I hope they serve wine in Heaven

When I started working with Dr. Dileep Padgaonkar about two years ago, I remember being awestruck. His persona was towering. For the first few interactions, I could barely manage more than vehement shakes of my head to his questions and his expectations, coupled with a smile that I hoped camouflaged how overwhelmed I felt.

And soon, as it happens with all interactions, I got used to everything. His impeccable manners (he would always offer me water or tea at his beautiful home), his immaculate diction, his love for all things French, the language and the wine, and even his forgetfulness, and anger. 

He was on the board of several initiatives, and the more I sat in meetings with him, the more I learned. He was a gifted orator, much of what he spoke on stage was extempore, and his sense of humour was as wicked as it could get (especially when he was taking digs at politicians). 

I also got used to his vulnerability. 

He was an extremely busy man and would often expect that I undertake a responsibility wholly. But he would never be elusive about it, accepting that I would be doing him a ‘favour’ by taking on the task.

When I think vulnerability, one evening in particular comes to mind, when he asked me how I had managed to compile sixty documents into one. I said, “It is very simple, really. We just select all, and copy, paste. Control A, C and V.” He said, “No, no. Just wait. I need to note this down”, which he did. Soon after, he went to his laptop and took another tutorial from me. The moment he mastered it, he beamed but recovered quickly and very seriously said(in his archetype baritone), “Well, you see, I don’t understand technology.” 

He was an exceptional editor, who could spot a minuscule mistake in a document. But he was also someone who’d forget to read emails, or see text messages and call agitatedly demanding an explanation. 

Sometimes I would, in frustration, wonder about the man behind the persona - the real Dr. P so to speak. I remember that I’d complain to my colleagues about him and say, “I only need one perpetually irritated old man in my life and I already have my dad.” 

Looking back I realise that I had indeed turned him into a father figure. I made concessions for him, taught him tricks with technology, and always responded to his irritation with calmness. 

In September last year I began helping him clean up his old interviews, stories and profiles for a book, and discovered that what my generation knew of him was just the tip of the iceberg. I read through and edited more than sixty transcriptions of his work from 1967 onwards. The men he’d met, the leaders he had interviewed, the things he had seen and reported about - and I was even more awed by him. 

But by this time, I also knew him as someone who would be quick to render an apology for calling at an inappropriate time and who would empathise with my domestic conundrum...someone who I thought hardly smiled, but who’d crack an innocuous joke and defuse a situation. 

By the time our collaboration had ended, he had been humanised completely. 

I don’t know where he is right now, but I sure hope they serve wine in Heaven. That, I know, will make him smile.

Dr. Dileep Padgaonkar, 72-year-old former consulting editor of the Times of India died in a hospital in Pune this morning. He had been unwell for some time.

Born in Pune and educated at St Vincent High School and Fergusson College in Pune, he went to France and studied for a doctorate at the University of Paris-Sorbonne.

In 1978, he served with the UNESCO at Bangkok and later in Paris in different capacities with its Information Section. Earlier, he was the Paris correspondent of the Times of India and later, after coming to India, became its editor. (Source: NDTV.com)

Thank You God for the Air We Breathe

Hundreds of photos of smog covered Delhi have flooded my Facebook timeline. It is obviously getting worse as winter sets in.

But can we really, honestly and truly blame the current government for it? Isn't this degradation a result of years of neglect and oversight? Aren't we all to be blamed for it - I lived in Delhi collectively for 9 years - when we used our personal vehicles instead of public transport to get to college or when we ignored and overlooked a worker burning a heap of garbage right outside our housing complex?

Newspapers say - Its Delhi today, Tomorrow your city. Despite the legislative interventions Delhi has had over the past few decades, (CNG vehicles, moving of industries outside city limits, garbage segregation etc.) the city has spiralled downwards. Other Indian cities and towns will follow suit and will reach Delhi’s level of despair faster than they can blink.

And yet, all of us know, that we will do sweet nothing about it.

We will blame the government, but when they bring in legislation (such as banning plastic bags) we will use every opportunity to squirm out of it ("bhaiya, aaj panni de do, kal se yaad rakhungi.")

We won't segregate our garbage. We won't stop buying cars (3,4,5 in a 4 member family). We won't stop using plastic bags or non degradable, throwaway plastic/thermocol plates, cups, spoons, mineral water bottles etc. at weddings and parties. We won't recycle goods because its too 'cheap'. We won't upcycle for the same reason. We won't save water or electricity (we can afford it). We won't adopt rainwater harvesting or vermiculture (who will look after the systems/we can afford not to have them). We won't switch to solar panels (what is the need?). 

We will take pride in consumerism because heck, thats what we earn for! We will complain complain complain and blame blame blame. 

We will want industries to move out of residential areas but won't think before we buy a house in an area where industries mushroomed long before builders decided to construct apartments there. 

We will want the government to clean up our rivers, but will nonchalantly throw 'pooja samagri' and the like into an already polluted water body.

We won't plant trees - thats for school kids and civic bodies to take care of. 

We want clean air, but we want to do nothing for it. 

And so, we deserve it. Delhi deserves it as much as the rest of us. 

Because like charity, this also should have begun in our homes.

The worst part about growing older...

No... Its not the weight gain around the midriff or the beginning of wrinkles, or the greying of hair (everywhere) or the weakening eyesight that is the worst part of growing older...

What pains me most is people you've known and loved, who were older than you, and now older even more, kicking the bucket and leaving you with memories and nothing more.

Aunts, uncles, grandparents, teachers, even icons (MJ, Prince, Whitney Houston etc.)...people you'd thought would be around just because they always were.

Death is inevitable but when it become a deluge, thats when you know that it is also an indication of your own ageing. I remember my dad calling me many years ago (when he was my age), shaken up after a friend of his died of a cardiac arrest in his office - all he said was, "Its begun."

I didn't understand it then, but I do now.

I will wear my Patriotism on my sleeve

My 96 year old maternal grandmother passed away late last month. Until she was around, many of us took her presence in our lives for granted. We thought she would always be there - with her warm hugs and kisses, blessing us when we would meet. I started writing about her influence on my life and the first thing I wrote was this - about Patriotism. In the current scenario, this becomes a narrative that I want to share.

My first lessons in patriotism were from my Naniji. She taught me to love my country unconditionally in several ways. She was the daughter of a freedom fighter and she herself stood up to the extreme political conditions several times. At her memorial service, I got to know for the first time ever, that she had been to jail three times.

When we were much younger we would hardly get to interact with her for longer than a week every Summer break. Once in a few years she would come to stay with us and that, as a young girl, I remember was my first exposure to the spirit of ‘Love your Motherland’.

She taught me about freedom fighters, and why we fought for our freedom in the first place and to remember the sacrifices that brought us our freedom. She also taught me to stand in rapt attention when the National Anthem is sung 'anywhere' (if you heard it on the TV too you stood up) and to sing it with gusto. She taught me that to respect my National Flag (and to sing the National Anthem) was not a symbolic gesture - it was a tribute I would pay for all that my country stands for - freedom and equality, unity, compassion and pride. 

She led her life as an example for others. She was a keen teacher - went around the slums of the town she lived in (Saharanpur, UP) and taught girls to read, write, tailoring skills, cooking, knitting - whatever would help them economically. She taught them Ayurveda, and taught them self respect - she would counsel and support girls to counter/leave abusive husbands and in-laws. She would nurse people back to health - like the wife of a rickshaw puller who was grievously ill - she cooked for their household I was told, for more than a few weeks. 

Religion, caste, class..these were never hindrances for her. Nothing stopped her from reaching out to others and making an effort to make a difference in their lives.

Why did she do all this? Did she start a NGO and gather funds to concretise her evangelistic work? Did she sell the Ayurvedic medicines she made after painstakingly scouting the jungles of Dehradun for herbs?

To her, all she did, her actions, her dedication, her passion constituted service to the Nation, to Mother India, to the land of our birth. 

Her pride for our Nation, our ‘matrubhumi’ was not restricted to jingoism and sloganeering. She got two of her daughters married to armed forces personnel, was overjoyed that I had chosen to marry an armed forces personnel myself and supported my cousin who wanted to join the Army too. She never wore her patriotism on her sleeve; she let her work do the talking. 

She taught me to stop lamenting the state of affairs in my country and become an active citizen, a participant in its growth, to serve and to never forget what she, India, gave us. She would ask us to think - “Tumne apne desh ke liye kya kiya?” (“What have you done for your country?”) before complaining about things. She taught us to never stop serving our country and its people in whatever way is possible for us.

When my husband and I, married for over 3 years, got the chance to stay with her for about a fortnight on a Diwali break in 1998, and told her that we were not keen on having children (we didn’t want to add to the population) all she told us was, “By having a child, you will nurture a future citizen for this country. Your education and your values will be inculcated in that child who will also serve the Nation, be an asset and be a reason for its prosperity.” 

In the environment today, her actions would be ‘tokenism’ to many; her guidance to her scores of grand children and everyone who she came in touch with, would be forced/imposed ‘nationalism’. Her patriotism would be questioned, and her commitment to serve fellow Indians would be seen through the lenses of religion, RSS, Hindutva, Sangh Parivar and what not. She would be called ‘privileged’ and her whole life would be scrutinised for her intention - for who would be able to live like she did without an underlying motive! 

But I won’t complain. I won’t lament the state of affairs.

I will simply follow her footsteps and won’t let anything deter me: I will sing the National Anthem loud and clear, respect and salute my National Flag, love my countrymen and serve them in every way possible. I will argue and fight for the pride of my Nation, and pray for its growth and prosperity. 

I will BE a token/misguided patriot/extreme nationalist; will raise two children in the same way. And I will wear my Patriotism on my sleeve.

Jai Hind!

Animals Lovers, Please Stop Your Lip Service!

Lately, I am seeing too many posts on social media of pedigree dogs being put up for adoption (either the owner is moving, or having a baby, or is unable to handle an animal) or posts on abandoned dogs looking for a new home.

I am not an animal lover - in fact I have a "oh they're cute but as long as I don't have to look after them" attitude (exactly the attitude I had before I had my own kids..but thats another story) - and yet, I would never abandon a pet once it becomes part of the family. 

We have an adopted beagle who was tested upon at Ranbaxy laboratory for three years and as a result, has many health issues. He is not my favourite person in the house - because he has discipline and anxiety issues, he poops and pees on all my furniture whenever he likes (so he's moody as hell too) and howls to kingdom come (as if he is just upset that the family is sleeping) jolting me awake at 3 am on many a nights. 

Yet, I would never abandon him. Coz thats plain INHUMAN.

So all you animal lovers out there - alongwith sharing pics of the pet that needs a home, you should start sharing pics of those heartless owners who 'buy' them and abandon them for the silliest of reasons. 

STOP being 'nice' to such adults! 

Shame them. Let them know that there is no excuse to love someone and give them away. Would we ever do that with our children?

Stop paying lip service! Raising a ruckus when you find strays ill treated on streets is one thing - how many FIRs are filed against an owner who wilfully abandons their pet? Isn’t that cruelty to animals too?

And if you truly love animals, campaign against breeding of dogs... 

Educate people on how to love an animal - not his/her breed... Street dogs are just as smart and intelligent, they just don’t have the ‘beauty’ of a pedigree...

Owning a pet is not for your pride, sometimes it is (as it was for me) to give a needy animal a home (our dog had been in 4 homes in 3 years before he came to us...and he's been with us for 3 years now), and to share love with another living thing and God's creature.

Clothes Make a Man, But a Woman is Damned Whatever She Wears

So Smita Sabharwal, an accomplished IAS officer from Telangana, known for her “ethnic style” wore “a trendy trouser and frilly top at a fashion show” and grabbed eyeballs.

The story first appeared in a column titled Deep Throat in Outlook magazine recently and sparked a controversy because it made derogatory remarks against the lady. It said that she makes a "fashion statement with her lovely saris and serves as 'eye candy' at meetings." The caricature carried by the magazine is distastefully sexist and, quite rightfully, the IAS officer has slapped a legal notice on the magazine.

This is the caricature carried by Outlook 

The problem is not just that the column sought to insinuate that the lady held a position of favour with the Telangana chief minister, it also made crass remarks about her having worn perfectly acceptable attire to a fashion show – trousers and a top – which, the officer clarified in her legal notice, she attended with her husband and not in the capacity of a civil servant.

The episode serves to highlight the conundrum for many of us – what should we wear to suit the occasion? Working women who often have to juggle other responsibilities (such as raising kids and having a ‘real’ life, which could mean catching up with friends after a hectic work day) must spend a lot of time each morning deciding what to wear depending upon what their plan for the day is.

A linen kurti with jeans if you’re teaching in a college is acceptable, or a tee with the same blue jeans to go grocery shopping. But you surely can’t wear a tee with jeans to college because you’re a ‘teacher’ and have to set the right example!

You would be gawked at if you wore a western formal suit at a civic body meeting (aren’t journalists ‘supposed’ to dress fuddy-duddy?) and would perhaps be confronted with questions like, “What’s the special occasion?” if you wore a sari to work one day instead of the usual salwar-kurta. A linen skirt wouldn’t work at an evening party, or at a seminar. But a shirt with jeans or trousers would probably work for both.

Most often, the confusion exists because working women want to be seen as serious and professional in the workplace and so the way we dress becomes important. We can’t be seen as being provocatively dressed (sleeveless tops, a skirt shorter than ankle-length, or tight-fitted trousers would fall in this category) or dressed too well (the silk sari falls in this category). As long as we wear the kurti that covers our butts, a dupatta that covers the bosom and a salwar or trousers to hide our legs, we have a chance at being considered ‘decently dressed’.

In the case of Sabharwal, it seemed like a double-edged sword because the saris she wears to work and the trousers she wore to a fashion show, both became talking points for the magazine.

Sadly, hers is not an isolated case. In the recent past, Malayalam writer and secretary of the Kerala Book Marketing Society, Babu Kuzhimattom wrote a Facebook post saying that the leggings women wear are provocative and ‘arouse’ men.

It seems that the freedom to wear what we choose is a Utopian ideal confined to the Page 3 sections of newspapers and websites. In real life, a woman will probably get undue attention and unwarranted observations for wearing a swimsuit to a pool.

This post first appeared on www.Fashion101.com 

Sometimes I hate my job...

We all live in our own private hells. 

As I spoke to a gentleman this evening I was left pondering over the following questions: Can parents ever get over the loss of their child needlessly - to a road accident? Dreams, hopes, all crushed?

And what is worse? 

That someone from a newspaper calls you to talk about your decision to donate your child's organs and she may also need a photo? 

Or that she may be so sickened by the thought of even asking those questions and noting their answers down in a note pad that she may want this story reassigned to someone else? 

How is this reporter going to talk to the mother of that 18 year old tomorrow? 

Sometimes I hate my job. And I live in my own private hell knowing that I have stoked wounds that are still fresh.

When Life ends...

And this is how it ends. 

A body we take pains to keep fit, beautiful. A body that we take pride in as we adorn it with the best money can buy - clothes, shoes, jewellery...

A body that helps us achieve happiness - experience the joys of love making, of intimacy and physical proximity; that helps us give birth to our babies;  that helps us become who we are as we travel to work, to achieve our goals, pursue our passions, rise above our own expectations; helps us climb mountains, surf the waves, dive deep underwater, fly high on the wings of a glider....

A body that we think is ours - our genes playing a role in what we look like, how we smile, how we frown, how we laugh; that makes us different from our siblings and yet alike in so many idiosyncratic  ways; that either makes our children from 'my side' or 'his side'....

A body that we protect, preserve, use or abuse...

A body that transcends its physical form and makes us a person - with a name, an identity and a form...

And when life ends, the same body becomes what it is meant to be - a 'body'...

Hospitals refer to you as 'the body' because you cease to be their patient. Your loved ones who are awaiting the arrival of your physical remains also refer to you as 'the body' because suddenly you're not a living being with a name, you're the recently deceased, the 'body'...

Not only are you that lifeless mortal remains of a once thriving human being, your remains are also tied up to a stretcher/bed with ropes, tightening your frame against this metallic structure without a care for your comfort, because you're no longer you...you're just a 'body'...

So much for the illusion of owning our bodies; once life ends, we are just a lifeless rag doll waiting to be picked up and taken for that final journey....

On the highway

It's amazing how the sights and sounds
you attempted to capture in the day
change character when darkness descends

The trees, the ponds and wells
ancient temples and sprawling churches
paddy fields and pools of water

coconut trees and a cloud-laden sky
bananas, apples and oranges hanging from ramshackle roofs

newest cars parked inside sprawling bungalows
school children with neatly combed hair, backpacks and eyes that light up when they see the camera
tiny courtyards of little houses;
dark, mysterious interiors that hold secrets of lives like yours and mine
disappear into thin air,
replaced by rows after rows of houses and shops; indistinguishable, continuous,

lit so bright that you can see inside;
the man in a mundu, seated on the floor watching television, lights dancing on his hairy chest,
a boy kneeling in front of the altar, looking upwards, palms joined...

temples look like haunted houses, the sky dark and starless, 

bright red flags of the communists

triangles and rectangles, on strings and poles,
blend with the road 

appearing briefly when a speeding vehicle's light reflects on them -
less menacing, subdued and almost subservient...

It is true  

somethings die and somethings come to life
when darkness descends on the highway

Blood Moon, Chizhik-Pyzhik and I

Diwali cleaning always manages to throw up some surprises. Every year while cleaning up I find remnants of the year gone by, a dress I bought which has now become loose, one part of a favourite earring, old clippings, older memories and some fresh perspectives.

It is when I sat down to clean up my silver jewellery case that I came across the Chizhik-Pyzhik. Locket on a black thread, it jumped up at me surreptitiously, the tiny little object, nudging me along a series of memories I had kept locked away.

That was three nights ago.

I lost fitful sleep that night. Couldn't rest. Tossed and turned. This way. That way. Sudden bouts of indigestion took over; it happens to me when I am anxious. Woke up feeling tired, unsure, a bit unhappy, a bit sad and very confused.

In the morning sometime I saw a notification from a friend on Facebook who'd written about her own restless night, as her thoughts filled her with anxiety, revelations and aspirations. This is what she wrote:

It's known as the Blood Moon....Chaotic endings and transformable beginnings? Total Lunar Eclipse on 8th Oct 2014. Times of change, often preceding natural or man-made cataclysms as predicted by astrologers, that major events will occur in the world and in our personal lives, revealing things unknown and bringing situations to a climax or critical point. So its time for radical shifts, changes, endings and new beginnings in our personal and collective lives. Intense and possibly highly emotions that will trigger and push everything to the edge and beyond. So I am trying to look at this positively..... god, please give me strength and patience during this time, to harness the tremendous energy available to us for transformation for the highest best for myself and my place in this Universe. This is a perfect time to become a witness and watch yourself and your emotions and an opportunity to change the way you react to the World and reinvent yourself.....

‘This full moon and eclipse triggers a two week time frame of revolutionary intensity that can either propel you into radical transformation or have you falling off the three-legged stool. Your ability to pay attention, and to stay focused and present while also allowing yourself to grab the power of the storm, will be key to staying firmly on the stool’.

I wrote to her about my experience to which she responded, "Sensitive people will feel it the most."

It is night number 3 today and somehow I feel like I am falling off the three-legged stool.

The Silver Lining

Some days are like this.

Its a Sunday but you've been working since the moment you woke up. You don't feel bad about it because the children have also buried their noses in their books.

There's a fabulous gig in town and you've no one to go with. The good thing is that there is a superb wine chilling in your fridge that you've been meaning to drink for a long time.

The glass of wine you pour for yourself spills before you can take the first sip. Thankfully, it hasn't spilled on your laptop.

The entire room stinks of wine, you may have to crank the window open to let the smell out. Thankfully you don't do it and the smell of the wine ensures you a blissful sleep.

Why aren't more days like this?

The Look

I ponder over the look
that didn't exist
Or did it...

The song he chose
was as harmless
as his accidental touch
Or was it...

The conversation ebbed
replaced by a comfortable silence
though our hearts were in a tizzy
Or were they...

His unabashed invitation
adulation, appreciation, adoration
were sincere and honest
Or were they..

I still ponder over the look
that didn't exist
Or did it...

Its Goodbye

And when it is the end of the road, the signs become all too clear...

You're removed from social media, and then from their phones, and then from their lives. Gone. In three easy steps.

But this time, I am prepared. I am not bitter or upset. Nor angry. I am pursuing my karma and in doing so if I have to let go, then so be it.

Its goodbye my dear cuz, until our paths cross again.. Godspeed!

The Picture on the Wall

Its amazing how we can overlook something every day and one day, as we lie in bed, we 'see' it.

The picture on the wall....

A vacation we took when we were still very young
and very much in love,
when it meant so much to travel together
that we almost always shared a berth,
even on empty trains

We are sitting on a beach in your home town,
I'm smiling coyly as I lean towards you
You're looking straight at the camera,
your impish, bare-all-teeth smile that I first fell for,
apart of course from your deadly good bod :-)

A time when I was the young bride
eager to please
wearing an Indian outfit, a 'bottu' on my forehead,
though I drew the line at the flowers in my hair
and the rice on the plate, with curd and a banana

Our first years together, long rides in the rain
games of scrabble and a wok full of fettuccini
Or the poetry of John Donne
that I insisted on reading to you
stopping only to share a kiss

Im not a pleaser any more
and you're more mature and certain...
In 19 years, much has changed
Yet, much remains unchanged
like the picture on the wall

Suddenly

Suddenly
the other side of the bed
felt empty

Your slanted body
arm tucked under your head
the quilt wrapped around your torso

When I opened my eyes
that was the sight

I'd expected to see

I reached out
but the sheet was cold
the pillows in place

Don't know yet
if it's you I miss
Or miss "us"
the way we used to be

Spending time with our Parents

When my mother-in-law passed away a few years ago, the primary feeling, as we drove towards the town in Andhra where she'd lived the last few years of her life, was one of helplessness. My husband, not very communicative, has never expressed his true feelings upon the demise of amma but I do know, the feeling of not having spent enough time with her, of not having had the chance to say goodbye...these feelings were predominant in his mind.

About two years ago, a very dear friend lost his father to cancer.... He was due to visit his father just the day before the demise and suddenly, it was too late. He felt a deep sense of regret and remorse, for not "being" there...

For those of us, who live away from our parents and loved ones, in other cities, or other parts of the world, the 'fear' of losing a parent, of not being able to say goodbye, is a real one. It multiplies over time, as we watch our once formidable parents, age little by little...losing the "My Daddy/Mommy Strongest" title, and turning into frail beings. 

Calling them "elderly" was the first step I took towards the recognition that my parents were ageing.

And so we do what little we can, in their twilight years - not just for them, but more I feel, for ourselves.

We spend more time flying home to them to tend to them when they fall ill. There was a time when we HAD to move - to another town, another city, another country, as our dreams awaited us. They were young and capable of looking after themselves, and it was they, after all, who taught us to chase our goals!

We spend more time talking to them over the phone; some calls are just periods of silence, yet we don't hang up. There was a time when we would not even call once a week - "Too busy, too much work, too tied up, too bored (what will we talk about?/we talk the same stuff every time!)"

We now spend more time discussing their health, trips to the doctor, medication advices etc. There was a time when their concern for our health would irritate us; "Yes maa I will eat on time...don't worry.... You don't know HOW much I have to study!"

We never miss a festival; we fly home and make sure the whole "family" (our siblings and their spouses and children) gets together. There was a time when making a trip 'home' for a festival meant taking leave from work, and having to compromise on a holiday with the spouse and kids; then, the choice had been easy.

It isn't so today.

Some days when I hear my mother's exhausted voice on the other end of the line, I know its not enough. It breaks my heart, because my choices in life and many other circumstances took me away from 'home' since I turned 16. 

But I also know that we can never make up for lost time. We can only reach out and do as much as we can today. 

And hope as hell that we can live with that knowledge long after they're gone.

What do YOU mean when you say "I owe you"?

An innocuous word, "Owe" means different things to different people.

The Oxford Dictionary defines Owe as - "Have an obligation to pay or repay (something, especially money) in return for something received"

I have a problem with the way this word is used and abused, especially amongst friends.

When you do something for a friend, are you seeking a return favour? An owing? Like a debt that may be needed to be repaid?

When did friendships become a transaction?

I did something for you my friend because because I wanted to do it. Because we are friends. We have a relationship based on mutual respect and admiration. I did it because you're a fellow human, and because it was within my capacity to do it.

I didn't do it because I expected something in return, least of all a gushing "I owe you".

Often when I have done something, the 'better' people have responded with a genuine Thank You.

Often these are the people who understand me more as a person who does things because she can. Its just as simple as that.

I have a problem with this word, because over the years, my friends who say an "I owe you" when in the throes of excitement, forget it sooner than the turn of the tide.

I have a problem with people who resort to fanciful recompenses that they will neither remember nor have the capability to fulfil.

I have a problem with such people who cannot understand or appreciate my inner being and choose to use my random act to turn it into some sort of a "favour".

I have a problem with such untruths.

Where do I go?

Where do I go?

I have a daughter to raise
A life to live
Dreams to be fulfilled

I want to soar
to party till late, and travel the world
and go for a run at 11 pm when I want to just..run...
I want her to wear what she wants
want her to fly
and feel like a 'person' not a 'girl'
everywhere she goes..

I want freedom
For her and for me

Where do I go?

The streets are not safe
Women, girls and even little babies
Are being raped
night and day

Will she be safe even with a male friend?
Will she be able to fight the lascivious species that pose as men?
Will she, the sweet mannered child that she is,
comprehend the sickness of the mind
whose hand's groping her bum
or squeezing a boob
on public transportation
or inside that sanctum where we went to find God?

Where do I go
to find us a safe haven
far away from this deranged,
uncivilised world?

Where do I go
To raise a happy girl
who blossoms into a happy woman
And learns to trust and love
Mankind...?

Where in this whole goddamned world do I go?

*Total disgust and disillusionment with the way the female kind is treated across the world made me ramble so...

The H word beats the C word hands down!

Suddenly Cancer is everywhere. The disease, not the Sun sign. Please forgive this hopeless attempt at humour in a post that I wish could camouflage what I want to say. But it can't because its very second word is the dreaded C word - the disease that brings images of gaunt, sickly bodies and hairless heads to our minds.

So, yes, suddenly Cancer is everywhere. I've met more people who have been impacted either directly or indirectly by the C word in the past few months than I had ever before.

Today Pune Mirror carried a story that said Bollywood actor Emran Hashmi's 4 year old has a malignant tumour in his kidney that is being treated in Canada. Four years old!

The other day I was at an event organised by a cancer centre and at the dessert counter I bumped into a lady whose son is best buddies with mine. We would often meet each other when our boys were younger, and when we lived in the same housing complex. Two years earlier we'd moved and then I meet her, out of the blue, in the most unexpected of places. After exchanging pleasantries I asked her what she was doing at the event. She smiled and replied, "I am Dr K's patient." Dr K runs the centre and is a renowned Onco-surgeon from Pune.

I was shocked, still am. All I could tell her was "I never knew!" She went on to tell me that she is fine now, had had 8 chemo sessions before she'd beaten the dreaded C, and was at the event to express solidarity with other 'survivors.'

Then she asked me, "What are you doing here?"

I said, "I am here to express solidarity too. My daughter's classmate, 14 years old had a tumour in her abdomen which was recently removed. I am here with her parents."

And that really is the story of my post on this day - 4th February - which I later got to know is World Cancer Day. 

My daughter's classmate and bestie D, a perfectly healthy, happy and regular teen suddenly developed a fever on New Year's eve. Two weeks later she had a horrible stomach ache which turned out to be a malignant tumour that weighed 4.8 kilos. 

From May last year when she had taken a scan of her abdomen for a menstruation issue to January this year, this tumour had appeared and grown faster and bigger than a baby grows in the womb in nine months. 

After I visited her at the hospital when she was first admitted and discovered the gravity of the 'growth' in her tummy, I came home shell-shocked. Couldn't sleep the night knowing that this little girl, this child, was to be operated upon to remove the cancerous tumour and that the dreaded chemo would follow.

My faith in God was shaken. 

There was no reason, not one single reason that could convince me why a happy, normal girl, who had a normal and happy childhood had to be put through such trauma. 

I questioned His sense of right and wrong... His lack of conscience... Justice... Humanity... Lamented the loss of Innocence... The utterly unnecessary baggage of the C word... The trauma... 

Today I visited her at the hospital where she is back for the chemotherapy. Watching her brave the pain of the continuous drips was heart rendering. Worse still was knowing that this is the beginning of  the inevitable loss of hair, that to a teen means much more than it does to us.

But today I saw it. More clearly than I have for the past three weeks as I have interacted closely with her parents; giving support, logistical help in whatever tiny way I can and more than all else, trying to understand how a dad and mom keep themselves sane in the face of such catastrophe.

Today I saw what keeps them going. 

Its H O P E. 

In these three weeks I have learned more lessons in courage and faith than I have in my entire life. 

The laughter that resonates through the room as someone invariably cracks a joke, is real, not contrived. 

The happiness on the face of D as another bottle of the ghastly medicine reaches its last drop, is the happiness of success. And of victory. 

The smiles we share as we watch D imitate her classmates and the doctor are straight from the heart, knowing that she has the fortitude to see this through; because she can smile despite the pain.

The ease with which they discuss the entire medical process, in plainspeak, without resorting to hyperbole, is indicative of the strength they've gained from acceptance and reconciliation.

Her hands are bruised, but her spirit isn't. Her hair may go, but I know her confidence won't. Her fight will end, and she will go back to being the regular teen, but somewhere, something would have changed forever, and something tells me that it will have been for the best.

Maybe that's why I am not so angry with Him today.

Why infidelity is a double-edged sword

Sunanda Tharoor died. While the actual cause of death is still unknown, what is known is that she was distraught at her husband’s seeming indiscretion. She was heartbroken at his infidelity; he was paying attention to another woman, and in a way that she assumed was detrimental to her marriage.

So she did what many women in her situation would do – confront the perpetrators (her husband and the lady in question); only in this case she did it on social media. The world got to know that something was amiss and although the diplomatic husband later issued a statement that everything was fine with their marriage, the seeds of suspicion had been planted.

Ask any marriage counsellor or psychologist and you will know that when confronted with the shock of a cheating spouse human beings react in similar ways. First there is anger, then there are emotional outbursts, followed by grief, sadness and lastly, action – either the partner chooses to reconcile or seek separation/divorce.

Sunanda Tharoor seemed to have gone through every stage, and almost just as systematically during a very short span of time. At the end of it, she died.

Her husband Shashi Tharoor is distraught and rightfully so. He has lost his wife, friend, companion and lover. While the world can speculate about his alleged affair, the fact of the matter is that Tharoor is as much a loser in this situation as Sunanda was.

Infidelity is a double-edged sword and neither party can get out of it unscathed.

The partner whose spouse cheats on them feels an immense sense of loss – of trust and of the partner ‘you loved and married’. The fear of financial crisis, the complication of children (and the effect this has on them, their future), the shock, the hurt, the anger and the obsession “is he/she with her right now?” can be all consuming. Overcoming infidelity is not impossible but it is a slow and intense process that requires both partners to show commitment to their relationship.

The partner who cheated, on the other hand, does not get away scot-free. A one night stand, a fling, or even a long standing affair becomes a bitter pill to swallow, especially if they never ‘intended’ to hurt their spouse by their actions.

In many cases of infidelity, the cheating partner is unable to let go of their life ‘as they know it’, the children and their home; the comfort of their surroundings and even the spouse they cheated on. Whether they cheat out of disinterest in their marriage, or merely for fun, their carelessness causes their lives to get disrupted as well. When children are involved, there is a huge price to pay.

We may never know the reality of the Tharoor saga. Did he actually have the affair? Did he intend leaving his wife? Was he in love? 

The bottom line remains, that something happened and it has resulted in the death of a fine woman.

May God grant Shashi Tharoor the courage to live with that!