Dad… Oh how I’ve missed you!

A very usual sight of my dad is of him being annoyed with something or me. Now thankfully Elsa steals the focus of of me. Always in faded ol’ pajama clad like a true bong with the occasional matching kurta – reserved for when the doorbell rings and he must appear ‘decent’. And the evening attire where a casual shirt and trouser from his working years replace the home grunge look he goes in for his walk.

I don’t think I can see him in any other form. Like my face which hasn’t changed since its definition at a year old, my dad whom I fondly call papa, hasn’t changed since I 1^st laid eyes on him. His mannerisms, beliefs, attitude, humor, education and most importantly his innocence have remained untouched and unadulterated. That is not to say that he hasn’t been educated through life. He has seen good days, bad days, dark days and some really dark phases where he reached out but couldn’t find a grip or a hand to hold on to. I was merely a kid else I would’ve lent my tiny fingers if nothing else. Through it all my dad has the bragging rights to say that he is indeed a self-made man. The very example of 1.

Born in Dhaka, Bangladesh and raised in post-partition Kolkata, he is the youngest of 9 brothers. That’s right. I would imagine him to be spoilt but he is 1 of the most successful and humble of his siblings. The only 1 who ventured to Nadiad, Gujarat and began his young career in Textile Technology after having not reserved his dream seat in a medical college. He didn’t let that deter him and with the knowledge and endurance of his education and upbringing at the prestigious Ramakrishna Mission Ashrama, Narendrapur, he finally made it to the city of dreams. Here began his bachelorhood, his love affair with mom at Bombay Dyeing Mills, his chance to travel to Lagos, Nigeria, the demise of his marriage, his return to India, the dissolution of textile in the country, his gruelling stints at Nagpur and other Navi Mumbai towns in harsh mill and factory conditions and finally a VRS which he grudgingly but gracefully accepted and settled in.

Through it all he never stopped being my father. He juggled custody of me, made weekend trips to Pune to my boarding school, gave me money, food, clothes and anything I needed or wanted as a growing young lady and still found time to teach me lessons and keep me grounded. My family at some point always had more than sufficient which they used to educate me at prestigious institutes (read also expensive). My father ensured I was never lacking anything, never spoilt for choice and never made a fool of myself by throwing a tantrum to have anything. I was an aggressive young 10yr old; deeply disturbed in a negative manner by her parents divorce. My mother remarried but my father remained single. Theirs was a story only theirs to be told and he always felt like he had failed somewhere. Life in war-torn and conflict-ridden Nigeria has torn many people and relations apart – something I grew to learn off and understand in my late teens. In the meantime, I grew to know him, get attached to him and also as a youngun enjoy the freedom bestowed on me by his helplessness of being a working man.

Today as a grown young lady, I am his window to the world. He isn’t anti-social but he hasn’t made any conscious effort to mingle with the outside world either. Keeping primarily to himself and his business is his way of getting through the day. With ever changing processes and technology, I step in to help-out and get him through these challenges. Having never learnt basic computer or phone, a basic Nokia handset in his shirt pocket, the MTNL landline, pieces of paper, the Indian postal service and all old-school methods are his sure-shot fail-safe channels to finding his way through. High end restaurants i.e. anything above an Udipi really makes him nervous, large crowds at supermarkets, complex questions and his disdain for expensive public transport often have him flustered and left alone.

But through it all he observes which fruit I consume the most and during which part of the year.

Which seafood and what curry I like. New goodnight liquid dispenser for my room to keep them bloodsuckers away. Honey vs sugar. New mugs to waste money on cuz they had cat graphics. Soups when I was ill. Hand towel cuz I lost mine in class. Gluing my broken shoes and chappals with araldite… hell gluing anything in the house with araldite. Stitching up a broken zip on a bag I may have set aside. Fixing my broken 13yr old Sony TV for the gazillionth time. Making my tiffin and lunch box since I could crawl to school. Checking to see if I finished all the food TILL DATE. These are something I probably will never have in another human being or maybe with not the same love and dedication as my papa. I have been an ungrateful, difficult, ignorant, angry, inconsiderate and mean daughter through my years with him. Sometimes all at once and sometimes in parts. I have also grown to let him have the last word and let him believe he was right all along. Cuz these small things don’t matter against the magnitude of love he has showered over me.

My father has been through 3 major surgical procedures on me. Each time he sat through them outside the OT and was available to scare me awake from anaesthesia. Each time he sat silently in a corner lamenting at my pain. We never said ‘I love yous’ but we ALWAYS felt and communicated it. Even though he has vehemently expressed over the years that I have been a failure as his dream daughter with no Indira Nooyi prestige or a Surgeon designation; I know that he has been proud of me for growing up into whatever little I have become. I feel stronger and capable that I could renovate his home, donate lakhs when he needed it and held his hand through difficult times. He never expressed he only needed a son for it despite having my lil brother. There was just 1 time where my heart was broken into unfixable pieces and I cried in his lap and said I loved him more than any boy I would ever love. He just pressed my head and put me to sleep. He still does that when I am sick and I crawl into our tiny sofa and sleep in his lap, effectively messing up his Bengali soap experience. His disdain for men in my life is probably out of the fear that he may lose me to someone better, brighter and more capable. I am in love but not blinded enough to miss my father from my line of sight.

He still surprises me many days with his depthless knowledge, his patience (seriously) and his ability to capture hearts. Recently he bonded well with Abeer and a few friends. I didn’t expect so but he made the effort. Guess even Elsa has some credit for making him a relaxed, amused and funny man. I look fwd to days when I stay alone but I terribly miss him within the hour. No sound, no ridiculous singing, no revival of Tom n Jerry anecdotes (now more so , no food…. No love. Abeer periodically shares his own father’s deep influence on him as a child and young man. Truth be told, that’s where I have taken the “what if” cue and dedicated more time and love to my papa.


I could go on. But all I really wanna say is that I love you dad. I just haven’t said it enough or expressed it enough either <3 

Elsa: Gata's gato

*Nuzzle* *poke poke* *puurrrrrrrrr*

His 1^st night in my house, my arms and in my bed. I was delighted and yet very vary of handling this fragile, precious clump of life purring like a generator machine. Firoza, the foster caregiver, assured me, “Priyankka this means he has taken to you and feels safe and loved.” I smiled.

Elsa is a 2-month old Tabby-Calico kitten. Born from a rescued stray mom, he was the only 1 of his litter who had taken her sea green eyes and stripes and spots. Thus, looking like a cross between a baby leopard with a gorgeous grey mixed coat and a soft love bundle. Nothing however takes away from his gorgeous button like eyes that keep staring at me and my belongings, the room, the furniture and whatever else the world has to offer his barely few weeks old senses. He had been shuttled from foster home to foster home and was last on the list to be set up for adoption ahead of his more troublesome and less likely adoptees. But, after what seemed like weeks of trouble to just get a cat, Elsa was a 5min decision into my life. Best 5mins of my life.

At this point he has been with me barely 3 weeks, yet he has seen it all. The excitement of the 1^st week. Exploring the house, the people, the corners and the possibilities to create trouble. The 2^nd week he was away from me. Well I was away, in the hospital, being operated upon my leg followed by an intensive recovery phase. The 3^rd week I came home to a feeble and quiet Elsa who refused to come to me with the ease with which he snuggled up to me the 1^st night. I accepted. After all dad had done the caring for both cats: Elsa and me. Elsa took time but brief. He soon warmed up to me. The 1^st night back home for me ended with panic and his 1^st emergency vet visit. Not the way I had planned it. But with enough added panic from Firoza and composed advice from Nishadh (who cares for Elsa’s mum), I was able to get through the evening limping and in intense pain. The heart was already wrenched and worn from extensive emotional bruising from the previous 2 weeks and couldn’t hold anymore for the ordeal with Elsa. The tiny tot that he was, jumped, sneezed, scratched and snuggled up all he could. I was glad to have someone love me back, unconditionally, after a long time. I guess I could say; he came to me at a time when I was broken and needed to feel fixed.

I have grown to accept that my cat is occasionally a yogi, a closet jedi and many characters that just keep springing with each passing day. He loves to treat my dad and me as pawns and pit us against each other; always guessing which team he is ‘batting for’. This especially comes handy during feeding time cuz he knows I am the time and scheduled feeder versus my poor father who gets fedup at the 3^rd painfully long soprano meow and ends up feeding him. His sleep patterns… well most interestingly his positions vary from normal cat like to anarkali-like stance with dramatic human poses. He thinks he is super smart but his mommy is smarter. I know them button eyes and each expression; the most common being – “I’m the cutest thing to walk this earth and you can’t deny me fluffy, unconditional love.” His idea of exercise begins sharp at 6am and involves a live stream of NeedForSpeed. Chasing anything that he pretends is a terrorist mouse and that he is under National Security advisement to take down the target. One of those targets he has recently taken to is a beautiful plastic belle with a golden outfit and a purple feather veil. Poor gal. Whatever did she ever do. I tried to save her… but it was too late (FYI she was exposed by a very amused Abeer who thought she made an excellent candidate for target practice).

The more rarer antics involve getting locked into drawers and cupboards, finally scaling the kitchen counter only to find that the water filter leaked on him, scurrying through garbage and answering my phone. But at the end of the day or at midday when I see that look on his face, that extended paw and a slower than usual gait I know what he wants. To sleep. On my lap or my tummy or my chest. At 1^st with his face near mine – like a James Dean movie being romantic and securing his spot thus making me immobile for the next 3hrs minimum. Once comfortable beyond royal treatment with a cat-spa like experience, he does not hesitate to kick me in the arm or face or extend out his paw and grab my hand to place on his belly. Thereafter, his idea of returning that love is to treat me like his eternal scratch post. I would like to say we have clear communication but clearly our dialects are different.

I can’t complain as I have been touted as lucky for landing 1 of the best pets ever. Not just as a cat but Elsa. He is truly a personality and has amazed even a seasoned vet with his docile behaviour and his trust in me. For a 1^st time pet owner/adopter I feel compelled to be right and to do things right. Moments where you feel that vulnerable life and his full trust in your hands or crawling all over you, a wave of selflessness washes over. I had my maternal hormones kick in in my early 20s. I guess they are indeed on overdrive now. I think of him when I step out and when I see something that invokes a warm affectionate feeling towards my baby Elsa. He is not a pet but a part of my family. Fortunately (as I hoped and wished), he has taken very well to Abeer. Thus, completing the extension to my immediate family as well.


Now dear Elsa, I was named Gata but I am not nocturnal… at least not the way you are you crazy lil button. Good night! (soft kisses and paw).

For more pictures of Elsa visit Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.582486828453094&type=1&l=2488c98578 and Instagram: GataCDO7

The Dark Nights

“Elsa has a fever and needs me” I muttered under a controlled but angry breath to my impatient father.

Dad had not had a good day. I didn’t understand why. He had slept all evening and all night. Selfishly, I was the 1 who needed the respite. A foolish question earlier in the day was how come I didn’t enjoy my hospital visit. Who would imagine that 5 days in the hospital, post-surgery, lying in a 1-dimensional position, staring at 4 very close walls (2 being curtains) and yo-yoing between earth shattering silence and absolute mayhem was “pleasant”. I let it go. Just like I was letting go of a deep breath, which had borne too much in the last 2 weeks. Dad had completely lost it in the lobby of the hospital, thus leaving the cash and insurance counters begging me to control him and hearing them out. I was wheelchair bound, drained and expected to solve everyone’s problems. Problems of people who had gotten my bill wrong the 4^th time and had tested the last ounce of my old dad’s patience. I did the needful. Quietly. Sorted the mess and left.

I was an emotional and psychological wreck. Actually, I controlled myself and made it somehow so ‘wreck’ doesn’t count. I did manage some composure with the help of very vocal and strong friends who didn’t give up. And even though I had the parents (all 3) it seemed like a burden to them or a liability. I was polite to the point of asking them to leave me some nights alone. Nurses would wonder why I didn’t have a relative when others had overbearing 1s around them. My parents weren’t bad. They just didn’t cope well with my injury and silence. I thrived in the chaos of the present.

Yes, I had injured myself. This wasn’t deliberate. Or like Abeer had threatened to leave if I limped. Today anything is possible so I will just keep his words at bay. I was angry with him as well. I injured myself doing something I loved. In pleasing the system and the people in my life, I had what the docs described as – burned myself out. I had it all. Capoeira. The boyfriend. The friend. The freedom blah blah. But sometimes to those who have it all, it’s a burnout to manage it all. With the job and classes and keeping pace with Abeer, I had forgotten that my supposedly tiny frame couldn’t support all the madness. I waited for the break from work to lower my pressures so I can give quality time to few things and people that mattered. Before that transition – along came the big full-stop.

At 1^st I felt comforted and sorted, thinking I have the handholding I need. I have the right people and the right support to get me through smiling like nothing really happened. It wasn’t long before the hand had left mine and I crashed into a wall. After the crash it was the “you can do it” – an effective way to say “clean up the mess you thought wasn’t coming your way.” I didn’t want to do it alone. That wasn’t my plan and not even my contingency. A fight with the boyfriend started the mayhem rollercoaster through hell. Unresolved. Unspoken. Unheard. Unsupported. The office added to my woes as if I didn’t have enough – you see as per ‘tradition’ they punish and effectively nightmarize those who resign. “Terminate her and let the insurance go to hell”. Thanks but what now…

The comfort of picking up the phone and dialling a number seemed like a tedious task with a question mark. Am I calling the love or a former some1? Is the mother gonna descend on me or comfort me? Will the father give answers or let me know for the 10000^th time how I disappointed him? In that state (now in retrospect) even I couldn’t believe how beaten I felt. Tears came naturally while a morsel of food lodged itself in the mouth and refused to go down. With this in tow n refusing to stop, I got admitted, surgery-ed and in what was supposedly recovery. The doc lived up to his promise. Pain management was a breeze what with 2 beeping machine pumps attached to me. It was the mental status that didn’t cooperate with the meds. Terminally ill patients with a plethora of diseases and mentally affected relatives thronged me. I wanted desperately to heal and get out – but their sounds and stories and anguish didn’t let me be. Needed Abeer desperately here. As inappropriate as it was, he balanced me when it came to finding humor in the madness.

But he was far. Disconnected. By choice. His instagram kept me posted of the colors that adorned him but evaded me. I wished to be there with him rather than have him here. It didn’t help soothe my anger. I had nearly given up. Until I got a Are-U-Dead-Or-Alive like message. Like a lost friend who occasionally connects with u. I didn’t know what to make of it. I needed more solutions – not more questions, doubts and fears that I had not tackled before. It had been 3yrs since my last relationship. This was different and I was glad. But not in times like these. Every bone in my body said ask him to come back and be there cuz u want him. Not need him. But want him. I managed to evade that as well. Y ask when u know it aint gonna happen.

In the interim my grief was interrupted by a fedup parent, few well-meaning friends, doctor visits, constantly interrupting aunties and nurses abruptly waking or shaking u up for meds, IV, sponge etc. I kept everything at bay by depending on my dear phone – ONLY window to the outside world. Waiting for a beep, vibrate or a flash. The food I just had to send back untouched unless the parent did the courtesy of finishing it for me. I thought lying quietly and surviving on tea for 4 days will get me through. But the resultant punishment was an extra day+night due to my vitals dipping – stupid girl. I managed to bring them up with liquid diet and begged to be discharged. The excruciating pain whilst taking my 1^st steps and doing all the exercises will be an ever-reminder of how I managed to let them know I can do this effortlessly so let me go. And go they did. The panel was young and understood my plight as well.

I packed up and washed my face and brushed – 1^st time in 4 days. The headless horseman from SleepyHollow wore a far more charming look than me. 2 wks had robbed me of any charm, glow or life. Changing into MY clothes felt a bit weird. The nurses who refused to let me go thought otherwise. They made me smile and the whole staff came up and asked a whole bunch of questions. Thought I was pretty but v quiet. Marriage, boyfriend, work, martial arts, age, etc. A pic of Abeer brought about a gang of giggles. Hugs and funny requests followed my wheelchair ride down to sunlight.

The whole ride home was a quite 1. I felt like I had lost a decade in coma. I waited to see Elsa. He saw me. Ran away and then stuck to dad. It was natural. His nurturer demanded his full attn. But then he came around and snuck up to me. Purred like there was nothing wrong. Until he sneezed and felt warm. Thereafter what I assumed would be a restful welcome home, turned into a calling frenzy, ambulance chasing and vet visiting evening. I had forgotten my pain meds and the leg reminded me of that well. I just wanted Elsa to be ok. Dad went berserk again – why the cat and my leg. Just why? I had brought the cat. I loved him. He was my responsibility. When you love someone you don’t just hold a few select fingers – you hold their hand and never let go. So leg, injury, surgery or whatever the hell… Elsa needed me. I couldn’t ignore that. It cost me deep pockets but I was ready to move anything including forgetting my crutches to have him ok. The vet saw him and gave the meds. I was relieved. I had made it through another slap from Karma. Broken leg in tow.



Now I NEEDED the healing and some love. I needed the care and holding. Right now he purrs in my lap. Occasionally suckling on my fingers and also sneezing on my napkin. Scratches and holds on to me. His way of showing me love I guess. Big eyes and an occasionally paw to me. I accept. Now I just wait with bated breath for the 1 I love and wish to show love in my way. In that corner in his shoulders where I found love 1^st. 

From Tigress to Amoeba

An amoeba is a single cell organism that has featured in the 1st chapter of nearly all life science and basic biology books since high school. I don’t feel nearly as powerful and significant as the amoeba but I do feel like its size, shape and visibility aka all 0. To the mother and father I am the single cell organism that changed their lives and appeared as the 1st chapter of their progeny life. So I’m toggling multiple identities here.

I would like to think of myself as the tigress given how moments ago, whilst checking if Abeer had made some connection on his phone, I stumbled upon his instagram comments. Well I was looking for comfort in his pics and comments, but couldn’t help noticing that while his feline love was battling emotions and upcoming significant pain, 95% of the comments, praises and batting eyelids on his instagram account were ladies (in the appropriate words of Abeer – Skanks). But even that tigress retreated into an emotional black hole when an attending came in to draw blood from her arm. I can never get used to needles and neither do I want to. The blood didn’t make me queasy as much as the size of the needle did.

Present moment: 9pm in room # 85 of the 11th floor of KDA Hospital. I checked in today as an inpatient for my knee surgery. I expected the ‘general’ ward to remind me of all Indian general wards. However, I was in for a pleasant surprise. Clean, air-conditioned, private, a cosy nook and cupboard equipped with a digitized safe and straight out of A class design. Mrs. Tina Anil Ambani sure watches Grey’s Anatomy cuz it was a replica of their rooms. I was instantly relieved as I had just spent an hour at the insurance help desk. It was all touch and go. They admit you and then work on costs. It’s like they feed you and then force you into anorexia cuz you couldn’t afford them. This was top class at a (need to add) very reasonable cost. I was quiet and didn’t wanna talk. Was a tad bit rude to mum whom I had vehemently asked not to accompany me. Truth is without her I wouldn’t have made it to my bed even after 2hrs. But the abandoned girl in me craved for her boy.

Once on my bed, the nurses and on-call staff poured in on me. Height, weight, x-ray and basic blood work were in order. But all it took was step 1 to reduce me to tears – the patient tag on my wrist. Reality and nostalgia hit so hard. Mum didn’t ask or cajole me. Just held me and asked me not to be scared. I was scared shitless. How could this happen to me? How did 2013 turn into a year of hospital visits, needles, meds and large medical bills? How did my health plunge and then come back up and then show me it could dive deeper? I needed Abeer. He has the answers in his madness. Not the real ones. Just answers I would like to hear.

The nurse kept checking my BP and insisted I eat cuz it kept dropping. The last weight recorded showed a shocking 4.5kgs lower (in a month’s time). There was a sadistic unhealthy smile in my mind – at least I wasn’t fattening up and my customized workout had done its work. An unhealthy celebration. I surveyed my room. Curious patients and their relatives all examined me from a distance or whenever the curtains parted. Mum made conversation with them – like all Indian mothers do. 5 different women in 3hrs had lectured me about Capoeira vs doing dance and yoga and what not. I desperately needed some quiet and I needed to meet my friends rather than adults. Yes, a few laughs and familiar faces would have done me good but the ‘visitor pass’ system made it not so possible for them to come. My head ached but my heart ached more. I knew Abeer couldn’t reach me but I was hoping somehow, somewhere, another stray phone on the road – another message. Love.

The doc made a round and stared at me for 5mins to gauge how much of the fear and anguish had set in before he proceeded to comfort me and go over the details and instructions. 2.5+hrs of surgery starting 8am next morning. I ordered the parents home and said I didn’t want anyone for the night. It was them or Abeer. Since Abeer wasn’t around, I was settling for no one. I imagined if he was here he could sleep on the make shift bed and we could chat all night and giggle. He would probably steal some Wi-Fi from somewhere and then show me more apps. We would kiss and be a tad bit inappropriate – without breaking any rules. Instead its sickeningly quiet with the periodic coughs and sounds from other patients in my ward. All terminal, old and very severe in their health. Heart patient with a doting and beautiful wife to a multi-organ failing stubborn fella who was earlier scolded by docs to live up to his med cycle. Collapsed lung is what I heard last. Tomorrow I would be in an intense state as them. But hopefully recovering faster.

How am I to sleep? My insurance partially cleared thus giving me some peace. But what about everything else. I missed Elsa. Imagined him trying to purr like a baby and tug at a cold quilt instead of a warm me who held him and cradled him to sleep every night.  All that I loved had left the area. It’s just me and my thoughts now. Sleep evades me. But tomorrow I will be asleep for 10+hrs before consciousness to a repaired me who will have to start putting herself back altogether – for Elsa and Abeer.

Love the Unexpected or the Unexpected love

“Baby I got you something.” “Really??” *Standing amidst greenery on a rainwashed Sunday morning*

*Frumpy look on her face* *He gives her a beautiful lil elephant keychain*

“I got this from Pune for you” *She smiles*

“You like?” “I love it baby” *They seal the moment with a kiss*

Hours later, in an unfortunate spell, that lil elephant was lost to nature at Chinchoti trail. It may sound small and insignificant but to her it meant all (I still remember losing that elephant. I had carefully clipped it to my backpack and then it was there no more).

It symbolized 1 of many unexpected moments of love shared with Abeer. We didn’t elaborate on us, not yet. I was Miss PDA and he was the actual shy 1 who only boasted of his openness and escapades from the past. When in India, I was the bold 1 and he the domesticated NRI (I’m smirking at NRI). With him I started with not wanting to feel anything, to feeling something and yet keeping my head on my shoulders, to losing my head from my shoulders but quickly screwing it back up and finally losing it all together. I guess the last stage marks the completion of the 100% absolute-in-love and this-time 4-real stage.

But through the last 7 months of togetherness there has been stark likeness and absolute opposite mayhem. The mere 3 days between our bdays would make me think we could be the twin Pisces fishes but our personalities speak otherwise. You see the love is there but the magnitude and the expression is different. It’s like we are reading the same script but in different dialects. Occasionally, the phonetics of that dialect connects us and love is requited. Other times, a simple mistranslation or miscommunication is enough to loosen both our screws. Hence, the twin fishes are upside down and opp. facing.

I think that people need the opportunity of expression too. Without a fight there is no opportunity for attention. Without a dialogue there is no openness. Without disagreement there is no chance to learn the differences. Without disengagement there is no moment for melting into each other. Without issues there is no extension of our personalities to explore the warrior and protector within us. Without sickness and bad times, there is no proof of our loyalty. Without distance there is no realization of the value. Without boredom and mundane-ness there is no creativity. Without the real deal there is nothing left fighting for; no refreshment of our expression of love. And we have done pretty much all of it.

When you look at your object of affection, you adore them. Your pride yourself in your choices; that you got lucky. In their absence there is a natural need to feel a rare sense of why can’t he/she be so or behave or have so… Then they appear in front of you and you realize, you have something that no one else has. And for some inexplicable reason you are unable to relinquish THIS one. Like the Great Gatsby. Rich, powerful, intelligent, ambitious, handsome, blessed yet haunted by a green light that ultimately destroyed him. We can have it all – or so appears to the world. But that 1 soul is all it takes to bring us to our knees. There is a sense of question as to whether we ever deserved them and all of their personality showered on us. That when they did, we partially acknowledged the love to satisfy our personal friend – Ego; but Ego was sacrificed when love turned its back on us.

There are these moments of tight knots. They squeeze and burn within. Makes you choke up and struggle to breathe. Face flushes and emotions refute control. But the moment love turns a kind eye toward us, the tremendous feeling of 360° relief and humility is like a pressurized aircraft cabin with emergency exits opened at 37000ft. I felt that recently and am going through it. The distance separating us is 1 I have miserably failed to cope with. His absence reduced me and I found myself being a teenage love-fool. An eg. would be my buying Starbucks coffee with his name on the styrofoam as a momento to the weekends he spends waiting patiently for me at the neighbouring Starbucks. That they know him there and occasionally prepare free samples and Americanos, are testament to how long I make him wait. Something I wouldn’t have done at all this weekend in order to spend every breathing second available. No, he did not go to the moon. Just Manali and Spiti and Kasol. They make me forget my leg and want to join him there.  

Then again I think of the times I said something I shouldn’t have or did something I could’ve reversed. There are moments I don’t wanna take back and stay mad at him. Exactly what good comes of it – nothing. This relationship although far more volatile with the good and bad remind me of others as well. Parents and siblings. In the ‘Pursuit of Happyness’, Chris Gardner while going through the worst moments of his life, still maintains aggression, softness, and borderline sanity. The 1^st few times I saw the movie I loved him and felt that it was about his journey to stockbroker-stardom. Truth is it was all about Chris Jr. (his son). He struggled to live, eat, breathe and survive only for his son. His pursuit for stardom was more in his son’s eyes and future than in the multimillion dollar corporation he dreamt of. His humiliation and struggles reducing him often were reversed only when he ensured the safety and sanctity of his love – his son.

Love, when given and received unexpectedly is the most cherished. Love, when asked and coerced, rarely feel authentic. When in love with love, it remains a dream. When in love with reality, it feels authentic. When in love with the idea of love, it just fails. Been there, done that. Now I just love him and wait for his return. Hoping to feel something: expectedly unexpected. <3 

Spiral Cycle

…or so I am avoiding. Poorly.

Last week was a difficult 1 for me. Maybe 1 of my worst. Nearly all of Eid was spent in hospital and doctor visits. This accounted for the commute, the wait and the final darshan of the doc almighty so to speak. The end was fruitful or so I am made to think of the visit but not of the circumstances overall.

A week ago during a rehearsal for a TV show, my left leg decided to do a horrible remake of my right leg’s episode. The remake was much like Bollywood movies, a crass copy that did not do justice to the original piece. The scene involved me tackling 4 ‘ruffians’ (read my fellow capoeirista boys) with Capoeira manoeuvres: throws and takedowns. It was conceived by my teacher in a matter of minutes as we practiced. At 1^st I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it look authentic enough. But after a bunch of takes I liked being the kick-ass gal. I enjoyed it and loved that THIS would mark my spot. Was gonna bring Abeer to the show. So I savoured the moves and practiced. It was late but we had the studio so we just jumped about and practiced set after set. The last and final take I gave it a lil more than just a practice run and there is where the dislodge and familiar sound defined the next 6 months for me.

I teared up and tried to fight the panic that caught my windpipe almost not letting me breathe. Batizado. Instructorship. Rehab. Restart. Rewind. At the time only 1 thought ran through my mind – I need Abeer. He was in Pune and potentially in a bar or a party. I too was ironically headed to F-Bar post this practice. But the ‘pop’ changed everything. I held up my signature thumbs up (a habit I am trying to break) to my teacher and assured him it was just a sprain and I would be back next day full form for the show. We all left to go home. I got off my station and as an afterthought, headed to the ER of Ambani hospital. Not the wisest thing to do alone but panic wouldn’t let me sleep. I was dismissed with a “The ortho won’t be available today” while another cited a long wait. Exactly how that ER and trauma works, I don’t know.

I didn’t sleep a wink. I was desperate to call Abeer. But I knew that I didn’t wanna trouble him mid-night. It was 1am and yet I contemplated if I should call my boyfriend. The next morning thankfully he contacted me with the best news ever – he was already home and back in town contrary to the earlier planned late evening. He came with me to the ER and the multiple visits after an X-ray and MRI scan. Who better than him to understand me – a sportsman himself and having injured himself. He pushed me around in a wheelchair and played in the hospital. Eased my nerves and was the ultimate of what I expected of him. I was safe.

Nothing prepared me for Dr. Dinshaw Pardiwala’s appointment (reknowned sports medicine and Ortho surgeon). Mum stubbornly refused any other surgeon to work on me. I say power of the mother as she managed to slide me into Dr. P’s schedule and get him to look at me. The consultancy was an eye opener. Mum went into her barrage of bad diet, stress, being a woman, age and that subtle way in which she wanted to blame Capoeira. I picked up on the cue and asked the doc when will I be back in full form. 6 months. Pat came the reply. I sunk in my chair. Same ol’ answer. Surgery was the only option for me given the extent of damage. Then he went on to bust certain practices of women athletes practicing during their menstrual cycle. The surging hormones, which wreck havoc on not just the tear-tap but the muscles making us sore and painful to touch. The muscles are vulnerable to wear and tear at a higher risk and intensity. Hence, thinking you are a tough cookie and working out against the pain is not the wisest habit to keep. Another one was about the structure of the bone base. A narrow base is usually seen in women and high impact workouts or movement cause the narrowness to wear out the ligament or a new graft. Hence, a reconstruction of the bone base was in order. Manufacturing defect is what I thought.

We left and I was tired. The leg hurt and the 4hr wait didn’t help. I wanted a hug. From Abeer. That place in his shoulder where I would bury my anger, anguish and had even celebrated some good moments. I missed meeting his mum for Eid; something I really wanted to prioritize that day and it not happening added to my list of upsets. I only called and messaged him. Updated him on every detail. Even though I was with family, I behaved like I was with guardians and was contacting my real family. He promised to return the next day and that eased me. The surgery date was fixed and costs were worked out. Mum and dad were quiet almost afraid that anything they would say wouldn’t sit well with me. I hadn’t said much all day and they wished I made some sound. I signed the OR like 1 books a hall for a wedding. The costs made a tight knot in my stomach. I had just quit and had no income. I had so many plans and surprises lined up. Now I couldn’t consider them. I had plans with Abeer too. And some would have to wait.

But above all concerns was the fear the surgery had set in my head. I remember the cold OR last time and the strangers around me and the needles and the scalpels. I remember the fear and last ounce of consciousness before they sliced into me. Fix me. Nothing could fix the fear Round II. And nothing prepares you for the post-operative pain. I can’t forget even though I try to. It was terrifying and excruciating. Abeer could get me through it. He had a knack for making a joke out of everything (some of those times were NOT funny). I knew hospitals made him queasy and brought back some haunting memories. So I figured that as I parallelly lay in the comfort of knowing he would be there, I was also contemplating sending him off for the duration of this hospital stint. I guess THIS was the way my mother would get to meet him. I just had the work week left to look forward to.

We will get through it. He said. I believed. He made me feel it. I felt it. What was constant pain suddenly turned into pulses of pain; like he had let in a saline of painkiller. Then it eased as I spent a lazy afternoon in his arms, in my favourite place. 

Fac alteri ut tibi vis

"We're meant to serve. We're NOT their servants!" Says Bob Hoskins character to JLo's character from the movie "Maid in Manhattan". 

People often forget the difference between an occupation and a character. They are blinded by money, power and society-defined status to clearly see that those defined as ‘lesser or ‘lower’ than them are but mere humans going about their roles and occupations.

I have seen my share of injustice and really inhumane behaviour to downright bullying. But some recent stints at my company where I work triggered me to pen down a few thoughts. It really irks me when people are rude for no apparent reason especially to those who don't have a voice or haven’t found their’s yet. Yes, I have been rude and angry: with family, boyfriend, friends etc. But I have consciously watched my tone with a maid, security guards, servers and those who do service, beggars and urchins, rickwalas and cabbies. They live with injustice and uncouth behaviour and attitude thrown all day save for when they are asleep. No one seems to see eye to eye with them. That’s why I am surprised at them expressing surprise at my very polite behaviour to them (Mental note: If only I made the same effort with near and dear ones when I am about to lose the string on temper).

If 1 were subjected to negative attitude and beaten down mentally and emotionally all day long, they will appear regressive or aggressive – both in the extremes. Take for example the employees at my place of occupation. Although my organization boasts 1 of the top places to work professionally, as a brand, in experience; it also takes pride in exercising their upkeep of women and their superior role, housekeeping, FnB and other tertiary domains. Yet, I find it absolutely blasphemous that housekeeping staff has to clean the corners and curves with bare hands. It includes large corridors, restrooms and kitchen and service areas. I have watched and wondered if a pair of gloves and hygiene equipment really creates a hole in their multi-billion dollar kitty.

Employees yell at FnB staff and order food like a warden ordering a miscreant prisoner from the yard to his holding cell. It’s not like anyone made a mistake. It appears like they think it’s a natural and acceptable manner of communication. Rickwalas are treated like scum – plausible excuse being that they are ‘Northies’. Why the typecast? Another very mundane e.g. would be: Recently I was getting into a rick with a Muslim driver. I particularly find them to be very polite with more than immaculate Hindi diction. And they mind their own business. A few classmates 1^st discouraged me saying it was late and they didn’t trust ‘these’ drivers. I shrugged it off and got in. At the end of my ride the driver asked me to place the money on the meter and not in his hands. I asked him repeatedly why this odd exchange. He said they don’t touch unmarried ladies or women that are not their immediate family. I wasn’t offended. I was smiling and complied. It was the month of Ramadan. I only wished that my disapproving friends who were looking out for my safety had seen this driver’s attitude. Maybe they wouldn’t then be quick to typecast and judge.

I know good and bad people and they don’t come from a particular background. The divide is just cuz of society. They are quick to blame a religion or a state or a country or a socio-economic background. 1 forgets our birth, upbringing and circumstances also define us. Not just define us. There are those who rise out of the muck so clean and polished, 1 would never believe they once existed on the other side of the fence. They have class, dreams, desires, ideas and survival skills that even adrenaline rush wouldn't pop in our cosily raised minds.

So while we are comfortable hailing a rick and speeding off to wherever we wanna go, don’t forget the endless lines of people waiting in the rain and grime for that 1 bus, BEST drivers, conductors and railway employees who works holidays and long hours to shuttle us thankless passengers who trample, beat and abuse them, the driver who sleeps in his vehicle, eats measly meals and drives and drives even taking bathroom breaks mid-commute. There are countless we don’t see and hear. Like I said earlier, “People who don’t have a voice or haven’t found their’s yet.” They will find a voice. Someday. Somehow.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you!