against people of color. It is not like that here in the US. Here, we treat everyone equally." I was too stunned to say a word. And there have been so many instances, I could write a long book on just these kinds of stories. The perception of American people is also quite unique, there is an expectation for everyone to melt into one common stereotype robots, and there is a fear of everything that is different or "off spec". The sense of belonging here in the US is also quite frayed, rather it was never really well-formed.

So where do I belong now? I often wonder where these identities come from. Why do we need so desperately have a label, why do we need so much to cling, to belong? I do not say it is good or bad, it is just something I often question. In the answer to the question - Who am I? - why does the skin color, the accent, the country, the affiliation to a race or ethnicity, or even the past, the history, have to figure out so prominently? Does it need to be like that? Granted we live in this conventional world, and these things are real labels, but do we need to cling to the labels? The question is about the clinging, not about the labels. Why is this desperate need to cling to the labels?

And at this diner, when I saw my heart not even flutter with that interaction, I was smiling internally. Maybe I am getting closer to really finding out that I am a nobody. And it is a really liberating feeling.

Kaash Phool

River Ghat (c) Kaliprasad Chatterjee

It was a full moon and the Ganga was a simmering like a stream little floating diamonds, millions of them, calm and serene, moving in peace, as if softly and gently holding hands so they would never get lost. A light cool breeze was blowing from the east as if it wanted to salve the burn of the hot summer afternoon. It was a bit after seven, the sun had just gone beyond the horizon, and the western sky was getting darker by the minute; it was time for Sandhya Aarti. There was an occasional whiff of incense and clang of the khartaal brought by the wind from the temples along the holy river. Women were blowing conch shells to welcome the night in their respective homes. The other bank was mostly dark with little specks of light at the ghats. It was one of those clear full-moon nights, when the Milky Way above seemed a perfect reflection of the river. The earthen lane leading to the river was marked by many a faded footsteps of generations gone by. This was an old ghat with verbal history dating back to over a thousand years. Much business once happened via this ghat, fortunes made and lost. New brides left for their husband’s homes through this ghat, sometimes never to return, their innocence left standing at the edge of the water. People took their morning bath here to start the day blessed by Maa Ganga. Before exams, students would come to this ghat and sprinkle holy water on their head, say a silent prayer asking the river goddess to help them pass their test. Laundry got done here, all the filth washed away by the river. Yes, this was once a very popular ghat. About a decade ago, the ferry moved to a modern ghat about half a kilometer away, and the crowd diminished gradually over the years leaving it in slow disrepair. The steps leading to the water have been broken. The fields around the ghat are overgrown, the brick walls and bedis have little trees growing out of them. The ticket room had no roof anymore, and now home to young families of pigeons and crows. But the water splashing on the steps remained the same. Not many people came here these days, and certainly not at night.

Shikha sat by the river on the small brick bedi of the broken old ghat and realized that it has been over thirty years since she last sat there. She was barely four years old then. Sumana, her little sister, was just born. That week Maa had returned from the hospital with the little one and everyone was doting over the new baby. Maa had been in the hospital for almost a week. It was a difficult pregnancy, and everyone was relieved that it all turned out well. All these years Shikha was the favorite of everyone, being the first spirited grandchild in the family. They lived in Bhopal where her father used to work at a construction company, but they made it a point to visit her mother’s family at least twice a year. When they would visit, Dida would make so many delicious misthi for her, she especially liked Dida’s poolipithe, oozing with sweet coconut and milk. Mama and Maashi would take her to the neighborhood shops and get her anything she desired, small knick-knack toys, crayons, and the like. She felt pampered as a princess, and always looked forward to these visits to Dida’s place. All the neighbors used to adore her, at evening teatime they would sit around her charmed by her rattling off the nursery rhymes and kobita, and she used to bask in the attention.

During this trip, Baba was not to arrive till another three days. He could not afford to take leave, the project he was working on was very important as the Governor was visiting. He was anxious about Sumana’s birth, but he could not be at the hospital. Maa was a bit upset with him. During the last leg of the pregnancy, Shikha stayed with him for a month, all alone in Bhopal, while Maa was at Dida’s taking rest and preparing for the baby. Shikha used to miss her very much, and clutch a picture of Maa to her chest to go to sleep every night. Being a single dad was not easy for Baba either, and so after a month, he dropped Shikha off with Maa and went back to Bhopal. Shikha found Maa very distant and rude. She longed for a little cuddle from Maa, for it had been over a month since she snuggled with Maa. But here she found Maa was usually busy reading a book or napping on the easy chair in the back verandah, or wobbling around the house from one room to the other. The neighbors would visit, Maa’s old school friends, and Maa would chit chat with them for hours, laughing and joking. Shikha would stand quietly by the door and watch them, but no one paid any attention to her, no one wanted to hear her kobita anymore. This made her feel very sad. If Maa ever glanced at her, she would rebuke – “Go to the upstairs room and study. Why are you standing here gaping at us? Don’t you have anything better to do?” Shikha would run away, flush with hot tears, ears and face red, and heart aching. There was no one to talk to, no one to play with, and no school to go to. Now she wished she was back home in Bhopal, it was better to be alone in her own room with her drawing book and crayons, than here in the middle of all these people who did not love her anymore. She was now missing Baba very much and could not wait to see him again.

All of a sudden with Sumana in the mix, it seemed that no one saw her anymore. Shikha felt like a ghost. No one recognized her, talked to her, or even looked at her. She showed up at meal times and got to eat. There were no special sweets for her anymore, no trips to the shops, in all the busy-ness of everything, no one cared to look for her. This made her feel very lonely, it was the first time in her life that she felt so unwanted and extra. She did not know what to do, so she used to wander off to the ghat and sit at the bedi for hours at a time, watching people get on the ferry and get off the ferry. There was so much happening, so many different kinds of people, dressed up in different colorful clothes, some quiet, some loudly talking; Shikha would sit there and observe the goings-on. At times she little heart would leap and want to join a boat and go out and away on an adventure, but she would not dare to do that. It was just a dream, an urge that she learned to restrain and stay.

Shikha’s one and only friend in this place was Roshni, the maid, Rajni’s, daughter and almost as old as Shikha. Rajni’s husband, Ram Sharma, used to work at the brick kilns on the river while Rajni used to work at several local homes in that area doing household chores – washing clothes, cleaning the dishes, dusting, sweeping, mopping the house, grinding the spices, and much more. They lived in a small hut by the river, near the ghat. They were from one of Bihar’s very poor slums around the steel city of Jamshedpur, and had immigrated to this area during the riots of 1978. Roshni had two brothers, one older, and another younger. Rajni used to tie her little son with a long piece of cloth to her back and take him to work like a backpack. Roshni’s elder brother, who was couple years older than Roshni, used to go to school. Young Roshni was left to wander about the neighborhood play with the stray dogs or just hang about ghat. People traveling along the ghat knew her very well for she used to run up and down the river banks waving at them as each ferry departed or arrived. She was always out in the sun and her skin was tanned to a golden brown. With her dirty and torn clothes, runny nose, and sprightly spirit, she was like a mascot for the ghat. That is where Shikha and Roshni met and became friends.

That day, right after breakfast, Shikha went to play with Roshni. The girls ran about the fields by the river chasing butterflies, dragonflies, and crickets. When they got tired, they sat on that very bedi, swinging their little feet, and waving at each departing ferry. Both went home for lunch and had a tummy full of rice, dal, vegetables, and fish. It was a good day for Roshni, she usually went hungry over lunch or got some donations from the ferry passengers. With Shikha, she was treated to a great lunch today at Shikha’s house. After lunch, Dida asked Shikha to take a nap, but she begged, cried, and made her pleading face and somehow got the permission to go back to the ghat and play. Dida did not have time to put Shikha to sleep. She thought – Oh! The world would not end if Shikha did not take a nap one afternoon. In fact, Shikha might just tire herself out and go to bed early in the evening. Before she let Shikha out, Dida made her promise to stay in the shade for the afternoon was very scorching.

It was the end of the monsoons, and the field was blooming with Kaash phool. In autumn, when they are in full bloom, the flowers are magical soft and white and gorgeous. One could gently tug the flower by the stem and it would slip out quite easily, perfect for little four year olds to play with. For Shikha and Roshni, it was a game to pick as many flowers as they could get, the one who picks most flowers wins. So for quite a bit of the afternoon, they picked the flowers in the fields. Then, they sat at the brick bedi, to count their stash, neatly separating ‘the load’ according to size. They wanted to compare who got the most and who will be the “winner.” Suddenly Roshni pulled a few flowers off Shikha’s pile. Anger welled up inside Shikha. Her heart started racing, and hot blood pumping down her little hands, she felt a strange force explode within her little chest. She picked up her stash and she hit Roshni with the bunch of flowers. A tiny little spikelet hit Roshni in her right eye. Roshni immediately ran howling towards her hut. Shikha sat there on the bedi, anger gave way to regret and then fear. She sat frozen. What will happen now? I did not mean to hurt her. My hand just went up, I could not stop it. Did she get hurt? Can I say sorry like the Sisters in school taught me to? Will it be OK then? What will Maa say? Oh my God! What will Dida say? They will be very angry with me. What have I done? But, I did not mean to hurt Roshni, I like her very much! She is my only friend here. She should not have taken my flowers! They were mine! I picked them. She had her own bunch! Oh! I am so sorry! What will I do now?

Rajni came out of the hut, she was very angry. She scolded Shikha with a barrage of Hindi words that Shikha could not fully comprehend. Roshni was standing behind her mother, peeping from her the safe spot, her face had two glistening streams of tears. Shikha felt extremely sorry. She hung her head down and said Sorry with as loud a voice she could muster. She was at the verge of tears herself, but no one was listening. Rajni kept yelling and scolding in Hindi. When Shikha lifted her head to look at Roshni, it seemed that Roshni was fine. In fact, Roshni looked at Shikha and gave a cheeky smile through her tears. That felt even worse to Shikha. So, Roshni was just making up a problem when there was none. Rajni yanked her daughter and marched off to report to the elders. Dida, in spite of her very loving nature was a very strict lady. Shikha was very scared, she definitely did not keep her promise to Dida and was playing in the sun. Maa will tell Baba when he comes back and he will not be happy either. Shikha was going to get into a lot of trouble now. Her heart sank. The feeling of dread spread all over, head to toe. Oh no! Everyone will be mad at me even though Roshni is perfectly all right! They will scold me. Who knows what will happen now. I have to go home and face it. I have no choice.

Shikha walked home, slow fearful steps. Maybe no one will know, after all they are all busy with the baby, and Roshni is not really hurt. If Shikha could just slip in the house, and find something to do in the backyard, it will all be fine. On her way home, she heard Dida chatting with Manju Maashi on their porch. They were talking about Maa’s difficult pregnancy and about how beautiful the baby was, all fair with thick dark hair, just like an angel. Shikha quickened her steps and went inside the house. She found Maa with Sumana in the balcony. Maa was sitting on her easy chair feeding Sumana, holding her close to her bosom. She was humming Shikha’s favorite lullaby to put Sumana to sleep. As Shikha watched this, standing at the edge of the door, a pang of jealousy hit her. That is My favorite song, why is Maa singing it to the baby? Then, quickly reality struck her back to her senses, she remembered Roshni, and jealousy melted into hot dread again.

Maa looked up at Shikha at the door and smiled. She looked so beautiful, her long braid hanging on her back, her face so sweet and lovely, almost shining with happiness. She got up, the baby was asleep, so she gently laid the baby in the small rocking swing, tucked her in with lot of love and care. The afternoon light was filtering through the coconut and papaya trees and there were beautiful shapes playing out on the red balcony floor. Shikha kept watching her mother, a part of her screaming to run to Maa for a hug. She desperately wanted to feel safe and loved and as tears came up in her throat and eyes, she tried her very best to push them away. She put her head down, so that Maa could not see her tears.

“Why are you so quiet? That’s not so normal for you. Did you have a good time playing with Roshni? I am sure you had fun. No school for the entire month, you must be very happy”, Maa said. Shikha nodded and sat down on the balcony stairs with her favorite stones. She loved juggling those stones, she had handpicked them from the riverbanks and they were all smooth and shiny. They looked like little stars. Maa was singing softly, on her easy chair, Sumana asleep and swinging in her little bassinet swing, it all seemed peaceful and all right. Slowly Shikha relaxed, and started concentrating on the little shiny stones, and watching the light from the leaves move around the floor and over Maa’s bright face. She felt her heart get a bit quiet, and it started to feel safe.

Suddenly there were heavy footsteps. It was Dida coming up the lane. Shikha figured that Rajni had gone to Manju Maashi’s house, found Dida and complained. Shikha’s heart sank and her worst fear came true when she saw Dida, all flushed and breathless, running into the house straight to Maa.

‘Oh my god, Manu, you have no idea what Shikha did today! Rajni’s daughter has gone blind! Shikha hit her with a stick and blinded her! I don’t know what to do! Hey Bhagwaan! This is terrible! Rajni’s family is so poor, they live on almost nothing. What will happen to the poor girl? No one marries blind girls! Sarvanaash! Oh Shiva! O Maa Durga! Please have mercy on us! Please help us, please help poor little Roshni!’

There was no peace anymore. Maa flew into a rage – “Oh, no wonder you are being such goody-two-shoes! You blinded Roshni! What were you thinking?! What will I tell your Baba when he comes back?! How could you do such a thing?!”

Smack! Smack! There went many slaps on Shikha - on her back, on her cheeks, on her butt. Maa was angry. Sumana started crying. That made Maa angrier. No matter how much Shikha cried and said that Roshni was all right, that she was actually not hurt; Maa would not listen. Maa kept beating. After a while, Shikha stopped protesting. She just stood there taking the barrage of beatings, no matter where it came from and how much it hurt, she just stopped moving.

Finally, Maashi came from the kitchen to stop Maa, and separate the two. Then all the elders gathered around discussing the next steps. They were talking about which doctor to call, which hospital to take Roshni to, arranging transportation, and all such planning. Around that very moment, Mama came home from work, and was getting off his bicycle, when they filled him on this problem, he also joined in on the discussion and planning. They thought he should take the poor girl to the hospital to get her eyes looked at.

They forgot all about Shikha. Sad, hurt, and angry, Shihka had no one to turn to. If only Baba was here, he would have definitely checked the facts before beating her! She was crying and missing Baba very much. She retreated to the steps leading to the terrace, took her few river stones with her, and cried in silence. There was nowhere to go. No one loved her anymore; they were all worried about Roshni, who was not even hurt. She sat there, crying thick hot tears, hiccupping, but very silently, watching all the elders talking. Maa had taken Sumana in her arms again, and was cooing to the baby. Shikha’s heart hurt very much, it was as if there was a thick thorn stuck in there and it would not get out. She felt hot and cold at the same time. She wanted to hide, but there was no place she could go. The beatings from Maa were still live on her body, which by now had turned red and was hurting. She wished she could run to one of those ferries now and never come back. What if she went away, will they miss her? Shikha slowly crept inside the house, unnoticed. The hiccups were getting louder, she was crying very hard. She crawled under Dida’s bed in the middle room and hid as far under the bed she to go. If the elders cared about her, they could find her. It will be nice if no one found her, ever! She did not want to be with them anymore. She lay under the bed crying. And in her grief, she did not know when, Shikha fell asleep.

At dusk, people started realizing that Shikha was missing. They have been busy taking care of Roshni and had indeed forgotten about the other little girl. Mama had taken Roshni to the nearby doctor. The doctor had checked Roshni’s eye and passed the verdict that it was hemorrhage caused by a broken blood vessel, the redness would go away in couple days. It was harmless, no medicines required, eyesight was all right. Roshni was not blinded, and all was well in the world. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. But, where was Shikha?

Dida’s house had five large rooms and was somewhat L-shaped. The room at the end used to be Dadu’s study and had been left as such after Dadu passed away. Occasionally uncle used it as his study or to entertain guests. The other end of the house had Maashi’s room, kitchen, and the dining room. The middle room was the center of all activity. It was Dida’s room, with her large queen sized bed at one corner. One wall had wardrobes and almirahs. The other wall was the prayer wall. Dida was a very religious lady, and she probably had all the Hindu gods covered. Every morning she woke up at four in the morning, took a shower and prayed for a good couple hours.

The middle room was now buzzing with people, this time they were worrying about Shikha. Dida sat down in front of her gods asking for forgiveness and making deals with the gods – ‘If you return Shikha, we will go to the big temple and perform a major puja there.’ Dida had lost her first born to the river, the little boy had drowned while playing with his nanny near the river, he was caught in a rip current and sucked into the water. He was four years old then. That memory still haunted Dida, and she used to get hysterical if ever heard a kid had gone missing. The room was filled with elders again. They were all talking about how inappropriate it was to beat Shikha for such a trivial thing. Did Shikha run away? Did she go back to the river? Maa started crying – “Oh God! What will I say when her dad comes home!”

All this commotion had woken Shikha from her sleep, and she was listening. She was still sad, hurt, and angry. She was still under the bed in the middle room. She was full of abhimaan, and decided not to come out. Let them search, why not? After all they had beat me up without checking the facts. It serves them right. While she was asleep, the maid had put some empty buckets under the bed and had hid Shikha very well. The room had low power light bulb. She lay there under the bed, indignant. She did not move a muscle, lest she was found. Someone even tried moving the buckets to look for Shikha under the bed, but she was crouched up in the dark corner and too small to see in the dim light.

It must have been a couple hours, the room was tense, and it was mission control. Maa was on the bed with Sumana, crying softly and very worried. Mama had summoned a group of friends and neighbors and a search party had been formed. Some went to the ghat to look near the river edge. Few of his friends were patrolling the streets on bicycles looking for Shikha. One of Maashi’s friends came over and was talking to Maa. She suddenly got up and asked – “Did someone look within the house? Like every nook and corner? The little girl can be hiding in the house and we are all searching everywhere outside.” Even though the family members assured her that the house was searched, she was not convinced. She got Dadu’s big silver Eveready torch and started checking one room at a time. It was a large house, she started from one end and went room after room, moving everything that could hide a four-year old, including opening every almirah and wardrobe. After searching the entire house, she came back to mission control almost defeated. Then standing at the doorway, she said – “One last try, I am going to check under this bed.” Maa said weakly that they already searched under the bed, but maashi insisted that she look one more time. How can a four-year old just disappear in thin air? She got on her knees and started taking the buckets out one by one. And there was Shikha, crunched up into a ball at the very end, covered with cobwebs and dust. They pulled her out.

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Sitting at the bedi, and thinking of that day made Shikha smile. So many things have happened in these thirty years. Maa has left us, so has Dida. Sumana has a little bundle of joy of her own now. Mama had married and moved away, living in the city. Maashi was married and gone too. Shikha did not know where Roshni was, probably married and with kids of her own now. Their hut was not there anymore, only a clearing was left. Everyone from that day of her childhood had dispersed. Nevertheless, the old house still stood there, though a bit unkempt and unloved, only two rooms were in use and the rest were closed off and locked. Dida’s prayer wall didn’t have the pictures of gods anymore but the faded markings of the frames remained. The light in the middle room was still as dim. There was a bed too, but it was now a box bed to store the winter blankets, with no room for buckets under it. Shikha would sleep on that bed tonight, and not under it.

On Friendship-Experience

Over the last month I have been having these conversations about friendship with several people. In my mind, I suppose, I am refining my understanding of the concept. So here are my thoughts on friendship-experience in its different forms. In 2016, I had written a piece on the same subject, but from a slightly different perspective. In the ensuing years, my understanding has developed a bit further, and I am sure there is more insight to come in the future.

Hazards Beach, Tasmania

I feel there are three kinds of friendship-experiences:

The first kind is when friends find themselves in a "situation", I call these experiences the "Situation" kind. It might be a health issue, or a breakup, or job issue, or a family issue, etc. Friends have a problem, and they call us. We usually have energy, and they want it or need it. We actually love sharing our energy, so when they want us by their side, we enjoy the process. It gives us joy sharing our energy, it does not diminish us. The best metaphor I can think of is as if our friends were running in the woods and fell into a pit and sprained their leg. They cannot get out and ask for help. In the past I used to get into the pit with them and push them up. These days when I get the call, I check myself to see if I have the wherewithal to get into the pit, help them, and come out safely myself. If I cannot, I stay by the pit (not go in), and give them company. I inspire them, I hold their hand, I bring them food, I care for them, and for as long as it takes. And then over time they heal, they then climb out of the hole. They are happy. I feel good. This is the mentality I use with my hospice patients too. It gives me great joy to watch them feel good, and their caregivers feel a bit of respite with me being there.

In this first kind of friendship-experience, the passage of energy and love is often one sided. I think they love me back in some way, but it does not to fill my cup. My cup in these instances is already full, and by helping them I get great satisfaction. Now, if I am myself in a depressive state when called in for such an interaction, I have this uncanny way of being there for them, not go down in the pit with them, and still do my "job". That is how I was when my mum was passing. I have this way of being able to steel my heart against any pain. I do not absorb the pain, and I pour out from the inbuilt energy store I have, but there is a limit to how much I can do. This is still good, I still feel a bit of satisfaction. However, this activity does not fill my cup. I need to put effort on my own, away from the storms, to fill my cup. And with such friendship-experiences, I cannot expect the distressed friends to help me with my depression. They are themselves in poor condition, so I cannot even disclose to them my issues. Their issues appear  huge in front of them, they don't have time or patience to listen to mine, and are of no help either. When I look back at my life, all my family relationships, including the one with my spouse for over two decades, have been of this quality. I am called upon to serve, and I do, but it has never filled my cup. That is just the way things are. I just find out other ways to fill my cup.

This does not mean that we should shun these relationships, they have a purpose in our lives. These friendship-experiences allow opportunities for us to serve without any expectations of return. It provides a way for us to develop the precious skill of being calm in the face of a storm, learn how to manage life and its travails through adversity. It is very essential skill to master, and these friendship-experiences offer us that opportunity.

The second kind is what I call the "Resonance" type of friendship-experience. These friends love me, but they are not very wise or strong themselves. I know, "wise" is not a good word here, but I cannot think of any other. So I have to explain. With these friends, if I share my thoughts, they become affected. They resonate with me. So, if I am elated, they are instantly on Mt. Everest. And if, by chance, I am depressed, they then dive into the deep Marianas Trench. And often times, as they watch themselves going into the spiral, they try to latch onto any idea that pops up in their head. They often offer useless advice. For example, they'd point out that I need a boyfriend and that will solve all my problems (real and perceived) in life, and then start a conversation about matchmaking. Their repertoire of solutions are  usually limited, and they get on one track too often. Also, they are usually attached to their solutions and if I choose not accept the solutions they offer, they feel hurt and get sentimental. They love me, yes, but they are not strong to support me or offer me wise solutions. Out of their love, they get in the pit with me without seeing that they don't have the strength or ability to get out. Then I am left with figuring out how to get out myself, and I feel responsible for having them in the pit. Such friendship-experiences often leave me tired. 

Having said all that, it is still very nice to have these kind of friends along on my life journey. They are good chums, and we have a good time hanging out together. They love me, I never question their intention. I know that they always mean well, even though their solutions are wayward at times. It really does not matter, because they come from a place of affection and caring. When I am in need stability, I just don't approach them, as I know that there will be resonance and it will not be helpful. At all other times, we have a fabulous time together, so it is well worth putting the effort in maintaining such friendships.

Which brings me to the third kind of friendship-experience, and in my life it is extremely rare. I think I have only one such person in my life who fits this bill.  With this person it is different because they are, what I would call, a "Reflective" kind of friend. When I open up with this individual, I find that person very objectively looking at the situation, and then holding up the mirror at me. I often don't see the reflection or sometimes do not like what I see, but I greatly value the exercise. Sometimes the dust in my eyes is so much that I cannot "get it" right away, and they patiently keep holding the mirror at me. Also, because of the love and affection I have for them, I seriously consider all I see and truly reflect on it. There is no judgment, no fear, no "loss of face", no sentimental wrangling. This person is clear and calm all the time. So, as I bring anxiety or elation, this person's equanimity and calm affection is like a soothing balm to my heart. My anxiety cools down to acceptance. My elation also settles down into clarity. And while this process happens, there is no fear of loss of any kind. There is trust that no matter what, this relationship will withstand the storms of life and time. That is why this kind of relationship is very special. 

I have seen and heard other friends talk about having this kind of relationship with their parent, or sibling, or partner. A friend of mine had that kind of friendship with her dad. She has been very lucky. She had this kind of calming force in her life for solid 47 years, and it has made her a very stable and wise person. She learned from the best on how to make decisions, how to see clearly, when to stay the course, and when to change directions. She could open up anything that troubled her to her father, and he has always been extremely clear, objective, and gave her  productive suggestions. He did not take anything personally, and though he had her best interests in his heart, he let her come to her own decisions by herself. He just pointed out a few paths from his vantage point, as she was usually too close to the ground and could not see them. In their relationship, there is a sense of mutual respect and caring, but not the overbearing kind. It is, what I call, a wise friendship, a patient friendship, and a true-love kind of friendship.

As I walk this journey of life, I now constantly evaluate my friendship-experiences. Note that I call them friendship-experiences and not label friends instead. I have found that some friends display different characteristics at different times based on their mental equanimity, and so my experience with them change with time, place, and situation. All three kinds of friendship-expereinces are essential for a healthy happy life. It is not only about what the friends in my life can do or provide for me, it is also about how I can be the right kind of friend when they need me. It gives me great joy when I can see clearly through my friendship-experiences, and maybe this note will help you with that as well.