So I thought and I thought and I realized something.
Men never grow up. They just move from simple toys to more sophisticated ones.
You read this here first.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
About Time
For those of you who actually read this, I apologize for the extended absence. However, I think by now you are pretty accustomed to my irregularities. Well, I thank you for persevering.
I recently visited my family in India for about one and a half months, and collected some of the most precious memories of my life. The visit was really cool in a lot of ways. I was able to celebrate my birthday with my own family after four long years. And when I saw the 2 kilo cake my mother had ordered for me, I was able to realize that some things never change. I might be older now, almost ready for marriage by their standards, but somewhere in their heart, I am still that little girl who used to cut cakes on her birthday.
My mother perhaps gave me the most memorable present this birthday. She told me the story of my birth. I mean, literally an account of how I refused to pop out. The year I was born my parents still lived in a run down apartment-like place above a district eye hospital where my father worked. Because my father couldn't get off from his job, my mother had to go to the general nursing home herself, accompanied by my aging grandmother on a rickshaw. I cannot even imagine what that must have been like. Going through the badly constructed, bumpy roads of my hometown, on a rickshaw, ON a rainy day, with constant, painful contractions that were making her cry. Puts in perspective the pains your mother goes through to bring you into this world, right?
She finally got to the hospital and was admitted by a doctor. She'd been having pains but I wasn't moving at all. So they gave her Oxytocin injections to increase the contractions and make them more powerful. My mother was screaming and crying in pain, with my grandmother holding her hand and my father pacing up and down outside her ward. I still wouldn't move. Five days passed but still no movement. My father was beginning to get worried. The doctor told him that my mother might need an operation, a Cesarean, but for that she will have to be moved to another, bigger city, since such operations could not be performed in my hometown due to lack of facilities. However, my mother was in no condition to be moved. Finally, a big, fat nurse had this idea that she will manually assist in pushing the baby from the outside. My mother watched horrified as the nurse got onto her bed, straddled across her and began pushing downwards from the top of the abdomen. It was pain beyond belief, my mother tells me. This went on for a few minutes, and then finally her child popped out of her uterus.
"You looked like a lizard!" said my mother. "We had thought that after all that trouble, I was going to give birth to a mini-giant."
"Gee, thanks Mummy. That makes me feel so good." I am special.
She told me that since that day she swore she wasn't going to have anymore children. I have two younger sisters.
I recently visited my family in India for about one and a half months, and collected some of the most precious memories of my life. The visit was really cool in a lot of ways. I was able to celebrate my birthday with my own family after four long years. And when I saw the 2 kilo cake my mother had ordered for me, I was able to realize that some things never change. I might be older now, almost ready for marriage by their standards, but somewhere in their heart, I am still that little girl who used to cut cakes on her birthday.
My mother perhaps gave me the most memorable present this birthday. She told me the story of my birth. I mean, literally an account of how I refused to pop out. The year I was born my parents still lived in a run down apartment-like place above a district eye hospital where my father worked. Because my father couldn't get off from his job, my mother had to go to the general nursing home herself, accompanied by my aging grandmother on a rickshaw. I cannot even imagine what that must have been like. Going through the badly constructed, bumpy roads of my hometown, on a rickshaw, ON a rainy day, with constant, painful contractions that were making her cry. Puts in perspective the pains your mother goes through to bring you into this world, right?
She finally got to the hospital and was admitted by a doctor. She'd been having pains but I wasn't moving at all. So they gave her Oxytocin injections to increase the contractions and make them more powerful. My mother was screaming and crying in pain, with my grandmother holding her hand and my father pacing up and down outside her ward. I still wouldn't move. Five days passed but still no movement. My father was beginning to get worried. The doctor told him that my mother might need an operation, a Cesarean, but for that she will have to be moved to another, bigger city, since such operations could not be performed in my hometown due to lack of facilities. However, my mother was in no condition to be moved. Finally, a big, fat nurse had this idea that she will manually assist in pushing the baby from the outside. My mother watched horrified as the nurse got onto her bed, straddled across her and began pushing downwards from the top of the abdomen. It was pain beyond belief, my mother tells me. This went on for a few minutes, and then finally her child popped out of her uterus.
"You looked like a lizard!" said my mother. "We had thought that after all that trouble, I was going to give birth to a mini-giant."
"Gee, thanks Mummy. That makes me feel so good." I am special.
She told me that since that day she swore she wasn't going to have anymore children. I have two younger sisters.
Monday, January 19, 2009
India was...
Originally published on Facebook 01/19/2009.
Ever since I've returned from my trip home this winter, I've been getting the question "How was India?" from everyone I know. Here is my answer to you, if I can ever answer such a question.
I spent this past winter break at home in India, with my family. I saw them after two long years. Homesickness and longing had been driving me so crazy, it was unbearable. I wanted to see them, hug them, tell them how much I missed them.
The time spent in India, outside of my family's signature pilgrimage vacations, was very relaxing. It gave me a chance to step back and reflect. Evaluate what I was seeing, how I was feeling. India was exactly what I had expected it to be: warm, chaotic, and beautiful. However, it wasn't familiar anymore. The instant joy I got from touching my feet to dusty, dry Indian soil had gone. Instead, I stood there with apprehension, and uncertainty.
I first noticed this when I was riding through the streets of New Delhi. I found myself looking around for the things I used to know. Sometimes, I found them and sometimes, I didn't. But it still shook me. It had never occurred to me that I would ever have to search for the little chaat shop around the corner from my aunt's house. I had just assumed it would always be there, with that old man always making us spicy panipuri. Little things like this disconcerted me at first, then confused me. I couldn't believe myself when I couldn't recognize the streets of my hometown that I used to take every single day to school.
Damn, things had changed. I had changed. My parents grew older, my sisters grew up, my cousins got married...everyone fell into a niche while I was away, leaving me outside. I missed it, but it didn't really bother me. I accepted it as just the way of things. I had left them outside too during my time here in this country. We are still as close but now we understand each other a little less. Nearly every conversation has to be prefaced. My sisters and I can't complete each other's sentences anymore but we still share everything. Will things improve? I don't know. I don't know what the future holds for us as a family.
My trip home also made me realize what being here in the US has come to mean to me. This country has taken all my loved ones away, but has given me a spirit, an identity. I know now to believe in myself. I know now that I really can do anything. It is true that any place can give you this feeling, but I get it from here. From this cold soil of this country which is not my home. From the strangers here who have made a home in my heart. From my friends, my mentors, my residents, my relatives. This country gave me a backbone, and then burdened it a million things. But that's okay. It's a fair burden and it is mine to bear.
As of now, I don't know which one of these do I love more: my family or my spirit. Going back means losing so much of what I have come to enjoy, including my independence. Going back also means being in the warmth and closeness of family.
...I hope I don't have to make a choice between the two. And I don't know if I will have to.
Ever since I've returned from my trip home this winter, I've been getting the question "How was India?" from everyone I know. Here is my answer to you, if I can ever answer such a question.
I spent this past winter break at home in India, with my family. I saw them after two long years. Homesickness and longing had been driving me so crazy, it was unbearable. I wanted to see them, hug them, tell them how much I missed them.
The time spent in India, outside of my family's signature pilgrimage vacations, was very relaxing. It gave me a chance to step back and reflect. Evaluate what I was seeing, how I was feeling. India was exactly what I had expected it to be: warm, chaotic, and beautiful. However, it wasn't familiar anymore. The instant joy I got from touching my feet to dusty, dry Indian soil had gone. Instead, I stood there with apprehension, and uncertainty.
I first noticed this when I was riding through the streets of New Delhi. I found myself looking around for the things I used to know. Sometimes, I found them and sometimes, I didn't. But it still shook me. It had never occurred to me that I would ever have to search for the little chaat shop around the corner from my aunt's house. I had just assumed it would always be there, with that old man always making us spicy panipuri. Little things like this disconcerted me at first, then confused me. I couldn't believe myself when I couldn't recognize the streets of my hometown that I used to take every single day to school.
Damn, things had changed. I had changed. My parents grew older, my sisters grew up, my cousins got married...everyone fell into a niche while I was away, leaving me outside. I missed it, but it didn't really bother me. I accepted it as just the way of things. I had left them outside too during my time here in this country. We are still as close but now we understand each other a little less. Nearly every conversation has to be prefaced. My sisters and I can't complete each other's sentences anymore but we still share everything. Will things improve? I don't know. I don't know what the future holds for us as a family.
My trip home also made me realize what being here in the US has come to mean to me. This country has taken all my loved ones away, but has given me a spirit, an identity. I know now to believe in myself. I know now that I really can do anything. It is true that any place can give you this feeling, but I get it from here. From this cold soil of this country which is not my home. From the strangers here who have made a home in my heart. From my friends, my mentors, my residents, my relatives. This country gave me a backbone, and then burdened it a million things. But that's okay. It's a fair burden and it is mine to bear.
As of now, I don't know which one of these do I love more: my family or my spirit. Going back means losing so much of what I have come to enjoy, including my independence. Going back also means being in the warmth and closeness of family.
...I hope I don't have to make a choice between the two. And I don't know if I will have to.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Wither
Today, I saw an old lady trip and fall. She merely tripped on one of those cement things on the ground that you see in parking lots. As I was helping her up, I was thinking: had it been me, I'd have been able to break my fall and catch myself. I would be able to pick myself up without help. Most likely, I would not be bleeding from my mouth and nose.
I will be in her shoes someday. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
I used to volunteer at a hospital sometime back. Nothing too fancy, just the regular, bottom-of-totem-pole kind of thing. The ward I worked in had people all recovering from some sort of heart surgery. Stitched gashes down the chest and old age were always the common features. I saw them everywhere. Everyday. For six months. That is when I first noticed the entertwined infirmity and old age.
Among other things, I used to deliver the mail to the patients from the receptionists desk. Most of the time, they weren't able to open these themselves because weakness, and sometimes, arthritis. At other times, they were unable to see, or read. I read them their letters. I watched them react to those words someone had scribbled on a fancy piece of paper. It made them so happy, so sad, so longing. They were dependent on me for the knowledge of those letters and for all those emotions. The more I saw this, the more afraid it made me.
I don't want to be indisposed. I want to be indispensable. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Old age is the single most daunting disease out there, at least to me. There is no drug, no treatment out there that will help me. With old age will come infirmity, weakness, dependency, and many other things that I am too afraid to list here. I don't want to be any of that. I want to age gracefully. I want to die before I lose my memory, before I need help going to the bathroom, before I am forgotten. I want to be that sassy old woman that I worked for at Merck. Very learned, nurturing, funny and knows how to get her way with a smile. I wonder if in her world, old age is a disease.
There is never enough time and there never will be. For me to be someone, anyone. To be enough. All I have is now, and whatever I am now. I can take it, or leave it. Learn now, do now, fly now and fall now. My body is one of the greatest instruments I will ever own. So is my mind.
But they will both not last. Someday, my knees will give way from under me and I will sink. My vision will blur. My memory will fade. Time corrupts all and it is on nobody's side. It's us versus time. And we are not going to win.
"Nothing of me is mine to keep, other than memory."
I better get going. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
I will be in her shoes someday. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
I used to volunteer at a hospital sometime back. Nothing too fancy, just the regular, bottom-of-totem-pole kind of thing. The ward I worked in had people all recovering from some sort of heart surgery. Stitched gashes down the chest and old age were always the common features. I saw them everywhere. Everyday. For six months. That is when I first noticed the entertwined infirmity and old age.
Among other things, I used to deliver the mail to the patients from the receptionists desk. Most of the time, they weren't able to open these themselves because weakness, and sometimes, arthritis. At other times, they were unable to see, or read. I read them their letters. I watched them react to those words someone had scribbled on a fancy piece of paper. It made them so happy, so sad, so longing. They were dependent on me for the knowledge of those letters and for all those emotions. The more I saw this, the more afraid it made me.
I don't want to be indisposed. I want to be indispensable. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Old age is the single most daunting disease out there, at least to me. There is no drug, no treatment out there that will help me. With old age will come infirmity, weakness, dependency, and many other things that I am too afraid to list here. I don't want to be any of that. I want to age gracefully. I want to die before I lose my memory, before I need help going to the bathroom, before I am forgotten. I want to be that sassy old woman that I worked for at Merck. Very learned, nurturing, funny and knows how to get her way with a smile. I wonder if in her world, old age is a disease.
There is never enough time and there never will be. For me to be someone, anyone. To be enough. All I have is now, and whatever I am now. I can take it, or leave it. Learn now, do now, fly now and fall now. My body is one of the greatest instruments I will ever own. So is my mind.
But they will both not last. Someday, my knees will give way from under me and I will sink. My vision will blur. My memory will fade. Time corrupts all and it is on nobody's side. It's us versus time. And we are not going to win.
"Nothing of me is mine to keep, other than memory."
I better get going. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Monday, October 06, 2008
A walk in my shoes
I walk for many reasons, and you can probably tell what the reason is from the way I’m walking. I walk as a part of my natural instinct to find food and shelter, and to flee danger. Here, I am walking fast with a purpose and with a destination in mind. Most of my energy is focused on what awaits me and I pay little attention to anything else. Of course, among other things, this results in me being labeled as a jerk because I completely fail at noticing people I know as well.I also walk to reflect, and introspect. These walks lack both direction and destination. The constant motion of my feet and body helps keep my thoughts in motion as well. Here, my gait is more laid back, and I am mindful of my surroundings. I look at nature, notice people and smile at strangers.
I take quick, short steps. I usually hold my head up, my back straight and my shoulders relaxed while walking. My arms are usually tightly clutch to my sides and my vision is focused forward. I don’t pay much attention to where my feet are going. All I know is that a reflex is guiding them one in front of the other, and I am being propelled forward by the reactionary force of the Earth. I am unwary of other things and as a result, I stumble a lot. On cracks in the pavement, random objects and sometimes, my own feet.
Walking is an essential part of my day, my life. I am horrified by the idea of owning a car one day and driving to places. I am glad I live in a city that is “foot-friendly,” so to speak. Given a good set of directions and time, there is no place I can’t get to on my two little feet. Walking keeps me independent. It makes me empowered. It keeps my circulation going, and my muscles at work. It dictates my preference for shoes.
Without my love for walking, my shoe-rack wouldn’t be the same. For real. I like my feet to be comfortable when I walk. I avoid stilettos and backless footwear. Most of my footwear is either flat, or has block heels. And straps. Must have straps. If there are no straps, then I am more concerned with keeping the shoes on my feet than with walking.
If the terrain is tempting enough, I walk barefoot. I love being barefoot and experiencing the raw stimuli of the ground below. Within reason and hygiene, I like to walk barefoot as much I can…until my heels start to crack. My goal for this fall is to collect the sounds of crisp, fallen leaves under my feet. My goal for this winter is to run barefoot in the fresh snow. In spring, I want to walk in lawns and let the fresh grass tickle my feet. Without walking, my life wouldn’t be the same. I am grateful I was born with a functional body. I am grateful for my very short legs and feet.
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