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Poena ~ Ashes of Rose

Poena ~ 1

In memory of my nephew Viraj Thappa

Ashes of Rose

My colour for YOU,  Ashes of Rose,
soft words reflect the colour
of your flushed cheeks, tinged with indigo blue.

You who lie so still, content.

Smiling in deep slumber, breathing in tune
to an ephemeral heartbeat, your lips part asunder,
a little gurgle escapes your dream, do happy thoughts

cause your serene smile?

Unperturbed by the silent cries of anguish, the tears,
…………. the parents, with loved ones, and us……………….
in this impersonal sanitised children’s ward.

WHY YOU?

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Forty five days into #Lockdown, Disquiet in Isolation…..continues

May 8th 2020

Forty five days into #Lockdown – Hemingway’s title For Whom the Bells Toll comes to mind, as apt for our workers seeking to get home to their villages, as does the novel by Camus –The Plague, which journalist Nirupama Subramanian writes of in her article, The Moral Contagion, in the Indian Express, May 5th. “..what can we learn from this work by a French writer from another era whose work strikes a chord at so many levels with our present situation?’, she asks. Lalit Surjan , chief editor Deshbandu Group of Publications, cites on Twitter, the novel  Jungle by Pulitzer Prize Winner Upton Sinclair, written in 1906. This novel revealed the shocking exploitation of immigrants and the unsanitary conditions of labourers in the meatpacking industry, in the United States. How have conditions improved after more than a century in India? Our workers carry out their tasks in all-weather, most without proper safety gear, only to end the day’s labour with a pittance and no real shelter over their heads. They are forced to live  ‘huddled’ together – for instance -on construction sites, all over our country.

We must hope that corporations will have had the #Lockdown phase to rethink policy for their workers.

28th March 2020

The images of ‘migrant’ workers, carrying a few belongings, walking away from the city of Delhi in throngs, in late March, has filled me with such dark despair. I could not help but wonder what thoughts must be flitting through their troubled minds, in these desperate times – with the fear of imminent death from the COVID19 virus, far away from their villages?

Why use the term ‘migrant’? These workers travelled to another part of their own country, to earn better wages.

And what about those who live by themselves, their angst…?

Disquiet in Isolation

Are you scared
of being alone too long
with thoughts that spill over
from the past,
memories drowned,
you do not wish to dredge?
Are you scared
of being alone too long
with whispers from empty corners,
visions that float unbidden,
like dust rising with the breeze,
you cannot yet evade?
Are you scared
of being alone too long
tomorrow, with premonitions,
uncertain of the infrequent shadows
walking beside you, if any,
for they may all be unknown?

Breathe deeply,
Inhale, exhale-
Angst is just another word.

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The Diplomatic Trailing Spouse

An Observer in a Coveted Profession, Shrouded in Myth and Reality
Or
A Marionette in Restraint?

EXTRAORDINARY AND PLENIPOTENTIARY DIPLOMATIST Annual Edition 2016 Page 79

http://www.diplomatist.com/dipoannual2016/index.html

 

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How Languages Changed My Life by Project MEITS Heather Martin (Editor), Wendy Ayres-Bennett (Editor)

Honoured to be featured in this at number 14 : Mother Tongue
https://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Languages-Changed-My-Life-ebook/dp/B082TT2769/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=how+languages+changed+my+life&qid=1576662615&sr=8-1

How Languages Changed My Life is a collection of stories exploring the importance of languages in shaping the lives of individuals and communities around the world. It brings together writers and musicians, politicians and activists, teachers, students, scientists, comedians, and sportspeople whose experiences are both unique and exemplary. The first-person voices are conversational, intimate and uplifting, but also often very funny and deeply moving.

This book is for anyone who loves real-life stories; is interested in languages, culture, and adventure; and believes in global citizenship. It embraces more than forty different languages and offers a kaleidoscope of individual views that collectively make the case for linguistic diversity being as essential to our survival as biodiversity.

Irrespective of age and background, whether as first-time learners or professional polyglots, all our storytellers testify to how languages have inspired and empowered them. How Languages Changed My Life is a book for our times, reminding us that what we have in common is always greater than our differences.

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Homecoming Reflections

“My apologies, dear Reader, sometimes I listen, to learn, not judge……It was at the last Ladies Luncheon…”.

There are passionate voices extolling the virtues of professions over motherhood, of choices made, with the support of a husband or joint family, but are these coloured with a twinge of melancholy or is it guilt?

A doctor has to make a choice between serving her patients and her children. A business woman does feel pangs of unhappiness as she juggles her dual roles, while the two male ‘spouses’ at the lunch offer us balanced views on the topic. Education, one says, is what will help. Another lady reveals her husband asked her to stay at home with her children and she professes no regrets. There are smiles as she deftly averts her eyes and looks across the group, with just a glint of knowledge in her eyes.

A young wife then says, “One of America’s highest paid women executives has recently created a furore with her choice of words: “I don’t think women can have it all…..”

The group sighs in unison!

But wait, I muse, there is one person missing here – yes, a home-maker, one who is thrust into such a role by circumstance, not choice. I could be referring to myself here, as someone who has travelled across continents, resided in seven countries and the homeland, over the past three decades following my husband to his postings. Being in the foreign-service family is fascinating, vastly challenging in certain countries for the civil servant, but even more so for the ‘spouse’.

The government has graciously granted the spouse leave to work, within specific parameters that pose no direct or indirect conflict of interest. This is a given- to uphold the dignity of our country at all costs. However, jobs are not easily available in certain countries or at the time of a posting. Then there is the question of the existence of double-taxation. Then employers are not usually impressed with a chequered experience table. How may one fill in all the years given away to the family as a wife and mother? Some spouses are delighted to be home-makers and care-givers. Others decide to pursue their ambitions, in India, or even overseas. Some stay on, fulfil all their duties unstintingly, but often sit down and have a good cry, especially as the days turn to months, then years and the decades fly by.

Preparation for an event begins ~ Back lawn at India House Nairobi

Till it is time to return home, perhaps to retire, or fade into oblivion? The husband will retire as a Distinguished Citizen of India. The wife, who has worked unstintingly behind the scenes in varied roles supporting her husband, what will she be remembered for?

At this point in time, regrets? Perhaps a few. Remorse? I do not think so. A sense of guilt? Why? Did she not ‘have it all?’ The children are all grown – up, in their chosen fields, given the choices that she could not have made without upsetting the earlier generation. It is a hard cogged wheel that turns exceedingly slowly and painfully, for some of us. The question I am underscoring here is: why should I feel guilt for not having a career, if I stayed with my spouse and children, for not contributing to the monthly single-income? Does not earning make me a ‘bad’ mother? Has my unhappiness at not having a career or pensionable job lowered me in their esteem? Do they think that I ought to have been like some of my University batch mates, in high places- how did they manage to balance marital matters and motherhood with a profession?

Destiny, Karma ,call it what you may, or just the sheer outcome of having made the choice of getting married.

The questions and answers, not just at that Ladies Luncheon but also on TV panel discussions are difficult to answer or compartmentalize neatly.

Today, in urban India, young adults in their late-twenties or mid-thirties are quite happy to be professionals and single. They may accept their parents’ concern, or their opinions in their stride, but may not heed their advice. They are not afraid to voice their opinions either. Just chill! These are the smartphone kids, the short-texting generation, no voice calls really required. They are at ease anywhere- nationally or internationally. They traverse spaces with verve. Their parents are often stuck in limbo between two generations – two World Wars, Vietnam and the missions to the Moon. Now it is Mars. Unable to come to terms with this distancing or rather ‘my space’ or ‘my time’ or just plain ‘let me be’? Understandable, as today is fraught with a myriad deluge of issues. They need time to think, to gauge points of view and then arrive at their conclusions. We need to understand their anxiety and allow them to take their stands. They are the youth of today, the future is theirs to know.

Many have just barely escaped the vulnerability of adolescence.

What worries me is whether they are able to share their anxieties with their companions, in order to be happier or calmer and move forward. If they may overcome peer-pressure and the ticking of the biological clock. I cannot be sure if ‘guilt’ figures in their thoughts, given their independence and their choice of friends and careers. I can only wish them well, in whichever role or roles they choose and keep them safe in my prayers.

I only know that we all need to adapt to circumstances, at every stage in our lives.
And that a supportive husband, in-laws, parents, friends – these are the positive blessings in our lives.

And that women should not feel guilty about their choices.

Every day one fact stares us in the face – in this our homeland – the horror of crimes against women and children. No longer hidden away in dusty storerooms or barnyards, thrown into the depths of village wells or rivers, but right in our faces on national media. Can anyone, male or female, turn away from the horrific sight of those two young girls, hanging from a tree? Their hair tied in pigtails, thin young girls, dressed decently in traditional salwar-kameezes – yet to blossom into womanhood. Perhaps some macho types will shrug it off as what they deserved. Whether it is an honour killing for marrying out of caste, or for giving birth to girls (why is it still not public knowledge that it is the MALE chromosomes that determine the sex of a child?), whether it is for not receiving enough dowry or for answering back in justified distress or just to show a family that does not conform within a village what atrocities lie in store for its members… the list is endless. It is futile to even try to attempt to make those rapists pay for their heinous acts. Is there strength in numbers? Yes, when such crimes are committed. It gives those villains a sense of power, even to throw acid in someone’s face for having not accepted unwanted or uncalled for advances.

Is this who we are? A nation of listless citizens, not wanting to be involved in someone else’s tragedy?

Psychologists have long spoken about repressed adolescence in India. Most families are over-protective of their daughters yet may have sons who need to teach a fantasy-girlfriend a lesson like they do in the movies. But movies are mostly fictional but who will drill this fact into the heads of most of our people, no matter how much or how little they are educated?

No, it is not right to punch someone in the face for an insult, or eve-tease with whistles and cat-calls, even if a handsome hero or pretty heroine does it onscreen. No, it is not right to seek vengeance on a family over disputed land. Neither is it right to beat up the competition in winning the heroine’s heart or to rob banks and rich-guys, putting it simply, for the ‘better’ of the community in the village or chaawl or basti. Our TV serials are not helping either, with difficult sasumaas trying to interfere in a couple’s life and all sorts of unimaginable twists and tales.

Our rural and urban viewers are equally susceptible.

No, it is not right to admire vigilante justice or kangaroo courts that administer physical justice and humiliation, even if our film industry indulges in such fancy. But the public is fed up of the months, even years in courts, waiting for justice. In the meantime, the culprits are fed daily, allowed to exercise, meet visitors… until in the crime is often diffused by this sense of distance. This is inexcusable. Prompt justice is necessary for such heinous crimes. Laws need to be amended. We wait in anticipation for change.

But wait, does education not play a role on what is morally right and acceptable?

Can rape be defended on the grounds of meting punishment for an alleged grievance? This is the message that seems to be going out to the world.

Why are such subjects not introduced in national schools or adult literacy classes? We now have classes on agriculture beamed into rural community centres.

India must protect its own especially its young girls and boys, as boys are vulnerable too and not enough is spoken on their behalf.

Our children must be safe at school and their environment. CCTV cameras are all very professional but we must have responsible persons monitoring these visuals carefully not chatting and going to the canteen for chai whenever they wish to. Accountability is not a strong word in India. School managements must ensure safety for their pupils. One washroom attendant is not enough and background checks are very necessary, prior to hiring. Many international schools overseas insist on a mandatory police verification that is mentioned in advertisements for educators and non-teaching staff.

Then as parents, we need to keep our children safe at home. We cannot be suspicious all the time of relatives or friends, but need to question ourselves if they make our children uncomfortable. This may be just out of shyness too, but it is important not to overlook a child’s concern. I am not stating that every smile or pleasant exchange of words is sinister, but we need to prepare our children to grow up and fend for themselves in this unpredictable world.

Coming back to that particular Ladies Luncheon , “It is your turn, now, Jay”, I was startled out of my reverie over the past hour, smile sheepishly at no -one in particular to begin on the topic of Living Overseas and the other side of Domestic Servitude.

The recent outrage on Social Media over salaries paid to domestic helpers overseas by Indian government officials has a spate of ‘holier than thou’ undertones. While no-one is above the law and indeed, must respect the law of the land, let us look closer home.

Why do some of us get so upset when the maid fails to come, one day in a week or month?
Maybe she was tired, had caught a cold or was ill with fever, or perhaps her child was sick? Or maybe her husband ill-treated her and she had bruises on her face and did not want you to see them? Or maybe she lied.

How many of us feel that what we pay our domestic helpers is adequate? Inside a ‘society’ compound, salaries are usually on par. The younger generation is advised to pay the average salary so there is little room for discontent among the domestic workers.

Then, as they arrive for work, we make them remove their footwear, even in winter. True, in ancient times this was the norm and still is, in many South-East Asian societies. The inside of the house ought to remain clean and the dust from the streets should remain outside. However, we all walk in with our shoes on.

Then the constant drill begins: “do this properly, you never sweep under the chairs”, “dust properly”, “I can’t find something, you must have taken it” and on and on until the end of the working day (whenever that may be, after 12 hours maybe?)- tinnitus voices. We pile up dishes in the kitchen. We dump clothes in buckets. We leave the cleaning-up for the domestic helper.

Circumstance, not choice is what determines a person’s life of domestic servitude.

Woe betide the helper if she “answers” back. This is not acceptable, for as a domestic helper, she apparently must remain mute. She must not display friction or any emotion (tears are acceptable) that would upset the lady of the house, even the children.

Do we even think of sitting her down for five minutes, with a cup of tea and talking to her as a human being? Perhaps we do, but never seem to find the time to do so regularly. I do not think the topics would always revolve around money. Perhaps the dialogue would focus on the ups and downs that life imposes on each of us, in varying degrees. To listen is to help a person through her sorrows.

How many of us actually give our helpers money for healthcare, hospitalization or an amount as pension, when they too old to work? Yes, the odd paracetamol tablet is usually given out of a selfish motive, so that the helper recovers quickly (however temporary the relief) and completes all her chores.

What are average salaries in the cities of India? Do corporate executives who earn five times the amount government officials do, pay their domestic helpers five times extra?

And overseas?

Over the past three decades, I have usually hired local helpers for a few hours daily, or three times a week, depending on the country my husband was posted in and abiding by its laws. This is of utmost importance. I do not believe in signing a contract in India stating the monthly wage, while the minimum wage overseas is at variance.

Many countries insist employers pay monthly Social Security instalments for domestic helpers. This is checked prior to a person’s departure from the country and receipts from the Social Security office are required for the full tenure in the country.

For example, over twenty years ago, we paid the average salary of US 300/= per month to Rosa, our helper in a Central American country and forever breathed easy, as this was the ‘going rate’ locally, for all diplomatic families and included social security. However, this was far, far more than the allocated amount given to us in the foreign allowance. It was really difficult making ends meet those days, with three children, but we had to. And we were blessed with children who helped in our chores in many ways ….the two elder girls baby-sitting their brother, helping hang up the laundry…even raking autumn leaves when much younger. Or shovelling snow with their father…bless their hearts, and later, our son who is more than a decade younger than his sisters, setting up stages, recording patriotic songs, checking the loud speakers, creating power-points …memories and gratitude forever in our hearts . And, I often told friends in India, tongue in cheek – “Some of us mere ‘spouses’, look after residences, plan menus, cook, lay tables, wash dishes at times all for free!!!”

People do not understand what it takes to work for one’s country, for average salaries, especially so before the past decade, when the young generation in the corporate sector were making five times the amount in India!

It is a certain ‘bent of mind’!

The ‘wrong-doings’ by some in the ‘service’ is disheartening to the rest of us.

The media too, plays its part in highlighting certain issues that trigger a long-list of complaints in other areas that have remained dormant.

An Indian diplomat overseas is still your average Indian at home in Delhi.
It is that simple!

We need support from our own! Life overseas is not just a series of diplomatic parties, sipping champagne or apple juice, clutching crystal stems and wearing designer clothes! Life is often hard, as we live our personal lives too and miss our extended families, our friends and really do not have ‘shoulders’ to cry upon.

Cameos Recollected in #PandemicTimes

In these pandemic times, we are compelled to focus on priorities at any given moment. The past may arise in unbidden thoughts, with happy or sorrowful memories. Yet it is the present that redefines it, in the form of consolation or catharsis.

Available:

 

In Love We Trust


Trips and Trials ~ A Selection of Poems and Songs

Dedicated to my husband, Sibabrata Tripathi (Indian Foreign Service, 1979).

May 3rd 1955 ~ February 27th 2017

L-R Amrita Tripathi, Meeta Sengupta and Sanchit Goel, the Publisher~ with the writer, on 13th December 2018
India House, Nairobi, Kenya 2010
Copyright Sketch of the writer in 1984 by Sibabrata Tripathi

A Trilogy

I

Molten pools, liquid fire
dancing in mischief,
recollections of joy.
Ablaze with passion
of a deep-rooted anger
at mankind’s inhumanity.
Softly aglow
with love’s special light,
bedimmed, moist,
once the passion’s spent.
Truly the poets have spoken:
Eyes reflect the soul.

II

Sunlight
peeping through crevices
into a darkened room,
Dewdrops
glistening in the morning sun,
Starlight
beckoning into the mystical beyond,
Raindrops
caressing my face
in a light evening shower,
Your eyes are all this to me.

III

Injustice still stalks the earth untamed,
I sense your pain, the futility of it all
each time you walk through the door
my words freeze, suspended mid-air.
The day’s events shrivel,
forlorn, unsung,
Exiled forever.
But I do not despair,
Life goes on.
We now find peace
in pregnant silence,
sipping tea on the terrace,
so civilized,
growing older tentatively.
Your eyes flicker, mine respond-
so much is left unsaid
for another time, another day.
ls it already too late?
How am I interpret this transition?
With the mercy of a Woman
or the sudden anguish
Of a Child?

***

Lost Sunsets

Will you miss me when I am gone?
The soft curve of my wrinkled cheek,
My fragrance at dawn?
Will you recall all the moments
Of our family,
Travel, laughter and song,
Listening to melodies in alien lands?
Or will you frown, reflecting upon my constant need
For perfection, in an imperfect world?
Idealistic, frantic, seeking approval,
Always placing others’ needs, before our own?
Will you miss the moments we missed
As we plodded on, decade by decade?
In the quiet shadow of evensong, I ask you
Do you miss me while I am still here?
I apologise for all our lost sunsets,
But you owe me too….words, words of faith.

The Trailing Wife 

My entrance beside him,
Ivory brocade Banarasi saree,
glittering jhumkas,
golden bangles, jingle jangle
rings on my fingers and toes,
Elicit nods,
Affirmative Words,
Power by Default
begets Cocktail smiles.
Apologies!

Stalwart, feisty
in the realm of
unknown gods,
goddesses,
repeat after me
or him, or her,
“Really, but really, not really?”
Non-sequitur
Discourses
I listen
often in covert disdain.

Two steps back
Halt!
Guilty as charged –
Non-Designated Person.

Futile moments reflect
Academia interrupted,
Hemingway, Neruda,
missing you.

Converse non-political,
Smile social.
The milieu insensitive
Ignorant, askew.

Heart beats
Mark time,
Crescendo chatter.
I falter, gasp
Puffs of air
Smother, choke,
No exit too near,
Fall in line.
The Trailing Wife’s
Life
Undefined.

A never-ending mother-daughter epiphany!

On Wednesday, Amrita Tripathi wrote about her experiences as a woman with a Single Income and No Kids. https://scroll.in/article/685923/Confessions-of-a-SINK:-single-income,-no-kids-(and-not-sure-I-want-any-yet)
Here’s her mother’s view of the situation:

Dear Daughter  – I could say Dearest Daughter here, but then as there are two of you plus your brother, my choice of words could raise eyebrows.

But my focus here is on you and your words on the biological clock ticking.

I need to say this. No, please do not feel guilty about the choices you have made till now. You have worked very hard to become who you are, especially after you left the “shelter” of your home for University. I am so proud of your achievements. It is not easy to be a young professional single woman in India. I still shudder at the odd timings you have had to keep, travelling though this manic city of Delhi – which I love – but it is unsafe and its people are unpredictable.

Yes, you are thirty-something and it has been said that women ought to have their first child by this age. Science is now a dear friend to us all and has changed all these notions. Remember the mid-forty-something first-time mother I introduced you to – the professional sociologist who placed her career motives before motherhood? She is enjoying being a mother at her age, as she has done all she aspired for first. I feel she is a mature and contented mother.

Young or older

Do not get me wrong. I know from experience how fragile I was as a young mother and wife – the never-ending chores, lack of sleep, my fear of domestic help being “mean”. There were horror stories even then of small children being given doses of sleeping tablets in their milk bottles, which is why I stayed home and did not take up my first job offer. No wonder I was cranky.

I earnestly hope that those are not the only memories you have of me in your childhood. I was 25 when you came into my life and your elder sister was two. Later, when your brother came along, I was a decade older, and the years had given me time to mature into a far more patient person. Unfair? Perhaps. Your younger brother also thinks I was cranky when he was growing up, an “older” parent, far too wise at all the parent-teacher meetings (so I stopped attending!). Not much fun, I suppose. Life!

Generational issues

You are a kind-hearted, sensitive person. This is just not your mother speaking. These are words many have said to me upon meeting you, listening and watching you on air, reviewing your interactions with your panellists. I know when the time comes and you are ready, you will hold on to the outstretched hand of your knight in shining armour – I can still recall your childhood stories in your not-so-cursive handwriting, with your wriggly sketches – and after getting rid of the “evil” guys, ride into the glorious sunset.

Being a mother does mean having to realign your life. I had to. Yes, there were many moments of regret for all that I could not be or achieve. That was My Life. Yours will be very different. I am confident you will know what to do and how to do it – that is why we have these generation issues. A never-ending mother-daughter epiphany!

When you are ready, and I am hoping it is sooner than later, you will be the most precious mother a child could have. We mothers always wish the best for our daughters.

https://scroll.in/author/961

On laughter with a parent and the eternal bond~RIP Father Oct 6th 2018

Chief Justice, Sikkim High Court, Dr. Justice Braja Nath Misra and Smt. Pramila Misra in 1990.
Smt. Pramila Misra was the Founder Director of the DAV School Bhubaneswar, at the behest of the former Governor, Dr.A.N.Khosla – in 1971.
Dr.Justice B.N.Misra, LL.M (London),Ph.D.(London); of Inner Temple Barrister-at-Law.
Former Principal & Professor of Law, Madhusudan Law College at Cuttack, affiliated to Utkal University, Bhubaneswar;
Administrator, Berhampur University;
Judge &Acting Chief Justice, Orissa High Court:
Judge, Allahabad High Court;
Chief Justice, Sikkim High Court. ( Retired on Retired on 9-11-1992 ).

“I am 26 and I laugh with my mother. I also chat with her nearly every day just like 80 per cent of millennials. As for rampant drug abuse honestly, it’s is very hard to go on a week-long bender if your mother expects you to check in every day…The only risk factor that has increased with this generation is ‘obesity’.”

What wonderful sentiments expressed by Jennifer Wright in her article ‘We are the lamest generation!’ on Salon.com. Images of cliched uncaring young westerners are banished forever, with just these few simple words.

Yet how many of us would sit down and think of whether we actually do laugh with a parent, or grandparent, given our Indian traditions? We laugh easily with our friends, even chuckle at any age with closer friends and share much laughter, with our dearest friends. It comes easily and naturally, but with a parent?

In a recent film entitled ‘The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel’, set in Jaipur, a young entrepreneur wishes to fulfil his late father’s dream of turning his haveli into a tourist hotel. With the arrival of six elderly British visitors, he has a vision of outsourcing “old age”. “Nobody wants them,” he informs his exasperated mother; he feels he can make them welcome enough to stay on and goes about making them smile and laugh with his words and antics.

For those of us born in the mid-fifties, in independent India, postcolonial, we are the ‘transitionals’. I travelled to London at the age of five with my mother and two sisters to join our father. We were brought up in the Indian tradition yet with a touch of what is now being termed as ‘cultural diversity’. After our return five years later, coming into a conservative extended family, I began to feel yoked by tradition that became rather restrictive as I grew older. It was a difficult transition. Somehow, I always listened to the elders, accepted their decisions and smiled at the recollections of their youth. My grandfather would chuckle when I would defend not getting married at 18 by retorting he had run away from the village twice! He explained he had to finish his medical studies in Calcutta (Kolkata) without being tied down with marital duties.

My mother whispered he was locked up the third time and married to my dearest grandmother, which I also confronted him with, drawing more mirth. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, walking up and down the veranda. And how my maternal grandfather’s eyes twinkled as he recollected his decision to return to studying for a proper medical degree (he had first qualified for the LMP) and how some of his professors were his former students. They would often look at him for support to continue their classes! And my father’s anecdotes! One when he and his friends wanted to enter a railway bogey only to see my grandfather in deep conversation with a friend. My father says he ran from the station so fast, to get home and study, before my grandfather’s horse-carriage drew up at their house! And my mother eating lots of pickles at a friend’s house and being sick for hours later at home!

Life was even harder for them. They did not question authority and lived by the traditions handed down to them. They must have laughed with their parents, perhaps more with the mother, as children, but that would then transform into polite laughter, as they grew and matured. It was common in most families the world over. Of course, each family had a few rebels who caused anxiety and misery, but that was ‘Life’. Endless unpredictability. I did ever so often want to disagree with my elders on certain life-changing situations, but somehow held my thoughts and anguished feelings in rein.

As a ‘transitional’, I too gave in, to all that was meant to be good for me, for fear of hurting sentiments, especially for all the sacrifices and adjustments made for me (and later, two of my younger sisters) to study at Delhi University. The youngest two graduated in Orissa and Allahabad, one in medicine and the other with a post-graduate course in Management. Expensive even then, for a one-income family of seven, though I had left when the youngest was nine, expenses grew while salaries remained stagnant. Laughter became restrained with such responsibilities and expenses.

When my parents were young, we all laughed together. I can remember our camping trips, helping them put up tents, my mother cooking on a gas stove, all of us huddled in our sleeping bags, trips to the zoo and riding a camel… then came the tears of separation, our lives away from home, at university, then the making and breaking of some of our marital homes and subsequent changes to our lives. My parents have always supported us and till today, are the shoulders we can rely on, without question, but they are getting older and frail. We want them to laugh like they did fifty years ago, but life has dealt them some severe unwarranted, unasked for setbacks, bewildering them. Yet, they smile when they see us, their eyes light-up as they recollect anecdotes from the past (some of which we may have heard many times!) and we gladly share their laughter, so well-deserved.

The elder three…
….and the younger two.

I too, wish to share my laughter with my adult children, scattered the world over. The spaces in this large residence only echo with the cries of the maribou storks walking in the garden. I have grown accustomed to sms’s now. Texting is as important as talking, I am chided at, and no, I am not to send personal messages on Twitter. Thankfully I am not on FB, though I doubt any of my three, as I call them, would be’friend’ me! There are long silences on the cell-phone. Does this portend the swansong of conversation? An sms that says ‘Will talk soon’ means perhaps another sms in a week’s time (one adult child) or in three weeks (another) or maybe not – everything wrong was my fault, I was a strict parent, too disciplinarian.

I tried to be a good parent, to keep my children healthy and safe. I still try. We all must move forward, leave the past and all the unpleasant associations behind. Instead, recollect the happier moments… chasing colourful butterflies, raking golden-brown autumn leaves in the backyard, lighting up a barbeque grill or shovelling snow to make a snowman in sub-zero temperatures, or tying ice cubes into a towel to sponge one’s face on hot Delhi summer afternoons…may we please smile at these recollections?

From early childhood to the brink of adolescence, the bond is unwavering. The comfort only a parent can give, to soothe away frightening demons in dreams, wipe away tears from cuts and bruises, high fevers and toothaches, visits to the doctor for preventive shots. Only a parent can hug you and an unpleasant day at school vanishes, giving way to a new topic of discussion. Soon you are skipping alongside, chattering away, your hand firmly held by a parent. Then it slips away, as you become a young adult, a mature adult, a parent. But your palm remains implanted in a parent’s hand forever, no matter how old you are. Imbibe the fragrance of the roses or tuberoses in the garden and laugh as the first monsoon shower drops drench your face. Smile along with the wide grins of the street-children, as they splash through puddles and sing in the rain, their difficult lives forgotten for the moment.Laughter does not cost a paisa AND it reduces stress!


https://www.news18.com/byline/jayshree-misra-tripathi.html

World Cancer Day 2020

When The Emperor of Maladies erupts and disrupts Life…… a cached text version of my article on Huffington Post India.

Leap Of Unfaith: Letting Go Of My Husband

It has not been easy inhaling and exhaling these past 240-odd days.

  • HUFFINGTON POST INDIA
  • THE BLOG
  • 10/04/2017 3:37 PM IST | Updated 01/06/2017 10:06 AM IST

Eight months ago. The thunderbolt from yonder. If you believe in that. Karma? DNA. Biomarkers. Utter despair. Then, hope. Trials. Tribulations. Against all odds.

Of having to explain to family and friends.”What? Were there no symptoms?”

“Why didn’t he see a doctor?”

He was like that, a stalwart—he bore pain, physical and mental, like a stoic.

The sheer exhaustion of having to go over facts, day after day, even while in hospital, listening to tales about those who had conquered the big “C” and were living “quality lives’, of being admonished for not getting second or third opinions in India and overseas, for not having sold all our modest possessions and gone across the oceans… of having somehow failed as a wife in not recognising the symptoms, for not insisting on medical examinations… mea culpa.

My parched lips were not due to thirst. Then there was the uncontrollable puking, the tears that flowed when I was alone, through restless nights, checking him every hour…

I was content with the results “Super Watson” threw up, sifting through the 8000 papers that are published daily worldwide. After intensive research—the results corroborated what the doctors had told us and the medicines prescribed, except one, but that had serious side-effects, including raising blood pressure. Which is why it had not been prescribed.

I learnt a new word—a big thing for a teacher of English Literature—”metastasis”. I fumbled over the pronunciation. Was it due to the fact that I knew the outcome? Then the concern from well-wishers on the “prognosis”? The word bothered him too and we often smiled in unison. Till the big “C” began its tenacious onslaught.

The fear as each chemo session drew near C1 Day 1 + C2 Day 8 = One Session X 5 over the weeks.

Pardon me, that expression is now frowned upon and we must use the term “infusion”, in respect. Full blood tests were required with checks for creatinine levels… and the lab technicians were unable to draw blood, prodding and poking, leaving blood clots all over—to the desolate anguish and pain of both the patient and those that loved him. The need for blood transfusions as his “vital signs” began to flag. Each intrusion caused excruciating pain in my abdomen and my heart ached… heartbeats—did they pound louder than I cared to acknowledge?

My parched lips were not due to thirst. Then there was the uncontrollable puking, the tears that flowed when I was alone, through restless nights, checking him every hour, or the aphthous ulcers that erupted far more frequently than in the past two decades.

Our daughter grappled with her grief and found the strength to keep us afloat. Even guided and helped me push a stretcher through teeming crowds as no orderly was available to take him back to his room.

Our son came as often as he could, braving 30-hour journeys from the African continent and made my husband smile from his heart, their conversations lasting well past the midnight hour.

My grief paled in comparison to his suffering. The biopsies, the frequent x-rays, the waiting for hours for his turn… The burning inside his body, the fear of the unknown, the ultimate truth that he would not see his children grow older. The loss of his muscles, the unbearable moment when he could not get up on his own or turn on his side—the indignity of having others heave him up, calling himself a pitiful specimen, wanting to get out of the hospital, yearning to go home.

Two nights. At home. His own bed. To the familiar sounds of the roller-birds and the black-crested bulbuls… he breathed his last.

We decided… the day he stopped speaking, but opened his eyes when he heard his name. The tears he cried through closed eyes as he could not do namaskar to the orderlies who helped him into the ambulance, the sound of the siren as we rushed through the traffic in Delhi—all too surreal. As my heart pounded, our daughter held our hands and kept us going right into the air-ambulance she had arranged for, with some help from his college friend.

Through turbulent weather in the small charter plane, with the doctor and attendant who kept checking his vitals, till the plane touched down in our home-town.

“We are home.” He opened his eyes ever so briefly.

Two nights. At home. His own bed. To the familiar sounds of the roller-birds and the black-crested bulbuls that chirped outside his parents’ room that he had painstakingly cleared, having restored the original colour of their wooden beds, he breathed his last—after two nights. With his daughter beside him, reading him excerpts from a book he liked, some news of the world, of how much he had done for his children and his beloved country—thirty-six years in government service and how proud they were of him.

The last sigh. No, I am not moving forward just yet. I need to take deep breaths. It has not been easy inhaling and exhaling these past 240-odd days.

https://www.huffingtonpost.in/entry/leap-of-unfaith-letting-go-of-my-husband_in_5c10ee35e4b085260ba70585

Leap Of Unfaith

Mashujja Day in Nairobi, Kenya in 2010.
Shri Sibabrata Tripathi
High Commisioner of India, at India House, Nairobi,
on October 2nd 2010,
with a Portrait of Gandhi ji 
Artist Signature below:

20th April 2017

Eight months ago. The thunderbolt from yonder. If you believe in that. Karma? DNA. Biomarkers. Utter despair. Then, hope. Trials. Tribulations. Against all odds.

Of having to explain to family and friends.”What? Were there no symptoms?”

“Why didn’t he see a doctor?”

He was like that, a stalwart—he bore pain, physical and mental, like a stoic.

The sheer exhaustion of having to go over facts, day after day, even while in hospital, listening to tales about those who had conquered the big “C” and were living “quality lives’, of being admonished for not getting second or third opinions in India and overseas, for not having sold all our modest possessions and gone across the oceans… of having somehow failed as a wife in not recognising the symptoms, for not insisting on medical examinations… mea culpa.

My parched lips were not due to thirst. Then there was the uncontrollable puking, the tears that flowed when I was alone, through restless nights, checking him every hour…

I was content with the results “Super Watson” threw up, sifting through the 8000 papers that are published daily worldwide. After intensive research—the results corroborated what the doctors had told us and the medicines prescribed, except one, but that had serious side-effects, including raising blood pressure. Which is why it had not been prescribed.

I learnt a new word—a big thing for a teacher of English Literature—”metastasis”. I fumbled over the pronunciation. Was it due to the fact that I knew the outcome? Then the concern from well-wishers on the “prognosis”? The word bothered him too and we often smiled in unison. Till the big “C” began its tenacious onslaught.

The fear as each chemo session drew near C1 Day 1 + C2 Day 8 = One Session X 5 over the weeks.

Pardon me, that expression is now frowned upon and we must use the term “infusion”, in respect. Full blood tests were required with checks for creatinine levels… and the lab technicians were unable to draw blood, prodding and poking, leaving blood clots all over—to the desolate anguish and pain of both the patient and those that loved him. The need for blood transfusions as his “vital signs” began to flag. Each intrusion caused excruciating pain in my abdomen and my heart ached… heartbeats—did they pound louder than I cared to acknowledge?

My parched lips were not due to thirst. Then there was the uncontrollable puking, the tears that flowed when I was alone, through restless nights, checking him every hour, or the aphthous ulcers that erupted far more frequently than in the past two decades.

Our daughter grappled with her grief and found the strength to keep us afloat. Even guided and helped me push a stretcher through teeming crowds as no orderly was available to take him back to his room.

Our son came as often as he could, braving 30-hour journeys from the African continent and made my husband smile from his heart, their conversations lasting well past the midnight hour.

My grief paled in comparison to his suffering. The biopsies, the frequent x-rays, the waiting for hours for his turn… The burning inside his body, the fear of the unknown, the ultimate truth that he would not see his children grow older. The loss of his muscles, the unbearable moment when he could not get up on his own or turn on his side—the indignity of having others heave him up, calling himself a pitiful specimen, wanting to get out of the hospital, yearning to go home.

Two nights. At home. His own bed. To the familiar sounds of the roller-birds and the black-crested bulbuls… he breathed his last.

We decided… the day he stopped speaking, but opened his eyes when he heard his name. The tears he cried through closed eyes as he could not do namaskar to the orderlies who helped him into the ambulance, the sound of the siren as we rushed through the traffic in Delhi—all too surreal. As my heart pounded, our daughter held our hands and kept us going right into the air-ambulance she had arranged for, with some help from his college friend.

Through turbulent weather in the small charter plane, with the doctor and attendant who kept checking his vitals, till the plane touched down in our home-town.

“We are home.” He opened his eyes ever so briefly.

Two nights. At home. His own bed. To the familiar sounds of the roller-birds and the black-crested bulbuls that chirped outside his parents’ room that he had painstakingly cleared, having restored the original colour of their wooden beds, he breathed his last—after two nights. With his daughter beside him, reading him excerpts from a book he liked, some news of the world, of how much he had done for his children and his beloved country—thirty-six years in government service and how proud they were of him.

The last sigh. No, I am not moving forward just yet. I need to take deep breaths. It has not been easy inhaling and exhaling these past 240-odd days.

https://www.huffingtonpost.in/author/jayshree-misra-tripathi/