Rabia goes to Dehradun

To know Rabia, you'll have to read blog titled 'To blog or not to blog.' Look at the right side of this page and click on the afore-mentioned blog page, October entry.

Rabia was here for 3 months. She has her fields and animals to take care of. The temporary caretakers she had posted at her home to look after her home and agriculture have to go back to their homes. The speediest 3 months I have known.

The day she reached my house,3 months back, she handed me Rs 600/- and her pan card. She said she would buy a burkha with the money in Mumbai and put all her possessions in my faith. I wondered where we would get a burkha in this massive state-like-city. Especially since at that point of time being able to take 3 steps without getting breathless was by itself a challenge. I did not say anything to her, preferring to delay her disappointment.

The morning of her departure to Dehradun, 3 months later, I was startled out of an REM dream as my father panicked into my room without his usual knocks-on-the-door.

 'Juri, Juri', he repeated till I opened my eyes, 'Rabia's train has already left', he panted. 

I remained quiet for a few minutes, trying to digest this information. Wondered for a moment if my old man was turning senile. *guilty smiley*. Ma soon walked up the steps to my room, following the old man. I asked her what the time was. 

'3.30 ,' she said. 

It was 3.30 in the morning. I got upset that I was woken up from one of my rare 3.30 slumbers. I usually got up at 2.30 am because of steroid induced alertness. This night, for once, I had slept late and I was woken up from deep sleep. Grumble. I waited for the Pa's explanation, certain that he was confusing things. He explained that the ticket was for 12.05 am of the 30th Nov and any second after 12.00 midnight of 29th Nov would be 30th. So today being the 30th, the train had already left in the night. I reached for the laptop and the 3G dongle and confirmed my father's logic. I complained that since the train had already left, they might as well have woken me up at a more decent time in the morning. Every extra minute of sleep was now of more value to me than diamonds.

But my old geezers are among the smartest old guys I have seen. At 6 am, they were at the railway station and got tatkal tickets for Rabia's departure by 11.00 am. She was off as per our original schedule on the train even though technically there was a change in the date on the ticket. My folks dropped her at the station, settled her on her berth, got friendly with the co passengers and requested them to take care of Rabia. It was a day full of drama.

So why was Rabia going to Dehradun? Because she has two sons driving commercial vehicles in Dehradun. The younger one wants to get married to a girl he has fallen in love with and the girl's parents want to meet the boy's mother. So Rabia goes to Dehradun to meet her prospective buari and her family. She got her burkha in a stall in Haji Ali. It cost much more than the 600 rupees she had deposited in my possession, but since yours truly gifted it to her, it didn't matter. My folks gave her a Mumbai darshan and her greatest desires of seeing and stepping into the 'sagar', going to Haji Ali and getting a burkha were fulfilled. She also got a sweater as Dehradun is cold in December. Really cold, if you go by Wikipedia. It is more difficult to get a sweater in Mumbai than a burkha. We succeeded at the nth moment. 

The burkha was really pretty. It was black with lovely embroidery down its front and on the sleeves. I'd like to wear one someday.

I liked what I read about Dehradun. It is the capital of Uttarakhand. Located in the Garhwal region, it is 236 km north of New Delhi and is one of the "Counter Magnets" of the National Capital Region (NCR) being developed as an alternative centre of growth to help ease the migration and population explosion in the Delhi metropolitan area. It is located in the Doon Valley on the foothills of the Himalayas nestled between two of India's mightiest rivers — the Ganges on the east and the Yamuna on the west. The city is famous for its picturesque landscape and slightly milder climate and provides a gateway to the surrounding region. Dehradun has some of the best educational institutes of the country and several tourist destinations in it's proximity including sanctuaries, hill stations and pilgrimage spots. Interestingly, Dehradun garners a good per capita income close to $2400 (Rs. 1,31,000 per 2012 figures; national average $800). It has strong historical links to the Ramayana, Mahabharata, Chinese traveler Huen Chang,  Shri Ram Rai Ji, the eldest son of the Seventh Sikh Guru Har Rai Ji, the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb and was invaded by Mahmud of Ghazni during his campaigns into India followed by Taimooralang in 1368.

It is now the next destination on my wish-list. Rabia set the way. 

Class of 87: A report from the Editor who couldn't

47, 39, 37, 44, 23, 27, 22, 19.

The Class of 87 had 130 students, minus the 3 who have been reborn and we do not know where their new bodies are living. The group site on Facebook has 79 members. And numbers that visit the page have been written in the first line of this blog. The rest are too busy methinks, to visit a Facebook groupsite.

The numbers on the first line of this blog are the maximum number of 'seen bys' of the posts made in the Class of 87 page at different points of time, the older the post the greater the number of 'seen by's'. Gitali was disappointed at the turnout at our 'reunion' or 'get-together'. She had posted the invite of our get-together on the Class 87 groupsite. But it was a very short notice as my stay was really brief. On the day that we met, 24th November, 11am, my house, the post had only 14 'seen by's'. These included Vinnie, Himjyoti, Santanu, Dhriti, Naomi, Gargi, Mousumi, Vandana, Munin, Archana. All out-of-station mates. Of the Guwahatians, six turned up, one sent a card.

So Gitali, the turnout was actually fairly good. *contented smiley*

This is actually a report of this reunion/get-together, by me- the Editor that couldn't.

If you remember, I was supposed to get out the magazine for the 2012 Kaziranga reunion. I was so close and yet I couldn't get it out. You all know why by now. Nearly a year has passed. My recent stay at Guwahati inspired Gitali to organise this get-together. She is also my colleague now, so she gets to know about my whereabouts before the others.



Upasana, Ruby, Indrani, Gitali, Iran, Madhumita as you can see in picture below turned up. Prasanna Dutta, now no longer an Indian like us, came in the evening, alone. He was suited with tie et al. He had a recording with Doordarshan later and he had come dressed for that.

Getting to the rest of the report:

The food:  The steel casseroles have an oil free chicken preparation cooked with peanuts and an oil free pulao by Indrani. Absolutely yummylicious they were. I instantly visualize a 3D projection of them in front of my eyes as I write this. The white hotcase has chicken curry cooked by my man Friday, Jatin.The square baking dish has joha rice in it, my contribution.

Food not seen in the picture are huge chicken patties from Loyan's, mmm mmm, by Upasana, a kabuli chana something, again by Upsi, a sugarfree Loyans cake by Upsi which I didn't share with anyone.

Gitali got boiled eggs, oranges, apples.

Yet a lot of food was left over. The focus of the eating was on getting me fed. Perhaps the reason of Basab's observation of so much of the food still being visible. We didn't cook dinner that night.

The people: Ruby, Gitali, Upsi were the first to turn up. Next was Indrani. Iran and Mita made their grand entrance a little late. Last minute caesarean babies delayed them.

Mita was my bestie. She said she felt hurt when I called her 'former' bestie. I told her I can understand paediatricians don't have time. Ruby was my room mate for a very long time. Everyone knows that. See the effect of my long associations with people. They remain slim. 

The first year stage ragging had Iran and me partnered as quarrelsome spouses. We did a great job. Then he started firing his cupid arrows at my bestie and we are also fellow Pisceans. That explains his weight. We enviously  teased him about his lack of physical changes for as long as we've known him. He said jawani starts now, looking at me for agreement. I advised him not to get jawan now. The 'thoroughbred kanhaiya.' Nice words no? But they are not mine. Vinnie posted them in one of the comments under the photos. Check out the group site.

You guys think I am boasting about the effects of my association with people? Check out Ephia Yasmin, my current bestie.

Indrani, Gitali, Upsi are as beautiful as they were 25 years back. In fact the glow is greater. They are not as slim as Ruby or Mita, but now with their becoming associated with me, there is hope. We've been meeting quite often. I don't know what to do to slim down my own self, my association doesn't seem to work on me, someone give me suggestions. 

The adda: Typical Class '87 talk. Not very sure whether I should reproduce the contents here. I think I better not. You get an idea of what I am trying to say, hopefully. Naturally there was a lot of laughter. Loud raucous laughter. Our laughter. Ninad asked me later what we had so much to laugh about. I told him he wouldn't understand. It was about falling in love and sparrows and hostel stuff. The locals regretted not being hostellers  after they were regaled by the tales.  

Prasanna Dutta the Canadian-American visited in the evening. I was really surprised and very pleasantly so. He asked about everyone and told me to tell you all that he came. This nephrologist is on a visit from his current country, Canada and I was truly humbled that he made the effort to come after just reading the Facebook entry by Gitali. He has two children and is involved with a lot of social causes. He builds houses for the poor. Builds, meaning, literally builds. Cuts tiles and wood himself with hand tools. He took a lot of interest at the Malaysian doors of my house. He is also a licensed pilot and flies planes. Touches everything from the earth to the heavens, literally.

Barnali and Debu had come a few days earlier although she couldn't make it to the actual get together. Had a chat with Santanu over gmail. Madhurima sent a card and everyone gave envelopes.

I am gradually learning to be a gracious acceptor.

Decisions taken: Iran said he thoroughly enjoyed the get-together (Vinnie, hear, hear) and wished for such get-togethers more frequently. Everyone had enjoyed so everyone seconded thirded and fourthed him. Every two months was suggested and we again seconded thirded and fourthed the idea. Venue was discussed, everyone's house could be used by rotation. I offered my house as a permanent venue provided, of course, I am in Guwahati. Iran offered his top floor party hall in the palace that he is constructing. Free of cost, he said, when I asked him if he would want rent. The food could be pot luck (Indrani's and my suggestion).

Lets do this guys. Pleeeeeeese.

I owe a lot of my mental strength and positive attitude to the Class of 87 . I doubt if you guys will ever understand what a tremendous support system you have been. Thank you for everything.

Confusion, hullo there, can you go away please?

I have an amazing clarity of thinking. Dhruba Hazarika told me that baba. Don't "there she goes again" me.

My father had published a book and wanted a press release for it. Dutiful daughter (me, dear reader), wanted to see Papa's wish fulfilled. The press release was the reason Dhruba da informed me about this ability. I was first surprised at the comment, never had thought of myself being particularly clear headed, but was gloriously happy to be handed over the realisation. It was kind of a Eureka moment. That too from Dhruba da.

I had not known Dhruba da personally. I used to read his articles in the newspapers and really enjoyed his write-ups. But I often heard about this IAS officer from my husband. They were Guwahatians and martial art practitioners and had opportunities to bond. He is also the founder of the North East Writers Forum and has written fiction published by Penguin.

Being the terrorizing microbiologist, infection control practitioner and QMS adherent that I was (this is also an awareness brought to me by other grateful folks, and yet an epitaph that would not have displeased me), I took my profession very seriously and was clueless as to how something as alien as a book press release is done. I had never attended a book release function.

For some reason, intuition perhaps, or maybe some other connection which clicked to me then, I decided that Dhruba da would be the best person to advise me about how to organize the press release. He was nice enough to agree to sit with me for half an hour and explain what was to be done. A sheet of A4 size paper gathered my notes and the next day I was started up. Challenges gave me adrenaline surges, as they do to most people.

I soon collected a list of all the newspapers and television channels from our hospital liaison officer and contact numbers of their journalists and had a tiring but enjoyable time inviting the press guys, organizing the press meet, designing the invitation letters and getting them printed, inviting guests, deciding who would release the book, deciding the menu and venue, ordering the food, bouquets, flowers and decorations, pick-up cars for the chief guests, press release folders and other odds. I was the team leader helped by the 25 members of my joint-family-after-marriage stronghold and others like Deepam da and friends of my in-laws and my cousins.

Dhruba da was also on the dais. He told me about my 'clarity of thinking' after the event. I had injured my foot 3 days earlier. A chair in the room received a very swollen and painful right foot at the end of the press meet when I put the foot on it to reduce the swelling before driving back home. I had been standing all the time as I had anchored the proceedings.

The aceclofenac tablets that released the pain from the foot, subsequently started the sequence of events that has put the mind that had 'amazing clarity of thinking' into this state of confusion today. Paradigm shifts happen all too often when one's roof top splits open and spills in unexpected contents from the skies/dirty rooftops. And one wonders if the lifetime spent getting one's world neatly organized, even if organizing often meant 'compromising,' was worth anything at all.

And yet the answers come. Slowly, steadily. But the answers one accepts at any particular point of time depend on one's mood and steroid levels, the position of the stars (after all the stars determine your destiny, you Hindu reader), on who one has just interacted with and what kind of spiritual talk/article one has just listened to/read on the internet. The spiritual ones give the most peaceful answers and the effective people give the most useful answers. The effective answers also have spiritual elements to them. But it is difficult to get the effective people to give you answers. They are busy people because they are effective and everyone wants their time. Agreed, now this is getting a little confusing.

One thing that I see with complete clarity as of this moment is that when you get a fresh lease in life, you must grab that lease and start completely afresh. Completely, totally, no looking back, include all other synonyms please. However, this needs courage. Many have it, the courage that is. Pompy has it. Julie has it. Ashok has it. Effie has it. Monica has it. Alvita has it.

I have a froth that is tugging my lease back a little. But I'm getting there. No confusion about that. There is a good feeling to the thought of relocation of body, mind and soul somewhere far away from the past, to a new beginning, a thought that is very empowering. A very desirable state of being. I want it. Froth, clear up soon.

Conphujan, I know you still dere but you veeeery tiny now. Go-way please. Some effective advice would have helped. But does or does not the advisor want to give advice? Now dat sumthing I really conphujed about. *puzzled 'not so' smiley*

 

 
 

To blog or not to blog

I have 4041 hits on my blog page with 21 entries as of today. Not bad, I think to myself. I stopped making new entries more than 2 months back. Lots of reasons, nice valid ones, why I stopped. Don't want to remind myself those reasons by recapitulating them here. So you guys don't get to know them either. Sorry. Barnali knows them and so does Jumi and also Eff. If you know these girls, and really want to know the reasons, you could ask them. *naughty smiley*

Still in Mumbai guys. Sigh! This big bad wonderful city doesn't want me to leave. Ninad has now started asking me if I have any intention of going back to Guwahati at all. I asked those two little things who are delaying my return when they intend to heal themselves but they don't reply. Much like a lot of people who don't reply my mails and messages. Sigh! This blog will have much sighing.

Ninad is big time into FIFA. He is the goalkeeper of a football team in his school. He sometimes scolds me for not having sent him into a Football Academy. I wasn't even aware that there were Football Academies when Ninad was a kid. I try to reason this with him. I knew about Tennis Academies and Cricket Academies, but football was not in my league or list of interests. So his blaming me about not putting him into a Football Academy was quite unfair. He says he will make his son a football player. He is 16 years old and in the 11th grade. And, no, he is not married and does not have a kid out of wedlock either. It is the fantasy of a manchild. Now I have to wait for the grandson, whenever he arrives, to cheer him in Barcelona or Arsenal or wherever he plays his FIFA matches. I hope Ninad can afford to send him to Football Academies that prepare you for World Cup matches. I understand they are prohibitively expensive. I get this worrying thought in my mind because now, when he should be preparing for his engineering entrance exams and class 12 boards, he concerns himself more with the thoughts of sending his son to a Football Academy. I have advised him to get in touch with his books whenever he can get his head off from thoughts of FIFA. Sigh! What more can I do from 4 longitudes away?

I was well into quite a pleasant dream last night when my cellphone rang. It was Ninad. He told me to listen to 3 FIFA songs: Dreaming, When you love and one more, I forget the name. I said I would, in the morning. He made me get up then and there, switch on the computer, log into YouTube and listen to the songs. I enjoyed the songs, but Sigh! That's my sonny for you and his obedient Mom.

Rabia is the new temporary entry in my life now. She is pretty, 7 years younger than me, has 5 children scattered all over India, one grandchild and is the 5th out of the 10 women her husband married. She is divorced but got a good share of property, one and half bigha of village land from her wealthy husband after the divorce at the intervention of the village heads. She grows multiple crops including rice, jute, has a fish pond, grows vegetables, owns hens and goats and is quite an entrepreneur. She has made her own house, sells the food she grows and grows enough food so that they don't need to purchase any for the entire year. She is illiterate but can read phone numbers, picks up new things instantly and is an asset as a helping hand.

Rabia was our help with domestic work. Then her husband left her and she went back to the village to look after her alimony. She is called to our place to help at every major event. Be it childbirth or marriage. It earns her an extra income and her presence benefits the family immensely.

She is grateful to me because I have helped her get treated and operated which is something all doctors do by default. Doctors try to get treatment free of cost or at minimal cost or pay out of their own pockets for the economically badly off people who approach them for help whether or not intimately involved in their lives. It is a common story. But the people who they help remain eternally grateful and jump at the first opportunity they get to pay back in whatever way they can. As did Rabia. I had driven her to the charity hospital in my car, shifted her to a government hospital as the charity hospital did not have the operating facilities, gone to see how she was doing everyday till she was discharged, drove her back home on her discharge. She remembered everything. This is an observation I have made of the economically weaker section of our society. They never forget to be grateful.

At one week's notice, Rabia prepared to come with me. She put the minor son who was staying with her in a Madrassa as there was no caretaker for him at her home, got two of her nieces to take care of her house and fields and hens and goats, packed her bag and came with me. It was her first airplane ride and the flight was one of the bumpiest I have ever made. I looked left and right and saw people with shut eyes and silent chanting. The stewardesses were sitting and clasping their seat handles quite tightly. The 'keep the seat belts on' sign was lighted and the pilot was scaring everyone by telling them to be seated and not go to the washrooms and keep the seat belts clasped and describing how bad the weather was.

Rabia was in the row behind me in the middle seat. I turned around to see how she was doing. She had happily shifted to the window seat which had been empty and was looking contentedly at the thick grey clouds. The blissfulness of ignorance. She could not understand the announcements and did not find the bumpiness of the flight unusual. I was too 'not in a normal state' to feel any fear. But I was aware that under normal circumstances I too would have remembered a God. I was amused at Rabia's state of bliss and laughed silently.

A month later she suddenly asked me why the plane ride becomes bumpy when there are clouds. Her observation amazed and impressed me. I explained the reasons to her and told her enough so that she would be sufficiently frightened on her next bumpy ride. * naughty smiley*.





 

Superman and soaring eagles

I know I haven't really discovered anything new, but now I have proof. Life is weird.

Just when you start despairing, the sun shines through. And when complacency envelops you, something happens to cut away that envelope and expose you to a harsh reality. Then someone mellows the harshness and turns it into a distant unimportant memory. Such is life.

Just when the hair becomes the longest you had in your life, because the hair prefers stability to growth, you have to lose them. And then when you hide your naked head from everyone else (with beautiful scarves), but secretly start admiring your own baldness, including running your hand over it several times a day, Bollywood bald villain style, it grows back into tiny baby hair curls.

And when the storm comes and you just give yourself up to being helplessly carried away, a superman scoops you above the storms, and the clouds below block the view of the carnage created by the storms and you become the soaring eagle, calm and unmindful of any ravages, as you are above it all.

And when you think you've done it all, and had it all, and you think your purpose in life is served, you are told there's more to life, you learn to love yourself and the passion for life is reignited. And when you least expect it, you discover more people care for you than you ever thought you deserved. And when you are in the depths of personal turmoil, events happen to shock you into realizing how wonderful people actually are. And when the torch light dims and you can't see clearly, you realize that replacing batteries makes the light shine brightly again. *winking smiley*

 

And then something makes you realize that even though you want to desperately thank all prayers, help, caring, love, effective advices, guidance that has been gratefully received, it cannot express the depths of your feelings.

That photo is mine, taken by the webcam, while writing this post. Introducing the newborn 'O' positive to my friends. I have baby hair to support my newborn status. *big grin smiley*

 

girl, boy and ivan kalita

O dear Lor', look wottacome across!

Now Google tells me that Kalita is a girl's name.

Before I dive into Kalita, I have a question to ask Google. It demands to be a capital name. Why in the *unprintable word* world? If one writes 'google' starting with a small letter, the thin red wriggly worm appears under it. The automatic spell check turns it into a word with a capital letter and the worm disappears. I respect you a lot Google, can't live without you, a truth that sucks, but a truth nevertheless, but does that make you a proper noun? You are a search engine, but your inputs are from humans, you don't write yourself. For that matter, all of the above hold true for Facebook as well.

This is what one of the entries say:

'Kalita: [ syll. ka-li-ta, kal-ita ] The baby girl name Kalita is pronounced as KahLIYTah. Kalita is used chiefly in Indian and it is derived from Sanskrit origins. Kalita's meaning is known.'

For someone whose both parents were born Kalitas and who married into the Kalita caste, c'est interesting information and breaking news. So now I have a boy's first name (according to google, also check my blogpost titled Zuri, June entry) and a surname that is a girl's name.  I am not saying this. Google is.

There is a Wikipedia entry on 'Kalita' at the link 'en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalita_(caste).' Or you could just search for 'Kalita meaning' on Google web search and click on the Wikipedia entry.

I think all the Assamese Kalitas should check it out. It has interesting information of the origins of this caste and also of a powerful nation called 'Kolita' which was devastated by some floods in the 18th century. It seems the Kalitas are of  Alpine Caucasian origin which was deduced by measurements of their cephalic index. Whew! Long way our foreparents travelled (forefathers is a discriminatory word- I'm being funny, please smile). And chose this place to settle in. I don't know how correct the information is, but it makes an interesting read and those of you who are interested in genealogy or are Kalitas (surname or caste), or Assamese, or like history of names, or are like me looking for things to do to make the clock run faster, must check it out.

To widen the interest, people of the Kalita caste write surnames like Saikia, Hazarika, Barua, Phukan,  Lahkar, Mahanta, Medhi, Barman, Chowdhury, Deka, Thakuria, Tahbildar, Boiragi, Talukadar and Kakoti. I may have missed out many more. So all of you with these surnames may be interested.

There was also a Russian Prince called 'Ivan Kalita' in the 14th century. He was cruel and  achieved the right to collect tributes from all Russian lands which is why he was nicknamed "kalita", meaning in the Old Russian language "money-bag". Not nice, but he existed, like it or not.

Too much Russian in my name. Also an acquaintance who was learning Russian a long time back had informed me that Russian is the only language in the world which has the consonant so unique to the Assamese: the xa as in 'Axomiya.' There is no English equivalent to this consonant. Or in any of the other Indian and non Indian languages that I know.



 

Knock knock, Goltisha

Knock knock
Who's there
Leon
Leon who
Mummy mujhe baki ka joke naiii pata! (I don't know the rest of the joke, mummy)

That was Pixu wailing. Everyone was contributing to the knockknock jokes and as in every other situation Pixu wanted to participate too. The above was how his joke ended and he ended up getting the biggest laughs and will continue to do so as long as Jumi (Pixu's mom and my sister) decides to let the story fester. Which, knowing her, and I should know her quite well, is going to be once in every human gathering till she and her memory stay together.

Leena's daughter has got into engineering college. Sonia's daughter is graduating. So many of my other class mates are going to be grannies soon too. Arrey, the girls will get married no, after a few years. Leena says her children already think (as do mine) that we are ancient with dialogues like 'aapke zamaane me' (in your era!) peppering every other conversation. But I feel like 15 years old na! I'm sure Leena and Dhanashree and Huma and Barnali and Gayo and Jyoti and Sangeeta and Kavita all feel that way. Hey girls, all of you even look not much older.  You know na that JLo, Angelina, the other Jennifer (the Aniston one, girls) all are your age. What rocking grannies we'll be.

But I do like the thought of having grandchildren. It is so nice to have kids around. You get to see the world as it really is. Silly, funny and fun. The present moment awareness thingy. Pixu uses 'thingy' in his conversations quite thickly. It is a common noun name for all objects that have no name/whose name Pixu does not know. He is all of 7 years old going on 8. He also makes power point presentations for me. He insisted on making a presentation a couple of days back. He shut the door of his room and his hopeless mum gave away the secret that he was making a surprise for me. He invited me to see the presentation after it was done. It was titled "Happy Mother's Day." I told him it wasn't Mother's Day. Jumi said she had told him the same thing but he had been stubborn. It had toon pictures of hearts circling around the head and mums and kids and told me how much they loved me and how wonderful I was. They think I am their mum. Made sense to me. After all Jumi and I have 2 sets of chromosomes from the same 2 people and even our blood groups are same now.

I hope Munu, Pixu and Ninad allow me to spoil their kids. After all I still squeeze all 3 of them every time I have them within squeezing distance. Pixu is the best to squeeze. Just the right size. Ninad is a little bony. Nevertheless. I hope they don't settle in Norway or any of those countries where they put you in jail for squeezing kids or having them sleep with you so that you can hug them and let them sleep within the crook of your arm. Believe me the kids like being squished. I have another nephew who is 6 years old going on 7 who comes  to me everytime he visits me or I visit him and begs me to 'goltisha' him. 'Goltisha' means 'squeeze' in Jurispeak. He sits in my lap and I have to 'goltisha' him till I get tired. He doesn't get tired of being 'goltisha'd'. I told him I was in Mumbai and would not be able to attend his birthday and wished him 'happy birthday' on the phone. He lives in Guwahati. He told me that it was OK with him even if I went a little late. I informed him that it wasn't possible for me to reach that day. He sounded disappointed yet told me to never mind and come the next day. He would keep some of the cake for me.

You understand why I am looking forward to a brood of grandchildren. They do wonderful things to your ego.









 

Migration

I open the door as quietly as possible. It is 6 in the evening and they are fast asleep. Jet lag. My retina processes 3 pairs of chubby calves. My sister, niece and nephew own these legs. They look adorable. The chubby legs.

I see the green dot against Effie's name when I open my email. She was supposed to have reached Guwahati. We chat. She is in Guwahati. She has moved to her new flat. Andy had jokingly called me 'judgeand' in a comment made on my previous post. Being English, he has an English sense of humour. I understood the humour but confirmed with Effie if I had understood right. I had.

We had just sat down for breakfast when the doorbell rang. My sister opened the door. It was Alvita. Tall and slender in a white sleeveless shirt with pretty frills, jeans and sneakers, she walked into the living room looking tired. She had dropped in on her way to Pune from the airport. She had arrived from France. We were expecting her a little earlier and sat for breakfast when she did not appear. Her children were sleeping in the car and did not come up to the house. She left not very long after.

Barnali called me from Shillong one evening. It is always wonderful to talk to her. But this time she handed the phone to someone else telling me the person wanted to talk to me. I was pleasantly surprised to hear Shibee's voice. She was in Shillong visiting her Nani. She had her babies with her. She was long past jet lag having landed in Guwahati several days earlier. But sleep lag doesn't go easily for a mother with an infant child.

Gargi is arriving next week. We both are excited at her impending arrival. She will be coming to Mumbai, staying quite close by and we hope to spend some time together even though her visit will be very short.

Vacations have started for children all over the world. It is exciting for Indians residing abroad to come to their country of origin for visits. It is also exciting for their friends and relatives to be able to see them. It is a lot like migratory birds flocking home at the end of the season for a short break.

Zuri

Zuri is a name of Swahili origin and means 'beautiful.' Courtesy: Google search. Shalmali (I love the way the name rrrolls in the mouth), mistakenly wrote my name as 'Zuri', purportedly in a state of jet lag. As she also happens to live in Zurich, the mistake was understandable. A laptop and a 3G dongle happen to be my most faithful companions of late. They don't mind my carrying them wherever I go, which actually happens to be quite a small distance. Well, as much as one can travel in a third floor apartment having a 1000 square foot carpet area. These two devices tell me the meanings of everything I want to know.

My name Juri, is an Assamese girl name meaning 'stream' (a repeat information from an earlier blog) and a Slavic boy name also having variants 'Yuri' and 'Jaris.' My Assamese name was personified by me. I used to be quite a crybaby as a child. I wish I had been named Zuri. It would have been nice to personify this name.

Shalmali is 13 years older than Ninad and 13 years younger to me. I met her for a few hours and conversed for much fewer. She is striking to look at. Her kohl rimmed eyes and short hair, all in lovely ringlets, sit well on her attractive features. There was harmony in the way she dressed, her kurti, jeans, footwear each looked like they were made for the other. She is a scientist and an artist. Aditya, the mysterious beautiful blog writer I mentioned in one of my earlier blogs, married her and got relieved from his internal and personal conflicts and had to stop writing. God bless both of them.

6 months can be a long time. A lot of things happen in 6 months. A school boy gives board exams and reaches junior college, 2 babies are born, several people die, 3 cousins get married, pay hikes happen, people get promotions, relations between spouses change, labs get accredited, people travel across countries, silver jubilee class get-togethers relieve 20 year old nostalgias for some time, resident doctors complete their postings in BMT wards and life moves on in general. A lot of things.

And yet I landed in Mumbai 6 months back and I feel that I landed here just the other day. Fleeting desires to flee the city did visit me occasionally but were brought under control. And yet now that the time has passed, I don't know how I did it. My travelling was confined to an area of 4-5 kilometres in these 6 months with nothing exciting happening. I can only thank the laptop and the 3G dongle for keeping me relatively stable in the state of inertia I had to submit myself to.

Tempers in Mumbai have cooled, an effect of the cool environmental temperatures brought about by the unceasing rains and the dark grey clouds effectively conditioning the air below them. Assam, on the other hand is a victim of soaring temperatures. Temperatures higher than any recorded in the summers of the last 50 years have been reached. Power cuts, rampant in Assam, are making the misery greater.

I hope, for the sake of general good, that the weather becomes kinder than the ministry responsible for power generation in Assam. Mother Nature is easier to appeal to than the two legged in power.







 

Red hot bombs

No. I am not given to narcissism as far as my external appearance is concerned. Narcissim is not the reason I am posting this photo here. I was brought up secure in the knowledge of my ugliness. My father often worried, in a volume audible enough for everyone to hear, that no one would marry me.




This is a 16 year old photo. The baby is my baby. Ninad. And the pretty lady in the picture is, hold your breath, me!

Someone I have known for the last 10 years, but was totally out of touch with in the last 5 years, suddenly remembered me and sent me a picture of the 'Bhut Jolokia' by email. It was captioned 'the hottest chilli in the world.' This is slightly old news. The Naga Bhut Jolokia has been superseded by the 'Trinidad Scorpion "Butch T"' as the hottest chilli in the world. This is however a digression and  not the point that I am trying to make.

The message he wrote to me said 'sending a picture of the second hottest chilli of the world to the hottest chilli.' a.k.a. Me. I am infamous for the peppery and stingy words that my vocal cords would often articulate. I try to control my cords and am much better at the control part now, but you know that thing about old habits.

And then he saw my current pictures and informed me that I look like a Mami now. Not that it bothered me. I am a Mami to many kids, and adults for that matter. But he was trying to motivate me into getting back the 'pataka' looks and figure I had when he last saw me. I was not aware of being a 'pataka' back then. I therefore decided to look at my old pictures to confirm. The only ones that I had access to were on the internet, because of being far away from home. This one I located looked somewhat patakaish to me.

Only I had not been aware of the 'pataka'ness of the Juri back then. I wish I had been. It could have been put to better uses. *winking smiley*

I have never felt like a 'pataka' before (refer to second line of this blog), and much less so now. I am 15 kilos heavier than the photo above. It doesn't really matter to me, but I thought the lady in the picture looked good, as does the baby. I wanted to show them off. Please bear with me this time. Je promets que c'est la dernière fois. I promise this is the last time. The French might come across a little weird on translation. I know Alvita will rescue me. Or Huma will. This is the best I could do from what I learnt in school.



 

Sea view, six packs, unbroken spirits

The rains have started in Mumbai. The sheets of rain look lovely to anyone who wakes from the afternoon slumber and is greeted by these sheets though their windows. Especially when there is a blurry view of verdant trees, sea waters and hills yonder. Rains bring out the Williams: Blake & Wordsworth and the Da Vincis in a lot of people. Yours truly included.

There used to be a field in view when I looked out of the large three pane window of the room where I spend most of the time. Cricket matches used to be held there. Microphones used to fill the air around with cacophonous commentary. I did not mind it. In the island of isolation, the crowds and noise from a nearby field was the only social activity I could experience. This was 4 months back. The green field gradually changed to a reddish brown. Large brick walls were built around it. Temporary residential tin shacks cropped up just inside the boundary.

Soil was being dug up from one half of the field and this was used to fill up the other half. Intuitively I had had my window panes sealed with large sticky tape before all this had begun. Of late my right brain seems to have overcome my left. The Mumbai heat and the dust raised from the dry construction soil would be harbouring bacteria and fungi. They had to be kept out.

A large rectangular hole gaped at the farther end of the former field. Soon the hole became a foundation for the building that would be coming up there. Beyond this former field is a 14 storey residential building. This building has one apartment per floor. Each floor has twin car parking spaces and car lifts to take the cars up there. One hunky Bollywood film star has reportedly purchased a flat there. Just thinking of being able to sometimes see him, shirtless, on one of his balconies made us happy.

Beyond that building were trees, in a clustered row, separating the road from the Thane creek. An embankment lined the creek shore. The creek carried waters from the Arabian Sea into Navi Mumbai and it was therefore the sea for us. You know, a part of the whole and all that stuff. This room has a view of the sea. The breeze from the sea kept the apartments cool in the sweltering Mumbai heat. It also occasionally brought in nauseating fishy smells which was tolerated with not more than a passing remark on its unpleasantness.

With the rapid pace at which the field is transforming into a building, it won't be much longer before the sea view becomes a past tense for the three paned window. Not much hope of being able to see the Bollywood star's six packs remain. He hasn't occupied the apartment yet (we know because the entire building remains dark at night, none of the apartments have yet been occupied).

Pankhi, my haematologist friend, broke a leg. She had topped the lists in all three MBBS exams of the '87 batch of GMCH. She is a singer and comes from a family of musicians, film makers and artists. She has also sung for Coke Studio on MTV with the well known singer and musician Hariharan.

She broke one leg, but several bones and each bone in several places. They broke by tripping over a rope. She has the Vitamin D3 deficiency that the average urban Indian has these days. Her bone mineral density is normal. Nevertheless, she managed to shatter so many bones by tripping over a rope. Which, by her own admission, she had noticed and taken care to carry her right foot over it with sufficient clearing space over the rope. She was betrayed by the left leg and the right hemisphere of her grey cells.

Her leg is in a thigh high stiff cast and she can barely walk. I called her today and she was preparing to go to work. Her tibia, fibula and metatarsals fragmented barely 15 days back. She embodies the spirit of the batch of '87. Such a spirited batch we are. Those who know me would agree.

The cacophony over the microphones have been replaced by sounds of machines boring into the ground. Sounds of metal being dropped over metal also reach the ears. There are constant humming noises from machines doing things that I haven't yet been able to identify. I do mind these sounds.








 

Striped squirrels and real life

This is an old blog entry. It was written on the 7th of March 2013. For some reason I did not post it then. I can't recollect very well what the reason was. I think I did not like it much when I previewed it back then. But on reading it now, it does not seem so bad. (Please remember, unlike you guys, I have so much time on my hands that I have to constantly think of ways of spending it. Reading older blog entries once in a while is one of the ways.)

March 07 2013:

I thought I'd be back sooner but I guess time flies. Something to do with the pulse rate of the earth it seems. You can google to find out more about the earth's pulse.

Life doesn't suck. Its great. Especially when you stop being unhappy about what you don't have. Like I have. I don't have great health or loads of money that I can spend without worry. Most people in my social class have more money and more parties and travel more and have better houses. I notice, but I recently realise that it doesn't make me envious. I feel happy that I know these people and feel happy that maybe I am the lucky mascot for their good luck. That does not at all sound modest, but it makes me feel incredibly blessed. You may not understand what I'm trying to say, but you could put in an effort; or not.

I grew up in an incredible place....one of the finest academies of India. My father was a teaching faculty there and I was just one when he started working there. He also retired from there. The campus was huge as it was the premier academy of its curriculum in the country. It was built in the suburbs of one of the beautiful cities of India and was also a recognised national sanctuary. Our residential homes were made on neat rows of streets, forests lay between the rows. We had peacocks dancing in the back gardens during the rains and wild deer drinking out of water cups in our gardens.

Striped squirrels nibbled on the fruits that grew on trees in our backyards and the varieties of birds we saw everyday were such that camps of the WWF, called the World Wildlife Fund in those days, used to be held in the academy premises. This academy is among the cleanest places in the world and is noise and air pollution free. Having scant public transport meant that we had to use feet and bicycles all the time as kids for transporting us and it never occurred to us that this was not the norm in most urban parts of the country.

We picnicked often. And  played on the streets. Also read a lot of books. Never bought books. There were plenty of libraries in the academy and we made good use of them. We grew up on Enid Blyton, Nancy Drew, Hardy boys, Champak, Chandamama and the Amar Chitra Kathas.  We gathered in the evenings and played group games. We went swimming and played badminton in the courts with our friends. We went horseriding, played squash and sailed boats in Peacock Bay. We watched children's movies in the auditorium every other Friday when they would be screened. And everything was done with friends. Quite a wholesome childhood actually.

And yet when I came out into the real world for college studies, I didn't quite fit. We were not trained to handle real life. Getting trained for real life took a long time. A very long time. The childhood we had seems as much of a fantasy as Enid Blyton's books.

Of blank minds and full mouths

I can't believe it. I open this 'new post' page on my blogger because I want to write something, but my mind is a blank. I have nothing to write. What I can't believe is that my mind is a blank.

Perhaps I am getting closer to attaining my spiritual goal of enlightenment. If my friends, who are kind enough to read my blogs, think that there is humour in my write-ups, then they are right. I intend many of my lines to be funny, and they are, at least to me. My son has informed me enough number of times for me to not forget that the only person who laughs at my jokes is, well, me. I do try to put up my best 'hurt' face when he says this but it doesn't seem to have the same effect on him as my Dad's 'hurt' face has on me (read blog titled KIKI). Kids of this generation...grumble....

A friend, recently acquired, writes beautifully. I complimented him on the poems and the feelings he had entered in his blog page, and he answered that he has stopped writing now because he could write only when he had personal/internal conflict which is no longer there because of the wonderful woman he married. I told him regretfully that he should have written a book when all his conflicts were in optimum glory. Too late now. With this wife, returning to a state of conflict will be difficult. I know because I have met her.

I haven't mentioned this friend's name, because his friendship status is 'recently acquired' and he may/may not appreciate his name popping up on my blog page. Hopefully, I'll know what he appreciates when he reads this blog.

Those of you who have kids and need to make craft for their school or to introduce them to a creative art form must look up Shalmali Patkar's blog SaawrichaKapus.blogspot.com. It is a beautiful blog and even adults interested in the art form could try their hand at her creations. More about Shalmali later. Keep your curiosity turned on as she is a beautiful person.

My reticular activating system has somehow got into the pattern of allowing me sleep for not more than 5 hours at a stretch at night. Which is quite annoying. I wake up fresh and then become groggy a few hours later; needing a couple more hours of sleep to get my brain and body cells fully competent. All this is OK now but will be quite troublesome once I get back to work. Have to ask my management if they will allow me a couch in my room.

This has turned out a decent length. I can't believe I started with writing that I have nothing to write. Dr Bhausaheb once told me I talk enough to compensate for a roomful of people who do not talk. Must be true although I did try out my 'hurt' face on him too. It had the same effect on him as it had on Ninad. I need to practice on getting my 'hurt' face right.

 

Osmotic happiness

My father in law left his body last year in June. He was 81 years old and had completed all his worldly duties. He was diagnosed as being in the last stage of a terminal illness in March, a few days before his 50th marriage anniversary, and left us 3 months later in June. He left a void which was felt like an acute pain when Ninad's Class 10 board results were announced today. He would have been ecstatic. Ninad got along with him very well and it was a delight to see the two of them discussing all possible earthly issues and then laughing and smirking at their coordinated witticisms. He was proud of Ninad and we were devastated when he died. He was getting the latest medications available which had increased the longevity of other people with the same illness by 3-5 years. I wanted him to at least see his grandchild getting through the Class 12 boards.

I miss him. He was a quiet man. I know he loved me. I was the only person he wanted to talk to when he was in pain. We were mutually empathetic even though we talked only when absolutely necessary. I often sense his presence around me. It reassures me and makes me happy. I only wish he could be physically present; just to see the expression on his face when he is informed of his only grandson's achievement.

One of my husband's cousins got married in August last year. It was a lavish wedding, much anticipated. Barely had her post marital glow subsided, that she developed the glow of being in the family way. Her husband was a lovely person, friendly, considerate and easy to get along with. She was a meticulous person and I always thought how lucky her husband would be. He was kidnapped by terrorists?/goons? just inside the Meghalaya border and a ransom demand was made. His bike was found lying on the road which led to Shillong.

A few days later the police informed that his dead body had been found in the jungles bordering Meghalaya. I don't think the aftermath of shock and grief needs to be described. The story itself is enough.

A boy was born to the cousin last month. A baby that looked a lot like the father. While I, a long distance away, was overjoyed at the news, I was informed by my husband that there was more of mourning at the hospital when the nurse gave the information of a boy being born. I was stunned for a fraction of a second, and then wondered at my own lack of understanding. The father of the boy was killed in a gruesome manner two months back. A widowed mother was born. The child would have to be raised without his father.

But, and such is the irony of life, the child brought joy and life to the house whose last baby was 7 years old. The cousin would say things like 'doesn't he look like his father, bou?' or 'he sleeps just like his father' when I phone and tell her I saw the baby's pictures on Facebook or call her to just find out how things are. She talks naturally and without a trace of grief. I do not know how to react.  She had taken a lot of care of baby Ninad in the joint family of my post marital life. I should take care of her baby now. I hope I can do justice.

Tragedy and happiness intermingled in the last one year in the family. Was is a little more than a fair share? It does seem like it. But everything was as if cosmically intended. There was nothing anyone could have done to prevent the tragedies.

Ninad left for Guwahati the day before yesterday. I wept when I heard his result. It was a mother's tears of joy at his achievement, and sadness at the distance between us. But the lesson learnt is that every situation has a silver lining. There cannot be grief without happiness. It is happiness that has stronger energy and grief that is the weaker one. Happiness enters osmotically whether you want it to enter or not. Sadness comes because one chooses to consciously dwell on the tragic.







 

KIKI

This is for Kakoli and Mrinal Krishna Choudhury.

I am not geeky at all. I don't take to technology unless I feel challenged. Challenged by people who refused to make power point presentations for me after designing them on the first couple of requests. Because I kept nagging them to do things to the presentation which aren't actually possible. Like my 80 year old partially deaf father telling me to transfer money from his account to someone else's "through my computer" because he knows that all this can be done with "a computer." In the absence of an internet connection as well as a net banking account. And then giving the hurt look when I try to explain why the transfer wouldn't be possible. This is who I inherit my 'non geeky' genes from.

Challenged by children on facebook/studying/sleeping/playing computer games/and eventually even by those sitting next to me, doing absolutely nothing, who refuse to load the DVD of the movie I want so badly to watch into the player after having done it for me for the first 30-40 times.

I could go on and on with the examples but these should be enough for clarity on my issue with technology. When refused help, I make an effort to learn. Often enlisting help of people I consider experts on the subject. Usually younger people, who have as yet not known my methods of preying. I still remember calling up Pubali Borthakur, a smart HR executive in my hospital, fresh with a recently acquired MBA degree and therefore enthusiastic about her first job, at funny hours of the day; and night; to ask her things like how to save a file. I would be able to reach the 'save' window and then forget what to do. In those days one had to select the destination from the drop down menu bar. I didn't know what a 'drop down menu bar' meant back then. So she would direct me to look at the 'bar on top,' and look for the 'little arrow on the right of the bar' and once I located the arrow (I remember it took me quite some time), the rest would not be so difficult.

In my defense, Pubali was enthusiastic, not married back then and did not mind the phone calls. I hope.

I now have more knowledge about uses of the computer as compared to a lot of other people. Most of the knowledge has been stumbled upon accidently. People around me think I am very computer savvy because of the amount of time I spend on the computer. My work demanded it and now my not working demands it. I need to do something to spend time after all. But I realized today that I still have a long way to go when I stumbled upon the slides of Kiki's sketches.

Kakoli and her husband Mrinal are known to me for about 15 years. She is my husband's colleague so I get to see her occasionally and smile and say hi. She is also the younger sister of my senior, Monali, in medical college. Mrinal is my husband's friend. Their son studies in my son's school. She is a Facebook friend and Kakoli, let me admit to you now, you are a very encouraging even if silent friend though we have not had the opportunity to develop a conventional friendship. If you are wondering 'how so,' you have to figure that out yourself.

Kakoli posted an amazing piece of art, a sketch in black and white titled 'Breaking free,' by her son Kiki on Google plus several days back. She had 'shared' it from Mrinal's post. But it was only today, again accidentally and I still haven't understood how it happened, that the post with that amazing drawing revealed itself as a power point presentation with 14 sketches. They were amazing sketches and somehow I am not being able to think up a word other than 'amazing' to describe those sketches. They have all been signed by 'Kunal' and the sketches are not simply depicting human emotions, they are emoting the emotions by themselves. I am not an art expert or connoisseur, and yet I was not seeing artistic images on paper, but experiencing the emotions that one feels when watching a very powerful and well made movie.

At the end of the presentation, thumbnail icons of other albums appeared on the post. The albums have photographs of places people have seen dozens of times and yet they are completely different. They are pieces of art by someone who probably sees art where we ordinary people don't even notice anything. Shillong, Gangtok, birds, nature. These photos have been captured by Mrinal. They are beautiful and have a sense of complete harmony. I have sensed this harmony in Mrinal's and Kakoli's relationship, intuitively, a very long time back. Kakoli is also an artist, something I came to know when I asked her who Kiki got his genes from. She answered that they were acquired from both the parents. My intuition was right.

I am still trying to figure out how one identifies the person who +1s one's blogs.

 

Monica, Fogla, Eff, Alvita

My friends must have noticed that I have kind of isolated myself from my extended world as a whole and my immediate world on a need basis for almost 4 years. My phone numbers changed a couple of years back, my social networking has been reduced to a bare minimum as has my socializing in general for the sole purpose of avoiding the question 'how are you?'

It is not as stupid as it sounds. This is a question for which I have no definite answer. It is a question to which people expect you to say, 'I am fine, thank you.' Being an honest person, this answer would be a lie. The truthful answer would have to describe the symptoms felt at that point of time which did 2 things:
1. Made the other people feel I complain too much and have become a sympathy seeker.
2. Remind me of my condition again and again and further depress me.

But although I am off visible networking, like all normal females I do have the nagging need to know about what is going on in other people's lives. I sneak into facebook every now and then, keeping myself invisible and log out on a high.

Monica Goswami, pathologist, one year junior to me, now in the USA posts a picture of her one year old self and her breathtakingly beautiful mom, a black and white memory of the 70's and I think, 'what an amazing photographer!' For a moment my muddled mind struggles to remember when Monica had such long hair. And I surge with motherly love at the little child in her arms, so adorable, not looking at the camera, and her tiny hands holding on to her mother's pallu, a little possessively.

Then I see a comment posted by someone of the beautiful aunty and I realize that the mum in the photograph is not Monica, but her mom.

Andrew Helm, Effie's partner, has a brewery in Leeds. 'The Revolutions Brewery.' I have had the good luck to sample all his varieties of beer. It was an education imparted in an English pub that sold his beers. Different beers have distinct flavors and when you ask for a Revolutions beer, you confuse the bartender. You have to ask for a certain flavor. Andy's brewery produces some 5-6 different flavors, each flavor is packed aesthetically with a different label. Andy also has a passion for music and DJs sometimes. 'Revolutions' refers to the revolution of a music disc, musical passion transferred to beer. I might have missed something here. If he reads this blog, he could put corrections in the comments section.

Effie is in Brizzle and I can see the beautiful place it is. It has a lovely railway station, is scenically beautiful and Eff looks better and better with every passing day. Beer is not wine, but Andy's better half is getting more and more like old wine.

I go into the 'GMC batch of '87' group but there activity has stopped. Santanu Deb, my paediatrician classmate and the 'mover' of this group's activity has put up some photos from the Kaziranga get together, but now all these busy '87 batch doctors are back to the routine grind; work and family.

Rajesh Fogla, hotshot brilliant cornea specialist from Apollo, Chennai and an '87 doctor, gives faculty and invited guest speaker lectures in developed countries and we bask in reflected glory. He posts very interesting photos of his visits on Facebook, each of which has a story to tell and needs to be studied well. No wonder he is such a sought after speaker.

Alvita Fernandes keeps the St Anne's site active. She once researched and wrote the meanings of all the names of our school batchmates and apologized as she could not find out the meaning of Juri. On googling, Juri is described as a male Russian name and a variation of the better known Yuri. It probably foxed her and she must have tactfully decided not to post that on FB.

No, my parents did not make a faux pas when naming me. In the Assamese language, Juri is a girl's name, too common in Assam, and means a stream. I have been baffled in the middle of busy schedules by threat calls of boyfriends of other Juri Kalita's who were mistakenly given my mobile number. I make it a point to state my full name with the Dr prefixed when making phone calls to people in Assam to make sure that I am correctly identified in the first instance itself. Alvita leads an interesting life, shuttling between countries, and I like following her whereabouts.

When I log out of facebook, I return from a world trip. It is refreshing.
 

jurithewriter

I am writing a book. It's contents are random unstructured thoughts. Much like my blogs. I need to be inspired to write. I cannot just think that oh, I haven't written something in a long time, so let me sit down and write something.

I have been away from home for 5 months now. Do I want to go back? I don't know. I am confused. I have had too much time to think. Too much idle time is a very bad thing for middle class people to have. It makes one delve into one's deeply suppressed desires and untapped potential (imagined or real). It makes one want to wonder whether one wants to return to the tame, unexciting routine which one so much needs for earning their daily bread and to pay their EMIs.

I admit to a certain kind of narcissism. I like reading my own thoughts that I sometimes put down in writing. I have written in the past. Short stories, medical articles and poems. But I have been a bad document controller and have misplaced most of my writings which, obviously, I deeply regret now. I understand that writing on your own BlogSpot is perhaps the most secure way of ensuring that you do not lose your own writings. It is very difficult to replicate one's own writings later. More so perhaps because the inspiration that was there at the moment of writing a piece cannot be replicated.

With time to kill and memories to forget, I started to write, at a rather disturbed frame of mind. I wanted each thought occupying my mind to be happy. I wanted these happy thoughts to replace in totality whatever was going on in my mind. I started writing memories of the unique childhood I had. And about all the happiness that came to me by just being a patient because of the amazing paradigm shift I had in my thinking process and about which I have written in an earlier blog.

The book needs to be completed. I have written about 45000 words already and all of these words, believe me, came effortlessly. I feel amazed that I have been able to write so much. I have always wanted to write a book. There are many incomplete books on my computer. The inspiration just stopped at a point for those books. They seemed too contrived actually. I have now realized why. I was trying to write for an audience and it just wasn't me writing. This time there has been no audience in mind. It has been all about transliteration of my thoughts into words and typing them on a computer monitor.

It can be completed only when the story of my being a patient gets over. I hope that happens very soon. I hope I can get it published. I realized that writing a book is very easy when I started searching the net for tips on how to get a book published. Publishing is what is the difficult part. Très difficile mes dears. Very difficult my dears.

 

The Gods must be crazy

There is no such thing as coincidence. Everything happens for a purpose. You attract what you think. If sometimes you do not get what you want very much, the reason can only be good.

The Secret, Deepak Chopra, Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, Eckhart Tolle, Bhagavad Gita, The Bible. I haven't read the Koran, but I am sure the same must be written there too.

I believe them completely. Too many events have occurred in my life to not believe them. I am an atheist turned believer. The process started some 15 years back and the facilitator, unknown to him though, was a junior PG in my department Dr Indrajit Kalita. If Indrajit was my facilitator, my support system was another junior PG Dr Srilekha Deka. Indrajit used to do transcendental meditation. I got to know about it and compelled him to introduce me to the meditation form. I made him sit on the back seat of my Kinetic Honda and take me to the centre that taught this meditation form.

Srilekha was a couple of years junior to me but we hit off very well and I asked if she would attend the sessions with me. She readily agreed and both of us would go on my scooter to the TM centre after college hours and attend the sessions. I saw a Pooja room there with Lord Krishna's statue in it and told the Teacher that if we had to pray, I would not attend the course. He said that that there was no need to pray at all. I was relieved. We were given a form to fill up. One question with multiple choices of answers asked why I wanted to learn meditation. I ticked 'for peace of mind.' I used to be very disturbed in those days.

Indrajit also introduced me to Deepak Chopra (not literally, but through his books!) and his book the Seven Spiritual Laws of Success. I was hooked. I used to read the book again and again. Just reading a few paragraphs on a randomly opened page of the book gave me answers to the questions I had in my mind at that point in time. It was a small book and I kept it with me all the time. Till Indrajit asked me to return it to him. I then went and bought my own copy and have since gifted this book to others too.

I had been an atheist all my life. It was difficult for me to believe in a God that seemed impossible to exist when you applied the knowledge of Science that you learn in school to come to a logical conclusion of His Residence in the Universe. Different religious books told us about different Gods. Each book claimed their God was superior to other Gods. It was confusing. God would punish if you didn't obey. He would come to guide a particular tribe but not the others. He didn't want women to pray to him when they menstruated. He lived in heaven, which was above, but where was above? The expanding Universe had no above or below. The earth was round. At any point of time above was below and below was above and gravity kept the creatures on earth from flying away from a perennially rotating earth.

My son asks the same questions now. I have tried my best to make him a believer. Faith is important. In Bhagavad Gita, Krishna says God is within all of us. Deepak Chopra says we are all divine beings having a human experience. The Bible says the Kingdom of God is within us. Stephen Hawking has informed us that experimental physics has revealed that a single particle can exist in two different places at the same time. Einstein has professed his belief in God.

Reading contemporary writings of physicists and mathematicians in easy to read literary form for the non geniuses like us reveals an amazing fact. That most of the so called science is theory and conjecture. Most of the advanced scientific knowledge known today has no proof as in our definition of proof. We can't see it or touch it or hear it. We only have complicated mathematical calculations by genius physicists and mathematicians who make these theories as 'proof'. There is more in the Universe that we do not know about, than that we know about.

I started believing in the divine, present somewhere, most likely within ourselves, and in the power of all the statements written in the first line of this blog when I started experiencing the truth in those lines. Why am I suffering so much, you might ask, after I have turned believer? I do not know. But I am much more peaceful now than I ever was. I have started getting much more love, prayers, goodwill than I ever did. There is clarity of thinking. Tough decisions are being made almost by a divine intervention without my having to trouble my brains too much.

And everytime the Arjuna in me gets lost, a Krishna arrives to guide my Chariot.






 

10 classes of the modern world

Why doesn't the American government want  its citizens to go to college? Please someone answer this question for me.

Ninad and I had been to visit Oxford a few months back. Ninad was smitten. We had stayed in London with my friend Dr Ephia Yasmin who is a gynaecologist specialising in infertility and she had prepared the most wonderful itinerary for us, as meticulously as her preparation of her cases for In Vitro Fertilisation. The last audit in her hospital had revealed a success rate of over 90% in her patients. Which is actually almost miraculous in IVF.

My sister Jumi had to move to Houston about 4 months back as her husband had got a job posting there. Houston is all about Texas which is all about NASA. Texas also has a large number of world class educational institutes and therefore when my son said he wants to do aeronautical engineering and join NASA, I thought why not Texas. I am a firm believer in the power of dreams.

Only some dreams are so expensive that, well, in our society which claims to be classless, but has actually become a globally uniform class system based on the economic strength of the individual, people of my social class have to tell our sleeping and conscious minds the impracticality of some dreams.

You don't think there is a class system? If you can afford such and such amount of money you can travel first class and get served in nice china cutlery and use the loo in the front of the plane. You have wider seats, which become beds and you can sleep during journeys. You get limousines for airport transfer and a special buffet  in the first class waiting lounge.

If you can afford only second class, you sit in smaller seats, called economy class. You squeeze past your neighbour sitting on the aisle seat and any seat in between you and the aisle to go to the loo. If you are on the aisle seat, you keep being requested to excuse people and pull in your legs or get up from your seat depending on how large you/the person wanting to get past is.

Then you have economic classes that can travel in their own private jets, classes that can afford travel in AC coaches in trains, a class that can only travel 2nd class by train. A class that can afford to travel only on public city buses, a class that save money by not travelling even on city buses, a class that travels by  bicycles, a class that cannot afford even bicycles.

A class that does not travel at all, that sits and sleeps on the same pavements 24 x 7, begging for coins and food. And you thought the Indian Varna system divided society. In an Assamese village, one will find the class system still being followed. A Brahmin will not marry a Kshatriya. But they will socialize, the poorest and lowest social class will sit with the richest and highest social class on the same bench at a wedding feast and be served the same food, and all social classes have a roof over their heads and get to eat at least 2 square meals a day.

Can't say that about the urban globalized world of today with at least 10 social classes I have outlined above. And I have digressed. Ninad took one look at my blog page and told me that my blogs are too long and who would therefore read them? I have digressed once again.

College education in the USA is soooo expensive, based on my internet searches for Ninad, that I have deep suspicions that the American government wants a country of high school graduates with no further education. Whatever the reasons might be. I do not want to risk a controversy at this stage by speculating on the reasons.

 

Ninad, Mana, Rohin. Santanu's debts

Ninad arrived yesterday evening. He is 16 years old. Although he has travelled several times by air, this is the first time that he has travelled alone. No big deal. All he had to do was get in the flight at one airport and get off it at another. I have travelled second class by Indian Railways, alone, when I was just a couple of years older than him.

But you know how it is with mothers. If you have kids, and you are a mother, I know you will understand this. You worry. But he reached me very well, thank you very much. My parents had gone to receive him at the airport and there was a flurry around this activity because the roaming facility was not activated in his mobile and he was uncontactable until he came out of the airport.

I was seeing him after three and a half months. But it seemed like yesterday. He was the same height as three months back, his face was pimply and his facial hair had been trimmed with scissors. He had a fresh haircut, done early morning on the day of his departure from Guwahati.

Ninad had given his 10th standard CBSE exams without the physical presence of his mother. I remember my mother fussing over me with food, checking the exit points of the house for bad omens before departing for the board exams and making it a point to drop me and pick me up from my examination centre which was really far away from my school.

I could do none of this for Ninad. Of course technology kept us together. Skype and the mobile phone made sure that he could see me and hear me whenever he needed me. I would stay up at night till he slept in the early hours of the morning. He was a night bird. He would sleep in the daytime and study at night. He would study, secure in the knowledge that his mother was staying up with him. The only thing he missed was not being able to hug me, or have me massage his head and run my fingers through his hair when he was really stressed out.

It is difficult to believe how soon this little child who was in Class one the other day, is now in the final year of school. In my head, I am still stuck in class 10. I havent grown a year older, mentally.

We have a cuddle relationship. I had read somewhere, when Ninad was a child, that hugging, cuddling and physical shows of affection makes children emotionally secure in adulthood. From what I observed around me, it did seem like it is true. In Ninad's case also, he gave an important examination in his life inspite of his circumstances, without losing his emotional balance.

It is my strongest desire to make Ninad emotionally secure, as people denied of love in the childhood, often have a very turbulent adult period inspite of being succesful in their careers, and having all the trappings that our society measures happiness with. The best cars, the best spouses, the best houses, and the biggest bank balances still keep these people seeking for something more, something that they never find.

I have expressed gratitude in an earlier post. I express it again. How can I not? There is so much to be grateful about. I will have to carry all the debt of gratitude over to my reincarnated lives in the future, because I know I will not be able to pay them back in this life.

I had got engaged to be married in the fourth semester of my MBBS exams and was married off in the sixth semester. I was cut off from all my medical college friends ever since as I was married to a non medico, and we didn't have friends in common. But there is something about medical schooling that makes bonds stronger with ones batchmates than in any other kind of educational program. There were hundred odd students in our batch. There were several with whom we barely made eye contact with because the classes only got together during the theory lectures. At all other times we were made into small batches according to our roll numbers to attend clinics, wards, tutorials, dissection tables and visits to the forensic morgue.

When a get together is organised by Santanu Deb, paediatrician of Nazareth hospital Shillong, and obviously my batchmate, as I am mentioning him in this blog, an overwhelming number of us want to be present. He did it once in Shillong and last December in Kaziranga. The others who helped him will be angry with me for not mentioning their names. But, and this is a well experienced but, there is one effective leader who gets work done in any given situation and even though Santanu could not have done this without help from others, he moved the show.

I couldn't attend this meet. It was the 25th anniversary of our joining medical college. I hadn't properly met even one tenth of my class mates in 20 years. Yet they all supported me as if I was still in the classroom with them. They all prayed for me. They made me feel secure that I could turn to them should I need anything. That is a very big mental support for anyone, believe me. It keeps your mind free from troubling thoughts and makes you want to do useful things like writing blogs on gratitude.

Shamima, is my friend from the first year of medical college. I had met Shabeeba Hannan during the med school admission interview, and I was very amused to have a Shamima Khanam standing in front of me in a queue we had made for registering our names for biochemistry practicals or some such thing soon after admission. The rhymes stuck to my head and both Hannan and Khanam are very good friends of mine today. Shamima is now head of Pathology in Fortis hospital in New Delhi, and Shabeeba is an Othalmology consultant in Kent in England.

Shamima comes from a rich well to do family from Barpeta in Assam and has a lineage which traces to the royal family of Goalpara. She is the most magnanimous person I have come across. She has a lovely daughter Mana, with whom I shared a mutual love relationship when she was around one year old. We didn't meet much after that and she has forgotten me now, but I know her through the pictures Shamima posts on facebook. Shamima reminded in a recent phone call that I was the only person Mana would come to as a child. What a refreshing boost it was to my ego!

I met Shabeeba when I had been to England recently. She was visibly pregnant and yet she made me feel very guilty by inviting me over to her house for a grand lunch. I am now known to be a good speaker, anchor and presenter, and I owe all this to her mentoring. She feels embarassed when I tell her this, but it is the truth. I fell in love with Rohin, her son, when I first saw his picture on facebook. The love story persisted when I saw him physically in Kent. I was squeezing him and hugging him and he never complained, so I think the love is mutual.

Shabeeba Hannan and Shamima Khanam's children have a love-love relation with me. And both, it is important not to miss out here, are very fine cooks.


 

Shifting paradigms: the good and the bad

There is a paradigm shift in the perspective of life seen by a person cut off from the external world. Like, for example, an ascetic who chooses to go to the Himalayas and spend his days in expressing love to his God. And in the case of us lesser mortals, an experience of this perspective of life can be sensed when they are forcefully cut of from the external world for reasons like isolation due to health reasons or may be an astronaut isolated in space, or a researcher slogging away alone in a laboratory.

After the devil has done all that he possibly could in the workshop of the idle minds of these people, the divine sets in. In Deepak Chopra's words, I don't know if they are his original, we realise, with a pleasant surprise, that we are divine beings having the occasional human experiences and not suffering human beings without a purpose.

This is the shift in paradigm. Suddenly the world is a better place than what one has seen on television or discussed with family, friends and colleagues, or read in newspapers. One gets to see the goodness in people that had always been there, but never percieved before, all because of this paradigm shift.

Especially when there is a problem. The neighbour who affected your mental faculties adversely because of the way he talked or behaved, comes forward to donate platelets and spreads the word around for more donors. The colleagues of your husband, who you never met before, do the same. The office staff of your sister's friend and your brother-in-law, do the same. The neighbour in the apartment complex of your temporary apartment, drops you to the hospital minutes after the phone request. There is a notice on the apartment notice board from the Secretary, for urgent requirement of A group donors.

All for some one they don't even know. It is humbling and shaming. You try to rack your brains to remember if you have refused help to any one, any time, ever, hoping you haven't. Old groucho parents, cook and clean for you with smiles. Friends you havent met for 27 years send you CDs and books through Flipkart from Bangalore. An emotional support system develops, where you thought you didn't have any. Friends and aquaintances in all parts of the world pray for you, in their own special ways, and plan ways to help you. These are people you haven't met or talked to for maybe decades. People you never would otherwise contact, go out of the way to help at a phone call's notice.

The doctor villains of Amir Khan's show, who wouldn't care to look you in the eye if you otherwise pass them, become the pillars of your support: emotional and physical. The empathy can only be believed by those who experience it. Doctors, who do not realise how awestruck we get when we know that the average sleep they get per day every day including Sundays and State holidays and festivals, and family events is 2 hours. Who eat canteen food day after day, night after night, morning after morning, food of a quality that the average person would refuse to consume as 2 consecutive meals.

Doctors who think it is normal to stay by their patients' side 24 hours a day when complications occur without eating or sleeping because the HOD will not allow food inside the unit as it could cause infection to the patient. Doctors, who make phone calls to their patients at their homes, if they feel there is a reason to know the patients status, physical or emotional, so that they can ensure that there is nothing impeding the patients recovery.

What I'm trying to say is, you realise there is so much to be grateful about.  Life shattering events can now be understood with clarity. They are divine triggers to make you choose a path with a better outcome. You become grateful for events that preoccupied your mind with resentment, making it oblivious to all the goodness around. You become grateful to people who have shattered your lives thanks to this clarity and begin to see the good things that they have done to you, things that you were blinded to by the resentment.

The world is full of good people. Some how we prefer to see the bad part and highlight it. A paradigm shift for everyone would be wonderful. All of us then would shift from seeing and highlighting the bad to seeing and highlighting the good.

There is much to be grateful about. As my astrologer tells me, there are a lot of good people in the world, which is why it is livable despite all the despicable events doing the rounds.