Being Bold, Being Active

 I feel very good that not too many people read this blog. Ha!

Because I feel the urge to make a public commitment, but then I am also quite nervous to let all my  friends and family know. So, this is a pseudo proclamation. No one will read it, but I can still tell my heart that I did make a public resolution.

I am starting to actively workout again!!

Tasmania, my paradise on earth

Wow! That's a big one for me.

When I was in Perth, Australia, I was about 33, and in the best physical form of my life. My body fat was about 17% and no matter what I wore, it looked good. And I was strong, I had good quality muscle. I had a great routine to work out regularly, and also used to easily run for 10 miles with no issues. I loved running. I also loved working out in the weight room. I had a very good schedule and it made me feel good.
Then I moved back to the US, had a back injury while lifting something heavy up the stairs, and it totally up-ended my fitness. I was barely able to sit or stand or walk for long, working out at a gym was beyond question. It took about three years of physiotherapy (useless), epidurals (short term relief), and then aqua therapy (this one worked!). I was almost ready to take up fitness again, but then I was hit by a series of personal challenges - near-death car accident, death of a parent where I was the primary caregiver for four months, slow disintegration of marriage and feeling helpless, divorce, financial insecurity, cancer scare, two serious operations, family issue.... need I say more. All this I survived, and lasted over seven years, and it was not easy. I managed to keep my professional life intact, and tried to keep afloat on the personal side but barely, and frequently sliding into depression. Other health issues cropped up and I did not know how to deal with it. The doctors had no answers, except testing and testing.

Anyway, since that "perfect" time at 33, over the last 12 years, I have added almost 50 lbs. The weight did not arrive suddenly, it was a slow creep. It was like 4 - 5 oz increase a month, and I could see the scale up by a pound every three to four months. But that gradual increase kept going, and my clothes started getting tighter and sizes getting higher. From a 2, I went up to a 10. And I felt miserable for it.

Why didn't I do anything? Quite frankly, I did not have the bandwidth in my life to take care of it. I was depressed, I had to look after my professional and financial situation first. Whatever little time I had left, I used to lie like a cocoon. Yes, I know, it was terrible.

But things have changed in the last few months. After a series of medical appointments, I think I now have the right medications in place. My professional life and financial life is on track and moving at a good speed. I have the bandwidth available to focus on my health now. I want to get back to my old fitness level, adjusted, of course, to the fact that I am now 12 years older. The most important thing is that my life has space and time and effort available right now to invest in this endeavor.

So what is the plan?

I have joined Planet Fitness. A dear friend recommended it to me as a low cost, low pressure alternative. I went and looked around two gyms, deciding to join one that was really well equipped. I really do not need classes, for I already know the basics. My challenge has never been about technique or motivation; it was always about fitting in a workout schedule that I could follow consistently. So, I am starting the journey this week. 

My goal is to lose the 50 lbs of fat I am carrying and then some, and build the muscle mass back up. Also, I want to increase my cardio fitness. I want to be running again. In 2006 I had run the Chicago Marathon, I want to be able to run a marathon again. If I am able to do that, I will know that I have built up my cardio fitness back. In 2006, I was able to run a marathon in around 4 hours, I would like to be able to run making similar time, even a 4.5 hour marathon will be acceptable to me.  As for fitness, I want to have the body fat down to about 20%. I do not think I will be able to get down to the 17% I used to have, I will be perfectly satisfied with 20%. And with that I want my muscles toned and strong. I want to work out with the weights again, it was so fun and I remember it!

Here's my plan:

Monday - Wednesday - Friday -I will follow this pattern -

Week 1 - Jog 1 min/ Walk 4 min  x 6 = total 30 mins
Week 2 - Jog 2 min/ Walk 3 min  x 6 = total 30 mins
Week 3 - Jog 3 min/ Walk 1 min  x 6 = total 30 mins
Week 4 - Jog 4 min/ Walk 1 min  x 6 = total 30 mins

Week 5 - Jog 6 min/ Walk 4 min  x 4 = total 40 mins
Week 6 - Jog 7 min/ Walk 3 min  x 4 = total 40 mins
Week 7 - Jog 8 min/ Walk 2 min  x 4 = total 40 mins

Week 8 - Jog 12 min/ Walk 3 min  x 3 = total 45 mins
Week 9 - Jog 13 min/ Walk 2 min  x 3 = total 45 mins
Week 10 - Jog 14 min/ Walk 1 min  x 3 = total 45 mins

Week 11 - Jog 17 min/ Walk 3 min  x 3 = total 60 mins
Week 12 - Jog 19 min/ Walk 1 min  x 3 = total 60 mins
Week 13 - Jog 60 mins

As I started this week, by December 30th, I should be able to be running for 60 minutes straight. That is a lovely achievement to look forward to.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I will just do some simple upper body and lower body workouts - easy reps, low weights. Not so much to build anything, just to start getting used to going to the gym on a regular basis and getting re-acquainted with the free weights and machines. I do not want to break sweat and try anything hard on these days. My focus for next 13 weeks is to build up the cardio strength and be able to jog comfortably, without any injury. Especially because my  back can give out again - I want to be very gentle and do not want to do anything that can jeopardize the progress.

I will NOT give myself a time goal for weight reduction. I know that the fat will melt on its own schedule. As my mobility increases and I get more agile, everything else will fall into place. Also, to lose the fat, diet is very important and I need to focus on that as well.

As I have made aerobic work my key focus for the rest of the year, I need to set my workout range as well. I am 45, so my MAX HR is (220 - 45=) 175 bpm. Now, the Max aerobic (injury free) limit is 180, so my MAX AEROBIC HR is (180 - 45=) 135 bpm. And because I am starting from a really poor condition, and a bad back, I am going to not run above 130 bpm. I am giving myself a 5 bpm reduced goal.

This feels really low. And based on on the practice I did today, because my aerobic situation is so poor, I reach 130 very easily! I will have to jog really slow, like fast walking pace to maintain 130. But you know what, I will NOT train harder. I need to resist the urge to push myself and take this slow. There is really no hurry. It took me 12 years to gain 50 lbs and lose my fitness, I need to build it back up slowly.

There it is! My Goal - BE ABLE TO RUN FOR 60 MINS BY DECEMBER 2021.

Idling

Last weekend, on Sunday I did a one-day Vipassana self-course. It was a blissful experience. Even though I had my dogs with me, I meditated for ten hours, and it was an "abiding in peace" experience. My mind settled to this very joyful space of stillness and quiet pleasure. They say it is called "piti", I was so grateful to have been able to experience it.

And then came Monday. I really did not feel like getting to work. My workload is kind of light these days, so with no burning deadline, I didn't feel the urgency to focus and go into the deep-work state. So I kept doing light work all day, miscellaneous administrative stuff that the business needs done, but nothing substantial to show. By the time Tuesday rolled in, I was checking emails but realized I really did not want to get deeper into work. I was feeling guilty (Damn, you old habit pattern!!), and that's not a joyful space. Later that night, I decided I am going to experiment Idling for the rest of the week.

A dear friend often comments about me - "Whatever I see you do, I see you do with full might!" Ha! So I thought if I am to Idle, I am going to prove his observation right and see how I can excel in Idling.

How does one Idle for a whole week and be good at it?

How much Idle is good for you, and where is the limit?

Can I get bored of Idling?

What is the difference between Laziness and Idling? 

From Wednesday to Friday, I spent Idling - all three long days. My two dogs were my inspiration - how they sleep, get up, shake, drink water, walk around, then bundle up for a snooze again!

All my working life, which is not over 22 years, I have been an Energizer Bunny. Very busy, always on projects, to-do lists, and in motion. When I did not have anything, I made it a point to find something to do. Since 2010, I have been going on 10-day silent vipassana retreats, at least two a year, but even for those, there is a routine, there is a task to be done - meditation. That has usually been my life - always busy, even when I am making fun, it is busy-fun.

After I moved to San Diego in 2009, I started taking a day "off" every quarter or so. Usually it used to be a Saturday, and scheduled. I would get up when I felt like it, and make myself a big pot of khichdi (porridge). Then I'd have that for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And for the rest of the day, just lie in bed reading or napping, or on the sofa, watching some mindless TV and napping. The resting and sleeping took precedence over reading or finishing a program. My husband used to call me "vegetable"! But you know what? It would charge me up! From the next day, I'd be refreshed and ready, back being the usual Energizer Bunny. But since 2014 or so, I had stopped doing these recharge days.

So was being a vegetable being lazy? I feel that it is lazy when you really do not want to put in the work. When you don't care enough. It is not circumstantial. Me watching Netflix is lazy? Or not wanting to do work is lazy? If it is a repetitive pattern of inaction and procrastination, then maybe it is. I think everyone has their own threshold of laziness. If my husband didn't put the coffee cup in the sink and left it next to the sink, or put the dirty laundry in the vicinity of the laundry room but not in the laundry basket, I think it was lazy. There was an intent of not finishing the task. But you are allowed to take time off - and rest, and clear your mind and body of all kinds of tightness and fatigue. That is not lazy.

So what did I do in the three days of Idle?

• I checked emails once every four hours and responded to the urgent ones. I also took phone calls as necessary, but did not initiate any.
• I did not write a to-do list, though my mind was swimming in things to do. Ha!
• I lay on the sofa watching British crime dramas on Netflix, or reading some books I borrowed from the library, but mostly napping when I felt like it.
• I took my dogs for their walks twice a day, but not anything extra. They were very happy chilling with me, sometimes on me, for the whole three days.
• I made myself simple one-pot meals in the pressure cooker and ate the same for all three meals.
• I slept a lot. A LOT. Over seven hours at night and long naps during the day.
• My meditation hours were even more peaceful, I felt bright physically and mentally.
• I was very aware of sensations in my body, every movement, every morsel I ate, every glass of water I drank, almost of every step I took. It was very pleasing - I was smiling most of the time.
• I think I became a bit more kinder to myself.

I will do this again. Maybe once every month, if I can schedule it, or at least once a quarter. And I recommend this to everyone who works hard and is forever moving from one task to another. Schedule out a day of rest and nothingness. You will find it a very hard thing to do at first because it goes against the grain of your set habit patterns. But once you have it set up, this pause is very beneficial to renew and recharge.

Freo and Ozzie, Idling with Mummy

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.

Divorce, what is it?

My husband and I are looking at finalizing our divorce in early 2015. It is just a few weeks away, and we will say goodbye to a 15+ year marriage, and 23+ year relationship. We met in 1991, I was 15, he was 17. We grew up together. And a lot has happened in our lives in these last two decades.

Today, at the threshold of a new life I find myself in a very strange place. I feel that my life, the construct that I lived in almost all my life has been broken into pieces. It is like a tornado came through and totally flattened and destroyed the home. I had spent 23 long years building that home, brick by brick, each brick was made of effort, love, and dreams. I am now standing over the ruins, looking at all the broken bricks, mortar, furniture, everything that resembled my home. I am mourning the loss of that construct. I am also looking at these ruins and wondering if I would ever be able to rebuild it again? Will I build another home with the same floor plan or will it be completely different? Will it even be here at this location? What kind of materials shall I use? Shall I live here or become a traveler? Should I just let go of everything, even the memories?

"Saamne muskurati hain manzil
Paaon lekin uthana hain mushkil"

(Caption says:  The destination is smiling right in front of me but it is very difficult to take the first step.)

In 2011, I had a major car accident from which I escaped without a scratch. In 2012, my mother passed away after a very short and painful fight with cancer. In 2013 I watched my marriage slowly disintegrate, get frayed, and finally in April 2014 it did not have a meaning anymore. I was not the initiator of this separation, so it was, and still is, very painful.

What am I really mourning? Was I blissfully happy every moment of all these 23 years? What is happiness, after all? What is love, after all? The more I reflect and delve deeper, I realize that I am mourning my attachments.

My attachment to him, my attachment to everything "his", my attachment to anything that resembled him, my attachment to what I dreamed him up to be, my attachment to what he could be, my attachment to the potential I saw in him, my attachment to my wishes for him, my attachment to all the memories of him....

My attachment to all the dreams of "us", my attachment to everything that we have been through together, my attachment to the sweet memories of courtship, my attachment to "stuff" that we acquired together, my attachment to the plans we had made together, my attachment to the path we walked together....

I am also mourning the loss of my naivety and childlike innocent belief in how the world works. I had believed that if you love someone, and give that person your all, it will get reciprocated. I had believed that trust is all that matters in the world. I had believed that no matter what, there will be at least few people in the world - parents, siblings, and spouse - who will always be there holding your back. That construct indeed got shattered.

I am also mourning the hurt to my ego. For all the things that I did for him and us, I had indeed expected a return. I had not recognized that before, but now that the home has flattened, I realized that there was this expectation buried deep inside each brick. It has come out now. I sacrificed a lot for this relationship - didn't have a kid, gave up good career prospects, even a shot at a PhD at Stanford, slogged like a mule in several thankless jobs to get our green card/citizenship, made the money so we could have the lifestyle he liked...... the list is long. But you know what, all this I thought I had done for "love", but now I do realize that it was not all selfless, I did expect a return from him in our future together. I had expected that he too put in effort and love in building that home, I had expected that some of the bricks were made of his toil too. But he didn't stay long enough. As we separate, I feel betrayed. And it hurts. And I realize that this hurt is because of the destruction of the construct I had created, based on "my" expectations. Yes, these expectations may be justified, since relationships are usually transactional in nature, and I gave more than I got back. But, the underlying factor remains, I stand here mourning everything that was "I", "me", "my", and "mine" - memories, effort, dreams, and expectations.

Life, I know, will go on. It always does. It will be a different one. I don't know what it'll be like for I never dreamed of that life before. It will be different, different bricks with different ingredients...

Remembering my Boro Mesho

I can't concentrate. I have a major deadline tomorrow but no words seem to come out of my fingertips except this note about my Mesho. Today I am mourning yet another cherished person in my life. This is hard, very hard.

This morning he passed away after a massive cerebral stroke. Last night he went to bed after a normal dinner, but woke up in the middle of the night not feeling well. He fell on his way to the bathroom, threw up a few times, and then started sweating profusely. Maashi knew something was wrong, she got help, and they took him to the hospital in Kolkata. By the time they did a CT scan, his brain was swimming in blood, there was little hope. He was on life support for sometime and then passed away. Maashi did get a chance to say good bye. She is a strong woman, much stronger than many women I know. I could give anything to be able to hug her right now.

This is their story, gathered from what I have heard and pieced together over the years.

Mesho and Maashi fell in love in college. We are talking late 50s - early 60s. They were both super brilliant students of economics, award winning, first class first and all. They came from very diverse backgrounds. Maashi was the oldest daughter of a very renowned teacher in Hoogly. My grandfather did not have a lot of money but he was very respected all around for his learning, so much so that he used to host councils at his home to address the major socio-economic-political issues in the region. Maashi was always there, right and center, the apple of his eye, and deservedly so because of her intellect and commanding presence. Mesho was from a very humble background, grew up with great difficulty in a farming village. From that hard life, he struggled, through with sheer determination and tenacity to become an award winning graduate from one of the most prestigious universities of India. Maashi and Mesho were a perfect fit, only for one thing - he was not of the Brahmin caste like my Maashi, and at that time, it was a big deal. Also, choosing your life partner by yourself was not common either. Furthermore, Maashi and Mesho had resolved to not pursue further education goals with scholarship abroad or life in the City or any such 'typical' careers brilliant students like them usually did,instead they wanted to go to a village and be humble schoolteachers and seed knowledge in the next generation of students.There was a lot of societal opposition to their choices, but they went ahead anyways. My grandfather greatly respected my Maashi and Mesho for their choice, and my grandmother loved Mesho very much. They lived their entire life in Pandua, then a small impoverished village 80 kms from Kolkata, but now a bustling town of more than 30,000 people. They raised three charming kids of their own, and from their two little schools they inspired thousands of young ones. When they retired, they still lived not too far from their old school and students, an inspirational beacon of knowledge. Yes, we all fantasize of doing such a thing, they actually lived and breathed that life, by volition and sheer determination. Theirs could have easily been a life of material wealth and ego, but it was a humble and beautiful life instead. Their son, Soumyadarshan, definitely has those genes of selfless service and is carrying on their good work and then some.

My earliest memory of Mesho is from when we were visiting my grandma at Bansberia, I was quite young then, may be three or so. I remember him getting off a big shining black and silver motorbike, which was a big deal to me as I did not know anyone who owned a beautiful machine like that. Then I remember him standing at the door with his large structure filling up the entire doorway as if the latter was a frame, and light was streaming from the veranda behind him, he had an aura around him. He had these mesmerizing tan eyes, I had never seen those before. In my three year old little world, he was the handsomest man I had ever seen, larger than life, and I will always remember him that way.

He used to call my grandma, Moana. All my maashis and my mom did too, but I think he had the sweetest intonation. He would call out - "O Moana" - very affectionately. I am sure my grandma's heart melted every time she heard that call. He loved her very much. In 1988, when my grandma passed away, I remember his blood shot eyes, he did not talk much that day, but I could see he was crying and was in deep pain.

He had his trials in life. In 1998, his only daughter passed away, all of a sudden, it was leukemia. He mourned for more than a decade, I don't think he ever stopped mourning her passing. It was a deep hole in his heart. He used to say, he is ready for all trials in this world but it seemed that each passing year, he was being tested and life gave him even more to bear. Last year when my mother was on her death bed, he had come over to see her, along with my Maashi. I saw those tear-soaked pain-filled eyes again. He could not bear see my mom in such a condition. It was overwhelming for him. That was the last time I saw him. It's so hard to accept that I will never see him again.

I remember him for many other reasons too. He was an inspiration for having really dedicated his life to education, being a true teacher. I am sure he had touched many lives and made an impression in them, probably much deeper than he did in mine. I am sure there will be thousands of students flocking his home paying homage to their beloved teacher.

He was an avid traveler. If he was not to be a teacher, I think he would have been a professional traveler. I used to love to listen to his tales of travel, wide eyed and daydreaming of the places he described. I think all my maternal relatives have been on vacations with him one time or the other. This year when we went to see the Stupa at Rajghir, my Mama was jumping up and down the stairs leading to the Stupa remembering the time he had come to see this with Mesho after he had just graduated from high school. Mesho had this spirit for discovery that was unparalleled. When he talked about travel, his eyes twinkled, his entire face shone with intensity and passion. It was addictive.

One beautiful memory I have of him is with my father, relaxing after lunch, in the staff quarter of Radharani Girls High School, where my Maashi was a teacher. The two of them are 'ghoti', i.e. originally from West Bengal, and not implants from East Bengal (now Bangladesh) like my mom's family. They talked at length about how aaloo posto (potatoes and poppy seed) should be made, and how the 'ghoti' method was the best. I remember them talking for almost three hours, sometimes heated - about the right way of grinding the seeds, to economics of the international posto market, to how terrior affects the quality of the potatoes from different regions of Bengal and across India, on and on. I was very young, possibly 8 years old, and I remember my younger self thinking - I wish I could record this conversation, this is so interesting, it's like reading a book (thesis) on aaloo-posto!

He could be very stubborn at times and had somewhat a flashy temper. Maashi, I would say, was very accommodating. I suppose it came from the love they shared and nurtured through the years, that lent them to be understanding and adjusting. Their younger son and I were close buddies growing up, and we used to call Mesho, Boro Royal Bengal Tiger, and my dad, Choto Royal Bengal Tiger - a testimony to their roaring capabilities. Now we can look back and laugh, but when we were kids and either of them roared, we would pee in our pants out of fright. I suppose some of his students also saw the strict disciplinarian side of him when he was their head master.

I will miss him very much. Through the years, I have not been able to meet him as often as I wanted, and I regret that. Life gets in the way of the things you want to do, and you postpone them, and then one day the opportunity is gone. But I am happy that in 2011, exactly two years ago around this time, right after Lakshmi Puja, Baba, Maa and I were able to visit Pandua and spend an entire day with him and his family. I cherish that memory, for that was a happy time when both Maa and Mesho were with us, and may be now they are sitting up there, somewhere, chatting and sipping a cup of tea. I sure like to think so.

The pain does not go away

Mum n Me (1976)

My mum passed away on February 15th, 2012. It has been more than a year. Not a day goes by that I don't think of her last days. I reached Kolkata, after a long 36-hr journey on 10th February only to find her non-responsive. She was breathing, on IV, but did not respond to touch. Her body cavities were filling up with water. She was at home, on her own bed, just as she had wanted, and not stuck in a cold hospital room among electronic monitors. She was surrounded by her brother and sisters, their kids - all her loved ones. The next five days were so painful to watch her fade away, ever so slowly and painfully. She had trouble breathing and we could not help her. We would pump out liquid from her mouth, give her oxygen, and had to sit by her side and watch her suffer. I hardly slept those days and was by her side all day and night, hearing her heave, trying very hard to breathe. I still shudder when I think of that noise of labored breathing. It was the worst five days of my life and brings me to tears so often.

Maa is gone, but I can't seem to forget that pain and sense of helplessness watching her die. It is so hard, I can't even explain it to anyone. No matter how often I talk about her passing and sometimes in great details, it does not help ease the pain. I feel the pain coursing through my veins, and it envelopes me like a flash flood, shaking me through the core. Memories of those five days hit me at most inopportune times - a light breeze may remind me of her last breath. I had felt it sweep over me. I had felt the earth move from under me. All her family and friends were around her at that time, but I felt so lonely and empty inside. I did not cry then, not a single tear, and now a light breeze brings a deluge of tears that I can't control. I can't seem to make peace with it. I still feel so very lonely in my grief, can't share it with anyone. Most people have not been through this, they cannot understand or comprehend the all consuming vacuum.

Today Nelson Mandela is going through his last days. He has been my hero, my inspiration since I was a little kid. I can sort of understand what his daughter is feeling, when she touches her father's hand, and I feel her helplessness. Yes, he is 94, he has lived a vigorous life, been a guiding light to the world. It is his time to say good bye to the world. But in a daughter's heart, it is very hard to see your parent go through this last struggle of life. You wish it to be smooth, but it is not in your control. You have to watch them suffer, and you can't share the pain. It is excruciating. My mum was 61 when she passed away, she had lived a hard life, nothing compared to Madiba, but in her own little world she too had to overcome momentous challenges.

Today as I cry for my mum, I also cry for Madiba because I love and admire him. But more so, I cry for his daughter who is probably going through the same experience I had last year. The pain does not go away, you can do nothing but learn to live with it. And it is very hard, much harder than anything you have ever done in your life!

From the people before me, To the people after me

An artist friend asked me today - Do you always have an example for every thing you say or think? Then where is your creativity? - I really liked that question. My friend and I talked for a bit and then I thought I should write a post on it.

I am an engineer, or you can also call me a scientist. When we are young, we are trained in thinking a certain logical way. The hallmark of our training is development of new ideas and 'creation' based on work previously done by others. Every thesis we write, every calculation we do, we cite references of others who have done work in this field before us. We stand on the shoulders of giants who have lived before us. No article we publish starts with the sentence - This is totally brand new. Instead, the entire ethos of the scientific community is to honestly refer to publications in the past.

Come to think of this, art is no different. The artist first learns to copy from works of people before him/her, even if it is a photograph or an object. Then, over time he/she develops his/her own style to deliver. It is a long process of learning and then creating. The integrity of a new creation has foundations in the vigorous search, authentic appreciation, and absorption of means and methods of greats before us.

In a person's lifetime, I believe, we spend most of our time in three parts - appreciation, intention, and activity. Appreciation applies to everything that has happened in the past and is happening in the present, appreciation of the happy and sad things in life, the beauty of a flower blooming, and imbibing the knowledge. We are also focused on intention, which is directed to the future where our hopes and aspirations lie. That's the 'dreaming'. And then, there is activity, without which we cannot exist. Activity is essential. The trick lies in keeping all three in harmony. It is like trying to stand on a beach ball. Just when you think you got the balance right, you fall off it. But there are moments that you do get that balance right and you understand deep down what it means to be 'in sync'. That is a feeling of nirvana! The 'Aha' moment!

Maybe the better example is trying to ride a bicycle - you eventually figure it out. It happens when you are relaxed, when you have struck a balance in dogged determination (that intense will or desire) and relinquishing a bit on effort (letting go). It is about training the mind and body to act as one, in resonance. When one stands back, watches, becomes quiet, and lets go; it happens. Creation happens! Magic happens!

The fun thing is that when you create something new, you actually lay the path for the next generation to build on it. It is like you put your own little brick in the creation of the the universe. That brick is yours and yours alone, but it is a part of the whole. Today we have space exploration projects because in the past the pyramids were built, because Galileo had seen Saturn's moons, because Newton had figured out the three laws. No one can take your brick away from you, it's your organic contribution to eternity that future generations will take and nurture to greater heights that you cannot even fathom today. And that is OK. That is life!

A Truck-load of Dung

You know that feeling when you are searching for solutions and it was right in front of you all the time, waiting for you to 'see' it. Often the solution is easy, simple to the core, and you go 'duh'! But the solution is also often very difficult to implement. One such a situation is happening in my life right now. One person very close to me is going through a difficult phase, the answer sits in front of us, but it is extremely difficult to implement.

Shell on Sand

Today I am particularly in a reflective mood, and in such times, I often open some of my favorite books to get a shot of strength. This story below touched me very much, once again.

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"A truck-load of dung" from the book "Opening the door of your heart", by Ajahn Brahm.

Unpleasant things, like coming bottom of our class, happen in life. They happen to everyone. The only difference between a happy person and one who gets depressed is how they respond to disasters.

Imagine you have just had a wonderful afternoon at the beach with a friend. When you return home, you find a huge truck-load of dung has been dumped right in front of your door. There are three things to know about this truck-load of dung :

1. You did not order it. It's not your fault.
2. You're stuck with it. No one saw who dumped it, so you cannot call anyone to take it away.
3. It is filthy and offensive, and its stench fills your whole house. It is almost impossible to endure. 

In this metaphor, the truck-load of dung in front of the house stands for the traumatic experiences that are dumped on us in life. As with the truckload of dung, there are three things to know about tragedy in our life:

1. We did not order it. We say 'Why me?'
2. We're stuck with it. No one, not even our best friends, can take it away (though they may try).
3. It is so awful, such a destroyer of our happiness, and its pain fills our whole life. It is almost impossible to endure.

There are two ways of responding to being stuck with a truck-load of dung. The first way is to carry the dung around with us. We put some in our pockets, some in our bags, and some up our shirts. We even put some down our pants. We find when we carry dung around, we lose a lot of friends! Even best friends don't seem to be around so often.

"Carrying around the dung" is a metaphor for sinking into depression, negativity, or anger. It is a natural and understandable response to adversity. But we lose a lot of friends, because it is also natural and understandable that our friends don't like being around us when we're so depressed. Moreover, the pile of dung gets no less, but the smell gets worse as it ripens.

Fortunately, there's a second way. When we are dumped with a truckload of dung, we heave a sigh, and then get down to work. Out come the wheelbarrow, the fork, and the spade. We fork the dung into the barrow, wheel it around the back of the house, and dig it into the garden. This is tiring and difficult work, but we know there's no other option.

Sometimes, all we can manage is half a barrow a day. We're doing something about the problem, rather than complaining our way into depression. Day after day we dig in the dung. Day after day, the pile gets smaller. Sometimes it takes several years, but the morning does come when we see that the dung in front of our house is all gone.

Furthermore, a miracle has happened in another part of our house. The flowers in our garden are bursting out in a richness of color all over the place. Their fragrance wafts down the street so that the neighbors, and even passers-by, smile in delight. Then the fruit tree in the corner is nearly falling over, it's so heavy with fruit. And the fruit is so sweet; you can't buy anything like it. There's so much of it that we are able to share it with our neighbors.  Even passers-by get a delicious taste of the miracle fruit.

"Digging in the dung" is a metaphor for welcoming the tragedies as fertilizer for life. It is work that we have to do alone: no one can help us here. But by digging it into the garden of our heart, day by day, the pile of pain gets less.

It may take us several years, but the morning does come when we see no more pain in our life and, in our heart, a miracle has happened. Flowers of kindness are bursting out all over the place, and the fragrance of love wafts way down our street, to our neighbors,  to our relations, and even to passers-by. Then our wisdom tree in the corner is bending down to us, loaded with sweet insights into the nature of life. We share those delicious fruits freely, even with the passers-by, without ever planning to.

When we have known tragic pain, learnt its lesson, and grown our garden, then we can put our arms around another in deep tragedy and say, softly, 'I know.' They realize we do understand. Compassion begins. We show them the wheelbarrow, the fork, and the spade, and boundless encouragement. If we haven't grown our own garden yet, this can't be done.

I have known many monks who are skilled in meditation, who are peaceful, composed and serene in adversity. But only a few have become great teachers. I often wondered why.

It seems to me now that those monks who had a relatively easy time of it, who had little dung to dig in, were the ones who didn't become teachers. It was the monks who had the enormous difficulties, dug them in quietly, and came through with a rich garden that became great teachers.

They all had wisdom, serenity and compassion; but those with more dung had more to share with the world. My teacher, Ajahn Chah, who for me was the pinnacle of all teachers, must have had a whole trucking company line up with their dung at his door, in his early life.

Perhaps the moral of this story is that if you want to be of service to the world, if you wish to follow the path of compassion, then the next time a tragedy occurs in your life, you may say, "Whoopee! More fertilizer for my garden!"

Inner Peace

During January 2010, I took a 10-day meditation course. It had profoundly changed my life and made me shift my life completely. Since then I have been practicing on and off, not as much as I should. But because my perspective on life changed so much during those 10 days, I see things very differently in regular life.

I have been re-reading "An Ancient Path" by Dr. Paul R. Fleischman. I want to share a portion of the book here that has been on my mind lately, especially with the terrible incident that happened last week that shook me to the core.
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**There was a period of time when I set about the task of studying people who attained inner peace. What do they say? How did they do it? There are people from every era of history, every culture, who address this problem in one degree or another. Here is a conclusion that seems timeless and culture-free: there are two agendas that human beings share. One agenda is to be peaceful, to be happy, I want to find "more" to life. The other agenda is safety, security; that gold Cadillac may come in handy, or gold may come in handy, you can't trust other people, history if perfidious. There could be a war; I better situate myself in a good position. With two apparently competing agendas, very idealistic or simple philosophy might conclude, well, just walk the open road. Very pragmatic, very skeptical philosophy would say: make sure you know which side your bread is buttered on. But notably successful peace seekers throughout time and place have come up with what psychiatrists call the end of splitting. Splitting is where we divide human life into antagonistic partial answers. The end of splitting is where we make complex whole answers that take away divisiveness and produce skillfully integrated middle paths. The middle path of inner peace is to live a practical, competent, skillful, worldly life, during which every moment is also infused with the spirit of harmony and peace. Peace is part of survival, not its antagonist. Rather dividing or splitting adaptation and harmony, you fuse them.

Successful lives of inner peace exemplify competence illuminated.
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I seek now to find that middle path. It's a journey, and I am very happy to be in that search-mode. It makes my life so much more meaningful. In everything I do, I try to rise above the 'splitting'. It is not always easy, it is actually very hard. It takes a lot of self control and understanding. Every time I make a small progress, it gives me great happiness since I know I am on track. This is my life's purpose now. I know it will let me live an invigorating life. That is my definition of Happiness.



**This has been copied from the chapter "Cultivating Inner Peace" from the book  "An Ancient Path" by Dr. Paul R. Fleischman. All rights belong to the author.

White Cotton Sarees with Red Border

".... who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices."

Lord Byron wrote these lines for his beloved dog, Boatswain. It very eloquently describes the vices we humans possess and find very hard to shed in our lifetime. For me it is a constant journey and I find myself going adrift often, then my little boys, Freo and Ozzie, manage to put me back on track.

Yesterday I was reminded of this poem during a conversation. A lady was telling me how every festival season she donates cotton sarees (white with red border) to orphans. The orphans do not ask for it, but she does that on her own volition. The sarees are cheap, about a dollar and half per saree. I wore them for a fortnight during the mourning period for my mother earlier this year. I found them quite comfortable and soft after the first wash, especially for the Indian summer. But they are definitely not akin to the fashionable sarees that we wear during the festival seasons. I think many affluent people donate like this during the festival seasons or during a disaster, it is usually prescribed by the religion they follow and it also makes them feel good. And in theory, it seems to be a great thing to do. Give your money to the poor and the needy. Big countries do it, they give aid to the 'less fortunate' countries.

So what is the problem? The issue is not with the gift, but with the sensitivity of the giver and the assumptions behind the gift. Ask Anshu Gupta who runs Goonj. On a cold January night Anshu went outside AIIMS, and dropped a lot of used clothes for the people camped outside. Coming from other states to this government run hospital for affordable treatment, these people were not equipped for the Delhi winter and they did not have spare money either to buy woolens. Anshu noticed an elderly lady rummaging through the clothes. She put aside many good pieces. So, Anshu asked her what she was actually looking for? She said that she wanted a black shawl. It was midnight and it was freezing, why the fixation on black? She replied that she had a red saree and the black colored shawl will match well.* That day Anshu realized that even the poorest of the poor have dreams. They have preferences too. They have needs, but their needs do not match the giver's donation all the time. There is a gap, and sometimes this gap is so large that it voids the goodness in the act of giving. Unfortunately this pattern is repeated all the time with donations during disasters or festivals. It happens on the people scale and on the the scale of countries. And it is a reflection of the inherent vices in the human condition that does not always allow us to shed our vanity, insolence, and ferocity and act with beauty, strength, and courage.

All is not lost. People like Anshu exist. We just have to hope that more Anshus are born everyday. Social entrepreneurs are working round the clock around the world and there seems to be the start of a change. Seven decades of 'aid' to Africa did not do much good. Now we see organizations like Water For People working on a empowering the poor at a whole different level. May be not in my lifetime, but I hope that soon thereafter this force of will shine through and it will be a different happier world.

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* This story is from Rashmi Bansal's book "I have a Dream" where she chronicled 20 inspiring stories of social entrepreneurs.

Life as we know it....

Recently I came across this picture while surfing the net while looking for something totally random.

Pale Blue Dot

This is the picture of our blue planet seen from Voyager I in 1990 some 3.7 billion miles away. When I saw the picture, it was quite a humbling experience for me. We seem to be living our lives on that little dot and in our own egotistical world we think every moment is so important. We strive for power, for money, for love, for adulation, and for so much more. Yet we are so insignificant in the whole scheme of things.....

As I was lost in these thoughts, I came across the words of a great man expressing the same thoughts much more eloquently than I ever can. So, here are his words. May be this picture will touch you the way it touched me.

"But for us, it's different. Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and in triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of the dot on scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner of the dot. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity – in all this vastness – there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. It is up to us. It's been said that astronomy is a humbling, and I might add, a character-building experience. To my mind, there is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly and compassionately with one another and to preserve and cherish that pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known." -- Carl Sagan, from "Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space".

Waiting for Renewal

My Ficus plant, and Me

This is the ficus plant on my porch. When I bought it in April last year, it was full of leaves, beautiful green leathery leaves, lush and vibrant. Over the last four months it lost all its leaves. There is some sign of new leaves, little buds, but we have a long way to go.  This plant resembles my state of mind in many ways.

My mother passed away on February 15th, 2012 after a very short fight with cancer of the unknown primary. I can't seem to get over it. May be writing this will provide some relief, may be not. It feels as if there is a big void inside me and the pain is still very raw. I can only imagine how my father is feeling, my mother and he had been together for almost 45 years. I can feel my sister's pain, she was more close to my mother than I was.

This feeling is quite alien to me. I had no idea all this emotion was inside me. I had never been very close to my parents. There was never any hugging, kissing, cuddling, or any kind of physical connection that I can remember, and I have some vivid memories from when I was 3 years old. I grew up quite emotionally distant from my parents and even though I secretly craved for display of affection, since I never got any, I never knew how to react. My relationship with my parents have been very matter-of-fact. I was born and raised to be 'the elder son' of the family. My 'job' was clear from the very first day I was born - I had to grow up, become an engineer, and succeed in life (whatever that means!). So, there was never a need for the 'girly' things in my life, nor any kind of entertainment either.  And I grew up with quite a lot of sadness in my heart, some anger, and a deep sense of loss that I did not get to have the childhood my friends enjoyed. The first 30 years of my life were spent with that sadness, anger, and sense of loss. Then over the ensuing years, I actually grew up, realized that if I live in the past it does not do me any good. I realized that I had tied myself up with chains. And over the last two years, I was able to cut off all the chains of the past. I have become somewhat free to reach inside and figure out who I am. I peeled off the the layers that defined me - a daughter (son), a sister, a wife - and I started on the path of self discovery. It has been a productive journey.

My parents visited us during 2010 Christmas and stayed through till early February 2011. That was the first time I actually got to spend time with them without an emotional baggage in my mind. I was somewhat enlightened and also beyond the sense of deprivation and angst that I suffered for 30+ years. It was indeed some good time spent together. Then in September 2011, I went to Kolkata to spend the Pujas with them. I was celebrating Pujas in Kolkata after 14 years. When I landed in Kolkata and Maa was at the gate, I could see that her health was quite deteriorated. I asked her about it and she said that its not been the best but there were no major complaints. We had a great time during the Pujas except for Asthami night when she had a severe stomach pain. Indeed, she was not her usual whirlwind self. But there was no way of knowing that cancer was eating her from the inside.

I cry as I write this. She is dead, but I still feel so helpless. We could do nothing to save her. She just died, right in front of our eyes, one day at a time. I can't forget the moments. The memory is engraved deep in my heart and in my mind. I was with her since 14th December through 19th January and then from 10th February for the last five days. I relive every day I spent with her in my mind and it hurts so much. I can't seem to be able to express it. Like I said, I never knew I was capable of this kind of pain, I was not prepared. It's like there is a parasite eating me up from the inside.

Little things remind me of her. Last night I was making bitter melon curry and I was in tears. She used to make it for me. I can't seem to get myself to cook these days. The very sight of vegetables, and meat, and rice, everything in the kitchen seem to remind me of her. What will I do? I force myself to go through the motions and even try to enjoy it. When I am cooking, I feel this deep pain that I will never be able to again pick up the phone and ask her for recipes of the dishes she used to make for me. All that is lost forever! I can't seem to find her famous cake recipe! It is so painful.

When Freo comes to lick me, he reminds me of how Maa used to cautiously allow Freo to sit close to her. She was a bit afraid of Ozzie, but very much enjoyed the attention.

I went to a one-day Vipassana class last weekend. All I did was cry. I had thought that it will be a sort of catharsis and I will be able to get over this emotional upheaval I am going through. But it did not help. I was crying for more than four of those six hours I spent there. I am so afraid of sitting for meditation right now, afraid that all the deep emotions will surface and overwhelm me. This is so strange. When I was in India during my mother's sickness, this very meditation method used to give me much peace and the strength to face the reality everyday. And now I am afraid of it! I know I cannot hide, but I am at a loss about what I can do.

The memory that is burning me up every day is her labored breathing for the last five days. When I reached Kolkata in February, she was unconscious. She was popped up against the bed, with IV running and with a catheter. Her eyes were closed and she did not acknowledge that I was there. I stayed with her every moment that night, awake by her side, touching her hand from time to time and listening to her breathing - slow and steady. Next morning her urine stopped and we took off the IV. We could not feed her, with no fluids going in and out, her blood was getting toxic by the hour. We tried to get hospice care or even a local doctor to visit us, but no avail. In India there is no hospice. There are very few end-of-life care doctors and they too were not equipped to help us. No hospital would take her. Even if they did, they would put her in ICU and out of our reach. And there was no way they could save her. She hated her 3+ month stay at AMRI and Kothari and we knew that she would have preferred to die in her own home and not alone in the hospital ICU.

They say that hearing is the last sense to go. I hope she heard us till her last moment. For we were all there, her two daughters, her husband, her siblings, her nephews and nieces, Pinky di, her loving family. I sure hoped that somehow she could tell us how she was feeling. In the last four days she developed water in her lungs and had great difficulty breathing for the fluid would clog her nose and mouth. It was excruciating to hear her labored breathing. And I carry that sense of helplessness with me even now. I did not cry then, I was composed, I was in charge, I was strong. I don't know how I did it, but I was very matter-of-fact at that time. It has hit me now, two months after she has gone. Every moment of the day I feel as if I can hear her labored breathing. It haunts me. It chokes me.

She must have suffered so much. She was just 61 and had at least 10-20 years ahead of her to enjoy her retirement. What happened? Why? I can't get my head and heart around this. She was supposed to live to see her grand-daughter's marriage! My grandmother saw her granddaughter's kids! Then why did my mother have to die so young? I know, there are no answers. It's useless to try to find answers too. But my heart does not listen. She must have suffered so much in those last days, she must have been in so much pain. On 14th February, she developed fever and it slowly started climbing. We put paracetamol IV, but the fever was recalcitrant. We watched it climb, 100, 102, 103, 104.... and when it went to 107.8, we knew we had lost her. Her brain was probably fried! She breathed her last few breaths in my sisters arms, surrounded by her loved ones.

That last breath haunts me every moment of the day. Can she come and tell me that she is OK on the other side. I am in so much pain, I feel so helpless, I could not save her. I could not even fight the disease with her. It consumed her in just one month! Over New Years 2012 we learned that the cancer had spread to her right hemur, her lungs, and some lymph nodes. And we could not find the primary, there was no treatment, it was beyond stage 4. We had lost her then. But we did not tell her. We led her to believe that she could get OK. I feel like a liar. I feel as if I had cheated her. I can't seem to be able to forgive myself.

When we took her to meet her oncologist on Jan 6th, she was still full of hope. She wanted to take Xeloda. And she took it for 14 days. I wish she had not. May be we could have had her with us for a few more days? Who knows. Her system was so messed up with 3+ months of useless antibiotics that it was not in a condition to either fight the cancer or the side effects of the chemo drug. I stayed back for the 14 days that she took the drug. We took her to the terrace to enjoy the sun couple days during that time, but it was obvious that her health was declining. I had to leave and get back to my life in the US. So, I left on 19th January.

When I was here, I was calling twice a day to check on her health. And every day I was checking off one symptom of the pre-active phase of dying. I wish I was there, to hold her hand, to say good-bye. But I could not be there. It is a pain that haunts me. I wanted to touch her, to speak to her, to listen to her voice. My parents celebrated their last anniversary on 30th January and I was not there. The sense of loss is intense. Very intense.

When she passed away, I did all the rites, just like a son would have done. After all, she considered me as her son. But I can't forget the moment when I went to the back side of the cremation place and in a tray was her ashes - some burnt bones. They put some of those bones and ashes in couple urns for us. That memory haunts me everyday, I relive it everyday. We took her ashes to Varanasi and gave it to the Ganges. She wanted to visit Varanasi. I hope she is in peace. If only she can tell me that she is, it may ease my mind. I wanted her to be happy. But I don't know. She did not speak to me since January, she will not speak to me again.

I have her pictures here. It hurts to see her. Sometimes there is so much pain in my heart that every breath I take hurts.  It feels like someone is squeezing my heart, very tightly. I returned to San Diego mid March. The first week was in a daze. I did not know where I was. I am grounded now, more so with the regular chores I have to do everyday - laundry, cooking, grocery shopping, work, meetings, etc. I have my episodes, there are days when I find myself crying all day. All I feel like is cuddle up into a small ball and cry. I do not want to talk with anyone or pick up the phone. I feel very lonely and sad. Those days seem like a mountain to go through and it feels that I will never get over it. But then I do. The next morning comes and I seem normal again. I go on with life-as-usual.

Yes, I feel like that ficus on my porch. I was bare, I had lost all my leaves. Now, there are signs of some leaves returning, but it will be a long journey ahead of me. It won't be easy. I know. It's my cross to bear. I have to just get on with it. I am not the first person on this planet who has lost her mother and I will not be the last. I do not expect sympathy, going through this is part of being alive. I will survive this, just like I have survived a lot of other challenges in life. I will someday again become green, have thick leathery leaves and many of them. For now, my ficus plant and me will travel the path to renewal together.